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Saturday, March 5, 2011


I was a bourgeois dude
hacking as a starving art collector,
the other way around
or something.
It would behoove me to be less weird:
less "sexually flame retardant"
less of a "cave man swatting at shadows"
less warped into normalcy
like a crushed plastic bottle
bent back to form
with milk-white cracks
where it proved resilient.

But everyone's got a deep-sea deception 
waiting to manifest,

one-upping one another's torture fantasies,

trapped in the neverending rectangles of colliding dioramas,
red-carpet walks through infamy's underpantsless volcanectomy,


aquablue wolverines crawling out of the sky and Brahms in the air baby, please.

The speech is free, the meaning is pricey.

As our fear-filled future leaders
sling dicks and scrap it out
in chortle-heavy DC air,
Filet-o-Excess with Carbon Classic
and the balls of war make me
a better friend of pleasure,
ambition’s enemy.

Some unbeing ozone afternoons,
I throw the sourness away—find my way
of washing the silver
off of the miracle,
silencing flags,
colors loud
as the dictator’s bullhorn,

staking claim to invented trinities, infinities,
proud to be fodder for the legalese,
for eviscerated mysteries
unfolding like Times Square--
for policies you've never known,
crawling toward an

goes calmly
if you don't watch it unfold.

When my loves are invisible
I keep my eyes closed.

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