Friday, January 29, 2016

Think It Queer, Little Horse


Stopping by the roller disco on a snowy evening,
I could see I would not be welcome.
I didn't have any skates, and I
didn't have money to rent some.
My night might have ended with that,
but for some reason I can't explain,
I stepped up to the door
and waltzed in anyway.

Einstein, the famous scientist,
was famous for failing at math.
No matter how hard he tried,
he just could not understand math at all, ever.
Because of this, the world is a darker place
than most places, not to mention
most darknesses. But consider this:

a calculator lying on a parquet floor
in an empty room, on an afternoon
that rolls on and on, right out the front door.

Friday, January 22, 2016

A Few Sturdy Pillars, If You Please


People are informal anymore. More than that,
They are influential. Is that supposed to mean something?
For instance, that we're to advocate less tirelessly for talking quietly
Behind barns? Light spills out from inside and

Suggests an altogether different outcome:
That's no ordinary cardinal you've burped up there,
That's a homo erectus for the ages. Then Jesus went to college
And started a fire. These lands used to be

Over there, controlled by remote. You had to oxidize
Fruitlessly for any given morning
To make any headway past noontime. Uh—
Well, how about we teach it the way we were taught to teach it,

Which is not the same as the ripe grape of a neighbor's
Swallowed pride that gets passed down in the genes,
Those habitual liars; watch as they crisscross the heavens
In search of new buzzwords to inflame.

Friday, January 15, 2016

The Empty Sea


Walking through a door isn't easy, it's more of a
button that communicates you. I hate boring you,

agent of change in worried threads come to pass
along winter's regards. Worse than eating

at your desk is not wishing hard enough,
some would say hardy enough, to live without

legging it out. Why not wave to a new
diameter, here to parry an old razor's flirtation.

That's not a rhetorical equation, but for the sake
of argument let's reproduce reality

just a little, for a nocturnal fee. It may behoove
us yet to abet those who bemoan us.

I've heard of a similar process in the ashes
few bother to wake up to thinking of;

an empty sea was always almost there,
stored away in years rolled up in folds of air.

Freeze


Silence bites off a bit of afternoon
so cold it doesn't count

toward a new development in boredom.
Maybe a few trees

can be saved, and even more buildings.
Tomorrow doesn't look delicious,

or so the legend went. To wake up
and wig out: I'm dying to see.

Wednesday, January 13, 2016

Scuttled Repertoire


Just once I'd like to wake up in the morning
without getting chirped at. Too much music

in the room and you lose the benefits
of regulation. I realize this is unrealistic,

not to mention overtly obstetric.
The executioner implied as much

when he curated his calendar
right in front of us. He likes to encourage the idea

that he's popular around town,
that he puts his bells on just like you:

one bell at a time. Better euthanize the moon
before it floats half-cocked into view;

we've evolved enough by now
to rectify our own ineffability

or ignore it, as circumstances require.
Anyone looking for a gatekeeper?

As for last night's sticker shock,
let me be totally honest with you:

No army can touch that, no wormy
apple inspector can evade its grasp for long.

Sooner or later the planet falls over
in fits of specious laughter at the scene

when the poor man's ejaculator
wipes his nose and calls it an off-brand day.


Monday, January 11, 2016

Unadvertised Sail


Let us criticize the cabbage. I'm drowning
in it. Send for the doctor—no, wait!

Send for the actor, by all appearances
the most hump-worthy. It's a slice of life

to tide you over, overseer.
Yet how shall we becalm

the dawn's collapse? If one were to atone
against the grain of such an accusation,

where would one squirrel away the time?
Some call this ruse a rhyme,

others a lost industry, though to speak up now
would be a pickled revenge, albeit a cool one.

See you in the sanctuary—
nothing amazeballs this way comes.

Plenty of fish to fry under the sea
have come to tee us off at the quayside.


Thursday, January 7, 2016

No News Is Good for You


I'm not complaining, but I could joust
a little more flimsily, for old time's sake.

The barometric pressure's almost over,
so there's no need to derive

pleasure from that—in the mirror the fear or
whatever holds one back

unmoors itself from observation.
That's the quiet thing about this habitually

merry span of dented days.
You are my almost-wife, in fact.

It's as if the planet were a wimp
whose pants are down.

Stop what you're wearing, I
can barely hear myself drink.

Absentee bees beget floral no-shows;
fast asleep, the forest fakes 'em all.

Sunday, January 3, 2016

Any Tongue


At my age you get that nice ripple effect. It sets the stage effectively for future appointments, rehearsals, big to-dos in backyards in summer. I wish I could provoke a swan. You say there ain't any left to swindle, but that's a farmer's blowziest prerogative. Sincerely we elect to take the wrong boat to town, careful to avoid better offers. Machines do the rest, and better! One of them looks like a giant grasshopper painted black. It pokes up through the haze that covers the amazing shrinking sward.

Death is practically unthinkable in this context. That is, I wouldn't ask it into bed, despite my distant campaign promise. No nation gets out alive, and wrestling with infinity isn't a crime. Still, it's good to double-check the mechanisms; oil those joints, don't leave 'em lounging around. Pizza's here. It'll do us good to leap from roof to roof evading deputies in pursuit. One false step and they put your name in italics. Trust me, you do not want to be taken out to dinner.

If that's all, I'll be going missing. I'll be comin' around the catacomb when I have a hangnail that needs a little loving. Reading about those beat-up old explorers, I'm part of their weather now. I fly like a succulent Stuyvesant pear into the air between buildings. Shot down by sunlight, I joke my way to the next wet whisper in my ear. At one light touch of her tongue—any tongue!—I'm gone. Read the sign: "Press your luck against mine and let's make a baby cash cow shine."

Saturday, January 2, 2016

And Other Gory Stories Are We


The good at dancing have it easy: this cat takes place in the future. Candy corn can't hack it in absentia. Rustics believe it or else they provide the dimmer attachment. A little interloper once indicted as much, his outer math turning drunk at the sight—go and see what Santa brought the astronauts. 

Some devilish pretense unseen soon sunk in; ever the frail moon-mart, a hooded holiday broke down. The road flew up at us, convincing no one of its course. Specials on plaid kept the kids at bay. Serene it was, the bland prospectus in its binder. Reality bores much to be desired, attracting comers from coast to Costco. So slip into something more soporific, less beatific and further let us prey. 

The house is "on fire," the relatives crammed. Yellow and blue, orange and brackish, birds you've never heard of filled the restaurant. Outside, smoke improved visibility. Terror came in pocket-size, fully fucked. Snap off a drastic happening and watch it meander as a liquid battery factory belies the butter nature of our banter. Scroll and weep over the deep clean of yearlong jockey assassin cramps. 

In a while we wet blankets began to beg easier. Questions arose around the posy, the mere mention of which sent bachelor hackers into hysterics. "Quell the buttery paternosters!" screamed they. A tunnel thus entombed us.

Friday, January 1, 2016

New Year My Ass


The sky had an interesting look today—kind of a half-light, half-dark thing that I found very outrageous. In simpler times, medical explanations for such phenomena just sort of up and presented themselves. Nowadays you don't know where you stand. You could be a fake nurse in a real orchard, or a monolingual mouse in a European sitcom. Either way, how do you know the right way to act? By sense of smell? Doesn't matter, I guess—storm's coming. All bets are off cavorting in one of those invisible dimensions described in some half-forgotten documentary. No wonder the night gets cold when your memory walks sexily by.