Friday, February 27, 2009

5 Poems


This is an uncanny blue.
The river usually knows which mules to let pass, and which
Ones deserve drowning.
Standing on the shore, a man spares the plastic bag
He snuggles.
Pages burn so that I might learn
His new way of farming.
Every survivor absorbs a gland and mist.
Without some fantasy to grovel, I walk off doing reps, so
Precious to be alive.
Vultures circle this ditty, snacking on human follicle.
A slight refraction makes my world seem tolerable.
I pity the river, perhaps I'm filthy.


It's what I'm doing for money.
My whole day rotates around the time
I get somewhere.
And one can deflate and dry, but I won't deny 
Florida at Christmastime is relaxing and clean.
Horseshoe crabs in the sun they don't sting.
Strippers and salad bars, a convenience 
Not to miss.
Pitchers of $5 beer, baby it's bliss
Posturing what's wicked to come.
I suggest we close up the kennel and let the bogs run.
Pitchers of $5 beer, baby it's piss.
First hunger of the New Year and I've not got a dime.
Time constricts our kisses with money.


I cannot fully give myself to health tonight.
We haven't fucked in over a month.
Sex must become an option again if our future is bright.
Even when I masturbate, my semen shots are
Bat tar.
A castle on top of a mountain guards the rebel town.
I'm an actor in a theater of coma-like tactics.
Let's start a family and live life right.
Thrust me if you must, I miss dirtying
Soft things.
Watch, as I'm grooming fakes I dream them.


Fire ants cover an orange for the first time in their life, spitting
Out the occasional bruises they eat.
Otherwise, matter remains unchanged.
I get-off on the transvestite's hiss.
A sun of machetes, compact
And risked.


Almost impossible to have a squirt.
My cut's on the beach, my disbelief a brand-name.
Burrito then enchilada, eight beers later I'm a stingray
I want to blow.
The next wave of graves arrives sooner than I finish.
For them there's plenty of mothers blessed, and plenty
More weep after drinking.
All of us hear the speeches coming from the monitors.
Many aircrashes are proving survivable.
Lunatic oceans for centuries, I part the surf
That bites.
It's horrifying and living.
Every drip dangles war.

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