gender & war (& Arafat)

America Goes to War New fashion of this Spring

As Bart Simpson would say: hell; hell; hell; hell; endless wealth.

I had a cat of twenty lives. Says them.

Korea and another jackass country.

They're so smug that my sublet and my hat is off limits to them.

Let's face within it, we all share the same sins,

mine just have me grasping at sponge members.

Sponge members, earthquakes and some lava.

Lava that is deep and glad and does not stick to their enemies.

Their enemies have delivered themselves to a new pub in China.

I deliver my self to some router farm outside Cork.

The present bulletin is this:

bored people take everything from the value of freedom.

They take it and screw your nose into it.

I've never done that but I'm just a flash away...

and my last name in Spanish means: this thing in my belly is building a house.

What bird said that?

At 17 I sat at a table with tears so old the world seemed young.

So young that perhaps we too will be given an everlasting burning stick of incense,

but because I bought the Gentleman's Package

I'll have to mail my soul to where the building fell down.

The building fell down and all of the lamps went out.

I could see the pain and the loss and walked among some of the dead,

sharp shooting cads and quiet birds circled overhead.

I had the idea of coming and my eyelids went out like lamps,

I fell onto a vacuum cleaner and started dancing, my heart on fantasies

because rodents by nature move inward, not outward.

Your cat may miss you but it's lower moral code, like burning tongs,

will sing to you the law of new nutshells only interrupted by attempts to sell products.

Products that bring grubs and flies to the terror in the world.

The terror in the world is not beyond belief.

We stick together and show an affirming flame.

We were placed on this earth at the forge and

as soon as I stop clawing and clobbering and choking and pulverizing

I will skip stones across the dagger of the wind.

Wait, that was mostly childish, reflecting and bouncing out the door

like when you lift your arms to the great oleander in the sky,

the sky diverging so slowly that they think we are looking back at them

with the swimming movements of the dead fronting

for my compassion and kindness

which are out grazing in a haunted wood or lost in the dew.

The Palm Beach County cops will crack down on this type of movement,

slowly shrinking the name as attached to the picture.

But somehow the head remains. Oh well, while I drink on a public bench

my name is not attached to the picture. The sea is deep and glad to see you.

A life like this is crinkly, a life like yours is fraught with troubled rage,

with a thousand winds that blow the zeta strip in the courts of misinformation.

Its message is a big, round, childish hand

wakened to the zilog of the elliptical our bodies encompass.

It's a phantom Russia, a Russia that finds its continuing self on the crimson sofa.

It uses its mouth like your tongue uses its teeth. A voice like thunder

thunders through the repetition of pronouncement.

I've watched this pronouncement corrupting history and hampering the cravings

but we remain blinking apertures of a dishonest decade.

Crash!

The face within it is born by the bird they were (POW! apart!).

I was asked to write a poem that would RUN,

and I composed like them, straight into an apothecaric grave.

Give me the hippy lettuce or give me death!

The window's over there.

Would you call my friends other devices?

No, I would call my friends the mantle of ruin

or any number of aphrodisiacs,

thank you very much Mr. Samuel Johnson.