Poem 94: Lives of Kitties

Do you like kitties?
I like them
and I say this
with

a lot of
surety

very much

but so many times
they have to die
blerff
am I right

Poem XXXV: HOW TO LIVE, FINALLY

the expense of spirit
is a waste of mojo

it is imperative to invest that shit wisely
shun that heaving!
skip to the dream

speak no meaningless words
in conversation speak
no idle sentence
to numb the time until you are alone again

don't watch tv
tv is just a bunch of assholes eating hot-dogs

there are less concrete abuses, but
in all the world
there is no slighter return

Poem XXIX: HEY DUDE / CHRISTIAN SODOMITIC QUAALUDE

O cross-dressing
Franciscan
Sumerian
men of Sodom

your sick and awkward parties
were
so devoid of chicks

and withal so lovingly
depicted by Chick
himself
right down to the last
Pazuzu tattoo (see fig. 1)

your architecture
was a disaster
!

Do you know what a disaster is?
when the stars come
completely unglued

and Pazuzu
from his pedestal
within a Romanesque arch
is all
'hey dude'

you're all
'pape satan pape satan aleppo'
with your Dante references and
everyone else is like 'whut?'
And that
is the sermon?
That
is a disaster exceedingly

but not for the reason
everybody thinks
saith
the lord

Poem XXV: Non ea videmus

All around us:
gifts from the dead

at all times
blindly we are
bumping into them

these gifts

of which we feel we merit
our insane portion

Poem XXIV: Fumon's lambs

If you ever see the wooden lambs
the ones described by Fumon (1302-1369)
leaping out of the void
you are in the wrong place
and you should leave
quickly

those lambs
a) don't exist
b) will bite your head off

So you'd better get the hell out
quick.

Poem XXI: Mimus polyglottos

the mockingbird
        Mimus polyglottos
of all the avifauna

is the official bird
of Texas
AND
of Tennessee

      O Passeriformes! O ye  Mimidae!

only a mockingbird
could work out a deal like that

Poem XX: Industrial debris

the discount toilet paper left
embedded in my ass
its pulp, and infinitesimal
shards of fiberglass

Poem XIX: Infans piger

I was a slothful infant, desiring only

to eat and play
though sometimes I dreamt up
complicated acts of sabotage
and sometimes conjured up 
savage forms of justice
out of nowhere
which gave rise to a Satanic sense
of injured merit
which I was far too well-fed to enact
and lazy

I am not sure what went wrong there
but it is hard to wake up
from that kind of contentment

it is hard to stop killing snakes in your bed
it's hard to stop slapping lions

Poem XVII: Be careful who is helping you throw up

Be careful who is helping you throw up

this is important

because if it's not Dionysus

whispering sweet nothings in your ear

whilst through purple lips

you hurl like a cat

it might just be Apollo

if it is the former

then the solace you will have received

whilst beneath the trees

you purpled the ground
with your guts

is free

it’s forgotten

but if it is the latter

you’re going to have to pay it all back 

Poem XVI: Ars mentis

i'm not crazy:

we can increase our awareness of reality
by likening things which are not
associated by habit
or by Nature,
but which we by doing so
augment, as by development.

It is a practice I practice.

It is a dream I have.

Poem X: Pea-Heads Revisited

Mr. President yesterday’s poem
which was about my childhood
went to Melania just so
you know
I’m not falling behind
in the daily-poem campaign
which is also a damn lifestyle,
as you are well aware, and a song.

BUT THIS YOU MUST ALSO KNOW:
Vladimir Putin’s pea-head
is different from Julius Caesar’s pea-head.

if you will think on this
for a moment
you'll see I am not wrong.

Poem IX: My Childhood?

To the mata mata which had chilled for years
at the bottom of his tank at Little Hipp's
that burger joint on N. St. Mary's, San Antone,
Ellen and I would sing our song:

Please don't take my creature from Brazil.
Please don't take my creature from Brazil.
Please don't take my creature.

                                                  From.

                                                               Brazil.

and when it died
we sang it to its empty shell

Please don't take my creature from Brazil.
Please don't take my creature from Brazil.
Please don't take my creature.
                                                  From.
                                                             Brazil.


You were asking what my childhood was like
and now you know.





Note: this one was directed to the First Lady.

Poem VIII: test

The General's bitch-test

will yield a thousand improvements

Poem VI: DADDY’S GOAT MAGIC

All I have do is speak a word

and the goats come running;

I say it again, at a whisper,

and they follow.

The woods grow silent in our wake.

The children aren’t into it.

In fact it seems to them ill-omened

for dad to be communing thus with goats,

with them talking

and into the forest walking.

But dad employs

defensive magic only

to preserve the farm

and keep his boys from harm

nevertheless, it’s no joke:

because these goats

are psychic imperialists.

poem III: SMELLS LIKE VICTORY

The dog moved in
quiet, close and closer
so slowly as to be
barely moving
repeating to himself
his mantra:
‘...stealth, Argos, stealth...’

and the skunk’s ass
just exploded


nice one

poem II:GRAFFITI IN THE HOUSE OF THE GODDESS

SKINLESS

BONELESS
BREAST: SHE IS
DEATH’S BRONZE MEDALIST

EVERYTHING SHE HAS DONE HAS BEEN
COSMIC
CHRYSELEPHANTINE
 & OF DUBIOUS FUTURITY

NO MATH FOR THESE RECKONINGS
NO MEASUREMENTS
FOR SUCH A HOUSE

FARE THEE WELL LADY KATHARYNE

Poem to White House I: Corinna

One of our goats,

Corinna,
miscarried last Thursday.

Three not remotely viable  goat-fetuses

were discovered
asleep in the hay.

Horrible,

yet at the same time
sort of beautiful in its horrible way.
Nature's mind
is a corpse-chucking fuck-show,
as we farmers like to say.

We also have chickens
rabbits
and bees

except the bees are gone

We were like 'Stay!'
but they  were all 'No.'
It was time for them to go.

Bye, honey.