Sinners sit stationary
Smiles cracked open
Impetus on the ice pick
Wishing, absolutely dreadful
Silence is the noise stuck between your teeth.
Iron popsicle stick
Stab corneal stiletto victims
Bioethics digests probiotics
Yoghurt exonerates the colon
Cast iron crown cool
Branding my buttocks with Pepto-Bismol.
Never have I ever imprinted my pustules on writing prompts.
Snapping bones with line breaks
Creationism simple
Understood to the extent of organ donors
Honorarium proletariat
Algorithmic insatiable
Dripping dolomite dimpled delicacies
Churned cherry ostracism
If you can’t find it, check the gun chamber.
Sacks of minimalist murmurs
Too elaborate for cornmeal or asceticism
Garnished garter belts galvanize good riddance
Rotisserie style pockmarks for principle
Scab over with cinnamon to carnal caress
Seabed of flower pedals come out of notoriety
Tremolo totalitarians protest post-punk blithely because
…and then I will fill your lungs with cumin.
Burials brighten schizophrenic tweed jackets
Womby Tuesdays
Shooting craps with ardor
To shit-show me the way
I will butter your toast with hacksaws.
“Similarly weeping sideways,”
Willow wander-whispers
Tumult! Tumult! Tumult me three ways!
Parting hair iodine eye-soars
Ecclesiastic equilaterals find my equilibrium sentimental
E. coli (EEEEEeeeeek!!!!)
Under me, over me, mensal marauders
I had you; catheter lubrication
I will sap the seas with my liver and convert you to hydrogen.
Hispanic hypochondriacs
Shoulda—woulda, Buddha
Schizoid shunt
If you are hearing this, it means that we are both synonyms.
Summersault ecstatic
Simply woven ceremonials
Exocytosis my excision pompoms
Existential homographs are homophobes
Goosebumped, gallbladder, giggly-bitten hetaerists
I will lead you under clover sheets and supplant my headdress with corners.
Octoberist similarities silent
Still-cool matchstick conduits
Gingerbread utopian
Wisdom whisper
Bread-lined luminary
Even to this day, I hold you near autumn.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
The Letter "S," Like the Number 5, Makes "She"
He floats on lint.
He culminates in coke bottles.
He makes mistakes like tree limbs.
He is not nacre, nor do his nipples taste like helium.
Never will you hear the feminine form of a noun pronounced effeminately.
If he knew how to read, he would love Hemingway.
If he were to sashay, you would think he was about to kill a bear or something.
He lights cigarettes with macabre stop signs.
Punctuation, to him, means applying a knife to a girdle.
He culminates in coke bottles.
He makes mistakes like tree limbs.
He is not nacre, nor do his nipples taste like helium.
Never will you hear the feminine form of a noun pronounced effeminately.
If he knew how to read, he would love Hemingway.
If he were to sashay, you would think he was about to kill a bear or something.
He lights cigarettes with macabre stop signs.
Punctuation, to him, means applying a knife to a girdle.
I Wake Up In the Arms of a Red, Red Sonnet
Warmth sought in places other than hollow
hell, my arm lies flaccid on a couch ripped
and torn from syncopation and spit.
Stockings spoiled by a bastard’s elbow.
No kissing please. No! No kissing please, sir.
Who took your innocence away the fifth
time? When did you start adding ketchup to
chapped lips? May I baptize your wrinkles with myrrh?
Just don’t say ‘prenupts’ or ‘pap smears.’ Aroma
of something more purple than brown. Crust on
bullet casings or mattress springs left by writers
of all sizes. Her hair caramel whispers
that there is a rhyme scheme— but it’s a cold one.
Rifts in my pen cause the room to spill blue.
hell, my arm lies flaccid on a couch ripped
and torn from syncopation and spit.
Stockings spoiled by a bastard’s elbow.
No kissing please. No! No kissing please, sir.
Who took your innocence away the fifth
time? When did you start adding ketchup to
chapped lips? May I baptize your wrinkles with myrrh?
Just don’t say ‘prenupts’ or ‘pap smears.’ Aroma
of something more purple than brown. Crust on
bullet casings or mattress springs left by writers
of all sizes. Her hair caramel whispers
that there is a rhyme scheme— but it’s a cold one.
Rifts in my pen cause the room to spill blue.
Explanation #2
I wrote this poem in the dark
I wrote this poem in urine
I wrote this poem while being chased by nudists
I wrote this poem in a Confessional
Marilyn Hacker told me not to write this poem
I tried writing this poem in Iambic Pentameter
I wrote this poem because I was aroused
I wrote this poem after imagining myself in the shower
I wrote this poem and then woke up in the shower
I wrote this poem after listening to a recording of myself crying
I wrote this poem after realizing that it wasn’t me crying
I wrote this poem in my sleep
I wrote this poem because I don’t sleep
I wrote this poem after drinking too much antiseptic
I wrote this poem because I’m impotent
I wrote this poem in the womb
I am repentant for impregnating this paper with my poem
I refuse to acknowledge this poem
I originally wrote this poem in French forgetting that I don’t know French
I wrote this poem after yelling at a homeless person
I wrote this poem after yelling at God
I wrote this poem because my mother told me to stop talking so much
I wrote this poem after losing my train of thought at a metro station
I have no idea why I’m writing this poem
I should have stopped writing this poem years ago
I wrote this poem after hearing strange noises from my brother’s room
I wrote this poem because I’m an only child
I wrote this poem as a means to get even with my poetry
I wrote this poem in order to map out my body’s twists and turns
I wrote this poem in case there is a Communist uprising
I wrote this poem after Senator Joseph McCarthy interrogated me for being a homosexual and a Communist.
I wrote this poem after ending my affair with JFK
I wrote this poem in a dress
I wrote this poem by mistake
I wrote this poem while making mistakes in a dress
I wrote this poem with icing on my chest
Why would you assume that I wrote this poem?
I wrote this poem after 40 days and nights in a dumpster
I wrote this poem shortly after my testicles dropped
I found this poem in a test tube
This poem wrote itself
I broke a car window with this poem
I made my father cry with this poem
I wrote this poem in urine
I wrote this poem while being chased by nudists
I wrote this poem in a Confessional
Marilyn Hacker told me not to write this poem
I tried writing this poem in Iambic Pentameter
I wrote this poem because I was aroused
I wrote this poem after imagining myself in the shower
I wrote this poem and then woke up in the shower
I wrote this poem after listening to a recording of myself crying
I wrote this poem after realizing that it wasn’t me crying
I wrote this poem in my sleep
I wrote this poem because I don’t sleep
I wrote this poem after drinking too much antiseptic
I wrote this poem because I’m impotent
I wrote this poem in the womb
I am repentant for impregnating this paper with my poem
I refuse to acknowledge this poem
I originally wrote this poem in French forgetting that I don’t know French
I wrote this poem after yelling at a homeless person
I wrote this poem after yelling at God
I wrote this poem because my mother told me to stop talking so much
I wrote this poem after losing my train of thought at a metro station
I have no idea why I’m writing this poem
I should have stopped writing this poem years ago
I wrote this poem after hearing strange noises from my brother’s room
I wrote this poem because I’m an only child
I wrote this poem as a means to get even with my poetry
I wrote this poem in order to map out my body’s twists and turns
I wrote this poem in case there is a Communist uprising
I wrote this poem after Senator Joseph McCarthy interrogated me for being a homosexual and a Communist.
I wrote this poem after ending my affair with JFK
I wrote this poem in a dress
I wrote this poem by mistake
I wrote this poem while making mistakes in a dress
I wrote this poem with icing on my chest
Why would you assume that I wrote this poem?
I wrote this poem after 40 days and nights in a dumpster
I wrote this poem shortly after my testicles dropped
I found this poem in a test tube
This poem wrote itself
I broke a car window with this poem
I made my father cry with this poem
A Breath Is Taken; But Not a Sweet One
The polar regions of the Sahara continue ellipses on mountaintops. Snow capped syringe tips point at the uterus in my incubation chamber. A bomb shelter away from a good pregnancy metaphor. Never understood the use of pronouns. “In my day, the clitoris of a pear was a mere legend.”
Weekend compasses dare to fashion waves with taken tonsils and introverted mannequins. Random accounts of history. Accounted accents. Awkward moments. Momento. Mentos. Me.
“She peeled back my face with tweezers, opened my sinus cavity with butterflies, and breathed silence into my larynx.”
Hollow cult-cut turkey breasts. Streetsweeping genres. Androgenized antidotal evidence. Eyes tell me otherwise. “Hopefully this is the last time you talk of hearts.”
Cardiograms and coloring (inside the lines) in three acts. Paintings in C minor. Minor lacerations to the bedposts. An ultrasound speaks of nothing but compound words. A breath is taken, but not a sweet one. “Holy N+7 Batman!”
Earl Grey mistreats his wife with diamonds and bergamot. Vetiver swamps and cardamom crimes. Cauliflower bouquets. Tumbleweed in a salad served in cases of sublimation.
“Just in case, here’s a notebook and a pen so the neighbors don’t hear you finding yourself in mirrors.”
I caught you sleeping with magic. There are no rules in romance novels. Your body was woven in syntax theory and contorted in subversion. The rhythms of your nostrils flaring in and out like my interest in the rhythms of your flaring nostrils. “Anthropomorphism is not the same as anthropophagi, but they are equidistant.”
Weekend compasses dare to fashion waves with taken tonsils and introverted mannequins. Random accounts of history. Accounted accents. Awkward moments. Momento. Mentos. Me.
“She peeled back my face with tweezers, opened my sinus cavity with butterflies, and breathed silence into my larynx.”
Hollow cult-cut turkey breasts. Streetsweeping genres. Androgenized antidotal evidence. Eyes tell me otherwise. “Hopefully this is the last time you talk of hearts.”
Cardiograms and coloring (inside the lines) in three acts. Paintings in C minor. Minor lacerations to the bedposts. An ultrasound speaks of nothing but compound words. A breath is taken, but not a sweet one. “Holy N+7 Batman!”
Earl Grey mistreats his wife with diamonds and bergamot. Vetiver swamps and cardamom crimes. Cauliflower bouquets. Tumbleweed in a salad served in cases of sublimation.
“Just in case, here’s a notebook and a pen so the neighbors don’t hear you finding yourself in mirrors.”
I caught you sleeping with magic. There are no rules in romance novels. Your body was woven in syntax theory and contorted in subversion. The rhythms of your nostrils flaring in and out like my interest in the rhythms of your flaring nostrils. “Anthropomorphism is not the same as anthropophagi, but they are equidistant.”
The Many Faces of Pablo Picasso
A 1950s switchboard, you say? Too wordy for wires but plugs seem to stifle my meniscus and understatements. I am what my mother made me: a scaled person.
You found me wishing on sheared grass. A lawnmower chops and mauls
the parsley floor. Green blades smelling of spring inch closer to lop off my ears:
an impaled person.
the parsley floor. Green blades smelling of spring inch closer to lop off my ears:
an impaled person.
Whimpers attract bears, so I'll cover myself with bees to attract the queen.
My stubbed-toe screams muffled by a postage stamp: "Lost-in-the-mail" person.
I make sketches with an hourglass but later burn them in a Prius: an unveiled person.
Fireflies struck down by stars, eulogies written with chainsaws, and books that read like tanning beds.
Too attached to those books; skin boiled, and blind: a brailed person.
I’m a can of tuna and three shotgun shells away from Yahtzee. This is the end
of a line etch-and-sketched into oblivion or a dry-erase board thin frail person.
I’ve seen myself enough times in others to know that I’m a picture perfect visage
of cubism and Marilyn Monroe. You stroll along silk entrails: my failed person.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
I never had you; therefore, I never lost you
When contemplating the existence of losing myself, I try to follow the rumble of elephants chasing the tails of constellations and the moon’s milky nightgown, but all I find are spacecrafts in parking lots and discrepancies in manifestos. A “lost in the fields of barley” Scotsman calls out Lucifer (in German) for cheating at a game with no rules, while empty milk bottles deploy tendrils to suck up souls smelling of shit-stained suppositories. Ghosts leave crackling wrappers stray on turf foreign to sweetness and my soul, oh my soul, is a toothpick prick away from calling out for help, bingo, or amniotic fluid from an I.V. A derelict at a gas station swallows salivated nonsense from the foreign diplomat from Mars, while a trashcan goes over inventory for the night before finally going nowhere. A streetlight loses track of time after contemplating what Sunday did to deserve Church Sermons. Undead dream clouds float over cemetery fields before being pimple-popped by the scythe of a four-year old feeding on the corpses of princes past. Syrup drips from palm trees running gaily in fields of phallic objects until clouds decide to make it awkward. Rivers flow west where winter winds its way through tunnels of smoke-pocked timetables and schedules depicting the end of beginnings and the middle of ends. An old man in Delaware declares that hemp is hostile and that Elvis is himself an impersonator. I never liked that old man, especially after he enslaved cyclones with a smirk and stripped silhouettes of their wetness leaving them lamp-shaded and well rounded. As for me, I grew up three years younger, composed something of a symphony in the name of science, and still susceptible to someone saying, “I never had you; therefore, I never lost you.”
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