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p

e h

l t 

fm

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h t

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g s

h t 

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h t

h o

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sex

healingkilling the

they' re nnatural breasts

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State of the Union (Poetry)

“Don’t you say

something

inside a quatrain?”

  No.

The forces

Itch      and itch

for nothing.

  Yes, honestly,

could not

invent

a better voice than yours.

  “Yes,” so said him

clearly,

“applause

in my glass

of

tart wine!”—

  And as

daft

poetics!

  No more

please,

 let

someone peer  out the glass.

  Open the

curtains

and the

frightened

screen.

  Finally,

Heaven appears

to reign free.

  In

the agog style,

One sounds    Heaven

  And     Americans

worship you,

Appropriating

no        word

without

wit.

  The      French window

you

broke

became the

glass

that      is

dust

and shards

in your

little neck.

  The continent mangles

Your

timid words, and then

reverses

the virginal birth.

  The continent signals

the grave,

and where

your boredom

is between

old sand and stone.

  Walk to the shore,

there are

stories of yours

on fire--

  Stories for you alone,

dying in the water;

  Only a

fine note,

gold

to take             into your own

kingdom of      ocean beds;

and oceans heard

in your own

choir,

depths                        perturbed

.

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Meditation #8 (Nationalist Mobster)

some people are just going to speak.they're no good.we can't keep them around.

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Meditation #6 (The Clientele)

From afar, 

here is your clientele:

tomorrow

with an itch for 

sleeping

together; tomorrow

or want of

tomorrow 

without the

impediments or locks. From afar

an affair is just noise 

without anyone's

knowing, indentured

to the want of sleeping.  The

Clientele

is awake, and whomever  will receive the letter is

bound, so will

it be understood as nothing

from the horse's dry mouth? There was a Robespierre,

and now there's us, without  death

accumulating about a cross cause: your clientele is singular and literally impotent without

savage preparation.

Instead, it's genuine

intent and unsettled bank accounts. If only a sea change could dole out the premise of hopelessness and future plans

without upsetting the indelible hope of sleep.

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Flower

From the hand, I hand you a silly flower. I can hear it over your voice because you don't speak. 

This Promethean guilt freshly plucked flies in the face of the wind, sits on your lap like a diabetic dog that is indifferent. 

Why, do you not like this silly flower tonight? 

Ossified words are heaving themselves into the horizon, hoping for a new day--but who knows the throw?

Trustworthy? No less than your memory of winter and its defeat.

Rest with this deceptive flower in water, pretend you're on the laziest river.

A world understood is nearly this mild offer, how light sheds light on itself.

Would you take this from my hand, if ever you would welcome it? 

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paul klee

metropolitan museum of art

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Fernando Pessoa, Sebastian, King of Portugal

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  Jacques Prévert, School of Fine Arts

From Paroles (1946)

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The Donner Party

“What’s for breakfast, mom?”

  The same as every morning,

Dear --

the shoemaker.

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Selected Marital Dialogues

"My wife smells like windex."

(1995, the year of explosives

and burning scents)

"A woman like that

can make a man like me

run up a thousand overdrafts."

(2013, 23 year old hands

smoking a joint on break)

  "I wanted to give you Michael Kors,

instead you had bedsheets of velvetier

cloths, made for Christmas Day."

(2013, a boat in a harbor)

  "The adult bookstore

was doing an open-mic night, pushing

gnomic, sexually sangfroid literature

for America. We hated reading."

(1906, la dictée d'un monsieur sans sa ballerine)

  "Tracy Chapman, 1988, was the time to be.

Tracy Chapman, 1988, we were both

Tracy Chapman's first full-length."

(1993, reminiscing at a grunge gig in New York City)

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Jack is the greatest artist of my generation

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Marx's Cakes

  I just love baking, ok? Get over it already. There's nothing wrong with the kind of decadence I bring to the table with my red and blue velvet cupcakes. I can't stop eating chocolate in hell's kitchen. Fuck it if I ever loved you, I'm baking and not ashamed. It's a hobby, you dick.

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Traveler's Poem

A seagull  perched  herself  atop your matted hair like a golden crown above an altar, well aware you travel by foot.

You sprawled  on the grain  of some sick obsidian beach  tired.

I watched from  my window, before the steeple of  eager blues.

A tidal wave  was crashing within the both of us,  on either side  of the world.

Nothing from the crest of the mind's  stirring lends  you the heat  of voyages, affective friction.

Your feet running happily  like a dog without a leash.

My windowsill is that exact ephemeral dance in time.

It returns like the  face of the sky.

I can only watch from afar,  you and your kin breaking the locks off the basilica's front entrance.

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See what I mean, JV? 

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6 word story

whoops spelled HUSC erections -- elections, damn