Crazy dreams, obsessive thoughts:
Your praise is not enough. Experiments
in microeconomics, a value learned
too late, the evil wizard named Fantastic0!
looks you in the eye and says: Problem
solved. But who said I was talking? Too bad
that subtle green dropzone supernatural
touch of cold ozone limbo between life
going nowhere can be called out by celebrities
—or not—I can never remember. Dildo
wheels, defenderbrains, the thing I miss
the most, Oh, patron saint of lost causes,
my Plan D, promoted, darkpath excellente,
that thing on top of a smokestack. Now
I lay me down to sleeping pills.
The man in the front yard marking X’s,
and we, afraid to let him out. Run faster,
parasite, my childhood betrothed! At this,
I will also fail, the impermanence of mans
folly, my free horizontal gene transfer.
I came here to Tweet about
death, and my dream
home is an eighteen-wheeler.
My name is Boatswain, a dog,
all those who've given up on God,
old girlfriends, twelve years
and some few pounds later, aging
condoms and the cobwebs beneath
my tires. It's just me, outlasting.
I see myself in hapless
immigrants and your withering
reactions to their catcalls.
Besides, it's not really lazy if
you prefer chaos, and even
the imbeciles have a right to eat
in public.
]]>Let’s put it this way: Oasis
Church of All Nations, man
on a bug collection, pick six66
pack problem solver, kudzu
client permanente… so young
and Xtraordinary bitchiness.
Oh, Christian world, oh dumping
place for old dishwashers, what
was once the greatest threat,
this institution or leftovers, your
confidence on girls, I do it
alone, or marriage gone bad
and other vine-like organisms?
Oh, undisputed master of the run-on
sentence and checking Facebook
every five or ten minutes, is it better
to be smart or get good grades? I am
floaty fuzzy cute & creepy crawly...
going nowhere.
You're an old mobile home &
above-ground swimming pool,
a Jeep with large tires, a wooden
deck and outdoor toys strewn about
the yard, a grill & two dogs tied up.
I have a million years of unpaid rent
to reckon with, and I’m not telling.
Bus loads of children I used to know.
Every morning with nothing to do.
I read the worldwide internet and
put my head in my hands, with Jesus Christ
on the side of my pink eraser. I am
floaty fuzzy cute & creepy crawly...
going nowhere.
Gimme a face transplant, punked out
fucking beautiful, the peace of the wild because
my whole life has been training for this
mosh pit. Make me your launchpad of
destiny and kick my head on the way
in, your stage dive of faith in the afterlife.
Bumble bee in the desert, flow on sharp things,
a donkey stuck in the mud where it died.
These three feet chasms left over from
exceptional weather: all seats taken.
I am the last robot left on Earth, a half
formed plan. There's no one around to celebrate
my accomplishments, so I get my rub on
strangers, without words. It's physical
brain trauma and the unbearable pain of
every sneeze.
Unable to commit to dreamsleep
or its alternative, I am separated
from my transportation, a broken
fanblade hanging loose. Unable
to submit to mediation or operations
research, waking up lost in a world
of meet-and-greets populated by
crowds of well-dressed soulsuckers.
Unable to convince herself that anti-
intellectualism can possibly exist,
inner beauty cursed by looks.
The air is thick with the violence
of wild animals held in capitivity,
for who can explain what happens
in high school or contemplate when
true adulthood began, 1000 vanquished
girlfriends later?
Unnecessary technology for children
and worried mothers, my bicycle with
no pedals: A whole nother world of
clever substitutions, humorous omissions,
and superabsorbant towels awaits.
If he bad, you shut up talkin' to me. A
small voice with the sniffles: Now you
know what it feels like when you put
me on speakerphone. You f'in t'leave?
No, but heroes, beware: I have
the halitosis to knock you silly.
There is nothing, impossible,
in this world, to see it
for what it really is, without
the Sunday night desperados
grabbing their Red Bulls and
malt liquors down at the DoubleQuick.
Inside my secret kingdom
of open dumpsters, a rusty beer
sign & cigarettes, billboards for God,
the deer stands in every field, I
only want, what every change
requires, that which cannot be:
Conviction. I only trust my tortured
collage artist sense of stories
aborted in every way and cooking
cans of soup at home, alone. I can
offer you this, my love, my precious
imperfection, my DNA in earnest, in
every disguise, myself, renamed, and
what little I believe in. My shins are
bruised from doing this kind of walking.
"Take care," it says, as if to paste a thin veneer of concern on a tacky piece of cardboard. Take care, what? Take care of my personal hygiene? Take care to tie my shoelaces in a double knot? Take the trash out regularly and take care to wash my hands afterwords? Take care of other people's children? Take care to re-engineer this racially segregated society, one teenager at a time? I already do all of these things and more, and look where it got me. Take care?!? This is what our friendship amounts to now?
No, I will not take care. I will search for elusive highs in obscene amounts, even on school nights. I will drive fast and far, even when drowsy. I will throw away keepsakes and answer in anger. I will tear myself apart. See if I care.
]]>I never swore blasphemy, T-shirts, or canker sores, but she could play
corner kicks and some killer violins. Your hair is like gold lit on fire, my
religion, every week and every summer, my only audience, my Swagger
from Old Spice, was all for her. Those were my picture-perfect picnics,
the Trojan Horse implants answered faithfully for years. She was a straight
A student, but now the technology is so small and light in my hands,
the operation that works, submersion, is somewhere in Dominican,
swinging at stones. This waitress in my reading material proves my inability
to respond, and my skin balloons toward mushroom clouds, but with fourth
degree derivatives spiking off the charts, Are you as happy as I am?
How many kids to you have? And why is my body not my own?
I am world wrecker, tummy
rubber extraordinaire, something
spilled on you you wish it at
least smells good. The young make
no compromise, which is the one
selfish act required, a peep show
for bloggers. Here is where the dead
horse lilies grow, this statue a
unicorn with our sign taped on it:
I am all of honesty, embarrassing,
and Mr. Cruelty, the secret ways
that watertowers are repainted,
& whatsoever you procrastinate,
Do it in style, is what it said.