wake up, rod

Moonlighting as a Skyscraper: $10/hr Let’s start with the last: blow back breeze, sway in the bitch wind, squeeze my girders you rotten tangerine. Let’s drape ourselves like Hitchcock stars over the parapet, radio rod, ledge, rooftop-park-bench, cry tears into each other’s mouths, pre-grease our hands. Let’s emote like Antonioni: below me only ground, surrounding me only sky. Let’s start with me screaming, that last guttural accident clanking out my mouth as the asphalt sucks me down, your mouth mouthing prayers like pennies at my face. Or let’s get rid of you, I've already replaced you with a mustache and a squeegee waxing my 51 st advancement. Let’s decorate me with tower-cranes like yellow birds, any yellow birds, doesn't matter, but mustard yellow fuckers for sure swinging like beanie flyers in the breeze, get me all fancy for my little perching man. Let’s imagine you for a change, but you never look up, never stop to pat the limestone like an acceptable child. So let’s im...

allegro musics I’ll stack up melodies for you, build a twisting gold chain of song coiling nimble on your collarbone, though nothing like the cuffs that manacle our middle fingers together. Mix CDs trailing into pre-time, stacking like creation myths collapsing into each other, cassettes like decks of playing cards like meat cleaver throwing knives like wood shingles lunged by a tornado that’s the embodiment of every embarrassing moment in a rail shooter. Fixed perspective doesn’t give hold on this, doesn’t codify a rock grip, but I’ll dino up your face until my quads diffuse black acid, till my clavicles be the conch shells in the Javanese mermaid gamelan of your otitis media . Heartworm in the earbulb: shrill silence, trombone fanfare, egg shaker. Then when the CD’s rice-based metronome goes black, I’ll tell you with Skinner crooning back in the mix, just what it’s like after all this time to sing sweetly to another man.

I was going for a little departure from my usual. Not sure, but it mostly feels unwieldy. Let's talk about your face as a lamp I've lost the bulb to. Let's talk about dirt, or stacks of magazines or any number of small dominoes we deliberately set up, the tumble comes much later, of course, & it's never something we count down, it's more a rock paper scissor moment. Suddenly I'm holding your hand Suddenly I'm holding the toilet. I once escaped to the basement for hours trying to find an album to prove you my childhood. You asked where I'd been & I said "sweeping." These are incidents to etch into skin: your hand, still, unmemorizable.

So, for the month of February, AD Caroselli (also known in some k-holes as bigscarygiraffe) and I will be playing a little poetry chicken. The requirement is three new pieces (or assignments from others) per week from each of us. If B or K would like to jump in, please do. If the two of you would like to issue assignments at us, you'll likely have a captive audience completing them. What's at stake? Why, only the most precious thing: a jug of Carlo barreled in the Rhine method. If you have some assignments going, please post them up after we both get 1 thing up each. Hopefully this will turn into something interesting. Lock down your aerial.