Friday, February 1, 2019

January VOGON '19

Hey Y’all

Happy Groundhog’s Eve. Here are the very first Vogons of 2019. I’ve been super busy w/ gross earthly responsibilities, and also I’ve managed to spend a lot of time hibernating. Which I plan to do all year long. Which means there will be fewer Vogon poems & hardly any new art. But I’ll give you what I can.

Just a reminder that submissions for the next Octopus Review are open! Send me STUFF! 



T: Bail me out
P: Hey
T: Why not
P: Why not pay?
T: Later
P: Now
T: Why? Let’s wheel. Let’s peel & eat. Let’s seal a state.
P: Rue it. Rent it. Ivankit.
T: Rentvanka?  
P: Ivankment
T: Nosvedonya
T: Let’s fluff. Let’s tuft. Let’s Tiffanize.
P: Hmmm……
T: Hah?? Huh??
P: Hmmm….mmmmm….mmmmm….Tiffanope…
T: Wha??
P: Ivankage
T: But Jared…
P: Nyuk nyuk…back channel
T: But…
P: Nyaa..nyaa…
T: Scapericorn. Goat germs?
P: Sharksteps
T: Chirp chirp 140 chirp chirp chirps…Tiffanyet?
P: < 3.7 tongue clicks > Perks?
T: The works. pp cummings. Any sexton pussy mob or dick&sons
P: We make poetry together?
T: And rent
P: Da-da-deal comrade < poison sandwich? >



2014: Spider   2015: Frog     2016: Owl    2017: Rabbit    2018: Worm

           2019: whatever hibernates 51 weeks/year

(The Sunshine State Zodiac. Which sign are you? It doesn’t matter, they’re all incompatible)



Drone. Yawn. Snore. Whaat?!

cutting edge
cutting hedge
cuddling ledge
budding Reg

   (or is it Rog?)




Let them have their caliphate &
also bake a 
        many-tiered cake

Build a wall around their caliphate &
      toss the bread-laced tablets
  Manna Manna Overboard
       overbred  overbite
Sanctions, blah-blah-blockades
          A caliphate from
      Walls of bread & one day
One day only flour instead of bread &
         one day bliss
         becomes a kite
        becomes a comet
     blessing this caliphate
A cup of small white disks, crushed
          into powder

Pull a pretty hippy to the town square 
     A hub of sunshine in her love-vest &

Dust the cake generously w/ fine powder
Be sure to wear full hazmat gear



Spirit Animals: From Karmic Kidnapping to Deluxe Escape

Spider: Not the coveted Soviet features of an ubermodel
            But one 8-eyed spy
Tripping, hopping on too many stages

    Burying currents in well insulated legs

Frog: Suddenly you’re an apprentice
                     electrician. It’s your house & body
              That need rewiring
Beginning w/ the doorbell & ending w/ the
                              hyoid bone

                     Ribbit  roar  purr (remember
                                  when the doorbell almost
                                    burned the house down?
             That was my last day w/ guardian angels
                                      long…? About a year….
                     The morning I was frog-bombed on the toilet
                            I knew I had new angels & 
                should never ask what happened to the old ones)

Owl: You pulled your wings from my overdrawn 
                   Bank of orgasms, 
            And fluttered like money across my eyelashes
                              Glory bee! That did not sting,
                      But too many peeks behind the curtain
                               Leave you weak

Rabbit: Your scars itched & your brain prepared 
                                            to give birth
                                  (to a whole new reality. And
                               I don’t use that word lightlessly)
              Nibble on the clover you’d overlooked
                    for falsity (& I use that word selflessly)
                       Dismantle the gingerbread mall
                                 w/ your teeth

Worm: turning & resisting
           cliche, always softening your angle
                        With those segments
           How could anyone mistake you for a visual thinker?
                          And yet they do…


Blurry shotgun penguin wedding


The sad thing about the adventure
      was how perfectly it started

Some water drops are naturally unholy
          but each particle of fog on this adventure
                was of baptismal quality

W/ laser precision I calculated the time of your birth &
from there I was able to pinpoint the moments
                       you made your way west

All the zany cardstock characters were written
  in —
       the ranting blond whose tears turned out
            to be holier than rain

She distracted from my reverie
                    but didn’t destroy it.
               Everyone stopped & posed
                  in my windshield
One man halts & takes an everest chug
          off his vapor cannister
            as he limps up the ramp

Not a puff but a breath of creation heavy w/
                                        holy mucus

Perfect weather. Perfect temperature
      for rolled down windows

A hot box of MAGA hats leaves the station @ 10:45

& at 10:47 it’s your turn.

 my turn to see you in the windshield,
                 familiar not zany

In those 47 minutes I’d written your life story
        and couldn’t wait to get home & end it
            w/ the perfect punctuation mark—

An audio-visual orgasm
               A just-long-enough jest—

when some walk-on character appears,
                        desperate semaphore
                          & you respond
By leaping from my skull’s embrace & traipse
    through a fog that’s already hardening into glass

2 writers should never share a windshield


*not the real Seattle


Please, no more tests!!
Remember the one I took all last year,
Swordplaying through your obstacle course
Of illnesses? 
Please no more.

How much longer do I want to hang out
Watching the fragilest minds of my generation
Do what they’re doing??

Intuition is a thing now
      but there are forces working against it
This is a collective, a food pantry
           of Christ hostages
Needing to be eaten before decomp sets in

All TIME has angelic seals of approval
          from dickless gatekeepers,
      somehow always defeminized
            like astronauts in SPACE

Let this 45th Blotch appear
On the face of a wafer

Screeching for us to halt as the
       Evolutionary bottleneck approaches
Some get stuck there like a
        Butterscotch in the throat…



I was born the moment your train left the station
               We crossed paths
      I couldn’t find a mother & friends
            were a chemical risk
The drano crawled around your palate
    & the styrofoam cup corroded as you watched
                       from the bathroom floor

And other mothers scared you,
       the caring available ones —
            (If you got something to say…)

Most of us unpack this shit through
              divorces/troubled tweens/ whatever mirrors
we encounter on the walls of the world

Rarely do we choose to face
          the mirrors of the skull. Your inner disco ball awaits!
Meet it w/out flinching &
             the velvet ropes will engorge
                     w/ loving platelets

Like, how dare you see me under
                all this business,
           this shroud of bureaucracy?

I must be doing something Pretty
Dumb. But can’t believe all the dumb things 
You keep doing!

I always counted on you to be the smart one.


(this is so like today, all my thoughts ending on the other side of the page
where they’re easily lost
10 of fucking wands! “broken pumpkin”
I always thought the first family might be a little
                     topsy turvy)


WILD WEST VERSION of 1980s + 1930s =

An era I never wanted to see
But here I am w/ eyes not made of hamburger
I love to conspire
You were the pious earth mother
You were sawn in half & rebuilt yoreself
W/ good food, meditation
& a photogenic lifestyle

Who else are “American”? The Weiners?
Do Americans congregate?
A parish of them?
A perish? A persistence?
An astroika?

What about ostrich feathers
Blooming from sand pits?
What about popped heart balloons
What about the seabirds &
                     the billionaires—
How do we reconcile their differences?

Octopus Diary is back channel to oligarchy?
Now I will call the interpols
Those we called “mama’s boys” before
“toxic masculinity” was entered
In the lexicon

Gardening under hydroponic duress
A different momma’s boy has arrived
(Alternative spelling
Because his variety is benign)

Expie al Adocious, 
           Sir Gaga
    More purring, less roaring
You are the Master…..
                                    [It’s hard to be a poet when your
                                       family is still alive. There’s so much to show
                                      Not tell. And, it’s not all bad. It’s actually
                                      pretty interesting & profound. 
                        But privacy (yada yada) respect  >: ( ]


Monday, January 21, 2019

Submit to Octopus Review #7


I’m alive & so are you in 2019. 

It is time once again to gather up poetry & art samples for the next many-tentacled spectacle — The Octopus Review #7.


One of the many things I learned about time in 2018 was not just WHEN to do something, but also when to stop doing something. So I’ve decided I would like to do 2 more jam-packed Octo Reviews— for a grand total of 8 — rupturing with your contaminated memories, your pre-apocalyptic hopes and your general you-ness. 

I welcome everyone who has appeared in any of our previous reviews to submit again. And of course I want new submitters as well—of all shapes, colors, stripes, flakes & softnesses.

I would like to post these issues in April and October. I’m going to give you a few simple guidelines. Now…historically…you all are not the best at reading & following these guidelines. And being a newbie editor, I have just let it slide.  BUT NO MORE!!! Please at least pretend you’ve read the guidelines before sending me anything.

********************** OCTOPUS REVIEW GUIDELINES*********************

Send 3 - 5 poems. I enjoy epic pieces, but since we’re jam-packing these issues I’m going to ask you to send shorter pieces that have been well edited.

I will consider tiny Insta-poems as well because I can see that is a THING now. It’s a little hard to hurt me with such short verse, but I know it can be done because Wendy Videlock does it all the time. So…if you can be more like Wendy than Rupi I will appreciate that.  

I prefer if you send your poems in the body of an email to You can also message them to me on Facebook. I do not love Word documents and your poem will have to be extra, extra impressive if you send it in a Word document.

Please send YOUR work only. 

For artwork, send 1 -3 pieces of art (any medium). Most artists have questions about what size file to send, and I while I don’t know the exact answer to that I would say send dimensions that I can easily view in an email. Unfortunately the blog spot I publish on automatically sizes all photo files to a reasonable but fairly small size that I have no control over.

Please send your art as an email attachment to You may also message it to me on Facebook.

I will also consider video submissions of poetry. (We did this in our very first Review, but I never received any video submissions after that…) Youtube uploads only.

Deadline: Apr 15. 2019  2:57pm

All right! Thanks ya’all. I hope your new year is going well so far.

Friday, January 4, 2019

The o'BLIGatory New Year BLOG


We’ve made the vertiginous leap from 2018 to 2019 & I hope all of you survived.

For the past few years I’ve had this thing I call New Yearitis. I think it started in ’14 when I had a bad break-up w/ a best friend who had been toxic for many years. It was a rough start to the year & ’14 felt wrong right away. Since then the first few days of any year, I am in this odd fluctuating state — literally my body feels like a lava lamp or a rocking boat — and it’s an intense joy & a horrid anguish that rise & dip over & over. Barely anything in between.

And the weirdest thing is, I often find myself asking — Wait, is that the joy? Or the anguish?  It’s really hard to tell them apart.

These sensations were particularly intense & long lasting in ’17 & ’18. In 2017 I felt seasick until Jan 20, whereupon I returned to feeling angrier than I ever had. So I’m happy to report that 2019 has begun on placid waters. I feel more like an ice rink than a lava lamp. Better than I’ve felt for the past 5 new years. I won’t make any grand pronouncements about the meaning of that, but yes… I do feel like I’ve passed (or just barely squeaked by) some huge karmic BARDO EXAM. 

Someday I may write about the whole ordeal — it was quite a JOURNEY (w/ more turbulence than bubble baths). But NOW….

…. I want to write about 2018. And 2019.

         **********It Was All About Vogon Poetry & The Exegesis *************

I think the hardest part about the last 2 years was trying to figure out who I was in a world that no longer made sense to me. And having the painful awareness that I DO NOT MAKE SENSE to THE WORLD (aka Peoria, aka middle america, aka rural america, aka heteronormative america, aka family values america). The empathic knowledge that I make those people as uncomfortable as they make me. Actually feeling their pain!


I did a lot of processing through writing & art throughout 17 & 18. And it payed off because I think what I (re)gained in ’18 was just a clarity & understanding I had really lost. It’s difficult & depressing to go through your days by the light of a crescent moon. I feel like someone built a window in my little outhouse of a skull. 

[And it was me—I built the window! With art & words. That’s kind of the magic of being a human.]

Another thing that really gave me comfort & magnified clarity was reading The Exegesis of Philip K Dick. I will call it the prescient text which has helped define this 5-year period of spiritual darkness I just passed through.

I’m actually still reading The Exegesis & can’t wait to blog about it at length once I’m finished. Not since A People’s History of the United States has it taken me this long to read a book. It’s just not possible to go any faster. I read one paragraph and have to mull it for days. And I’ve also been reading all of your chapbooks in between, so thank you for the glut of humor & feels to reflect on whilst exegeting.

I gave you lots of Vogon poetry this year! I submitted nothing & wrote only for the pleasure of writing & figuring shit out. In my own words. In my own style—which is way out of step w/ ‘real poetry’, which I was sad about for much of the year, but about which i am no longer sad AT ALL.

Vogon poetry is basically automatic writing, or stream-of-consciousness, unedited, flowing, without concern for publication or universal themes. In the past, this form of automatic writing has proved to be prophetic on some level. Often on a global level. It may take till mid-’19 to find out if any of the ’18 Vogons are prophetic but I’ll let you know.

Most of 2018s Vogon poems seemed to be in direct correlation to what I was about to read in The Exegesis. Almost like I was in contact w/ PKD himself! But I won’t make that claim or my credibility will be on the line w/ Peoria & beyond.

Speaking of such squeamish things: Tarot. I forget exactly when I began offering free readings so that I may improve my mysticking, but I think it was 10-27-17. I have done several readings since then, but still not enough for me to feel comfortable charging money for it. So I will continue to offer free readings until I know it’s time to say Pay up, bitches.

[My dominant cards for 2018 were definitely the Knight(King) & Ace of Swords. Barely any reading w/out those two!]

And then there was The Octopus Review! I can’t tell you how this little spontaneous combustion of a zine practically saved my life in ’17 and just made me happy & proud in 2018.  I would love to do more this year and I will be asking for submissions again soon. And folks, there is nothing more Xmasy for me than an inbox full of submissions, no matter what time of year it is. So thank you to everyone who has been a part of it! I hope the tiny press still thrives in 2019.

A lot of great stuff did happen in 2018. We got the cutest bunny in the world, no lie. The cutest. And meanest : )) We did a lot of stylish mutations to our house. We inherited a future business. I pass way better than I did in ’17, and also unlike ’17 I haven’t battled waves of suicidability all year. 

But there was


A lot of weird shit happened this summer & I blame it on all those planets that went rogue for several weeks. It felt like i relived lots & lots of different chapters of my life in rapid succession & nearly melted down. Or more accurately did melt down for a while. Hulk rage, T rage. 

When I had my T levels checked in Sept, they were in the 1500s (like, higher than Aquaman!) So I’m still having trouble regulating/metabolizing the hormones. And it got the best of me for a few months. 

One thing I realized during the T rage was that I would need better, more permanent ways of managing it if it were to become a recurring thing. And I decided I needed to start singing again, 
A) to once & for all find my new vocal range and 
B) because singing always made me feel better…

…it hit me that I hadn’t sung at all since before 2014. I sang a lot in 2013. And then something happened. And I could no longer sing. I could just run & run & run & cry & cry & cry. I sang to my cat a few times in 2015 when I was entertaining the idea of doing a trans-themed podcast, but it wasn’t, like, serious singing. And then I decided to take hormones & my voice changed a little bit—not enough to sound masculine—but enough to ruin my female vocal range. And I just thought…

   …. do I really need to sing? Am I ever going to need a voice again? 

I must’ve decided ’no’ because I stopped singing altogether sometime in 2016. But this summer I revved up the old, creaky, cranky vocal cords & there they were. It took a few weeks, but I found a new range. I can sing a lot louder now… and it has helped me feel        alive. (that sounds dumber than balls, but it’s true as piss flaps)

Another thing that happened this summer was that on the day Anthony Bourdain died, I had a garage sale (you remember!) And as I was closing up shop, a truck stopped in front of my house & Anthony Bourdain got out & told me he was going to be my neighbor.

Of course, it wasn’t really Anthony Bourdain but it did look like him & I had a moment of spiritual dissonance. And if you know me, then you know I have post traumatic neighbor disorder (PTND) from someone I lived next to in another life. So when ghostie sidled up & said he was about to go to town building a huge mcMansion next to my humble blue beehive, my buzzing T rage was compounded by stinging anxiety — 

Who was this person moving into my tranquility zone?

When exactly would it happen?

How loud or disruptive would it be & could I handle it?

So far he seems decent. He did not seem decent on the day I met him, which was scary. (You may have read my Vogon poem about him in December’s dossier.) He started construction—very loudly— right after Thanksgiving & I was ready.

It hasn’t been the horrifying experience I expected & I’m so relieved. 

One thing that was good about the extreme T rage was I got a lot done. Not just the usual artsy stuff, but the “heavy lifting” I might not have been able to do if I was all calm & happy.

              ******** HI DEFINITION NEW YEARS RESOLUTIONS********

Oh golly. I’ve rambled. You’re sleeping. Well, WAKE UP! I have to tell you what my New Year resolutions are —

……………………………………………………………………………………….errrrr, I resolve to be less of a thinking person & more of a FEELING person this year…………………………………I resolve to reconcile my public & private selves………………………………….I resolve to keep working on VOICE, whether musical or poetic……………I resolve to sleep………………………..

[SLEEP is my new drug of choice. I’ve been a professional insomniac since 2nd grade, so imagine my pleasant surprise at my fondness for sleep lately. I look at my bed & see a pina colada. Or a big syringe full of sugar crystals. Or any other addictive substance. Mmmm, mattress fluff.]

I resolve to enjoy social media for one more year. Have I ever told you all what a magical invention social networking was in my life?? Do you all know how many times in my sorry pre-digital days I longed for contact with friends from the past? Oh why can’t I talk to so & so again? And I would tell myself  You’ll never see so & so again. You’ll have to find new people or just learn to comfort, delight & entertain yourself. 

But I did see “so & so” again! Every so & so I ever knew! And I’ve met so many other so & sos since then. It has been really wonderful. 

But I am pretty old now & I’m a little bit tired of being in constant contact w/ so many people. Much as I love it, much as it has contributed to our evolution, I feel it has overall been damaging to my mental health. And yours too. But you’ll have to decide on your own when to ditch it. I resolve to enjoy the fuck out of being so connected to everyone in 2019, and to de-connect in 2020.

I also resolve to post my Favorite Music of 2018 in a list format by next week. I will also be posting Octopus Review submission guidelines soon.  Okay,

HAPPY NEW YEAR FRIENDS, whatever that means for you!!

Sunday, December 30, 2018

December VOGON Dossier


How’ve you been? I’ve been trapped in that staticky void between Xmas & NewYear, and I love it. I’ve been loving everyone’s posts about how transformative 2018 has been. For real. I was saying on my radio show last night that 2017 & 2018 are like the same year rolled into one long ovuloid orbit-ball of transcendence.

It’s hard to believe the scared, shivering, cedar-soaked hamster who was cruelly flung from its liberal exercise wheel in early ’17 has become the chill & enlightened (yet tough & flexible) mystic who blogs before you today.

I hope you enjoy the last of 2018’s Vogon poems. They’re pretty “dim” compared to say October’s batch, but that’s all I had left in me. Maybe I’ll try it all over again next year. I really am going to try to write more stuff, much like the stuff most people post so eloquently & succinctly on facebook, but which I need this whole Blog Empire to say…



Please hold this secret for me

a purveyor of sausage and
                       I, a pescatarian,

Slipped through her oily fingers
                       A petrol blob reduced
          To just water.            Just steam.
                              Just ice.

Hold this secret til it becomes a gavel
                    Smashing the tabletops 
                      of a fragile dynasty

                                             Where is this sentence going?

It took the short cut to the urban ledge

                        Still holding your shortwave secrets

That pound of feathers weighing more than the planet itself &

[you said it was MY body that lied. You accused my body of knowing how to lie &
You’re lucky I’ve decided to] LET IT GO



I can no longer use the word ‘forever’

now that I know what time looks like. Maybe to-ever
                                                              or by-ever
                                                             or from-ever

But never for,  ever.

I have no more questions of the Bushes (though I can see
he has just died)

I had what they called a ‘lit sky’ [??? that’s it, I guess ???]

The master gland’s no lightbulb,
             but a good old fashioned match tip,
                   bursting w/ tears when struck

I have not survived 2018. It has survived me & my garage-brand
                             nazi punches (+ their first responders)
I was a dimmer switch & dominoes flickered
                    having clouds delivered
                      like pizzas from the sun




I reprised a lot of roles this year —
             ones I thought written off or cancelled—

Rewound all the way to their pilot episodes:
            Episode 1 in which “Valentine” falls
               from the womb & gets the gift
                              of amnesia

Frantically fast forwarding through all those
                   mundane situations & emotions

Not handily crafted by pyromaniacs & Harvard grads
                            w/ scripted getaways

Fast, fast through the violent flames
Crash in your own garage
Where you’ll eventually hang
                         a pituitary gland hemorrhaging
        that signal a foxhole
                       must be dug in your living room

Your feet are reptilian (to match your instincts)

You must bravely walk across cold tile w/out calling 

For help
                   someone to drive you from kitchen to bathroom

Oops, you’ve fallen
                 & can’t get back on your opposable toes



My tongue is a rose petal hanging w/ kitten fangs
Like innocence has no bite, Please, when
       it’s gone so soon
I raise my hands in hallelujah & shoot fireworks
                                                  from my wrists

Xraying neighborhood homes w/ my flames—
                   furniture-grey bones, a dropped curtain of skin
                              A sinkful of koi

Lots of unidentified crying 
                   coming from the corners (& deltas)

Each dust cell remembers differently
                   Elephant parts making a whole you
                     who doesn’t have to pack its trunk
                        & move into the diamond mine [?]




Walk w/ me
Wear my shoes
Wear my piss-stained shoes
Wear my piss-stained skin
Wear my olive drab dreamcoat
Wear my knock off moccasins
Wear my dormant serape

Walk a mile in my uterus
Get kicked in my gonads
Eat my crow
Dry heave my cock
This glorious body w/ xray eyes

Was left to die in a garage
To swelter like an oilcan on a rack of shellac

To reanimate in Autumn
A tinman flailing like a shovel
Disturbing the bag you hung to manage your anger

Punch my tongue
Staple my nailbeds to the end of this verse &
Il’ll try to drag my knuckles to your grave & say

[just Vogon thoughtlessness]




Did you pack your Brooks Brothers
                              Kevlar pantsuit?

The fishing pole, the mouse traps,
                            the bug repellent,
                            the fox terrier
                            the dox hund
                           the wicker spaniel?

The cover up: where are the verbs?
They dressed up adjectives & sent them through
                                   the same portal
                                    Retract clause

How are they sleeping tonite behind horizontal bars?
      W/out linens they gunpoint the exact moment
                 the key witness lay,
                       after lying.

Low lain eggs
          produced in a casket
                laden w/ flora



Close lid.


ee cummings  the duke of handsomeness


What shall the meek?

Inherit the whole big onion w/ their passive voice?

Swim in the force field (limbo)

Until their day on the Heavenly Uncle’s docket

Judgment Time! 

Goodie, goodie
Hooray, hooray

I shall pass the muster
Of my merciless peers

Then get whacked by the one & only god(parent)

How have I not sweetened w/ meekness
Over time 

Torched to a fragile crisp? Too much salt
in the treasure maps of the brain, too firm for the
Crack of a spoon

There’s a sizzling light, and kryptonite
from the buried chest

What shall the meek?  Find the mantel in their anatomy
                       — it must be in the skull—
                   and place upon it the spirit
                        fermented in wisdom &
                    drunk from the casket up



Can you breathe w/ your left lung 
                               flapping by itself?
             Now the right

Inhale the cigar smoke of
           Your infancy   left/right/left

Smoke rings signaling a coup 
     My grandmother’s letting me know
         She’s due for parole
Her angry rabbit soul loves
             dismantling the world w/ its teeth

She passed that love onto me

I never became a doctor,
                      or a grandmother
                    or a dolphin interpreter

Or any other noun w/ lungs
Blowholed up in limbo
An amputation from the holy source

I look into my G-ma’s sterile eyes (she’s an
Angel now. Her eyes yank babies & grown ups from a womb of light)

Her halo like forceps
              horseshoe magnets
                 taunting mercury…
A train whistle ringtones her home….

              Soft octopus non-skull
             Numbed after birth

Abducted by a nurse
     whose angel costume came w/ sad, sad human eyes




America first
   Italy first (hi guys! how’s it going?)
     Philippines first
       Bolivia first
          Belarus first
Every country before all others

I declare my garage the center of the universe

I declare this pencil God
(don’t say pencil
don’t say guh…
don’t say airpuhl….
don’t say nay………)

One thing that made this summer so magically shitty:
I stood alone in the center of the universe
Selling my no longer useful soul

All visitors, all strangers,
Were pulsing light

Pumped like seahorses past my wetwares

It was so American to share

My time w/ others —
                      a thing I rarely do—

Never voluntarily, always under duress
      do I even agree to notice thy
               (selves & stuff)

I was done sweltering; I was done pruning June
                      from my grief hoard
   When a slow stranger surveyed my wares

Disappearing toward me, Bourdain’s ghost

    I wanted to hide behind Pearl the mannequin

before he fondled my garage knob & uttered
the witchy incantation
“I’m going to be thy neighbor”



The scream I stifled
Could’ve ended the careers
Of every writer, cinematographer,
              best boy & key grip
To work in the American Horror industry

I was triggered. I was stomped.
i was horrified in my american blood-sweat & plasmatic sadness

I was going to be a neighbor again &
                           there was no choice

Roe v. Wade
        (they must’ve been neighbors)
didn’t cover this unplanned unwanted miracle

I wept for my boundaries

Once more the world bisects my
                          obese aura,
              my ivory safe space
Once again the geese are honking
The nazis are humming
The sky is crawling…



THE ROOF IS FALLING (Like Literally Caving In)

So there’s hovering

Bzzzing           crafting

Building like a bee (quietly)

He’s no bruise on the ear
No browning of silence

His mouth never shouts under a mustache cloud

He threw chains around the limb

I should’ve hung from & hung

A swing instead

He reads alone where everyone can see

(That’s some moxie!)

Everyone else pretending to be

BUSY      mowing watering performing cosmetic surgery on trees

He puffs his chest & gazes on his field of fucks,
                     So fertile

Mine. Mine. Mine. An airplane roars above. Mine.
He watches it — if he could he’d pin it 
To the sky & watch it squirm

The dirt is here
The bulldozer’s been fed
The urinal sits in the yard like a big blue poodle


[I’m the one you gossip about because it’s easy.  & I’m never there to stoppit.
So enjoyit.
This replacement neighbor-bulb
Best be incandescent or



Lambert was an angry little
who could make the animal kingdom
(including the greater apes) flinch

The mightiest of all — his (or her) wrath
         inflated each rib, a parenthesis
                  of power
   about to exhale all over a toy planet

Lambert smashed a Viking vase,
           broke heavy Vogon furniture
        tore oaken doors off hinges w/ 

         His/her garage-rage said
Use your own abdomen as punching bag

           Breed too small
      Dynamite wearing a sweater
  & sticking its tongue out at all the babies
          in their mobile thrones


Happy Anniversary & New year


Fuck! I always look at the clock
At just the wrong moment
Right when it’s getting undressed (11:11)
Or picking its nose (3:32)

My 39th guardian angel resigned this year
I’m hard on angels & their barbie doll crotches

I go low on the tree of life
It’s like being aborted
Over & over & feels more right
Than being born

But it finally had to happen — the AI voice,
                                          the mosquito feedback
Both auctioning off souls
In a post mortem/ pre natal stock exchange
              [A sequence of alien numbers I don’t recognize]
          they’re not here on my keyboard so I can’t shove
                their jagged shapes into your rounded eyeholes

accommodating as they are,
      see you in 2510

Sharing the womb w/ her intelligence
She told you everything you’d need to know to be human
Everything you couldn’t process about angelhood

& yet it all made sense to me


Fascist free, gluten free New Year    No argument here
                 No phosphene words
                    or annelid spies

How to hibernate & lose friends:    No longer woke—I want
                                my blankie!!!
Do Not Disturb.
Next wake up call is death.




Family treason    Long, long branches
           Big wooden octopus
              suckers, nooses

Romantic White House balcony
     where a family of bats twist
                                 in the wind

Pituitary beehive much louder
Than gossamer mosquitones
              Subversion of message in 
                           pop-up locations,
Stuttering, unfocused
           Just breathe
      with all the tiny little lungs
        you have hidden all over 
                 your body

The blowholes of courage,
             the flippers of resistance
A pinball incantation
       for the Rupikowski generation



At 49 3/4 I’ve been drafted 
into the 30-year time travel game. Such fun — 

Sketch of 2 Made-Up Chinese (or Japanese, but definitely NOT Korean) Characters
                                   Do They Actually Mean Something?

Let’s say they mean ‘neighbor’ and ‘ghost’

                                 1988   v.    2018
                    A hallway         v.       a driveway
                          hospital      v.      home
                        bordering     v.     bordering
                                on                   on
                                    hysteria  joy

They made me remove my earrings
(when did I ever wear earrings?)


I was dragging boxes of my life back up the drive…

               They treated me like a child
            (who was also a hardened criminal)


      He looked at me like a red-blooded male looks at
                                  a salad

I was allowed one phone call & I cried & cried because
I picked the wrong person who said all the wrong words


                        “Are you alone?”


My throat still clogged w/ sodium hydroxide
So they gave me something to sleep. Something that made
                              my eyes roll back & my shoulder blades
                                                  lift from the bed


“Celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain committed suicide this a.m.”

                     Nov 8, 1988    v.    Jun 8, 2018

George H.W. Bush elected 41th POTUS!!!


George & Barbara Bush experience the afterlife
          like a pair of flying squirrels

                           Gender Dysphoria in a federal dystopia


                       A sternum struck by lightning in a fascist state

Pee in the cup. This is my blood.
Vein inhales a silver wafer


Bluest house. This is my plot.
I’ll clean it up. I’ll be a dick.

                                   Peeing    v.   pissing
                                       (it’s a contest)

I’ve never been so far from my self. Where did I go & who is
Her(e) with me now? This isn’t the outcome I expected. Next time
I’ll use a gun


I’ve never been so close to myself. I’m nestled like an action
Figure. And people break me open with their eyes to find
The proof I’m lying

                                 I was abducted from my place in the universe
                                           Put on the women’s wing; given 
                                                  a female roommate


                                                      He never called
                                                   Me her or she or ma’am
                                               But he regarded me as less than

I was scared to know her. The jagged cut on her upper arm wrestled
                            with my sexuality


He was trying to intimidate me. By towering. By reaching for the eaves.
By becoming an X in my eyes.

But I did get to know her.  She wasn’t sure WHY she was there, WHY
she was 24 & still couldn’t pull it together


He didn’t care about knowing me. He cared about me knowing he was 
god. Seeing it. Meeking.

                  She was in such pain. I could see it was even bigger than mine,
                         and still she put her arms around me


                A peon. A bug. A nobody w/ broken bunny ears.

      I was eligible to vote that year!
But I didn’t know how to vote. And there was no one
           to vote for anyway


I have no choice in this matter

                            Next night a 14-yr-old boy was admitted
                Kicking, grunting. An animal defying the straitjacket
                 A monster head-butt shattering shatterproof glass         v.

                                      That night I said good-bye to an era of peace
                              A knot formed in my gut & squeezed all summer

I got to know my fellow captives as friends. As scary as their veils,
                                                                                         their cries,
                          I heard in their stares I was the scariest


                      Bourdain’s ghost walking up my drive…

The Scream                                  v.                     The Vitruvian Man

                    72 hours later the gates swung wide & I loped
                        into the light like a spayed raccoon


                        It’s a masculine day in the neighborhood
                      (cue Mr. Rogerhammerstein’s theme song)


[I’ve been so mentally patient (for
                                             the last

                                              years) but I’ve finally installed the new Aeon]