the lines on your legs stretch
marks already, at such a young age?
Insane already, the beer empty,
the life half there, Amber,
fill the rest.
Fill the rest,
crack the nut in you, Amber, crack her hard,
glue in the extra eyelashes,
admit to label prostitution,
GO ON!
Eat the meat, make it right.
In the coliseum slant
bodies, dressed for rich fog,
emeralds and rubies
(wear the meat, Amber),
as the seats puke forward, tumble down,
gowns and genitals, oh my gracious,
the glorious rust-belt of fame decapitated,
rusty pig urine running fearful from their torn holes
(smell the pigs, Amber),
death on the stage
as the coliseum eats itself from the outside in:
stage wins.
BANANA
Actress?
Yes, I am.
How did it happen?
Personally. Anyway
I’m always
a different person,
an accident
to them.
Could you say
you know me?
No, it’s not my face
that pitches swift
serene kisses’
obliqueness
to mustaches of your likeness.
Script-typing
on the edge of fast,
my life
a stripe of reality
to be typecast.
DIG
Who pissed in the stream?
What’s left to flow through conscience but caution.
A weary eye strains focus for substance snacks
and I’m giving meal penalties against the limelight.
Industry trashcans line my city limits
and plague my valleys with stench.
Seduction’s a progression without the progressives.
Hollywood’s got a face.
Trophy wives with stitched-up sideburns
look like 3rd degree burn victims.
There’s a name and a body for every lie
walking without reason through my life: fire shadows.
I do not call this home.
She wants to eat but my plates are empty.
She says we’ll all share the same grave.
I say why don’t you
let me dig my own, ma?
1 & 2
1
Cross-country hearts on a CD-R,
there where a pen skipped a beat.
He forgot to color in a meaning.
For a man of one liners
he sure does a good line dance.
If, in fact, these are the seven shades of sage
on the color wheel of grays
then what a wheel of fortune to submit to!
It’s a belligerent process to know him,
a card-shark swimmer playing streaks of blue-hair
water.
Shades fade but
he’ll never pale
and she’ll never compare.
2
She wears lobster pajamas and writes with butane pens
as she spits out sparks helplessly.
Depression mentions cold feet
getting strokes of heat waves.
Her weathered eyes are cluster-fucks of confusing road maps.
She’s got a rabid hunger to be eaten
and there are many forks in the road,
nerves like dead ends,
curves that don’t bend,
size 29 jeans for an ass that is barked for
on legs like redwoods,
her lumber is limber,
cameras flash and scream her name like “Timber!”
She collides with their kaleidoscopes,
they’re just barking up the wrong tree stump.
It’s a sketchy universe for shooting stars
refueling
rewriting
remiss.
NUMBERS
(Butcher 1)
Let go of that number,
that plasma will never have your eyes.
There’ll be no golden hair or golden years.
That perfect consumptive repulsion
the decision demon taunts.
Hold on to your wet hair coarse with screams and puke
as you sit seared against the cold bed.
In the hospital courtroom, you push it out in front of
the grand jury surgeons all secretly hating you, maybe.
It takes away your seed, it does not take away the soil.
That number, that age, it cannot be saved,
hold on to a fraction of this image, if you dare,
if you can.
(Butcher 2)
Demon goes in deep with cullet for your gullet
as your puss-eye stands stern and frightened.
They take away your rights,
they do not take away your seed.
A voice will not be heard.
The number, the law of
butcher externally demanding entrance
to internally slaughter wombs of womankind.
Forcefully silencing my bladder’s laughter,
soldering its hangnail to my lining,
slamming her against the bed frame in tasteless violence
(fucking but no cutting in this particular “rule”).
SLAY my entrance way, make it beg for saturation!
MURDER mother’s dying roped neck contagious with questionable fingerprints!
MASSACRE temples built on private land
not standing erect enough for your “city standards”!
Let go of all numbers!
SLAUGHTER my eyes, makeshift them weeds to crush
beneath God’s brow, as I might beg for benediction!
EXECUTE cute and cuddly,
forced ejection results in physically miasmic uglies!
DESTROY the woeful wolf, keep the number fractal!
EXTERMINATE my crowning with a clawed quill pen’s
punctuating and puncturing!
DESTROY Roe the wage-ist, collect her dues and
sew that slit up until the 9th!
KILL the voices haunting 16 coats 15 coat hangers!
BUTCHER the buss of blessing femininity
in sequence!
In fact, slaughter that number!
Be that hunter!
The murder that was NOT a federal case of morality, a woman’s spirit!
You think to yourself: maybe
God is a realist with no Christian friends.
SINK HER
I love the smell of your morning breath hovering over
my face in a dolled-up dawn chill,
against a light-blue haze that drags the daylight kicking
and screaming in.
My velvet-covered raspberry heart
grows hooks to snag the meaning of intertwining
when words mean nothing but breathing.
I whisper to your butterflies down there:
Did you say something?
Would you say the words
that might prevent
the soft spot in my mouth from getting old?
I watch your fingernails grow, dirt and all,
never question where the time has gone because,
I pray secretly, it goes into small footsteps the likes of us.
It’s a first strike for my love letters.
It’s a home run for your unopened mail.
This is the pond I built,
this the stream I wallow in
memories so hot they burn down fires.
I want to force you
to force me
to do something against my will,
measure you like a measurement of hell;
from my ankles you grapple
to the space between my hi
pbones
Dizzy like Rascal from your spin zones.
I’m the hard evidence that
your indifference shreds.
Battery acid turns to crème.
Love unveils an 80-year dream
which is really
just a plan without an instinct.
You got me doing the doggy paddle, upstream,
hook,
line,
sink her.
PAPER TIGER
I should stop dreaming.
If God has a head,
Earth’s the bad tooth to get pulled.
He should pull it,
count his losses,
and smile.
Easy is the defamation of the grandest mother.
Her tranquility goes under with blood-drenched rocks
like blisters, pox o’ man’s apocalypse.
She sweats to detoxify us,
she’s pushing with wood-worn arms,
slivering the tips,
reaching, throwing those
silver hooks out of her water basins.
She’s blowing with mighty lip, nuclear acid-baths
trapped in cloud bubbles, out of a charged atmosphere
that just might pop
when the next cigarette is lit,
when the next can is bent.
She should stop denying
fish running pregnant with Hg.
The bad water breaks
delivering bloody womb-tumors like babies.
The President’s got promises of dead zones:
Overflowing with raw sewage!
Saturated with pesticides and human bone!
He’s shooting up lobbyist green and
shitting out greenhouse gasses!
Omitting the CWA and CAA for the RNC and the NRA,
muzzling and punishing scientists like pound-bound strays,
grinning through brown, striped plaque all the way to the bank.
He’s dining on my generation’s decaying flesh,
making sweet meals out of our last natural resources,
saying “cheers” to corporate capitalism,
rubbing his swollen stomach of stench
while the crust of my ancestors becomes stale in the crevices of his rot hole,
using my future as a toothpick!
No mercy for mercury!
Mo history for human legacy!
She is torn from river to liver,
ripping road lights and track housing stapled to her tits,
grids of land waste,
cities stacked upon dead cities like moldy metal,
a robot’s cum shot.
Animals are being born to breathe factory poison
feeding off their own guts and lungs.
We eat that slaughter!
We digest the masticated reincarnated
and call it a “happy meal”.
Smithfield Foods will feed you the unknown because,
quite frankly,
the cows will never come home.
About those bubbles:
The horizontal wheeze of the planet extends.
The “Golden Triangle” still burns like
the third eye of an acrid fortune.
Yes, the preview is fluorescent at twilight,
the devil’s spit permeates coal-soaked earth.
The EPA is MIA,
defenseless as laws are lifted.
The sky grows dark and the heat grows nails
tearing away the envelope
that the world was so mysteriously handed to us in.
This administration lets
a piece of Houston die to this inferno.
Chevron names an oil tanker after board member
Condoleezza Rice.
The irony cannot be dismissed.
National Mercury Providers
call to action those callouses of lies we’ve grown.
Suppression of Dissent!
Refuse to negotiate with corporate environmentalism!
Raise fists of new clear proliferation against cronyism,
blow by blow, voice by voice!
Let Mother deliver rapid spankings to those white asses:
The Gale Nortons
Dick Cheneys
Samuel Bodmans
and Karl Roves!
Let the disciples walk a million miles
in death’s shoes!
Let the hogs scuff over the last piece of bacon!
Let the paper tigers weep over their pussy bills,
screaming tarnation over their tar-filled nation’s landfills!
The other side IS greener, my friends,
the lawn is calling for some kind of picket,
and it ain’t a fence, my friends, no,
there’ll be no stopping of dreams!
There’ll be no happy pill-fillers reading:
“Avoidance, brought to you by the makers of denial!”
Mother has seen the daughter sit,
and watched the sun set,
her family eroded,
the human race in an awkward state
apologizing for missing teeth.
WHAT’S THE WORD
Destiny calls,
despair ruffles
these wrists the
only hands I know,
drowning their mistakes
in some damn cold
(damn fine)
water.
Webster’s dictionary
3 a.m.,
phototropic me
in limbo,
his existence still wins
satiating a begrudged fantasy.
It’s no mare’s nest
enveloped in a green,
monotonously pulsing symphony:
it’s your green eyes
I do recall.
Night’s marked
cruel self-depictions,
the western hemisphere imbedded with emeralds,
an angry appetite
to stop your luster,
my green house crashing
at your beckoning.
Come, call me, baby,
I wanna break it all.
Love is crumbly anyway.
I’ll crumble with you.
Call me, baby,
any-which-way,
any damn fine way
you please.
At peace,
that’s me,
with hating myself
over you.
A word. Your number
redialing. On hold.
Limbo,
damn fine limbo.
NOCTURNE FOR CHOPIN
Spectacular?
Yes, it’s
the gift,
memory soft and sorrowful,
that keeps on giving
those keys you play.
I see you’ve studied me,
distant chamber,
reaction of tears
on these weary cheeks,
years cried
weeping music sheets,
nights hazy with your finger train,
a sleepy howl
to the moon’s erogenous behavior.
Your theories are clever,
you played my teens
in perfect pitch
scaling my longings,
I slept to your time callings
hinting at all those memories
before I lived them,
blue adolescence,
young fear growing
painfully exciting and wondrous,
night would call,
I’d come,
you played softly in the dark.
Good God, kissing your mystery
is a delicacy.
Night would call
and I’d run.
SNEAKER
Saturn’s in his eyes tonight.
206 is not definable as he opens the hotel door for this perfect stranger
and takes a backseat to her giggle.
They play chess on
the bed, but there are no pawns.
There’s strategy in the ceiling painting but no paint,
the language is filled with spoonerisms
reflecting 2 spoons yawning,
his fingers guaranteeing switch-blade voodoo
as he cuts cookies from her heart
to save in his cookie jar.
The bandit stole tickets to her sneak preview.
She’s a foreign film without subtitles
in a drowned-out basement
with no seats and kisses in wide-screen.
He basks in her turquoise and turns the air bashful when
the bridge of his finger brushes her ear.
His minor scale weighs a generous voice, a giving man.
She doesn’t sugar-coat suggestion
and suggests he sing more often.
(what a life is made in 4 hours when talking’s tangible!)
If she fell asleep,
his rib cage would devour and swallow
injections of her punctuation;
her cup-holder hips keep his juices flowing and
reject fantasy with true love and honesty.
He will leave chessboard and all
through the tunnels of their percussion.
Strangers go marching one by one.
What begets premonition has not begun,
like leaving the table light on; a one night-stand.
She watches his story become history
and she’s just a fable.
Conception smiles.
The affect bares teeth and laughs.
Affection doesn’t sneak,
it strides.
THE STATE
The state of the weight of music:
the lid don’t fit over boys
threatenin’ to balance out faces crooked
now, does it?
That promise-ring stalls
an actual engagement of the mind,
promised soldiers fire guns from mouths.
Those guns are tired now,
bought ammunition,
enslaved and engaged
to the competitive market
of social shock-and-awe buffers.
The numbered decree given proof
sets sail the last American ships,
a convoy of depleted rhyme-sayers,
poets despondent.
Letter pens tucked, techs drawn,
gunpowder showers from their nostrils,
the tick tick of sirens coming to life,
all this fighting for the proper burial of a servant,
a despondent poet.
Last rapper’s got a bad rap
as hip-hop’s suicide is forgotten.
Free Stallion Page 2
