Sunday, February 20, 2011


the spirit of an elephant has been successfully exorcised from my sex doll  
only the priest may behold my roommate’s ghost, in peacock feather drag

‘is friendship a dirty word?’

friendship is the cloud inside the wine glass after an epic struggle to retain its great green nauseous shape
now that you mention it, it does seem indeed almost mind-bogglingly great – that the human spirit can only be seen in the flakes of plastic dandruff on the doll’s shoulders, sort of like the reverse of vampires before mirrors?

for years you’d neglected to replace the air filters of the pump, and now you wonder why it wouldn’t pump?
with one giant heave she raised her knees high

the sponge of God is too tired to OD on the skin’s old polymers

everything is Japanese except its unmentionables – the noblese in the way German iron mesh speaks!

I turn my camera on its head to videotape the blood of my leafy neighborhood
the Korean basketball coach, surrounded by a bunch of kids out in the park, is truly psyched about tomorrow afternoon’s alien abduction (5:35 pm sharp, guys!)

I am needy
and it is, I am perfectly aware, an ability (magic lantern breathing magic lantern substance)
the talent to adapt to the diseases originating from the earth’s shrug

‘this goddamn tapestry?’
‘this goddamn tapestry ain’t human, baby’
(coming from inside my own house)
‘it was made by that sick, lecherous, boil-ridden host, or more particularly – all the members of the pageant, captured here, in threaded pastels – there you can see me, right there I am – are in themselves fantasies, sprung from William Shatner’s boils!

‘Like Job, but less god-fearing, and semantically more concerned with Miss Virginia’s acceptance speech’  

harem riot (priest’s voice): how inventive your plumage  
tentacles of nameless cocktail (again his voice – I’ll remember to thank him later for the great job on the doll): dare not forget the way out of this fucking glass!


  1. Sometimes your poems make me feel really stupid because I don't think I understand them at all, but I find myself drawn over and over to a particular image or phrase or rhythm.

  2. They're definitely not meant to make you feel stupid. In fact, your higher cerebral functions need to be offline when you read them. Mine certainly are when I write them. This kind of poetry, read word for word without looking ahead to some kind of burgeoning sense, should read easier than children's poetry.

  3. That makes me feel better. I can go back to enjoying them without worrying if I'm doing it right. Not that there's a wrong way.

    Just some days, I'm fraught with insecurity. Too much criticism in my diet, not enough dinosaur lasagna.


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