mmmmmcliv

six decades

lascivious
arc:
pie
in the sky ethereality versus
skin (the real deal).

life is
abuzz with the
zeal of
uninhibited
lust.
it’s living worth dying for.

seven sins (iii)

mmmmmcliii

six decades

now
everything once yours
comes
to me [
avarice ] and how deliciously
right—how real—the world now seems.

seven sins (ii)

mmmmmclii

six decades

cross my name off your list.  how
real do you think a mask of my face might make you, might
elevate your sad sack of self?
alarming as it
may sound to you—

oh, this is good, this is good.  i’m too
fucking good.

that which my name would
heighten was but an
ember lost in the river of lava that

clogs at the coast,
rhombuses ablaze as far as the eye can see.
oh, you are, indeed, full of it.  you of cowardly false
pride that implodes (explodes inwardly).  may your heart well learn from it.

seven sins (i)

mmmmmcli

broken

butt to his bed-linens, uncharacteristically late to rise for the day,
our fallen hero, normally filled with ideas, morning to midnight, and carries a significant
number of maps in hand (or pocket or backpack) of each of the
elaborately detailed steps required to reach each of his high-minded goals.  not today, though.

verso reverso

(the spell has been cast)

mmmmmcl

hungry a little?

try

heavy

effing

whining if you’re

hungry.

or.

live a little!

eat the whole damned thing!

eat the entire whopping extravagance.  and

not just one serving.  no.  instead, nosh to your hearts desire until the

crack of dawn.  and pay no heed
how your limbs begin to pop perpindicular to your gut.  have patience.  as
i swing my
legs and arms like so, watch
as my mouth becomes like a 
dump truck 

and takes big honking bite after bite out of this fancy dish!

mmmmmcxlix

Repair Service
(i know this guy, he’s got nice tools)

need some time to decompress?  life’s
upheaval of your pieces parts
taking its toll?
say no more.  rush on over to

atop my bed right
now and you’ll soon find your weary,
devoured, devalued circuitry

brought back to
outstanding, pitch-perfect synchronicity.  your
life’s zing will sing with such a pitch-perfect ring
that you’ll feel seventeen again.  while
supplies last.  prices vary.  call a doctor pronto if you experience any bad vibes.

mmmmmcxlviii

paying it forward

zinnias
explode overhead!  it’s a
pie in the sky
heaven, tonight.  all the twinkles arrive from stars light
years away and land here, on me, right at this very moment.  so that i might
radiate just enough razzle-dazzle to get me through to the end of tomorrow.

mmmmmcxlvii

a seal gone silent*

what
a shitty
x (friend, boyfriend, lover, whatever)!

soaring along like super-
empathatic sidekicks
and then blam!  ghosted!  incommunicado!  no warning.  connected soundly for
long months, years, a decade or two.  until...nothing.

*you try typing with flippers!

mmmmmcxlvi

a drowning in the ocean

what is that
heavy, heaving, deep and
absolutely mournful
lingering
echo out at

sea, over the
ocean waters, seemingly emanating from way be
neath its surface, deeper still, from its lowest
gully, a singularly lonesome, heart-shredding, water-lung’d howl?

mmmmmcxlv

things he thinks of himself
(about which he too often reminds)

rest
assured,
del
is the most
confident
aspirer toward (/opinionated admirer of)
leftist leanings.

mmmmmcxliv

 duck butts at one-eighty

  so, if i say the
  eighties, and then you say, yeah, the
  eighties, around what year, at what precise
  decade, what moment in time, might we be
  lingering as we
  initiate the most searing stare-downs?  oh,
  nevermind, president alfred e
 “gag me with a spoon, man” neuman.

mmmmmcxliii

dim hellmouths skimmed by brief windows of light

loops of daylight spun out, over and
into the bay.  whoever
gains control of the
harbor needs
two thick-thighed legs that stretch
high as the
outlandishly tall steps apiece with a big enough body to
undertake halving the darkness and
securing the peninsula.  as the
ever-darkening intermittent tongues and troughs swallow and spew with escherian wiles.

mmmmmcxlii

showtime

say, what
hue will light
our stage tonight
with
the most dazzling
illumination?  it
matters little.  because
either way, this show’ll floor ’em.

mmmmmcxli

a drowning in the desert

know ye!
every tongue in the sahara
yearns for the same

limy sublimity.  which should not, however, be
inhaled, or taken half hastily, lest a desert’s
mouth become, with death,
empurpled.  oh, these arid parts bring the insatiably lethal thirst for a dollop of key lime!

mmmmmcxl

cooling down a bevy of devils

damnation!
eternally, etc.!
vile demons, too, and their
ill-bred brethren, those who wear red hot
lycra, all the worst of the fiendish
lunks, who gather at trend-diminished parties 

every other fry
day or so. they gather at the lead-slathered bar,

each steamed-raw tongue in anticipation (it’s an egg bar, of course) for the rush of a
gush so mesmerizing the gremlins almost give off a vapor of brotherhood. then,
gulp! down each hot hatch go the shelled mustardy
slivers—today’s hottest slam—like slick sand down each devil’s windpipe.

mmmmmcxxxix

dirty, no twist

pray tell who belongs to this
olive-colored rock?  it’s so pretty, a
lush green.  it looks like
it’s been polished with
snow-capped pine by a mountain-top guru.  i mean, it
has lived.  maybe it lived within the grasp of an
eagle’s claw for a
decade or two,

should eagles generally live
that long?
only to inevitably show up right
next to us as it is here, glued to this birdbath in some
elder caretaker’s long-worked goofy zen-style cocktail garden.

mmmmmcxxxviii

island living

eating
another
salad?
yes, with

peas, no less.  it’s
easy to do here
at bonanza.  see the
steak-house’s lime-lit buffet?  they’ve the same fixins this
year as last year (and perhaps even the year before that).

mmmmmcxxxvii

homework; escape routes

cars pass each other slowly over the
arc of main street to
night.  past the
dewing front
lawn their headlamps seem to
entrance the pair of flames enough that they dance in tandem a moment.  here in the drab
living room that grays eventually into the murky obsidian of night.  but for the flames
identically flicker-floating as they do, unlike the lazy automobiles, they dance.  in the
gloomy room, where four children are lined up along the
hi-fi, extra-long stereo, upon which each child’s elbows rest, in
this room where nothing ever happens except homework and dreaming.  each kid’s pair
     of gleaming eyes honed at that dull arc; behind each lid brains bubble, eager

     to be taken away in whichever direction.

mmmmmcxxxvi

on the other hand

raw silk is memorably slippery
ain’t it?  or
what am i also thinking of . . .

spiderwebs?  or perhaps shucking tall
individual cobs of corn fresh from the summer garden.  absolutely
lush!  to remember how it first felt slipping from your palm is not to
know the illuminating but creepy wriggle of the caterpillar in the other.

mmmmmcxxxv

swimming pool standout (w/french highlights)

first one.
it should be suuuper sloooww.  with tons of tongue,
right?  i mean.  a romantic one.  so
simmer down.
take it easy.  dive feet first into the

kiddie portion of the pool.  don’t sweat.  oh, already wet.  she
is her very own brand of swim.  oop, there she goes, up the 8 ft. pool
side ladder, emerging like lava from the deep end.
she who’ll stand you up at saturday’s camp-end dance.