wake up, rod

Old Painter A forest is green, the night is black, water is blue. The bars and handles are silver, the seats ultimately orange like every train in this city. His hoodie is red, face darkened and imperceptible from this angle, just an opening in red. The floor is a greenish-gray, a color profile that likely went through hundreds of tests and applications before it was applied. The temperature is videogame-desert tan, some fixtures filtered in orange, some in yellow, some clear. This thing is purpling, rich, regal, brioche, buttermilk. REVERSE REVERSE. The night is Warp Records. The water is a grill reading “HATERS.” The trees are maximalist turtle shells sculpted by the Super Mario Brothers team in garnet and tanzanite moving at high speed under horses. The stars are an Auslese Riesling. The floor is a composite plastic made from fog and JC Penney’s catalogs. The temperature is Lacan. His hoodie is stunna shades made from melted down fragments of Elton John’s platforms, face a slice o...

Let me own a bit longer until I feel the stump of a pipe, an organ to mouth over, any segment will do, will fill until it no longer wants to fill. I aim to own your fingertip, your eyelash. This segment of our brief sleep until you take away your mouth and make a miserly smoked pipe. Far easier to tell under a pipe, a reason or consequence to fill. Kindly smoke my mouth, press to me like you own. Push against push until I can pull the segment of our magnet, segment my eye with a dip of a pipe or nick of a blade until I learn what it means to fill my own mouth. A quick mouth over, a talk segment we can pocket and own. Christ, pass the pipe I want nothing but fill to stuff me up until I don't know when's until. But that's fine, you have my mouth, I've got nothing to fill, nothing to leave but this segment this cause for wind pipe overhaul. To form my own fancy story. This is just cave to fill until I own the cling of your mouth, the undeniable segment, a sweet pipe-drea...

Cobblestones rattle beneath your feet like loose teeth. You stand helplessly, waiting for me, waiting to drive me to school. The best dreams are when I remember you are dead but I can work to hold you in the long corridor of my sleep, can cable the pines lining Gallivan Boulevard to my most upright of memories and make time still as a corpse. Jesus, don’t stand in the middle of the street, Dad. Cars are coming. Dad, don’t be a fool as I am now, waking upright, moaning, lilting embryonic in the sea of your absence. Two years, I tell my therapist. Now your body’s in a ten-inch box, a thimble cove you crawled into to languish years free of Mom’s incessant shuffling. She was driven to pile and repile magazines, to—helplessly?— motor her mouth and motor on: “Work sucks. Who does my boss think he’s fooling? The neighbors are snooping, and the goddam laundry pile’s blocking out the sun.” Remember, Daddy, when we cooked her Christmas ham for Chanukah dinner? You told us to hush up and hold...

revelation in electronica i. For this is the time of meat where sinews snap like well-placed hair bands for first days or nylons in the midst of espial.  Such are simple curtains chinked in bits of the body aluminum. Your wake is something I junk out for. Simple to yarn this out of vegetation, harder still with throat back, the bare bulbs of need rising, rising: a moan made lightly, elemental. ii. I heat pans like I heat men-- every stroke's a series of cross-eyed fabling. The feeling of getting dressed slowly with dark-made eyes, with dark-made tongues. Nacreous lacquer, I will slather you yet. I will rumble along these halls with a pitch of heat.  I will fall into electrocution, blow winds backhandedly, & nod the no. iii. The never-enough blush is on us tallied for and sewn into false pockets. If suddenly the grimace loosens wax will assume place-- I would offer to lick your muscle clean, frame your face for litany. Such simple knees to stand between: a fabric unwilling means...

Hi, So it's looking a little ragged around here, a little rough around the edges. In the interests of spiffing up the place, I'm going to post a poem about Kanye West. Is it really ready to be on the interwebs? Prob not, but I miss sharing. Stop, Drop, Ro, Bot (“Robocop” poems) 1. OK, OK, OK, IT AIN’T OK, OK, OK listen no yes yes no no no, listen like this like like this, like things are like things and some things are like gold goblets and some things are like megaman and other objects are like invisible white staircases trailing off into walls and other things are like an orchestra playing incidental music to me falling off a skyscraper sweating amethyst, but not all no no not at all nah nah that you know things are like this thing, but all things exist spinning like two Optimus Primes pirouetting on a bed of plums, and each string is just like a pit’s wrinkly sting nut-cutting my cheeks, like this no no like that, like how it happened before for you but it’s OK, O K, Oh-...