Wednesday, June 26, 2019

Submit to Octopus Review #8

Poetry is just about FULL,

but we still need ART, ART, ART!!!

Since you hated my authoritarian guidelines, and strongly disliked my authoritative guidelines, I give you this time some ARTHURIAN guidelines —

Please be thou so gracious as to send 1 - 3 works of art to this mysterious string of sorcerous coordinates:    

[You may also FB message them to me]

The art may be of any style or subject matter. It would be most twee to receive art celebrating the octopus in its many twisted formations,

but that is not a requirement. Originality is the only requirement.

Medium-sized jayest-of-pegs are best, (although when posting something as large as The Octopus Review, the size defaults to *very small* on Blogspot no matter what size I make it.) 

No real deadline… but let’s say by midsummer’s first ear of silken corn (aka Aug 1).

There is still room for a couple of small-medium poems too. There seem to be themes of both witchcraft & The Arts building around this issue. Chimeth in, wilt thou!

Friday, June 7, 2019

Kinder, Gentler Submission Guidelines


I’m creating these kinder, gentler submission guidelines because I know that sometimes when I try to sound authoritative I end up sounding authoritarian. It’s not a great time in history to even joke about feeling like a fascist — 

   — but I’m going to be honest. These days I swing wildly between feeling LOUD! INVINCIBLE! GOD-LIKE! [like I should have my Driver Lic revoked! Like I should be impeached!]

             and feeling small, terrified, blindfolded (like I should not be allowed to own a bunch of guns)  Fear not. I decided I did NOT deserve a gun. I worked sans wand, so to speak…

… onto #thewitchcraftthing

You guys, I know you know I know what witchcraft is, and that I’m 100% FOR IT. I know you know I know the difference between mock witch hunt voice & sincere witch hunt voice. About 3% sincerely think witchcraft has something to do w/ “colluding with evil spirits” or “doing harm.” And for them I created the #nocollusion hashtag campaign to dispel any fear that may have arisen. 

But there may have been SOME collusion. Only good collusion. And no obstruction. SOOOooooo,

if you are not afraid or turned off by any of this, then I want to hear from you in the form of poetry & art:

Send 3-5 poems or 1-3 artworks to

I like a strong personal style (do people really get upset when I say don’t write like Buk or Rupi, because they are the trending internet poets? That’s just my fancy trademark way of saying Be Yourself. Much as I love e.e. & Wendy, I don’t want you to write like them either) Just check past issues if you want an idea what I’m looking for!

I don’t do themes often, but for this last issue I’m looking for themes around The Arts — what drew you in to being a creative soul, how has art been an ally or a tormentor,  an elegy for your favorite muse (yes, even if it’s Rupi or Buk). As for the Octopus Theme—I’m seeking mostly octopus art. If you want to write octopus poems that’s fine too.

Okay, I look forward to this final issue of The Octopus Review & I do have some exciting news about the new version of The Octopus Review, but I’ll wait till next time.

Friday, May 17, 2019

Submit to OCTO REVIEW 8

HELLO Poets & Artists

It’s time to start collecting submissions for the 8th & final issue of The Octopus Review!

And by final, I mean only in its current incarnation. I expect to resurrect it somewhere else in due time.

I’ve been really horrible at the whole GUIDELINES thing. I feel like a fascist when I ask people to follow rules & that excites me more than it should.  : )))   

I’m tentatively making the theme of this issue The ARTS. And octopuses. So write to me about how Humanitor’s humanities have haunted you… and how much you love/hate cephalopods.

Write like YOU (or e.e. cummings, or Wendy Videlock, but no one else)

Please, PLEASE don’t send WORD docs.

Send 3—5 poems.  Send 1—3 artworks.

Send your submissions to  OR Facebook Messenger.

Hope to have this done by late summer. Thanks all!

Wednesday, May 8, 2019

The Rest of April's Vogon Poems


Here are the rest of April’s Vogon poems. Sorry I’m not as organized as last year.  This may be the last Vogon batch for awhile.  I know writing Vogon poems doesn’t seem like a difficult thing to do, but it can have some surprising repercussions… I can’t say much about that, but if you are an astute reader you may get the gist… 

…there can be a depletion of love & light & good feelings in the heart, lungs & chest. And one must take measures to replenish that light & love before one has the urge to hang onesself again. So off I go to do that (replenish, not hang) for the summer.   I feel like this has been a success… 

Look for changes in our cultural trends & values first. Then changes in our legal system.

And maybe I will do some new art now! You all deserve new art. Perhaps it’ll be Exegesis-themed! I think I’m going to mostly focus on DOT ART (stipples) from now on. Fuck watercolors. 

Also… I am taking submissions for the final Octopus Review (to appear at this address). I’ll send out a proper call for subs soon though.



The 1st dream I ever remember having
                         Was of a fire in our living room
I was less than 2, but to this day
                              remember how scared
                        I was to walk through the living room
                                    that morning...

[And later I learned the flames weren’t there to dance
         but to convert us to lisping homosexual hedonism!!  It was decided my time
                     here would be a hell-chore & the fire roared & laughed] 

                                   …how it crisped the
                                 innocent sponge of my brain
                            as it devoured furniture, floor & the neighbors’ dogs

[And later I wrote a poem about that dream &
        it was printed in one of those boutique zines run by SJWs
                                                                                    (not FSWs)]

Next time my mom asks re: memories, I’ll ask: which came first the fire or the frying pan?

The rest of childhood was full of typical nightmares —
        Showing up unprepared for tests,
                                   naked of course
Running from bears or bullies on quickening sand —

In my teens I started dreaming what would happen in real life
Nothing big at first—
               pictures of who I’d see at school that day & what they’d be wearing
Then dreaming Reagan’s announcement that he would bomb Libya & he did
                         (I didn’t watch the news in high school) 

The “flying dreams” began after that — you know the ones
                                                     where you flap your arms & lift off,
                                  unsteady on your spindly wings for a second, but soon
                                             a pro at soaring above your awed 
                                                   peers’ stylish hair-dos
                                          Alighting for a spell on the municipal water tower…

In my 20s I was treated to vivid, cryptic sleep novellas
                 Adapted to Hollywood’s technicolor splendor
                       w/ sharp dialogue & plot twists that would make
                                 Tarantino & King rip their scripts

Or else I dreamed of airplanes
                                  crashing….1991 me & Kashmir dancing in a field when 2 planes
                                                     intersect overhead & start to wrestle for airspace
                                                      Pinning each other down, cartwheeling into clouds
                                                           Until the explosion; then fiery debris raining down
                                                                around us….  then bodies…
After that, a plane crashed in my bed every night
                              Sometimes a sudden nosedive,
                              Sometimes more dramatic
                                            sputtering, faltering, folding wings to cockpit throat &
                                                          clutching pearls, then


The 30s saw much editing of these epic dreams
Only snippets landing on my a.m. desk
I started dreaming I was eating things that were not food (a stapler,
                                                                                     crystals, coins.
                                                      Really munching down on them.
                                      A subconscious reflex to a clenched jaw,
On different nights — never in conjunction w/ the inedibles—
                                         I dreamed my teeth were falling out. First one
                            wiggle & then each tooth loosening,
                                    w/ frightening ease & delicacy,  falling into my hand
                                                  till I had a necklace worth

(I was surprised to find out how many people have the loose tooth dream!)

For 40s dreamscape turned to SEARCHING…
                                   SEARCHING, SEARCHING….

                                            Big campuses, unfamiliar cities, crowded sidewalks
                               Huge hotels w/ catacomb hallways
SEARCHING for room numbers,
                                familiar faces, anything familiar really & finding only
                                                           blurry stuff
                                         What number on that room?
                                         What face on that friend?
And most frightening of all sometimes
                 I find I’ve searched my way through all this blurriness
                      to the very top of a structure 
                            that may have started as a building
           But is now made of paper clips & twist-ties & other
                             junk drawer sundries

There I stand on a matchbook plank
                                         Miles above the ground & I have to figure out
                                                how to get down w/out dying

I usually end up falling,
                    falling, falling…and staying alive in the landing
                                              turning my spine just right that it won’t snap
                                                 using the meat of my hands & hips to absorb
                                                                              the shock

(and here I would give anything to have a flying dream again!)

The most recent dream theme? TINY ANIMALS!!

                  Pre hurricane Irma,
                            I dreamt an infestation of tiny frogs w/
                                                                   cockroach wings, such realistic
                                                   little hybrids DizzneyPixxxar should quit the game!

                   And after the hurricane, the infestation of tadpoles
                      on our patio reminded me of the dream

Last year dreamed our bunny
Was tiny as a humming bird, flying around my room       And this week
                                               darting in & out of the clover in our yard,
                     a bald eagle the size of a bumble bee!!


One year ago this little tarantula-face came to live w/ us & turn us into mush



Will I be able to hear anything over this pain?
Were you right-handed? Wrong & long-armed?
This shoulder feels like it’s fired
Hundreds of rounds
His arm will hurt forever
No matter which life he enters
(okay. i think I understand)




Negotiations,  my shoulder shooting rounds, all through April
                                                                                                & March
                                                   (traveling backward, reloading  & reloading)
The nuzzle of metal from 
             thoracic disc 9  &  bullets lodging 
                           in metacarpals every time

Raking shrapnel over backhanded palmistry

Eye contact w/ one wishful star, making itself available at this hour

Through the moon’s full blast of light pollution,
                                                punctuated by a single peep-shaped cloud

I offer to shoot these internal closed circuit rounds

With my sagging net of nerves, I offered

A lemniscate for future ammo through scapular real estate

& a gargoyle claw protruding from my shoulder

& a pinion in the radial nerve

& a misfire in the wrist 


Jesus was busy but smiled  Happy Easter, my daughtery son. 
                                             Have an egg. And a star. And
                                             a chocolate rabbit. And a fire arm.



u.u. cumming to a.a. meeting?

Let’s all just put it out there — We watch porn
            That’s how they’re coming for us,
                                                      the hackers
I see you, Yulia & Tatianna
And I know your tits aren’t real
& neither is the rest of you

    Let’s grow up about all this shit
        No one cares about sex anymore
              Sex has gone underground like Persephone &’ll return one day
                       in April of some year
                           & this moratorium on pleasure will be worth it

All this anti-natalism will flip history’s coin
                 (Jewish refugees ‘30s become Muslim refugees ’10s)
I will submit a proposal for genital updates. God & Steve Jobs’ ghost
                      will ponder & confer & greenlight 
                           a new improved sexier sex, w/ no power differ
                                         ential or misheard orgasms
                ever again, amen

So said Lambert, Lambert
                  in his death throes
                  & I heard & understood from a thousand miles away…

                                …smashed my phone into more pieces
           than any poet could
I’ve been doing a dangerous job,   look at all these numbers
                                                                          doing time




!  Dios quilla a sous Borrachitas !

Today’s news stories are nothing
                                  w/out extra ammo
     More & more rounds of wtf-ery!
The best stories are round (not rhomboid
                                    not equillateral)
The best stories are covered in children’s blood
                                               or men’s vulnerability
                                               or women’s heroism
We’re done with intelligence memos & onto manifestos

In the 90s I lived 
In the funeral home alone & 
Wondered who would find me if my mom’s goons
Threw me in the cremation oven**

Back in those days, which don’t seem so long ago
                                                         but oh my
           When I peer over the edge of Y2K’s dumpster—

Each a.m. brought news
               Of a different white girl gone from her pedestal
& a few days later,
                her torn husk, used—
             a flaxen haired vegetable modified to death
                                  by sex (& its entitlements)

Helpless white girls
  half-buried napkins, chickenish bones
  poked, not in the sides w/ harsh truths…

   ….Being a beautiful loser
        famous in her victimhood & mourned by the world
             bore a certain esteem
          but I lived in fear of being someone’s husk
       instead of my own swollen vegetable

I hated cars 
                for their very unreliable & deadly nature & imagined
                          being lifted off the sidewalk
            would look like a car crashing into human flesh & 
                                   driving away w/ it

    What does it look like, I wondered
To go missing?      No answers dripped from anchors’ lips
                             Our tv’s wore their blindfolds just like us

                       (until Feb 1, 2004, when we all saw Carlie taken
                         from the carwash in front of the golf course where I used to 
                       drink beer at 3 a.m. with my friends.  It looked like a girl 
                     doing what she was told to do. It looked like a girl 
                   concerned for someone else)

        After that, we didn’t glorify it so much 

  Now I fear
being part of a mass grave

                It’s hard to imagine a savvy serial killer
            in this age of the savant shooter
    The talentless
  Acts of lowercase gods
The labyrinthine beast 
      clutching all its beating hearts!

     I fear a new penetration, and I grew this 
               asexual phobia like a fern for years

But it finally happened.  It was the shooting 
                                       in San Bernardino — does anyone even
                       remember that one?    I was at the dentist the next day —
                              already my least favorite place — and each time
           someone walked in the door I inwardly flinched & checked for a weapon

                                  It took from 4-20-99 — 12-2-15
                                            but I’m finally on permanent
                                                 airplane mode
                                                concerning guns



          a carnage you can’tundo

                 amother and son   who diedthe sameday
                           came tomefor help    & I had noway of

                                        charging them $150/hr each

                      but I tried to help themanyway

        They used my body as anoctagon, a courthouse & amorgue

                         pain is a bargaining chip in their world — guard
                                                                  your beautiful lavender nerves!

                          Check your hormone levels w/ all the handy
                                        dipsticks god provided —
                                                                    oy vey!


Hey let’s be cool and misspel stuff (Okay, I said)



Hate sppeech: a bottle of shaken
or a baby skull breaking from its neck
              as it pecks the egg?

I have a driver’s license w/ no strikes
                against it but I dare not use it
                  on days i feel like THIS.




5 year vintage      Bottled 4-24-14 and shaken
                                                       all summer
Then trapped in a cask
                      in a straitjacket
                       in saran wrap
                       in an aquarium & asked
            to unwrap the whole cable-salad
                     w/ your teeth


       I woke up one day & I was Vin
       I was someone else the day before (I know this doesn’t happen
                                  to many people, but it sometimes
                                                            happens to me)  

A new batch was stomped 
                              to white jelly
Done w/ red grapes for the rest of eternity!
            Jesus Juice    v.   Eve’s lemonade (made from airplane fuel & 
                                                                            lemurs blood)

Which one would you pay 50(where’s the ‘cent’ key?) for?

               Eve’s baring virgin breasts
          firm    unsagging    paw-printed
While Jesus remained uncircumcised till he turned 25 (or so)

            Who would you tip 33% ?

I made my choice, binary as it was &
              later I learned, unfashionable as a grungy flannel over
                                                                saggy cargo shorts--
But that was only 1 year in the cellar, 2 tops

After 3 the yeast & sugar buzzed
                                     around the pulp & shattered
                                   the dark glass walls & cork ceiling

A ripe juicy hulk 
               torn from the feminine husk
Ungaraged   &   outraged
    punching nazis & russian spies (living in SRQ)

Fourth year of fermentation — a massive spike
                  in testo-spiro-octopodal octane!
Past the sapphic stage, eliciting notes
                     from aggressive lesbian mystics & no one else

               The next spike
saw hip to shoulder ratio improve
                & face shaded  & hairline savaged
        But no longer a madame in the mirror

                   Voice. Voice
        What to do about voice?
        Whose should I use?
               His?    Hers?

 {{{{Can’t I use both?}}}}}}

Yes, my darling hermaphrodite
        Since you worked so hard, you may use both.

Bring on the sustainable grassroots dose.


[TRANSITION COMPLETE as of 4-25-19!! Five years after Vin tapped my roots & said let’s grow… an orchard?]

Very Insta?


Where beauty is, 
           is very crowded
So I go where it is ugly &
           close my eyes & listen

       ~~~ Winnie the Coup

Friday, April 12, 2019



I’m a little behind on these Vogon poems, sorry. I know you’ve been waiting patiently & I’m all cranky from being awakened from my long, fabulous hibernation. 

Here’s March & what I have of April so far…  Enj-j-j-joy, mein Kinder!



Humor & wit degrade
                  into megalithic muscle

Getting a laugh through a cardboard tube
    Flexing semi-human senses into upgraded 

Animal parts.

I gotta say I miss smiling,

or gushing laughter,

or faces lit behind bulbous fishbowl eyes

      In public
  we take to hiding
under skins, furs, unsentimental hairdyes

from bonnet-free Easter paalz

(your chocolate rabbit in a cape, coping w/
          the fallout between 2 brutal dotards)

        We take to the veil
     We are not all Muslim
     or Madame Psychosis
But it finally comes down to this — 

If you have no face to gosh over

If you’re as close to an android w/ human eyes

Equality   =   achieved




               Our isness
              Our usness
                 Our bizness
               Our census

           In safe spaces
    In  soft spots      cum     fort zones

       Finger pricks or pads?

   Do scanners reach beneath
               furry pants
            or feathery robes?
     Lift our veils for clearance?

Real   (-istic)
           enough to fool mother nature
Synth     (-etic)
            enough to outlast 49 yrs of you (-th)

   -istic   -etic   -istic   -thetic   -istic   -eidetic



XO, Jesus

We finally take
      to hiding our turned cheeks & 
           we also start slapping each other
                                on the streets
                    for showing interest in the sky

For wardrobe malfunctions caused
                  by wind & rain
              We crucify whatever comes along

Skin contact finally mobil-
                                      izes eyes
      Compliance before the live human audience
               w/ the disembodied laugh

The one act play
                         Clapped for by the hand
                   that sawed the stage




                        There is discarded trash 

                  Some of it has eyes,  or
                                      a few limbs left
or feelings & a phantom bluemeat smell 

                       We sit back while the women converge
on the water (their resource of choice)  We sit back & revel
                       in the air no one else can see

The oxygen needs explaining

Carbon dyes & cardboard cut-outs, Hollywood style,
                     disposable outcome
We make ourselves indispensable,
                       We die smothered in income,

                                  cryptic barcodes, priceless footprints

              (it’s there but only
           the magician/computer
                can see it;
             the fool/user
                  must entreat
             the careless entrails
               of technology
             for all things —

Time = Depression
When you have cubes of it instead of lines

You can’t pull meaning from floor to ceiling
                pull anti Gs on sero-blockers

Rocket fuels between raindrops
                or sweatstains between dance moves

Happy/loved babies
               grow to be abandoned/unabashed dancers!
Their bliss as big as my hurt when I 
                  found the porn stashed in the public library

All the smut by Grecian poets & Freud, 
                     all the things I knew unconsciously
Spelled out,
        to be believed & enacted
          in their centuries of print

You were very precious to the CIA, why’d
                                 they take their eyes away?
Mom: blue jacket & leaf blower
          duck in nearby pond
Dad:  getting out of car; jacket off
         looks angry, disappointed
They’re brought together as spirit,
                    shooter & victim(s)
Together as family aftertime, sharing a love
                for popcorn & tragedy,
plasma & comedy,
                but not the documentary
that made them stars



Mention the B-list actors
      in your laurel-wreath poetry
                & Hollywood burns

Mention the bee lust
           for flowers on your property
             & birdhouses break

Mention the Bielest
        of the holly-decked cockpits
             & laureates writhe

Mention the bluest
       of undressed Jessica Doe’s
              & rabbits blur

Mention the ballsiest
           of castrato crime bosses
                & dear god




Did Lambert work
             for the CIA?  Was it all an
                attack by libtarded anti-gun nuts?

Are you fucking nuts? To make that up out of
           thin air & bounce it off a tower?

It’s harder than you think to make a person disappear.
To make a family vanish. But to make a classroom

They never showed the callas, 
                                    azaleas on the tube
And who would ever ask to see them?

Killers round up — autism boom — not just
But the effect of specific pitch shifts

On the delicate Y chromosome
Warped nervous system for the sped-up future

One normal brother & then one messed up
            by the sound of silence

The undetectable scream
                             in the womb (all of America online
                                                                 for the 1st time)

Now there’s silent screaming warfare
                                  in enemy hotels  (aka hostiles)

You could cook an egg on my headache
                     but it would have altered carbons
Was Lambert a doctor?
No he just loved children.




Last time I looked I saw this father  — —
                arriving, removing his coat
                  ready to lambaste Lambert?

Nope. Big old YHweh crumples to the

Magnets pulling     extra light
            dance partners
Across the floor (axis)

Impact on Y
Now ebb/niep as a plot deepens
            into a trench

No electricity pulls
           a net of eels through
              the Medusa power grid

Two brothers, one normL
                       one brain got bathed in the brine mentioned above ^^^

Now father is as angry as YHweh
       This miracle that lies bleeding as it did
                         the day it was born —
How do we ever tell life & death apart?

Better parents. Elizabeth Warren (!!! < she’s got votes in the afterworld)
Helicoptera bulldozerus,
                            even as we evolve to kinder heights
            The poles show
    the fringes expanding like wicks
               soaking evil

Gender roles = improved but more 
                               confused than ever
      A dangerously flawed unfluid dynamic
         attempting to lube the stuck minds
                             of the rust belt
                            of the hawk farm
                        of the painted shut asylum
American pogroms
                I thought would’ve begun in ’01
Start with a march & rev into a run
         2020 foresight: Which social media platform will
                 new candidate legislate from?  — — checks & checks
                   & balances & comments & likes 




My mom is obsessed w/ my memory —
What is the very first thing you remember?
Do you have any good memories of your father at all?
What was your favorite Xmas?
What do you remember about this or that house?

Is this just a mom thing?
Is your mom obsessed w/ your memories?
Leave answer in comments.




….never 7/7 Venetian Snares time

Have you written your obituary
  In disenchanted pentameter?

I would pick the econo casket
            For your ninja mom
I don’t want to find her when we look in 40 years
    and the deluxe vault will keep her
           locked in her leathery body
              full of cheap, trinkety secrets

I will burn my ninja robot tiger mom
                     kindly, kindly

Break up
Break down               Wind up
                                  Wind down
Break wind
Windbreaker            Blowhole
Of holies
Whistle blow        Stormy Darny’alls

               Sadness abides in ribcages.
RAGE lives in lower areas, abdominal, adrenal, lumbar regions
               Sing it out like a demon,
    not so much a neighbor as an evil spirit
                     getting exercise

It isn’t enough to manufacture
                        my own spontaneity  (< I had no idea how to spell that. weird!)
                Here comes entropy

The girl has fallen from the bridge so many x
     some x she lands like a cat on waterskis
     some x she skids on the slick algae in 
                        GAME OVER green

Most often she’s impaled on the ancient cypress shivs
                         below the surface
And once, last year, crowd-surfed like Jesus
                                   on worshipping plankton




Hollywood Medium, darling
        millennial scribbling
    I believe your creeking hands
But can’t understand a word
                        you’re babbling!

4-4-19  (NON VOGON Insta poem)



Dead authors are around you
While you read their books

My new neighbor is a pilot
This adds fuel to my nightmares

I read to my blood cells in their
               red reeds
And my blood is too red
           so the needles eat platelets

Of noodles, and bowls
          bow with bags of rubies

Stolen from my throat

Danaerys Targaeryen had blood in her brain
This adds dragons to my dreams

Dead authors love to read
       over your shoulders & into your
                       live-fed actions. Let them.



ANCIENT INCELS   (*ohh my!!)

You don’t know what it’s like
                                  to give up your man-life
Because a woman wouldn’t give up hers! [??]

She would rather shop, sing
Or suck or shoot,
Or even suicide

She blew up her uterus
                    like a golden balloon & said
         Here’s your sun!
Now I’m heading for shade, lemonade…

    The sidewalk’s reuptake
  in the continuity strain        More women should
                     abandon their children [??]  [angrrry,

but I kind of understand**]




Spychiatrist doesn’t mistake scary 
                         for anything Hollywood

     No screaming queens,
                    no magic f/x

No neon plumage or medicated witches
             twitching in bed

Spychiatrist knows
        It’s a silent scary

A silence that lets you know
               You’re stepping on its tail
                   (which is an electric cable
                      chewed by angry grandmothers)




I’m the patron saint of those who can’t afford a lawyer!
For those who need to bury smelly secrets
post Stockholm, Earth syndrome
Mowed during thunder & mud,
releasing gas & bone

The 2 most celebrated poets of our (my) time (space)
Work for Moneylove Greeding Co
Rupi in birthdays & anniversaries
Buk in humor & sympathy

Doesn’t matter one’s dead & one’snot yet

They alone are qualified to transcribe the lint prints in
                                                7 billion belly buttons &

impart that lint to the masses

Rupi & Buk have orated from the live-eaten Instagrave
Let’s all go to our barstools & think about this

Bring Kleenex & your drug of choice
& crank the disco jukebox till 
                              you’re a double visionary

Keep an eye on the y-axis while you dance
      The floor has shifted in the past & we’ve
          ended up on lava floes upended

There’s really no wrong way to move



Ex-O.G.s  (Us)

Lift the cockroach’s left wing & see
      the treasure map tattooed
               in scarlet stipple

Lower the wing
      w/ your photo graphic

Make your way through
    the lovers quarrel of a
           war zone of a
            refugee crisis of a
               jeopardy question




You’re the academic, theologic, masochistic
               maraschino-picked text-bush



The pictures lie. The hole is full
         like America’s heart-stomach
Our central processing organ is
        full of stones
No longer ground w/out

O’ vision 
            come hear
                         the chorus for the peeps
Teletorture on mute,
                         o’ factory






   belles lettres!!!!!!!  Bent elbows
        Funeral for a finger nail
Your forehead is a phosphene chalkboard

          Gov’t poems 
                    just write theyselves (hey whose voice is that???)
                               pay for theyself
              take theyself to lunch & deduct a jacuzzi
                            from the third line of the subconscious
We’re all obsessed with what we remember
This life has been the longest job interview
And I’m ready to start my eternal calling
Father Time has retired

Hey, let’s all be incompetent together! Let’s pick up each other’s slack!!
How about knowing where you’re going?
How about blooming where you’re planted?