Tuesday, February 17, 2009



This Jesus toilet seat cover is the only thing that keeps
Me hanging on.
After the football descends, a dreadlocked peeper punishes
One buck beyond every twelve I scold.
His boss whistles a lonesome crisp and pickles
My blues away.
Plied platinum, the vistas pretend we're pregnant.
Actually, we'll venture nowhere at the end of our thread.
Hip daughters and sons are tripping and buttfucking in Old Navy
Like honeybees in an elementary school diorama.
The sight is like Rainman recalling those disfigured and turned
Into punts and punt yards.
I worked late today.
I'm drinking 3 black and tans the cops shot.
6 large sandwiches product place a diplomat bitterly entertaining the
Scutter of fisheries and commuter cultures.
What can I do but author this inward dud porking his anger and
Then beat off.
Fuck me, I'm clearly jealous of all poets writing today, so repeatable in their rehashed
Slang and tendencies for sappy state sponsored suicide notes.
Drew University rejects my manuscript, denying me entrance into their club.
My toilet seat replies the fact that they don't typically accept pornographers, and only an
Imbecile would waste 2 years and thousands of dollars to earn an MFA any sucker
In the next stall punching his BlackBerry while pinching a loaf could earn.
Don't fret, I'm about to take my codeine Gerald Stern.
Everything around me IS muthafucking burning!
My pocket pussy gets lots of attention from Garrison Keillor when he's downunder.
Watch me hole his thunder!
O mittens, O booze, nostalgia has overfaked me again.
Guess I'd better roll over and seek bulimia.
Guess I'm ready to go tourette's.
I marry my yeast and cast the stadium a smell of choice.
It transpires my blues, hinting at dirty dildos discussing Leibniz and how
The centrifuge 69's high.
I pluck pills from the Berkshire girls who only know me when I guzzle beer.
In the urban of masks I find comfort in their unitards.
They're impressed when I glide below my own illogical pretenses as a writer.
The days blaze clarity and frizzy butterflies.
Meat says goodbye to the relief of non-existence.
Moments pass and 
It's no fun and you are no fair and each of my identical sexes tong
Just another camera.

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