NOT REALLY INTO HUNTING


Antlers are what
Brought me to
Canada with several
Devilishly handsome busboys
Each named Matt
Four of them
Good busboys all
Handsome as well
I wanted their
Job, not to
Kill mooses as
Life now asked
Me to despite
No skill in
Offing living creatures
Poor me, I
Quit this trip
Really tired of
Stupid NRA jerks
Telling me to
Uphold Amendment 2
Vegans are preferable
Witches, freaks named
Xerxes, I love
Y'all, in your
Zone I will.

13.4% of Goodreads users believe that Sylvia Plath and John Updike were lovers.

Jim Noir. Oh my god. So good. Find and listen. Jim Noir. Self-titled album. Oh god. So good.

DO YOU ENJOY LETTUCE?


Do you still close the door when you shower?
I really appreciate your support
and I hope you enjoy some of my upcoming vegetables.

How you wash from the garden...
but it doesn't seem to work as well for me.

I fall as you enjoy
your fresh snack, ask students,
Do you think that we can harvest and eat
value as an ornamental landscape?

Hey LETTUCE, ouch! Your Funk hurts so good...
nice to meet you here!
Thanks for accepting my friend
and I hope you enjoy my music too.

How do you keep fresh? You guys hooked me up
with the best way to enjoy the outdoors without trashing it.

Just one question—how many adults do you think this recipe can serve
if you don’t own a salad spinner and you enjoy eating salads?

You need to buy one, rinse the bacon bag, put the bacon back in
with "mucky" deli meats or bacon or wilted lettuce! Enjoy!

Fun reading last night—Matt Hart, Chris Martin, Amanda Nadelberg. A bar in Brooklyn called Pacific Standard. I wandered up and down Park Slope's 5th Avenue a little bit beforehand since I got there early. It only took thirty minutes to get from Atlantic Avenue to 96th St. on the 2 coming home. I thought it would take longer.

ZIONIST POLE DANCER


My name is Jay D. and I'm a Zionist
living in Vegas working as a pole dancer.
I thought I'll make that clear right off
because if I married a mail order Phillippino pole dancer
we would have some sexy Chinese pole dancer
at a China disco, by Tom Carter.

This video shows how Zionist propaganda
is spreading lies to milk the pole dancing.
Every free loving American should have 4 to 5 Zionists
that a pole dancer gets caught up in terrorist intrigue.

We know whose fault it is! Who's to blame!
Ashley is really a guy; he's a pole dancer
at a gay bar in his town. So the question becomes:

Does the Christian radical/neo-con/Zionist axis
featuring a g-string clad pole dancer
spare ammo for the US administration?

I suggest becoming a pole dancer.
As a political analyst you'd desire
a big Zionist community
and writer Diablo Cody

who previously spent a year as a pole dancer
in order to record with the Nazi regime.
That was a joke right? Is it actually a product?

What is all the fuss over the
gay, bi-sexual, disabled, rich, poor, prostitute pole dancer welfare mom?
This proves the fact the Zionists and Zionist Christians
are run by a load of Catholic, Satanist,
Zionist freemasons of the 33rd degree,
eh Francis? Bikini babes serve anyone well.

The other day I received my prize for a contest I won on the Omnidawn blog. It's Martha Ronk's In a Landscape of Having to Repeat, and it's the best prize I've gotten since the car stereo speakers I won for perfect attendance in high school one year. Thanks Omnidawn!

Robert Rauschenberg 1925-2008

The preceding poem is a Joshua Mehigan remix. I daresay it's an improvement. Is it mean to do this? Yes. No.

THE SPONGE


of reefs and villages, once it was strange
that minds and their milieux are all one thing
not rock, but a blank sleep on a rock shelf
the single thought forever in its mind

Still, one day, just by living, all will find
some see its way of thinking; most, not yet
dilating at the bottom of the sea
simply for being not a rock itself—

and, deeply sympathetic to the rock,
none of us understands our story better
it knows, although it doesn’t know it knows,
than this nonentity, unconscious slip

to sea and sea-dust washing through its skin,
reason enough within themselves to think
of nature, nonetheless our common parent
the parent, too, of octopus and pony

DAIRY BONDAGE QUEEN


Bondage Queen Kate is concerned about the animals
on her 500-acre dairy farm. This worried Penny
because she was familiar with the Queen.
The strictness of her bondage and the direness
of her predicament were too much for a hardcore
NC-17 PWP involving Duo, Heero, and bondage.

I've just been abandoned by myself at the Dairy Queen
with vegan bondage, a more ethical variant of the
Enigmatard anomaly walked into
late last year, inquiring about condoms devoid of dairy.

Queen Alsip, Illinois US Assistant Manager,
your turn on is bondage...all out.
This month the kinky freaks at Dairy Queen
unveil the new Coconut Cream Pie,
like the stuff they used to sell at Dairy Barn,
but better! Such a nice, delicate (yes,
delicate) combo of silver wrist candy and bondage.

Well slap my ass and call me a bondage queen,
because that's something I never would have
freaking guessed. Listen, jerkfriend:
I know you're trying to be
Bondage Queen Kate and
I want to do spin-offs: LEGO
is old, bad dairy
and Edward can never go awry
with her trusty crop or whip.

You fight like a dairy farmer.
How appropriate, you fight like a cow.

Would somebody please tell me what all the insane honking and yelling and music going on for the past hour is about?

A REQUEST FOR SOD


The call came in
around ten AM
a voice wanted sod
How much was my
question, about
four thousand
square yards
was the answer
Who do you
think you are I
asked. Just a
fellow who
would like some
sod he said, I need
to cover a foot-
ball field and
have some
left over for
a pet project
What kind of pet
I asked, he said
a kitty cat
I said what kind
of kitty cat
he said that
was irrelevant I
disagreed and hung up

AMERICAN APPAREL


Look at all that American apparel
inside that American Apparel. There,
through that plate glass window, that rectangle
bordered on all sides by harsh white
fluorescent lights, you can see the racks
of American apparel. Those harsh
white fluorescent lights are in fact
generating an electromagnetic force field
that prevents customers from leaving
empty-handed. It's exactly like the brig
on the Enterprise D. I would much rather be
a prisoner in the brig of the Enterprise
than a customer in American Apparel. Yes,
I would rather be taken captive by a Frenchman
(and his crew) than by the staff of American Apparel.
I wouldn't know what to do with so much
American apparel. On the other hand,
their ads are so erotic...extremely
erotic. Who am I kidding? I won't even try
to resist. That would be futile.

POLARNOIA


The girl scout stood
on the median strip
and unscrewed her
lens cap.

I must have
dozed off, because of
my hearty brunch.

The rest area was anything
but an area. It was
a launchpad

for America's next top model.

When I came to,
the median strip
was naked.

ANTARCTIC HEMORRHOID


Girl 1 talking to friend Girl 2
about some miracle facial creme
made of Mongolian lamb placenta
and wild Antarctic zebra hemorrhoids

is hemmed by huge ice shelves
that prevent them from finding that football park,
not to mention those delightful
hemorrhoid-inducing aluminum seats.

Anyway, all the kids are posers.
I don't know, I can't make that call,
maybe Justin Woolery can, because he had
Ass in the Tub, Ass in Space,

and Ass in Antarctica, says there's nothing better
than vials of a marine oil so powerful
it would suggest rubbing the toads
with a Japanese factory ship.

This provides for the sustainability of
Glenn Beck's eye-opening hemorrhoid surgery
(patently false Reaganomic mysticism)
to fend off the Japanese whaling fleet.

Although there are many other native peoples on the market,
the radiocarbon brassiere may be cold to most of us,
but is warm to a penguin in the varicose veins,
painful periods and so on,

photographed floating in some forms of cancer
because of global warming. Scientists blame
a crustacean found in Fatty Acid ebooks.
They say it was really surgery to remove his head from Antarctica.

No hot water this morning. No warm water. Ice-cold water only. I got my hair wet with ice-cold water, matted it down, shook my head back and forth, toweled it off, shook my head, matted it down. Eventually I came to resemble something like a human.

Tried to go to Anne Carson/Graham Foust/Misty Harper reading tonight, but the place was so crowded I just turned around and left. Stupid bar was one of those long skinny ones. Second time that's happened to me there. (11th St. Bar, between A and B.)

I'm on Goodreads now, but I have to say that I rarely read books people recommend to me. I have way too many to read already. But I don't know anyone on Goodreads, so I guess I don't have to worry about it.

24 HOUR NEWS CYCLE PARTY PEOPLE


Bush's anal obsession
with Osama bin Laden
and Saddam Hussein
is not a great leap
from an obsession with male-on-male dino-dragon porn,
Rove's October Surprise.
Now the 9/11 commission points to anal obsession
for some righteous validation.
It isn't surprising that Bush is deeply implanted in bin Laden's
extensive financial interests.
Eugenics is a key obsession with this group,
and we must end once and for all
our unhealthy obsession with imperialism
and anal rape (he is penetrated by the Empire
State Building). In this odd coupling
of bin Laden with O.J., bin Laden's wife
commits her husband to a psychiatric ward
due to his obsession with his Bluetooth phone.
Then there is Senator Craig and his anal bathroom adventures.

THE WINDOW


Earlier today it was later tonight.
Nothing came of this,
but the bicycle on the other side of this window here
is no less authentic. When I looked up just now it was gone.

Please trust me. It was authentic.
But does its authenticity imply an author?
"Who is the author of this authentic bike?"
one may ask, foolishly.

Whenever I get an idea for a blog post, I think, wait, why waste that idea on a blog post? And I try to write a poem instead.

The more comfortable I get with poetry, the more impossible I find fiction-writing, which should be easy.

It sucks not having a real computer. I'm typing this with thumbs.

All the ideas in this blog post are boring because I would save any good ones for poems.

ONE HOUR, 70 LINES, BEAT THAT, YOU CAN'T, I WIN


Guy looks like a guy from a buried place
smoking three packs an hour and loving his hot box

garden gnomes notwithstanding pressure
put upon, left open

to the breeze I guess he was trying to squeeze
and further along came the bent possums

homebodies would have
to wait, to pass a few stones before coming to grips

or shoving a mailman down the steps
building a bridge to the '80s

Mornings are fibers
at the same time buoys are crafted from high sheen

walrus tusk
too early for dusk but not

a potluck
or a duck

some people suck
a lot of them do

a lot of us come in from the cold
stamp out boots out in the

already crumbling edifice, a fire stumbles into AM light
today's hottest country

Is this this slight discomfort I feel at the opening of one
orifice or another real discomfort or imaginary

discomfort? Don't forget to peel your eyeballs
and then keep them that way

and then this and then that
all the way to next week, I'll kick you if

you help me, you helpmeet.
My, you be a handsome helpmeet.

I'm a helpmeet.
That policeman with dogs for hands is a helpmeet.

I'd like to eat a week
if a week was mine to be eaten

if lines were meant to be beaten
into shapes I'd play the same three notes over and knots

lined up,
spine-like

I find
my bike

artfully placed up against
a capital A in a time-garage

that's been happening a lot lately
first you ride your bike then

the bike rides you. You ride for miles
without ass-money. Your bundled honey is as

so much scum-bunny
which you would know about if you read, past tense,

the news. It's good.
The road continues.

People, probably from the future, are selling fruit
and feeling guilty about murders they've omitted

from their memoirs. Ha!
Silly fuck rednecks don't write memoirs

Frilly cup head wrecks won't fight peignoirs
unless you ask them to nicely

step aside, I say step aside you are my
bluish obstacle to yonder confectionary

where I shall make a purchase of some stationery
I don't care whether there is any there there

there is something about heartbeats here
or there don't make no difference to me do whatever

the fuck you want you want me no maybe I want to deliver
five American dollars into the lap of a fellow traveler

who is possibly you the lady reading this
you are touched aren't you

is almost but not quite palindromic quite not but almost is
California! It's almost time to go there, I

want to wear a bear in my hair. I'm
fed up with meals that cost too much in terms of money.

I guess these April poems have been "drafts", but I think they're as done as they're going to be. I don't care about making them better. If they're no good after the initial work I did, no amount of revision will make them good. Why worry? Just write new ones. No big deal. They're like disposable contacts. They're just poems, not final exam blue book answers.

Am I missing something, or isn't all comedy based on irony? The little twist that goes against logic and makes you go Ha. Isn't it irony every time? If you're anti-irony, don't you have to be anti-comedy? How can you like comedy, humor, funniness, if you don't like irony? Am I misunderstanding what irony is? Am I missing something?

Hey, I don't like every single story that appears in McSweeney's, but this righteous crusade against them is just dumb.

Remind me not to read n+1.

THE FATE OF MY IDEAS


Not every idea I have gets made into a movie.
Some are too sexually explicit. Others are not
sexually explicit enough. "I think there should be a law against lint"
is one idea that was deemed not sexy enough.
One that was called too sexy was:
"I think lint should be legalized."

My ideas go through a lot of unpredictable twists and
turns, but eventually they all become fish food. Here, little fish...

The idea that my ideas become fish food
is itself one of those ideas.

I don't know why I put up with this.

This situation, I mean.
Everything goes away and means nothing.
Whose idea was this? And why won't it find its way
to the belly of a grouper like the others?

THIS MUSIC


This music makes me want to scratch my hair.
In the tub, under water? No.
Just generally. I see. Let's
listen to music. Which music
shall we listen to how about Moby no
how about Joy Division no how about The National how about
DeVotchKa. The music of my peers is the music of the spheres.

Each sphere is labeled with an epigraph.
Some of the labels are long
and cover the whole sphere,
wrap around the whole sphere, overlapping
in some cases. Some of the labels are wrong.
Some of the labels are doing very well.

Under the right conditions I can listen to
almost any music, except for the kind
that makes my peers explode
with slaughter. I mean laughter.

THAT LITTLE ROOM


Huh. That's the first time
I've ever seen anyone
come out of that little room...
that little room near the end
of the hall, that little room.

Rain was falling when I woke up this morning.

I've walked by that little room,
that little room by the stairs,
so many times. Those stairs
are for emergencies. I don't recall
ever seeing anyone come out of
that little room. Just now
was the first time.

This morning I couldn't remember
the lyrics to "Manic Depression".

SUNDAY


There is a large screen TV in my lobby
with a handwritten note that reads
"For free. Still works. Had to Move."
The screen is at least five feet wide.

For some reason, my left eyelid
has developed a twitch, or flutter
that occurs periodically without warning.

One time,
I learned how to carve a toy car
out of a block of wood.

THE LARGE SCALE STRUCTURE OF THE UNIVERSE


You can only see it at night, the security light
on the side of the building across the street
trying to come on, flickering, staying on
for a while, going out, flickering

and don't you, don't I, have better things to do

Come this way, come on
this is not a code
even if it were it would not be
ours to decipher

Turning this over in my hand I see
miles of my own making, holes without
socks, I'm just happy

to be here, to read and be seen, though often confused

by my own expectations, I'm likely to
fizzle out on my bed before
morning beneath

calves of a
celebrity-look-alike daydream

PHILOSOPHY


I love your new hairstyle. What's it about?
It's about as easy to describe as a slice of sunlight
halving a mailbox. There's no mail today,
except for some bills. Would you care for a bill?
I'm sure that "59 degrees and sunny"
is a kind of forecast, but that's the extent of my sureness.
Where were you and your hairstyle planning to take me today?
Not to the hospital, I hope. Are you planning to injure me?
Taking an arm-in-arm walk Edwardian-style
through some exotic example of the empire's waning influence
(or just a regular city park in America) would be ideal.
Our goal—well, the goal I now propose—in taking such a walk
would not be to pretend that hospitals don't exist,
but simply to acknowledge the fact that record stores do.
Did I mention I admire the way your philosophy complements my shoes?
And do you know what's weird? There are a lot of moments
in which I feel pretty dumb, but right now isn't one of them.

UPON OUR ARRIVAL AT THE MALL, A PROBLEM AROSE


That night the mall was closed
but the malt shop was open
I said Whoa to my friends
we're in the fifties we went inside
de Gaulle was a proper noun we all knew
all of a sudden it being the fifties and all
and Eisenhower loomed large
as did Elvis, the end of polio, desegregation of
schools and other fifties stuff

It was fun for awhile but then
we started getting headaches which we theorized
were probably due to our brain chemistries'
being somehow fucked up by time travel

Whose idea was it we asked each other
to go back to the fifties
not mine said each of us in turn
I just wanted to go to the mall

THE AIR IS HUMAN


As chief of high-value targeting for the Pentagon,
New York Times writer Björn Türoque relinquished his skyhook.

Ah you are a cool year so far
but not as cool as when this book
covers newly developed theories, filtration models,
and progressive applications of aerosol gas filtration,

which coexists uneasily with the comparatively trivial business
of determining the bottom three effects of air ions
on the human organism. Commercial units are available

which claim beneficial effects through the
growing concern over the effects
of air pollution and air toxins on international security
in terms of human security.

The human bone marrow response
is to develop regulations and guidance on aircraft systems
and to support certification.

This book explores ways in which technology
can build on human strengths and compensate
for human vulnerabilities, minimizing both
mistrust of automation and Missouri's air quality.

How can a human live on only air and light?
Breatharians believe they can live only on the energy from sunlight,
and do not need nourishment from food.
Read all about the practice of Breatharianism.

DUDE ASKED ME


This dude asked me
as I walked along the river
"They don't have seals here,
do they? Are these even
brackish waters?" It was
the first time I'd ever heard
anyone use the word brackish
in conversation. I hope it will
not be the last.

IN CHARGE, NONPLUSSED


You taught who to dance?
But the leaves—they still need to be raked...
The days are growing shorter,
and you taught your minister to do what?

Oh my. When it comes to giving orders
in a matter-of-fact, plainspoken way,
I realize that I am something of a novice,
but you, you have to throw me a bone once in a while—

my oxygen is hovering around ten percent,
the only good stopping places are the obvious ones,
and isn't it needless to say that I cannot
single-handedly apprehend every
snarling inquisitor who comes along?

Saw Richard Belzer again. Walking his dog.

Girl browsing poetry section at used bookstore tried to be helpful and/or tried to talk to me. Missed opportunity. Idiot.

Fucking Hitler's birthday. No wonder I'm in a shitty mood. Though it is partially mitigated by Richard Belzer.

Good news: 420th post to this blog was made on 4/20. Completely unintentional. Some of the posts are saved in draft so there are really less than 420 visible. Additional unintentional: Pink Floyd poem posted on 4/20. (To all interested governmental parties, let it be known, I have never partaken in any controlled-substance-related activities.)

WISH YOU WERE HERE


If you'll permit me,
I'd like to discuss
Pink Floyd. High school,
though a crock of
shit, was at least
better than middle school.
Today I'm more than
eight hundred miles away
from both of them.
I'd like to discuss
the identical bandannas of
the two young women
behind the counter at
this coffee house, but
I'm not sure if
"young women" is the
phrase I should be
using since it makes
me sound like an
old guy. What's on
TV later, I wonder.
Now I really sound
like an old guy.

THE SPECIAL MAN


Paradigm is not a word I use lightly
or much. It takes a special
kind of man to use it. That man is flaking out
right about now. A rock has
come through his window and lies
on the floor. Upended are
his curious notions regarding our age and his
place in it. It's tricycling through a milkweed patch
that he'd rather be doing than following
the latest recipes for disaster
preparedness, or so he tells himself as the roof caves in.
Picking through his rubble, I come upon
an awl that was once important to him,
and smoke clears my nostrils of
curious notions. Immediately I want them back.