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  the lines on your legs stretch

  marks already, at such a young age?

  Insane already, the beer empty,

  the life half there, Amber,

  fill the rest.

  Fill the rest,

  crack the nut in you, Amber, crack her hard,

  glue in the extra eyelashes,

  admit to label prostitution,

  GO ON!

  Eat the meat, make it right.

  In the coliseum slant

  bodies, dressed for rich fog,

  emeralds and rubies

  (wear the meat, Amber),

  as the seats puke forward, tumble down,

  gowns and genitals, oh my gracious,

  the glorious rust-belt of fame decapitated,

  rusty pig urine running fearful from their torn holes

  (smell the pigs, Amber),

  death on the stage

  as the coliseum eats itself from the outside in:

  stage wins.

  BANANA

  Actress?

  Yes, I am.

  How did it happen?

  Personally. Anyway

  I’m always

  a different person,

  an accident

  to them.

  Could you say

  you know me?

  No, it’s not my face

  that pitches swift

  serene kisses’

  obliqueness

  to mustaches of your likeness.

  Script-typing

  on the edge of fast,

  my life

  a stripe of reality

  to be typecast.

  DIG

  Who pissed in the stream?

  What’s left to flow through conscience but caution.

  A weary eye strains focus for substance snacks

  and I’m giving meal penalties against the limelight.

  Industry trashcans line my city limits

  and plague my valleys with stench.

  Seduction’s a progression without the progressives.

  Hollywood’s got a face.

  Trophy wives with stitched-up sideburns

  look like 3rd degree burn victims.

  There’s a name and a body for every lie

  walking without reason through my life: fire shadows.

  I do not call this home.

  She wants to eat but my plates are empty.

  She says we’ll all share the same grave.

  I say why don’t you

  let me dig my own, ma?

  1 & 2

  1

  Cross-country hearts on a CD-R,

  there where a pen skipped a beat.

  He forgot to color in a meaning.

  For a man of one liners

  he sure does a good line dance.

  If, in fact, these are the seven shades of sage

  on the color wheel of grays

  then what a wheel of fortune to submit to!

  It’s a belligerent process to know him,

  a card-shark swimmer playing streaks of blue-hair

  water.

  Shades fade but

  he’ll never pale

  and she’ll never compare.

  2

  She wears lobster pajamas and writes with butane pens

  as she spits out sparks helplessly.

  Depression mentions cold feet

  getting strokes of heat waves.

  Her weathered eyes are cluster-fucks of confusing road maps.

  She’s got a rabid hunger to be eaten

  and there are many forks in the road,

  nerves like dead ends,

  curves that don’t bend,

  size 29 jeans for an ass that is barked for

  on legs like redwoods,

  her lumber is limber,

  cameras flash and scream her name like “Timber!”

  She collides with their kaleidoscopes,

  they’re just barking up the wrong tree stump.

  It’s a sketchy universe for shooting stars

  refueling

  rewriting

  remiss.

  NUMBERS

  (Butcher 1)

  Let go of that number,

  that plasma will never have your eyes.

  There’ll be no golden hair or golden years.

  That perfect consumptive repulsion

  the decision demon taunts.

  Hold on to your wet hair coarse with screams and puke

  as you sit seared against the cold bed.

  In the hospital courtroom, you push it out in front of

  the grand jury surgeons all secretly hating you, maybe.

  It takes away your seed, it does not take away the soil.

  That number, that age, it cannot be saved,

  hold on to a fraction of this image, if you dare,

  if you can.

  (Butcher 2)

  Demon goes in deep with cullet for your gullet

  as your puss-eye stands stern and frightened.

  They take away your rights,

  they do not take away your seed.

  A voice will not be heard.

  The number, the law of

  butcher externally demanding entrance

  to internally slaughter wombs of womankind.

  Forcefully silencing my bladder’s laughter,

  soldering its hangnail to my lining,

  slamming her against the bed frame in tasteless violence

  (fucking but no cutting in this particular “rule”).

  SLAY my entrance way, make it beg for saturation!

  MURDER mother’s dying roped neck contagious with questionable fingerprints!

  MASSACRE temples built on private land

  not standing erect enough for your “city standards”!

  Let go of all numbers!

  SLAUGHTER my eyes, makeshift them weeds to crush

  beneath God’s brow, as I might beg for benediction!

  EXECUTE cute and cuddly,

  forced ejection results in physically miasmic uglies!

  DESTROY the woeful wolf, keep the number fractal!

  EXTERMINATE my crowning with a clawed quill pen’s

  punctuating and puncturing!

  DESTROY Roe the wage-ist, collect her dues and

  sew that slit up until the 9th!

  KILL the voices haunting 16 coats 15 coat hangers!

  BUTCHER the buss of blessing femininity

  in sequence!

  In fact, slaughter that number!

  Be that hunter!

  The murder that was NOT a federal case of morality, a woman’s spirit!

  You think to yourself: maybe

  God is a realist with no Christian friends.

  SINK HER

  I love the smell of your morning breath hovering over

  my face in a dolled-up dawn chill,

  against a light-blue haze that drags the daylight kicking

  and screaming in.

  My velvet-covered raspberry heart

  grows hooks to snag the meaning of intertwining

  when words mean nothing but breathing.

  I whisper to your butterflies down there:

  Did you say something?

  Would you say the words

  that might prevent

  the soft spot in my mouth from getting old?

  I watch your fingernails grow, dirt and all,

  never question where the time has gone because,

  I pray secretly, it goes into small footsteps the likes of us.

  It’s a first strike for my love letters.

  It’s a home run for your unopened mail.

  This is the pond I built,

  this the stream I wallow in

  memories so hot they burn down fires.

  I want to force you

  to force me

  to do something against my will,

  measure you like a measurement of hell;

  from my ankles you grapple

  to the space between my hi
pbones

  Dizzy like Rascal from your spin zones.

  I’m the hard evidence that

  your indifference shreds.

  Battery acid turns to crème.

  Love unveils an 80-year dream

  which is really

  just a plan without an instinct.

  You got me doing the doggy paddle, upstream,

  hook,

  line,

  sink her.

  PAPER TIGER

  I should stop dreaming.

  If God has a head,

  Earth’s the bad tooth to get pulled.

  He should pull it,

  count his losses,

  and smile.

  Easy is the defamation of the grandest mother.

  Her tranquility goes under with blood-drenched rocks

  like blisters, pox o’ man’s apocalypse.

  She sweats to detoxify us,

  she’s pushing with wood-worn arms,

  slivering the tips,

  reaching, throwing those

  silver hooks out of her water basins.

  She’s blowing with mighty lip, nuclear acid-baths

  trapped in cloud bubbles, out of a charged atmosphere

  that just might pop

  when the next cigarette is lit,

  when the next can is bent.

  She should stop denying

  fish running pregnant with Hg.

  The bad water breaks

  delivering bloody womb-tumors like babies.

  The President’s got promises of dead zones:

  Overflowing with raw sewage!

  Saturated with pesticides and human bone!

  He’s shooting up lobbyist green and

  shitting out greenhouse gasses!

  Omitting the CWA and CAA for the RNC and the NRA,

  muzzling and punishing scientists like pound-bound strays,

  grinning through brown, striped plaque all the way to the bank.

  He’s dining on my generation’s decaying flesh,

  making sweet meals out of our last natural resources,

  saying “cheers” to corporate capitalism,

  rubbing his swollen stomach of stench

  while the crust of my ancestors becomes stale in the crevices of his rot hole,

  using my future as a toothpick!

  No mercy for mercury!

  Mo history for human legacy!

  She is torn from river to liver,

  ripping road lights and track housing stapled to her tits,

  grids of land waste,

  cities stacked upon dead cities like moldy metal,

  a robot’s cum shot.

  Animals are being born to breathe factory poison

  feeding off their own guts and lungs.

  We eat that slaughter!

  We digest the masticated reincarnated

  and call it a “happy meal”.

  Smithfield Foods will feed you the unknown because,

  quite frankly,

  the cows will never come home.

  About those bubbles:

  The horizontal wheeze of the planet extends.

  The “Golden Triangle” still burns like

  the third eye of an acrid fortune.

  Yes, the preview is fluorescent at twilight,

  the devil’s spit permeates coal-soaked earth.

  The EPA is MIA,

  defenseless as laws are lifted.

  The sky grows dark and the heat grows nails

  tearing away the envelope

  that the world was so mysteriously handed to us in.

  This administration lets

  a piece of Houston die to this inferno.

  Chevron names an oil tanker after board member

  Condoleezza Rice.

  The irony cannot be dismissed.

  National Mercury Providers

  call to action those callouses of lies we’ve grown.

  Suppression of Dissent!

  Refuse to negotiate with corporate environmentalism!

  Raise fists of new clear proliferation against cronyism,

  blow by blow, voice by voice!

  Let Mother deliver rapid spankings to those white asses:

  The Gale Nortons

  Dick Cheneys

  Samuel Bodmans

  and Karl Roves!

  Let the disciples walk a million miles

  in death’s shoes!

  Let the hogs scuff over the last piece of bacon!

  Let the paper tigers weep over their pussy bills,

  screaming tarnation over their tar-filled nation’s landfills!

  The other side IS greener, my friends,

  the lawn is calling for some kind of picket,

  and it ain’t a fence, my friends, no,

  there’ll be no stopping of dreams!

  There’ll be no happy pill-fillers reading:

  “Avoidance, brought to you by the makers of denial!”

  Mother has seen the daughter sit,

  and watched the sun set,

  her family eroded,

  the human race in an awkward state

  apologizing for missing teeth.

  WHAT’S THE WORD

  Destiny calls,

  despair ruffles

  these wrists the

  only hands I know,

  drowning their mistakes

  in some damn cold

  (damn fine)

  water.

  Webster’s dictionary

  3 a.m.,

  phototropic me

  in limbo,

  his existence still wins

  satiating a begrudged fantasy.

  It’s no mare’s nest

  enveloped in a green,

  monotonously pulsing symphony:

  it’s your green eyes

  I do recall.

  Night’s marked

  cruel self-depictions,

  the western hemisphere imbedded with emeralds,

  an angry appetite

  to stop your luster,

  my green house crashing

  at your beckoning.

  Come, call me, baby,

  I wanna break it all.

  Love is crumbly anyway.

  I’ll crumble with you.

  Call me, baby,

  any-which-way,

  any damn fine way

  you please.

  At peace,

  that’s me,

  with hating myself

  over you.

  A word. Your number

  redialing. On hold.

  Limbo,

  damn fine limbo.

  NOCTURNE FOR CHOPIN

  Spectacular?

  Yes, it’s

  the gift,

  memory soft and sorrowful,

  that keeps on giving

  those keys you play.

  I see you’ve studied me,

  distant chamber,

  reaction of tears

  on these weary cheeks,

  years cried

  weeping music sheets,

  nights hazy with your finger train,

  a sleepy howl

  to the moon’s erogenous behavior.

  Your theories are clever,

  you played my teens

  in perfect pitch

  scaling my longings,

  I slept to your time callings

  hinting at all those memories

  before I lived them,

  blue adolescence,

  young fear growing

  painfully exciting and wondrous,

  night would call,

  I’d come,

  you played softly in the dark.

  Good God, kissing your mystery

  is a delicacy.

  Night would call

  and I’d run.

  SNEAKER

  Saturn’s in his eyes tonight.

  206 is not definable as he opens the hotel door for this perfect stranger

  and takes a backseat to her giggle.

  They play chess on
the bed, but there are no pawns.

  There’s strategy in the ceiling painting but no paint,

  the language is filled with spoonerisms

  reflecting 2 spoons yawning,

  his fingers guaranteeing switch-blade voodoo

  as he cuts cookies from her heart

  to save in his cookie jar.

  The bandit stole tickets to her sneak preview.

  She’s a foreign film without subtitles

  in a drowned-out basement

  with no seats and kisses in wide-screen.

  He basks in her turquoise and turns the air bashful when

  the bridge of his finger brushes her ear.

  His minor scale weighs a generous voice, a giving man.

  She doesn’t sugar-coat suggestion

  and suggests he sing more often.

  (what a life is made in 4 hours when talking’s tangible!)

  If she fell asleep,

  his rib cage would devour and swallow

  injections of her punctuation;

  her cup-holder hips keep his juices flowing and

  reject fantasy with true love and honesty.

  He will leave chessboard and all

  through the tunnels of their percussion.

  Strangers go marching one by one.

  What begets premonition has not begun,

  like leaving the table light on; a one night-stand.

  She watches his story become history

  and she’s just a fable.

  Conception smiles.

  The affect bares teeth and laughs.

  Affection doesn’t sneak,

  it strides.

  THE STATE

  The state of the weight of music:

  the lid don’t fit over boys

  threatenin’ to balance out faces crooked

  now, does it?

  That promise-ring stalls

  an actual engagement of the mind,

  promised soldiers fire guns from mouths.

  Those guns are tired now,

  bought ammunition,

  enslaved and engaged

  to the competitive market

  of social shock-and-awe buffers.

  The numbered decree given proof

  sets sail the last American ships,

  a convoy of depleted rhyme-sayers,

  poets despondent.

  Letter pens tucked, techs drawn,

  gunpowder showers from their nostrils,

  the tick tick of sirens coming to life,

  all this fighting for the proper burial of a servant,

  a despondent poet.

  Last rapper’s got a bad rap

  as hip-hop’s suicide is forgotten.