This is the song
this is the song
this is the song
this is the song
this is the song
about the death you won't have to die
for the people who aren't required to be people
for the aisles mopped by morons
with the hair of morons
between the pickled morons
in the moron morning
picking idiot pockets
and arresting itself with hungry police
as the fleshy current rises toward the ceiling
this is the song
this is the song of the everyone
channeling through the shrunken driveways
standing stunned at a window
while the familiar blood eats meals inside
at the blood table with the blood stories on the wall
going sane while the staring outside turns into a human.
This is the song you won't have to sing
to the people who won't have to listen to it
to be smacked flat in the pages of a book you won't read
while the orange turns to pink in hazy near-nothingness
while the children turn into dandruff
on the grassy downslope.
This is the song
for the hardly songlike
disintegrations
and the forms that seethe out of them
like a fleet of tadpoles
in a lifted pond.
This is a song for the horizon that becomes a landscape
when the landscape drops out from under it.

I'm taking my rubber body down to the river factory
to be covered in splotches of bright metallic pink;

I'm taking my body to the man-factory; hey you,
you take your body to the woman factory: I want to press my mouth

to your woman-parts and praise them with my tongue;
and let you take my man parts in your tiny mouth

and let you clench at them happily, with your
whole being; I'm taking my rubber body

down to the river factory, you, you meet me
there on the warm presses.

brush your teeth on a high bridge
lower than hell in a city
eat match factories in semi-sleep
apply for the terrifying jobs
stir harsh chemicals under
dying dancefloors
in the starving night
convenience neon
lit up above the gas pump
open the frozen twilight
for the homeless who don't
fly straight, into the suns
of other hurting planets
while the solar systems
groan toward their origin openings
kitchens pouring
through sarcastic night
we jack statues off
into the thawing twilight
trashcans gossip
old towns talk to cities
in the uttering dawn

A heap of broken houses
a heap of torn skirts
a heap of old red bricks shattered into small triangles
a heap of ice cubes in a snowy driveway
a heap of martini glasses chipped and foggy
a heap of powerful people
sinking teeth into each other's entrails
a heap of stones covered sloppily in blue paint
a heap of ocean photographs with colors missing
a heap of sideways bedrooms
a heap of old haircuts and new haircuts crumpled magazines
a kaleidescope of cleavages, buttock & breast
a heap of vinyl discs, a heap of tar clumps,
a heap of unused pebbles,
a heap of broken houses with people in them
pretending to be whole.

There's a note on the door that can't be read
and a room breaking open under my soul.
And the all-night birds who won't sleep in the living city
have a grave to peck apart. The silent smaller birds
who surround them are making their way over a continent.
The all-night birds don't see the continent
but the shadow-birds guide silent birds over it.
The scent of your love is in the cube
on the tip of my cube-shaped nose.
The jewelry of trees is hiding madmen in the lawn
from a computer light.

After the officers raped you
we had to learn how to make love all over again
without thinking of all that policeflesh;
they pounded their wars into us
they pounded their hatreds into us
they made the continent metallic
all under our flight from the law.

This could be our shared house
twenty years from now
or a tiny hotel room on the edge
of a contaminated city.
All we know is that it holds the love that will be bones
and the blood that will run
on the fences of all the world's kings.

There's a
there's a stunned love under the people's river
where the
there's a stone in my lung.
There's a
there's a small snag in the cloth that you wove
where all the tiny animals come in.

I have a hole in my face called my mouth,
that I have never used. I have a mirror,
that I have never cleaned. There are paths
behind my house that I have never walked
to mountains that might as well be heaps
of garbage fallen from some other planet.
I have a hole in my face called
a world where I will never live.
I have a fag in my brain
and several botched political careers
with purple curtains.
I have a hole in my life called the sun,
with several minor embers drifting around
trying to take the place of its tongue.
I am opened like a thrown orange
on a city sidewalk, waiting for raccoons
and garbage men.

Short Story

lying on a mattress without box-springs,
on the floor of an apartment.

how she was when a wave was crossing
the street near or through her. And about
her on a heap of undulating trash, halfway up
skyscrapers with her vulva opening.

An ocean of trash, tossing, heaving, a world
of candy bar wrappers. He plugged the lamp
nearby into the outlet at the head of the mattress:
he wanted to look around at the room
to make sure he still noticed how it was,

while he thought about her opening up wetly
on a mountain full of trash. I need a town,
he thought, where the candy bars don't outnumber
the shopping carts.

Olivia, you're my favorite creature,
I'll build a porch for you
and you'll build a porch for me,
on the hips of one another's blueprint
lives. We'll barbecue separately
and then together, when our lives move
into their near apartments.

And I want to embarrass myself all over your body,
unmarry you, Miss, so your name stays cute,
carry an umbrella to your sandy sun
while baby elephants play in your moving shade,
and move your lemonade around on a blanket
in the early moon.

Powerful morons have nuked our future
but the present disasters leave movies and beer
relatively unscathed. There will be a party tonight;
at some point I'll separate from my friends
and stand on a dark front lawn,
running a flimsy claw across the horizon.

There will be a death in the water
and a kiss in the apartments.
There will still be a few pets, instincts
broken by humanoids, that haven't run off to die
inside some prophetic vibration.
There will be a warmth in the crust,
there will be heavily protected sex.
We'll fall in love just in time
to see our lovers frozen to the sidewalk.

Powerful morons have nuked our future
and we'll pelt those powerful morons
with foam cups and napkins
while they scythe through us in religious airless
ness.

In the future there's a parking lot full of motionless cars--
we're dead there, but we're alive here--
nobody in those cars is waiting to pick us up.

You left your dress hanging
on the back of my favorite chair
but I won't be returning to it;
I won't be carefully removing the dress
and hanging it in your closet
for you to wear when the cars stop moving.

my mind is dripping down
Greg Devlin's ladders of gold

it's a fair trial from the underground
you'd better wake you up seldom to survive

bomb concert
nobody ever gets overground

it's in a deep toilet past
it's all past the ass

of a dearest thumb
twitching in a grain

where the best animal suns itself
rebirths ugly on a slim salted mountain

banned concert
in the megamegadome

nobody gets in unless they's financial
-ly inspired, hurt small

--into large--
by a spider.

clever metal figures
fine-working sleeves w/brains

can whine about fuck about something
when cats will be there

& a book will often fall out of a book

without the blood stricken
within the blood stricken
dry
as the desert runs away with dessert
and the open are croaking
in the oven hum.

The shadows of trees across your naked body
turned me into a little boy before I could kiss
the bright spaces between the branches

shyly I put dandelions behind your ears
and touch your lips while you sleep
on a neon orange blanket in the bright green grass
twilight seeps in around us while the squirrels
nimbly finish what's left of our meal

Your nervous music crawls
through the grocery store your nervous music
moves around the pickles in their jars

your nervous music blurs the faces
of my oblivious enemies
as they order their meat from my soul

your nervous music on a telephone porch
kissing unexpectedly me makes me loving when
the rooftops are drunk in a war of headlights

your nervous music when you shockingly love me:
I fall off a barstool and end up president of the world

a linoleum ocean smeared with violent lipstick
comes up to meet me and I
rent a room from your nervous music
nervously bringing my instruments into it
sniffing a rug on fire

I'm a freak afraid of being abandoned
you're afraid of not being abandoned
let's enter hell. The stunned people
will meet the liquid people on Main Street
and fly a plastic dragon in the bottled-up air
just above their heads
as the sky thickens and the toothy mouths
move up and down. There's a fishing line
with a hook in both my chests
pulling me upward over the crowd,
and a fleet of psychotically chattering pumpkins
arranged on scaffoldings
near my other bruised head.

There are pigeons who used to be turtles
under some ancient sea. Their beaks and their eyes
tell our magazines to go under the earth.
And a glossy page turns in their eyes
and a centerfold opens in their mouths
as we toss a bread into that bird void.
Those skinny tongues moving up and down
and a pillowcase trampled in the street
from a bed that fell onto this planet
where our matrimonial house
was supposed to be. Our clothes are dirty,
we grope towards the flesh that was broken by police
in our Asian bodies
so many other continents ago.

I'm going to die on the road, walking away
from a war my parents started with everything.
There will be a bird in my hand, I will cross
a ray of light and it will come to life. The pebbles will dance
like severed clitorises going back to their bodies.
Desperate to love each other
terrified to love each other
the sands will escape through my lips
and a gut will fill with human things.
The narrative pulled through my navel
will unwind and come back forever.
I'll paint horses with neon
in a dim field outside your bedroom.
We'll have a narrative here in the grass,
a basso profundo voice will munch away
on its cud. And the bird will peck a hole through my hand.

hammer comes down and I'm not here
in a whirlwind of leaves
stunned on the avenue

hammer comes down in city
I'm in a country tree
crying at a mushroom
cloud

hammer shivers the river
hammer falls outside
many dotted lines