New Poem #27

Regurgitating childselves emboweled Chronically.

New Poem #26

A Masonic pyramid spouting a rainbow, a bloodshot all-seeing eye. Deathly phallus, economy-sustaining public work. All toked up, hotboxing pharoic corpses, beacons of otherworldliness prismatically distributed. An investment, its mind-searing returns. I saw this scarpainted somewhereabouts on my body. Psychedelic little doodle, memento of some secreting society, having stolen me while I slept, branded me over a fine joint meeting of the high priests and priestesses and priestessesses.

New Poem #25

The noonday demon breading brooding. Scoffing, camped out on the rings of Saturn, snickering. We shake our fists and pop our pills. We try to explain. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? No faith in explanation. No faith in faith. No heartfelt words, only intellectual gambits. What we really need is an umbilical cord of infinite length, connecting us to everyone and everything. That's what we really need.

New Poem #24

Lacrimonious diminuendous. Curtains close. Off to merriment! Step up now, into the carriage, cane at his side. What a show, what a show, oh but yes, wasn’t it just divine? Naturally, the finest falling of woman ever committed to the stage. Those micro-waves, Un Di Felice Eterea, shall bounce around the hall ‘til the end of time, I assure you. But our hero, what’s on his mind? Champagne unfluted, cravat well-tied, fingernails immaculate as the Virgin herself; the preoccupation reigns, the dance lingers lingeringly, of the bull-men, the bull-headed men, a bunch of latter-day Minotaurs. The issue? Self-recognition. Not consciously, beneathingly. Handful of issue, in the bath, then approaches the looking-glass critically, and for a moment it is as if…This is a morbid tale, and the faint-of-heart may wish to look away as the deed is done. Curtains open. Grotesquerie worthy of the Great Clown himself.

New Poem #23

A prehistory: library-goer, just fine, free day, his self-worthying idea of leisure, when: it comes like a spell, spoken elsewhere, afflicting him. Rendering him cloudlike, expansive, and oh, the books! Voluminously oppressive waiting speakers of versions, versions, versions, all things subheliotic. Hideously reductive patient knowers of knowledge, it’s become a morgue, that smell which he once loved, and now down he goes, carpet, a whole faceful. Nose flared out, flattened, returning stale breath like a charitable amnesiac, all is distant, unmeaning. For all he knows, the shelves have collapsed upon him, for all he knows, he is a book.

New Poem #22

Speaks a devotional, whittles down the offshooting passing distractions. Or doesn’t. Sailers sail, their bark dead and floating, warped by commerce-promises, but at least. Maybe. Intervening fate, lurking inscrutably, nonexistingly. Stumbles from town to town, looking in windows, stealing space with his unwanted gaze, his fantastical mind like a vampire, requiring invitation. Hungry. Guilty.

New Poem #21 (first magic poem)

There were three kingdoms, suchly, three royal wizards, working away. The object being a transdimensional rift, or maybe that’s not what it was at all, some deranged pursuit that nevertheless ultimately (it was commonly agreed) threatened to consume all and everyone. The question then becoming, what the nature of that consumption would be? For were it a great joining, that would be rather nice, wouldn’t it? Thus the faithful, the everwaiting, expediting wizardlovers. For were it a great sundering, an obliteration, well, not so nice. Thus the Luddites, I mean, the nonbelievers...the infidels? The rest of the story is really nothing special; suffice it to say, all rifts being achieved in unison, three consuming sorts spilled out, ate up the kingdoms, ate up each other and, well, who am I to say what that was like?

New Poem #20

“If I’m doing this right, then
There should be nowhere for me to hide.”

New Poem #17

The next time I am hurt,
Physically, you know,
The next time my skin opens up,
I will look at myself like a planet

I will look at my skin like crust,
And will imagine my organs replaced
By layers of rock, molten.
And I will know myself subject to

All the dangers of being a planet.

New Poem #16

He dared himself to imagine what could have been
And, reluctantly, accepted the challenge.

It was as if this thing had changed, or that thing,
Or some thing of which he had been unaware.

It felt different, a sweet-sour difference,
It felt somewhat nauseating,

The way people feel, floating upon the ocean,
People who are afraid of the ocean in its immensity.

New Poem #15 (rhyming!)

I have a memory of you
That makes you look pretty bad
But I’m not sure if it’s true
Or maybe a dream I once had.

New Poem #14

She was a witch, but she hid it well;
No one would have guessed
The magical properties of the smoke
That rose from her chimney.

New Poem #13

He was waiting for the bus. He looked at his watch. He thought about his grandchildren. There were five of them. Five tendrils spiraling away from his genitals.

Then he died, and they thought about him. They thought about his things. They thought about his small sad home, and his magazines. Secretly, they forgave themselves for being unable to cry.

New Poem #8.5

This may just be the drug talking,
But I really feel like nothing's going to work out.

New Poem #8

This may just be the drug talking
But I really feel like everything's going to work out.

New Poem #6

Another poem for tiny things,
Batteries, cheerios, paperclips;
Tiny things in general,
And also in specific:
The key to your apartment,
That piece of paper with the lipstick kiss,
The boarding pass.
We love them, the tiny things,
Because they are so like our own ideas,
How we hold onto them, trying to absorb their power.

New Poem #5

Let’s talk about Jesus.
Christ.
Let’s talk about the sand between his toes,
His thoughtful eyes,
His fuck-off attitude.
Is Jesus? Or was he?
Or will he be?
Shall we sing? Shall we weep?
Shall we make war?
If one is to love one’s enemies,
How can they remain one’s enemies?
I want an answer.

New Poem #4

This house is too quiet.

We make these buildings to give meaning to our ruckus.

Without the ruckus, they become just rooms and rooms.

New Poem #2

Ishmael, clinging to the coffin,
From the vortex, the black bubble,
a beautifully baby boy:
“What sense can be made of this?”

New Poem #1

Will I write about the past?
(I gaze wantingly and needingly,
Vainly, frustratedly, lovingly,)
(And I never could keep a diary)

Will I write about the future?
(Whose?)