I am curious genius Fell turtle I clean the public urinal
Stop waxing philosophical is what I say While things are going bad “solo la muerte” You and I will root the urinal one scrawl at a time.
My mama wore a white veil and was near virginal You look near virginal Or you might be an experiment designed to satisfy my failures.
Dreams beat some
Elda Little Puppy is preparing her third vodka carefully. A tense, tight performance with no extraneous movements. In this atmosphere a blink is meaningful. She blinks twice rapidly and peers at me. This must mean something if I could only decode it. I am still. By the end of her drink she has dissolved and reanimated loud and undisciplined. She might just have a thing for me. I’ll remain still and quiet and end up outside under the moon.
“Listen, Elda Little Puppy has a thing for you. I’m not telling you you can’t do her.”
And?
“You listen. You’re a kind of poet, right? You look at me in that way that says you are.”
pshaw. Indian poets got it easy, man.
Driving Myst Crazy
Bank left! Bank left! Aaaaaaah! Watch out for that squirrel!
I am traveling deep inside you. Relax control. Let go of your steering wheel.
Am I crazy?
Furthermore, do not think. Let go now.
I cannot be crazy. I’m reading the manual 107 ways to fix a flat.
Now move into mediocre. Get ready to shift into passingly fine. That’s right. Leave it here for a while. You can drive as fast as you want but the bridge is out.
And you? You don’t die with me, bitch?
Only while I care. You’ll see me again. You’ll get glimpses of me like the vaporizing rivers on the road. Why fight it?
Cry for me while failing still slaps. Laugh for me, darling, while my losses mount stallions and ride splendidly away. It’s not so much
A fall…
Pale, while buckets o’ rivets clang
As a point of junction, your honor Third world resources readily Mangled by elves, Timberwolves, muskrats, Assorted and assembled god creatures devoid of ego Assisted suicide die.
Corporate thieves bugaboo, Gigolos, Judge Bigalow. Crime chiefs. Directionary settling mercenary duck dreams Find their way to Snooze news filters
And I object.
Please keep your comments succinct
Most of my observations follow The mechanics of logic only.
My mind’s minions, theoretical nouns, constantly hide Around and behind my constructs. I have one billion billion ways to avoid anything like this And come out singing like a pistil.
Telegram to Crazy Horse
The war is over now. Stop. I don’t recall who won.
Spring
Apple blossoms and lilacs Those delicate shylocks.
Details in rehabilitation
Heavily fortified Words (sounds) words (sounds) Come at some cost to Riches.
Usually a sunny day takes the place of simple communication It’s a ratatattat ghost of Trala
It usually happens My favorite time of day Is legerdemain
Sunset, gloaming So eagerly I cannot wait
I eye The slash bud Sounds Rooted in E minor
Pay special attention to the B and A strings This is not mood range But thumbs my discordant
A moment pause To tell you Where I am
My temperature Fahrenheit 90s In the small side of a mountain’s back
It’s probably cloudy and cooler where you are But I don’t care if I can’t play guitar
I make desire invisible.
Spring again
The blossoms fall as missy As my neighbor’s niece They don’t last long with the lilacs In this messy May The breeze is precious until A cloud covers the sun And it blows off more blossoms And looses the niece’s bun With a shake of the pear tree And her head her hair is free Once more to roam my thighs.
I will call myself Running Beer
I am stuck in this Death Valley The wheels spin gravel, which pepper me in the face When you’re like me and have no ethnicity To speak of You need larger themes that leap beyond the ancestral grief. Indian poets have it easy. Ugh.
“When you come down off that cross I want to talk to you.”
I’m about down off it now. Crucify me.
“You don’t get so special a category. You’re more like a back-alley body discovery.”
But it’s easy for you, Indian poet, you’re already dead. You have the extermination of an entire culture to lean on.
“Patience.” Spring runs out and gets some coffee
As the barn leans but stands catching glimpses Recorded words clothe it in hazy shared experience.
Just then Stiff Davis and his magical film crew were coming back from the forest in the valley where they had spread axle grease on a fairy princess virgin who was encased in candle wax. But the rains, they said, the clouds had swarmed and competed, rolled under the dread naught clover, lily, pumpkin, and rice.
