The bar was full
               in the basement of my mind
and i read the manual, my buddy hunched over on a
stool beside me.
“it’s a cinch he said”
not really, though, because people don’t speak in dreams.
(i ascribe to them 50‘s slang expressions)
my beer was magically empty
and others were magically full
studying alien life forms
in this book
this manual
and wanting to puke.
dreaming is stressful
and so is life.
where is the best place to hang
a bathrobe?

I sometimes look at pictures of this
pornstar
              who
sort of looks
at me the same way as a girl I liked
when I was in elementary school
and middle school
and high school
and
I guess I still kind of like her;
and that’s why I look at pictures of
this pornstar when I *******.
I feel bad, seeing her ***** there--
this person I’ve transposed with
memories.
It reminds me of college vacation
she was jogging and saw me on a hill;
I shouldn’t be seeing this-- I thought.
Still she saw me peek.
And we used to be friends, or something.
When my crush refused my present during
second grade, I gave it to her.
Her voice came as close to touching me
as anything I’ve ever held;
and her eyes were piercing with their
trust and sympathy.
But I’ll never tell her,
that I can’t *******
with her watching me.
And no, it’s not a love story.
I won’t ever tell her-- even if she always
knew.
Remorse looks too much like
blonde women.
And it’s ruining my **** habit.

the first girl i loved was tyranny (spelled:tierney)
for this reason, i hate women and i hate names.
if i have a child it will have no name-- it will have a number
and an eartag, so it knows what it is.
we are no longer people.

this is a draft--i can't edit now because my eyes hurt. i probably won't work on it again.

Your subjectless Objects of capital, the agency bereft GDP drones, O! America,
They are spilled on the pavement, an upturned ice cream cone of discontent
puddled and lackadaisical, they fester beside the hydrant.
Your news agencies and malls, the damp dishrags of industry,
snagged on the nail of defenselessness and exploitation, only infect the wound.
Each mess of a person, walks through the sugary malaise of your suffering
dragging it on to the next in communal forbearing; its contagion, its disease
is so many cysts on the mind of those syrupy vacuoles for capital; the private,
malignant caverns of dewy-eyed trust in humanity, insipidly drawing the rancor to a boil,
without understanding a thing.
You pride yourself on much, without eyes for the condition of your people,
O! America.
People, shackled in your jails, are so many ideas bubbling as to the cruelty of your nature
punctured by the ignorance outside.
Draped in your obnoxious flag, the cites are as malicious as the countryside, toward life, toward knowledge.
You prop-up the price of their crops, the know-not-whys, who plunder the earth to prolong population growth and consciousness-decline.
America, you eradicate discontent with cattle cars, filled with questioning life forms, gasing our minds and burning our bodies with your arrogance.
Like a popcorn bag steaming in the microwave; you have been left alone too long, and have developed a flame-- an inextinguishable flame of reason.
You have been disavowed too LITTLE.
You must not be allowed to expand any further, lest the impoverished bag of flesh which is mankind will burst.
But still you stagnate, until your violence curdles with drones and bombs patrolling our synapses.
Our brains digest your violence against us and **** it out with an abused dialect of greed and hate.
Then you ask us only that we eat from your refuse heap of burnt kernels from the “truth” of market economy.
You taste like cancer. You rot the mouth of competent men, and satiate the anxieties of those who would turn against you-- with a refreshing ice cream cone of absentmindedness
dropped on the ground and melting.
But the stains you made will always taint the sidewalk of man.

America-- you’re about as inspiring as vanilla ice cream puddled in the summer sun
a damp dishrag, america, you can’t clean up the mess you are.
Your subjects, or should I say, Objects--
your agency bereft gdp drones--
they hanker, they brood
like a syst; they’re ****** vacuoles: private, malignant, caverns of capital
your pride? starving children, dying cities?
it’s a grand ole’ flag, you pathetic ****.
How about considering this:
The people, inside your prisons?
They’re free.
The people outside?
minions, hackneyed excuse for existence, and pestilence.
the ones who know oppression are free, and the ones oppressing do not know.
that’s why I love you, America.
You are what humanity needs; a slow, painful drain on our existence.
Consciousness slowly being ignited and swallowed, only to be ******* out and flushed away.
You, america, are a popcorn bag popping in the microwave, left on for too long.
You can’t expand any further, and you taste like cancer.
America, you are beautiful, and the death you bring tastes like lime flavored popsicles
that we lick to take away the taste of reality.
Your society is a cattle car, for the mind, and your messages burn the body
when it gets there.

fruit flys, umarm mich
die, the filth!
you take what is lacking in me, the emptiness;
that is your sustenance.
I take from you everything, my act of disposal
is violence.
what kept your body, your fluttering,
was my
waste.
my waste of utility, life, being.
call it what you will, I hate fruit flies.

chewing each sound
like a dusty paint chip;
they don’t sit well, dark, wooden stairways
wrapped around my throat, banisters
sherry carpet running down the middle.
trial steps, you buy with each motion
swollen bones.
“sturdy windowsills,” that’s true.
we peel off raindrops,
closing the canister.
i sneer outside; that sun oscillates,
with its blistering pirouette.
costume design left it naked.
yet, this sallow creaking in my attic
is
a conscious decision.
possession, not ownership.