Contents The winds blow colder as the days grow old You Are Real I have been enthusiasm, often. Next. Next. Poem with One Paranoid Sentence Mystery Poem My silly allies are. J’Adore L’Idée De Vous L.A.
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The winds blow colder as the days grow old and I feel beautiful when I am obvious when my motives are a glow around me and around you too when I have convinced myself that I am being helpful but it is very rare, I don’t know why, to be able to be happy doing what one is supposed to do— mainly I feel like the meek oppressor being polite in the face of a vast inappropriateness—I look away from what the people do. I am in love with what they say. The people may do what they want, as long as they describe it in a way that won’t give my ear cancer. A TV’s job is to remind a person what behaviors will be seen as weird, A person’s mind, in his or her spare time, is the basis of our form of government. Your brain is the ocean under government, the toilet seat on which is seated government.
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Everything depends upon the size of the opinion. Please agree with me and make me large “The world is as good as you are able to appreciate it.” If someone goes to all the trouble of deceiving me I guess they’ve earned the world. But nothing is more enormous than that person whom you haven’t become yet.
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You Are Real They say the U.S. has a trade deficit because we don’t export enough, but they forget that we export BRUTE FORCE, a cologne for pregnant women. The big problem around here is this shit happening around here is so wholesome you can’t see the awful stuff happening over there. Armies billeting themselves inside the ballot booths. Wait for the midwife howl “all clear” so we can all be here again. Passionate comfort, your beauty like a sofa. In a mud-puddle drops of silver rain. As you know she did and will again. The smiling mouths on tour. On a bench in Exaltation City. Impatient to become an of course. Behind a screen of friendly vodka shots. For food they gathered cans from the abandoned supermarket. Everything I say is secretly about God. We have enough food to feed them but we cannot afford to take it where they are. They are not here. The homeless people have a political party. I like their commitment to revitalizing public space. Beautiful binge fringe—of course in order to talk they must be drunk. Bluebellbar of halo hems. Real beauty squints in the mouth. Rumors about what’s happening over there make right here seem pleasant by comparison. Real beauty chuckles in the mouth. Cuddles tongue above. I want to use the sidewalk for my sex. I can’t afford to install sidewalk in my house. You are the only radiant benevolence 11
like the moon’s light on a parking lot. My wife agrees with me about the mirror about the nudity about the face. Impatient to become an “of course!” I want you to realize who I am sir. This company needs a slogan that tastes like beef in the moment when you say it. It needs to be so intensely not true that it is immediately real. It needs to be a word that is flesh and that you can chew on it, you can really know about it and it can know about you. What do you mean, “God,” I’m talking about selling accessories. Plates with images of lifeboats on them. Handfuls of facefuls of names. Poorly manufactured pants. Porn video soundtracks made by people who cry out for a living. Several patient receptionists. Very quiet airconditioning. Slob of golden breath aimed at a common area that’s empty. In a house of sewn-up question marks with an odor of burnt toast. Mr. Blister and his modest lil religious community where the babygirls wear drab cloth. The only important thing in the world is to convince people of things. Because I am so unconvincing, that is proof that I am genuine and that you can trust me.
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I have been enthusiasm, often. Believe me, I have been believe. I want to be approved of, which of course requires a form. The words in the poem. You step between them and they praise your wishes. With a whim, you can deceive yourself, and wash the ugliness out of the poem. The gadgets in the poem are attackable, like her mouth becomes really tense. Wind blows the expression off of someone’s face. And if what we want to do is couples calisthenics at our wedding, with personal trainers to assist us, then the question is which gym will we call. I need to be encouraged correctly. Yes, I’m sure I will need to be tugged at, tweaked, and prodded—but I also want to be rewarded, with stage-whispers of approval— such as a mother spills, when there are no more dishes in the ocean. Good men have gotten sick sometimes of committing violent crimes, for the better future that the war-profiteers have advertised—These men should remember that God approves of everything, sooner or later, and better yet the girls that were requisitioned will soon be arriving on a truck, as soon as some more locals have “volunteered” to trade their sex for room and board. “Bored” is a word that expresses why things happen. If no one spoke, read, or wrote, or took off their underwear expecting admiration or a blank stare, then we would all be “bored.” God is bored. God loves the blank stare of the victim whose recovery is eternally delayed by further violence. He created the world so He could have this person to be near him without contradicting him. If all that one expects is to be hurt, then one stops expecting, so abused children actually are Nirvana. Religions without bloodstains make no sense. To make sense, a religion must accept war as the natural lop-sidedness, that disintegrates the moral fiber of those whose lifestyles 13
consider themselves blessed. In my constitutionally-protected abuse of privacy. Wash wishes off. Following a whim that seems rather stupid is one way to feel relatively free. I am glad this writing has no destiny
to commit. I refuse to believe that any of these whims have been predestined! I admit I have been wanting to say these things, but I can no longer be bound by that. Our values thrived during the gunplay brought on by the food shortage. Our dead became new chapters in the textbook of Mechanical Defeat. Teeth fall out without a dentist. Each of our dead is a new tooth in the snapped-shut jaw of God. Dead bodies are predestined, so the meaning of each death is the only obstacle to a history that adds up to a Heaven we commute to, through internal processes. Exaltation. Joy. We can be persuaded to experience truly wonderful transformations, which through loyalty, we prove we did deserve those Heavens where we’ve been.
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Next. Next. By wasting things, we widen up the ports at which those things arrive. By killing folks, we widen up the womb. More folks arrive, we loan them hats and sandwiches. We could have given them those things, if we were dumb and had no respect for our own children’s flags on moons and planets. We extend our eyes and grin like Fathers, made taller by the chainreacting future, where our sperm hit eggs that grow up to fire sperm into the wideness of groomed Womb that is the plan that makes a father “Father” all the best comic-books are origin stories. Farther figments of our frivolous blood must not abandon how we feel about them though. They should feel about themselves as lucky as we felt while making them. It is, of course, irritating to have been originated by someone else, who’s always trying to claim your every move, as either a positive or, more likely, as a negative example of the ways time 15
is intended to be spent and to proceed. They still see their intentions in us, written on our resemblances to them. She was quite a Massive Mother, soothing and spanking interchangeably, doing these things for different reasons hybridized into the one Motive, to do right, to learn them to do right and fight for right. She was a solemn mother; she was reluctant to be influential, she didn’t want their manners on her hands.
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Poem with One Paranoid Sentence So the reason you are not getting paid very much, as it turns out, is that the work you are doing is not really very useful. I fear the teachers may not be naïve enough, anymore. Sometimes the world just makes a lot of sense and then you have to ask forgiveness—sorry, world, I stopped looking at you for a while: for a while, all I could see was the result of my own need to make the most sense I could possibly. So, obviously there are cabals that use starvation as a political tactic? Because they want a future where there’s room for everyone, to enjoy themselves among the graves. It’s a rich white racism thing. The teachers have gotta deliver finished products to the kids. The teachers should not let the kids see them, as their ideas and beliefs fall apart, in the moment they are spoken, unraveling—like psychological striptease—for the kids, take X-rays of beliefs wiggling, pieces of thoughts cuddling up to and weaving themselves 17
into other pieces of ideas—the collapse of faith sews itself back up while you watch. All it takes to be a genius is to not be embarrassed by the wiggleiciousness of thoughts. No final form of mind exists to make fun of the middle, kids. He believes nothing; he is belief’s employee. He pursues the goals that a believer would pursue, but in his case it is a job only. So, he can do sin because he poses as one who is inspired by belief to believe it is not sin. Earth’s bureaucrat. Meanwhile, all I’ve done for 30 years is to consider what it meant to say “no” for the first time.
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Mystery Poem The image in my ears. Do you speak effete bird-language? In this professional environment. All our motives have been. A gentle rain of documents. My hand’s a bland. Do you speak effete bird-language? Enunciate erupt. Jesus says, If a man lets himself be eaten by a lion, that man is cursed, for he has allowed that lion who ate him to become a man. But if Jesus eats you, you will be blessed, because you’ll become Jesus. I admit that’s weird, that’s why they had to massacre the people who thought that. The history of comparative religions. Do you speak effete? Environmental motivations. Please agree with me so we can exert peer-pressure on His Holiness, the Administrator. It is his job to conceal his doubts. His positive example of agreeing with his boss teaches us, we who would be his employees. Rooms smaller than an atom are routinely hidden in a prayer. Millions of them in each globe of spittle. (We were talking and I saw her wipe her face. Woops! Too close. The more eloquent I get the more words seem to carry wet.) Smaller and humbler gentlemen are seated in rows in the rooms contained in your voice like blood in the heart as you pray. Imitation is one way to become the many. Everybody equal serves. Do you speak infinite? God’s physiology is sadness in a sock; societies based on exploitation prefer that people only be together when they are alone. A soldier, for example, since he is not allowed to criticize or to refuse an order, since he must conceal and conceal 19
his weakness, until the particular shape of his weakness, hidden meekness, is the shape of his whole individuality. What else would he tell girls about? The tears fall in the river find each other and form squads; the sick tears learn from one another and form tumors, and from them teeth erupt that snatch empty condoms that become the gloves around those terribly soft hands; hands of innocence, agility and deafness; water too soft to be worthy of. Do you speak deafness? Do you speak busload of Machine-face Geez? In this professional environment, we take the long view, which is the only way to justify the random flailings we do in the present tense. Do you speak failure? Stop the conversation paper is a smand.
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My silly allies are. Real people live in. Envy helplessness. How they admire the flower’s helplessness. And they want to be flowers when they grow up. On a wing of conversation, high and hurried over. Mildly fabulous. Fabulous when with the fabulous. Misdiagnosis “fun.” Eager spoke his volumes simmered to a resumé. With a cerebrum full of “teeth.” Another fella wrote that. Is not. Snot relevant. Amateur. Bird-escapade. Escape-route. Promise-route. Storage spaces full of shoveled stuff. I was a proud apartment-dweller once. Sanity sanitary sanctify. If by a sacrifice they form. A round, pot-bellied love. A superior form of silence invaded. Sulky strum. Misdiagnosis “fun.” Sad speaks endless volumes through. I was being likeable by not being myself. Being a fraction of myself. My supervisor was giving me tips on how to pursue a different goal than the goal I am pursuing. It really is convenient. Piss-gold bottles. Paradise through metabolic processes. The furred mouth of tomorrow’s workplace. Thank God I’m privileged, otherwise this society would really Words like flowery borders around the sterner words that explain away. Real people live in situations that are agreed-upon, by them, by their landlord, boss, bank. Since the world is already made-up, why write a novel about it? Fictions about fictions pass for real. Amusing like my life would be if I was not required to proofread documents. I take pictures of hungry young women and often have sex with them and they don’t complain. As long as my pet survives I won’t be entirely alone. Brain so heavy my neck can’t hold it up. Flopped back and forth. Shy 21
admiration inhibited a few feet from her I regretted my own evil which shining fluidity of shining hair. Small corners of the world become magazine covers, which enables the rest to become slums. This grey place is my inheritance. I don’t like it but I can afford it. Drugs of glum. I am a perfect fit.
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J’Adore L’Idée De Vous Written upon the occasion of watching Jean-Luc Godard’s Masculin-Feminin
Like a starlet in an unmade bed, where no one swims, without a permission slip. Like a really caffeinated laxative. He admires her intensity, like life that has been squeezed and releases more life. As if we shake life and life sweats out life. As if the waves did not roll back to the ocean but instead their power stayed stuck upon the shore. Rapt clap of worshipper, I adore, your idea, let’s put some wheels on it, put some armor and a two-ton chassis on it, send it off in some direction somewhere looking for some trouble to pit our hope against. Our hope can be accurately described as the resources enjoyed by the grandkids of people who start clubs. Whatever I do is playtime, because I always do my duty wrong. Before those people can be helped, the world must agree that the world ought to help them. Then it must agree what the world is, to understand how the world could do something, by counting the supply of heads that could play host to the world’s thoughts. Thoughts have the stupid sizzle of blunt life: 23
as long as you remember nothing, your genius is assured. I once dreamed of a village made of spaghetti standing up on twigs; Man, an immense ultimatum, ready for export. Pleasure, skimpy, skinned, and scandalized; language is a tool to know whose body is the trustworthy and who’s the slipped-off one. Both have an investment, both have made deposits (if sexy people were the only form of money, the sexiest of them would have to live in banks, reading about debt to foreign sex.)
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L.A. Summertime, and I shave off my beard, that heavy hiding-place, and leave my glasses folded on the counter, because I’d rather be seen than see. O admiration, I am tired. I want to be a blue-eyed banjo plucked by other people’s eyes and spurn them, but sadly, it just so happens we are human beings and we become involved, so what? You can’t blame me for being claimed, can you? You also are a small bit beautiful, OK, but I will never give to you enough attention to really see you, so it will never be possible that you should be compared, not even enough to be found wanting. Sorry, sister, (I am so strong now, now I know what love is, love, is having something that lets you laugh back, the effervescence of the ingénue, ugly people must believe in something, to give us a reason to think about them; lovely people are just there like laws.
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