mmmlvi

Astro Weiner Dog

This dim verb goes back to its fly on page five. A trolley
car begins to ding ding under the din of the birds and the
taxi-whistles, over the movie conversation kisses to my
left of the movie which would be okay if it could just
be okay. Zero, posing like a boxy metal sculpture, goes
dog-lover cruising all of the dog-loving couples. I beg him for
one of his high-sneezing kisses. The broken pigeons waddle.
I propose a bruised coffee that loses its sting across a longer
dog; caress an olive sweater over a pink stroller full of baby 
bulbs. Fly on the camera hands me a new camera with Italian
pigeons. They chase the bigger birds to Italy in a police car.
Go maple syrup skin that somebody loves with its handlebar
moustache! Might I next ride your gigantic [flypaper] with dogs

or get up and uber-straddle you like a burnt out taxibot?

mmmlv

Astro Elephant

I ride around on top of the revolution, slinging mud at
all of the fake nounbots that slam their horns into my
nog like dim take-out. I told you I never knew how to
snuggle all of this, and I beg of you, how do we grow
so far apart? Put simply, the blue elephants, like life it
self, a rainy ultimacy which can only be fun if you
say “look, this’ll be fun if I can just be fun?” I’m at     
a loss over what to interject here—the broken roses
or the burnt bananas; they aren’t so bruised and
broken as we pretend them to be, holding our hands,
oiling our verbs. Nor are these red pills quite so import
ant as [important person’s] red pills. Insert Code Zero,
he broke something else when I rode him. The lint in the
fan that doesn’t work; mm, the light in the bulb that is burnt?

mmmliv

Critter Tree

The birds are lying on the critter trees like beans.
The dogs are lying, too, to their own bruises. I’m
not even hungry, but I have a headache, so I should
probably eat a broken pizza, but then there is you.
You taste like an apple, whereas Bubble Girl like
a super fruit-bat. This inane disruptive moaning con
tinues and then it gets real dense. Here is your good
wrapper, Mister Owl Bird. Zero has gone on to love
the burnt bulbs, a crumb of which I shall not see. Nor
shall I bear the dark in me with such brazen limbo, yet
again I start to fly the birds. In me another me in love
with nothing. Like you said of the banana theory, it is
my only valentine, a hard [snowman] inside of my gut. 

We brake for mystery as we break from each other.

mmmliii

Cat Chorus

Summer comes with its mountains of red mouths, its 

pits full of hungry loves and the remarkable howl of its

narrative (a frenzied hopscotch toward a dim spotlight). 

Zero’s preaching to the gospel.  But what moves me most 

is watching him dumpster-dive into the butcher-block. All

the drama, but frozen in ice or concrete, which, at the sur-

face, betrays eons of frustrations (cellphones, fly-swatters,

etc.).  How to burst through and into the vapid sky? Yet we,

on the other side, wait.  For that [true story].  One that arrives 

only after the wet grit of monotony.  And yet.  Just to the left

of this (my movie) lies the stinky robot of reality and integrity. 

The flick drones on as summer comes, an imagination full of red

spills in alleys where toms pitch bitter yarls onto graffiti.  I listen—

loathing silence more than bird or mouse—these yowls my adrenaline.

mmmlii

Bubble Girl

The rain doesn’t stop the story nor the dancing, nor the
red pills of bruised yarn. Bubble Girl doesn’t know the
difference between a mouse and a bird, so we grow
soaked roses, stay silent as Zero draws nearer. Or also,
Zero nearly dances as we grow silent. These are mere
words of the dance, including love punching and clown 
tilting (less of the latter than the breakdowns). We’re
an alliance of greedy plot, barely escaping the loopy
newsreel, but driven by more than one punch, more
than one red pill. I go to bed for the [fire] in each
movie. Among us are Italy, the pigeons, the pink
strollers and the mugwumpers. Nowhere is Zero.
Our damp language makes angst out of daisies, del
ivers another vengeful blow to Martini-Man. Snap!

mmmli

Bird Stack

(the dream begins as an animated film)

No matter the cattle as I start to fly the birds in me
awaken what I am not sure of. A creek full of broken
numbers is that of which I am uncertain. This dance is
taken from a narrative insurgence and four pills in the
moonlight. A punch in the stomach is what got me here.
Moreover the rain is what I remember, Zero now having
laughed his way through Chinatown’s wet broken roses.
We are delivered of the bruised birds, each one a new
flower. Growth spurts. When I am lost I can find only the 
story and then I knead it into disruption. I wake up with
a tall Italian [robot].  He holds me with music. These
are the words of his song. Each desperate language gets
lost in another blue background. We wade forward,
certain that Zero will hatch us another yarn of birth.

mmml

Booty Sonnet

This nation’s investigating committee has a big fat
question: Are you trying to go the whole day with
out e-mail? Our top political associates, probably the
best babes in their fields, are acutely aware that non

sense makes the world go round. Last month’s re
port by The United Jingle of Wildebeests places the
sole responsibility on members of our own families.
I don’t like where this one is going. I’d rather watch

all of the French point toward high-level Syrian data
and fire-breathing dragons. We’ve got bacon here!
The nature of this dictatorship is such that some people
get to live. A nice concept, bringing about dancing

and woo-hoo.  All of the available evidence that guilty
parties aren’t always the most booty-shaking parties.

mmmxlix

Hard Sonnet

Love is the one must-have component of any success

ful sovereignty. I place my open palm upon this desk. 

Its blue hearts add severity to the American airplanes
buzzing about our bruises. The distances bleed into a

horizon of hand-held elections. I have only this hot gun.
I removed it from its beloved holding place, but assistance
is required in getting us back to our cool tents. I love us.
But for the challenge of reviving this honest war, I am

a heartfelt Afghan who cannot afford a firm stance. Don’t 

hold me so that I collapse like a building. Least important 

is our saga of duress; these nothing-doings which appear 

as modesty on my face-with-a-blank-upon-it. Plot is a

faulty development (no scars on this hard husk). Why fore
cast when the economy affirms it’s just our dumpy desk.

mmmxlviii

hypodermic sonnet

i have set fog up unto death as like an ax to a plane tree. it
lessly targets the pleuritic than the cozened weak. we act as
an erstwhile plot of mere piles, glutted with thoughts of draco
nian seething. more mere reductions of mist than really is

right-o, love. we’re walking in the rain, we two. it matters
(we, too!). our needs, umbrellas: one big, one small. wheeze
american (being of or in the fog). taking our luxury laps, we
talk to death of pleurisy, a hyperbolic hypo into the moist

which stews with vulnerable fog citizens. no semi-axed budget
cut removes a straight man from mere mist! other men merely
love, rotting in nothing but congress and desperation. we, more
kardashian than verity, don’t mind all of the perforated talk bub

bles. the houses elephant and ass cheer and jeer for more years 

(four?!) of tax; progress and affluents decrease exponentially.

mmmxlvii

blowhole sonnet

dear salted peaches we attend each political commission of husband crisis

we who check out leather daddies flying into unidentified rhyme schemata
for big big blowjobs on the face of the old regime put our hands on riveting
members all intent to pluck a few toes before glossing each and every man

oh man the new me recognizes a few big asses participated in BIG BLUE
HEAD HOLE international crime spree blowing water thru blowholes with
big big beerbottles .. floating from the sky where all guilty ass atrocities are
fully wickitiwacking hence we bearhug more bushes into #2 husband each

search ditty blinds & us we take our pills and get blah to the next atrocity
in ex-wickitiformalism its ingrained groveling of officials “dude groveling”
lest we ping each beancan with birdcalls & say do not cum here longer
til further politics of the other hand hit home where our locks are doors

we calls the police-the-police it’s a strange weal indeed and formidable
here’s my settlement granted in poo I cry w/each baby for the poo police

mmmxlvi

hire more monkeys sonnet

and in this depressing tableau
we have unbearable cuddling
on sheehan’s convoy. this eve
ning’s proxy hidden under the

mess of us. fixated on the sna
zzy numbers we rip into sadr
city, suspecting that it appears
we are delivering a buckling

blow to the troops. it’s another
mandate, this cookie left to
plunder iraq while the colonel

simonizes militiamen. casey at

bat, we feel benevolently at ease,
yet, soldier, we’ve run amuck.

mmmxlv

Peach Smoothie Sonnet

Posturing for elections, these naifs are well-
oiled and ambling through the roar of hogs and
the fogs of war. The Sunnis ogle camo’d
wheedlers, hold out for eggshells and walk on

pins and needles. Some are indicted by the
breadth of missiles and the bacons of spam. We
know privately that without such oil-power, no
sediment rises from separatism, no peach

smoothies for the Baath fantasies. Railing
on the ruins of the outskirts of oases, peace
makers pave the way for Kurdish and Shiite
Americans. America of the United Sandstorms.

Party will be the Power again. Godlike folks
getting back to nature = economic viability.

mmmxliv

Chopper Sonnet

I sit on the organizational chart and propose it’s
the coziest sensation imaginable. We freed 40
from FEMA once, always reporting directly to
the president of Alabama. Oh, we got hit in the

jugs at first, but the problem dried up soon
enough. 40 more FEMAs came hurling toward
us, all from the persimmon-head who performs
worstest from a chopper over bloody waters.

I’m not laughing at the parsimony of my fear

less leaders. I’m jest slurping at a lemon zinger,
slinking simply inside an agency unforeseen by 

experts as dangerous. You might joke that a cat

astrophe is good for this country; our bottled water

could also be just as dangerous as it is unfunny.

mmmxliii

Summer Squashes Sonnet

More decaying bodies will testify to the ex
travagant choices made by former Village
People. Please note that it is sensible to have
a little bit of Texas panache when hanging out

to dry. As the water recedes, more squirrels
pummel their governments. See ’em squash or
see it squashes. Their ponytails flung all about.
This callous and stumblebum method overreaches

even the golden arches as we bake like extras on
a Will Smith movie set. Note well that eBay was
intended as a proper approach to guvmint. Bid-
ness never knew its throat would evoke a 60s Hal

iburton. Oops, that’s surely a low blow. But this
administration’s response was pervy enough, non?

mmmxlii

Naughty Sonnet 

While elite schoolkids compare nicely with
those in the ragtag anterooms, each ’em aunt’s
transformed much of Europe into Iceland.
Were you super naughty? Of course I

were. A second myth: that of America’s
pickpockets and its glandular malevolence
overriding nighttime states full of canyons
and waterfalls. A most recent poll taken by

the National Weather Service shows homo-

genous societies mixing nicely with those in 

the upper reaches of—not true! Immigration 

of xenophobes always makes for better 

breadmaking, reviews favourably to those 

broads abroad.  And this is also true.

mmmxli

Ducky Sonnet

Succotash! Shake off your allies and your
vitamins. This time we’re flooded with
sanctioned torture. We shakes our faith
in love and literature. Daffy’s was never

more than a world of American ideals.
His duckbill of peace lay shackled by
silhouettes of presidents and their vices.
Every Friday he’d network like there was

no war built on lies—’til it came time to men
tion that each blue bud had gone barren—

a complete disregard of international law!
Avarice! The pursuit of happiness and

milquetoast! I accept your invitation to
dish Spamalot tomorrow. Cum quacky!

mmmxl

teething sonnet

The U.S. economy is currently
parasailing over the solemn bay.
By selling each other houses we
increase our solvency and pretend that 

how bad the aftermath won’t be. I’d
four loose teeths in one semester, each
one suffering a twin imbalance. None
richer by September, I paid each

starving dentist with money borrowed
from China. How calm the waters
of domestic spending. How subtle
the increase in credit card spam lead

ing us both to mouthfuls of ice ere
we sullenly go down on each other.

mmmxxxix

i got an afternoon coffee.
it’s taking away the headache

so i feel better now.  sorry.

    ohh.  tell me some gossip.

    everything sucks over here.

confession:  i gave in.  i’m 

drinking office coffee.  verdict:  

it’s pretty weak.  but at least

it isn’t rancid.  hey.  r u there?

     yep.  we might get a

     thunderstorm tonight!

     at least that’s what the

     weatherman says.

i need to peace out in nature,

i think.  can we this weekend?

     hm, introspective stuff.

     this could be good.  but

     more to the point, what

     are you having for lunch?

a curry club sandwich.  

it’s pretty much the 

bomb.  did you get paid? 

     hey, the spontaneous

     soiree was awesome!

     thank you so much!

sorry if i diverted your

attention away from your

studies too much.  i’ll try

not to do that so often.

     when is your dentist

     appointment.  i can try 

     to escape for coffee. 

i am having to be extreme-

ly focused.  but i would

LOVE LOVE to get outside.

     i can have coffee either

     before or after.  are you

     going back to work after?

remember that day we 

didn’t say anything at all?

     i am just about to walk

     out the door.  hooray!

wasn’t it just the best?

mmmxxxviii

chance encounter

does daddy

need a bottle

rocket? 

go ahead.

zing me.

can he not

feel his face?

not that way.

sock it to me.

isn’t heaven

just always

a minute

away w/

you?

it’s just a

barren

landscape,

dingbat.

filled with

monotony?

you got me!

what’s it like

without a body?

without a bed?

never needing

sleep?

you never

get to be

a lazy-ass,

that’s for

sure.

do you...

cohabit?

in there?

up there?

wise

guy!

i mean it.

could i ...

maybe ...

fall in love?

always with 

the same

seven

questions

aren’t we?

i just wanna

prepare.  ya

know?  just 

in case.

in case what?

you think you

have perhaps

a reservation?

come on.

the future

of love

is all.

you’re like a

pincushion.

it’s always

in and out,

in and out.

what’s a

pin?  what’s

a cushion?

there’s no-

thing to

study,

okay?

what’s a

thing with-

out physi-

cality, i

just

don’t...

always

wanting

homework.

...floating

right through

without any...

there’s

nothing

to prepare!

..feeling..

i gotta go.

already?

yep.  you

got a light?

maybe

tomorrow.

mmmxxxvii

(too angry to scream)

how might one

possibly avert

the contagion

of this horrific

spectacle?  

entertain-

ment has

given us

drama, it

has given us

comedy and

in return, our

teevees have

answered the 

question we 

never even

knew we had

by giving us

a most unreal

reality.  and

what has

that now

given us?

a reminder

of what we

never knew

we wanted?

at night, or

during inter-

mission, i 

listen to each

siren, imagin-

ing inevitable

doom.  should

i try to sleep?

or should i

get back to

the show?

when i final-

ly dream, i

dream in

parables.

there is a

fine line

between 

embar-

rassment

and tragedy.

mmmxxxvi

Bone Sonnet

To be 2004, the US economy grew staggering.
Qualities of mishap and boner was enormous.
Tuesday, that’s the longest boner of com
placency we’d ever given ourselves. A com

edy, actually. Economic growth aren’t what
it used to be. Generally, we buy big dicks so
income stagnation records glow like golden
boners. Fuzzy differences between this bulge

and that insertion (a straight year) its median
household bent on morose bonerality. No
thing triggers incomes until $44K cums from
Jacko, his treasures swallowed during

flash floods. A solid 3.8% but for its fifth
straight boner gone public boner-down.

mmmxxxv

Wicked Water Sonnet

What’s so funny about these
callous descriptives of acrobatic
details these people falling off
bridges of pugnacious isolationism?

Nothing quite as effective as
slicing up attention paid to yield
the most funds into the most prickly-
peared pockets.  Whose instincts

lead one toward nosediving into
the waters the wicked waters when
the political dynamic has been
plunged?  Nowhere near as in 

ventive as America. Americans
know a dead eye when we see one.

mmmxxxiv

scrambled sonnet

we’ve breached the Shiite inflexibility
that you so heartedly snubbed, posing
our own Congress nearly a century of
barfing and wheezing. disrupted just to

spite the Sunni recalcitrance, our fathers
fried eggs of vengeance on SUV hoods.
nothing tastes better than a little suff
rage after a few buttered toasters and

a swift ’cane over Pontchartrain. fear
not, a constitution is in the works. we’ve
seen it coming. the national legislature
forecasts more hoodlums. loot now,

ere the marred negotiations take an
uptick, get downsized or aftershocked.

mmmxxxiii

beefy sonnet

posing America by contrast seems beefy
enough to pump a few primping alarmists
into pork-laden energy and transport US
through airwaves into that nirvana we never

lost not our disciplines yet after a cold war
it heaved its 3.5 mile race through our foggy
bells into the middle of an energy crisis
and found its way into our pectorals instead

good science budgets proper ingredients
for beefy intestines rippling with six-packs
while our absurdly bulging creationist dances
into limbo not just limbo dances but wild

academic theories fading with each binge 

each purge having heaved most laxatively