You look absolutely ravishing
in this photo. The ethereal red matches
your sodden skin perfectly. It is no wonder
why there is a spiral about your neck, lying on
the mouth of your chest.
There she stands
watching the sun start and end
all in black and white, hipster hues,
till the end of time. A train whistle blew.

***** sock law
states satisfaction is not done  

                                          there are things still to be done

like the commodities of sanity

                       that bathe every street
as Leo Szilard street--avoid the police, avoid the police.
                                        Her fake fur coat
  cleaves                 the words against her lover              off
              from the veranda stench.
"You're never angry with me."

                                                       standing in Moscow
                           passing out pamphlets
                                                            abou­t Communism.
  "Everything I want
                 and I
          couldn't be unhappier."

Sudans pass by, catchy music plays, and the waitress is late
                                                                ­                             with our order.

There are                no teeth in my apple
                 and my lost love takes pictures

                                     with backgrounds that I spy
saturation in. She misses me,                                 I know it.

  The litanies of street performers, and go-go rockstars--she shares the same
plea.                          But I do not know if she uses the same words.
                                  But I hear their rhythm throughout the film.
        Graffiti dollars nestled in the dark of my wallet--preparing for the rocks.

My father lit a cigarette and smoked the room up
                  with choked circles,
                                                                    he rewrites every woman
                                               he sees,
                 metamorphosis asunder,
                                                              because nothing is on tv.

                                  My mom was hauled blindly
                                              away from love to evening's riverbed
                                                            --to **** the fear of
                                                                                        correction away.
                              Birds talk about fish
                                            that fly in airline crusades,           gobbling up wise owls.
                          Blossom talons pluck
                                                              --up their words,
                                                                         the closest a lie can come to the truth
                                                               and be set in stone  None of them
                              will be remembered
                              the way they want to. footnote retribution.

                     The wandering dead only care about
                                                         modeling on the covers
       of psychology magazines--hailing reviews that digest indulgence
                                                                         beautifully,
                                                carving chocolate waists
     down
  to starvation--we melt away to gnats
                                       in Prozac hives
                                            shingled with academic love papers
                                            & bible covers.

                Dear Alice,
                            you stole our table of tea, our shaved vigil,
                                          our western rodeo,
                                         our alcoholic omega.

                       Midnight on the dishonored battlefield
          with the scythe beneath us,
                                     we murmur love back into
                                    our sheets of high horror.

  Your meteorite adultery could not wipe
                      this hard drive clean--what we would lose...

   the things we cannot                                                   touch.
                                         Cloud 9 LSD,
                                     its warriors passing
                                  weapons down to the flock's ashes--to wives who fear

      the wrath of their husbands. Chlorine gills quit
                                          cold turkey
                            --sinks overfill under unorthodox skies--the turning of centuries
                                                                is nothing like flipping
                                                                                                      pennies
                                   into wishing wells.

Throwing the baggage onboard, I'm *****,
and straight forward with you. No games.
If I ******* like you,
I won't spin this web of ******* and pain.
I ******* like you that is that.

We'll work out the rest, we'll deal with it,
and these sorry *** lines later.

You're more than some walking-wet-bag for my ****,
You're you. And I like that ******* it. **** the rest.
That is the only straight forward part of my life right now,
you and writing. This is the best poetry you're gonna get,
because the rest of what was planned for this poem
             went into conversation and pre-emptive love. What ever the **** that means...

             But there will come a day when friends can't understand my poetry again,
              that's when you'll know what has happened to us.
       You'll know...

The writer is

                                                             ­ bound by the Oedipus
                                          cauldron stewing          can't relax

                          --all women are mine--
                                                          ­       but this doesn't stop the bloating bubbles.

                     But the writer did not invent Wonderlandia
               --no double-sided tape or wrong number or sloppy poetics.

                              Wonderlandia was born from the ***** of the stars
                                                         --our fathers,
                              and the void of space,
                                                     --our mother's womb.
the writer

                                             was busy staring at the girls that walked by
                                        ditch diggers for renovations on Euphoria.
                The hippies are disappointed in this current Wonderlandia,
   or they would be.

                               Their dreams had dirt in the mud,
                they walked upon.                Our Woodstock
                                                       ­         is celebrity interviews,
                                                     ­           reservations failing,
                                                        ­        political satires--the last ring of change
             sold at five cents a word. Period.

the writer
                                        says it understands and writes:
                      "Sticks shaped from elitism
                        rare.
                        Usually a vibe too brittle,
                        breaking in battle.
                        The bass thundered robins.
                        The snare's firearm stabled the swift,
                        electrifying beat.
                        The brass was addiction
                        to the crowd's ears.
                        All before the elitism was born,
                        a symphony was constructed in the drug's head."

the writer
                                knows about D. A. Levy and his revolution,
                  we all felt that voice, so the writer replies:
                               "Did you hear about the John Lennon poser
                                 waving his gun on TV?
                                 While listening to the Beatles, you
                                 sit and watch the vagabond cry.
                                 He says, "Counter-culture is dead, entombed
                                 in a metal casket.
                                 We need a new flame. Those watching TV
                                 get your hands out of the basket."

the writer
                                        walks with grandma Alice
                                       by lakes,
                                                       thrilling dementia
                                    "Don't tell me what taurine
                                      and caffeine can do to my heart.
                                      I can have alligators in my rib meat
                                      eating away at bone marrow.

                                      High? That's your question?
                                      Hi...I am a float
                                      in a useless pond
                                      bordered by malnourished trees.

                                      By the love of hell you better not
                                      fertilize those ****** trees
                                      because if I die
                                      the alligator of my ribs
                                      will dine and take your ****
                                      girlfriend straight to the vet.
                                      I thank you for asking though."

    the writer misses
                                 the syrup in the tree completely
              
                     I am not your beatnik
                                or future idol--burn your 1970's classrooms away.

Catapulted                      sub-genre painters,
                        'the boys--the dogs of war
                                    no one knows about'
    shot across                   opposite tobacco oceans,
                                         eaten by Helicoprions,
                                                               a B-rated villain.
Otherwise these teeth whips
                are starved by peanut-hull boats

                                    --the artists barely make impact--

         Hungry drip paths,
         bright stars stare back
         with teeth like oak chairs.

                  Happy children,
       always happy children
                   run with kites on orange-sprayed blades of grass.
                          They trip
        --forms of dice against doorknobs.

                           The eternal squares before the yellow canaries
                           are so fast
                           they crest the eagle's head
                           atop the totem pole.

            Mad ******* cry, as Alice commanded, about the death of all oral tales
                         --enraged laborous *** laughing
                                   at what we do.