You Never Check Your Back Pocket

Surely the Second Coming is at Hand

Workers of the World Unite

real Aliens

Can't Stop Loving You

caution--not safe for Abagail

--The Remains of Brian Borcherdt

Picnic Panic

Posthuman

The zombies arrive at the screening of your soul

Don’t look, the eggs are unhinging

with delight even as the antennae appear

Edge-shadowed from under the bunker.

In the suits of funeral participants, smudge dark

and dried up stiff around the stains, these fashions

they hedge the century by shaving more ice

into the ages by singing. These zombies are not

politely educated but they are critics, ultimately

Banging arrows into merchant dreams

with a thwock-thwock one two, clearing out helmets

and police cars just as fast as a wooly mammoth

strips out the safe harbor of the strip mall

by laying tread all down the city’s spine.

In the theater of the movie of your soul,

you are quaintly chewing on a drinking straw

as the bombing goes on, making you nervous.

Now the zombies are brewing coffee

with your brains but you have scripted a long

tunnel of escape and terror, so long

it stretches into infinity before caving in

but the zombies don’t stop squeezing through.

The Admission

This is the scene in the movie where we learn

that the zombies teeth become so accentuated

because the news of being dead travels first

to the mandibles then to the soul.

Maybe not so vampire or werewolf like

but you have to admit the teeth, the beacon

fires that let your whole being now it still is

and is yet no more, you have to admit they

get awful yellow awful quick, like a cart load

of corpses during the plague, the news

comes out of these scenes, and some bodies

get old and start to smell, right? and some get

up all tooth wrong, leaving little spurts of juice

like tips on the table and start to come

at you and you wonder how to get out of this

scene, the frames slipping so fast you fall ,

or you could be suspended in white space,

or slick on a wetness and as everything slows down

you notice how it gets long, gums wrinkling

like theater curtains and everything going yellow,

tumbling upon you like a sack of lemons was

held above you for so long and finally someone

came by with a sharp knife and sliced it open

on you, and you kneel down as they thump on you

because you have to admit it that we cant know

everything about the zombies and their teeth.

Mongrel Nation - origin of english language

Note the icy stare

Cuz This Is MY United States of Whatever

This Zombie Movie

This zombie movie takes place

Inside the head of the Zombie

In order to show what he is thinking

As he tries to eat the young

Person hiding in the bed

Of the pickup truck that died

Half way to safety which is the end

Of this movie and which is

Also the deception of safety

Which is also the end of this movie

About zombies and thinking

And getaways and parking

In the right place so as not to be left

With anything on your mind

When you go in to see this movie

About what the zombie is thinking.

What is his motivation, the method

Actor might ask, and the answer,

The deep moving memory of human

Concern that propels him in his

Bloodied suit and tie even into this

Theater is a as gruesome a mantra

As an executive bowtie or a sale on

Corporate farmed replacement kidneys,

It is the same burning question we all have:

Do you validate? Do you validate?

Do you validate?

I'm So Curious

Cordyceps Fungus

Probably the most stunning and horrifically beautiful thing I have ever seen on television.

From the BBC series Planet Earth

Misanthropic Needles

Evening in her dress lifts the hem

For a peep at thunder, maybe rain.

Hope for the tomb, laughter

Comes over a loud speaker

Installed near your armpit.

Quietly, quietly,

It is necessary to interrupt.

One point in the distance

Is a huddle of laundry

Dry, rotting, perverse.

Some hunters and their deer,

They tie the racket to a tree

And unload beer, carnage

Cleaning the esophagus is severed.

This deer has a sack of potatoes in her

Corset. Blue eyes

In the dark barn. Someone

Playing a piccolo stops

To a sudden distance. Recall

The posture of a cloud

Alerting us all to a mourning.

So many trumpets of countryside

So many calming ointments.

Meanwhile the geese engage in firefights,

Misled by the compass points

Engagement like pulling rings

Through their nipples.

A lizard crawls out of the cold

Remembering the belly of rock

Igneous, geometric spindle

I wish it was still cold out

So the sacrifice wouldn’t rot.

I’m the air in a swirl as the pickup truck

Passes. Frightful eaves outside a morticians

Bedroom.

Awkward slip of change

Quarters

Through

Nightclothes.

My minutes are running out: each

Second marked by a dog bark

To which I wince abominably.

Track of mud and hair

Enormous shame.

And the door is ambiguous

Eternal separatist

Possessed of elements

A car in the wind, a breeze

Over streets, some shopping

Perhaps I’ll buy a Peruvian Mask

Made of seal intestine.

Attuned to the cracking sidewalk’s

Edge, blank’s signature

Sand on wind convection

Tighter circles until synched.

Hanging plants invested

Of root, I demand a recount.

One grain catches me in the eye

My eye, caught and hung

From a tree, her spindle root

Flagellating in wiry creation

I am working a finger up and

Back into view.

This apartment is expensive

But it has a great view.

It could be said of kindness

She holds a pin to the sun.

So I dig with my hands because

Deflation is obvious,

The mounds are godlike, it’s a shame.

Merit and bloom, cantankerous

Twins shouting

To a mother unburdening her wax

I am not without a grave, spectacle

Not submergible without

A word for drowning.

I’m eating a footlong

And scraping out manifestoes

So measured by feet fit just barely

Through the walls

Made to enclose a god.

My sandwich prefers track lighting

While the subway looms neon,

Together they produce

A segmented apartment building

For the worm to inhabit.

It is in the ability to hand

Streets their walking shoes

That the technical louver of rainwater

Slices fingers off,

Children’s digits to god,

Her segmented ability to

Both gnaw

And be worshipped.

Balanced blood vessel

Is a skill of blending,

One foot on either side

Of the knife,

Beach sand gently sawing

At an unhurried mistake.

Dredging chasms of Bank Notes

Departed headstones.

The Jessica Numbers

I have no idea what's going on, but oh the colors!

btw-- New Pornographers

Metal Emo Blue House Fire Pit