Thursday, March 31, 2011

mccclxviii

He was right, they were all wearing
gladiator sandals.   Some with heels,
so not sandals.   I needed a big piece
but said no, not in the shower.   We
all stood disappointed, looking at
each other, steaming, hungry.

“Anything makes me horny,” he
said.   Under the spray, back against
the wall, I fetch his eyes, his face,
his whiskers, his eyes, the little
shaved hairs on the top of his
chest and shoulders,

slightly sunburned from Las
Vegas, his eyes, a kiss—
I love him.   I want to say
he will want to be mine.
I want it.   I have this.   A
kick.   A Roman knot.
Will always have.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

mccclxvii

Party with the typewriters.

Party with the typewriters.
I got him off and he didn’t
me.   Wub lubes in myster-
ious ways.   Take out your
wallet and beat it slightly.

Look how I’m branded.
Next up, curated (a new
tattoo in 3-D).   Later,
we embrace nerve loss.
There’s no way of know-

ing which chapter to
be in.   A place like
Tokyo.   Maps are no
use.   Winter slides over
your skull.   A bucket of

loss is worth two in the
drain.   It’s his eagerness
for wisdom got me.   A
knowing push when
democracy reels it in.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

mccclxvi

You Like ’Em Problem

He tells me how he
cut his eyelashes;
they were too girly.
Now he regrets it.

They fuck up the fish
anymore, these ocean
walks.   No time for
pain, the beach for

Japanese.   Classism
to the core.   Talk ser-
ious under the stars.
The stars are serious.

I too often.   Next
level?   Whatever,
glut of night.   Walk
(work), walk (wok),

walk.   Grabbing
at me through the
night.   Girly on
girly grabbing.

Monday, March 28, 2011

mccclxv

Chamber Music

Three scrambles and a
big sausage.   Nice, huh?
The Sutro something-or-
other.   Brunch on ham
and smoke.   We play
with rules.   I beg to
differ.

Something comfort-
able (liver) but glad
to be there.   A night
out at the convenience
store.   Four blocks to
the nearest hookah.

Try to say it zombie,
boozing it up like
Kitten on the Keys.
Tonight?   Sorry,
I’m not buttoned
or zippered and a
little flushed.

Weave in and out
of your lane like a
sob story.   Just you
and me?   Nope.   He
got pushed to the
end and checked
himself in.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

mccclxiv

Drive off.   “I love you,
too.”   I’m dance meat.

St. Patrick’s on a green
page.   My sister says

“My friends think
this one is sexy.”

Profile pellets or
birds peck at pic-

tures.   Afternoon
in the cauldron.

Speed to Salinas,
call in sick til noon

out at the park
over Ocean Beach.

We talk about
collaborating on

bacteria til
sunrise.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

mccclxiii

Death by Chicken Cubes

You’ve the body of an
eel.   Gravity supports
this, shaved hundreds
to get here.   “He’s not
meant to be a guest,”
she said loud enough.
I was closing the door
just to hear.

“Walk up to my apart-
ment.   Wait a second.”

Friday, March 25, 2011

mccclxii

Another Runny Nose

Have you tried my
Japanese shampoo?
“I never look
in your shower.”

How is Orange,
Funny?

“More noodle soup,”
as I pull away,
surrounded anger.

Open the door
and say “I
love you,” Miss
Entangle.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

mccclxi

A Friend from High School

The concept is a quartet of
helium-filled balloons look-
ing down on your hometown

as they’re let go by a child-
hood sweetheart.   We’ve a
cache of vitamins in our

cliché’d heads.   “Have
fun.   Be careful.”   And
he gives me a long kiss.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Saturday, March 19, 2011

mccclix

Era of Studs

Turning like Jeeves
stretches an irony,
unsure if it’ll flow,
a randy simpleton
sticks to his own
advices.   Portrait
of a Bloody Mary
on a Tokyo Roof-
top
stares at us
like we are to
blame.   Tells
us it loves us.

Friday, March 18, 2011

mccclviii

We bend to hear the voice of
a grapefruit and like groping
stairs our rights into darkness
diminish.   Be well in soul and
body.   Heads are made to butt
and clutter.   Fail to do for atten-
tion what things have done for
you.   Find your own banana,
hold it gentle and bruiseless
as a swan of infinite glass up-
on a thousand rivers of poop.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

mccclvii

That virgin takes the cake.

“Crank it up a notch
and deal with it. The

husband game is not
what it used to be.”

“But how’d it always
come to this; ’member

warts and all?”   “’At’s
just game, my lolli-

pop, so let’s get on
—and gun it.”

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

mccclvi

Celebrity Taken Seriously

              You recognize like the back of
      nobody’s business

                                      —Bill Berkson

Don’t leave your heart in the elevator
without any boobs.   Go about your own
authenticity.   Call again while crab-
walking but don’t dunk too willingly.

Get with it, Kid.   Erstwhile glitz
is for the sharks.   Invest all of
your boom-boom in snark.

Monday, March 14, 2011

mccclv

Your dead daddy is a dangerous man.
                            —Sherman Alexie

Admit your own flame
as you delve amid lust.

Make it appear frequently
no matter what they say.

Ahoy, yahoo!   I’m just
one grave jove undressing

another.   Tell it sleepy
and unvisited:   Time

has a boyfriend tonight.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

mcccliv

He did say (– why’d he say –)
“Thanks for the draft of
my heart” with the
lights out.   I lie down
to close his eyes.

A moment keeps—

Las Vegas is so
where you are with me.
And that’s only the
nub of it;

endorphins and
unexpressed realism.
Feening ain’t all it’s
cracked up to be, huh?

This position—

Hand over eyebrow and
arm over the sun.   Milk it
like the sap you
deftly craft.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

mcccliii

“Hello, O.   I’m D.”   Christmas in the
Adirondacks.   Aggravating guestwork.

So I make a list of t-shirts and every-
thing comes back to you.   The pressed

hair, the extra sugar.   But the gravity
of such a moment, the expulsion,

an awkward shift from seething
grace to malappropriate.   “But

I don’t do it like that.”   The
big machine twists around

onto its threes, like sluggish
oxen sex, and makes hello.

Friday, March 11, 2011

mccclii

      Why do you go West?
      What is the City you are now in?

                                —Barrett Watten

Okay, plans of shigging bones: Time
purples the sun right out of our eyes
until the shifty clouds go Tokyo.

This love hotel is a time capsule.
Generally being left, “Keep to the
right here” sends us all to hell,

but it’s a gracious picnic indeed.
Here we are plucking our way
into a stream of punky kitten-

ettes (sex is religion, of course,
but religions deliquesce).   We
all go one direction or the

other.   And so do I
some summer
afternoons.

Tuesday, March 08, 2011

mcccli

Old Man likes the feel of it.   Starts
beer and a zest for salt.   Likes tall
structures but not for the hurt of it.

So much one can do to a night on
the street.   Cleave and cleave just
for the bliss of it; for a sandwich

of heart.   Colonizing class makes
economy of status.   “Quo this,”
it might say, if it were up to it.

Old Man’s not sure if eleven
or ten but is going to a pick-
me-up.   To talk and to talk.

Life’s so like lost lust in
warp and feel.   Old M
is attempting like

hell to avoid it,
but here
it is.

Monday, March 07, 2011

mcccl

If you get the bumper then holding it the right way doesn’t matter.*

        Somewhere in the secret hills an ancient grave is slowly giving birth
        While images of beasts carol and adore.

                                                                                —Gerrit Lansing

Outside it looks like a Tokyo storm
where Tommy Lee Jones is boss.
I let go, check...and it’s real.   But

I can only go 15 pages.   After that
it’s all supposed to go together,
right?   The mind is endless

and meaningful.   Or simply,
Boys in bed machine the
book of wheat until

it sings to fly.   A whole
poem stolen just to
get it through.


*poem title thanks to Otto Chan

Sunday, March 06, 2011

mcccxlix

It.   Is.   No.   Myth.

How many racists does it take
to screw in a lightbulb?
None.   Racists hate to be
enlightened.   Well,
I have to say,

it’s a bit shocking
for an amateur such as
myself.   “I’m not Japanese,
I’m just well-mannered,” he says.

Minds are endless, I suppose.
Which always takes the cake.

Saturday, March 05, 2011

mcccxlviii

What a jarring image!

One thing about the New Age of Marketing is
that it’s certainly shooting yourself in the foot
to build labyrinths of self-reference.   Kick that
20th century dessert goodbye.   Image is still
everything, of course, but it’s gotta grab fast,
it has to stand on its own legs in a super-sat-
urated to the stratosphere, in&out (&in&out)
world.   So how’d we up the ante on using a set
of images based on a set of supposed images
based on somebody’s second-hand description
of said (or purported) images?   On words intent
on capturing the essence of words originally
meant to represent the god-honest truth of a
mere tidbit of gossip?   Nirvana’s never been
easier, my friend, nor has its pathway been
less apt.   Evolution needn’t divvy out one
extra brain cell; no need for sharper tongue
nor smoother synapse when there’s one rule
around and one rule only.   And that is this:
the image with the most comments wins.

Friday, March 04, 2011

mcccxlvii

God grant me the serenity to be as I do.
(or Wow, look who just went public!   Ouch!)

Aw, look who’s the last to learn that
public photo comments are the new
instant message?   I say be loud &
proud, Dear.   And when you get the
urge to tell your man you love him,
ALL CAPS, BABY!.

So what if the biggest ho of all is
exhibitionism, which comes in
all shapes and sizes, all colors and
dimensions, is as radical as it is
conservative, as democratic as
it is exclusionary, and, way more
often than not, is auto-erotic?

Plus it’s very difficult to wad up
and stick up somebody’s yoohoo cuz
THEN IT WOULDN’T BE SEEN!

Thursday, March 03, 2011

mcccxlvi

Sprinkles on Everything

I still have a little bit of a noggin but
sometimes it’s just too big for my
britches.   He turns up while I’m
sitting on Iris, says “Now everyone
we know is famous!”   I lie down.
It’s just another list.

Who’s up for a public debate
on photo #17?   We can buy a
bottle or two of wine, invite
a few people over, and make
like it’s comedy night.

Maybe other people will
start to think he actually
speaks?   I’m such a fool,
I guess.   I just cried and
told him not to say any-
thing.   Having sex now
will make it all okay,
I think.

Then we went for a
walk on the beach.
My feelings are
confirmed.   I’m
going to look
for a new job.

Wednesday, March 02, 2011

mcccxlv

Incense

I have a little ash or a little ache for faith
drafted into work (or into a Work) a-
round 5pm knocking the light out.
For those with memory (not rose-
mary) it may come as quite a
surprise.   Concentrate on
faith.   I don’t get it any
more but I’ve faith that if
I think enough on this moment
of time (here in my hand) something
will come of it.   There’s an elucidation,
something like joy upgraded, in meditation,
or whatever you’d call it in our Age of
Short-Attentionspan.   Or at my age.