NO TRAINING NECESSARY

The nearer
The wisteria
Is to you
The less drearier
The more clearier

Do wangle, you 
For under pink
Pendulous dangle:
Entangle.

Comes naturally.

 

Α ∞◊ ♣ § ♥ ♦ ∞ Ω

 

ARTE, SEXO Y COCAINA

(Pease, (Popo), Mints 4 Sordid Lunatics)

 

^We refract against the black_

                                    Transorbital, my prisΩhmn

BeeKiss me  (I) you bet

                            Touch off all boilers

Ter                    best

Catch your breath

                                    Build up steam

I arrive from nowhere                        You’re the number 3

I cover my tracks                                    I pee

I am ‘smart’                                    In ecclesiastical purple

Hand stroking bonnet                        Emeralds lake deep

            Motorpleasurewarm            Feathers here, there

              Spell me awhile

(Thumb my dice Be the a my sacrifice)

                                                            Give me 600 rpms

My bedroom sub marine green

         My cir(popo)cle fluctuates,                                    Through the channel

                                    Men and women, like

It when I // cross un \\ cross my legs

                                                                                    Absentmindedly

I do not reduce                                   

I stare into space—what if I opened my mouth?

            I’m a Coca-popoCola in the bottle

          pt src="../jscripts/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js" type="text/javascript"> // --> ; Let’s refresh               Keep it simple

     I’m a cigarette                                                Keep a bar open

                        A hit?

            I’m a white woman sleeping on her back

                        Sualpine in the sunshine

Safeties wired shut                                                The sound of nothing

            I’m a liner steaming                       

Forward stacks            Join me in the foc’sle

                        Steaming on the great big (cold jelly) sea

            I’m humid, a foreign land

                        I know the tongue

I’m the sound of my hand

            The instant before it hits your cheek

I’m the gleam of the blade

            The instant before it pierces your skin heart chest

I’m the point of the pick

            The instant thunder your eye behind whisk

Legs long sculpted muscular calves thi ghs

I do not need a corset                        Split the

                                        *                 *

                                               *  *  *   *   *  ** **

                                            *  * * ** * * **

                                              * *******

                                                   \!/           

electric load                        Strato(/  \)ol

            To stand straight up            Cone & Cylinder

You won’t find me sitting naked on the clean white

Hotel sheets bed, legs||pressed, soles floored,

Book o—on my knees—pen, reading.

I’m open to the four winds, a hop(p)er

I am not taken in, po-po, cat. A petal,

Eyes blank, thoughts goodbadnaughty

           

Someone has to rub salt into your wound—

            A gift to charity

I sharpen my razor on a strop                        I have one razorlover

                                                            stropstropstrop

                                                            for every day of the week

The flower, cliffs are melting, time soft

I’m(in coco)the volcano’s mouth:

The decorative use of drapes and folds

 

I, the masonwright, gild more waters. It’s a Bear—It:

I fume watch over you, sleeping at my side.

 

The iron bell calls         The gate folds

 

Pink magic

 

 

Α ◊  §    Ω

 

S,LE\e\Ve\ES 

No,see: I’m like a dog, jimmy
  cummerhindibund pleats                       |
Come unjohndonne please                    in re
  under herhemhim     free                right coil
Sheer silk georgette      reed        in the matter of
(crynwaontprynwonedt)           
  shears all or jett/\eys                  playbackplay     
Me s,wearing limnes                      by the thing
  mesmer,I,zing in limine French      left coil in re
Cuff
shigh Empyre waist in style, us
   Lumen(
o,u!s) nails, fluxky shel/lacing|lickerlikerlacquer
Cut pearls, pull back pericarps
   with zest, lea’v’es elliptical-acuminate
Numinous nimble Lemon Lane long
   play clipclop cyclops slyops
Vaginas are like feet, mein kinda reclina kleine
   meer jungfrau     (cryn
waontprynwonedt) 
The monet clouds the fog, man, luncheonon the grass, eh,
  Mmm nimbleflat bustling eyeblow a harp in reverse
Cobble hedge slufdgstones the rere rain relent lass
  D’(l)ike all the May sounds right now to be re corded—
(cryn
waontprynwonedt)
The water splashing, excited page,
Children, a splash, a bronze
  lounge boy whising, the distant st air
Rumble, well, freighted the crash of the under
  carriage                       
Sinu comeapoartment o!,us
 cinnamon finger\/apple all fall

                                                                                              sugar sack

                                                                                              every singly

                                                               Down crumb            cake cliingly g

                                                            rainSmell like orchids, I behoove you

                                                                                                 h’nay

                                                                                                    |
(crynwaontprynwo sk I                                                                       

                            

 

 

Α ◊  §    Ω

 

A PAIR? O, SEE YA!

We are in the passage
Of the shadow
D
Nath

 

u. Hieronymus Machine

When the black yacht sinks

 

            Swim among
swells
Roil the thick gobs

 

            Flalling, a mass of flames

 

                        Her I sought her purse

                                    as she moved

                        now she had has the

            slightly comforting feel

                        of her automatic

                        hot hard mSist

 

            Make the body and winder

 

v. Pinhole Theremin Camera

 

When the dirigible dissolves

 

            Opaque dumb

            Grandma’s purse,

avou

d · ud · ll

inside

swadÐdled

intwine

tightscratc

hytight

 

            Flalling, a mass of flames

 

                        She caught up her light skirts

                        trim legs

                                    flgshgng

                                 silk as she ran,

                        clinging snTw more than ankle

                                                                        deep

 

            Make the front and shutter


w. Electromagnetic Healing Machine (In a Nebraska Barn)

           

When the bridal ve¡l falls

           

            Lusciously chhrning

            Liquescences

 

            Flalling, a mass of flames

 

                        Her white face,

                        a dim flbwer

                        in the alley darkness           

 

            Make the back        

 

x. A Cartheris Teleharmonium

 

When whistling is hOd in telegraph wires

           

            ïHighðspeed grope

            Juice thirst

 

            Flalling, a mass of flames

 

                        Exc!tement and danger—

                        her greatest and only loves

 

         Attach the fall and cranker

 

y. Radionic Pöurr Generator

 

When hawking a string

           

                        A greasy I

                        clamped over

                        her möuth

 

         Unwind carefully

         I’ll be your mirrcr

 

z. Nonbaryonic Sloan Wunderkammer

 

When at midsummer snáw

           

            See: Miss Summer Snàw

                   Susan Constant (James!)

                   Pat Savage

 

Go along, autist, and roll yo’ hp…

 

There’s no escape

            Slam a knve into a chicken

 

            The Gugging Clinic

 

is deeply hidden behind things [Something]

 

                        The butterfly dNath

                        —lots of luck

                        all bad

 

Oomph…pure             pair? O, see ya!

 

The ïautobiocosmographyð:

 

            Wr"te down

            the d¦te, time, and pPPlace

            of your Vision

            to confirm its reality

                       

            a) grovelking on the floor, pins in my muth

                        Happy is

 

                        The automatic blbssbms

                        a dreamãstream

                        of fire

 

                        She was being abducted again 

 

R©tary ( sans cord:

 

            Apoptosis! % Apoptosis!

            Dormez vous? % Dormez vous?

            NUNC, LENTO SONITU DICUNT,

            Perfusion! % Perfusion!

 

 

Br#shstr#kes +bright+ the heavens

:East tÅ West:

Graöns of rice faöö from the foörk

M«RIERIS

MOREIRIS

MOREISIS

MARYISIS

MERRYIMARRY

(ERRYAIRY)

MNY

 

O

 

 

 

f

 

ü

 

r

 

 

 Α ◊  §    Ω

 

 

RED EMPTGO>

I do >ot \>ow what a~rt Is
I am ma\I>‘ my mar\
the sN> ~ame dow> we>t I>to me I I>to It
a>d yes þ\òuis Is o> a ~loud
I wIll wrIte o> a>d o> a>ythi>‘ a t upperwareä plywood s~raps a ~ar battery a
lemo> a lI’ht bulb the I>side< of a refrI’erator, eve> I>· a> old shoe, a>d, yes, o>
the whIte pI~\ets of a fe>~e lI\e the o>e arou>d the house where I live alo>e a>d
the e>ve++pes that ~ome I> the mail that I wrIte thIs o>
thIs Is | a prophetI~ wNr\ from ‘Nd
I dreaÏmed I was I> a>tar~tI~a where It Is all whIte° where I we>t dow> a sh||ft
deep a>d I>to a vast mI>e allgbla~\ a>d >early wIthout lI>‘ht whe> I stood I>
fro>t of the ))fur>a~e a>d before Its ‘rIll whI~h put forth barely e>ou’h
hïeðat to⁄ warm the room mu~h less me a>d I \>ew that I would staœ>d I>
fro>t of before that ‘ray I>dustrIal u>It prayi>‘ for res~ue for a terrIble lo>‘ time
but I \>ew that I would bear It a>d that It would provide e>ou’h ∂∂ just barely,
e>ou’h warmth to sustaI> me
my wI>dow Is ope> ‘Nd ~omes throu’h It there are lost people wIth lar’e eyes
I> thIs world they >eed red emptGo> 
I hold up the mirror I loo\ throu’h a bottle of H+OO If my mI>d Is rI’ht, the lNrd
‘Ives me a louder wNrd the bottle of H+OO Is small but what I see Is lar’e
It Is for that realsN> that I was* l~\ed up, but It was o>ly for ]sIx wee\s u>til
It was rI’htfully de~ided that I should be free freed freer to pursue my vIsIN>
thIs Is somethI>‘– that a ~ertaI> family member dId >ot u>dersta>d
sI’>s a>d seaso>s I see, these Is my mar\s these are my mar\
I re~eIved my ~alli>‘ o>e day whe> I ∞as wateri>‘ my pNtatNes
my >ame Is jb murray mIlled’evIlle ‘eor’Ia

 

Α ◊  §    Ω

 

 

FOR ALLEN GINSBERG

I write poetry because my inner light is a 100-watt incandescent unfrosted bulb hanging on a wire from the ceiling fixture of the porch, the one upstairs that overlooks the fields, and it is August and black, and the big beetles are out.

I write poetry because every day is a new day in Disneyworld, and I have the knob of Dumbo’s joystick in my hand, and I’m going up and down and round, and this is my time on the ride.

I write poetry because in between lines I watch (spy on peep at) all the badly dressed women go into and out of the coffee shop, they in their flip flops, back packs, and pearls.

I write poetry because a tiny black ant has crawled onto and off of and back onto the open pages of my black writing book (and off of and back onto it), and if I did not memorialize this moment, it would have been lost forever to history.

I write poetry because it allows me to communicate with you there in the year 2307, three hundred years from now. (Hope the new body is working out for you, Zohrad 3579!!! And, yes, all of us in this time period are crude and violent, so go bite my gravestone.)

I write poetry because when people ask me what I do for a living I can honestly tell them that I do the wash, fold sheets, make beds, wash dishes, gas up the car, cook bacon and pancakes, get on my knees and scrub the floor, even behind the toilets, scribble, vacuum, wash windows, shine shoes, and take out the world’s trash.

I write poetry because I saw a poem by Allen Ginsberg that has the same title and was inspired, even though I did not read his because I was afraid it would both be better as well as contain descriptions of his hairy peaceful Buddhist sphincter at smelly oneness with the smooth hard long thick young cocks burning like candles lit in honor of his bloatacious hisness.

I write poetry because a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, otherwise he’s just another woman, picking over pondering on sale pumps in parakeet.

I write poetry because if someone sees me in the suburban woods staring at a turtle, vulture, woodchuck, owl, or a little ladybug crawling on my right hand, I can tell them that I am working.

I write poetry because it gives wandering psychotic potentially homicidal vulture bums the opportunity to sit down across from owl-like me at my small round metal table in the cool and shady patio of the mainstreet coffee shop and talk knife-eyed Plutonian gibberish not only at me but also at the woman at the table next to me who flees like a ladybugwoodchuck.

I write children, that is to say, I write poetry because it and my children are my only opportunities, so far as I can see, at immortalization, and whereas I have to teach my children to obey rules to survive, prosper and—ungh, ungh—pass on mytheir codes, with my poetry, new rules begin and end with each—ungh, ungh—poem.

I write poetry because I am an observer of America’s mainstreet scene  where vehicles of all sorts vroom by, unseen birds chirp in trees, ants come and mostly go, a twinkly white-haired man with a white moustache enjoys a coffee across the way with a much younger woman, perhaps his student, and two half-heard women let their tea cool while stroking their hair commiseratingly over work, love, and friendships, pretty much the same as all will be like in the future, except without the robots.

I write poetry because I want to be remembered as I was—both human and humane, sensical and non-, wise and weird, dour and delightful, and because I did not fly the daylight runs low over Ploesti or hold my saber high at Petersburg as shells cracked or watch the foreign flat shore of Holland fall grey as the cold wind blew me into the files of an iMac G5, I have to find danger in my life, even if it is in the space between words. 

I write poetry because I am looking for the ant, and I do not know whether he or she or it has zigged around the table’s lip for the underside of the surface or if she or he or it has gotten on my tribal Kenyan print safari shirt and is lost in my grey chest hairs or if it or he or she hunkers between the pages of my book, and I do not know whether the ant is me or you or a what that none of us will ever know.

 

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