Homeland Security Has Done Nothing About Lisa-Thi

The Wind In The Willows

Lobster Stuffed With Cotton Candy

Chelsea, Manhattan, summer of 1999- why art should be destroyed.
You enter a space, crammed with hipsters, smelling like hot seafood.
The piece in the center of the room is this: One guy behind
another guy, feeding the first lobster, with his arms through
the first guy's shirt. That’s it. Maybe there was a soundtrack,
I don’t remember. It took twenty minutes.
The piece was titled, “How To Eat Lobster.”

Then outside, big sign- Performance! 2:00 p.m.
behind a cotton candy machine without it’s bowl.
This is all in the shadow of the last standing
elevated train line in New York, wrought iron and rivets overgrown
with forty years of plant life both indigenous and exotic.
Turning the thing into a graffiti ghetto paradise
that they can’t decide whether to turn into a park
or let Trump tear down for more gold-clad condos
in order to further bully the Hudson.

Anyway, the guy comes out at 2:15, bald with black everything,
duly pierced,and fills the machine with it’s historic carny substance.
Turns the machine on. Without it's bowl, wild pink strands whip out,
uncollected. The man bends over it, winding his hands
around and around. He slowly mummifies his hands in this shit,
stooped in half. The best part of the whole day was the wind
catching the stuff and tangling it into the clear hot sky.
The only poetry of one whole day in the summer of 1999,
in Manhattan, right there.

Meanwhile, the guy, after some time, decides he’s done.
Stands up, hands partially encased, and walks around the corner,
up seventh avenue, with the crowd following and collapses
on the sidewalk. And that’s it. Five blocks beneath
where my wife spent two hard years with a trust fund boyfriend,
in Hell’s Kitchen, years before me, back when it was exactly that.

I remember never wanting anything more
than to kick that asshole in the ribs while he was down,
go on to disembowel art forever and leave it
bleeding in the streets of Manhattan.

boite de bijou

Because my brain is like a box, the primary elopement.
what I put in there is important,

the cadences of strangled vines, tree-sky vocals.

I’m sure you’re burdened with that too
all those incisions,

meaningful abrasions everyone’s looking after.

This box is carved with teeth, apostrophes
to dignities gently masticated down

into bank notes, suffrage and quality
observations. Look at me, ma, I’m so damned

shapely, mitered, honed to the touch
and square with the escape plans.

Revenge. Boat. Forever.

Art Must Be Destroyed

Because it got soft in the middle, took that cut from Jesse Helms. Poetry let the “storytellers” and the stand-up comics take that money. Have you seen the Arthur Ashe memorial. Have you seen any recent New York show. Art is as dangerous as “revolution,” on the Tee-Vee, as dangerous as “rebellion.” As dangerous as a box set of Crosby Stills Nash And Young. Art let history blanket it, with every pissant intellectual neuter it for an eight dollar/hour excuse for an adjunct salary. Nissan took it out of the campus, Coke took it out of the streets. The Radio studied art and removed it from itself. Every Hippy girl from Berkley that ever swung an acoustic guitar clear over to Doc Holliday’s on Avenue A, singing ‘bout revolution, Shit, she killed it her own self.

Art Has Been De-clawed. Has Nothing To Do With Nascar. Art Must Die.

Art Must Begin Again. Do You Hear Me? Art Must Begin Again.

What Happened to My Billy Goat?

Drop Cloth

My visit inherits creases like facial lines,
Other qualities made of tribulation;

Vehicular tranquilizers, mostly plastic
These days, like your smile.

When I came out of the operating room,
The paint drying on my new heraldry,

Intoxicants were loosed, corporate ingredients
In atmospheric carcinogenic patent numbers

floating in click me boxes to my lungs, my reciprocal
Aperture. That hole in me I’m breathing

To a new quality, a new condemnation
Made of self. I’ll goo up when I get to your place

Being dead so long, you might want
To put down a towel.

REVENGE.

In The Black Shirt On The Right

Is Gone.

Solace

In A Big Country Dreams Stay With You Like A Lovers Voice Across A Mountainside.

I'm Going To Punch Greg Donovan In The Face

We the people, living against this blessed earth,
scraping our sustenance over thine skin. Crawling.
Can you hear us? This withering over crust,
above the colliding plates, just under the atmosphere.
Who shall name us after the books are burned?
Then what books shall carry our names? I don’t trust
the tides to remember Clay Blancett and I don't trust you.
I trust myself to one day break the face of the one true liar.

Challenge For A Civilized Society

I'll Be A Wrinkled Old Man

The spent oil poured into a coca-cola can
the weight of the black iron scalded clean
the blistered and writhing skins, boiled off
the meat of the potatoes

No Matter The Damage Already Done, Doesn't Mean It Will Ever End

Inimical Paradisio

Won’t it be great when we’re all dead
and zombieing around.
everything will be like Prom
except with eating people instead of gowns
and maybe shotguns and survivors
instead of corsages.
And of course all that awkward guilt
about my dancing abilities will be
turned into gnawing hunger
instead of gnawing shame.

The qualities unburdened by any clear
critical stance make me blur

with distinction. Healthy trumpets
wake the dead again. I’m cloying.

Breathing

We Are Breathing

In Tennessee, and Are Breathing

Just A Little Off Little River Road

502 Maple Avenue

http://www.parrishrealty.net/featuredhomes.htm

Intense Destructor

I made it through one good day
and it was made of rooms

I imagined a world of rooms
made of bodies
made of rooms

wherein sat metallic skeletons
and clothes hangars
and dust swirled in sunlight
through the opening

The purest joy is to be chosen

I press the detonator
to jubilation

this room by itself is falling
back into useful space

joyful.

Inbox1 Fr: Colleen

“Talked to Dennis last night, said you send him wacky txt msgs too.”

Sent her one this morning “Give the Bastards Hell;” my friend back in NY, striding among the assholes every morning. Waking up and going out to work
Cause I finally figured out how to do it, change the diaper and type on the phone.
Sent one to Dennis too, “Never Surrender.”

“Hell me & Dennis go all day long. Henry is riding his bike!”

Rather well, down the hill. With helmet, around the mud, peddling past trees, feet spinning as he goes up onto the training wheels. He’s loosing me in the distance as I type.

The trail goes for miles. Opposite the truck across the baseball field, he dumps the bike and runs downhill for the old barb wire. The phone beeps in my pocket:

“Must be nice, hanging out all day”

I get him up the hill, the bike onto my back and we make it across the field, mid February. I am walking beside my son in the middle of wet Tennessee and that boy, right there, can almost ride a bike. His mother is nursing his sister back in the truck. We are going to get burritos in Johnson City. I somehow keep him out of the wet clay of the pitchers mound. We somehow have fifteen hundred dollars in the bank and I can still work the phone:

“Harder now that there are two. Marys work got health ins.”

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Henry and I,

we're striding together through tennessee.

Bring Me The Head Of Larry Williams

No Matter What My Wife Says, Beethoven Was Not The Britney Spears Of The Eighteenth Century

EYE TEN

Asleep on the road
Mile-marked agitation, eye droop
Looms. Somewhere market shares

Are investigated, bet on, overrun
With rat revenge,
Outer space shudders

At the thought of carnage, what

Could have been a radiation jet
Liner cutting time out of the sky

Nightlong, across
The ocean

Overture, spawn, wreckage
What’s left are scraps dogs fight over

The trucks heap themselves in defeat
Just from looking

I stop off for gas, the dying cities
Gulp for air. I don't know how to

Think about this. Dawn is a frown
Of ferocious sky. I don't know

How to think.

Let's Have A War

Dishwasher Utopia

Dismembered insects
All along the sink basin,

Sludge in the caulking you’ll
Never get out.
Quick inspiration

To drawbridge knife.

The ants are escaping along my arm
I’m only just dead
To this grief: The world’s
Unfixable.
I dream it unhinged

The tide is roaring somewhere
You’ll see it. You. In your
Apron marked with spear points.

Zeitgeist Franchise

Supreme haze on a leafy
Sidewalk. Zero abstraction

And wood smoke to beat
All increments.

The hedge is a deteriorating measure
Just as parking is liable

The zone of leaf-blowing
Increments total

Bashfulness over the squirrel.
Her nests are abbreviating.

The price tag’s showing
On dig shit. This dream

Is a carnival heaven.

Transcendent Apartment Complex

Only the blond leaf buds
Despair at the frost.

For us it’s investments in baggies
And hoods for the war effort

That crawls up the tree bark
Gnawing impressions of city

Streets and names like Bandwagon.

You get me a pair of hypodermic
Bluejeans. You get me.

Get me
Out of this place.

I don't remember anything I don't have to, anymore.

Motorcycling in East Tennessee 2

I can run most of those curves about 50 plus these days, in the high end of fourth gear, and I’m afraid to run them any faster. I figured I knew what I was doing when the locals couldn’t keep up in their shitbox accuras or beater Toyota pickups anymore. However I’ve nearly ground off both heels on my boots and I can always tripod the front wheel off the tarmac should I plant a footpeg hard enough in a turn, then we get to find out what a highside is like. There’s the gravel trail left by the quarry trucks headed out the Rogersville highway, the occasional sandy washout on the one stretch of 208 headed to Erwin, there’s no phone service on just about anywhere, and I’ve never seen a police vehicle. Should I wreck, I’m in god’s hands with god’s children with wife and two kids back home, back down the mountain.

They used to be dirt tracks, these roads, winding the easiest path through mountain passes and whoever’s farm they bordered. Laid down when there was no way or money to cut through the rock. Laid down with horses and carts, intended for horses and carts. Running the length of the creek that had always been the flat land. The valley, the holler in the mountain’s shade. Running those roads in fourth gear, you are moving through a world of living geometry. Everything is active, the clutch, the brake, accelerate, downshift, your shoulders bearing down. Keep your head level and sight through the turn. Meditate, always, on traction. These are not hills, they are lumps of hills piled against one another, built of ancient rock, rubbed granite, perhaps. Every facet of landscape is transformed into a geometrical problem that you solve as you arrive at it. Including the dogs.

I don’t know what kind of rock it is, except that if you glimpse it, therein lies the root of the smokies. Those houses, with worn grey siding, sit atop those stones, wedged under those mountains. Goat straddled in the yard, rubbed up through the turf and covered in moss. Hidden under moss and pine in the laurel grotto overhang. The rock forming the nubby spine of this road that you ride. The machine under you being the hand rubbed against its crippled form. The hard shove after coming in hot through a turn. Whatever violence occurs on its surface, it is the rock that forms this high Appalachia, it is the rock that shocks clear the creek, and the stones within the creek. Appalachia enough to make you weep.

I see a bad moon rising

rope-a-dope

What Zombie you knob? Aren’t you just looping, that is, walking in ignoble circles. To the supermarket, to the mall, to the god forsaken ruby Tuesday? Perambulate this, drip, drip like the most anticipated of tortures, or a cup-o-Joe. I just orbit out, cold cold hyperspace and then the come on back, loop de loop. It’s a fact of mankind that a shamble is just a loop of rope, ropadoped, the knocking pipes –who’s knocking, is it you god? Fingers finding purchase – around the neck.

The Collapsible Frink just collapsed in a heap.

I Got a Six Pack, and Nothing To Do

May sometimes sleeps to “Sounds of the Womb:” some other mother’s blood rushing,

her throbbing heart. Mary can’t sleep with it on,

because of the door off the kitchen where the killers will enter.

The line of Food City cashiers keeps gaining weight,

even the young ones, though some of them still look cute.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m three inches thick,

surrounded by meat in the meat section, peering out through these sockets.

A Whoozit For Mr. Snodgrass

MisAntropic Needle

Evening in her dress lifts the hem
For a peep at thunder, maybe rain.

Hope for the tomb, the 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.

Mellow Out Or You Will Pay.

1. The mass under my skin,
which on some days passes
for muscle; miles of spaghetti
and meat sauce; strung around bone.

2. Once, during dinner, before we knew
about the tumor, I watched the line of my wife’s jaw
moving, and suddenly became afraid.

3. Whatever throbbing meat it is that makes up my heart.

You're Gonna Have To Move Yer Kubota

This Ain't No Way to Get to Heaven

Buzzbomb cornered at the 7-11

Dual tower arrow symplegma

Huckleberry Onward, Lisa Thi

Because you are a true seeker. Because
We live this life by what we leave behind.

Massive Plurals

You a hear the sound when its working
Which means I’m on to you. If everything
Were going well, you wouldn’t hear
That constant rasp of pants. The machine
Breaths to make noise, not for air. It wants
You to know its there and functioning.

Otherwise the leaves layered in autumn’s
Copulation wouldn’t give up to airy convection,
Sodomite leaves!

As I look at the scene, of brown leaves, gray
Sky, some motion of finger-y branches unclothed
To the cold, the photo of it in my mind
Fades to a backdrop on a pinball machine,
Scores amass to decay and fucking leaves

And that ball bearing is trying to break
The glass, to dot a bloody hole in my head.

The Dark

This is a machine we bred between us.
Is that distressing? It has arms and legs
--Are you frightened-- and hair. I made it
to be unsympathetic. You made it to
look out for you, and to be there when you
cried. I gave up my organs for it, liver-ish
and eye holes, you gave up most digits
with the most euphoric hopes, for how well
it would do. It’s walking now toward us.
What a dreadful cloud, the summary
of our parts for a bond between us. I hear
it stammering, its got your teeth. I hear its
footstep. Its got my resistance to action.
So wonderful, its putting together a whisper

Last Stanza Pulling out of Fuckoff Station

Wait, didn't you hear it? This is a repress...

Here’s the deal. I wouldn’t piss on Oregon Hill if it were on fire.
And I don’t care about you. Have you met Henry or May?
You make my life harder than it is, and you’re gone. Gone.
Sure, you’re making art, and sure you’re plenty cool
But you don’t have the kids. I’m thinking about today
And I’m thinking about tomorrow and how exactly I am
Going to get from here to there. Diapers for May. Words Henry
Can spell. The rest of you can go to hell.

Can you hear me?

Sardonic Mesmerism

Opening on the watershed where
construction cranes bequeath holes
to landscapes like prehistoric esthetic
enforcement officers, a single celled
insect consumes the poisons of a million
abusive mother in laws. Other miscues
assemble at a beach head made of laundry
to discuss the reprehensibility of taking shape,
of becoming skeletal and therefore demeaning
to the spirit of formless shame. “We creep
upon them,” a jetty of sound escaping lips
“If they obey one another.” Everything that
ever wore a bikini dissolves into air. Only
discarded hubcaps are left to circle endlessly.

Oh tender word
You’ve escaped the guards and their skillful
Penmanship,
Also the foundation of words
Themselves are truncating
To the example of maps

To the unfolded edge which prevents
The passage through

The brain blood ensemble playing
Smooth tones

Snapping blood vessels.

There was this,

And there was this,

AbneGates

We, enlarging, insinuate the rats.
All through the side-streets awkward
Personalities resharpen their credentials
Toothing conscription over
Happy-like self demarcations
Of the what’s-in-fashionable bible’s
Pleasant recreations of a you-baby

Attitude and other inklinged overhangs.

What a March-belly reach around. Get your teeth
Ready for the left-overs

It’s all inside, it’s true to the bit,
The entrance and the squalor of
Abnegation and doubt you pegged on me,

The chewed on wood of my self interest parade
loosens in the hightide.

It’s true rats. I made it all up
And when the waters rose you came
Scurrying to remind me
How bourgeoisie my hut looks.

Burning inverted babel flesh fork Adam & Eve

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome David Diaz

Consider The New Orleanean Artist, Years Ago, on Pine Street

Consider the struggle.
Will you embrace his return, Richmond, you dirty bitch?

Change, Yeah Nothing Stays The Same; Unchained:

And you hit the ground running.
Between the merlot and the winstons,
My mouth tastes like meat.

In the marshmallow time before sleep
What I have for muscle passes for frozen steak,
Not as cold but red and just about as bendy.

What gets me, if the fuckers come in
Through that window and the Snods get it
As well, sure they eat, but would they
Pick up the blog? Would all my tools rust?

It goes like this: Eeuuurgh. Aheh-aheh.
Gwarrsssssgh. Gnar gnar aroo, with
Maybe a gem like “I can feel myself rot.”
Everything else is waste, and that’s
The true crime: there's no art with zombies.
Zombies have no trade except meat,
And I hope I taste like a stack of turds by then.

Yes, This Man is A Jackass

goin to johnson city git me a burritohaircut

Lamb Of God Is Saving America

Richmond, oh blessed Richmond

Yes Virginia, There Are Such Things As Monsters

I only met the guy once, but I talked to her a couple of times back when she was above Exile on Grace street. No, me and Mary talked to them both once, walking down main, up by chimborazo park, and someone told us later who they were. Then the Newspaper told us later, years later, no, somebody on the internet before that, just a month ago, told us who they were. They were the butchered Richmond family, and they had always been the same as us. Artists in the transitional neighborhood, artists who eventually had kids. Struggled around money, saved some up and made a house around themselves, made a life around their art. Made their kids around their art. Laughed and ruined pasta with so-and-so, had some wine, the kids playing together.

And then the monsters came in through the front door.

I have no right to be writing this, no I have every right. It is a hideous event and there is no way to form words around it.

A small atomic device has exploded off Forest Hills Avenue and the fallout will unspeakably erode those hit by it’s poisoning radius for the rest of their lives.

Unspeakable throughout the thing’s long history, crippled maples somehow dying against that sad avenue, the cops who took them out eventually passing away. The story untold from one generation to the next, but passed, unspeakable and forever hideous, nonetheless.

Ferberization

It is the lime green light over the aloe plant in the basement that keeps it alive as there is not snow outside quite yet. My six week old daughter cries inside her bassinet as a matter of course, as a matter of breathing, hik hik, and I am waiting for her to sleep. I insist that I am not a monster. I pick her up and hold her to me to quiet her breathing. Then put her back in. She ramps it back up, over ten minutes, and though I am patient, she becomes a thing again, a shrieking animal with a mouth. A thing that my will, as I am an only animal, only wants to quiet. In Ovid’s Metamorphoses there is a king who goes mad and swings his infant, head first, against a wall. There was a goddess who caused this for purposes that I don’t care if I ever remember. I am no king and I recognize no god’s will against me. A king wouldn’t know his child well enough to play Johnny Cash singing “Darling Companion” and sing backup to June, dancing with her in his arms. Dancing forever with her in his arms. And no matter what happens, today or tomorrow, no god could ever interfere with a man singing, no matter how suffering, beside those two, forever singing below the steps of the Appalachians.

Never Trust A Hippy

macanudo

Orangutan: Mr Alex, don't you think being an artist is pretty pretentious?

Mr. Alex: Urggh, blaaggh.

Just Before Sleep I Feel Like A Frankenstein Monster Built Out of Stale Marshmellows

Me: Hey you should check out the blog, we've got an awesome picture of Randy's new scooter.
Mr. Alex from New Orleans: Yeah, what was the name of that again?
Me: The uhm, shambling darkness project.
Mr. Alex: ....
Me: What?
Mr. Alex: Don't you think that's a pretty pretensious name for a blog?
Me: It's about zombies!
Mr. Alex: I think you should change it to the Gary Shandling Darkness project.

http://www.pscelebrities.com/al.html

SHADOW:So what was the first political activity that you were ever involved with?
LEWIS:I don't know. Probably when I shit on the grass in Prospect Park, I don't know. I don't know what that means. What is a political activity? What does it mean?

SHADOW: And people would resist?
LEWIS:Well obviously. And unions were created. We used to have a saying: "If you don't get the asses of the masses out in the street, forget it." And you get enough of them out there, the ruling class gets scared. That's the only thing they're afraid of, is numbers. Numbers! See, one thing you have to understand. There's very few people understand, especially people who deal in outlaw newspapers and magazines. The ruling class is smarter than you, and they're more creative. And if you forget that lesson, you go down the drain. Because if they weren't, they wouldn't be around as long as they have been and as strong as they have been. It's not an accident. Not an accident. Never underestimate your opponent. They'll tell you that if you're a fighter. Never underestimate. You can poke fun at 'em, you can do satire, but they work 24 hours a day. It's like Lord Acton said: "Power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely." I say that power works 24 hours to remain in power. Throughout history. Go back to kings, feudal times. The same thing. While you and I, here we're bullshitting, and then we go out: "Tompkins Square, blah, blah, blah..." Their fucking machine works 24 hours a day, man. It grinds, it grinds. Otherwise they don't stay in power, they topple.

deservings

Everyone knows zombies are all that’s good of consumerism, all that’s left of the buying mind. Everyone also knows zombies don’t drive, that if they could they’d just hunt you down, run you down with the pick-up, the presidential Lariat. Everyone knows if they could they’d have guns too, but it’s good because all they can remember is the buying habit and happy-day trips to the gun shop with paw, that, or the wal-mart bullet market. So it should come as no surprise that the vehicle of our destruction should come on dark wings, commercial wings, syrupy mall-mind, vespa, vespa, vespa,
oh Christ, buy it already.

Godspeed You Black Emperor,

Nuttier than a squirrel turd,

and Heaven Hang the Consequences.

Grandpa Munster, Lifelong Anarchist, Died This Week

But by being a vampire might he be reborn to rip open the throat of your local republican? Who will record his passing? Who will write the bibliography on his body of work? Some shit anarchist fuck-zine out of Williamsburg?
Studs Terkel is the only one, yes, and we should leave Studs Terkel alone. The man is old and has given us enough.

Have you been reading your Studs Terkel lately, asshole? No?
Too busy with the Drudge report, down there in Tennessee?
Too busy with the Colbert Report? You forgot about the flag of Catalonia flying. You forgot about the Aspidistra. The man taught you, on the subway, and you forgot his name just now.
You forgot about art after the bit with the planes flying into the buildings. He learned his art beneath planes flying into buildings.
Before the assholes all over the airwaves, there was the struggle, he said. The man made art during the struggle with assholes all over the airwaves. Assholes killing poets and burying them outside soccer fields.
Assholes manipulating railways, assholes bending thought and reason and history
into a brand new word. And the stupid word made law, but for this man skewering it.
For the entirity of his life, and that was the body of his work, the body that he sacrificed, the body that he gave for you and me. Orwell
Without the Animal Farm, Orwell without 1984,
Orwell, a lanky young man striding through Spain, with no year, fighting a war that he believes in.

Destitutions

It’s serious, you bloat, the finger fetish
I’ve cultivated spurns elegantly
One choice, two choice, the button pusher

Tap dancing chronicler of the ATM
And her forlorn breast-eye-mirror
Force field of contusion on the world

See it in its bowl, request denied, withdraw
To vacuum grocery store, the bats dropping
Here, Christ, even with witnesses

Ordering things about is a hit on the head
With bats in finery, in scope dashed
Through to external punctuality

Throw up an elbow to the outside world
Because, whatever happens, save the hand.

This blog might mean something after we're dead.

And perhaps, if life is true, we might walk again. To skulk after our children and make them crazy-er. To graze in an Amherst county field might be stupid, yet to dream, but if our blessed milk might give more life, then sure howdy.

I think I might hate my parent's computer more than I hate my parents, because the keyboard is awkward and the television is always on.

Please ask Mrs. Christine Snodgrass to put the Dr. Phill on the Oedipal connotations on all of this. Git-R-Dun for her. Because it is her birthday and I love her like a queer cowboy on a Montana mountaintop git-a-way.

I mean Gitt-urr-dun like any ignorant shit that ever screwed his cousin in a trailer and needed to git his dingle dragged off by a number nine hitch. Get-her-done for her.

Because she strives everyday, for herself, for her art, and for her family. Especially; For her art, and for her.

For her pretty mommy's hair. And for her Patience. And her love.

Ah crap this used to be a poem. Zombies zombies zombies! Here at the last minute!

Zombies loves Chrissy2006 yeeauurghh-yee-ha!

ClayClay the Brokeback Homo Cowboy

Conduit

of behavior, of folding pages, of drifting emergencies and wood chips. In the window a carved ship complete with articulated rigging monitors the imagination of a shelf and all its descendants. You may ask if this is correct, if your sharing my anxieties is infinite. Should I call or not? Here you worship the chance light through a drifting ship. I can call but it is futile. Whatever I say is a trap of meaning. I am drowning in wood. Outside an electrical storm has risen from nothing. I contemplate nothing until I am submerged again, reaching to a passing ship. The pages crease. They are made of wood. The machinery runs. Power consumes the remission of sloth.

Epiphany

I can somehow walk and think, and looking at my boots, that is art. There is the forty hour week, and there is money, which both can kill art. Republicanism kills art. War murders art. There is the chattering darkness all around us. In work and in war. You’ve taught me all my life: Art is war, yet I’ve decided we can win. So let us wage our lives against.

Fernandina Beach Libertarian Women’s Tennis League

Because we are not striving for actually anything,
We are enjoying ourselves. We are winning.
We want to keep it.

pickles and mustard

You’re wrong, you’re decay means everything to me. I’ve built a fiasco of a deck down in North Florida for my parents. Am going back tomorrow, to build it; out of need for money. Went down with Henry, just me and him. Because there is no use for art in our great country so we go and build decks. “I want momma,” he sez. Almost every night. Because I dragged him four hundred miles for money, because an artist father always needs money from somebody. We all sit down on the porch steps eating Krystal hamburgers for lunch one day, I scrape the pickles and mustard off for Henry.

“You’ve got grey hair,” my mother said, astonished, still in her tennis skirt. “I can see it in the sunlight.” “Yeah, I got lots.” I say, and that’s all, because of the same truth that makes people stop behind school buses. Or else they don’t stop.

I am not a whining liberal and I will break your fucking nose if you call me that. I am a full grown American craftsman, doing my best to keep from dying.

Necrosis 1.1

A crisis in the upraised, I’m enjoying what’s coming down on my head. The treatment of my youth. Its hallways of hypnotized dilution. I watch it on TV for the reality. The shared grave. I make it up to me by not killing myself. What goes up comes together. It’s the primary rule of transmission: my decay is everything, except to you.

Unassuming

Either giving or eating, the teeth stay focused, dedicated to the knowledge of the impossible, for them, the teeth, it is the engulfed, the consumed. Love is to the masticated. The sky is overcast. In the city it is all the ruin of teeth. It is abutment, adjustment. Giving in to the blackmail of love, (How Useless?) I am engulfed by the sky, its limited potential for giving; I am dismembered to the knuckle, its exact placement.