don't run home to mama
don't run home to pa
the flood has reached the kitchen
the flood has become law
Dylan hung out at the corner
with puppets from his past
an allegory was lynched in the morning
a silhouette ate up adversity real fast
don't run home to mama
don't run home to pa
the flood has reached the unconscious
the flood covered everything I saw
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
PHILOSOPHICAL WORK AHEAD
The Bacon boys scatter in all directions.
Grief overloads every boat heading for the sea.
It takes the square root of five paving stones
to reveal that a big step can turn into a tumble.
With a thigh graft taking hold on the top
of my Danish head, I take a long left
at the corner of confusion and critical mass.
Grief overloads every boat heading for the sea.
It takes the square root of five paving stones
to reveal that a big step can turn into a tumble.
With a thigh graft taking hold on the top
of my Danish head, I take a long left
at the corner of confusion and critical mass.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
TRAVELING UNDER DOUBLE VISION
The sulfur flamingo took the day off,
leaving her best powder pink caked
down the spine of a grizzled God of
the Fender bending booze drizzle suitcase
who was left with struggling to mop up
all of the fleshy Moorish blend of
Stones and Zeppelin that could tongue
the African road in a genuine
attempt to steady an impatient
cascade of melting linoleum lips.
leaving her best powder pink caked
down the spine of a grizzled God of
the Fender bending booze drizzle suitcase
who was left with struggling to mop up
all of the fleshy Moorish blend of
Stones and Zeppelin that could tongue
the African road in a genuine
attempt to steady an impatient
cascade of melting linoleum lips.
BUILDING A BETTER HIDING PLACE
It was being said before I even got there.
It was nothing new or memorable or
anything close to sincere from my vantage point.
It was like a thousand tantrums later and
no one was budging from their place in the sandbox.
I remained on the outskirts of the argument.
One more impossible punch to what the moon
had to offer kept me at a safe distance.
It was ribbons to rivers of disrespect in the palms
of unscripted hand signals that had scattered
us all so many elbows ago.
I followed the cat out of particle range and
settled in behind the assets of real poetry.
It was nothing new or memorable or
anything close to sincere from my vantage point.
It was like a thousand tantrums later and
no one was budging from their place in the sandbox.
I remained on the outskirts of the argument.
One more impossible punch to what the moon
had to offer kept me at a safe distance.
It was ribbons to rivers of disrespect in the palms
of unscripted hand signals that had scattered
us all so many elbows ago.
I followed the cat out of particle range and
settled in behind the assets of real poetry.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
FLUENT WITHOUT WARNING
Friday, May 13, 2011
AS FUNNY AS A FLOOR BURN OF LOVE
I wear blue earmuffs from Sears on
bingo night in her kitchen.
She keeps goat cheese from Trader Joe's
on a short leash near the hall closet.
I mean to hold her with the vibrato of a king snake.
She means to flog me with the ponytail of a go-go dancer.
City ants take cover in cheap chardonnay.
Funny feels as sharp as soccer cleats.
We will finally pop all the buttons off every
clean garment that we own.
bingo night in her kitchen.
She keeps goat cheese from Trader Joe's
on a short leash near the hall closet.
I mean to hold her with the vibrato of a king snake.
She means to flog me with the ponytail of a go-go dancer.
City ants take cover in cheap chardonnay.
Funny feels as sharp as soccer cleats.
We will finally pop all the buttons off every
clean garment that we own.
PERHAPS INTERROGATIVE
content under the chair of
a sweeping bigness that bulges as
much as a notion of rolling in
cowhide coital positions with
nothing benign or standing on
a keyhole protocol down burrowing
fleshy doom that cuts unequally
among moral write-offs and as
polite as piss with a Sunday whistle
tickling the inner thigh of poetry
a sweeping bigness that bulges as
much as a notion of rolling in
cowhide coital positions with
nothing benign or standing on
a keyhole protocol down burrowing
fleshy doom that cuts unequally
among moral write-offs and as
polite as piss with a Sunday whistle
tickling the inner thigh of poetry
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