Untitled

I WANT YOUR ASS.
TO BE MINE.
FOREVER

I WANT YOUR ASS.
TO BE MINE.
FOREVER

This is a song for a woman to hear,
this is a song for a woman to sing -
some kinda figure of speech, I know.
it's either synecdoche or metonymy.
It doesn't mean literally only "ass."
The part is named to stand in for the whole.
'Cause I don't want a piece of ass, of you.
I want body mind and soul

I WANT YOUR ASS.
TO BE MINE.
FOREVER

I WANT YOUR ASS.
TO BE MINE.
FOREVER

This is a song for a man to hear -
this is a song for a man to sing.
it might not mean as little as it appears
it's gonna mean a whole lot more for me
'Cause I want your love
I don't mean now
I do mean now, stretching endlessly
From where I stand, panting for eternity
it's just a consequence of you and me

I WANT YOUR ASS.
TO BE MINE.
FOREVER

I WANT YOUR ASS.
TO BE MINE.
FOREVER

with a wheel missing

There is no subconscious.
It's an outmoded, made-up, beat-up
old-timey bicycle Psychology Today
peddles to deliver issues
to piddling, self-interested
people too shallow to suspect
or vain to believe
there's nothing

less boring

under the blank
and endlessly bland
self-reflection of their
worthless, and far too
earnestly burnished

surfaces.

irreconcilable

What brought us to this is irrelevant
- unless? If we choose to learn from it,
uncover the causes whose dire and shining
effects, so seemingly, irreversibly wrecked -
If uncovered, if understood, could help us -
not help ourselves,

perhaps.

Some causes are lost. But such grasp,
with intent, might help us each
steer a clearer and nearer course

through consequence

than the one we steered,
to our own 'shipwrecked grief,
our mutual, consensual detriment,

our loss.

Of us.

And of ourselves.

To the point we are both
too mad at fate and what's left
of life, to weep.

What brought us to this
is irrelevant,
in terms of the damage
and ultimate wrongs: not acts,

but facts of nature

- and incompatible - between us, that you
nor I

could overcome, ever. No,

and not even we.

Understanding what happened to us,
and why,

cannot save one single damn thing
we see, or together, or even apart
have ever seen, that there was
to see.

But for going from here,

it might save two.

Maybe we can't help we.
But I could help you,

and you could help me.

If we wanted to.

dick pics are empirically not a problem

If my growing-respectable sample size of years
of experience forged in tears and in sacrifice
are indicative,

dick pics are empirically not a problem.
I haven't seen one, except those I've sent

I don't think they ever occur in real life
or if they don't,
then that proves me right.

But I never got one,
is the point.

That's life.

sorta boiling

"A watched pot never,"
and I caught it at just
the inopportune time

as it almost tried, but -

thwarted by folksy, truistic laws
that by common consent reflect cosmic cause

it hangs perfectly poised
at a point between.

And I stare, like a staring-contest

was on. To see for how long,

we can hold the suspense. I have

so many recipes hanging on this,
which my feverish mind (capturing

loose heat) ( - nothing to do
with the circumstance, it always
does that) coming up with such ways

to make food come alive
in a pot held in sway
by my steely and vigilant

STARE

- it would surely make
some difference to how
each ingredient comes alive

to the taste? I have caught

an epochal moment, and poised
for epiphany -

I am watching this pot.

It depends upon me.

This pot shall not boil,
not on my watch.

Or I'll know the reason why,

and for the first time in ten months
of ruthless search for the lamest excuse,

crack that bottle of fifty-year scotch.

reasons to comment.

You can justify it
a couple of ways.

You can use a base of accurate,
clear-sighted well-wrought praise

to cover for the urgently-needy
need of a trenchant, or piquant or lucid
point of critique,

or two,

or more. Or:

the converse is good, as well!

Whichever works best for you,
by all means: indulge

in letting it out.
It may be just what

they never knew,
they wouldn't have thought,
or some other surprise

that removes from them
any irksome or painful kernel
of doubt they have lodged
in their teeth,

as to whether or what
they've done's worth
noticing.

- surprise

is the small, hard seed
that grows to hope.

And it's also the key,

but there isn't a door, in this case.
I should draw this now to a close,
before mixed metaphor

is acquired by taste.

But the point is, whatever you say

they will know that you cared enough

to risk egg on your face.

"a straightening"

Alcohol
is a volatile mindless
volitionless chemical
that puts no sin or ugliness

in you.
It's simply an
excuse you use
to let whatever you've
grown in you out,
and then,

in reflective mood, groan
and excuse your self
by blaming the spirits.

The blame and the fault
is all in you, all along,
for everything you can't hide
in the moment it doesn't seem wrong,
dissolved in proof. Let it settle

and set,
and accept its truth
is a fact about you,
if you don't want to let
it ride.
If you want
to be pretty and good,

you can.

Forgive your evasions,
forget your excuses and face
whatever kind of a man,
woman, or child or beast
you've been keeping inside.

Quit letting it out on a drunk.

And don't even think to apologize.

Let it out sober, instead. Stare down
its bloodshot eyes, and try coming to grips
with the need or pretense, this bent

in you

that has had you masking and covering it,
with so few believable lies.

If you want,
be yourself.

It's the best thing to be,
but you have to own all of it.

Hoist glass! And: Raise to the light!
And let shine, through every ebb
and mote. And then, full-knowing all

that lurks in the dregs,

drink yourself down.
To the last, clung drop!
And prepare to glow.

Next time, propose a toast.

cleanest cleaner clean

I wish that my mind could be water-shaped,
and I would pour you a bathtub, full
of my thoughts so clear

you would never suspect.

Not once in your life
would you ever have got
so
thoroughly clean
or
soaking wet

Declaring the Enemy Pt.2

modern justice politics

the way to win a war
is to declare the enemy all around,
each of them boxed and checked off,
transfixed unexpectedly shocked

to be so declared

it must be on immaculate irrefutable basis
by the same established principles

they had themselves just
been cheering, and learning to use

feeling themselves just.

the way to win the war
is to make sure everyone on all sides
knows at any point

they could be marked out,
crossed off,
pariahfied

so WATCH IT

is the watchword.

Weren't you just explaining righteously
enlightening someone about the disgusting
inhuman anticompassionate 'them' you
have so summarily been welcomed to?

This is how we will win.

We must amass

an army

disgusted, confused,
indignant and disorganized

swollen ranks of the summarily-deputized
enemy, and then

we will walk right over them.

"declare the enemy"

In anger, in ire
we shall rise above
and see all of the field

and who has turned out, and who
was just there,

and our tactical outrage
pours out through the air

to blast where they stand
every one,
everywhere:

(except for the pure of us)

for what they have done, for what
people like them

have done.

It is for them,
that we are

declaring the enemy
punish you royally
turn you against me
YOU are the problem

YOU are the enemy
turn you against me
everyone now can see

who.

It is you,
and those like you
and everyone else who likes
those like you

you,
all of you

have decided yourselves,
and marked yourselves out,

please consider yourself
divided against us, and cast
from humanity
pretty damn well

it's not me, it's you.
Your own actions are loud
Your appearance proclaims

which box you're allowed
to be fit in, and
we fit all you in.

So we check you off.

Now shall we continue? Begin,
Again,

Declaring the enemy
punish you royally
turn you against me
and all I stand for,
trod upon readily.

Here's
what we plan for:

This is war.

And you are the enemy.
Because you deserve it.
Because what you've done
you, or people like you:

your time has all come.
YOU are the problem
turn you against me
now everyone can see

who

this is for.
This is for all of us.

We didn't start
this war.

"the story of my"

this tiny sign, just

above the box of pens, said
and says "take,

but don't keep"
How perfect
and apt that is,
to me.

It is good
advice given imperatively.

These pens

are yours,
or one of them,
to use - but

it is not yours.

Make any words you like,
such as "mine,"
your not-yours pen
will pliantly humor you. Draw any line,

but you'll be drawn back: return, relinquish,
now we are through.

That comma,
a sole mercy,
that sharp slack tiny transfixed lull,
means so much to me.

That moment
deliberately interposed,
given to say: it's okay,
you can have,
you can hold,
you can take,
you can use - cradle this

in mind, you can take that
with you - but you can

not keep.

Walking out of the building,
my breast pocket cried
from the empty place in it,
where nothing can hide.

"great gobs"

we sat
so close

I bit
into the egg sandwich you made
for me

you leaned in
eager to see

me like it.
I knew, held
as I held it,

pregnant with unbroken yolk,

it could spurt great clinging gobs
all over your surprised face,
a soft hot rorschach,

crowning your blush,
bejewelling an eyelash

- one of those things that happen.
It didn't. The hot flood was mine,

filling my delicious mouth,

and the blush was mine. You saw,
and approved.

You have won,
but it could have gone
easily either way,

with one slightly wrong
move.

TMI poem #1 scabs

OHHHH, NOYEAH. Scabs,
man. They tighten up
and pull at the skin, sometimes

there's itching under there
as everything knits itself together...! Also
that PRIMAL URGE both to "hasten"

the healing process,

jumping the gun as if it's already done (but
it probably isn't and we probably know) (yet
SO SATISFYING when we think we're jumping the

gun but no!

All new pink skin!
Nailed it!) and the
perverser urge to interrupt it, to spy

on its secret workings while they're still glistening
- setting back the process!

The scab

is the hat of our body's secret doctor,
and it fascinates us
to see him or her working on the surface.

We want to peek under there!
And all the right/wrong
warring sensations slowly
pulling at each other
under that scab... they're

just calling
and calling at us
to pick them off, to intensify.

"Two Halves"

I'm old,
and stained by use, and sprained
by overuse and maybe tamed by abuse,
misuse, some small neglect, miscalculated
interest, risk, benefit, and debt. And darling,

I just noticed it.
I kid you not.
It all came crashing home,
just thinking of you, so shiny new

to spend

a lifetime's worth of never once wanting
to roam. I'll give you

gladly

everything I have left, this half a life
on loan,
if you think you can take
what you've got, add all that is mine,

and make it come out for the best

in the end.

apportation

I don't even know how I got
in the house.
I do things
forgetting, unmindful
somehow but the door's
always locked,
when I step
back to check.
It's the only way I
can ever get out
of the now

I suspect.

stringlessness

This observation is worth nothing, now, but it's true.

And so truth
is worth nothing now,
but I give it to you.

"Misdoubt."

I return
to the words
and the sayings
and times of ours,

and the good that we were
still shines.
And I know

you do, too.
Some thing

has you thinking
of me, the way I

still think of you.

We were fine.

Were we only a way
to help ourselves through

all the things
that we'd have to do -

our new starts?

Or did we go somewhere wrong?
Maybe

we shouldn't have blown apart. But

I've always known,
since we did.
That I could depend on you.
So maybe we're guilty
of one misstep?

So what.

Every one since then has been true.

"No Fault"

I want
to possess you
utterly, because all
I am is yours, and all I have
is for you.

I'm so lost in you
that my only chance
to find myself is when
you give you back to me;

though I am not owed you,

so,

it's kind of a risk.

It's not virtuous, smart,
or deliberate

to have thrown myself so,
into all of this
- into your heart. It is rather
the lack of all those things. It was stupid

and dumb,
but I've come
to trust myself
when I want to give all,
from the very start, or
at critical points
along the way. It brings

a sense of well-being,
that comes
when you trust someone,
enough to say
- anything

they could hold you to.

But if anyone ever
could break me of it,
it's you.
I know it's you.
Through no fault of your own,

and through all of those usually mine,
we'll find

if a lesson is due in time. And this time,
if it's due,
in honor of you,
I may not refuse to learn. Those dice
are thrown. That one crack die

And then when I do,
what if
every piece of my self
that I've lost, came back to me?

To burn.

I can not lie.

There would be such a bonfire effigy,
as all of the world
could come out to see,
and warm its hands, in turn.
And I hope
you'd be standing somewhere in line
to warm your hands,
while I shine. Since you know,

I would. By then,
you'll have well
and truly earned
whatever I'll have had to find,
and both of us
will take it for a sign.
And then you'll be mine.

Until then, let's yearn.

road song

What if all of life
besides out on the road
is a dream? And we always wake up
where we've always been:
somewhere on the way.
Destinations await,
but to linger in them
is a dreamlike state. Whether pleasant,
uneasy or downright unreal,
it's all fading away
in the call
of the song
of the road
passing under the wheel.

"Piety"

Oh my god, this girl
the assistant waitress
at the Thai-German place
was a goddess. Her tits
all trussed up in a bodice
and thrust at us,
and she had six arms. Lord
some guys like to fantasize
about a threesome, but a girl
with six arms? Get me some. Her eyes

flashed like lightning,
I held back a perfect gentleman. She was too young
and innocent
- couldn't have been
more than six thousand
years old. I said to myself, obey this one's
recommendation,
and I did. I know when

to do what I'm told.

"smilelike"

This half-gift of smilelike expression you have,
to put someone off or on their guard
depending on what they wish to take
- I wish I could learn. It doesn't look hard.

A person could think you're faking it.
Another, you're trying but can't quite reach
a happiness that they don't quite give.
The harder they try, the lesson you teach.

You're not holding back, or holding out
false hope, or any. You're looking outside.
I think of you balancing razorlike
on an inner calm stretching miles wide.

"Good and Bad Use"

I really just want to use you for sex,
love, and conversation, which covers
the bases of wants and needs
as long as it's done adventurously.
All over this world you've given me,
I want you to use me however you please.
Your motives and purpose are fine and blest,
so long as I'm any good use to you. Let's get used
to being each other's best
advantage, and take it for all of the worth
we've granted,
for every good purpose and use, just as if
we planned it
- and the bad ones, too.
Let's not forget those. You really look
far too good in your clothes.
Could you use some help getting out
of those? I suddenly must be of use
to you. You know what that's like yourself,
I guess? You always are, and you always do.
I just hope that I can be half, or all,
or half again as much use to you
as you are to me. That would be
success.

"Decisions"

I love you fresh from the shower
with nothing on, showing your haircut off
with aplomb, and wondering what
or whether to dress. Your face
says you're open to suggest

don't explain

It's not the thought
that counts the words
I've meant too much to say
to you how much I feel,
but I don't have the first idea
how to make you see. It's real.
I can't explain in any way
that's making any kind of sense
that anyone has ever known.
You've blown my mind, in my defense.
My mind is blown.

"provocateuse"

You melt my heart of iron,
alchemize it into gold and cast
it in the shape of every face
and form of you that I behold.
Commedienne and muse, and model,
artist and provocateur:
every inch of you disclosed
just keeps me wanting miles more.

top half of paradise

The sunrise here goes on
for hours
at least,
We pretend to keep
seeing rich rose tints
in the brightening clouds, as the colors

the colours
come deepening, lightening

out

So incomparable,
every day like clocks
go on sweeping round
their hands,

cobwebs of night
asunder and flown,
knocking back stars
like a round of drinks
so the ceiling of day
can come over bright

to protect what's known,

or so you'd think.

Wherever I go,
I love the sky.

It's probably my
favorite half of the world

especially when I
am here,

with you,

Our backs to the rest,
on the grass
like dew,

and drawing out sunrise with crayons
of peach, rose, gold

and blue.

spirit sense

no more beer no more wine
no more whisky for me
I'm just going to drink
straight gin,
'til something makes sense,
again

it's the one spirit left
that's still speaking
to me

I'm just going to drink
straight gin,
'til something makes
sense, again

breathe in

pour out

breathing.

vodka has not
any character
that I care to witness,
these days.

At least, not in me
or that it gives mine
I'd rather not bother
elaborate

tequila just tastes
like sperm and defeat.
If I told you, I'd have
tequila

The less said the better,
on so many scores.

breathe in,

pour out

breathing.

One more

restless and wing

The birds in the stands of pampas grass
are rustling about
like motherfucks.
There's a bunch
of them. It sounds pretty
wild. They're making a living,
I have no doubt.

Hey. Jealousy sucks.
Could you teach me how?
To rustle and hop so
to and fro, and have more
to get by, and then to fly?
It looks easy for you!
It's not; I know

wash away clear

It really doesn’t matter
when we hit truth. Humanity
is water running downhill,
eroding the silt
of our fully-owned ignorance

by sheer force of our passing
and contact with it. Exposing
eventually
the bare limits of reality. I’ve always said

geniuses don’t do a damn thing

for us,
not in the long view.
They goose us a bit. They dislodge
a prodigious clump of sludge
here or there, that nothing could ever
have prevented
from being dislodged, from being
dissolved

- because ignorance is soluble.

Reality is not.

And we are the water. We will
wear down to it, regardless:

for everything knowable
is inevitable.

"me together"

I never knew the back of my hand
like I know you, but I'm getting there.
My parts of the body never knew their place
or maybe, they just didn't like it. My hands
are always trying to think. See how they cradle
my head and can't get in. It's okay you two.
You don't even know what you don't want to.
My feet want to fly, instead of be walked on.
Why I love hammocks, but feet
no part of this body does that. My eyes
sometimes wish they were elbows,
the hardest striking surface
we've got. Only my belly
and dick seem content,
and only then when their needs
and wants are pleasantly met.
While that's going on, every part
of me wants to be them.
That, or when I'm dancing -
the feet don't mind at all
- or drinking and talking to you,
and my mouth pretemds it is for
those things. And each part of me acts
like it knows what it's for,
and is waiting in wings.

you two love birds

And here we have the wild love, the lesson for the rest of us
in glory full revealed, an object to be much disgust
For this is how the world could be, if only you could find someone
Oh wait I think you did. Still the lesson lessens on

You two love birds!
Just chirpin' songs together
You two love birds!
Get a room
You two love birds!
So glad to see you happy
at least the one of you
at least the one of you

It doesn't seem like anyone could be a better fit for you
And I'm not hanging on, wishing that it wasn't true
I do sincerely hope you both mature and deepen, deeper yet
perhaps mature beyond these sickening displays we get

You two love birds!
Just chirpin' songs together
You two love birds!
Get a room
You two love birds!
So glad to see you happy
at least the one of you
at least the one of you

You two love birds!
Chitter and groom each other
You two love birds!
Get a room
You two love birds!
Or maybe chimpanzees
So nice to see you happy,
at least the one who was
the one for me

The happiness I'm seeing now is happiness I used to know
I'd rather see it going on and on, just let it go
I can't feel angry now, I can't even call it regret
I knew you once, so well. You deserve the good you get

You two love birds!
Just chirpin' songs together
You two love birds!
Get a room
You two love birds!
So glad to see you happy
at least the one of you
at least the one of you

You two love birds!
Chitter and groom each other
You two love birds!
Get a room
You two love birds!
Or maybe chimpanzees
So nice to see you happy,
at least the one who was
the one for me

roundly, in parables

for the kingdom of Heaven is like a soup
that hat a savour in it as of something burned,
such that the chefs declare one and all "it has burned,"
but the master of the house tasting it, declares
it has not burned, and lo it is served
to the praise of all the guests.

Or again, it is like a bird, high in the air
who maketh only so much way forward
as the wind push it back. Making no effort
it is hung suspended, drawn backwards
toward its origin. Yet with mighty efforts
of its wings, it keeps its place.

Or again it is like a soot, where chimneys
used to be. The chimneys are no more, still
the people look upon the soot, remarking
one to the other.

Or again it is like none of these things.
It never was. Strain not your understanding,
lest you be cast into the soup and be burned,
and tasted, and be declared burnt, and again
tasted and found to have been unburnt. The guests

will consume you with praise.

at last, the dregs

We mixed these cups together, once
and sip by sip, contented us.
But up you rose, before begun
was barely underway. You left,
and left me yours to muse upon.

I looked in mine: it was yet full.

I drank in deeper draughts, from then
but still it runneth over lips
to stain each day's shirt, donned anew,

and put away,
ruined by you.

Or no. By my own greediness,
to taste again from cup so blest!

At last, the dregs.
There's barely left a stain
of our sweet bitterness

to whet the tongue,
remembering you.

And all you gave,
in our brief pause
between the wars
and chores and pains,
and all we had to do
with them.

I lift it up, upending all
this last that slips and drips
in me, of what our love

forgot, forgave
in our brief cause,
so long since lost,
so long before,
to which we gave

our lives, for once
but not for all.

It's happening.

My cup is done.

I reach for yours.

Procrastination Angel

The angel of procrastination saves me many a broken fall,
by all the paths I do not fear, but do not tread at all,
at all.

Withal, I often see myself
gone so far down so many of them,
it is a comfort and a strength
to come back to myself

amen.

World News Forever

More than 150,000 people were killed
yesterday in a bizarre coincidence
involving organ or systems failure
for which no one underlying cause
has been established, tragic
and accidental trauma, senseless
assault provoked or unprovoked,
and savage attacks by animals
including beloved house pets,
wild beasts and sea creatures. Authorities

have as yet given no explanation. News outlets

have not reported on the story. Further bulletins

as events warrant.

Captaincy

Whoever does whatever's next
from here on in gets

all the blame.

Inherits the entirety
of all that's done before,

for shame.

That is the price
to take it on
to set the course

and cast off ties

- you must take on
the whole of it,
into the hold

and not capsize.

So let's hold hands
and take the wheel

there's just enough
to fight over

You push, I'll pull
the way we feel

We'll lay such course between us as
our smiling eyes can stand to see
between the glare of breaking day

and fade of last night's revelry,
into this morning's hangover.

one's druthers

darling,
I would rather be with you
than locked
in the deepest cell
of the darkest dungeon,
shackled in irons hanging
from stone walls, left
without water for days
or air or light, to starve

without your delightful ways.

I would rather be with you
than slapped in the face 'til
I throw up drunk and realize
all of existence is a simulation

run by a sound and furious idiot,
signifying everything

I would far rather, far better
have all your love

than be shot through the heart
by a chimpanzee
who could not be blamed.

He was badly trained, or
it all came about accidentally

- that's assuming I die. If I survive
that would be one hell of a story,

right?

I wouldn't mind that. But you,
though - you. I would still rather be
with you,

no question at all
about that

From first sight.

fruition

Pears. Eat them up! They are past
their prime, kind of grainy

and mealy, and none
too sweet. We held off, we
forbore to partake early, awaiting

peak ripeness. And lo! Their time
of perfection has come, and gone,

and they remain - lovely

as a bowl of wax apples.

But they are not delicious.
Did we miss their moment

of fruition? Or maybe,
it was just

these were not good

pears.

the grand canyon: bull shit

The grand canyon's fucking
weak, ok? It's bull shit

just so many aspects of it,
I don't even know

where to start.

Ok: the Colorado River,
right? That thing

flows all the way down
all that way,
from up wherever in the Rocky Mountains
all the way down
to whatever bay or gulf
of whatever, wherever way down south
it empties to the drink. Except

it doesn't dig a big stupid fucking hole
all that way down, does it? No,

it doesn't! So what's the difference
where the grand canyon is?

I say the ground there is weak. I say
we have a case of weak ground, to start with,
and then some big fucking puddle comes tear-assing through
for about a billion years, carried all the dirt away with it
and suddenly,
now we've got this hole

which we're supposed to celebrate?

What is there to celebrate about that? fuckin'
WEAK GROUND, cause for awe
and tourism? Fuck, how about

we celebrate the land both North and South
of the so-called "Grand"
canyon - how about we celebrate

THAT?

Let's praise the ground
that stood its ground! That held firm! That demonstrated
the true grit of what ground's about? But no,
instead,
we waste our laurels on some damn hole
that basically had as its main achievement,
that it wore away. Basically,
we praise the fact that the dirt there
couldn't hack it, couldn't hang.

Took off.

The grand canyon represents all that's worst
of the American Landscape. I say

we quit making such a big deal out of it.

It's damn hole, okay?

podes

the world is a pebble we loom around,
placing our feet so awkwardly not
to trod it down