Colt's Neck, NJ, 1989

When you inhaled
The third world dis-
Appeared and you

Dropped the roach
Onto the iced pond.

Hungry ghosts howled
And skirted the birch-
Edged perimeter.

Back inside we
Shot billiards to the
Sabbath soundtrack.

Modular

She emerged,
Squinting,
From the devil’s
Framework,
Panic in a hip
Flask, her share
Of the heating
Bill fleeced, three
Shivers short.

Empire Building

Her client, the imperialist, woke jealous
Of his neighbor’s wind chimes. He found
Her business card used as a bookmark in
“A History of Land Mines.” He lived next

To a Latino family who sold warm Budwieser
To crack heads and college kids after hours.
She urged her client to research the climate
And name his moods like the weather bureau

Names tropical storms. She said imperialism
Grows where crops fail and then works its
Way to the equator. He said he was pleased
because quinine was such an excellent flavor

Agent. She’s taken to wearing a pith helmet
To their bi-weekly sessions. Yesterday it was
Their bird bath, he said. She smiled and rubbed
A lime on the edge of their highball glasses.

Forensics

Our ears trying to discern if the
The sound outside is of rain or train,
But at this point does it matter?

We’re sipping coffee in a modern
City, once medieval, wishing the
Walls would never let us out,

Wishing the coffee was cognac.

We’re wanting to remake “Murder
She Wrote” with explicit violence,
And gratuitous reference to semen,

But nothing “gives us pause” any-
More, and no one steals us flowers
Anymore, and who would swim

That river full of ancient sturgeon?

Fallen Poem

I entered toothsome into the
Yard, gave nod to the adherents
Of the cover crop, gathered in
A mossy cabal by the legion of

Scarecrows, and heard her exclaim,
“Everyone’s a fucking enthusiast!”
“More like shucking enthusiasts,” I
Thought, “how corny they are, tilling

Away on their organ farm.” Field’s
Edge gave sway to clusters of
Oak and “Beyond that we’re on
Our own,” was writ into the manual

Of operations. Kidney and liver
Pie, “a seasonal delight,” dominated
The menu with an oversized font,
But I was content to sip sangria,

Ogle the hostess, and configure
An exit strategy involving the
Least amount of skin damage. I
Saw a mouser wipe a teardrop with

It’s paw and then give lick with swift
Forgetting. But sorrow here is subject to
The law of leaves, too soaked-into their
clumped-up mounds to ever blow away.

Still Life (After Death)

Scattered amid the
Actual wreckage were
Thumbnail sketches of
Inclement intentions,

Skull-sized bilge-pumps
Leaking amniotic fluid,
Eight pounds of lunchmeat,
Mini-cassette recordings

Of axe-handled threats,
Photographs of nail-bitten
Hands with peeling polish,
Probably pre-teen, whiskey

Tumblers full of potting
Soil, and page after page
Of stenographic paper
Smeared with muted lore.

Ransom

A handful of
Withered nose-

Gays and the
Ransom’s been

Paid. Now peel
Me off the page

Of your -1 and
A ½ act play.

Dawn

I.
Splayed on memory
Foam, ghost-birthing
Our antecedents, In
A trumped up polaroid.
II.
Prayed for diagnoses
In a kayak, circling
Terminal Island, near
Advantageous sunrise.

Pounds

Ezra fucks weight
W/
Quid cake beats.

Well 1

Lesson stains on the
Bliss-treated rooftops
Make for a dire lease. I
Dropped into your dream
Last night but left a scat
Pile beneath the
Bougainvillea and fear
They’re on my tail.
They with the loosened
Tetrahedrons dangling
From their belts.

Recognitions I

Brushing moonlight
From your sleeve,
The fog sculptress
Can see stars from
The bottom of the
Well. When we
Know you, we’ll
know if it was a
tragedy. Feel The
weight of the wind-
Chimes, no clocks
To mark the passage
Of someone’s shame.

Interstellar Space

 Drink a bucket
  Of coffee then
 Put this on the
  Hi-fi. Try to sit

 Still for awhile.
  Allow yourself
 To fail. Then
  Flail baby, flail.

Van GoghWindow Shade

How could you
Cut off the top
Of this painting?
He asked. But
It’s just a little
Piece of the sky,
She replied.

Shortages

Dipped ego in abreaction and
Splattered on that brazen web

Spun across the threshold. Did
She, the spider, not notice my

Traffic patterns, or has the
Shortage of flies prompted

Her to troll for more ambitious
Prey? Either way I feel strained

Through a seive and peppered
About the elemental planes.

Daughters of The Insincere.

Oh and he found his death.
Oh, and when he found his
Death it was to be by the
Hands of, by the hands of
the Daughters of, of
The Insincere. I saw
You, saw you change,
change your intinerary,
Extend your transit time,
To avoid those certain
Bus routes. I cannot, I
Cannot shoehorn rubies,
Shoehorn rubies by the
Mouthful past your smile.
And those Daughters of,
Daughters of the Insincere
Show no signs of knowing
A thing, a thing such as
The custom of social,
Social reciprocity, tho I
Envy, I really envy their
Pragmatic approcach to
The death of the elderly.

Owl

A macrame owl,
And all it portends,
Hangs in the basement.

Mission I

Enter the cathedral.
Grow horns. Stampede
Like a riot cop
Past the force-field
Of wilted palm fronds
Until you reconoiter
The portal beyond the
Velvet ropes. You are
A scout, now wading
Through the gravy
Of the lower planes.
Spying the salvage,
Adrift in the distance
You make buoyant your
Carriage and float past
The saints, long dead,
Though still lipping their
Greetings incoherently.

Speculative Beachcombing

Spent the day piling drift wood.
Shaping it into a shelter.
Knowing it couldn’t do shit against a real storm.
Watching the skies for a real storm.
Dragging the vinyl cushions stolen from those assholes' patio.
Worrying about the rubbers.
Buying the rubbers and two bottles of DM cough syrup.
Waiting outside the liquor store.
Giving money to the bum.
Drinking four beers in forty five minutes, half a DM.
Carving the sign into a plywood plank.
“Welcome Back Brandy.”
Wondering where the fuck she is.

Inherent

Deprived of another child

Bride, and universally regarded

As remarkably functionless, due

To permanent state of empathy,

He impregnated the Venus of

Willendorf. Now, dipped in

The sour milk-bath of millennia,

We can argue the angles once

Shrouded by ancestoral detractors.

But we won’t, will we?

Lewis and Clark

An ambition tweaked and flicked
Like an earlobe, like the weather.

He destested the apples.

Though warm enough, the rain was
A threat, they ate their mounts.

His sea-spanked bottom.

Queen Of The Pancakes

To withstand
The unnearving verbiage
Of a
Kettle whistling itself dry
She climbed
Above the selection commitee
And
Mounted herself
Upon the
Wood-
Paneled wall,
All the while
Undulating greasily.

Death Valley '09

And the conversation,
Once again, drifted
To Bobby Beausoleil.

A restrictive lip-ring
On a lisping hipster
Glints as she whispers
Mischievous hints.

Ripped Map

Now ponder the cartographer
And all of the fauna who
Interpret the lancing
Of the clumsy troubadour
As a prop for the minstrals,
As a legal challenge.

Isn’t this the territory,
Excised from the parchment,
That lines the steamer trunk
In perpetual hock?

Cleaning Batshit From A Villainous Nest

No fist, no framework, her
Lipstick inappropriate, her
Vestments: spider-silk.
“Nature’s kevlar,”

I whispered

To the boom operator.
She was lit from below and
The poachers wrung their
Mitts, and the spume now

Did spill, uncanny and
Damned, over the sides of
The vile aquariums. The
Alternative weeklies have

Taken to abusing such
Phrases as “Bat Shit Crazy”
Though The Judge knows
That guano can cauterize

a mountainside.

D.I.Y.

She applied bacon

Grease to her pressure

Points, lay naked in

The muddy pond, and

Waited for the crawdads.

Ponder The Architect

You shouldn’t shiver when you
Ponder the architect, however,

You should think of the trees,
On either side of the boulevard,
That touch above the cars.

His missives, his mistresses.

Sprung Poem

And this I
know you
sketch the
shrubs I
piss I drink
a sip you
sketch the
fence I climb
I balance I do
not want to I
do not want
to trip.
(I fashion a
lasso from
Claudia
Cardinale’s
eye lashes
while humming
an unwritten
funeral mass)
I leap a spell
you sketch
my cast I break
the lock you
sketch the lid
you sketch the
hasp the chest
is full I tumble
back our fortune’s
made our fortune’s
made.

Breakfast Poem

Every    slick increment of
Time,    the begrudging encumberances of morning -
You        with the concrete sinus
Start      by fidgeting and forcing the smile,
An          antidote to the misson statements-
Ash         pallor pale wan until the
Tray       arrives and we hydrate, the
Fire        of the dreams now dulling,
In           short bursts of breath we arrive, as
The        facimile of lives, day pigeons in the
Diner,    “rats with wings” the quip
I             quote, tho I
Have     no theories re: it’s attribution, so
A            tour bus winces past the window, and you feign
Panic,    as she wipes the Specials Board clean, then
Attack   your omlette with gusto.

Dream Battery

Not Eveready but percussion,

I dream bash nuns and

Greasy interlopers and I’ve seen

Enough moving pictures to know

To never let up until their

Heads stain the pavement.

Merge. Flatten the image like

Photoshop layers. While my

Strikes are invariably preemptive,

Be it by bat or block of cinder, I

Never do rest easy knowing

Justice has been served.

Mausoleum

I’d almost always apologize
When they asked
How or what.

It is no coicindence, we whispered
Until I felt the piss trickle down my
Pajama leg.

No one we know is in a mausoleum,
No one can hold on to the chalk, but
We were lucky to clap the erasers.

Mentioning

In the second                                       speech
Translation -there                              lives
in eroded Palmer

Method, in a                                        crispy
page-pile, a
hoarde-stack-

(He was dragon
-greedy for her
words, I suppose)

She mentions the
mumbling yegg.

Fealty

Little girl, barking
Manifestos, your
Father swallowed
Cities. Your fealty,
However cluttered,
To this miserable
Osmosis, is no act
Of mercy. Now he
Vomits from the
Aftertaste- metal,
Concrete, and skin.
But let’s not kid
Ourselves, for we
Are paid to remain
uncalcified and un-
Solvent.

An Uneasy Proximity

Eastward, over the mountains
A spell, and below the soil,
Let me tell you. Three feet
Beneath, and the acreage, oh-

It makes me tremble. A mush-
Room, my friend, the world’s
Largest organism. Now, on
A seperate threaded thought,

Yesterday I coughed, while
Listening to a recording four
Decades old, and as soon as
I coughed, someone in the

Background of the recording,
(A field recording, dig, in a
Cafe, or something) coughed.
Now I’m not talking about a

Super-organism, an ant colony
Or something. So I rewound the
Tape to make sure this person
In the background didn’t cough

First, leading me on, as such,
Causation, like in a library,
Or movie theatre, cough as
Contagion. 16,000 football

Fields needed to contain this
Subteranean Fungi, just over
The Cascades. No fear of this
Giant organism is irrational.

What, Honey?

Wendy, when you read to
Me, when you really fucking
Read to me, all I can hear
Is the goddamn buzzing of

Government-sponsored bee-
Keepers, they’re everywhere
Wendy. Without bees our
Food is gone, is what they’re

Saying at the co-op, except for
Those meat tubes that just
Eat and eliminate, I’ve seen
Drawings, Wendy, a mouth

And an anus, and a bunch
Of muscle-fiber we can chow
On, and ethics aside it’s a little
Nasty. Now, I would have never

Guessed my ghosts would want
To join us in your quonset hut,
But every night I can hear Henry
Miller pissing in a whore’s bidet.

A Poem For Patricia Highsmith

His
Biography
Was
Published
A
Fortnight
Before
He
Had
Seen
Patricia’s
Breasts
Bared
In
A
Photograph,
So
The
Events
That
Transpired
Thereafter
Required
A
Novella-
Length
Epilogue
Be
Tacked
On
To
The
Later
Editions.

I Blame The Antihistamines

Dawn has nested
Upon our calamari
Scribbles. We are
Catching on, and on

To the drone-kissed
Cliffs we sail.
Sirens dislodge them-
Selves from monoliths,

Swim beside us, tongue-
Tied to our anchors.
Beatrice, release the
Alchemists from your

Lover’s inferno, for
Little clock remains,
And we’re poor match
For a beastly scrum.

Always Parsimonious

Always parsimonious,

I watched you get an

Idea, then snatch

The lightbulb,

To screw into a rusty projector.

You decorate the wall,

Of the room in which

We’ve never set foot,

With a moldy slide-show.

Cape Disappointment

Moored to this

Bird-shit rock,

In this sea-sick fog,

I can’t see the stars,

So as the seals bark-

I reach for my gin-jar.

No Winter's Captive

Somewhere in
That drawer lies a
Logic as formidable as a lock-
Pick. Take
That chap with the
Yankee tarnish,
Who else could have escaped
That pen
With no
More than a few
Barbed-wired abrasions?

(That wallet once gifted
With a card inside asking me
To forgive the scars and
Irregularities of the bovine
Skin, for they occurred
Naturally, when the cows
Rub against
That razor wire.)

That mound of leaves irritates
My view, now hidden is the
Belly of

That malingering gamine.

She tickles the wrist-ropes,
Weakening shadows, elongated

By impatient flickers and flare-ups,
That fire hazard lifestyle making
Me itch.