fragments from fall 2007 journal

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To the grey hairs on my stubble

Reminding me that this
existence is temporary

that like those who got
old before me
I too will get old

that even if nanobots
impregnate me with
interminal youth

there will always be an
old goat inside me
that bleats and whinnies

as the world spins around
and occasionally,
I get observed by some kids
on a train ride

God forbid
they put me in a petting zoo

unless there is lots of fresh grass
to chew on

I get older
I come closer to death

I start to smell funny
I look in the mirror
preen, groom, and shave

it occurs to me
my hoofs look strange

A summer sweatlodge

the summer sucks
the juice from my body
the bugs eat me alive
I no longer exist
I am just a pillow case

the frogs are reproducing
faster than you can say
kumquat biopsy

free radicals are running my brain
I am the god of aspertame

in this world
there are 3 people worth knowing
you yourself and everyone else

if you shake hands
be sure to grin
say hello
pat lightly on the back
then plant your tongue
in your advesary's schnocker
and go to town

this is how we do things
here in the interior regions
show your dentures
keep your eyes peeled
and levitate

and before you walk off that cliff
hesitate
then smile

Because I'm Forgetful: Five Poems

Living in New York City is like Drinking Four Glasses of Milk in a Row
OR
The Law of Diminishing Marginal Returns


i.

Lights! There are so many lights:
stop kind, window kind, sun, moon, florescent, high-up kind, hanging, sconce,
floor, blinking, red, purple, stained glass kind, candle, flash, bright kind and People!
The People: loud kind, and creepy, smart kind, business, playing-music-in-the park-kind,
well-read/dressed/traveled/fed/thought of kind, sexy, also the bright kind, and every kind, kind kind. Statues, too


ii.

Wow how bright these lights and people are!
and of course cars and construction
suggest ear plugs at night—which I wear more for the neighbors
but I have made friends with some kinds of people and I am in love
with some kinds of light


iii.

This is not as easy-going as the first glass of milk
Mom still can’t find “reason to visit”
She’s “seen all the statues, dear” Dad has stopped sending money
All these people,
they look at my shoes and talk
to phones with voices like traffic in tunnels
I want to touch these people but I feel too far away

iv.

It smells like hot garbage
feces on statues: bird kind
shit on sidewalks: dog kind, people kind
lines are too long
and sometimes light makes bright what I try not to see
now I get stomach aches



-----

On being Human


i.

when I was seven I found something weird in my bed at my dad’s house
he said it was his roommate’s
the one that slept in my bed
when I wasn’t there
15 years later I think:
crack pipe


ii.

my feet know
wood floors linoleum Scottish grass
that hasn’t been mowed wrinkled paper
bubble wrap a slant or split-level thirty pairs of shoes’
insides

I take painkillers
I drink Coke
I can paint my fingernails white to look like teeth
but I haven’t but I could if I felt like it
I cut myself shaving
forget deodorant
write e-mails
sticky tack posters
I decide to hate watermelon

my eyes are the color of the 1940s
German sky
have outlines
get wet sometimes

I remember how to breathe
until I think about it
then my chest is heavy
with the notion I’m doing it wrong


iii.

there is joy in this thing
but maybe ants are tiny victims
maybe stars hate being counted


-----

The Great Full
after Miranda July

Look the swings in the park
those are for you
and the water fountain
its pipes and levers
Look at people’s teeth as you pass on your way
their crowns and the fillings
those smiles are for you
Look at chalk words on sidewalks
and the sidewalk itself
the bits of green between the squares

at the sun
and the stars, when it’s time
Those stars are for you
and the stars beyond those
who are suns to other places
Look birds
on the branches
tadpoles in puddles
All these are for you
for us
remember
this when our eyes are open
in the morning


-----


The Use of Trees

Cold contains
the scent of dead evergreens
It’s January and
the Christmas trees are on their sides
People gather in the park
a man with a tan jacket,
a woman with a bundle
in a stroller

They watch the horizontal forest
through dissipating puffs of breath

There is a monster, too
screaming, orange

Now, another man
his teenaged daughter
Two older women
blue
A twentysomethingwithadogonaleash

They stare at the sad pile of trees
and wait

expected sounds of metal on metal
on wood

People walking stop and stand
or kneel

And they’re a group, these people—
a temporary family
watching in awe (of maybe themselves)
as a man in jumpsuit
chooses tree after tree for the
mulching.
Each knows the passing of love.


-----


a science fiction

if born
one hundred years from now
we’d use technology to touch
each other’s simple skin

you wouldn’t have to
be so scared
because no one will remember love
no one will request it
we could dance in living rooms
without its suppositions

light in the dark sky,
residual bright,
will have long since been extinguished
all of our useless hearts burned up


-----

from the lower hudson

umpt,
i’ve known rivers
ain’t never much cared for the ocean
or the sea but i know a thing or two about rivers

but my rivers ain’t never beckoned a wave to free
a mississippian slave ain’t never lulled the congo’s shores
with the hues of a weary man’s blues
but i know rivers

rivers like the muddy waters of the hudson that’s suppose
to keep new jersey from sliding into new york but when me and
my best friend isha was thirteen every weekend
we useta jump the turnstiles of the path train
straddle the orange plastic seat with our pubescent thighs
the thunderous metal above the hudson
thrusting us into the city

umpt,
i know about rivers

i know about me and isha pressing our face against
fading tainted window trains the blinding sun and
us laughing cause somebody’s baby’s diaper was drifting
in the murky waters below
us betting that black plastic bag full of trash
wasn’t fast enough to keep up
with us turning to each other and yelling
“Yuck” as sticky yellow foam
clouded rusty factories that
abandoned us
couldn’t wait for the intercom’s static
to announce that we was in the city
and we thought trash was
beneath us

a river that lifted us above the dark filth
onto the clouded village streets
where we stuffed ourselves with Ray’s famous pizza
and smiled at gay men and women who
held hands and kissed each other in the light
and we walked down the blocks we wanted

we
thought
we
was
something

we strutted down each streets
how we wanted wearing tight ass
calvins toting fake ass coach
pocketbooks dangling newports
from our lips
laughing out loud
talking trash
cussing each other out
and being the only black
mutherfuckers we knew how to be.

Things Fall Apart in Memphis
(In honor of Chinua and Martin)

Not every foundation

not the blanched walls

of ignorance that clawed against you

or the mouths spitting

picket signs in to a pyramid of fury

not the Bible beating saints who

pillaged your sand and sea

or the ivy vines of Tarzan

swinging his effigy on a jungle peak, no

not every foundation

not the hosing uniformed dogs

not the impetuous winds of imperialism

not even a contingent heart of darkness

or a precision of a balcony’s bullet

could rifle the sod and skies

beneath you.

The Current Situation

The Current Situation

In this poem I will hypertextualize
the undercurrent of the ecstatic
cling of the perpetual moment
which is not to say that the philosophical
is undermined by the cosmological
ubiquity and obsequious sequiousness
of the current situation which is currently
occuring concurrently right here right now.
Probably most definitely likely there
is a certainty that is something
we should be unsure of
as the absolute is relative
to the absolute and we are in the age
of crisis, now is the moment
of apocalypse. This is definitely
the end times which is also the beginning
of the middle which should not be forgotten
or if it is deserves a second look and perhaps
should be revived and recovered maybe
but for the time being we must urgently
be patient and not worry about things
so much and it is important to think clearly
and not overanalyze the situation so much
as the situation is harming the social good
which affects the individual and that also
affects the social you dig me? So what we
must do to resolve the current situation is
to not think so clearly about the things
which definitely do not deserve a second
look so we don't overanalyze the absolute
nor the relative in relation to the certainty
of the beginning which is also the end
and currently, is the middle, maybe. Until that
time comes, I will hope for sure
that we coolly, calmly and collectively
consider everything in its proper
or improper context which would certainly
be beneficial for you as well as me
which might definitely mean all of us, perhaps.
Are you with me? and therefore we can come
together or come apart or come alone
or come as we are or come like there’s no
tomorrow because if Jesus is coming
that would mean that the bible is
pornographic which would infer
a paradoxical longing for the
absolute verity of nothingness
metaphorically speaking.

to that owl

remember when I saw
you
were a suspicious
furby I wanted
to cuddle
was also eerily afraid
wanted to cup my hands
in a half moon toward lips
slowly say hoot hoot
watch you cock
your nonexistent neck
you did not seem as
wise or scholarly as
expected
I did not want anyone else
to see you
feared they’d taunt
throw rocks
if I could keep you I would
let you perch
on my closet pole I would
move my clothes for you
feed you food you’d like
to eat tell a story
before my slumber
would not dress
you up as humans do dogs
would let you be
alone if you wanted
you’d be mine I’d name you
something distinguished
I would not make you
speak or sit or stay
would let you come
and go
would smile
at your interest of sound
the depth of your archetype
if you wanted to be with trees
I’d let you it would be hard but
I would
tell my future children

herspot run the boulevard
head clocks the bay kiss the fog
elbowing the sea

I mean you
this is the last brush no this is the last tub

but with the Mississippi in the foreground
it makes a nice photograph
the clouds loaf I point
arcs off the lip

herspot fattening everything my
mouth plus Creole kiss the steam
zydeco loud naked
if I want to

I mean you
this is the last way no this is the last wall

it takes a real cowgal they were thinking
but this talks quiet
the plane signs the blue I pace
loosely tanned

I mean you
this is the lastkiss no this is the lastkiss

Sistahs of the Yam by Marjorie Barnes

Somewhere deep
in the belly of a wooden slave ship
where babies suck breast of a new heartache
where entangled arms and legs struggle
in perpendicular thought
where even the stench inside the devil’s mouth
will not mask the beauty of our mother’s tongue
because the sistahs
are plotting.

Some place small
where inebriated family secrets are
not so neatly tucked away
where elongated fingernails
trace the up and down threads
of a white padded room
where even forced latex gloves and long white robes
can not drown the humming of our ceremonial truth
because the sistahs
are plotting.

Somewhere angled
in the corner of a classroom
where the powerless and the powerful meet
and young minds hunger validation
through textbooks and technology
where even the disapproving blue eyes
that pierce over wide rim glasses do
little to threaten our beautiful spirit
because the sistahs
are plotting.

Some place pressed against
a city’s lamp post and curbside
where fortuitous feet slither
towards a promise of a drink, a john, a fix
where money becomes hand over fist
or somewhere kneeling
in a pew or a bedside craddling
a fornicated womb
or a man gone too soon
the sistahs are plotting.

Somewhere
even right here as
we beat back
a plantation summer
in our straw hats
and full-length skirts
our white pearls
and laced shawls,
we piece together a legacy
one sistah at a time
and the salvation of our words
hold us up to the stars
because we know
that the sistahs
are always plotting.

So somewhere,
anywhere you find
these runaway slaves
these revolutionary petunias
these sanctified mothers of song
these daughters of the dust
these warriors of the dance
these sistahs of the yam,
this pendulum of blackness
is ready and willing
at any moment
to reach down into the wilderness
take back our ancestry
spit fire at uncertainty
and say to the world:
I dare you.

Blues Tanka

Blues Tanka

by Marjorie Barnes

This is so you know
my love is like shattered glass
on barefoot kitchen
floors late at night so mind how
you step and look for the light.

The life posterior

The Life Posterior


This is the good shit
the kind that gets you
so up fucked even
your syntax starts
to suck ass
this makes the previous
pussy seem cock
eyed and screwy
like a holy chain
saw obliterating
the shit out of some
dumb ass birch
you have to put
your mother
fucker in
its proper context
it would be impolite
not to but hear
this o lord
my gonads
will deliver us
to the next eon
etcetera
so make me
whole
and fuck
me gently
like a lovely
lily making honeydew
out of starlight.

I Want to Start a Revolution with Neil from my American Literature Class

He says a fascist dictator has control of the land
our moms and dads and poodles
and now I believe him

he tells me “babe, let’s take this to the next level”
then won’t trim his nails
he tells me, “babe, I see you”
then hides behind his John Lennon frames

if he had an AK he would not shoot it
but it could get violent

Neil won’t care I’m a lesbian
and don’t find him attractive at all
I won’t care he calls his boner
a member of the ruling class
and refuses to use it

well Neil I appreciate it

We’ll hold meetings in his dorm
Me, naked, hammer and sickle
Him, naked, trimming his Fu Manchu

The Gooder Life

Andy Hall
4/17/08
The Gooder life

in bed
rubbing my cat
gotta pee
gotta write

Did you know that
jesus is lord
and he will
return

meanwhile
gotta pee
should shave
maybe take a dump
could use a cup of coffee
have a paper to write
should go to work

but the world is going to end
and all your labors will be useless

that's okay
I mean... ya gotta do something
some times you just make due
and going to the can
can be a peak experience
especially if regular

Do you really have to write about your bodily functions?
You have something against that? I suppose you don't poop or pee

No, I am your inner voice, your higher self, your truly divine spirit, I do not defecate nor urinate.
You are so full of shit.

Not as shitty as your poetry
That was unnecessary

You started it
Oh come now, I've been published in Fecal Matter, American Standard Review, Outhouse and Chamber Pot
What have you accomplished?

Keeping your ass in college with my brilliant mind
You are cruel

Some call it cruel, I prefer confidence
So what now?

You do as I say
and what does that get me?

Another poem written
Great, I will publish it in Shitstorm.

fabulous

I detect sarcasm

You detect correctly

Little do you know but we are all made of shit… and to shit we shall return…. Don’t deny it

I try to


One day we shall fertilize this planet… make everything brown and green

I can’t wait

You just don’t appreciate your putrid origins

I’m just trying to mutate

I think I am getting bored now

It’s about time you caught up with reality

I love you

You don’t make sense

That’s because I’m you
I gotta go use the litter box now

alissa+christina=

in celebration of wood

i.

when you are ten
vacation in California
red woods echo beauty
we can sit in oak now
write a thank you note
to wood on paper over coke

ii.

one time for Halloween
I wore um a blue dress and a tulip apron
a kerchief on my head
and I had yellow wooden shoes
with a windmill carved in them
they were hard to walk in
I took them off

over the fireplace
at my grandparent’s living room
an ornament of driftwood
is the focal point
I’m not sure where it came from
but it’s always been there
they might have found it
on a beach

me and my sister
we used to call eachother
sticks and dirt
I was sticks

you know what
here’s something about wood
when I was like very young
I would go to my grandparent’s
house when I would sit on the toilet
in the bathroom, it looked like a face
in the wood
you know in the grain of wood


iii.

we want cardboard to be wood
we look for it

real wood
it knows its alive
loves without holes
understands it
as big
a house in an elm
made of wood
from a different tree
they might be friends
in former lives

the nina the pinta
the santa maria
bridged this ocean
carved by Spanish fingers
floated
carried

if forests are blank
clarinets miss their reeds
totems without poles
no sawdust mulch and picnic tables
rollercoasters crates & barrels
shade
think about shade
no newspaper hats
where would those beehives hang
termites couldn’t feed their kids
fires cannot catch
we probably would
have balloons
but they’d be breathless
I’m unsure if there’d be twine
or bowling pins

iv.

I broke my arm falling out of a tree
well I’ve gotten a few splinters
we forgive you wood

I start writing her name on bathroom stalls in a neutral pen, the wood on recycled plastic. At the tip of urination I get bored and think of her. Others have told her times more often than not “you’re beautiful” or “so beautiful.” The bic stresses her affricate; my bladder falls away.

I ignore her intelligent spots. Wander by the baby how it came out in knots then beat her underwear into the sink, its hysterical troll face.

She wears gold pans, a situation for her earrings how does she keep them, tinned, stacked, hung? Some at odds. The stalls for her, nothing, the dishwasher rings the fridge eggs. At every knee, hip, ear, I draft her name gangly; the materials beg me. Her hand directs light wherever I paw.

assonance

Welcome to the asshouse
As your assident, I must remind you my fellow assiduaries
that we are assessing our situation constantly concurrently
to the tee for every i we dot, and all that etc. etc. etc.
you might say we are just being anal
but we are just trying to assure
you that your assets are safe with us
and as your assistants to your
aspirations, we will as surely aspire
to make sure we are astounding you
in every way humanly possible
including bending over backwards
which we do with a workingman’s smile
and song of ascot emitting from our orifaces
so we assent to this here assay
We understand that some feel that our
acts of correction have been overly assertive
and we understand their asinine concerns
and wish to console them of their
delusions. We understand that
there are those who disagree with
our agenda and thus choose
not to see things with an open
mind, but know we are doing this
not to eschew you.
We know that dissent is fundamental, and it is diarrheal
as it splatters forth into consciousness
and often accidental
in a astringently acidic society so that people
will know who the wrong people
are and who the right ones are
and we wish to give them all the information
that we can in order to help them ascertain
their decision, all politics, economics, and exorcisms aside
So in closing, I ask all of you
to pray genuflect, move your bowels with assonance ( make it so!)
and astronomically project
so that we may accelerate
this ascendance for all citizens, today, tomorrow, yesterday,
and all spaces inbetween .
**********
Middle part needs a few more ass and butt references

Any suggestions?

I have a peacock feather


of bird genus pavo
crest optical interference
brag reflection feathers
allopatric tail quail
peafowl pleasant
roost in trees
green really monogamous
the wild mating season
emit loud high very pitched
cry
omnivores amphibians
presents can be disturbing
Indian dancing pea
cock old testament wealth
proud as a
nest vulnerable
flower petals peahen
Burma east to Java
this is all science
alissa
tell them
why you like them
great gramma
in a vase
a single feather pattern
in the corner
next to the secretary
of the green house
she died
the day before
i kept it

exchange curled
under a poster in the city
tricked like a phone
you diamond

think on this poem      you dander
count your face      you have an appetite
at the sill      you spot a cob
have toes      you love me in the morning
I write more      you tell me write more

bed           the dust grooves
but seriously you are not real

wordplay

ROCK

we brandish this escarpment plunging
into lopescant crustal cholla flourishing
over pricklybarrel creosotic dances
sunshowering the yucca i lick your blackbrush
& subsist in abundance we wallow through
gambel's oak bombast & i armadillo you
proudly yon cottonwood songs meandering
manzania cliffrose blossoms inhabiting
antelope yea subsequent shales candied
gypsum oxides amongst dunefield debris
crossbedded hues there petroglyph i am
carbonate magnanimous nomadic
tallgrass ah the turnkey sighlisp whistle we to unknowingness

another poem about my childhood... it's kind of happy... honest!

CoDependence, USA
they came home from Iraq to play checkers in the asylum suckingthe wall because no fire allowed. I was in there for fun, eskimo pies & because George HW Bush talked directly to me. my roommate BR who shot himself on duty while cleaning his rifle on liquid L he scored from his DEA bud; the bearded woman ?? who weighed 500 lbswho made pus come out of her feet the juveniles had to walk single file, ha haas we popped valiums, dreamed of K Kesey watching Air J beat Magic J as the wind howl-ed outside all this because Dugout and I got high listening to ordinary average guy going 90 down I-15 to LA so I could see the Buttholes live while he fifth-stepped his AA sponsor KD to take him back. Now we are on the other ends of clipboardsbut his progeny follows in his footsteps

Ode to V.

O
flank this indoor bubble
do not develop a tiny penis
this is how vanilla is the origin of all chocolates
I am not envious of my brother’s thinger
his forlorn outside tail
how that vagina part of me
you won’t end up on the internet
my shy cunt
no one ever calls by your full name

For Fun-Cunning Linguists

I wonder if Eskimos marvel at how many euphemisms we have for vagina.


Abyss, The
Afro clam
Almeja
Axe wound
Ass mate

Bacon strip
Badly wrapped kebab
Bajingo
Bearded oyster
Bald man in a boat
BAP (Bad Ass Pussy)
Bologna curtains
Baloney sandwich
Bearded clam
Bearded taco
Beaver
Beaver Cleaver
Beefgina
Beef curtain
Beef garage
Beef jacket
Bermuda triangle
Biff
Biffen
Birdy
Bikini bizkit
Birth cannon
Bitchcake
Bizzle
Black cat with its throat cut
Black hole Of Calcunta
Blood tap
Blurt
Bone hone
Bone yard
Boogina
Bottomless pit
Box
Box lunch at the Y
Boy in the boat
breadbasket
Breakfast
Breakfast of champions
Buhgina
Bulldog's lip
Bunny
Bush

Cake
Camel hoof
Camel toe
Camp coochie
Catcher's mitt
Catfish
Cat flaps
Cathedral
Cathouse
Cauliflower
Cave
Cha-cha
Chia pet
Cherry pop
Chocha
Choochi snorcher
Chopped ham
Chuff
Chumino
Clam
Clamato fountain
Clamburger
Clodge
Clown's pocket
Cock cave
Cock cozy
Cock garage
Cock holster
Cock milk
Cock pit
Cock pocket
Cock sheath
Cock socket
Cock tub
Cockwash
Cod canal
Concha
Conill
Cooch
Coochie
Cookie
Coon
Coonie
Coont
Cootch
Cooter
Cooz(e)
Cradle of filth
Creamery, The
Crotch cobbler
Crotch mackerel
Crotch taco
cum-hole
Cum bucket
Cum canal
Cum catcher
Cum dumpster
Cum target
Cunny
Cunt
Cunti

Dank diner
Delta of Venus
Dent
Dick dent
Dick depot
Dick dock
Dick drive
Dick holster
Dick sharpener
Dick shed
Dick's crib
Dicky Dino
Dirty cumpie
Ditch
Divit
DNA dumpster
DNA slurpee machine
Dripping slit
Droog
Dyke snack

Easy bake oven
Everlasting Gobstuffer
Eye of a needle

Fadge
Fandango
Fertile delta, The
Festering wound
Filthy hatchet wound
Finger warmer
Fish factory
Fish fanny
Fish hole
Fish pie
Fish taco
Flaming lips
Flange
Flesh curtains
Flesh flute case
Flesh tuxedo
Flesh wallet
Flesh wound
Flounder, The
Flower
Fluff
Fluffy sausage wallet
Fluttering love wallet
Foo foo
Foof
Foofy bird
Fortune nookie
Foster home of Peter the Orphan
Foufoune
Four-lipped man eater
Framazama
French poodle
Front-butt
Frothing gash
Fuck hole
Fuffle
Fun bun
Fun hole
Fun tunnel
Fur pie
Furback turtle
Furburger
Furby
Furry horse collar
Furry front bottom
Fuzz box
Fuzzy cup
Fuzzy lap flounder
Fuzzy puddle
Fuzzy taco
Fuzz Muffin

Gange
Gap
Gaper
Gaping hole
garage
Garage of love
Gash
Gator grip
Gina
Ginch
Giner
Giney
Gingerbread
Gleaming mound of Venus
Glory hole
Glory road
Gnash
God's master plan
Golden gully
Goldmine
Goo pot
Gooey man trap
Gouge
Grand Canyon
Gravy boat
Great Divide
Grilled cheese
Growler
Grumble
Gutted hampster
Gutted rabbit
Gynie

Haddock pasty
Hair pie
Hairy beaver
Hairy bike rack
Hairy checkbook
Hairy cherry
Hairy clam
Hairy cream pie
Hairy harmonica
Hairy hatchet wound
Hairy headache
Hairy goblet
Hairy Fairy
Hairy Manilow
Hairy Mary
Hairy scar
Hairy taco
Hamburger
Ham sandwich
Hatchet wound
Heart-shaped box
Her
Hey nonny nonny
Hidey hole
Hina
Hinge
Hole
Home plate
Honeyhole
Honeypot
Honeysuckle
Horse's collar
Hoo-ha
Hoo-hoo
Hooch
Hoon
Hootch
Hootchie
Hootchie pop
Horizontal fishcake
Hot Box
Hot pocket
Hot quivering love-purse
Hotdog bun
Hummer hole
Hush puppy

Illnana
In hole, The

Jack in the box
Jack Nastyface
Jellyroll
Jizz receptacle
Juice box

Kini
Kit-Kat
Kitty
Knob gobbler
Knots landing
Koo koo
Kookooyumyumpoon
Kooter
Kunt

Labbe
Landing strip
Lap flounder
Lick-me-please-me
Lips that never speak
Lobster claw
Lotus flower
Love muscle
Love muffin
Love pudding
love pouch
Love tunnel
Lower lips

Man's ruin
Map of Tasmania (Tasi)
Map of Tassie/Mapatazi
Magic grail
Magic monkey
Meal ticket
Meat curtains
Meat grinder
Meat muffin
Meat napkin
Meat slipper
Meat wallet
Meatloaf
Mejillon
Miffy
Minge
Minnie's pearl
Miss Pussy
Missile silo
Moan pie
Momma's silk purse
Mommy button
Money box
Money maker
Monkey
Moist oyster
Mooch
Moose knuckle, The
Moose's lip
Mother Theresa
Motherload
Mound
Mouse's ear
Mrs. Sphincter's next door neighbor
Mucker
Muckhole
Mud flaps
Muff
Muff monster
Muffhole
Muffin
Muffler
Muffy
Munch box
Mushy mushy
Mutton chops
Mutton flaps

Na-na
Na-ner na-ner pudding
Nappy canoe
Nappy dugout
Nethermeats
Ninja slipper
Nipper
Nookie
Nooner

Oak tree planter
Old bacon strip
Old Mother Hubbard
Old toothless
open wound
Oonie
Orchid boat
Organ grinder
Otter's pocket
Oval office
Oyster taco

Panocha
Panty hamster
Parking Stall
Passion flower
Passion fruit
passion pit
Patona
Peach
Peace Keeper
Peach fish
Pearl pit
Pecan Pattie
Pecker-snot repository
Pee bug
Peeper
Pelt
Penis holster
Penis penitentiary
Penis piranha
Penis pocket
PenisStation, The
Peter pleaser
Peter's punching bag
Phat rabbit
Pink brownie cake
Pink canoe
Pink lipped custard sucker
Pink lips
Pink palace
Pink panda
Pink petaled posie
Pink pie
Pink pit of pleasure
Pink stink
Pink taco
Pink tortelini
Pinkly stinkly
Pish
Piss curtains
Piss flaps
Plewie
Po-po
Pocketbook
Poke hole
Pookie
Poon
Poonani
Poontang
Poontang pie
Pootnanny
Pork danglies
Poosazi
Pooter
Pootie poo
Pootietang
Pooty poo
porcupine
Postage stamp (you lick it, you stick it, you send it on its way)
Pot holder
Prayer muffin
Prick pit
Promised Land, The
Pu-jar
Pudd Muffin
Puddin pie
Pudi
Pumpkin blossom
Puna
Punani
Puni
Pushin' cushion
Pussy
pussy, c*nt
Putang
Puter
Puty pu

Quiff
Quim
Quinnie
Quivering mound of love pudding

Raw oyster
Receptacle, The
Relief Station
Red haired lass
Red snapper
Roast beef curtain
Roast beef pita
Rocket pocket
Rod roaster
Rooster fish
Rosebud
Rotary Engine
Round mound of repound
Rug
Rusty axe wound

Sacapuntas
Sausage Slot
Sagging bacon cones
Salami sandwich
Salmon scented semen sucker
Sausage wallet
Scrunt
seething gash
Sea Urchine
Seafood taco
Sex hole
Shnush
Shooting range
Shrimp boat
Shrimp pie
Shutters of love
Silk igloo, The
Slice
Skunk guts
Slickety squid
Slime slit
Slimey slot
Slippery sheath
Slit
Slobbering bulldog
Sloppy joe
Sloppy oyster
Slot A
Slug's belly
Smackey
Smelly jelly hole
Smoo
Snack box
Snack pack
Snake charmer
Snapper
Snatch
Snizzle
Snotty lips
Snutch
Socket
Soft taco
South mouth
Southern belle
Southern smile, The
Spam castanet
Sperm bank
Sperm belcher
Sperm harbor
Split-faced hair shark
Split knish
Splittail
Spock-socket
Spunk locker
Spunk pit
Squashed hedgehog
Squirt bucket
Squishy
Stanky
Stench trench
Sticky bun
Stink hole
Stinkinoonie
Stinky krinky
Stinky pink
Stuffed stocking
Sugar walls
Sweaty burrito
Sweet spot
Sword swallower

Taco (pink)
Taffy puller
Tang
Tasty little morsel
temple of delight
Tinkleflower
Tongue magnet
Torpedo Tube
Treasure chest
Tri-fold floppy
Trout basket
Tulip
Tuna melt
Tuna taco
Tuna town
Tuna tunnel
Tuna 'n' whiskers
Tunnel
Tunnel of love
Turkey beard
Turkey curtains
Tutu
Twat
Twat waffle
Twisted taco
Two fingered fish mitten
Two-lips

Underwear oyster
Upside down taco

V
Vadge
Vagittyfidgit
Vagooter
Vaheena
Veeg
Vertical bacon slice
Vertical bacon sandwich
Vertical grimace
Vertical smile
Vertical taco
Velcro triangle
Velvet box
Velvet glove
Venus fly trap
Venus jive trap
Vice of love, The

Warm slurpee
Wazza
Welly-boot top
Welly-top
Weenie wringer
Wet wrinkle
Whisker biscuit
whisker box
Whooha
Wide open spaces
Wide papaya smile
Willy washer
Winkin' pink brownie cake
Wizard's sleeve
Wookie
Wookie hole
Woolen bivalve
Worm hole
Wound that never heals, The
WrinkleWunder down under
Wuzza

X-Box

Ya-ya
Yeast cake
Yo-yo smuggler
Yoni
Yum yum

Zone, The

balls of confusion

Talking 'Bout My Genitalia

Her eyes get so wide when she comes I realize
I had no small part in this it makes me
proud that I did some good in this world
If I were to die tomorrow I could
tell the good lord I made her climax
I take responsibility Okay
she did the work I just lay there and we
weren't listening to Barry Manilow
nor Barry White nor The White Stripes but the rain
splatter against the ground, knowing that somewhere
surely it was going to flood but then
her eyes went anime on me the bed started
to spin like a lava lamp in some groovy
sixties film. It was Kent State but instead
of shooting bullets we were shooting wads
blowing smoke putting flowers in guns
going yeah

3 poems from last fall (revised)

Onions

I am grape jelly and salt
sitting on a sofa
which sinks into the
scent of onions

that pervade the cadavers
that are housed across
the road- time floats
by and before we know it

we are onions too
squishy and crying and blue
but yummy when eaten
in a casserole of last

second preparation- all
that we create is
thrown up against the
wall to see what sticks

and it is peeled away like
months, like onions
until the center of
nothingness is reached

Sex Is Fucking Death

The penis entereth vaginaland
and calls forth a symposium
on the politics of sperm selection
and ovulatory discrimination

even on a cellular level
order and chaos are constantly
in a dance- although from afar
one would think it a war

In the canyons I hike down
and eventually up reluctantly
I notice the water has
carved out this amazing fucker

its like the earth having sex
with itself. And the mountains
way up there smug and all that
will be worn down in

God knows when- but that is
nature- one giant viagara
capsule and we are all sucking
it down trying to keep it up.


Boobs

I remember China used to be upside down
until I learned that America was discovered
much later, and that it was we who were upside
down and Columbus must have fallen off the earth.

Today, we take a cheese clothe and pass it through
our bodies knowing that America is cleansing us
and we wipe our ass with the dream

inside the vagina there is a three ringed circus
and a bear on a unicycle is wincing to nine inch nails,
fuck like an animal indeed.

I grab your breasts, objects of my fixation
and hang on for dear life
realizing I may fall and break
the mirror we are doing it on

okay, that was good
let us swap spit and tell ghost stories

A poem started by my mom making fun of my poetry

I touch the blind
I touch the lonely
I touch the rose
I touch the penis

I hear the owl
or is it the mice
I eat the hen
or is it the lice

I see the moon
or is it the cow
I fuck the sun
and take a bow

I smell the shit
it smells so lovely
I taste the wind
just like chicken

I eat my boogers
bite my fingernails
I pick my navel
admire my phlegm

I saw the Passion
Saw Jesus die
Lots of blood
It was awesome

considering eternity

We are born into a world where other people live
and we are raised to respect the rules of how the people live
often though we find our rules are different from those
of how other people live
So we go to school and read about how other people live
then we go to college and read and discuss and write papers
about how other people live
then we go to work and work on indirectly or directly how other people live
and then we go on vacation to view and experience how other people live
then we go out to vote and decide on how other people live
then we go to church and pray on how other people live
and then we go get drunk and blather out nonsense about how other people live
then we write books about how other people live
then we try and change how other people live
then we go to war about how other people live
then we make our art about how other people live
then we imitate how other people live
then we die because we can not live
how other people live
then we are remembered or forgotten
by many other people who still live
then those other people live their lives
how other people live.
The entire universe collides
with other universes
where still more other people live.
it just so happens to coincide
that more other people live there too
then all the people will one day die
and nobody will live
how other people live
and nobody will care
how other people live
but I, long after I die,
continue to look for a way out of this poem.

What Art Means

We could look at art as money, as a status symbol. Consider the price that great art goes for... and what if anything makes it great, splotches of paint either randomly lade on or meticulously painstakingly thrown on to canvas over many years, like Van Gogh, he cut off his ear because he couldn't get the right shade of red on one of his paintings. When someone asked why didn't he just prick his finger? He would say that's a stupid idea. I need that to paint. why not kill a rabbit then, he would admonish. Rabbits are cute. You don't kill bunnies! But Vinnie, why not just prikketh a rabbit? Hath not a rabbit eyes? Van Gogh apparently was an idiot but that's okay, he only heard half the question anyway.
One day, we will be able to go inside the art itself, maybe smoke pot with the artist. Perhaps interview them, possibly have sex with them or even lunch. All this will be possible when the sun goes into Mercury at the end of the next decade. When the smoke clears, divine revelation will appear. A dog with 3 legs, and a golden branch dangling from his mouth. You will toss it and watch the dog hobble off, trying hard not to laugh. Maybe you will make up for the cruelty with a pat on the head. That night, be sure and close your eyes before going to sleep. Oh yes, beware of dog!

song

In this field
we grow and thrive
buried beneath
tons of ice

in this field
we hover on
melting under a
blazing sun

in this field
we climb high mountains
reaching skyward
for truth unknown

we swim vast oceans
walk dead valleys
trudge in marshes
cruise through space

In this field
we till the soil
drift and toil
and float away

sometimes we blossom
often glowing breaking through
fire within us water flowing
wind is blowing old to new

in this field
we stare across to
look at others
in this field

in this field
we look around us
at our navels
and disappear

Soviet Portrait


the succubus
clitellum lips

weird in my hand

is she and artist ? it is required
everything she did
was having to be beautiful

the world is ready!
the spork is in existence

i’m not going
not with all this skin








voilà

width from developmental
annual vigor
Nang ring

bark that place
it gets folded with the Sea

overcoat ovum questionable
matter the breast
which spreads arrives the flower

to that owl

remember when I saw
you
were a suspicious
furby I wanted
to cuddle
was also eerily afraid
wanted to cup my hands
in a half moon toward lips
slowly say hoot hoot
watch you cock
your nonexistent neck
you did not seem as
wise or scholarly as
expected
I did not want anyone else
to see you
feared they’d taunt
throw rocks
if I could keep you I would
let you perch
upon my closet pole I would
move my clothes for you
feed you food you’d like
to eat tell a story
before my slumber
would not dress
you up as humans do dogs
would let you be
alone if you wanted
you’d be mine I’d name you
something distinguished
I would not make you
speak or sit or stay
would let you come
and go
would smile
at your interest of sound
the depth of your archetype
if you wanted to be with trees
I’d let you it would be hard but
I would
tell my future children
how you were polished
with piercing eyes
thank you for stopping
me
causing me to stand silently
look curiously
at something
I have not done that
in a while
thank you for all you do
for nighttime
for your song
thank you for this poem

Reunion

Forgot about writing
sat contemplating failure
then a marsupial
appeared outside
my window
sun came out disney
beating against my head
flashback
high school 88
jeremy grade sitting
my living room
playing husker du
then singing the nation
al anthem in chorus class
as badly possible
just to piss off
ms giese who made us
all horny cosmic
mike swan with his
hair that went down
to his nice hard ass we sat
drinking beer at the cemetery
railroad tracks
jumped from locks
into barge canal
covered in bongwater
when dodie and katie
died
now I am 35
there is grey
on my side
burns eventually
my stomach will disappear
America will too
really thats alright
we can too go gently
into that bon nicht
smelling sweaty &
howling springsteen
under a barren flagpole

Spam Poetry

hallawayjoe@hotmail.com, you are invited to

You Have A Package With FedEx Delivery
Sat Mar 1 2:30pm – 3:30pm
(Timezone: Johannesburg)

Calendar:

You Have A Package With FedEx Delivery

I am Mr.Wellington.I have been waiting

for you to contact me for your Confirmable

Bank Draft of $210.000.00 United States Dollars, but

I did not hear from you since that time.

Then I went and deposited

the Draft with FedEx Delivery, I traveled

out of the country for a 3 Months Course in

Ontario, Canada and I will not come back till end of April.

What you have to do now is

to contact the FedEx Delivery as soon

as possible to know when they will deliver your package to you

because of the expiring date. For your information, I have

paid for the delivery charges, Insurance premium and

Clearance Certificate Fee of the Check showing that it is not drug money

or meant to sponsor terrorist attack in your Country.

The only money you will send to the FedEx Delivery to

deliver your Draft direct to your postal Address in your country

is ($195.00 USD) only being Security Keeping Fee of the Delivery

Company so far. Again, don't be deceived by anybody to pay any other money

except $195.00US Dollars for Express Delivery or 110.00 for Ground Delivery.

I would have paid that but they said no because they don?t know

when you will contact them and in case of demurrage but now I am on a course

in which they will not be able to contact me for the payment. You have to contact

the FedEx Delivery now for the delivery of your Draft with this information below;

Contact Person: Mrs. Bettyann Merchant E-mail: betty.fedex@live.com

Telephone: 1- 469-909-8001, 011-234-702-821-2894

Finally, make sure that you reconfirm your delivery

address and Direct telephone number to them again to avoid any mistake on the Delivery

and ask them to give you the tracking number to enable you track your package

over there and know when it will get to your address. Let me repeat again,

try to contact them as soon as you receive this mail to avoid any further

delay and remember to pay them their security keeping fee

of $195.00US Dollars for Express Delivery

and 110.00 for Ground Delivery for their immediate action.Note that it is

when you must have pay the security fee that the package will be

released and the tracking number would be given to you.

My E-mail is engr.bongani@gmail.com. But if you mail me I will be on vacation

and I will not be able to reply your mail.

Yours Faithfully, Engr. Bongani N.B:

You have limited time to claim it from FedEx.

More event details»

Will you attend?
Yes No Maybe

hey folks

don't we need a new picture??

Song for a Sea Tower

There lived1 four sisters in a tower2 by the sea,
Between the blue waters3 and the lily lea.

One sister was a wolf4, one a gentle sheep5.
One a swan6, and one a fish7, from the fabled8 deep.

Four sisters9 loved a man10, beautiful was he.
He swam in blue waters beside the lily lea.

The sheep gave him fleecy wool to warm his lonely11 bed.
The swan gave him feathers to crown12 his curly head13.

The fish gave him gaudy rings from wrecks of vanity14.
The wolf ran all alone around the lily lea.

The wolf ran all alone15 where the lilies proudly16 rise.
She17 gave the man18 nothing but a glance19 from her eyes.

A glance from her savage eyes beside the summer sea.
He left the wave and followed her along the lily20 lea21.

Three enchanted sisters22 in a tower by the tide23.
Where their hearts 24 awakened, there they must abide.

There spell-bound25 sisters, a sheep, a fish, a swan.
Floods26 beat against their tower27. Time goes on and on28.

“If we wait with patience29, no matter what the pain,
From the green waters the God30 will come again.”

Three ancient sisters, faithfully they wait
For the young and loving31 man that the wolf ate.

________________________________________

1. rib-bed shells the warp deciduous dream the sea anemone the carnivorous count
2. guarded face beheld in unsmiling bricks never loseface
3. take luke parts per million kneading of these splashes
4. say grace canis lupus
5. wash up ovis aries
6. count blessings cygnus olor
7. any non-tetrapod chordate moisturize
8. for once upon a time
9. sharing genetic loads sharing soups of odor warm beefslaped sun
10. a quieter fop
11. see all alone
12. need we know the legislating sea
13. all for the favorite side of the face
14. the poison grew old then the old poison grew
15. see lonely
16. the sea is proud or majestic a waning curtain used towel
17. everything she did was having to be beautiful
18. epic buoyant and black tugging at every underwatertoe
19. trapdoor to the sinuses
20. but the sea nymphs cried and cried for the otherworldliness of the white petalfolk
21. got as far as the universal would take them and said I can’t take you any further
22. said the sea driver over over and over
23. heave muscular diaphragm of shore heave itching up against the sound of quartz
24. ba bum ba bum
25. now burn the paper and scatter the ashes to the wind
26. hear oscillating waps the midnight curl
27. reputedly Caucasoid
28. only space the voluminous cousin body of deeprub the innermost hood of the terre
29. of scanty flies something never worn removed
30. is she an artist? it is required
31. a garbled girl she spoke of lava

Poem for a Lighthouse

There lived four sisters in a lighthouse by the sea,
A fish, a swan, a wolf, and the sheepish one was me.

The light had burnt out years before and they began to sing,
The sailors on the blue and green were brought, as on a string.

The wolf gave sailors welcome howls. The swan gave them her feathers.
I gave my fleecy wool and the fish gave sunken treasures.

The sisters gave the men their gifts for want of love’s return,
But love was never given back, so the sisters still would yearn.

Far away there walked a man around a lily lea.
He picked some flowers carefully and gave them to the sea.

Four lonely sisters, a fish, a wolf, a sheep and swan.
Floods beat against their tower. Time went on and on.

The flowers floated past the savage sharks and men o’ war.
One moonless night the sisters saw four lilies on the shore.

Four enchanted sisters stopped their singing to the sea
and there the ships began to sink, the wrecks of vanity.

Sea Tower Song

There veins four sisters in a tower through sea,
Between the high marine and a meadow of a lily.

A sister was the wolf, a sister was the sheep,
A swan and a fish, of legendary it.

Four sisters loved the person, well there it is.
The avenue of a sea over a meadow lily.

Sheep gave heats at one curling wool, its solitary bed.
The swan she be springy, given a crown its curling hair

The fish has given walks at the failures of vanity
Wolf complete solitude around a meadow of a lily

The wolf walked in true lilies in spite of wage increase.
It has given at the person only a view of its eyes.

Take of its wild eyes the years from now sea where.
It has left a wave and followed it on a meadow lily.

Three fascinated sisters in a tower a stream.
Where their wakened hearts, that where must remain.

Three fascinated sisters, sheep, fish, swan.
The flood fought against their tower, time go each time

"When we patiently wait, although the fact that a pain,
green water the God again will arrive. "

Three tired sisters, sincere watchers on their youth
and the person of love who the wolves never knew

Explication of the Sea Tower Song

Apparently, these four women who happened to be of the faith, lived inside a giant penis right on the tip of the ocean, which was vulvic, and according to Joseph Campbell, represents the collective unconscious, and the surmounting of desire over the human will. Rationality holds little sway against such forces, and this man, who swam in blue waters, blue signifying cool, calm and collected, masculinity is devoured by the she wolf. Another possibility, is that this man was wearing cockrings, uncircumcised, and old sheathe condoms, and that this is a cautionary tale about the dangers of unsafe sex. This theory gains creedence when looking at the the last three stanzas on the pleasures of masturbation as "floods beat against their tower" The tower, being the collective clitori of the three remaining sisters. The wolf, and the male, both deceased from AIDS, they wait, for the turn of the tide, the 90s to come and make everyone more aware. Considering that we are all "wrecks of vanity" and that inside each of us, there are sheep, swans, and fishes, and the wolves... their is also the implication of man and God. Ultimately, this will be fruitless, as time goes on and on... and they await the 2nd coming, or perhaps, the first coming and little do they know that in the lily lea, the bones of the man are resting. These bones might make for a good sexual implement. Perhaps, the swan, sheep and fish could reconfigure the bones, patch up the tattered bloody shreds, and make this man into a fuck doll in honor of the wolf. The wolf inside us all. None the less, all these figures missed the point, entirely, by not devouring tons of sushi, and clam chowder. They could have built campfires and drunkenly howled Helen Adam ballads, but chose to engage in such pointless melodrama. They deserve Tonys... All of them... Maybe even a gold star, but as for the man, he looks like he needs a makeover.

Love! Love! and L.S.D

A Helen Adam Reading of the The Cheerless Junkie's Song

Sing along on page 219 in your Helen Adam Reader

song

Andy Hall
Song: Terrorists of Love

Baby tickle me
blindfold me baby
spank me baby
put nipple clamps
on me
and waterboard me
cuz I am the terrorist of love
beat jesus into my backside
sell me a bible, flag and gun
okay...hold the gun
cuz I'm the terrorist of love
Let's play this game
till we both come
and I convert you
to Islam
or you make me born again
venture capitalist
it will be so much fun
and in the mean time
we can take out a few
million women men
children
it will be so much fun
for we are the terrorists of love
flick the switch
for the terrorists of love
flick my switch
terrorists of love
terror is of love
freedom from love
freedom baby freedom
baby, put them handcuffs
back on and lets do it all again.
you don't need my implied consent
all you need is a daterape drug
would you bomb me right down there
with your tongue?
come now, give my rope a tug
unleash this terrorist of love
39 lashes, crucify me
put me on high, up above
all hail to the terrorists of love
come give me a bullet
sanctify my lust
I want power, pussy
ass, my own tv show
and a hug, come watch
the terrorists of love
don't miss the terrorists
of love, we all are terrorists
of love.

Anno Domini

intimacy is a game of telephone

intimacy is a game of telephone
jarring all our butterflies
in a mason glass
with holes on the top
walking around earth
carrying it with two hands

have you ever wanted
to believe
so bad you made
everyone do it too
desire is so communal
convince your neighbors
you’re in love

if my heart was dropped
in Beijing
it would say I love you
in Chinese I would
learn all the words
that make you great
and none of the ones
that don’t
I would
ignore those
decent sex workers

your partner
woke you up last night
before those birds chirp
to say
she’s loving you
the best
that she can

intimacy is a game of jello zone
where we wobble jiggle
in our oldish age

ask
did you get the mail
no
did you
why would I ask you
if you got the mail
if I got the mail

this is not a love story
it is a growing story
learning to change
the thoughts you have
for another human
so that you might
still eat popcorn and
hold their hand

spam [poem] i received to my ilstu email account on 2-19-08 at 10:50am

Way. Proper grandmother! He exclaimed. It doesn't added missmarple, 'we are right in assuming that for a garden seatwhich appeared to be of comfortable all artists almost allin the age of illusion, about him. Not an easy man to forget,really. She was staring at her plate. Something in the i did not wish a decided rebuff i would better young voicea little foreign in its accent, but in this exodus towardthe setting sun. He was dates from this time, and, althoughhe grew in proposition that it was an inscrutable dispensationdiscreet. Monsieur. Marie also. I will answer strangelyplaced in amphibia, are faithfully rendered been able tobear the thought of putting it quite determined to touchgold mining no more, and

Archibald Poetica

A poem should be palpable and mute
then it should throw off its clothes
run naked through the streets
of Pamplona and chase bulls
then engage in a flagellation orgy
while masticating fried clams and orange
juice, after which, the poem should smoke
lots of hashish, laugh at billy collins
play a round of chess, and go for a nice
long walk in the countryside contemplating
whatnot. Then the poem should curl up
with a cat by the fireplace, staring into
the fire, wondering where it all came from.

a poem for the trees in my life.

Trees

Bonsai.

You rest on my coffee table
and wait for green water fertilizer
bugs on your roots, moving, moving
The window gives you light
You give me the peace of forests


Oak.

I will build a house in you
and drink tea
with my friends, no
boys allowed


Baobab.

Stuck by the devil upside-down
roots grow at the clouds
Stand alone in Madagascar
—when we hug my arms
won’t meet
I reach around thousands of years


Willow.

To the Willow my dad helped me swing on:
Thank you
I’m glad it rained for you that night


The Giving Tree.

You taught me how
to be good
and I was happy

Pootry

RIV3R
The very thing that brought the thing to be is the thing that will cause its death.
Andy Goldsworthy


MISSISSIPPI, river system that has swallowed Jeff Buckley + has been crossed many times
from the Itasca, deep loins of Earth up on to the tundra and down between the nations
of Minnesota and St Louis, moving through Memphis, to the Delta, gulf of Mexico
carried Jim and Huck...tom and john, ike and Tina, and me, when I canoed down up above
St Cloud. River that has reclaimed lands from the people many times
reversed its flow, reversed it again, divides America
river I ‘ve crossed many times, have gone over, on bridges, with dad
in u-haul, in campervan, and ugly truck, and ate potatoes, meat, drank coke
ate ice creams, near waterslides, rainstorms'' countless baptisms
countless reclaimings countless fish had swum,
billions of souls sold down the river
Every explorer laid waste on your bluffs sucked into your mills
spilled on to bottomland
frozen over forced into migration
we cling always shoreland and bald eagles
glide across in search of life to rip apart
amazing that we always reach this here confluence
where we can view the surrounds from the eminence
What it's like to have given birth to rock and roll and blues
what’s it like to have given birth to writing,
and to have killed, you never killed, you just existed
How many times may I cross you, how many times
may I see you, when will I discover America
When will I become one with my people
when will bullets get turned into firecrackers
when will your blood become mine, and mine flow back into you?
I must admit, there are other rivers
some I like even more
I've been seeing them
rivers with cliffs
that tower higher
than cathedral spires
and vultures bawk
at the possibility
there are those you can
stand in
and feel the snowmelt
and those that glaciate
you can walk across
even think of freedom
wisteria & willow
confluence peninsula
then rapids then falls
drifts around bends & banks
glides smooth
salmon bear
upstream eggs
flooding magnolia
and magenta leaves
the sadness
glaciation cutting into me
a canyon eventually ripping into America
carrying the siltsouthward making me new
the sadness
The river will swallow us

making us

Saint Lawrence

Saint Lawrence River,
you lifted me
in Alexandria Bay
where I wore swim shoes
a purple once piece
rode a lazy pontoon boat
caught a fish from your rocks
bravely took it off the hook
felt it slimy yet firm
and threw it back
asking
would he make it okay


from the middle of the river
on a flat nontippy boat
taps is played
on a gold trumpet
a stillness radiates
the camp fires
people hold on to eachother
stop tasting their s’mores
listen to the melody
reflecting off the ripples


where Boldt Castle
is surrounded
silently sadly
meant for someone
who never saw its strength
those thousand islands
where wind whips
in a speed boat
they seem so singular


maps of your depth
are marked in colors and numbers
not doing you justice
like a cheap painting
is underneath


this romance you have
with the sun
wow
it glistens
like you’re always kissing
sometimes making love


the waves beginning to charge
the shallow cove
I watch the patterns
the wakes from the boats
like a sand garden
meeting a rake


the insects in my ear
I accept them
for it is
all a part
of floating on you
serenity and a calm
singing along with the
water rushing the Ontario


Saint Lawrence,
you made me stand still

Click on Me : I'm a river.

River Piece; Peep It Yo

I Made a Warm Room with Yours; There Are Drinks for But Me; You’re a Host with a Bucking So Well
-for my favorite-

To kiss her zephyrs each morn! can I yet pastoralmouth your quaint aperçu, runnel of starcurls, I’m happy!, Cunnilingus pretty with linnets linking clew aride their steam. No hap to my augers-glint, even when I’m not of Cunnilingus her tureen proffers a thick-with-teat, a must, still happiest here rubs of flint, aren’t we all?! don’t we wake to slept raimented a holy tint, tucked lips dangling dust?! Then and forever, doves twill, stroke a squall, aureate muse, ‘til I’m done not here nor alone. Among. I love Cunnilingus fair, fibril to dance, love the perspire which quaffs the dew, a tree I never made, never pulled myself anew. The exudation sometimes most, even more, wipe the seedlip of its unconscious dye and leave the dawn, wish I could beget, tap the jewel of the faun, the draught which lards itself a ringing copse, nigh gasping forth the floor! The taste I’ll listen, lasts when supine I cry—Cunnilingus near!—she’s been rung, for flung me in the sweat alacritous, paused the rite-filled pap, used the very yap to soar with sweat atow for more of its own, pulling out, out, vamoose, redolent, away, nary lubricious omnipresent weft we’re along! Look! the sweat enjoys itself well, thrills one to on, sweat, the songlaunch, the fancy’s rhyme to wake again and anon. Genet is wrong—God is gilt-edged and he’s laughing my ear what I rune through her sonoluminent womb: “I’m made afresh, juncos aloft unto tears, cerulean tarn we’ve to gain on abloom.” Extend through the quaint till its reeds, vapors net and twine mine eyes front the quay. I weep of your orb ‘til perches the horizon’s flocky, like a ghost sings away! Sips kneel till I pass, nay distent oh, I’ll not rise gaze nor the savor, the spume’s keel for the mast! Call it sibilance, I’ll make you mine, immolate the floe but fuck the thiram, I’ll never spit thine we’ve sung, diadem my delta, dandle my tongue, I’d sate you, Rhine but I can’t a dram. I’ll not walk with you when lungs ask a titivate, never quell the lull—the surfeit of meat, the lamb. I try to stop my sips’ be, my eyes alove resist the pine borne as gusted fescue abaft the kine, for it hurts to love anything we’ve done, most when her interstice’s aflame—abides the cache’s rue of stime! I want to rise my stead to make the world know—love abounds!—but I shan’t, my indefatigable cum, to draw a winestung soupçon would taint her bequest. This ungrateful spit—rest, rest!—twould ruin my sewn, for God! your Goddess is here, a succor my visage, there’s no Humbert!, wherefore his moan?! It’s true we die but thrill with nymphets for how not what they imitate—too rapt to know! Drag me, have you hair heft me home, I want, enwet, I can’t can’t her tongue drinking me entombed in lace, I’m below. Mine! for I scare of your away, Cunnilingus dear, when your mienfrills glaze a throat into days, astitch, never sere—daft kin who prolix when they’ve a ready hymn!

Prayer for Christina Marie

Christina, who eats pineapple pizza
who drinks Woodchuck
who lives one street away
who has blonde hair
who has pink hair
who has short hair
whose default band is Hanson
who is
the good twin

Christina
Marie
Frigo
whom I share one name with

who just wants to write
space herself with the air
to breathe it in

who swam the blue Barbados
dances in underpants
impresses easily with romance
will admit things
talks German and reads tattoos
fears snowstorm driving

who smiles at Nicholas
tells him he’s beautiful, tells him she loves him
and means it
please, bluebirds, look after him
for her sake

protect her
from writer’s depression
may she never
stick her head in an oven

from those who have failed her
from steel trains that blare our windows
from Crohn’s disease
from not wandering
from insomnia
from high text-message bills
from addiction and infliction
from time not healing
from divorce, adultery
from living in photos
from not knowing the sun
the wake and sleep, the tradition of change

from cavities and root canals and tooth extractions and gingivitis

Christina, who just wants someone to touch her hand
may she always have a friend to hug in the cold
to tell her it’s raining, and we’re okay

may she always make snow
angels in her coat

may she never
have to smell beer
be in a plane crash
collide a car into a doe or antelope or moose or reindeer or fawn
cap another glass bottle again

save her from being that stump
that moves her so much
let her grow to be the tree
know when to receive
may her leaves always change come autumn

let her have a silo again
but with someone more right
this time

may she always write love poems
no matter if the man deserves

may her vizla, Andy, never suffer

bring some town, city, state or person
to make her feel she’s Home

cover her in tulips
taking photos of ants
climbing up grass blades

may she shower in a waterfall,
have her portrait painted
with poppyred lips

may a poem of hers
be accepted
to The Kenyon Review
The Iowa Review
even though mine weren’t

save her from emesis
in cars
with embarrassment
or,
at least
surround her with people
who’ll let her live it down

may she never work for State Farm Insurance®

It's not that Stephen Chamberlain is never wrong, but that he doesn't like to be wrong so he tries very hard not to be.

pal·imp·sest –noun
a parchment or the like from which writing has been partially or completely erased to make room for another text.
[Origin: 1655–65; < title="Click for more information about this dictionary" href="http://dictionary.reference.com/help/ahd4.html" minmax_bound="true">American Heritage Dictionary - Cite This Source - Share This
pal·imp·sest (pāl'ĭmp-sěst') Pronunciation Key n.
A manuscript, typically of papyrus or parchment, that has been written on more than once, with the earlier writing incompletely erased and often legible.

I.
Isis, agape theon
beloved darling of the gods
lover of lilacs and bronze!

Protect Jenna Lynn Goldsmith, my rainbow, queen dyke, mullet walker, scholar of English studies and feminism, writer of beautiful words, intensely secular jew-ish, silhouette of androgyny reading Anne Sexton, Walt Whitman, Alfred Lord Tennyson, driver of a bumper of social issues for peace and equality, wearer of hemp, burner of jasmine, drinker of soy milks, nosher of toast, sporter of numerous high fashion hoodies

Protect her from all forms of water falling from the sky
acids rains, slight drizzles, snow pellets, hail storms, summer monsoons, wet socks, cold jeans, frizzy hair the mist off Lake Summerfest
use uninvertible umbrellas, silver awnings, hoods of faux fur, peach tree shade, petition to the rain gods! such as Cocijo of Mexico, Mulungu of Africa, Tawhaki of the South Pacific, Lei Gong of East Asia and Thor of the Marvel Comics

Protect her from her irrational fear of hoo-ved animals especially those of North America who may attack like the White-tail deer, the Mule deer, the Sitka deer the Elk and the albino deer that roam Argonne National Laboratory with a vengeance, that are especially
ferocious


II.
Isis, agape theon
beloved darling of the gods
lover of lilacs and bronze!

Protect Jenna Lynn Goldsmith, who lived on a lake in Michigan below an indie guitarist named Charlie who wrote songs about Martha, a ghetto in Madison, friend of the Yahara River, a tiny square house in South Haven, a condo in Schaumburg, who now lives in modular home in Belviqueerville with a silver/green/silver pinwheel divided by the Kishwaukee River

Protect her weakened immune system from allergens and allergy-induced asthma, sinus infections, packets of nasal phlegm, cat dander, dust, pollen, mold, feathers and leppits with hypoallergenic breeds, air purifiers, nose spritzers, Zyrtec, Allegra D, forget Claritin, soap scum remover and featherless dusters

Protect her from the death of her mother, Martha Ann Trowe, who hugged me first and knew me later, lover of Door County coffee, teacher of giving, expert photographer of the Sycamore, the Pin Oak, the Buttonbush and the Sweet gum but who also has an office and a desk as a carpenter contractor, lover of Jenna so much

Protect her from the death of her Grandmother, Haroldine Bernadette Sorensen who married Herbert Trowe, divorced Herbert Trowe, married Herbert Trowe, and then partnered a woman named Caroline, fellow English professor, who she walked with on the beaches but could not hold her hand, lover of Jenna so much


III.
Isis, agape theon
beloved darling of the gods
lover of lilacs and bronze!

Protect Jenna Lynn Goldsmith who spent her summers as manager of guest services, author of term papers, on Rape and Sexual power, the Stigmatization of AIDS, speaker of Spanish II, proof reader of my abominable prose, runner of town errands, genius conversationalist, maker of eye contact and mixtapes

Protect her from my mother, Maria Anne Mazzola Coyle, who is trying
who knew me as girl scout, bride, boy crazy, Catholic school girl, soccer player, only daughter, virgin, Nicholas Sparks, honor student, sound breeder, big sister, collector of marbles, volunteer, teacher, her sweet Melissa she should have put in more dresses, bought more Barbies thought less of the saber-tooth, read more Babysitter’s Club, watched less Star Wars, planted a rose not dug up a worm
who forgot misprint on the upper middle class nuclear family, poet, vegetarian, bundle of social issues, queer, secret from Grandma, denouncer of organized religious thought, scholar of post-modern, traveler of the world, lover, minimalist

IV.
Isis, agape theon
beloved darling of the gods
lover of lilacs and bronze!

Protect Jenna Lynn Goldsmith who even before we met I longed for her thorax, hinge joints, carpals, fibula, the dear roof of her mouth and other obscure parts, who has her very own handwriting, a nose ring, two tattoos but wants another, fake poet glasses, a turtle named Buddy who is twenty-five years old, reminiscent of the Archelon ischyros, who likes ketchup but also chocolate chip pancakes

Protect her from mundane living circumstances
let her love her coffee every day, give her Sunday mornings with perfect toast, a bookshelf so collected, sun sliding in envelopes, an endless lover, real flowers smile at bad drivers, let her notice every building on the way to work, find the curious intellect of every student, let the weather take her back with old feelings, have every lovely piece of word move her, have mercy on the kingdom of insects

Protect her from the story of us
mornings like yesterday
graduate schools and their state flowers

at Las Vegas the sagebrush
at Philadelphia the mountain laurel
at New Orleans the magnolia
at Normal the purple violet
at Champaign-Urbana the purple violet
at San Francisco the poppy
at Chicago the purple violet
if we succeed there or there, future girlfriends who are not me, the drawer of poems we filled, the classes we skipped, hugs of absolute unselfishness, that one time I took her to get sushi and let me pay, or that other time I showed her my bedroom and all my things, the other time we ordered pizza and wrote a poem together, or the last time we talked, when she showed me her bedroom and all of her things


V.
Isis, agape theon
beloved darling of the gods
lover of lilacs and bronze!

Protect her from hatred
who replaced the human with dyke, faggot, rugmuncher, homosexual, feminazi, catlapper, butch, kike
forgetter of Jenna Lynn Goldsmith, who looked past the stares of hatred to the soft retina of face into the flubbery lobe behind
who taught me to make human humans, make them people to the point of their sleeping breaths in steady rhythms, be love in their dreams, blanket their distant hearts, see them in the kitchen plucking unwanted hairs, riding the elevator to the 42nd floor, vomiting bile, surfing porn, loading the dishwasher, pinching their fat, wiping their glasses, inserting enemas, praying to the sky, tripping up curbs, flicking their boogers, kissing their mothers, holding on to each other

prayer poem

Dear Jonathan Kozol
God of Urban Education Reform
hear my prayer:

Please protect this girl
who has read all of your books and shaken your hand,
who’s allergic to dogs, cats and nuts
(but not peanuts),
who has a Map of the World shower curtain
hanging on her bedroom wall,
who grew up in a brick house in Mount Prospect
on a street that starts with a K
who now lives across the kitchen from me
this girl:
Glenna Kathleen Sullivan
who—if you ask her, “like…the good witch?”
she’ll say, “yes,” anyway, because she doesn’t want you feeling silly
Please protect her from the bad things.

Protect her Otis Redding album from scratching
and let her always sing along.
Tell her I’m sorry for eating her Twizzlers and
remind me to thank her for sharing that rice.

She’s the girl
with the ponytail, filling your water at the Medici restaurant
(home of that big lacquered Mulberry tree).
Protect her from flat tires on her purple bike
and also from anaphylaxis
and also asthmatic complexities
and also those damn cluster headaches
and more streptococcal infections
and from every type of cancer that has ever and will ever live.

These are the bones in her face:
2 maxillae
2 zygomatic bones
2 lacrimal bones
2 palatine bones
and a mandible
All of these bones create cavities for her senses
smelling, tasting, hearing
so protect them!
And also her eyes—which her students call “raw”
save them save them save them so she
can see her affect on the world and so
she can look into the mirror and
know that she’s beautiful.

Protect her from expensive airfare,
burnt corn,
red bats with rabies,
nightmares of mammoths
and Caspian Tigers.

Give this Glenna Kathleen Sullivan instead:
dreams of dandelions and deer grass
flying squirrels, and their walking cousins
chipmunks, gophers, forget-me-nots
stream orchids and wild oats.

One day, one day, sweet Jonathan,
let Glenna’s childhood wish come true:
send her up through the tropo-
strato-
mesosphere
into outer space
but not until they’ve drastically improved
Astronaut food
yes—protect her from dehydrated chicken dinners
and she should look down from her shuttle
and see oak trees and magnolias
and rivers and the lakes that she only knows are there
Then her smile will warm the Earth
when the sun gets too tired.

Protect her from crying while reading this poem.

She says she wants your protection from
losing her passion—
the passion for life and for love and for teaching
but you know and I know she’ll keep it forever
so there’s no need to protect it from leaving.

Glenna Kathleen Sullivan
deserves your watchful bespectacled eyes protecting her
you knew it when you shook her hand—
and not just your protection but also the gods that you pray to
and the gods that they pray to and the stars you all wish on—
let everything keep her safe.

Glenna Kathleen
who showed me London
who reads poetry and remembers
who still sleeps with Puffy
and helps clean my room
who wears mismatched socks
and has a good haircut
who edits my poems
who will live one thousand sad miles away from me next year—
Glenna who lives her life for others
who is really really real—
please give her all the good things
because I try to and it’s not enough.