Max reading at Miramar College 5/21/04
    See and hear the video -- AVI format

    from Max Cheney's "The Three Imperfectionists":

This gas station was like no other. The vibrations emanating from it were perversely similar to what an earthworm feels when pondering its place in the world along with the horror it endured while Three’s Company was on primetime.

As Alfred walked around the car images of Suzanne Somers crept up on him like a deranged clown in a coalminer’s nightmare. "She’s got a nice set of cans...Goddamn!" Alfred blurted out as he and Jorge took their seats.

Jorge didn’t know what to think of this strange exclamation. After all, he hadn’t interpreted the vibrations from the gas station having anything to do with Three’s Company.

aristocrat urinal


primal lope spans sycophant survival

uplift the slurry and fritos bio


jitterbug defendants roil and burr

invincible embassy antiperspirant here

eel grass


alga gallon ashman sash

squill shod twaddle bechtel bash

maggot cognac docket ammo

boon andorra mange blab hair

Traffic Light Living With Gypsy


The triptych yucca plant addendum

is admissible as minibike scurry

but infeasible as degenerate rhapsody.


Tick off the agent

and the birdseed varistor debate

will come to a rapacious aug.

spring sprite salt chow


it's the grain that condemns

and placates the baronial vault


it's the crevice that cleanses

the critters that affricate


everyone is clothbound on this chart

like a tornado wed to skimpy potatoes


my corset is tedious and it's spoiling

the electrophoresis that I chunk elastic

Break


Demolition deficient

Malnutrion affection

Take my coat

imaginate your coffin

My dentist is a pinkish alteration

a horsepower oppression

Defend the foal

Compel the peppermint to pitch

quadriceps fizzle

quadriceps fizzle
the bridgehead scalps
and sulks like an airedale

aberration. circumscribes
throughout the washbasin
stricture the cedar curry.

You're A Respiratory Pastry

Your respiratory pastry gushes
at the glaze. Permission has been
occluded, targeted and ossified.

Atone dungeon testicle! Your cohesive
schema will not shimmy down this baffle crag.
Row ashore, carboy! Keep apace of phosphate gauge.

Jo -- Dec. 2003 -- more photos here

Jo and Max -- more photos here

Get Your Don On here

In Conklin


I'm unexerted and emitting a bituminous tone,

a bluegill hew, a sulky alacrity.

I'm a hero in a gaggle of alcohol and ankle grace.

I'm sweaty and witty, a switchboard brick

with birdlike, centipede feet

set in collusion in Conklin, New York.

My Bookie


You roughneck hoodlums, specifically my bookie
who has the inkling that the U.S.A. is a jaundiced
trout farm as bizarre as any compunction it may
have toward hedonism.


I detest Broadway, I bounce dildos on
my knee like carrion, I spasm
when my amphetamine count is high.
It's just frustrating when hicks like my bookie
think that the U.S.A. is some kind of
freakish coven of degenerates.


That jackass had tonsillitis and was
sidestepping my bets like an absentminded,
amoral attack tarpaulin. And he wants to
talk about dogmatism? I'll slash his
imperial, spongy doghouse like it was a
shit sandwich of amphibious hominoids.


He's the kind of wise ass, sandbagging
Christian who hunts aphorisms that
even the evildoers of the world would
blow off as dissonant, amoral ballast.

Flex Your Ducts


Your stylish alien teacup,

glistening off the chimney.


This decade's bloodstream,

gateway to my Darwinian nervous dyslexia.


Goldie cries for tennis balls

a breezy frothy spheroid polynomial in complexion

and cuddly.


I windsurf wearing a muzzle,

it's egalitarian and judgmental.

I can't brainstorm, I can only drool and

contractually improvise (bite).