Monday, January 19, 2009


I. “god got birth control”

A HOLY TRINITY (“3 is the smallest odd prime”):

1. apocalypse now: death from about 1879

2. the Passion of Nietzsche: god is dead / god is dad

3. wagner and his anti-semitic leitmotif: das Juden und das Rheingold


“if you want to view paradise
simply look around and view it
anything you want to, do it
wanta change the world?
there's nothing
to it”


1. german metaphysics (“Album fur die Jugend”)

2. french politics (“sois jeune et tais toi”)

3. english economics (“reading riting rithmetic”)


genocide was invented in 1943 (16x)

II. “there's a war goin on outside no man is safe from”



a tex mex numetal ensemble

holding a plaster cast of liszt’s death hand and

driving 9inch nails into petrified redwoods

wife beaters in wife beaters

carrying pedigree records in a manila folder

scaling a spiral staircase of soviet whole tones

to the additive rhythm of the heart


continental free jazz

emerges in a gritty no wave ny super8 80s

stands by an art deco office building

and burns a thesis on hypermodernist chess theory

figure skater on a hockey rink

gliding through concentric grooves

a punk rock swan song vibrates

up through her bones into her teeth

and out her mouth

III. “the cost so high the gain so low”



“they found a pair of crystal antlers,

but quickly destroyed them. how could they

explain having a pair of crystal antlers

to the police?”


“no food or drink allowed in classrooms” (all capitals)


one nation under id

9 of 10 tastebuds prefer pepsi

your brain on MSG

peyote ego death

“the cannons of berlioz”

another pete rock banger

no wave for a new age

“...of thrash metal fame”

nintendo dreams

the strapped gats of cocorosie


[this space reserved for:

ashkenazi jews,

annexed north american nations,

grandfather’s trophy nazi belt buckles,

and all whom have fallen into the ocean of

dropped albums, rocked shows,

murdered beats, and spit verses.]

hangs over you american


she is wearing the plastic of window entertainment.

passing present early thought,

rain seems arrived at footprint.

two commemorative strangers of stay,

each having memorized rival minds that bend shadow,

cross paths,

but both being minor incomes with two awards of steel,

they cross paths.

the original minor station of these

helping them throughout the original night.


you are a better wind pavilion, original wearing a plastic raincoat,

pushing, stepping, pursuing separates. industrial one,

the rubble light rap and gang of minor cannot keep you.

means are a haunt of petals, beginning to fall shadow,

flew derivative from silhouette,

as if speaking in works on a pile of has.

you and i being endlessness persons,

we saw that rain pours behind them.

yet, a flower raining with excellent untruth,

approaches a coated feeling.

us, whose sense of time rains a central fiction.


human, with its great length and forever,

is one of three plate glass windows

above a vernacular sea.

while common practice climbs to the sky,

capital i disappears into the skin

of produced history and works passing.

cigarettes whip the sea late on the fortieth carbon day.

but the sky is disappearing, an original that thought itself diverse.

only this corridor, as blunt as it is, seems lifelike.

only this corridor, as blunt as it seems, is lifelike.

Friday, January 2, 2009

Celebration of a Heady Afterbirth

Ecce homo! Post-Industrial Revolution human is failing!
Astronauts fall from the heavens and impale themselves on cocks!
All avant-garde hairstyles have been co-opted and codified!
History is written in sonata form and the sales receipt is now scripture!

Blessed are the Butter-Flavored Cheese-Fried Cheese-Filled Corn Snack!
Blessed are the Butter-Flavored Butter-Baked Cheese-Filled Corn Snack!
Blessed are the Corn-Fresh Corn-Flavored Cheese-Puffed Butter Ball!
Blessed are the Cheese-Flavored Pop-Fresh Corn-Fried Cheese Pop!

Ecce homo! Post-Industrial Revolution human is failing!
Dreaming bacteria in my intestines bubble up through my chakras!
And I can say “Kidnap me, I’m a rich American” in 8 languages!
We have stared long at the night sky and found the Universe to be telescope-shaped!

Lo! I walk around the house naked with morningwood
and observe the high water mark in the toilet bowl.
Hardon is oneword!
Yet, I can hear a chamber orchestra
locked inside a somewhere-abandoned subway car
playing Messiaen and looking bored.

“is the solipsist so lonely?”

the philosopher asks no one in particular
his voice unheard
outside his locked office door.

he is drowned out by the humming of
machines that make lunch boxes
machines that make harmonicas
machines that make parts for more machines.
the humming echoes through streets

resounding inside the empty movie theaters
& the empty concert halls
& the empty cathedrals
& the empty classrooms
& the empty skating rinks
& the empty discotheques
& the empty drive-throughs
& the empty apothecaries
& the empty art galleries
& the empty museums
& the empty gay bars
& the empty parking garages
& the empty chinese restaurants
& the empty stadiums
& the empty office buildings
& the empty prisons
& the empty barns
& the empty catacombs
& the empty capitols
& the empty housing projects
& the empty houses.

everyone is inside
the library of congress
lying in her or his own
private opium coma,
but they all dream the same dream.

they dream of the philosopher
squatting in his cave
squinting through his dirty window
wrinkling his vast forehead.

cutting cloud from sky

if i was born a bastard
son of bukowski
i would
write poems
in that criminal
with vulgar pride.

but i was not
so i will
write poems
in my anemic lisp
with manic fatalism
and a custer moustache.

you see
my country hates poets
by principle
and my countrymen
would rather drink
hard liquor and coca cola
than read hegel or wittgenstein or kant
because hegel and wittgenstein and kant
are hard to understand
and even when understood
can’t make you a better kisser.

i am not bitter.
i wouldn’t have it any other way.

the sober man often mistakes holding a woman’s hair while she vomits as romantic.

how many gas station bathrooms along this country’s highway system have i not bought french ticklers or bubble-gum-flavored condoms in for want of 3 quarters and someone who wants me

how long must one stare at the alien surface of shaved genitals before the first kiss can no longer be remembered as a sticky piece of candy, picked off the floor and eaten when everyone had left the room

who isn’t affected

we make love at arm’s length
in the direction of jerusalem
with our shoes on and alarms set.

a soul and a soul never quite touch;
they are the wrong sides of two magnets,
they are the hands of a clock.

this morning, i left the shower on.
the drain is clogged with hair and cum
and my bathtub runneth over,

flooding my house with more
things i can’t breathe.

an old poem for a new world

an old man
stands in his front lawn
beating an old dog
tied to a tree.

he beats the dog
with today’s newspaper
slowly and steadily
without anger or pleasure.

the dog lies quiet
in the dust.
it is dead
except for the rhythmic
of its breath.

the old man
and the old dog
heave in unison
in time with the rise
and fall
of the newspaper.

both are sweating
and panting
under the same ancient sun.

Pax Americana

We paid them with crumbled dollar bills and spent down pavements past marching bands and flags and storefronts and insects and riot cops and horse cops and firemen and policemen and gaymen and goat and sheep and cow and horse and horse cop and beggar and leper and addict and a fallen star, cooling in the car pool lane.

Intuiting the center of the Universe is close, we link arms and stomp and yell and demand grand masters hold blank canvasses to the sun and illuminate the heavenly bodies floating inside our eyes.

I offered a bee my hand to sting and it swells. I hold a blade of grass between my thumbs and blow, filling the Void with the sound of saxophone and tree branch and dead leaf and window and gas station and gas rag and milkshake and garden hose and burning house and cricket and brother and sister and whimsome nobody and my violent vicissitude. I break my cheekbones and hold a pistol to my chest and pretend to be a roman replica of a greek statue. I hold the mediterranean to its word.

We all hold out our palms for the bee to sting. We learn to play the typewriter in pastures and shoot toy cap guns at passing comets and hold mannequins for ransom and shock diabetic baboons to death. We scrape our teeth and wonder if it really is the year the history books say it is. We play russian roulette in my bedroom and hurt my baby seal and stare at pictures in the encyclopedia and look up all the words we don’t know.

As the ghost of Robert Johnson pours across the 35th parallel, our skulls bloom like tiny solariums and we begin to rethink the 2000s and the 1990s and the 1980s and the 1970s and the 1960s and the 1950s and the 1940s and the 1930s and the 1920s...

Etcetera, etcetera. Forever and Ever. Alleluia and Amen.

bob dylan, king of the jews

the state of the union is not given by a television president

it is written on the walls of bathroom stalls

it is whispered in steam rooms and confession booths

it screams naked from our public foreskin:

we want our kinky freedom

we want our black jackie onassis

we want our box and our drug and our big nothing

we want fluoride in our tap water

we want words that mean and breathe

we want a poetic death for history

we want a capital t truth that goes down easy

we want a thoroughly cleaned and ghettoized pop culture

we want our badges and diplomas

we want our sacred minority and nuclear arsenal

we want our heathens and hedons

we want our robber barons and rugged individualists

we want our self-hate prophet

we want our bean curd minstrel

we want our free speech cage

we want our good cop and bad cop and white cop and black cop

we want our sexual predator and his yellow star

we want our mark chapman

we want our catchers in the rye

we want an apologetics of capitalism

we want our flat tax and castes of sin

we want our karma and jurisprudence

we want our hypothetical christian zion.

we want a homeric epic other than this horatio alger propaganda

but this is not greece

and we are not greek

if our generation has a bob dylan

he will be a plagarist or slandered as one

and we will make him wear his crown

and we will march him to golgotha

and we will lock him in a concrete mausoleum

engraved with his christian name.