wake up, rod

So sick in sebaceous seersucker I stand before your ye: PRONOUNCE an unsimple judgment: BLOW your funnel through my whiskers & I will make a snowman outta your skin flakes with skim milk, watch me construct a monument to your moment, watch the long hard hit to center field, then drop, inches behind the absolut billboard which sparkles in glitter from the tears you shed underneath your desk as you heard that one song play on the radio that one time with the thing & the place, while you sip the suds off your bud-- I’m implanting crystalline bodies in your iris sheaf, son Adapted for sucking I scream at the base of your lip, small persuasive & removable only with proper ecologically friendly cleaning products you haven’t even heard of yet. Fill me proper with names you name, I’ll fuck with your sexual rivalry, I’ll find a house you didn’t know you wanted to live in, hostess you with cute cakes & puffballs & bioluminescent pixie sticks. Pubi...

Bbrrrrap! (the force is strong in others) I don’t shake, I detonate. See I can pile up words like casings in a bullet factory. See I can twist your ear with a swish of jawbone. A cotillion of lashing. An affront of debutantes. I don’t give a fuck, I keep them all for myself. I break it smooth: the force is strong in others, the mysteries beat firm in the breasts of any John, but Tenderheels I will workmanlike my way into your softest tissues, will pound the raw meat of your feet into crunked trochees, shatter this tartare tertiary terroir until it speaks in the voice of all joyous aberrants! Bbrrrrap! goes the bass-loud glade! Bbrrrrap! goes the drumbomb in your heartspace! strongarm the yellowpages if you want that fancy stacking, here is just the sound of explosions and sega chimes ringing brash in the long dark. pray only so your knees get hard enough to get down. write only so the pens get stabbier – see the bloodshed we dream with graph paper! Bbrrrrap! I detonate! Bbrrrrap! I...

MARKET IN COMFORT i. ow di bodi Di bodi ain't mine, it's spore splayed in a jar of suspensory goo. It's filth & airless here, no tug to toke at, no want to want after. I'm asking for a film to coat me in your cells exact cilia, feel how your touch means like stick left over from bandaid, neon white after pinch. The body isn't well & won't ask. ii. pin hip, or, absolve me to the kingdom of coma It shouldn't be seen rat-eye beading salt licks as water; it shouldn't be seen & along the way to grandma's you become Grandma yourself, a partition of cookies & slack-jaw noon naps. Signature aftermath stop the distillatory push, stop the hoard of butterfly clips, spit lances, bandages blown in glass to order. You are laying jokes thick as magmad sweet pie, an attempt to rit. the convulsive pin stick dynamo. iii. jar The tire snapped his skull in a flash of pepsi crush. Every bottle in the world being redeemed at once. A loud crowd of pai...

so, kicking this off - this is very new, don't really know where it's going yet. I really like basquiat, and he's a new discovery for me, so excuse my eager shittiness. by discovery I mean that I've become obsessed with him lately, not that he's a hidden secret. chunky as in crown -after Basquiat they (the clouds) are shaped like the best british sea power the empire has to offer, sitting heavy on the invisible clothing line separating worlds. he is there, etching tiaras, princes, fathers into vapor with a childish grasp of a nimbus knife, spine arms fluttering like musical saw whinging air. dude’s that ish splattering reeboks with white-out regalia, finding the divine right to rule, to command the thunderheads in every vertex. every stroke a proclamation. each chunk a crown.

Space Man Passes Pluto uses his compass and a venn diagram to navigate a place with no up or down. He isn’t worried per se, in his brushed chrome rocket, that he will get lost. He is already lost and the worst hasn’t happened yet, he doesn’t know what the worst is. He eats little silver tablets, does fifty push-ups every day, and waits for further instructions.

Write a poem. About space. That is ten lines long. Specifically, Someone living in space. No more. No less. I'll count. So do it! Please.

I have trouble with nostalgia. But I also basically exist for it, at a certain level. I have problems with it. that last poem was about it too. I'm working through it. How do I write about it? dunno. you can take this as an assignment if you like. apologies for any roughness. Nostalgia #1 I’m looking at pictures of you while I pick my outerwear apart because I think about unlaced boots plowing through rural street snow, you pressed to my ear like a can with different kind of cord and I can’t get through without laughing at nobody in the middle of a field, praying service lasts for another moment, and you’re there, pressed against my ear, hundreds of miles of farmland compressed like an advent accordion; I dreamed of you going to get pancakes on Christmas morning on Christmas Eve, and stirring your coffee with your wrist angled that way, and the apparatus is on the verge of seizing – but still, trees and stockings, all yours - you sheared them from everything else, and even then t...

Horse, Horse, Packhorse On the yogurt farm we used my car’s roof as an ashtray and threw protein cubes at the sows. Vanilla. Horse, Horse, Packhorse. A connect-the-map-dots game with the letter S inscribes a pentagram on the world. The horses of privilege running Horse, Horse, Packhorse on every hill as far as I could see. Nostalgia is more than I can bear, each fucking second a x-shaped trail of scorched butterscotch slapped Horse, Horse, Packhorse on my heart, my actual heart, the muscle sizzling and putrefying in the sweetness. I want to stab a hole in the gas tank engine and play Horse, Horse, Packhorse, drive the car a mile away, let you drop the bic back at that random farm, slam on the accelerator until the flames catch up inside me, cooking Horse, Horse, Packhorse, thunder-clapping against the side of my face like fireworks. But I don’t, and this nostalgia eats everything. This resentment. Build it all up like a cairn of ci...

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-...

so here it is: the terrible & the ugly. enjoy for twenty years nothing but needles i. hospital gown it's never quite as clean as television-- rolls of tape on the floor, the sound of rubber snap the sound of mistake, the sound of collapse but and now I've got the light on her now looking at wrinkles and her nakedness which comforts as if to say I've been there before and I'm going back. ii. electric paddles the pipe in the throat is the wrong sort of pipe but is there to do the breathing like that unnatural resurrection she twice performed on my goldfish. but now it is my turn to arrange the pellets, filter the water, breathe. iii. and I won't rifle through her purse till she's long and clean and dead. iv. transfusion the difference between iodine and blood is the belief that you aren't bleeding six needle pokes and four nurses and I'm still unconvinced we're made of the same stuff but here I have this finger and this nose that maps the differen...

this will likely be edited again sometime in the future. the story keeps expanding, even when I don't want it to. how I really feel about you we were on our way, halfway to fucking Santa Fe, Óðr in the back slurping beer from a beer helmet, mead from a mead cap, cigarette ashes hitting blacktop like finger cymbals. you were a gun made of beef jerky and uppers. a Buick full of errata, mise en scène, some said the objects were more interesting than the dialogue. later, alone in Arizona, adjusting the seat of your pants, the cell signal dropped out. hailstones, bidden from nowhere, fell on the sand. your adam’s apple, caught mid-word, stuck against the skin of your neck.

You don’t use words like that. Imprimis, bring it in this, within this slit. Ditch it. Pitch it. Immix with it. This iridic ink is incivism, indign. Sing it. Itch.

I'm worried this is damn near unreadable. But I wrote two poems while listening extensively to different dubstep artists, then sorta mashed up the two poems. It's all abstract 'n' shit. But maybe it is a little fun? Who knows. Thought I'd try my hand. It's about dancing in subways. Concurrence (Jellyfish) Chemical orange snaps light, pops fixtures, ripples along metal brackets, coats blacktop grey salt, basalt and flashes of ruby. Move vertically, flex the orbiting percussion through skin. Tripping with a knifey face, the night etches dark raccoon rings around sockets, spreading down squint lines. Red tendrils, rend- ripped jeans gouge slits in sidewalk. Snake chloroform of subway, squeeze into the space between headphone and ear. Recoil against my spine. Bitchassness bustling into the car, tear at the windscreen, fill the car, be fat and happy, be the firestarter, cloak eyes with lids. The jellyfish pulses, rotates, undulates in the stagnant travelled air. Catc...

Several N.B.'s: I found it incredibly hard (&emotional &soul shattering, but in the good way) to write this poem. God damn you Jon. +237 points for making me think like a motha fuckah and feel like a poet again. The only way I could conceive of this poem was visually, so for your viewing pleasure, I have attached a drawing of sorts (I'm really hoping this will score me at least 30 points). I saw the assignment as a magnet toward or away entropy, with the first and fifth sections edging on organized, rational, ordered. The second and fourth became increasingly chaotic--entropy at its sexiest. Followed by the middle section: absence/void/the black holy suck force. The way it came out was surprisingly Gertrude Stein-esque. In fact, the title was taken from the poem A Carafe, That is a Blind Glass, from Tender Buttons. I'll shut up now, because it's 2AM. I'm falling asleep & still deciding if this is the best way to look at it and if the theme I chose a...