So you get fired for making another offensive comment to a coworker who actually is a fat slob with a bad attitude and fuck that eating disorder and clinical depression bullshit, and fuck your boss, too…
It's 10 a.m. on Sunday morning when Doug calls to tell me that Captain Fun is having a sale on its entire stockpile of mannequins.
In the morning her postcard lay in the mail safe, a little apart from the other mail, singing, "Enjoy yourself. It's later than you think."
You've always feared that modern art was a sham, that a bunch of apes with Crayolas could do the same, if not better. I can prove otherwise in spades.
Jenna's got a gangster rapper in her breast
halos and Hula Hoops in Jenna's breasts
Jenna got caffeinated coffee in her breast
Jenna's got Jimmy Hoffa stashed away in her breast
someone's horse. A loose horse.
Whose horse? Maybe a favorite.
Am I from the countryside?
I ask the horse or the building.
Weather descends the stone steps—
sea of hats, hoods, shoulders
headed to the trains. Somehow I remain…
I haven't had sex like that since:
deep in my anus, heart…
…this morning I was
We say, "Revile or Rejoice!" as if
there was a choice in the matter. I turn to you;
our eyes are trying. Shrieks of seagulls marry
across the water.
She will soon hear your heart
beating her cheeks flush,
think of the baby
stretching its fingers for the bait.
Halfway to wilderness behind our house, on a tray I carry the ingredients for our supper.
Suppose you're me, for just a minute—that's what I'm asking you to do—, just suppose for a minute that you're me, and ask yourself what it is you want to hear, because that's what I want
The part that I forgot about the robots
(Making them moral) speaks as now I dream
In actual rain (or am actually dreaming rain)
Of ghosts in the machines.
The man stands on a birdbath to learn
the language of feathers, and like the wind,
when the man speaks, he reaches
deep into his pockets to charm the sky.
I'm going to melt
a cross, a statue of the Buddha, and the arms of Vishnu
into a hood ornament of a naked woman with wings of fire,
set it on my car and follow it like a compass.
or you may arrive by helicopter
(a way to kiss over paperwork)
The summer we tried to kill ourselves it was humid.
The summer the floods came.
We ran headfirst into the water, and when that didn't work…
For two full days the sirens
realized their high notes
in the quivering saucers
stacked inside cupboards…
All fist and forearm,
apron-stained, I am nothing to you—
a scrap. A skin. Offal of lust.
I am giblets and gristle—
This pack of pot-bellied songbirds squats
at gutter's edge all night, passing butts
of Lucky Strikes and belting the blues.
My window's stuck up and I'm laid low.
This is where we enter. Carmen and I. Mom and I. Two rotten, two diseased, two dying. I say, "Mom, once we knew what it felt like to be idle." She's throwing frozen fish sticks in the oven for dinner. I'm watching her watching television.
An accessory before
eats forbidden grapes
(helps in jumping).
God is everywhere, cake is not,
which is why I like it, God says
and lifts his fork from the plate…
A duet built around the word help. As I am
a man, I cannot talk without my body, my
body keeps leaning into you.
The choreography is deliberate so we know where
to put our feet. What then, these intersections?
Your body is so literal: even unexpected, low…
Great song, as in not alone, think about
what's possible, not imaginary but picturing
the uncountable kicks of you…
Being here. It's ok, to be here. The
grit that life has in it. It's mechanical
but I'm used to it. I feel the buzz inside
you, your body and laying beside it.
The day my brother brought me to the pond
of one thousand screaming white swans
it was winter in Akita.
A strangeness is amiss. The soup is not puree
of stinging nettle. Where are all the wonderful
varmints? The sneezing turtles? The lace-thonged
fascists? This morning the road north was not paved…