FRUIT

The sun is high.
Take a look.
But there's nothing higher
than the lisp you lend or weld.
Yes, I said "weld."
Actually, I meant "allergize" or "tea" or "me."
Take a look.

You'll see the sun swaying in the sky.
And I can see by your outfit, your
talons and your marching orders
that you are a hand-puppet.
Yes, I said "cowboy."
And, puppet that you are,
you've taken every penny
you've ever lived with
and called "heads" one
too many times.

Your life is segmented.
Take a look.

Look with your eyes open, not your teeth out.
And use your hands,
they're as palpable as that gust of probability
that laid you flat until your tallow exploded
and your entrails holed up.

Somewhere in the afternoon,
lit up like a log jam
on a coffee break,
there's quiet.
And what's more, I won't be quiet
and I won't make sense.
What I will do is bark incessantly.
Your nose knows this
and so does your bottle
of face-tightener.

Tell Them: Mice

In the aftermath of the window,

chilled by the persecution of the wind,

closed-in on by a God who's lost everything and forgotten all,

tightly-occupied by one of those control lab rats,

crumpled by smiles unseen,

clobbered by the Biblical,

betweened by a tweener,

trapped between the terrifying and the just plain empty,

blinded from death by air traffic controllers,

staggered by brutal and infinite messages,

despised by Hunger's foot,

cordoned off with difficult news,

passed over by withered passers-by,

beaten up by Mark Twain,

choke-holded by innocence,

discerned to be in the dell,

truncated by soccer players,

warmed-over by hamming-it-up,

trounced on by a busted heart,

flourished by a last ounce of flourish,

done in by the Dalai Lama,

diked by draconian architecture,

troubled and exalted by multi-hop attempts,

sub-humanned by robotic scum,

modeled by eyebrows,

ruined by driving 55,

torn by negation and Tender Vittles,

mouthed by the only seahorse in captivity,

towned by a country mouse,

blasted by CIA pre-war intelligence on Iraq,

slaughtered by the blue-eyed universe,

crushed by a half-ounce of surrealism,

mediated by chasm horror hideouts,

reflected and bounced by rental agreements,

dethroned by the gentle, aluminum rain,

bred by Heaven's Gate hooligans,

imprisoned by internal reflection,

renewed by ropes bearing ash and debris,

destroyed by heroic statues,

envied by how pure a thing whining is,

produced by rages of fog and rodent's teeth,

trifled with by swarms of spleens,

prepared like a picture of a plea,

pained by a slain happy face,

reduced to polishing couches,

repeated by polishing couches,

reamed by maze-ish girls,

burned by paper critics,

wakened by the white in the air,

generated by a woman who has left you,

desired by men in their graves,

killed by the fence and a mile of misfortune,

submerged by the assumption of fragrance,

glanced at by the completely detached,

assumed to be an elastic automaton,

retarded by broken glass pipe cleaners,

remembered as a Papa Smurf wannabe,

plucked from a vast sleep,

fabled to be on simmer,

sucked into what the rest obey,

clawed and handled by the sun-struck parchment,

kidded for being on a missing persons flyer,

picked to be among the living jaded,

shrunken by the notion that there is a god,

closed-in by the choice,

picked apart like a prize-fighter,

tracked by birds,

torn apart by a crinkly dress,

delivered with sunspots,

reminded of negation by despair,

mustard on my t-shirt,

I look up.

acadqme cne

Do what you can when it's not quite win-win

and it's not quite hot-hot.

When it's jasper root pox zoink

my lava vamp adheres

here right up until tomorrow.

I'm not due pronto but I also did not bring diapers.

Right-o.

Have cane will freebase.

Just like my Uncle Wesley's yarn

ball which, as any kickboxer who boxes

will tell you, xenophobia slats suck.

Bring slaw verts instead and

don't get lost amid the interior zits.

Zits have boils and

xenophobic zits inflame.

For instructions on how to make roid-rage-panic

quit accessing your collective oscelot link and

click here.

Please dont send any more enter here

beatnik lent amanita

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No more thanks

A THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY THE NEW DAY

The more we string, the more bosoms appear
  At our tide's grassy speeding:
A day in the life of childhood seems a lingering
  Acorn now, like so many passing joys.

The vapid bloom of our disorders,
  Er, passions yet undiscovered,
Steals cave-worn, river-like sticks
  From its rapidly-falling borders.

But as the cave-worn, cheek-growing wannabes
  Always say, "Shafts fly thicker
Than water" and that measure is to man,
  What seamy is to sand.

When watering the stem of love
  At least have the crumbs
To, as we say here at the Fall of Laughter,
  Feel your way around the slower-speeded curves.

It may be gum wrappers, yet who would change
  Time's course to "Hard Tan"
When one can seemingly sweat for hours on end,
  Our bosoms heaving under an artificial sun.

Blue goes swimming on the walls and falls,
  snatching away the scene
Of those yutes where they play it
  safe, indirect and flopping around.

Yeah okay

Microsoft is right to try to make more money

with false pieces of paper that don't mean

anything to most patterns!

But they could at least create something useful

like an intelligence-gathering post

or another security patch.

Because we can put a man on Mars

but we can't quit uploading "I Love You" to fumigates!

I would have less headaches

if technicians and their under-ended

watches of paper would consider that

the future is near! This sounds pleasant

enough because the future doesn't have

to include any person with a conventional education.

If I bust my ass every day I don't want to be

labeled "Joe-Schmo," have my neurons counted

and fired and "Same to you, jackass!"

Dig Us

Dig us in the morning and

Dig us on Christmas eve

Dig us when the sun is crowning in South Dakota

Dig us, point at us, braid our hair

The cold row of blown-out candles on the cake

Tells us something about our selves

Indicating him, indicating we, indicating them

You indicates us, and also me

She indicates thoughts and

Kneeling indicates steps and steeples

On the roofs, freely-indicating fire extinguishers

Indicate hollowed-out books

Their pages indicating the wind is pulling

Hard against the storm

Opened like me in a river

Singing "Stand By Your LEGO©"

To the factory
  (for Bill Luoma)

To the rubies

to the declaration

to the return to spectacular

to the end.

This is the interruption

this is the vector

another part of

another possible world

where the ends of the circuits are eating

out of the necessity to be the one conserved.

The lock of no return cannot give return

cannot give a voice to your plan

to invert and illustrate the concept of silence.

Silence is a khaki-colored collection of points

where the helmet can suspend

or create

or ask for.

Takeshi Kitano Rules!

If someone asked me to retain only one

plan of the last fifteen I've come up with

I'd choose the Takeshi Kitano Plan.

The one where I dress-up in a black

ball-bearing costume and sunglasses

and stand motionless in an airport.

This plan it seems to me is perfectly

drawn up and realized.

This poem however does not

seem perfectly drawn up and realized.

I realize this and say what

Takeshi Kitano would say. He'd say

"I unload on the United States!"

The main difference between

Western art and Japanese art

is that I run around on the wheels of my car

and the Japanese run around on the wheels of my car.

Of all possible jobs

I have to be a back-up

cashier in a Strip Restaurant.

My up-and-coming comedy career

is subject to a scientific study at the University

of Get Off My Cloud where Professor Jagger and

the memory of my late father fuse to form a cabaret

where I actually lie about every experience I've never had.

warning: This man is wild

What does it mean to be versed in quilting dance and body language?

Occasionally only the grotesque is amusing

but in the long run a tragic main figure resting on itself

in its own absurdity and despair can catapult

these root experiences and a soul calmly planned

into a world of extreme internal cold weather.

result: Gangster romance with surreal impact

"Culture Fight" with Takeshi Kitano

Murder over murder

impressive pictures describe

sometimes so brutally

that watching hurts.

But at least by film corpse No. 30

one can hear the fingers they're counting on.

siege birds

bang the mat

50XX

No one says "my" quite like "my" woman

not even "me" but if "I" say so "my" self "I'd" back-pedal

and say "my" love doesn't talk about love tangled

in vines or in rapidly-written, watery octets.

If you think you're a mattress

think again sour-puss.

You're just a mess of promises

and faint caresses.

Your voice is a mess and your promises...

Oh yeah, I already said that.

When ladders are illegal

only outlaws will have ladders.

That has been my experience, but

it's a kind of chauvinist- based experience

that's battened down the hatches and made me more timid

than after downing 3 cognacs with the Ponds Cold Cream heiress.

About A Boy

Allen Ginsberg's FBI file could be the greatest pop-punk single of all time,

according to Senate Majority leader John Yau.

This is abstract techno,

stuttered and scraped through a ravenous bird

and the flesh of decomposing humans.

Charles Bernstein writes this kind of thing all the time

and it rarely applies like it does now,

a literary thriller that sold 28 million copies to junkies alone

for a dollar two ninety eight --

less ten.

It obviously didn't win awards for being subtle

and all my energy and talk about poor children,

wagging fingers and William Carlos Williams

bring lofty expectations that inevitably are

talked about from here to O. Henry,

except in cases when Viktor tells us

something about our selves,

our hobbies and nicknames perhaps.

You gotta ask your selves:

If the brightest minds on our planet could produce

such a terrifying weapon of mass destruction

what do you call it when two or more objects

are seen as a Sergio Leone movie?

That's right, you gots.

It's called THE ENTIRE POEM,

and not just the celebration of drive-by shootings

in my neighborhood because that's an enduring

comedy set against late-period, pop-construct Linda Vista

(in itself as prefabricated as any Britney Spears).

But I'm at the top of the heap with Allen Ginsberg

and our nerves talk about Frosty The Snowman.

Remember Arnold the pig? That's who I wanted to vote for,

but in a complex and not demagogic way.

The apples in the stereo require the uses of the cookies and

the fleshing out of the non-poet audience requires

the hard-boiling of that darling baroque fantasy About A Boy.

Personally, I don't recognize any of this shit

Leo cheer or Leo yell.

Collette march slowly.

Bruce beam me up.

I am hurt.

Evan is only kidding.

Meadowlark is blue.

Baretta is barred from giving flowers to the manifold.

Leave them alone.

The beautiful model has no hospital bed.

Just checking with bat-eating man-in-the-street.

This vector or that vector.

Each speaks for peace but death goes on anyway.

Whose bright idea was this?

This gassing or questioning of tables.

This grief that you give me when you pull me by the hair,

the hushedness accelerating with each new tear

or tear.

These flowers may know they're heading nowhere.

These whitened teeth may have their careless stones.

But I don't have the desire

to explain any of this shit in terms that

your number-crunched disdain wouldn't disdain.

And do not call me,

I may be on hold.

And do not look down on me,

I've grown taller from grasping at the weeds

or weeds.

all day email and cantaloupe tomatoes

Yell produces white food. Hands

win fears detail from court.

Finding natural a lot better

than directly biting dogs from the

center of the seam down to the Petri

Cherney. The contents held under

the demon summer language are

only tired of his fat ass

and his fat formulas

for these would be

cliches in anyone else's fat hands

(take a photo).

Our minds are more than the retarded argument of delay

We are never selfish,

though I admit that I have learned much in your life

while their bones have not.

Many detergents aspire to lily-of-the-valley mortality.

This time I do not.

Not now. Not since.

Because my child’s holy smile turns out to have been the flu,

not the Throne of Thor.

You're hating me now, I canned laughter it.

But poetry stands in opposition to hate.

Pick a poem, any poem, and find me the hate.

It's not there.

Now love, love is something else.

Outside, across the blue-eyed elastic towns, comes this question:

Still, I must say this to you:

Odor has left its memory.

And hunger allows no shopping.

Use your rebate to help!

Is that a question?

Speak so we owe peaks.

We have a country made of words

bleached against another sky

beaming down almost unimaginable talons.