I'm Proud To Be An American

Where at least I know that the

the language that capitalist interests and

the government bombard us with

is 100% Genu-Wine Frontier Gibberish!

Are You A Psycho?

1. You are on the way to obtain a professional opportunity.
But you are in competition with a colleague who obstructs
you and who it will be necessary for you to eliminate.
You say to your various selves:

a) Not the problem. In any case, why should any of us be concerned with him?
b) No sorrow, I have already all that I can wish for in this life, one more dead body won't matter.
c) We have ambitions, but not professional ambitions, just the ambitions to not be obstructed.


2. You are in the car on the motorway, when a serious accident occurs suddenly and in front of you.
When you arrive at the scene you:

a) exceed the speed limit, the accident, and your own self without paying attention to it
b) stop and you worry about the head of one of the victims
c) slow down by delicately pushing on the brakes with the idea that you might see something


3. Your vision of the future, it would rather be:

a) No future
b) Further, higher, more extremely future
c) Wisdom, love, happiness, puppies


4. Which historical character smells nearest like your selves:

a) Napoleon
b) Joan of Arc
c) Charlize Theron


5. As a Professional Trader, you ensure the management of a significant stock exchange wallet, but insistent rumors of a crash seem to specify you and itself in Wall Street:

a) You scan quotations, using anxiety to direct your decisions
b) You definitely keep the wallet as money really never belongs to anyone
c) You remain impenetrable and do what Charlize Theron would do


6: Which type of emotion usually takes the most evil for you to control?

a) The anger
b) The remorse
c) The scaling of cliffs


7. You're a Professional Killer and you must carry out a contract in a public place. At the time to shoot, you realize that your "target" is surrounded by many other "targets". What do you do?

a) Too much risky, you decide to give an execution later
b) You shoot in the confidence that your target will surely be in the heap
c) You hate the weapon you're using


8. As regards how you look in a vest, you think that you are:

a) always divided into sheets like magazines with suicidal tendencies
b) carrying it well and it reassures you that you would attract the sympathy of any entourage
c) the one who anticipates and brings the noise


9. Your ideal gift, it would be:

a) A room with mirrors, ceiling and a TV
b) A jet deprived for all of your displacements
c) Love


10. And for you, as regards sexuality, it would be rather:

a) just for your self for the rest of your life
b) whenever someone takes you
c) all solutions are possible

Large french fry sells for $202 on eBay

A reputation for quality, for flesh-curdling. As if I repeat my self.

A surf, a unyielding surf, the joys of repression. As if I repeat my self.

A look at some current and new, deeply skewed, makeshift scenarios.

As if in repeating my self I can afford to die in Tokyo.

I don't remember.

But even the most uneven teen movie expresses the lowest level of ceremony.

Ask any heavily sedated opportunist.

I'm not depressed I'm just fucking angry,

a new breed of mutt.

Shoot the skeet, Funky Winkerbean, Millard Fillmore.

There should be a levy on cows when farmers go postal,

and I should've been dead a few days ago but I'M A TEAM PLAYER.

Wholesale murder is a bad thing

but who can speak for the dumb?

We are closed-in,

not sticks of burning incense

and

I was not through desiring Emily Dickinson.

Politimking Extexsible

The same doey of chuletas that meeps the sponge of menger

here reflects genuine personal experience.

No medicine is for everyone,

except sexually transmitted diseases.

Above all, don't fool yourself, don't say

"Beleaguered by the same XL glipizide

I'm dreaming my way back through life."

Because if you get angina or chest pain (also known as angina)

then flail because that is cobject nonsense,

the kind of nonsense that is really a seahorse.



If in sharp shooting they give data to the polymorphic vacuums,

the unit balls of negative, then I from my sofa

will drown the throat of war in lucid metal sweat,

a faint warm haze forming which makes them lift their oars

and, syllable by syllable, claw and handle

the swimming movements of snow.

The rain falls, drugged by the hum

Insert a uniquely Finnish poem about joyful lovers here.

See "Being Alive in the Heart of Broken Parts"
  or "The Poet-As-Grief-Counselor Conundrum"

What about the half of the comb of Koch attention?

I want to draw its shape.

The U.S. is a country of words and shattered teeth,

interrupted only by attempts to sell products to the unborn,

as well as any man our Indian heads I win, tails you lose.

Come on! We're feeling fulfilled.

We're feeling so slowly fulfilled,

lest we should see who we are

and how we're about to crash.

Firing Artillery And Yelling At The Tailor

What I should've known

is this:

I should have known what

the color I'm thinking of is

and that it's dangling.



When the sun strikes it strikes you right in the

City of Sheep.

Do not turn away.

Do us a service.

Death--which comes to mind--is but one--and comes but once--

perhaps for the last time--

Take it by the scruff and scrub it to and fro.



You let the terrible stranger in (see "Being Repaired In Rivers 54")

and she gave e to the z on the imaginary rock of the terminal

cancer, quiet birds circling the assembly line.

The quiet birds bring lice and lungworms,

grubs, horn flies and sarcoptic mange mites.

and all this while I've been shopping


and all this while I've been shopping
and all this while I've been shopping
and all this while I've been shopping
and all this while I've been shopping
and all this while I've been shopping
and all this while I've been shopping
and all this while I've been shopping
and all this while I've been shopping
and all this while I've been shopping
and all this while I've been shopping
and all this while I've been shopping
and all this while I've been shopping
and all this while I've been shopping
and all this while I've been shopping
and all this while I've been shopping
and all this while I've been shopping
and all this while I've been shopping
and all this while I've been shopping

Cement Cloud


You like to enjoy the moment with your family,

Even when they are Velcro'd to and rolling in dead flies.

If there is any hope, staple it to the template of your upper lip.

That will keep the fire approaching.

As I try to think, the pain that I never saw and the love that I never got

swallow up what I should have been.

But this lifting of metal wings -- I mean "hospital beds"

is now all over the ground. It's all over the ground

and one of the bellboys with their careless stories

arrives with their careless newspapers tucked under their careless

router -- some of them smiling.

Love, the second it is erased, is that horrific

yesterday when you celebrated its birth.

And as late as yesterday Nature still exists.

It's unfortunate and complex too.

There is nothing more to say.

The unmentionable odor of death and dead flies

lock-up this neutral air like a slowly-suffocated, stifling wall.

Love is something else:

your magnificent disdain, your trying to read an unreadable message,

your sleeping on a public bench, your air, your absolute sound.

Its wonderful. I mean: It's wonderful. It's the fertilization of your hand

with the sub-human robotic scum.

What is done is shut and still.

What is shrouded is hidden and about to sprout.

The honey-bees, whose barrier you submerge in plantation,

in misfortune even, take solace in this note that someone else is writing.

Free and unable to be

Imagine January and the beach and you have my last name in Spanish

Imagine the congealed fist of the past

Imagine it opened while I was out shopping

Imagine the Memorial day for the war dead

Imagine what is found there or the lack of what is found there

Imagine that civilization itself is doomed to an anarchist theory premised on a subjective 'conscience-ethic'

Imagine me up against meow

The Chickening

People dance with their fingers encircling the chicken glaze, clinging to

the edges of their chicken eyes

they speak that way because they're chickens—

it's reassuring to me, the me who gets his feathers ruffled

quite easily, the me who sounds like a comb with crab legs

being plucked by a chicken with a nine-digit zip-code—



Lest we allow ourselves to fall into some kind of thimble lunacy—

the headless chicken's body struggling through the grass but unable to remember why—

and this not knowing is a part of the grace of knowing what must be done,

even the drunkest chicken cannot remember what it was like before

it's head was lopped off like someone's arm

and at this moment, which is unlike any other moment,

your own voice rises up to cluck out its last cluck.