On the backs of
flies
we wait for the
next thing.
Something is
always coming.
A birth or death,
food or hunger
hatred
laughter
love...

Something is always
coming around the
corner.
The Mad Hatter with
mushroom tea.
A strange color of
blue that tastes like
almonds.
A ****** that sparkles
in the night.

Listless mornings
of languid
walks with the
wife in the cool
of the evening.

A knife in the back,
a shark attack,
or maybe, just
possibly, you write
a poem about
waiting for the
next thing.

A night at the Museum,
and we're dressed to ****.
The mood is gleeful–
and the people, chill.
All court the kings and queens of shill.

Our ****** deeds are whitewashed clean.
Our grievous crimes are left unseen–
sanitized versions on the tv screen.

But our steps were tracked with care
by one who could no longer bear
the growing horror, the scenes from there.
The cry of anguish, the dead-eyed stare.

Now the blood drips on our shoes.
Our deaths headline the evening news.
Yet still, the truth has only views
on internet sites with volunteer crews.

When there is no other way
Desperation will have its day

i.

let's give pakistan money
to nuke india.
never a higher mountain than trash.

the Western world needs this to happen,
both are a problem,
but one more populated than the other.

looking for a job lately?
there is so much to be said for colonization.
india says everything.

india amazon selling bottles of cow ****,
either (don't) accept it or drink it,
do you really want to drink it?

some days are over,
we have learned too much, we see and see and cannot stop seeing.

ii.

too much loneliness
a number that stays zero
dreams that have nowhere left to travel
the times, they are so bare

the way hope expels
for good,

the king of England
wears a tablecloth on his head
his kingdom, his country, a gutted intestine
it is very crowded there

all the king's countrymen &
all the good places to go
disemboweled
third world kneels in parasitic prayer

***** garbage on the ground, ***** garbage all around
the way hope expels
for good,
it is no small tear

possums know jazz

                         dig Coltrane/snap
                              to that bebop

           groove to trumpets
louder than Vietnam, Iraq, Gaza

                break like pregnant waters
                                      born of dry ice
                                                         vaporized

bonobo possums, antipodeans
                                        grazing on

Antarctic fission/fusion
fluxus fata morgana

needed like we need
Bonobo lottery tickets

                  (re)membered reconstituted loss

                                                           hard investment
                                         in a well-lubricated account:

man-baby fake-*** banker

                     insolvent in liquidity

       as if Bonobos actually played jazz
                              and Coltrane merely

                              interpreted (snap)

Swaying, to an electronic beat.
Hallucinogenic mushroom treat.
Blissed out youth in easy grace,
dancing in a limbic space
in their comfy border town--
have no idea what’s going down.

But there will always be disorder
if you choose to paint Hell’s border
while you live on the other side--
a created,  artificial divide.
Heaven and Hell will soon collide.

Most poets now are boring clowns
Meandering, confessional;
Their muses quick to pawn their crowns
Claiming to be professional;
Credentialed by some stuffy place
That ruined all poetic grace.

Miss Chang is one. The current breed:
Murmuring, sighing in her tea—
Exhibiting neurotic need
To tell sad stories. Let her be.
She’s found her niche. She does her schtick
Repeating endlessly one trick.

We notes the symptoms and the signs:
Turning dull maudlin thoughts to prose,
Then making of it ragged lines
(Post-modern sickness clearly shows.)
But adding line-breaks here and there
Is simply words in disrepair.

Poor dear, it’s clear she dwells in grief
(And follows funerals to the bank…)
We realize, with some relief
It’s not her fault. We have to thank
The avant-boring visionaries
Praising her obituaries;

Milquetoast academic schools
Of well-degreed neurotic fish
Who spawn such vapid bubbling fools
As fit for neither hook nor dish.
And thus, we’re left with Rupi Kaur
In this, the muses’ dullest hour.