FITTY

Writing is fifty! Yay!

So I propose that I'm immune to writing.

I'm thin, I've been to college -- or through it.

I've written pages and pages of shunt,

lengthwise, forwardwise, hazardwise and

the columns seem to tear at random,

the text reconstituting itself.



Use any aroused message. Or recorded message.

Suppose I use the phrase "ooing out as

I'm supposed to stink"? What happens?

I poliberate words and words are

supp meant to sing aroused to think?

I think not.



I can't wait until I'm fitty,

the complex chaos of

children scrubbing our national heritage.

The lives I've collected like the Zodiac

collected slaves for his afterlife.

The moment I dress and sleep.

Or a pistol-whipping just past the guilt,

a cork from Chris Tyndall sprouting

below the earth like a really strange

and dense human laugh overlapping

the brain. It's dangerous, it hinges

on making me move from preaching

to the choir to preaching to

a phantom.



I have to mail this now, not screw

your nose into it. What the bird said

was the world seems live an everlasting

bile of lamps walking along my eyelids

and starting to dance. We stick together

across the clobbering childish reflections

forging slowly a swimming compassion

while I drink to this picture.



This is crink!

My vision of the future

is pup nearer rumors of a crash,

my entourage a large french fry

and an unyielding surf.