Why I Love Listening to You

I can't understand
what the fuck you're saying
I imagine that's because of
the years of drug use
But still. . . you rarely make
sense when you're sober
And that doesn't mean I
don't dig it, because I dig it a lot

Your raw sex is something to
dig as well. You gave it away
freely and we accepted it
without question. It was the
brazen attitude that was
charming.

You've changed though
a million times over,
but that's all water under the bridge

Who are you transmitting signals to?
I've always wondered
who the audience was
what could the purpose be?
For love? For a friend?
It's always sounded like
a lot of love for a lot of friends.

Are you still transmitting?
and for how long?

Familiar Wind

The wind moves slyly around a young woman's
skirt,
pushing the bottom, ever so slightly, up her knees.
The flutter allows me to see
the brown skin of her thighs,
if only for the briefest moment.
She doesn't notice.
She drinks tea as the warm breeze
makes itself more familiar with her body


The wind's hands course their way
along her bare feet
The wind's lips kiss the firm muscles
of her calves
The wind runs its cheek along the insides
of her thighs
The wind blows a warm sigh
against her beautiful delta,
acting on my behalf.


Only when she feels a tremor in her body,
does she quickly pull her skirt lower.
And it makes me smile.
Her decorum and modesty with an already
intimate nature
Makes me smile
O! How I wish I were that familiar wind.

Portrait: Nathan (some guy at the Target bus stop)

(This is an actually account of my conversation with a young man at the Target transfer stop in Normal, IL.)



He shouted at me and I didn't see him.
I did, I just looked down real quick
like I didn't.
I'm just sitting here on this bus stop bench
like some open prey down at the water hole
Here he comes.


I'm fucking starving! What are you reading?
The Race Myth.
Looks brand new. From the public library?
Yep.
I got no money. I'm hungry. I gotta get to a
car dealership.
Really?
Oh man, I'm hungry. Where is there a place
to eat?
There's a Hardies or a McDonalds up the street.
(laughs) You know I don't eat that stuff.
Actually, I don't know you from Adam.
What's your name?
Charish
Charish. Yeah. My name is Nathan.
Nathan? Nice to meet you.
What are you listening to?
Gnarls Barkley.
Yeah? Which song?
Crazy.
You would! (Pause. Would I? By this time, I had to laugh at that statement.
We've known each other for a whole three minutes and I wanted to mace him.)
Where are you from, Nathan?
Here.
Do you go to school?
I'm a senior at ISU. I'm fuckin' BORED. Bored as FUCK!
Got a job?
I got three!
You can't be too bored, huh?
Yeah. But I love what I do. It's rewarding!
(I didn't ask him about what he did.)
Where's the fucking bus when you need it? For chrissake! (to a passing woman in the distance) You are fucking HOT!. That dress is fucking HOT! I'm hungry as FUCK. What do you do, Charish?
I'm a student.
What year?
I'm a senior.
What's your thing?
My thing is English.
Do you speak any other languages?
No.
No hablas espanol?
Not enough to get by.
I speak Spanish and German. But I've never been to Spain
or Germany. I hope to remedy that.
Cool.
I've seen you around. You look familiar. That girl
was fucking hot. I'm just saying.
This looks like the bus coming.
Yeah it is. Let me read some of that book before it comes.
You know what? You probably wouldn't like it.
Maybe you're right.
Have a good day, Nathan.

I don't have to stand out.
I don't need to be critically acclaimed.

Being average is nothing to be afraid of.
Without status quo, how will we
know when extraordinary hits us
in the balls?

I will gladly wear the shoes of anonymity,
if it means that a circus performer
wins the lotto and gets shot
by a deranged clown.

I can afford to be the regular Joe
who sits at a Taco Bell Drive Thru
and orders some cheesy monstrosity
advertised on their latest commercial.

For whatever it's worth I can be plain

I got no qualms with being common.

July 24th, 2008

It may or may not rain today
There's a good chance though
I'm sitting on an open-for-public-perch,
my legs are out, my shoes are off
It's quite cool outside. I think it might rain
in a few moments
My feet are cool in this seventy-five degree weather
There are quite a few flies out here
They pester me, but they mean well, I'm sure
One is making its way up my leg, the feeling is bothersome
I've read a book
not all of it,
but enough. It's a good book
I wish it would go ahead and rain already
I've looked around too. Sight seeing while sitting
It's easy to do while waiting for the rain.

Method

I

My bed is a mess, of the highest regards
I’ve gotten out the tools of my trade
and spread them out, over the blankets
My music— stereo and CD’s
My dictionary— I can’t be that cad, now can I?
There is an anthology
There is criticism
There is a book called Latin Made Simple
Really? I’ve gone and fooled myself again,
haven’t I?
Stein and Kerouac have also joined me
sitting patiently, waiting for some say so
There is a phone, but I’m not expecting calls
or news
And we all know what is said about no news

II

This mess, with these tools
makes me work at a chaotic but steady pace
I am only distracted by clipping my toenails
and past memories
I am using all of these tools to become
a low brow speculator
who lives in a timeless world
I’ve changed three CD’s— Ravi Shankar
for Jack Johnson for Aqualung
The tall and solid walls of Jericho
are going to fall— hard.
Just as soon as these tools assimilate
and work properly

III

I am the poet. I am the freak
I am the one who sees what others have forgotten
how to see. It makes me feel better
not to be known as the freak
I am ready to fall in love, yet again
or go mad. Gertrude, who looks mildly interested,
agrees.
In this mess, I want the ability to find my things
I’d like to find my things
I need all of my things. With these tools,
I am a tongue-tied child who makes demands
and makes everything slightly more interesting
I make your bones ache less
I make your mind less congested
I make your walls fall— hard.

This is a shit load— shit·load \ˈshit-ˌlōd\ n (1973) usu vulgar: a very large amount: LOT— of nonsensical information to ingest. It’s like saying that some of the dharma made me think differently about the world.

The only stress I wish to endure, today, is carefully pulling Gertrude’s How to Write from the bottom of the book pile. I don’t care if “a” is an article or if “the” is an article. Thank you.

The music— my music can be the fascist dictator, who informs me of what I feel today. Stress and anxiety or sobriety brought on by the gravelly voice of Eddie Vedder.

I like suggestion as much as the next person. I can be enticed and seduced by the small space between shit load and bullshit— 1bull·shit \ˈbul-ˌshit also ˈbəl-\ n [²bull & ³bull] (1914) usu vulgar: NONSENSE; esp: foolish insolent talk.

Sed libera nos a melo

I had a dream that I was a pre-pubescent girl playing kick-ball. I was so flat-chested, I didn’t have to worry about slipping bra-straps. When I ran to home plate, I kissed a boy and won the game.

I think I finally got my period
What makes you say that?
Because the masses are quieted
and my underwear is bloodied.
You are mistaken. In these times
of love and war, it’s easy to get
hit by flying shrapnel and call it
destiny, desire, or menstruation

Can we hold hands in the hallways and pass notes until we get into trouble? I kiss like they do in the movies. My cinematography is brilliant and the lighting flatters us very well. I’m certain I am a woman now.

I rounded second base all by myself, sure I was going to get pinned by a rubber red ball. Right in the traitorous back, you could say. The crowd roared when I met third and then hushed when I found home. I was met with glory. The boy was no one, but his lips were Everyman.

I am bleeding all over the place,
isn’t there something minor to be
done?
Tampax is not suitable for this
situation! We need gauze and a
priest, preferably a young one who
speaks mother’s tongue.
I remember feeling distinct doom,
but I wasn’t being literal. Please!
Please just find me a sponge!

“Our father who are in heaven”
Pater noster qui es in caelis
“Hollowed by thy name”
Santificetur nomen tuum
“Thy kingdom come”
Adveniant regnum tuum

This isn’t even the right sacrament!
We hardly have the time for this, just
skip to the end.
If I don’t wash the blood out
with cold water, the stain will set.

I hit third base and the crowd roared. I hit home and they were hushed. I kissed the boy’s lips and the dam broke. I felt his tongue and the world fell away.

Skip to the good part, Father.

Et nos de inducas in tentationem
sed libera nos a melo
amen

Can we hold hands like the movies and kiss like the children? Can I call you and then cry when I hang up? Can we take it from the top again, starting with my line: “But deliver us from evil.”

Sed libera nos a melo.

"C'mon Girl"

I can feel my body being crushed between a wall and a "hard" place. I can feel the puffs of air leave my mouth and the strands of hair on my lips. I move them away. I can hear someone singing "C'mon girl, let's get it right." Coming dear. I don't have time, just lift the skirt. I don't have time, just--- right there. Right. . . there. I can smell the sweat. I can feel the tremble in my knees. I can hear the desperation in your voice. Can you get in? "C'mon girl, c'mon girl." I'm coming. I can taste the salt on your lips and on your neck. I can taste the strand of hair again. I need a ponytail, dammit! I can feel you groping for more breast and skirt and time. I can hear the deafening crescendo. Did you say, "C'mon girl?" I heard you, I'm on my way.

It's 2 in the AM

And I am alive enough to know
that my body feels foreign.
It's no one else's but my own
but the night is a reminder of things not
being as they seem and it feels weird.

The weirdness is as fresh as watching your
big toe twitch without your permission.
I should have the will over all my body's responses.
Only because I own it.
Does that truly make sense? Does the body belong
to the body?

I specifically asked for colors and all you have is grey?
Grey is dignified, I suppose. It is the mind, is it not?
My heart is permanently sprained or strained,
this in turn has an adverse effect on my big toe.
It's defiance is a reflection of my loss---
my inability to control what my heart does.

I want to go back to sleep
At least let me have control of that one thing,
let me rest.

Cloud Cover

Are there many reports of depression in London?
asked my sister. I was barely listening to her.
Beck was playing on the O.C. soundtrack. I didn't picture
the kids from the O.C. listening to Beck.
This is a far reaching assumption.
Depression?
From the lack of sun.
I'm not sure. I would think the English were
used to a lack of sun.
I could definitely be one of these O.C. kids. I like
Sufjan Stevens. I like Beck too. That assumption
is also far reaching.
Because I would like to live there one day. I just worry about the
constant cloud cover.
You should live in Orange County.
Are you listening to me? asked my sister.
Kind of.

It is Hard

At the end of the day it is hard to drag the pen along the page.
I stole a donated book from work today. I liked the author, I
hadn't read the book, and I wanted it.
Let's just say it was donated to me.
I checked out a dozen CDs so I could take them home, listen
to 3, and stare at the other nine.
I checked out a short story because it was short. Ha! Gotcha.
I've got several weeks to put off reading it.
I walked to the bus stop while listening to a friend's rap music. It totally
changes the way I walk. I feel slightly tougher. But it didn't stop
me from nodding to an older gentleman leaning on a cane.
When I got on my bus
I took out the short story and read 2 pages before putting it
back in my purse.
In the crack of the window, there was a dead moth lying. . . dead.
Of course.
I stopped what I was doing, which was nothing, and stared. I stared
for awhile, until I couldn't bare the simple gruesome image any longer. I did sneak a glance a few more times.
I had to write it down. It was paper worthy. I have to say though, the dead moth made me tired
because it looked so tired and . . . dead. Of course. And because it was the end of the day.
And it is hard to drag this pen along the page.

This moth is still bothering me.
It's dead and I'm still weirded out.
Should I just move? There are plenty of other open seats.
The dead moth is keeping me here like an assumed
omen.
Are moths signs of death or the moon or neither?
I am more upset for this dead moth than
any person who sat here previous to me.
That's telling me something about myself.
I imagine it flew into a million lights
and flew with a million moth friends before tonight.
But it died alone--- a million miles away from everything
but me.

I am a little jealous of a boy

who just got a massive tattoo on his arm.
His arm is wrapped with what looks like Saran Wrap,
like he's left over potato salad.
He is super proud of his new ink.
He gets to wear a tank top to show it off,
so when people ask:
He simply points
And they peer
through the clear window of plastic wrap.
What's it for? To cover a somewhat open wound?
I don't care, it's too cool to pass up. I want one.
I want a giant cobra wrapped around an American
flag, accompanied by a couple M-16's
and instead of it etched on my arm,
I wanted it all on my back.
They might need a whole roll of Saran Wrap for me.

Ringlets

I am sitting behind a woman on the bus.
I am aching to finger this woman's ringlets.
They hang off the back of her head
in a black glossy ponytail,
about forty of them.
They are begging to be pulled straight
and then released.
I am thinking and behaving like a small boy
I am contemplating reaching upward and
"accidentally" brushing my finger tip
down one.
I can manage to distract myself, if only
for a moment.
I can look out the window, up at smokey clouds,
past the ponytail, but to no avail.
I am nervous and my hands tingle
I am damn close to pulling the cord and getting off
eight blocks before my stop.

"They Are All the Same in the Light"

"In the dark we are all the same--- and you better believe it, we're all in the dark, baby"

— Robin Morgan



Do you want to hear a joke?
I did and only to please him.
Feminism.
The punchline was far from funny and it was a honeyed
trap that I continued to fall in.
Hardy-fuckin'-har.
On the day I didn't laugh I was met
with indifference
Which is just as hurtful.
Turn it all back to me. It's your movement.
And what a successful one it's been.
I have a joke for the next prick who
whistles at me on the street.
Oppression is funny, if not downright hysterical.
And hysteria is our specialty.
Far from being over and far from funny.
Do you want to hear a joke?
Feminism.
I'm not laughing,
says the Chicana working on her sixth baby
and dodging the punches from
her husband.
And since that Chicana is my sister,
I'm not laughing either.

My Brother is MIA

My brother cannot be found, not without the government garnishing his wages.
My brother creeps into a corner and cries foul when reminded of his responsibility.
My brother is: "A thousand percent sure that this baby is not mine!"
My brother sold me out decades ago because I remind him of his roots.
My brother's roots are black and deep and they threaten his chances of rising.
My brother's children are made in my reflection and they, unfortunately, need support.
My brother doesn't know how oppressed he is and I don't have time to explain the finer points.
My brother must know that I am oppressed too, I am a dark woman working on one thing at a time.
My brother must know that the world doesn't love me because of those two strikes.
My brother makes a living off my image that is his own.
My brother doesn't know how low he has sunk.

Before finding her clitoris, the once martyr
feigned great showmanship.
Even though
she wasn't aware of the show.
She didn't know about the early and late
curtain calls
She didn't know about the many wardrobe changes
She certainly wasn't expecting the mouthful from the one man
standing ovation followed by her many bows to accept his grace.
Nevertheless, she put on a great show
In the morning, in the afternoon, in the evening.
She was overworked and underpaid pussy
that was made-to-order and ready-for-pickup.
Just pull around to the second window, please.
That was until one day.
One tired evening, after a five minute jack-hammering
from above. Oh. Ah. Yes. That's it. Right there. Ooh.
She retired to the bathroom where
she got down to business.
On the side of the tub, under the noise of running water. . .
She felt like there was something amiss.
When she found it, all the pieces fell into place.
They didn't tell her about this!
How long had she missed out?
With a grin on her face, she exited the bathroom, jumped back in bed,
and was the happiest little once martyr there ever was.
Her audience was none the wiser.
They bought their tickets.
Stood in line for concessions.
And took their seats.
they watched and they clapped and they stood, not knowing the great showmanship in their presence.

Wish List

And what do you want for Christmas?
I want to be self-fulfilled prophesy!
With all the fixin's.
I want a doll that I have to be tied to at all
hours of the day. Can she come with diapers and a lack of support, please?
I want a vacuum cleaner with a detachable hose! I want to clean every
inch of my play house before my husband comes home. Can it come with
an apron and a string of pearls?
I want a TEA SET! I hope it comes with fragile pieces of china
to dust and to cry over when they break.
I want a play oven. I want to sweat over it and use it make baked treats to eat, when my family isn't looking. I want to stuff down pain and depression with sweets.
Anything else?
Yes! I want a hardworking husband to fawn over, to have children for, and to give my life to.
I think I deserve it too,
I've been a good girl this year.

Happy Birthday!

Where do you see yourself in 10 years?
How old will I be? 34? Shit. . . there is nothing sadder than being 34. But there is the alternative. Death?
Death. I'll be doing the same thing I do now.
What's that?
Just enough to get by. It's hard to say where I'll be when I'm doing that.
Husband?
Ha! I'm laughing a good natured laugh until my sides hurt.
Is that funny to you?
Yes it is and I'll tell you why. I'm far too immature to own a husband. Don't you have to feed and water them? When I leave on holiday, do I have to take it with me?
And children?
Ha! Again.
This is also funny?
Hasn't the world gotten itself into enough trouble following God's lead? I need nothing made in my image.
So where will you be?
That "where" again. I don't know "where." I don't even know if it's necessary to wonder. 10 years is a long ways from now. I have hopes though.
Oh?
Yeah, I've got prospects, but it hardly matters. Jesus. 34.
That really bothers you?
Yes it does, but it's better than the alternative.
Death?
Death and mediocrity, but I'm working on the latter.

While Reading

While reading Time or Glamour or Hustler or Scientific America
I found an ad in the back that read:
"For more information about love, please visit:

http://www.getthefuckoverit.beforeitdragsyouunder.com/solitudeisimminent/soaresweatpantswiththeelsasticatthebottoms

the sight was grim even for Time or Glamour or Hustler or Scientific America

The stark contrast is blatant, but isn't it always? Stark, I mean. Isn't it always stark?
It's beautiful too. I like the look of my brown legs against the stark whiteness of your
sheets and your white skin. The light is dim with a flutter of a curtain against a light
wind. And I can barely think. That's not true, I'm always thinking. The furrow in my
brow is hardly there because it's spacious inside my skull. I'm thinking about the heat,
the cieling fan above, the closeness of our legs and the sweat that separates them. I'm
thinking about the stark and beautiful contrast we make.

Introductions

Hi! My name is Charish
and I am calling myself
a writer these days.
I surround myself with
people who create.
I have a tasteless sense
of humor.
There are still a lot of
things that amaze me:
People are still eating
margarine?
I enjoy dating boys so
I can write about it.
I like to stare at people
and make up stories
about them. They are
usually lurid and over-
reaching tales of
scandal and intrigue.
I sing aloud in a small
voice and dance when
it suits me. That is
most of the time. I am
sympathetic to the point
where it hurts. I forget
that is called
empathy. I laugh a lot
too. I worry about
things that are out of
my control. I laugh at
kids who claim they
are so OLD! Fuck, I'm
old. But not old enough---
certainly not mature
enough.
I tire every easily, but
only because I'm lazy.
I'm extremely lazy be
cause I'm done applying
myself.
I have no idea what
I want to do for a living.
Ain't I living right now?
Why worry about
living for later?
I enjoy acting like
a philosopher.
Lovely to meet you.

What I Learned At the Library

I learned, from bawdy brothers, who had no choice to take me on as a sister, how to say: "Shut the fuck up, motherfucker." Not normally found in my vernacular, I decided to try it on. . . and see how it fit.
"Shut the fuck up,
motherfucker."
Might be one on the most liberating phrases known to man.
I learned other things too. I learned how to talk about another person's mother.
"Hey, maybe we should stamp some cards for tonight."
"Yeah? Maybe your mom should stamp some cards for tonight."
I don't even know what that means. Or if I should be offended.
I learned how to act a goddamn fool. I learned how to smile more. I learned how to do that roll thing with my arms, you know, that wave thing? I can only do it to one side, but I'm still working on it. I learned how to run around and act like the boys. When asked:
"You wanna shelve some of these books?"
I learned to reply:
"How about you shut the fuck up, motherfucker!"
"Yeah, but the books?"
"Maybe your mom can shelve the books."
"Oooh!"
We always fall for that one. I'm getting better.

I wish you were born a man.
Let us hold hands and pretend
Let us bow our heads and pray
"Father, son, quiet daughter
in the corner."
I think it is time we discussed
the finer points of gender.
The agreements and dishonor,
the naked ambition a lovely
girl like you should not have.
We're all somewhat disconcerted
about your oath:
"We, who are about to die, salute
you."
I wish you were born a man
so such a seminal statement
made more sense.
Let us join hands now---
Let us pretend now---
That I love you just as you
are.
And that you respect me for
this.

The B-side of Poetry

The B-side of poetry wakes in the undergrowth of the better known
oak in someones front yard, as the neighborhood children play around in
the streets, around the car, and you've told them a million times
not to play around the car. The B-side rolls around with the moss
while the kids play. It is totally abandoned in favor for nuts
and broad deciduous leaves. It is totally abandoned for: "So
much depends upon. . ."
Get away from my GODDAMN car, you little motherfuckers!
The B-side of poetry shrugs against the roots and black bark of a
mighty oak. Now the neighborhood children are playing with a
ball. After you've yelled at them? Where are their parents?
The oak groans and shifts in time to say: "The apparition of these faces. . ."
I'm calling the FUCKING police on your asses!
The B-side of poetry goes back to sleep.

Hail Hail

Alexandria is underwater and there are hardly enough
government assisted trailers to go around.
Save the books, the old and the first books.
The library that held the secrets of a drunk man,
Long before coke was ready and available, is going down.
Poseidon's rage and the rage of a sword and the rage of
a scorned lover and the rage of an empire that ran on
economic stimulus packages. . .
sunk the library, a few battleships, and a few stomachs.

The song

I was listening to a song
under my headphones
in my bed
This song was so beautiful
My hands traveled
to the space
between my breast
Just to feel my heart swell
My other hand traveled
to the hollow
of my throat
Just to feel my soul pound
The collapse was magnificent
The beating of the universe
in my ear
on my tongue
as I follow along
to a song I knew not
The crumble was majestic
And when I couldn't handle anymore
The song's arms lifted me
out of the destruction
into the air
Into the world
I saw brilliance
My hands tightened
my soul strained
my heart burst
and the song. . .
the beautiful song
bled through my ears
my skin
my lips
The collapse was magnificent

Closing Time

The boxes represent and illustrate a
time in her life when leaving is the
best option.

You can't kiss her or stop her.
Although one is more important than the
other, you can't choose right now.

At a time when she's packing it in
and closing shop, the sign in the window
represents and illustrates the lack of business.

And the boxes are full, brimming with her
life and all the things you've missed. This is all
familiar, but the best option, of course.

A Fox is Mingling with the Chickens.

(This poem was written for Danielle Fox, an excellent poet, who has not written anything for awhile. I do know that she recently underwent dental surgery and while this is serious, I find it no excuse to stop writing. This poem is designed to light a fire under her ass.)

I've noticed that you haven't written anything in a long while.

You need to start stalking the coop again, get those chickens

riled up again. Get the clucks and the feathers ruffled.
I know you're worried about those teeth. That's it, isn't it?
Get the fuck over that shit, is what I say.
William Carlos Williams tapped out shit after five strokes.
With his right index finger. He just tapped and perspired and
tapped some more.
Now, I don't really know if it was five strokes, all right?
Wikipedia said it was a series of strokes.
And I don't rightly know if it was his right index finger, they didn't
say. But I do know that most stroke victims can lose mobility
on one side of their bodies. I don't know if Williams was a lefty,
but most people aren't, so I'm giving his tragic story the benefit of
small miracles.
The point is, fox, you need to get back in there and tear those fowl
up. Tell 'em who's boss.

Portrait: Tim

(Since none of these statements felt right crammed together into one poem, I decided it was best to put them into convenient shorts)



The most refreshing gift he can give us is his laughter.
The most sincere, most withheld gift a man on the move can give.



He carries no weight while he walks
and he walks a lot.



His serious, sometimes mischievous, but always engaging eyes wander like time wanders down a secluded hall.
They usually have a purpose.




Mild mannered men don’t usually start riots, but when they do,
they move like eerily quiet tempests.
The danger is palpable and succinct.




Me? No, you lie.
No one does and that’s a shock.
They are honest about him.
But modesty is beautiful.

How Do You Feel about Hi-Fives?

How do you feel about hi-fives?
I want to ask him, but I never get
around to it.
I’m curious about him and I have more
questions than I can form into words.
How do you feel about your eyes?
Are they the most important parts on your body?
Are you a breast man? An ass man?
Do you like Sunny D?
I hate Sunny D.
I want to ask him these mundane things
all the things that supposedly matter to me.
The kind of things I could form with my
mouth when he’s not kissing me.
He’s a distraction, yes, but a pleasant one.
When his hands are up my shirt
When his lips are my belly,
creeping lower and lower. . .
What are your thoughts on the French Revolution?
What do you think about bananas?
Did you know chrysanthemums were first found in China?
If so, did you also know that they’re faintly toxic to
American ladybugs?

Millennium’s Bastardized Children

Online predators
MP3's
Mexican landscapers
Land division
Sweet 16
Rigged erect— I mean, elections
Spitting women
Reality minutes— Everyone’s got talent, the kind that sucks dick
Petrol hoarding steel shrapnel
lap-bands, lap-dance, bypass, biracial
WMD, WMA, MRE, DOA
Injected beef
Insecticide sugar
Inane music
All in the name of a Holy Land
Holy shit
You can now say that on t.v.
Fast women, fast cars
Girls! Girls! Girls!
Pills! Pills! Pills!
Take it off
Pull it on
Botulism is tasty
I’m a pin-up
Aids relief
Flood relief
Bowel relief
Masticate trans-fat
Masturbate verbally
Master Sergeant says, “Let’s keep moving!”
Stay the course
Semi-annual pantie raids
Dancing presidents
Falling starlets: too hot to catch
Climate control
Fucking penguins
Melting, melting, melting
In Kansas and in the Alps
Denim for a fruit shaped ass
Footwear made of animal pelts
Smart producers
Old performers
Today: Circus with news
Riots— not here
Change— not here
Bob Dylan— not there
Neither are we.
Hopped up on CGI, some superheros with overgrown superegos, some fish, some toys— all animated, all adult, all consumable
Small girls
Small dogs
Big bags
Solid aspirations to
Get Made
Get Crunk
Get in line and consolidate
This is the time to love
This is probably the time to conglomerate
This is most likely the time to text
This is the time to ejaculate
This is the time to [fill in the blank]

This is the End

There is it, the end of days.
The fifth horseman came on a high one
of course.
If we leave the food sitting out,
there’s bound to be rats and pestilence.
Who’s horse is that on?
Oh God.
Oh Mary
Oh Jesus H. Christ
O Jesúchristó, muchacho
For the remainder of the world is going to hell
in a hand basket,
I want to spend that time in bed or under it
with the fifth horseman.
He knows people and I’m willing
to sleep my way to the top.
God bless the Blessed Ascension!

Debut

You’ve got just enough heat to
spread your legs six inches wide.
You are pleasing to the eye and
that’s why we keep you around.
The half lidded look is new and
refreshing and so unlike you.
That pout in your lips has never
been done before, has it?
Ingenious.
A cock tease if there ever were one.
Air it out with six inches,
that’s enough space to accommodate
the slender hips of a ready-made
man. Beckon. Smile. Teeth
the lips.
You’re on in five, honey.
Have a great show!

Collinsville

A one horse town
Rent-A-Center, Aldi,
Mane Street Salon
That one horse is out in
a field. Ka-pow!

Meramac Caves!

If anyone really wanted to visit the caverns down South, they’d take down nearly half of the billboards on the side of the highway. Jesse James hid out there with his gang. That’s all the caves are good for. Seclusion after a bank robbery.

Styx was on tour ages ago. Actually last month according to the woman's concert t-shirt. I would have never guessed.

Three black girls full of nothing but, what someones grandmother would call, sass, walk shoulder to shoulder to shoulder up the street: Hot damn! look at those shorts, look at those legs.

Two more kids, no three, four---four more kids are following a father. For the whole day? Who set him up? Going to the mall is like rafting into the heart of something obscenely dark. Oh, the horror, the horror. I want some candy!

She's a tall drink of water, someones drunk uncle would say, hanging off the arm of a man who feels her body heat and smiles accordingly. She thinks like the smile of DaVinci's painting. Murky. She controls the pounding of her heart with the steps they take and wishes his lips followed her wherever she walked.

Beautiful. That is how he describes her. She loves it when he laughs. She loves his lips. She loves the tired look in his eyes. She loves it when he describes her with. . . Beautiful.

The Asian girls have discovered cameras. Every angle of their name brands can afford to be shot now. They laugh and dress as stereotypically as possible making it easy to pass them, what someones mother would say, wooden nickels.

Lone Route

There is not enough crack on the
corner nor enough stoic bleeding hearts
Not too many angry benches. Ding!
This stop belongs to no one, so we go.
On and on till, some would say, the
break of dawn. No. Not enough
level headed hormonal women who
pride themselves on brilliant children
and dry hamburger helper.
Help her! screamed the party of three
watching that lone cracked out corner.
The bleeding heart they believed in was
neither bloody nor stoic. Ding!
This stop belongs to no one, so we go on.
On and on and on. Because, some would
say, there is no last stop.

What moths do during
the day is their own
business, but I'm still
quite concerned.
I'm concerned about the
cresent that is my back
and it's ever arching battle
against a mattress
Do the moths know about it?
Do they read about it during
the day?
Are they secretly awake
during the day asking these
questions?