Monday, November 26, 2007


Dream brain waves molesting your
ar-pigfood contraptions-m.
Admit your failures,
the M-16 float makes love to peg-leg pirates
while Dora onionizes her tears.
big chin
waves to the little children
while jacking off against the rail.
Did you see the hunger-
constipation mustache
on that handicapped man?
My garbage disposal
sounds like a jet plain taking off-
lake house we go.
Token sweet cranberry ass?
Every once in a while,
my snow comes with color.
No, not just yellow,
not your human waste reds and
tans and Santa’s blue blue eyes.
Snow like the fish
and good ol’ cranberry ass,
sprinkled in brown sugar-
never mind the mistakes.
Where WOULD you put the sweet potatoes?
Sweet mother of god
I can’t get enough of the cranberry ass!
Red and glazed
and drizzled all over my hot turkey chest.
Stuff me from behind
you big man of country twang.

and the Jolly Jiggly man?

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Identity Theory

Mariah Carey dances in heaven
with her lovely
lovely boyfriend.

"Have you ever seen
someone so lovely?"
I ask Panda at the zoo.

Scratching his balls,
"nope, never a more lovely."

Child’s playpen jamboree,
those balls are not my balls-
my balls are far more lovely.
The child is peeing on those balls-
Not my balls.

Canon fires at oncoming heaven-
explosive balls-
That damage is so lovely.
I made that hole,
and that hole,
that hole,
and that hole.
All the lovely holes
with miniature cats in suits
dancing the waltz.

The waltz is so lovely.
If Mariah Carey could do
the waltz
I’d put a bow tie around her neck
and call her lover
and lover and I-
don’t you think we
would be so lovely?

"Yes," says Panda,
scratching his balls.

These balls are not my balls.

Monday, November 19, 2007

Experience Materials As Such

Does this make any?
Umbrella shook up flow
and give me something-needs to.
Yea, yea, you’ve got sexy hands
and I am touching you.
So you left your stuff
at my hut and I am creaming
sandals of uncreativity
and suggesting what was asked
of the chairs and rich subject.
Sculpt this kitty,
weather of a year
and this is umm, the news.
Cold front coming from cartoons
painted on eye lids
of 14 lines- cut up-cut up,
belt undone and that dream
last night woke me up in class.
Western cowboy sing that song.
Bow-tied soul patch
and so on.

Played out,
date this foot
and set clocks back
thirty some hours ago
yet just the moment
you looked up.
Market stage of Little Mermaid,
legs popping out.
Where does one buy
a peg leg these days?
Of words plastered across
cheeks and beyond that-
published "best sex" and we are
too awkward.
Categorically freed grid,
we are on the road to chalk
so tell me what it is
you big steamy mess.

When A Banana Writes, He Dances

I flushed the cat down the toilet because I was sick of watching her get nervous and run away whenever someone saw her in the litter box which stunk real bad because I didn’t want to clean it and neither did "the third roommate"
so we flushed her down the toilet too before hijacking razor scooter being pushed uphill by a small 25 year old fella and turning to my heterosexual life mate asked if it would be alright if I peed in her twitching eye, "it’ll make things feel better, I swear" and look, here comes that sexy- older- man we are supposed to ignore
but I ask him to jump on my scooter and push until we get to the plaza and begin jumping around in banana/monkey suits,
I’ll be your monkey if you banana me-costume lover, can I pee in your twitching eye too? and then comes along Robin Hood and his sexologist girlfriend, Miss. Hooker and they are selling blue drinks by the dozen and I think we could fit a case or two on the back of my scooter along with dangerous sexy man, life partner and us all orgying it up in costumes so I offer pee in exchange for a case and head to the porta-potty behind the porno store
where luck would have it, Robin Hood and Miss. Hooker are now injecting blue liquid shit into each other’s

nostrils and not wanting to appear rude, we join in but not for long seeing that it is 4pm and pushing the whole kitten caboodle up the hill via scooter, meet up with the entireties of the freshmen rugby team and start up a game of beer pong until little Biff and I retreat to his dorm room and begin fucking on his shitty twin bed taking note to leave the blinds open so Jim Morrison look-a-like across the way can see me in action.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

A Future Trip

There was a time when
I dreamed of existing
in the Jungle Book-
where loin cloths
held all the secrets and
today we are making home
of a place with no light fixture
in the livingroom
so I attach putty-
glow-in-the-dark stars to my fingertips
and place them on the underside of tables
for tired waitresses and waiters
to find and drive off with,
down the Rio Grande
where a handsome man once told me
an eagle landed beside him
and he never needed drugs again,
so I began thinking maybe
Polaroids fade for a reason
and the letter I sent to a friend last week
is history of these tire tracks
before the internet
set fireworks off in our eyes
and jelly fish oozed from the corners.
Maybe I connected
jungle fever with your hands
when really I could have just
given you some lotion
and been done with this
years ago but now
Jungle Book segues into On The Road-
segues into my velocity
can beat this
once mob mentality dies down
and we sleep in the desert.

Saturday, November 10, 2007

I Am Hugging the Silver Fox of Dreams

We are taught to use I statements.
I am part of a generation locked
into a box with mechanical
controllers, who exercise indoors.

I am things difficult because
simplicity could bring happy endings.

I am virtually stalking the world of
broken hearts and things claimed
not to be regrets.

I am staring at the clock as it goes
from midnight to noon
and wondering where the time went.

I am liking of unicorns despite. . .

I am not, will not, label not.

I am Almost Famous
to infinity and beyond.

I am not free-box underwear,
but handmade Halloween costumes,
thunderstorm forts and
puddle-splashing funorama junky.

I am eye-flickering dizzy spells
of ear aches and forgotten
massages from fantasized lovers.

I am wonderments wonderwall of
discertainty and confident walks.

I am neon orange rubbing alcohol- flavor
from golden years and
past greasy pancake lunches.

I am driving sex to work.

I am one part of greatness.

I am a Toys R Us kid.

I am once a writer.

I am not up or even down
just tired.

I am 19th century Polaroid-
these pictures are fading
and turning a funny color.

I am Mrs. Robinson
with the body of a 15 year old
and I am trying to seduce you.

I am fish egg screams outlined
in tan lines, dotted with
vitamin c and GMOs’.

I am cliche velocity,
road trips
and spooning.

I am Scream in the old sense.

I am saying you are in my writing.

I am drooling llama- coloring book
because the colors always felt right.

I am hugging the silver fox of dreams.

I am questioning skunk aroma,
turning on the switch to star filled sheets.

I am golden tasseled- teal couches
laying on the floor amidst swaying
walls and broken ceramic pots.

I am carnival fun house,
universe painted on the ceiling-
library of fragmented sentences.

I am a directionally challenged bag
of burnt popcorn.

I am nobody’s dried hands
but my own.

I am eight up and down,
left and right
and back again.

I am remember.

I am 1:11 am red cup
full of water hardcore bitch
and this,
this is all happening.

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

The Way Blinking Stutters Sight

The feeling of holding a heating pad to your back while peeing.
The way most people mean to do good.
The way wind wisping by your ear, mimicking the ocean can feel like going deaf.
The way I put my hands down my pants when no one is looking.
The way I have not heard this song in years.

(In LA)
The way thin palms trees look like puff balls amongst smog and brick walls blocking highways from sight.
The way it is summer in November.
The way the stereo cuts out in a tunnel and then comes right back as soon as you are out.
The way everyone wears red shirts on game day.
The way most shuttle drivers are never nice and no one talks to each other.
The way the sky turns orange and the image of palm trees.
The way no one moves to the back of the bus.
The way pollution accentuates color.
The way people sit across from each other and look at one another without ever looking.

An Incident During the Civil War

Today’s Sabbath quits!
Zen said staple categories to nachos,
multiple nachos of history
for rigorous principle debates
Commit /Commit /Commit
backbone of nobodies fish,
you stupid work-study,
Zen needs someone to come in the house
and I know no one-
no 1 combo to igloo.

Retreat fiction,
tampon’s visitor personalizes
almighty sober lexis.
And what of-
Zen said pardon, pardon,
porcupines ascend gates.
Make haste and lay low
the didgeridoo.
A sensual chick saw llama.
Gotta have, GOTTA HAVE
and sins culture saluted.

Monday, October 29, 2007

Shall I Compare Kenning to a Ted Kooser Reading?

Environments: one of comfy youth sitting in a circle to one of upper- class olderish folks auditorium. The emergent forms reading was interactive, not to say that Kooser’s was not. I too have sat on a porch and watched the grass. Oh I’m there with you Ted, but in terms of artistic interaction. . .(If any Kooser fans find themselves on here, it’s ok, I’m sure you won’t like my poetry either so let us go sit by some trees somewhere and not talk about it.)
Thinking back to the emergent forms reading, Jesse’s style was one thing that stands out to me. His poems, as we have discussed in class, carry somewhat of a chant- like feeling with them. I still stand by this after hearing him. His tone was somewhat melancholy, dare I say a little sad and it flowed with the words. His poems very much represent sound over meaning although he might say something quite different.
We already touched upon this in class so it might seem redundant but what fascinates me most about Dolores’ pieces is the way in which Jen then translates them. Translating any form of literature or language in general is quite intriguing because every culture values different things. Language defines culture and culture defines language. How can we ever get a poem to carry the same meanings as well as the same sound? It is impossible and watching Jen and Dolores confirmed that with me. Their reading styles where entirely different and therefore gave me two different perceptions of the poems.
I would have to say however, that the Hannah Weiner performances were the most "inspiring" if that is even the word I am looking for. Her works lack of inhibitions with regards to what poetry should be are outstanding. She brought to the forefront news ways of looking at poetry, at words and their sounds and everything else that is encompassed in this art form.
So what of Ted? He certainly knows how to document what he sees. The stereotypical tattooed man, the hung over college student going to the library and even a nice day on the farm. All I can is, Ted, I’d hug you on the street if I did not think you would assume me to be another woman awestruck by your poetry.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Dusty the Oncologist

So in comes Mary J Face
and she’s walking like
she just had a sex change
and she’s screaming
at the top of her lungs,
"I don’t molest children"
and sure enough Mr. Packenbush
is sneaking into all the
bathroom stalls,
spitting on the toilet paper
and no matter how often I page
Dusty and Dusty says,
"Mr. Packenbush, we can’t
have you spitting on the toilet paper,"
and he’s always like,
"I need my last kicks!"
which we can’t argue with
so now Mary J Face is smokin’
out of something that resembles a penis
and Dusty’s sighing because
"this isn’t his job."
"Mrs. Face, you know you can’t
smoke that here,"
which sends her in a tizzy about the time
her grandson built a seven foot bong
called Kilimanjaro and
what the flying fuck is wrong with people these days-
can’t appreciate true art-
blah blah blah.
So I give her an apple to calm her down
and it’s a real juicy apple so it works
and everything is quiet.

Until Dusty comes blazing in
and he’s shooting rubber bands at everyone
in the room and Mr. Packenbush
takes one where it counts.
And Dusty’s really lost it this time.
And he’s startin’ to sound like
Mr. Packenbush’s brother Randy-
he comes in every Wednesday to visit.
He fought in Nam or was it Korea? and Dusty’s
gathering everyone up to build "the trenches-"
calling for us to "bring out the dead,"
which I can’t let happen,
we’ve got a wall with
stars and glitter
and pictures of all the kids
and what if one of the kids walks in-
we can’t have Dusty
flippin’ over couches,
crouched behind them flinging
rubber bands so I grab
good ol’ Mary J Face’s penis bong
and throw it in my purse,
army-crawling it over to Dusty
who surrenders at the sight
of a white tissue I am waving.

So Dusty’s sitting in the trenches,
hitting the MJ
while Mary J Face sucks
on my juicy apple
and Mr. Packenbush is back to scaring
the ladies in the bathroom,
crawling under the stalls and spitting
on the toilet paper.

Monday, October 15, 2007

Oh There's More

Tell me what it is
you big steamy mess

Sunday, October 14, 2007

I Once Saw a Merry Turnup

Its flavor does progress, while venting, go
ye think. Knee guard sir, attorney ended
no crime while lions lurk and pigeon gypsies
piss on fruit forts and elfish cement hearts.
Lay on no queen, the nuts of lame elves are
not real. Entreat vial villain lards and eat
lame poets who nay entertain where once
pin marked lancers championed antique towns
and in corners, vortexes of trumpets
cease aging and turn autumn lavender.

Sunday, October 7, 2007

And Then There

Bound to sequence,
I cannot find the citrusy
flavor that once creamed my youth.
Taste buds lay on
lady bugs that fall from
old, citrusy rooftops.
The coughing stomach shakes
with nerves as crooked panda
stares and keeps on
so I exchange 1:
I’ll lick your hand if you lick mine
and we can call ourselves learned.
And what if I told you
this is growing up?

This is it we say together.
World of feathers
evolved into carriages
carrying crates and
crates covering dry sex.
We shouldn’t let them decide,
those processionals of
elite paper-penners
documenting mediocre conversations
meanwhile salivating memories
of fresh watermelon seeds.
The Graduate swam beneath
fading glimpses of post-this love
when rimmed glasses were
much larger and omnisexual
became a legitimate question.

Professional word dyer of sorts,
we morphed into a bad Western
fighting against the wind
to stumble into an empty home.
If I said that "albondigas" were
there waiting for us,
I’d be a lousy friend
with no means to confess but
break into art museums and stare
at white walls- until

The smell of this world becomes
spring time,
becomes fresh rain.
Drinking down mucus flavored mornings,
I watched a prism elongate
into an evening portal
as my heart beats with the
speed of two humping rabbits
not wearing protection.

Ron Silliman Reading

(In collaboration with Nichole Hermance)

It’s the hands
and it’s the sitting
and it’s. . .
it’s the hands.
What’s that?
Oh that’s the mud.
But the mud,
it’s the oil
and the oil,
it sticks to the leg hair.
And it’s the green grass grew all around,
all around,
and the green grass grew all around
the hands,
and it’s the sitting. . .
and the hands.
And it’s the gasoline in my mouth
sweeping the nation,
oh the gasoline
and oh the sitting
and the 7th grade comfort,
with the hands. . .

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

New Sentence

Spinal tap fluids. Girl sitting in waiting room opening gum filled atomic bombs. Vines that reach seagull lands and trash invested shoe collection boxes. Muscle relaxers. Castle building dummies. Technical jive fills report cards. Essay unfinished, never to be finished. Clock ticks friend’s phone number. Baseball lost the entire season. I cannot open the handicap door. Free condoms. Black crow dives for love and bracelet breaks. Growling stomach. They lost Tina. Arrows pointing to mountains-to father should be here. Rainbow marked files of living situations. Barbie dances to psychedelic football chants. Sorry lunch box, backpack, carrying overload lady. Some people reduce breast size. Do screws come attached? Bad, oh introduction. I keep dig. Was there but no. Lick pen. So it continues past morn and onto the lagoon. Mickey no, bad guitar. I have your sweatshirt buried in clouds. Antithesis may pertain in questions of when, who or how. Hocus magic, pork belling dancing lovemeister. It could have been Gorilla’s photogenic night. Are you strong enough to skeleton walk? Fermented pear bread, I thank you. Crossed palm leaves of glory whisper too young to not more. One letter and yep, so long.

Sunday, September 30, 2007

Life Gets Chewy in the Microwave

Upper happy valley road.
Pole dancing at midnight
with free loving, societal orgy,
middle of the Kinsey scale.
Sweety, I’ll call you once a week
and transport myself into the city
to carry on intimate dialects
about the things we attach ourselves to
and that which we let leave on the last bus.
Talking over a spoonful of cinnamon
about your sugar daddy,
I loved him too
and his chocolate covered accent
coated in utopian flavor.
And he said, she said, we all said
people make up our memories.
Dancing into tomorrow, skipping over yesterday
masturbating today with a pen
and a few words.
Do you wanna go?
And I didn’t
but I walked away anyways
with the smell of peppermint, mucus vomit
coding my heart
in parking lots filled with
ghosts pushing shopping carts
and Orion’s belt somewhere up there
in the skunk fumes
and gasoline streaming from an acrylic Buick
that’s trunk I talked about sexing in.
Breathless, smelling of latex and come- lets
take a walk barefoot
through the emerald forest
until you and I
reach a form of jubilation
they do not teach in the rule books.
Your kiss was mothballs and bullshit.
It wouldn’t have hurt you to show up
before the scream manifested
and the mold grew
from the mattress we laid on years ago
in the days when
tie-dyed, turquoise rainbows danced in our hugs.
I suppose knowledge is power
being taught by cello strumming phantoms
that lurk in half open doorways
smelling of old spice and suave
like the babble that spewed from your lips,
enveloping these words that are
nothing more than material goodness
so that I can say "I love you,"
because baby,
you’ve got the best damn forearms
I’ve ever seen.

THE List


"This is a difference between the passive be and the active being."
"My mind, I know, I can prove, hovers on hummingbird wings."
"The poet of bran bread and muffins."
"In this valentine of a world."

Friday, September 28, 2007

I’m Huffing You and You’re Huffing Me

(Content inspired after Kasey's comment)

I said sweet thing, “I love you quite a lot.”
Like a unicorn dancing on the stars-
Captain Cook’s voyage from earth up to mars.
Your sweet love is oh so very hot.
Living in low-income is more than fine
because I am your’s and you are all mine.

When Boston baked beans are all that we’ve got-
our sex will be intense like racing cars,
selling baked goods at holiday bazaars,
needing nothing and nothing is bought.
Not even booze, I’ll drink you down like wine
and snort you up like an fatty coke line.

Our love is colorful like running snot.
We are a virus far better than SARS.
Fixed features like haggard old men in bars,
bitter old cynicism we have fought
to win the ticking of Cinderella time
and make love next to a Taliban mime.