mcccxliv

Thinking outside of the box

++
+++++++++
The allure of iconography
when smashing Facebook into a
wall; a sexy kid learns to represent!
I create me (just as I create you) and
you love it because finding my creation
gets you here¹ and that’s how I keep you.
At least until one of us rebrands. Til then
here’s what I keep flashing. It would nor-
mally require energy on my part (a few
tokens, consumption, a little friction, etc.).
But my ads are popping off the walls so
I can afford the present; I’ve the luxury
to represent; the freedom to engage, to
x-ray, to un-pixellate your copy.
Do you copy, oh my avatar, my
latest and my greatest?
+++++++++
++

¹ Only the 2nd verse is shown; for 1st verse change here to hard.

mcccxliii

It’s too bad
about the paradox
of the luxury of
laziness.

mcccxlii

With each escalation of
age/opinion....   Aren’t
we to grow open as cited
(nut to sprout, bud to
flower, etc.) & yet
curmudgeon’s con-
notation (=aged) &
knowing my(thy)self
which came so late
so recent.   I fling
my opinion to
goad you into
(revealing) yours.
And I stand by it
til you con me
otherwise.

mcccxli

This morning I feel a
mess of sighs (Guest)
and (from Otto)
a drying orange
section on my tongue
to put them all out.

mcccxl

The hot tamale of time dissolves.

Past a taco truck in the middle of
nowhere, I pull over – far enough
away not to ascertain if anyone’s
cooking.  Gadgets are everywhere
and a meaningless cup of coffee
sits cold in the spot for such things,
next to where I’ve built a make-
shift ice box to house Joey’s Pink-
berry.  Now I don’t think I feel.
Most of my mind’s been officially
made up or otherwise established
but who’s ever up front?  What’s
not to be delusional about (the
short ghost in the backseat)?
It’s about sun on a bench or
sleep with birdsong at the trim
of your dream.  Wasted and
wooden, a thousand pounds
of trivia in one slant cornhusk.

mcccxxxix

Super-horrible residual after-effects

     “The unemployed develop wings,” the comic strips ejaculate...
                                                             —Gerrit Lansing

Time gets lonely, too. Aw, dammit.
Eyes stuck up a silo, Sis kicks her
eldest out over an argument; sud-
denly a mouth to reckon with. The
“END” is near if you take enough
pictures and hold your ear down to
the keyboard for a while. Some-
times wrong turns and free birds
seem Big Waste. Holler at the
end of the garden for a new plot
to starch up. Any way you stray
it’s cherry-crusted hearts; a tetch
emotional until the proper set of
words air out, unfurl, and right
themselves before careening off
& ’round the bend like ambulances.

mcccxxxviii

What’s pulsing in your happy palm?  Honesty
is so hard to come by.  I’m in no rush, are you?

He shows up a beautiful evening, sits and talks
a bit, looks all tired, cute. I want to believe in

his heart.  And I write it, actually.  Then chit-
chat with Michelle at home.  I like time.  But

I love.  I love.  You-know-who.  Social anthro-
pology is fun, but bumping into personal

boundaries is underwhelming.  I do appreciate
the clunkiness of monster-dom a bit too will-

ingly, I’m sure.  So now I think in the clouds
(I’m talking weather).  One spasm after another.

Can’t get the icicles out of my head.  The ones
dripping from the rocking horse in Southern

Missouri.  Our time is blessed?  It’s one
after another.  Thanksgiving turkey.

Fourth of July.  My aunt’s daughter
places her fingers under a lawn-

mower clogged with clover.

mcccxxxvii

Sitting in Union Square waiting
to finish the night. Pondering
sausages, throw-up, and
dancing with Eli. A lot
happens. People turn 21.
Outside Salinas it’s just past
a not-so-somnolent dusk.
The mountains disappear,
provoke a reverence. Best
I can put it back in a bar that
no longer exists. I kiss the
barback, roll my eyes at the
Vuitton guy, and then I’m
drunkenly home. Find 3
condoms and a wilted
rose on my doorstep.
I’m always late anymore.
The East Coast arrives
with a coke headache
so they sleep it off.
Me, I’m just a breath a-
way with a pizza and
the Cartoon Network.

mcccxxxvi

When I came out
I seem to have gotten older.
I’m elephants. Doing
home-
work and
the first of tea. Uh?
Listening to crazy drunk
in Japantown
I hate it.
How’ll I feel when the
dust settles over
the tricks of
my finance? Albums
of my red mother in
radiant dress on the
outskirts of town.
Talking
to Jay. M & O in.
Older and sexual.
Nothing goes
together but work (
death & faxes).
I’m beginning to
understand Skeletor
(and other skeletons).
Watching the e-
pisode, I become
angry & need
a new computer.

mcccxxxv

I can pretend better than you can.

I am back in my own person
and you have absolutely flipped.

Clean the apartment.  Mash
potatoes.  Go to the bathroom
that never ages.

You deplete the wealth of your
elders while I dance.

Vacuum the settee.  Decide to
see other people
on television.

I am prescription-free
anxiety and you are lying
on a pile of Soho boas,

agreed?

mcccxxxiv

     Loss
     you begin to rhyme it with walls
     or shoeshine
                         —Barbara Guest

Kicked in the gut with
smashedglass

is way too pre-packaged.
Placement on map
is approximate.

Proximity is
a general asterisk
(...a laptop
uproar).

Coming over
I remember
how to do this.

Returning
what I can do.

Coming over.
No, return.

Chat in bed.   \
Talk briefly.      \
Leave a message.

mcccxxxiii

Laptop in Rear

I believe it just (and perhaps okay) that
you don’t believe me as you disappear
into the void. Fourteen mochas later
I’m the guy plugged into something.

     (We pick up In the Mood for Love at
      Virgin Records.)


Quick and chatty, he knows how to
knock down a drink. He gossips well
and is an aggressive kisser.

     (I cried so much into my new blue
      hot dog t-shirt.)

mcccxxxii

Here goes.

          There should be walls
          Inside any marriage
                              —Sherman Alexie

I found the red pony after many years of
peace.  It was slow-going after that.

A bloody wren (invasion of; our thoughts en-
smoke).  People lie about the silence of sleep

and then go dancing in mausoleums
or investing in gold.  But
you make it wonderful.

Teach me again.

mcccxxxi

Somebody must have flicked the wrong witch.

      Then gentle it some more
      until the commas fall in place... (J Ashbery)

It was a macrobiotic afternoon; in the end we discovered
how earnest the alphabetical. Causing the violins
to stop steering. The ruin of delectation
and famous rabbit. Eyes a-zoink with
deserted macaroons.

Refuel your image. Rummy past midnight.