folk etymology (truth's cute sin)

All fiction needs
is a much-needed gap
made in what's not known,
so can never be
fact. Then

we fashion
to fit, and it slips,
click!
in.

Conflicting
with nothing, it's
truth's
cute
sin. 

not/just sayin'

people allergic to dogs and cats 
I bet that they're happy sometimes
about that 

immaculate aim

I worry about miracles 
but God knows
what God's doing,
I guess.

I know that we 
could use a few, but 
there are people worse 
than you. And there are many 
worse than me. And maybe we 
will go alright. Just down 
with this. With all this here. 
Just what could be

Still I
would settle for
one night 

of miracles,
even though, I know 
you would never tolerate 
such gifts. You know 
how much they need 

elsewhere 

Aim miracles there
Aim miracles there

everylady dancing

What if every lady I ever met 
and fancied a look or what
else I could get were
collected en masse 
in a nude
discotheque,
grinding and twerking
and working a sweat while I hung
just suspended above the dancefloor,
in a slow-twirling airborne glass cage, 
with my meat on display like a sex 
zoo exhibit galore?

My hands grip 
the bars - my eyes frantic, implore 
someone anyone! Please get me
out of this, or

I will rage in the cage,
and the glass may break!
And - look. falling glass? That
sounds dangerous, mate. Falling me,
too! Smack! Slapping into
that crowd
of happy nude every
lady I'd rather not injure, 
somehow.  

Anyway, what if that? So what?
What if then? 
What would I do, hotshot? 
And when? And 
how would I know 
to go docile or rogue? 

I tell you what I'd do.
I'd vogue
vogue
vogue

sharks for arms

The men with sharks for arms
are going dream to dream
seeking you.

They're maiming and injuring
everyone
who gets in
their way.

In these dreams,
it's real pain like
nothing you've felt
before in a dream.

In shock,
missing parts
in bites and bits, and
slipping to black from blood

loss

- only to wake up
fine! But
you can bet,

people are going
nuts on social media
all about it:

Who ARE you? Why
is the Shark-Arm Army
so bent on tracking you

down?

The Shark Armers
don't know your name of course,

but
they
sure
give a thorough description.

And it’s everywhere.

People who know
you are excited.

An atmosphere
of conspiracy
surrounds you,
but

the temptation, as
you can imagine, is
or must be

terrible.

enough with the fucking jazz age

Enough
with the fucking jazz age.
I'm sick
of these jazz age mystery
shows.
The shows
would be fine. I like
the cars,
the clothes,
the plots and detectives'
lines,

but

it's
evident
in the score:

Whoever they hired
is some kind of jazz
age nut! Their picks
- plummy croons and
jump swing tunes -
seem insufferably
coy, and smug
as fuck.

And
it pains
who must watch.

It costs shows dear.

We fight through
insulting musical cues
to get to charged twists
and drama points prized.

Just trying to keep the suspense
we'd choose alive, through
such catastrophically puerile,
insipid musical insertions,
ruining dialogue, chases,

even clues!

Here comes
some awful
jazz

excuse.

You can sense those hired
to put them in.
Behind the scenes, grinning -
in ear-to-ear leer, wickedly
ruining jazz age shows.

It's pretty nice work
if you're a hateful piece,
with terrible, snobbish taste
who loves to shove it in
everyone's face
and sneer.

my classy friend

I stood in the kitchen shoveling 
food - the last of the breakfast, 
plate to maw
by forkful shove. 

I'd risen abstractedly to clear 
my plate when I saw 
I had not cleared my plate
- how rude! It was hammed 
and tomatoed eggs, and someone 
had made quite a scramble of them. 
To dishonor the pigs and hens 
and plants, all such labors of love 
was beyond my ken. So I raised it 
to mouth - the obvious choice! 

And shoveled delicious voraciously 
in. 

And thought in a flash 
of my classy friend. 

Look. I don't think she would 
"disapprove" as such. She would 
probably laugh like bells and blush 
to see my pure manner and natural grace 

engaged in such ways 
of feeding my face, but 

it probably would confirm something. And 
if she'd been there, I feel I know for sure 
- I probably might have had presence of mind 
in greater, specific amount 

to deplore.

But 
maybe quite not.
Maybe not rather. 
It's possible that wouldn't cross my mind,
or it's possible
I would transgress such line, since 

her standards are hers, not mine, I find.
And I think this here attitude, cool and aloof 
from unnatural affect and held value 

is something she actually prizes, a bit! 
We're examples to each, in what's
just 
fit.  

Outmainstreaming

Thing is, I've always been mainstream. 
A lot of people didn't notice, 'cause I 
wasn't quite type. I defiantly touted
and barged around, charging mainstream
cause, with the weight of all right, which 

isn't much done! By the mainstream 
laws. But the fact is, I was always more 
mainstream than you. You didn't really 
notice, 'cause you were aligned 
but I was polarized

like a laser light burning right
through. So I pulsed so in perfect time
with that mainstream shine, I was always
just-so, and then some. And then 

some people didn't notice. They thought
I was some kind underground whore
of alternative current, subversive
and such.  

But I wasn't. I was main 
stream core. Too much.  

I'm only coming out now 
to do it some more. 

So notice next time! I am
way 
main 
stream 
galore. 

An Ode to U and S and A

When I talk about America 
- the Land I Free by my Very
Presence in Mind - naturally 
others don't know that, but 
it's right there in the senses 
and evidence, ideally. Anyway, 

naturally I get a flag in my throat 
which must unfurl on the humid 
and billowing breeze of my sweet, 
hard, shining words, naked as steel 
and twice as pointy. I stand a patriot 

to a round of ale and uncork a sort 
of Nietzschean pastiche of battle 
hymns to a democratic republic 
idea of will, which the Neetzch 
would probably declare me dead 
over, from just beyond the grave, 

but 

I don't care! My country is the one 
they call Tisovthy, in the old song 
I know much by heart. I roll purple 
grains in majesty for my own
mountainous amusement and 
call it fair, foul, fine, and free 
on all sides - as I deem each warrants 
from basis on merit, and guess what? 

This is what America means! 
Free stuff. Cheese, of a peculiarly 
undistinguished sort. Great beers, 
once you get into the minors. A 
huge, titillating abundance of 
emphasis on sex, tits, ass, 
pussy, and of course, religion
- opt-in! All of it! Rock, roll 
and who knows what they've 
come up with next! This! 

This is what we've got to fight. 

THIS is what we've got to fight for. 

We must use each and all our inbounded  
unalienability of human reason to identify 
and critique our ideals. This way only
we stand up, speak out and march! Nobody's
fool, we! Time for a truth bomb - get in the 
echo chamber if you can't stand it.

I mean, if you care you should dare. Right? 

Find out about what you care about first, 
probably. America is the cahoots caboose 
of the world's train of thought in full-on
canoodle mode trying to woo the whole
world's mind to our way, our side, as if
Burger King had never existed. As if Pepsi
were not an option. Well, have it our way
if you like!

You're free too. 

I suggestively recommend though, you 
take a big ol' look-see at what you're 
getting into first, 'cause it's great. 

Caveat Empire

Straight maybe

Listen. I knew this was a chance
when I took it with half a thought 
and my whole heart. And now 

you know about me. What I am. 
Or if you don't, it's time you did. 
So 

you know
you can decide what we've gotten 
you into. You need to know this 

about me. 

I am the mack dandy. 
The big pizza-eater. 
The one with the thumbs.
The trouble bubble,
and when I swell it goes
out to the ionosphere,
and when I pop it's like

every cop in the world 
got called and its a panic
scramble nightmare of 
paperwork, filling out 
reports and applications
for warrants, warranted
and not in a huge ass-covery
recovery ops binge preparatory
to the greatest red-tape bureaucracy
parade never seen.

They have to pull a hush-up 
when I'm on the scene, or it's 
a bad look for them. I don't 

want that. I'm mild in my 
aspirations, I can't help it 
my effect's so outsize. When 
I'm home, I'm home for business. 
The whole walls and windows, 
cupboards and draws setup hums
with the echoes of past business,
and guides with as-if spectral hands
the way future business is tended
to.

Basically, 

I do the dirty daily-duly on duty mode,
and I don't question what I must or wanna,
'cause it's gonna happen like it had to, and
fate's big hand in the game is afoot - 

but today, dearie?

You and me hold all the cards. For now
and for once, it's no business of anyone's
but the whole wide world if we stay,
hit, raise, show or fold. You knew 

all this about me the moment 
you first held my eyes, I thought. 
But now I've got to know. Did 
you? Do you now? And what 
do you say? 

If I'm wrong, it could be 
the wrong one of us got 
sucker-punched in the eyes 
that day, that night, that week 
those months so long ago, at 
that cowboy disco hoedown 
we dragged ourselves to, and 
it's kinda funny neither of us 

tumbled to it since, if so. 

You know me. 
You know what I am. Am I 
problem to you? Solution?
Opportunity, challenge, 
comfort, head-rest, heartstring 
or just a puzzle? I

don't need to know. You 
don't need to answer. Not 
now, not ever, but I needed 

to put this out there. To give you 
this chance. You could take it now,
whenever,
or forever. 

bigotry math

How can you hate 
the Taiwanese? How 
many them have you met?
Girl, please. There's twenty three
million of them back home, and 

I bet you haven't met twenty-three,

where you roam.
Yes, sure, some roam
and settle around. Near you, 

even maybe. Face to face
in a crowd, but how many
have you met yet? Truly?

So far? 

Enough sample size 
to fill up a bar 
on a graph you plot 
to declare all the rest 
same beans? Good 
as bad? Real hate?

Is that 
the paltry, vacuous 
make-believe thing hate 
means?

pleased & uneasy

We feel pleased and uneasy, 
unnerved to find this alien 
slant in a natural mind, which 
in other ways makes all sense 
and fit. 

So we think we might like 
to acquire it

dogs are cool

dogs are totally fucking cool 
to lie down and sleep when 
there's nothing to do, 'cause 
they totally trust you to wake 
them up! If there's anything

cool, 

they'll be fresh like a pup. And 

dogs have no fear of missing out. 
They know that you wouldn't 
just leave them behind! They 
have purpose and energy, always 
aligned. They know just what to 
do, if you give them a sign, and 

maybe train them to obey what 
it means. That's just
the dog's trick! What
it is, what it
seems.  

backwards time eyes

You must have been beautiful
when you were young
You must have had eyes
and a face back then

I mean I don't know,
but I bet you were short.
An author and poet
about age ten

beautiful

also

I bet you used to put
your feet in your mouth

beautiful

future self stew

We stir in reverse. 

and
things
undissolve to
ingredients we
take out and solve.

The stew's 
taking gulps
of breath sucked in steam
caught up from the air in bubbles
unbreaking to simmering skin, 

and descending to fire -
to surfaces out of all view 
and sign, but pretended
as understood sublime. 

Or at least well-guessed

We sit and gaze and 
stir in reverse and the pot 
unplays itself streaming back 
from future, to here.
To this. From at
last, 

to
first.

All
coalescing 

backwards to now, 
from goals of bliss in
life's distance as clear
as day
somehow, and yet,

as yet
nonexistence.  

We stir and bestir 
ourselves taking shape
towards us

from such fictive
future states as can't 
easily be unseen,
once we read
them 
unwrit,
and begin 
unfurling to seem,
and being, and so
have been.    

animal class

Frogs have a self-satisfaction humans
can't fucking compete with. The grasp 
cats have of dignity is incomparable 
to ours. We can only learn at their feet, 
swat, bat and swipe and glare-eye
hiss of peremptory rejection
what it is
to be
autonomy
personified, which is
a fall well short of autonomy
felinified. Felinized. Felinity
is dignity with a tail on! Dogs, 

true, far outdo and outshine us
in two of our most prized "human
virtues": devotion and obsequiousness. 

Dogs teach us all these scores. Trust 
me. 

Whereas a bear 
a bear
teaches us
perhaps the most lesson
of all: "Holy shit it's a bear!" 

That lesson tends to be 
unforgettable 

tornado at last

I thought it was a tornado
at first. 
But then
I saw the details
of the cloud surrounding 
this downward protuberance 
- were motionless. And it itself
won't spin. It's just
a dark cloud 
too well-hung
I guess,

which is a win! 
For local safety, 
anti-injury and 
property concerns, 

but somehow I can feel 
let down. 
The panic spike withdrawn 

still turns 

a naming of holes

An asshole is
a person but 
a shithole is
a place. And

I guess a fuckhole is

a place in a person.
Or...two. 
Not...three. Look.
A person has either
one or two - plus a
suckhole! Although wait, 

all that shit's optional 
Look. I'm just trying
to get this straight.

So, 

a piehole
is the mouth! 
That's easy. You put 
in pie. And shithole 
isn't so hard to place. 

It's the anus! AKA

...an asshole.
Everybody's got 
one in my opinion, but 
there's ambiguity there:
in the asshole.
Always 
is.
Is it
a person, or a place
in a person, the asshole?

And why

is neither the person nor
the place in a person ever
called a shithole?

Nobody ever 
gets called that. "You
shithole!" Nobody. 

And -
- which 
is the cornhole? 
In with the pie, 
or out - you know? 

the asshole. 

 

Asshole, pretty 
sure. Pretty 
sure. 

Of course, there's 
the butthole, but 

yeah.
It's kind of like 

lame  

I trust your judgment

I trust your judgment above
my own. My judgment is stronger, 
fiercer and known in growing and 
finding and trying things. That's 
"try" as in "prove." My judgment 
has wings and lenses and blades, 
and it rules amok in my head 
where it grows by rejecting 
muck, and dissecting each 
piece and facet it finds. But 
your judgment is sounder. 
Oh, yes. I mind. 

boneless apples

I set up a stall 
in the marketplace
selling boneless apples 
and pears and grapes, 
and business boomed 
as the rubes rolled in

quite delighted by fruits 
I purveyed to them. 

"But what" said one 
"...do you do with the bones?
"It's a secret," I lied 
in confiding tone, "But

I don't mind telling you 
on the sly - I could sell 
you a big bag of bones, 
wise guy."

And we winked, 
in conspiratorial style. 
He left with a big bag
of boneless pears to his chest.
I breathed free, my bluff uncalled. 

I did not need another big 
bag of bones to hide 
in my stall.  

masturbation is self-care

Masturbation is self-care,
Well obviously, it is, but 
sometimes there might be
a such 
of things,
such that too much
care is too much? For what 
it brings! And what it finds. 

Discretion argues otherwise. 

"Oh what's the harm? The use?
The good?" But folks, Discretion's 
wired-in like everything. Don't 
trust you should, just 'cause
Discretion's on your back, and urging 
you to wank you raw. I deeply doubt, 
suspect and reckon that 
Discretion's dropped 
a ball or two. 

But maybe that's a healthy thing?

Oh, here comes Prudence, such
a prude. She always rides
discretion's wing. 

Hey, go do what 
you have to, dude.

Has it occurred to you
that shame, if ever you
acquired it? Could have just
spared you so much in pain? No, 
'course not. You derided it 
as useless, per Diogenes. 

And maybe that's a healthy thing. 
Just tell you that, down on your knees
while all the world comes gathering. 

maybe everyone does.

I love the
look babies
and small kids
get on their face
when they're eating
something, especially
something new - eyes
totally neutral ahead, not
looking at anything. All
mental notice is directed

mouthwards.

Total food scrutiny

I still do this 

I still get this look. 

a fatal economy

The secondary character 
who seems to know 
the secret
of the mystery 
is 

you,
this time.
You sense the readership 
agree. Anxiety
and some suspense 
in knowing you 
are clearly
next. 

So line by line
with small ado, eyes
dragging you 
to death sentence. 

The problem with beef

People who are full of beef are anti-cow. 
This is obvious, for they eat the cow. You
didn't need to read that - I didn't need to 
write it!

However,
they are also pro-cow, 
for 
they eat the cow. 
Duh. 

They view the cow as a roving resource 
of beef and sometimes milk - not "dairy!"
- that's where it comes from! Dairies 
produce "dairy products." Cows 
produce milk, and work in dairies 
as slaves.

The one full of milk 
and beef is pro-cow,
and supports the cow
as a resource for these, 
plus leather. Many a mother 
has asked a wayward daughter:

"Why would anyone buy a cow

for free milk? When what they 
want is the beef and leather 
you give away." Implied, and
sometimes stated outright
was the moral: "If you aren't
wiser in conduct, you may find
yourself in the shameful position

of a mother! One of the most 
demeaned and reviled professions
- oldest in the world, or so you'll
feel, when a child of yours like you
comes to you smiling, reeking of sex
and unsold beef, given away free!"

Such asked daughters
had no answer. They

were crying,
shamed
by the obvious
barn-style metaphor.
"Mom is way too rural in her
views, and sees me as an animal
for not haggling my own meat
at premium cost!" Many a slut 

has been shamed by this beef. 
Poor cow.
"Slut-shaming"
is a widely-different problem here, 
though. Our problem is a critical 
examination of beef itself: the main 
dish! Not these side beefs. 

A side of beef is huge, and too much 
to deal with alone. In the UK, a solution
was found: make cows eat beef. This is 
anti-cow, and the consequence? Mad. 

Whoever eats beef-fed beef is mad. 

The cause of this shows the wisdom
of ancient taboos on the practice
was right all along. When o when

will humanity learn to get it right
all along again?

Perhaps,
when we stop being so
anti-cow. 

secret identity tradition

Every Butch I've ever met 
is secretly named Claude. 
And most of them seem 
Butch enough, but still -
somehow seems flawed. 
If it's some kind of Jack/John
deal - how so, on such small
scale? How many other pairs
like this in secrecy prevail?

I've never even met one Claude,
aside from Butches found. I bet
Claude's life goes differently, 
when Butch is not around.  

wish-horse

If wishes were horses, genies
would win. They'd have it so 
easy, as billowing smoke 
from the lamp fills us in
- a genie appears! With
whinnying wishes, stamped
hooves and tossed manes,
we begin. "So, what do you 
wish for? the genie rubs hands!
"A horse," we grouse. "Wish 1! 
My command!" With each wish, 
the next horse would change sides. 

But really,
we could
wish for that 
if we tried. 

scale

I live on a quarter-acre, 
and I still don't know how big 
an acre is. Sometimes it fills 

the whole wide world, sometimes
the whole wide world fills it. 

And I don't really know how many 
each or either/of would fit 

I sense the football field is larger, but
my mind cannot quite measure it.

Apparently,
this plot
I've got 
is tiny 

One three 
oh five one
eight inches square 

I hope I live 'til
I've found every one 
of them, and watered it 
with pains and care 

overhand

If a character in a show
always wore a strap-on
prosthetic arm, but he
also had two (2) fully-
functioning arms, and
he blandly maintained
it was pure convenience
and benefit in his view, and
even made a point of doing
things with the arm, and
showing off how he could
manage some additional
trivial task addendum that
you couldn't, with your limited
two hands, and in subtle, cocksure
sneering ways treated the "less-handed"
as a "less-abled" class deserving special consideration,
condescension and a sad bit of pity, would that be....hm.
I can't think of the word. Believable? Promising? Anything?
Anyway. Would it be? 

Now, the real question, if so:
Must it be a comedy or dark comedy? Or could it be
drama? Police procedural potboiler, or legal team show. 
Could it be a documentary, or is it too late? You must understand

he only originally began using the arm and hand demonstratively 
to refute the naysayers belittling and razzing him for it. It was only 
over time, he began to
truly pity the
underhanded 

what happened to Jonathan

Jonathan, a friend of mine 
I never met - I just made 
him up for the poem 
actually, ignore that 
I'm writing poems 
about unreal Jonathans! 
The point is, Jon 
was always 
so reliable. 
I wonder 
what happened 

a seem so strong

She lives in distress 
to rescue herself 
it's her point of strength 
to repel all help 
and it can't quite be healthy 
to be right so much wrong 
but I can't even tell, 
when she seems so strong 

woman style

A woman has 
body hair 
natural 
it's natural 
A woman has 
body odor 
natural 
it's natural 
A woman has 
a body shape

natural it's natural 
a woman has 
body style 
ooh that's 
artificial, child 
or anyway 
it sure could be 
natural it's natural 
one's style is not 
constrained it's 
free and 
natural 
it's 
natural 

insta random comments verbatim #3

Man I worry
you're turning into one
of those dreamy, broody guys
who you can tell really means it, but
isn't averse to scathing the ridiculous
at a glance, either.Watch that cliché.
Strong work though! That's the main thing.

check your birthrate bruh

Hey,
are you still siring bastards
like a stud in a dead heat
panic race against mortality
to the soap factory finish line,

while those hot frothy mares 
of not necessarily yours keep
stamping and champing, bit 
and kissed, stroked and bucking
for more,
and you
can't close
your wallet anymore 

from all the baby photos.

All your kids call you uncle 
or something. Your growing stable 
of young mothers are just good mates, 
not even exes really, just whys 
and why-nots in succession. Dropping
out
and swinging
back in cyclically,
sometimes. If it was good.
If
it was
so good.
Can't we try again? Yes.
The answer was again yes.

Do you ever get tired

of hand-holding, delivery 
rooms and careful understandings? 
Care and something more, true
for whatever it may be worth.
I've heard 
about you. 
Navigating it all like bulletproof 
clockwork, ending up smelling 
like a rose-oiled thorn
in your own 
side, how
you can't stop. How you 
can't even keep.

How you love it. 

How you love each of them
and all of it, and feel a wistful pang
you can't split
into a dozen of you, do
the traditional job proper but - 
they don't need that or want you
that way, or seem to. It all seems
now - whatever happens later - so,
well, adjusted. In every minute
you think of it caught up in a totally 
headlong, heartflung irresponsible way,
in a thrilling habitual exhilarating caper 
existential in nature,
some defiant urge maybe 
to live and live on
replacing yourself 
to a point of boggling
multiple redundancy 
or something, no shame,
no guilt for the planet
and you can't hold
yourself otherwise?

Is that your story? 

What?

No? Oh! That wasn't you? I heard
- I heard 
- I had a dream I think.
Maybe that was it
and I heard that's what you've
been doing with yourself. No?

No kids?

Okay. Ha sorry! I was just just 
curious about that aspect. Well,
congratulations! So what've you

been doing with yourself? 

the harm sway

Somebody's getting married
so we thought we'd watch.
We came all this way, to find
what we have not. We're both
such grand romantics. We rule
this hell. Heaven's better service, 
maybe. Who could tell?

We've gotten lost in heaven 
a twice or thrice through.
I never once regretted 
your decisions for you. 
But still to find you now
at the end, I'm amazed
So why don't we dance
crazy? One more? 
Dance craze! 

We do the harm
sway, holding you tight
for our last dance
for forever ever, tonight
We do the harm
sway, and I can't let go,
I know,
I know,
I know, song's
over too slow, 

but I cannot help 
keeping my mind's eye closed 
denial of the future's my job, 
I suppose. You were always better 
at seeing things clear, just
not all at once or in time, 
my dear 

We do the harm
sway, holding you tight
for our last dance
for forever ever, tonight
We do the harm
sway, I can't let go,
I know,
I know,
I know, the song's

too slow

sideboxing

Climb on up the inside
of that jungle gym
that you’ve been
thinking in. Get
brave! Hang upside
down! You’re small - to fall
would bam! Ouch! frown,
but you’d pop up to climb
some more. Size up this boxy,
holey dome! It’s limits: hard,
like metal. Painted primary,
or bare as chrome, yet
In these boundaries, there
be gaps. Holes, to squirm
and wriggle through - and soon,
(you think) you’ll be outside. Well
size it up! Plan out! Go to. 

no comparison

She wallowed in cerulean
surf and churned the foam
upon the waves, then rode
in happy as a clam, and rose
and strode, and lay, and fell.
Asleep for days, this week
ran by in vivid, lucid dreams
of real. She wallowed in
cerulean surf. For once,
no metaphors to deal.

until.

The morning sun was wet
and bright and clear and dew
bedewed the earth. I told you
what I thought of you.
You told me what
that thought was worth.
And then we parted endlessly.
Forevermore. We're parting still.
That morning never quite went by. 
I'm in it every day, until. 

self-talk shush

She listens to the radio 
for the voices 
she won't know 
to block and blot and overwrite 
the voice that she
has known in life
the music's bonus antidote 
in thrum and drone 
in pulse and squawk 
she tells herself she's listening 
but she's just trying not to talk 

one back

She was making the beast with one back.
A process of lassitude, frantic and
antic abandon and lack, and
I am taken aback 
at such sight in mind's eye 
I can only guess at. It's improper 
to make a subject of this.
It should be (one thinks) a privacy jam.
Yet there, she is 
And here, I am 
We only imagined each other  
bam

fat fast

I feast on famine
and grow fat fasting
waiting I'm weightless.
I end everlastingly
turning the corner
to start in straight line
curving infinite inward
to finding, I find.