Saturday, March 29, 2008

Ode to the Energy Drink

I love the taste of riboflavin
in the morning. It tastes like
certified color. It smells like
natural flavors.
The B-vitamins are dancing
and the carbonated potassium
Makes me feel nice.
I love the feel of bourgeois
water. I get off on it's
bottle design. Better than
the top that holds back a gushing
orgasm that is riboflavin. It feels like
bursting sodium.
It tastes like love.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Propriety over Savagery

Takes too much ritual to eat
Cut, fork, spread
It's finally gotten down to and I'm
Wasted years to prepare what's human
Washed up, dressed up, buttered up:
All for the tit I was supposed to enjoy.

Thoughts on Fresh Breath

A man that prides himself on getting buzzed off mouthwash shots in the morning seems interesting. If by his sixth shot, he screws on the child-proof lid and finds that it is good, it seems like I should get to know him.

A man who drinks his fill of Listerine, prevents gingivitis, and operates heavy machinery soon after. . . seems like the kind of man I'd like to talk to.

A man who makes frequent trips to Wal-Mart, walks briskly to the Health and Beauty area, stands in the express line, comes home to put five bottles in the garage, one bottle in the medicine cabinet, so not to alarm the family. . . seems like a man I need to see about.

Monday, March 24, 2008

You heard me?

Yo, does it bother anyone else that
Sean Combs can't close his fuckin' mouth?

It might be redundant to say that it
bothers me
Wait! said my sister. My bra's jacked up!
That didn't warrant an exclamation point
But there was definite ejaculation. You heard me?

Yea! Lil mama, i hurd ya. You don't
need to holla, i got you right here.
That crazy ho's lip gloss be poppin'
That crazy mo'fo's moves be lockin'
You heard me?

Yea, man i hurd ya.
Why can't Diddy close his fuckin' mouth?

where do i Stop where do i Begin

There were fat flakes falling outside
that made me think about you.
I remember how they sat on your
crown and defied melting.
You brought them to me and shook
them at my feet
You told me about the beautiful day
and moment that I missed and I was doubtful.
But now that I see these fat flakes falling,
I realize, with certainty,
That the day was beautiful and the moment
was right, only because I spent it with you.
Wet hair, wet glasses, waiting on me to say:
Do you wanna get out of here?

911: What is the Nature of your emergency?

"I claim this mole in the name of Charish."
This is the kind of stuff he allowed her
to say.
She said it because she thought of it
All on her own.
It was a time when he should have told her:
"Please silence yourself."

If someone, some Joe or Jane Blow, off the street,
Told her that in five weeks she'd be sleeping
alone on a blanket of stars. . .
She would have laughed. Not in their face.
No, because she's a lot more composed
Than That.
That was a time when the sky was not empty.
"Ha, ha, ha," she would have chuckled. (alone, of course)

"You have a sneaky tongue."
He smiled and allowed her to spout nonsense.
She said it because there was nothing better
to say at that moment.
It was a time when she left her pride in
the hallway and lied down in a bed of honesty.
She was thankful that it was a time when he
silently agreed and gave her what she wanted
the most.

My bus driver got the Safe Driving Award in 2006.

What the hell happened in 2007? He no doubt tried to parallel park under the influence. He hit a small Pomerania or some other hard to spell or hard to manage canine. He didn’t know what to do with the carcass. This is not surprising. This man was clearly not trained for covering up crimes. It was a wild year, that 2007. He no doubt damaged of dented or dinged a small child’s wheelchair. He apologized and made nice, but the strain was already caused. Do you know how much those motorized scooters cost? It’s 2008 now, good things are bound to happen. 2007 was just a wild year.

Under the Covers

The man in the cover is holding his woman in his arms and looking at me. Does she know that? I know about building rapport and then I know about making eyes. I also know the difference. Too bad she don’t. He’s the baby’s daddy and totally willing to move her to his ranch/palace/penthouse. He needs a bride too. Don’t we all? But she’s stupid if she thinks the towels in every bathroom have a common theme. I read forty pages in—— long after the sexual tension and I know all about his plans. This cowboy/sheik/business tycoon is just full of shit. I’m going to pick the cover with the Law man. He’s looking directly at his new-to-town-lonely-outcast-running-from-her-crazy-ex-husband-girl.

Flaming Hots: There’s one sitting directly under the bus stop bench.

He had no idea that it was there, looking so lonely and dejected. He looks around before he smashes it with his toe. A cigarette butt was hanging out with magenta lip stain. Could he trademark this set of snacks without agency? Agency? We don’t need no stinkin’ agency. I need some agency. I’m sure you could use some too.

Thoughts on Pork Steaks

There’s a cat in the broom closet and
I’ve got no pork steaks. No greenery,
no catnips, no scratch, scratch, snatch.
You didn’t buy me no barley leaves. Not
leaves. I thought we was brothers. I’ve
got no station, no sickles, no soc-soc-
greasers! Socialist ties.
We make excellent Quesadillas w/o Jalapenos,
of course. But I feel I’m missing out on the
Tomatillas, my rancheros, many saddles, a
pair of spurs, and the Romanticized West.
The cat in the broom closet is going
to starve. Poor Tom’s got no snatch,
snatch, to scratch scratch.

Family Story Hour

Tuesday night at the library, pronounced
affectionately “liberry” by the chilluns
is a massacre, pronounced “misogynist”
by the female breed.

A small child threw a foot stool twice her size.
Although it would hardly be a foot stool, would it?
“Mackenzie! Apologize now!”

In the “liberry,” as the chilluns would say,
the massacre is most likely nine thighs
deep and about twelve necks wide.
That’s a conservative figure. Fuck you! You’re
a conservative figure. Shhh. This is a “liberry."

Mackenzie, the child’s name, pronounced
with a “K” and a “Z,” would have
none of it. Apologize?
Go to hell, Mom!
She didn’t say that, I said it for her.
The small dog child let me look her in
the eye.
Mackenzie with a “M,” a “K,” and a “Z”:
Threw a fuckin’ chair!

Dottie Parker said something about: “Good
job giving birth, I knew you had it in you.”

But on a Tuesday night at the library,
Pronounced “liberry” by the unruly
who throw slightly larger furniture pieces,
Who stare down “liberrians.” Oooh, you so
steely! Here’s to you.

All Roads Wind: Here

When it came down to it, she didn’t
want to go home. It was the
winding road she took
when she wanted to get a
way from it all. But she just
Wasn’t ready to leave. At least she got
what she came for. She didn’t
waste it all like she had previously thought. But
when it came down to it, she didn’t
wish anyone harm, nor ill-
will. All her tears were a
wash, her brain got frazzled
with things that could never be
with things that were brushed aside.
Where was home, if one didn’t
want to be there?
When it came right down to it, she didn’t
want to go there. So she took the
winding road to get a
way from it all.

Marijuana Butter/Kix: Breakfast of Worthless Fucks

This morning you came by.
we slathered marijuana butter on rye toast.
It was burnt and laced.
You said there was always room for creativity.
There is room for us.

I poured a bowl of Kix. There were some sweet ones, some hard ones, and some mediocre ones. I was six eating Kix. I was inflicted with pox from chickens at the age of six. Over a cold bowl of Kix. I poured it myself. I ate three sweet ones.

Friday, March 21, 2008


I heard this song called "Speedballin'" and listening to it made me feel like I was out of control it was pretty intense like a million sounds being played all at once a bad trip that i wanted to come down from when you think your feet have touched the ground the wild beat and dissonant sounds pick you up and throw you around some more the landing is rough judges would give it a 4.5

Enjambment- line ends, but begins on another line.

take that.

Uptown N.

The bonsai shop uptown is a massage parlor. I'm certain of it. There are happy endings for men who want more than fancy tree trimming. I'm sure of it. We're living in a time where we're hiding interesting things in places claiming mediocrity. How clever is the madam who peddles modern day geishas. I know nothing about bonsai trees. I'm certain of it.


I accidentally ordered a cappucino
not believing/thinking this was a real
coffee house.
four packets
of sweetner

I'm drinking with my face next
to a plastic spoon. Because
I didn't
get any

"Dedication for a Plot of Ground," William Carlos Williams

" . . . If you can bring nothing to this place
but your carcass, keep out."
"Well, is it pain or pressure you feel?"
asked my dentist/priest/ professor.
With tears in my eyes and numbness
in my body, I answered, "Both."
*Sigh* went my dentist/priest/professor.
"I can't give you anything else."
"I can't take any more."

Good Friday

I had fish on Thursday.
I didn't pray.
It was sea bass with lemon butter sauce.
Hardly the fish of Jesus.
I ate secular fish on Thursday.
Good Friday.

She Knows Why

He sleeps like a wounded soldier.
He jumps and twitches beneath her
arms. As if something or someone will
come for him.
He wakes every so often to tongue her
lips but unconsciousness has a ruthless
hold on him.
He tosses and tosses more but he can't
find himself or her in the labyrinth
of blackness that claims him.
She strokes his warm skin with expectation
knowing there will be no reponse
but the frightful jumps.
She smooths his furrowed brow
and kisses his lips.
He jumps and twitches beneath her arms.

Hand Grenade

function: noun
etymology: middle french

: small missile that contains an explosive or chemical agent and that is thrown by hand or projected.

[2, abj] ruinous and tumultuous. [3, v] drags those who wish to be left behind with surprising deftness.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Anthropomorphized Cacti

By Phyllis deBehst

There once was a woman from Toronto
Who wanted some man pastry pronto
She looked under rocks
And checked all the docks
Until she boned a guy named Roboto.

Non-Celtic Limerick

There once was a man from Paris
Who took the madames over his knee
He liked to lift skirts
His motto was: Give 'til it hurts
Bon, to the monsieur who makes the ladies go "Oui."

Portrait: Vince

The boy (Vince) who grills my burgers
spits out ill rhymes over the onions
I tap my toes and feel the music
It is in my chest
It pounds like: yo. . . yo . . . yo. . .
Mos Definitely.

On t.v., young black warriors pound
the blacktop with expensive kicks
OOhhhh! They jeer with straight backs
and outstretched arms.

The boy (Vince) who grills my burgers
plates up. His narrow hips shake as
he wraps.
I bob my head and mimic the beat
of the m.c.
I wanna rock the mike like:
yo. . . yo . . .yo . . .
Mos Definitely.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Portrait: Abbie

With breasts like Juno in an under wire far too small---- on laundry day.
Burn it to hell, cocksucker!
She blew in on a Monday morning laughing from the streets, laughing from the streets.
But wait!
This hunger she feels is unlike any before her. If it's not bread, it's peasant vegetables, it's the world. She is insatiable,
I am the hollow bread. I am the guts. Cuck-cuck coo-choo!
She is a small vagina, sketched by hand
to connect the world's women.
She is laughing in the streets.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

My Variable Foot is Lame

The gentle negress sits on a bench
head held unreasonably high for no reason.
If she weren't so beautiful the passing men
would call her

"Salutations," says a elderly counterpart.
" ," says the gentle negress without
so much as a nod.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Lucidity (choose your own ending)

I woke up from a pleasant dream last night I dreamt quite vividly that you sucked my soul from my mouth I dreamt that your dancing tongue acted recklessly in acquiring this said soul with every breath you took and every exhale I gave part of me passed through a thin wall of ambrosia when I awoke my lips were damp and my heart pounded helplessly against my
breast. . .

Leopard Print Hat

The hats I saw today looked more
sanctified than their owners.
Except for the leopard print hat.
It brought the jungle into the Lord's home.
It was the savage that tried to be civilized.
It was rebellious.
The sea foam green was docile.
The baby blue was cooperative.
But the leopard print threatened to raise
the roof. It threatened to jump from
the pew and fall out with a spirit.
Whether it was holy or not, I
didn't care. I just wanted it to shout!
This leopard print hat was neither
satisfied nor was it sanctified.


A woman dreams of saffron midnights in Bombay,
She longs for crowded markets and stifling heat.
Noise is what she wants.
Noise and sights and smells.
She walks through the streets chewing
sweet and exotic candies.
Her sundress clings to the sweat on her thighs.
Her hair has come undone.
She has finally come undone.

Friday, March 7, 2008

I Stayed.

When William Carlos Williams talked about the
overture locomotives make, the ladies did not
stick around. I did. I sat on the edge of my seat,
legs tightly crossed and waited for the crescendo
to come.

Classical Tex Mex

I was asked to attend an extravagant
ball featuring Milton's Pandemonium.
Beelzebub stared at my neckline the entire
evening. He wouldn't even fetch me punch.

The bottoms of my shoes were licked
by lapdog angels. Satan said it was
precautionary protocol. "I keep a clean
place here and you've got Earth on your soles."

There were rants about choices.
Choices about choosing. Choosing
beef brisket or chicken cutlet
satiated me more than fate or freewill.
Satan would hear none of it.

"Believe it or not," said Sin. "Eve
wasn't all that pretty." Someone is
jealous and I know it's the Oedipal dog
skirt to my left. Where's my punch?
Where's that pervert, Beelzebub?
Where is my Death?
My digital document pressed "Save As"
on my ear lobe. It said, "Praise Jesus."
I was saved. Amen.

You can't buy waffles priced
3 rubles. Not buttermilk ones,
at least. My grocer's freezer is an
auctioneer. "Five dolla, five dolla,

We don't need to be afraid of
foreign hat wear. Berets are a
gas, baby, can you dig it?
My question to you is: Can I hold
the small felt nubbin on the top?

What's the World Wide Window
got against going against the grain?
Don't deny the danger of desperation

My digital document pressed "New"
on my nose. It said, "Let there be!"
And I was light. Amen.

Thursday, March 6, 2008

Under the Cabinet

Making 100% natural and isotonic
beverages in the attic makes me long
for the days before creaming vegetables.
Back in my day we canned too.

High fructose corn syrup is my
ancestor from long before cane.
Able bodied stirrers can't match my
turbulent fingers. Watch out!

Monday, March 3, 2008