The chinamen (those who took great effort to insult the circumference of my member) stood at the corner, rank and file.
“My sex breathes your slavery.”
And to their knees they went.
-
On his nightstand there was a book titled:
The Exploits of a 5-D Earth.
He claimed to have the power to suck from my socks the soul of my lecherous bosom.
As he came with wretched toes, he called his tears liveries puddling on my pale flesh.
Katherine now looks like a poem I wrote.
I said good morning and in her lazy smile I saw a terror of bliss.
She had taken another dose, presumably because her girlfriend is threatening to leave her again, and gone to get cigarettes; on her return I will bum one and we will smoke and then she will offer and I will accept and tumble a little bit too quickly into an unplanned tomorrow, scraping up of yesterday what we can.
I’ve been drinking since 10 AM and my roommates just took some Xanax.
My tooth is newly chipped, and its virgin roughness is giving me anxiety.
I’ll cut out from now on pictures of pretty women in magazines and tack them to my wall, because they can satisfy me more than any of the women I know.
“we don’t know what is causing this rain,” said the news anchor on channel six’s news that night. “but we have meteorologist Mike David here and he’s watching the doppler 6900, so stay tuned to channel six all night.
just as the newscast ended, i had begun pouring ketchup on my hash browns. i’d…
the poet’s twenty-fifth monologue (to the dog, who is home)
When your ancestors, older than mine
first scented water and sloped
out under the name-saking sun
you were lean, your skull,
goat-narrow; the God-
given gold of your coat, shining
so…
it is eighty degrees in march and i want a popsicle
but all i have are ice cream sandwiches
it could have been june
No, read 200 pages, write 1 short story, 4 poems, 2 essays, work 24 hours before Monday.
now i watch the grass through my sunglasses
i want to lie in it
the girls across the…
Ludovico, take me from your furnaces to a garden of the gypsies glass and present me a vision of my mutated riches.
Not knowing the true curses of this second country,
I took the streets to claim: “I have buried her! My midnight girl I have buried!”
Can they see me atop my multi-colored ridge? I wonder,
gazing into the jagged crenelations of one hundred thousand living persons.
Place my fermented lexicon upon the collar of my shirt
so I shall hear it when I think to speak those women.
But I don’t believe in myself! she says, and I say yes, yes
the curator’s thirteenth monologue
In bed we are fatuous Samaritans,
dispensing our quack allegorical goodness.
Making love has become
an act of gap-year heroism
like digging a well in an African village.
I spread my body above yours: a white anti-
malarial…
Tell me a story of he who sought the village oaf to be.
“Fuck you,” read the premier line on Ms. 5150’s short letter.
Men who (with some debate) have always been dead are dying.
This raises my favorite question: if a man fails to retire in the lines he is given
does he remain forever alive, as a course of fact?
Lucile becomes Lucifer, and Lucifer becomes Lucile.
House Party
Fifty-seven twenty-something girls
dressed like Alan Bennett.
This is the very Oxford English definition of mistake, noun.
The boys sit in semi-circles
committing ironic lecheries
and parting their hair in the centre.
Occasionally there is a…
