NaNo WriVo (November VOGON)

FRIENDS!

My god, where have I been? I’m not really sure. What about you—where’ve you been?

Here are your Vogon poems from November, and whoa… they are…yowza…the most experimental dadaist Vogons ever. Marklarian even. Orkian w/ a hint of Orwellian for sure. So finger snaps, jazz hands, or rap arms are appropriate.

P.S.  There’s been a lot of talk about **VOICE** this year.  Just letting you know that sometimes I have a bunch of deplorables shouting in my ear. I’m working on all my voices lately, & there seem to be a lot of them.

I’m sitting here in cognitive dissonance , as the world says good-bye to a loving legendary letter-writing family man & war criminal. I’m reminded of our duality, our duplicity & our doppelgangliness. Listen to lukewarm Jeb Bush eulogize…

…. & enjoy this Vogonry. I hope you’re all crafting your Octopus Review submissions!

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MONOSOMNIA

Because “she” was always alone

                         in her wakefulness

Because dogs are always on edge

               the week after Halloween

She kept her bike locked to the moon

Because no one would call a red hearse

              if her emergency broadcast flared

          & what about him?

On the spectrum he’s V for violet

             Purply mood

             Robust bruise

Did she just change her pronouns in her sleep?

        He’s exited like a werewolf

         pedaling to a new moon,

More to mount, 

       tranquility

She’s been bit; he’s been bitter

   They’re both fucked

1102:0400a

***********

The Continuity Game

WORST YEARS: 1988

                             1993

                             2003

                             2014

BEST YEARS: 1992

                         2008

                         2013

                         2016

HARDEST YEARS: 1989

                                 1997

                                 2007

                                 2017

SOFTEST YEAR: Y2K

WEIRDEST YEAR: 2018

It’s been a weird fucking year

In my head

In my house

In the cosmos

Behind the rabbit hutch

And definitely definitely in the streets

I’ll let history decide

But this year could be the recipient

Of the broken rollercoaster statuette,

the masturbating Oscar

the retraumatized Emmy

Will we ever stop rewarding scripted behaviour?

What makes a year good?

Like a pet it purrs right from Jan 1

(I heard the low growls of ’88 starting in December)

Always a weaponized month, my obsession w/ December

became a fear of August

Over time

And as beautiful as it is, an absolute

                      loathing of April

Bored by May

Pissed in July — holding my chin above the bar

                                   when do I let go?

Anytime. Just don’t drop the soap. The reason you’re

Homophobic

Is because you’ve wandered around in your own mind

Once or twice…

Don’t plagiarize me bro

        & I promise not to taze your balls & sockets

                   You never told us how you feel about October [?]

I want him inside me

I want to have his bagful of individually wrapped sweets

I’m awkward around February (am I saying that right?) 

                   and she mistakes it for hostility

1102:0450a

************

I’m expecting rain so I put all my seeds in the oven

I’m expecting November so I gravied the daisies

I’m expecting the worst so I carved a bird

I’m expecting miracles so I scrubbed the petri dishes

I’m expecting parole

But I won’t give thanks till it happens… 1102:0450a

************************************

[They wanted me to draw a blue wave, so I did, but when I

woke up I realized I used a green pen]

************************************

Welcome to this exact poem

About head contents dumped on a solid surface &

Still drowning in pre-ju(d)ices

                             Skeletons on the internet

                                                             parading

                                      goose-walking

                                                          duck-turding

                                       crystal-nachting

My internalized misogyny made me do it

Not because of hormones or chromosomes (nature)

But that big un-nurturing hand that yanked @ diapers &

Egged the house w/ my brand new skull

Mum plastered the cracks but I noticed

Brothers didn’t have them

They were allowed to be sad & still love themselves

Their sadness mattered

Mine made me a monster. When something so rancid

Is supposed to bring joy

That’s when you punch God in the face & call him

A nazi

1104:0525a (fall back!)

***********

I autumned so far back

        My car wouldn’t reach so

I took a wagon drawn by house cats

       all chasing the same yarn

His skull is now an omelette too

Dali’s melted frying pan striking it over & over

Your blue-blooded   golden-blooded   plaid-blooded

                                     houndstooth blood

                         came pouring from yore pores

                    Your father’s perforations

               Your mother’s papier mache

     You’re brothers’ certainty that they’re crafted

                    Way better than you

1104:0525a

(FAVORITES

Song?

Food?

Color?

Book?

Cartoon character?

Movie script?

Time of the month?

Day of the year?

Year of your life?)

***********

POKE’HONTAS

No time for puzzles, love

Eat this opium & tell me the outcome

Of the election:

  Blue blood spilled from a red heart?

Blue manifest blood destiny pumping

      from sea to gulf to sea?

Slimy green ocean to scorched desert fjords

  This is americaca not skandinavivia,

       not Canadia for Christ’s sake

          bacon notwithstanding

Prone to waking

Every hour gasping for breath

Or full of piss, then losing time-stamped consciousness

For what seems like a fortnight

But is only a moment,

A power surge in an otherwise analog bed

1105:0250a

************

Let’s recall all the brave things we dd in 2015 —

braking from reality in ’14 was atrocious, but

Reigniting in ’15 was like doing a year-long chin up —

We opened fire in a doorless heart

Went under ghost sheets & walked w/ the enemy

Removed our blindfolds, which like plaster casts

Had grown limp & moldy

I spoke from unlit corners of the cave & no one listened

Those words still linger there like candles

You can box or open flame

But always remember how brave your 

Reddish-brown

Blood in its medicated (Klonopin)state…  the abrupt pivot

                  that only happens on a pillow

& lets morning into the house like a vampire

Needing to use the phone in this day & age?

Wanting sugar for what?

To poison our tunafish pie?

Bravest by far was our interview

On the MRA podcast

Ready to be shamed for our moments

Of visibility (after years 

             of walking through walls)

We only felt stupid once, and not for

      being born in separate bodies

This wouldn’t have happened in any other year

And you took what you wanted & made of it

What we never said; now I’m worried

We’ll get stomped again

Boundaries drawn like blueprints,

adoreless

1105:0275a

***********

Here’s where the story ends:

Where? Somewhere in England?

             Somewhere on the radio.

A tube-shaped you

Waving to your oversize fan-base

Your jumpsuit’s not orange, it’s gangrene

Cock a teal mushroom

Slumped in gov’t issued undies…

This is no prophesy, it’a a blustery daymare

The lynching of a tyrant in the Hundred Acre phonebooth

A 2D judgment day w/ no sigil

Of 3denominational JudeoXtianVoodoo gods

Through the cracks in a sidewalk

In Harlem a mushroom grows

A dysfunctional eruption between dictators

Making the sirens cry

1116:0300a

***********

SAUSAGEWORKERS UNION

What are my feelings about this?

My fingertips hate you

Abrasive (pontiff

                bishop

               counsel)

My inner ear hasn’t stopped pinging

Since you drove away that proverbial Sunday

In your perverse van

Unlike my tear ducts   which are sealed w/ secrets

Evidence of your trip to the hard software store 

Was everywhere

Webs between finger & thumb dry rotted

Palms like shredded hamster bedding

But we never saw you again —

the dust storm swallowed your crumbs w/out milk

Our hung-out tongues could only taste

Cold window panes

From that Sabbath

Our best suits emptied after the rapture

Who knew they’d come for us?

The sartorial nips & tucks of the devil

Were everywhere…

1116:0325a

*********

In Florida you wake

               w/ things in your bed

   Biting things/pinching things

Inhuman licks & coital stings

On 11/13 it was a worm

In my sleep stupor I thought it was

a strip of plastic 

broken off a hanger, then I felt its

Living exoskeleton protest

Minute segments      daintily crafted

 by some Swiss insect-maker

(a god between mountains) and

          Speaking of god —

I knew this bit of matter was too perfect

                                to be a doll/

                             action figure

It smelled of burnt ginseng

Not the electronic hum of a warm home

          but a stoke of the sulfuric sun

a Hadean bouquet aged into this vessel

Drying the spongy bone

             of the inner nose

That’s no plastic forged in domestic Dow dyes

Then where did it come from?

How did it land on my pillow?

A Qtip inquiry yields

Not one iota of wax & this is suspicious

              For what ate through it

                     to get to my room?

What dimension or dream attic

                             disgorged it?

True, it took till noon before I accepted,

Conceded

        to the long FL odds that it was

              Indeed a worm,

             an earthly worm

         w/ an underworldly stink

And not an implant from Ozma, or some

     more unsavory place in my cortex

1116:0350a

***********

Death Cab For Cutie evokes

        a Thanksgiving memory

          from when I still liked food

From when I still thought highly of people &

              wished to become one

When I’d sit by the phone in the kitchen & watch

      my family watching football in the living room

Wishing they’d see me on the sidelines & say

  something like “Did you enjoy the candied yams?”

Or “who peeled your eyes like onions & left

               those fibrous teardrops?”

Or “why do you have so many

                              Belly buttons?”

“How many hours a week do you dream??!”

Who’s on fifth, sixth 

         drink of Vodka mashed potato waste? Gravy yard?

Football thrown back to the ’70s

         lands in the cranberry’s decubitus

Full jelly jacket

   On a hunch not asking

      Who else could’ve lived in

        My attic/ghetto/shadow/leotard?

Who could’ve peeled the potatoes

        Like eyes looking back on Thanksgivings

           past; seated at the little table

Dreading the savory brown notes

     of conversation emanating

       from the grown up table:

Why do blinds black?

Why do creams crop?

Who do amputees think they are?

Shouldn’t we croon the playbook

In the language of the winning team?

1122:0200a

***********

MUSKY TOES

No one ever asked

      What are you thankful for?

I would’ve had to think of something

      Other than all the things

         I was terrified of (pre 9/11)

Fiery bosses & car crashes

    Being canceled by muscle

      or cuffed to Marshall stacks

Or pinned to the sidewalk by actual flakes of snow,

     not the hyper-sensate nerves

        of your mama’s spine

Or striving for acceptance

      from people who’d never accept me

(who let me live like a spider in the corner

    because I ate the mosquitoes)

1122:0200a

***********

But really.

What are you thankful for?

Needles (needs)

Trapezoids (traps)

The Full Beaver Moon of Nov ’18

      says I’m liberated from karmic probation

1122:0225a

***********

SONGBIRD  HUMBUG

The titmouse, the wrench

The fin

The finite

The finale

This is just the beGINning

Tunapig. Sharks w/ a porpoise & 

Left hook &

Left field &

Where’d THAT come from? The 

bazaar in Zanzibar

The wetware store

The barbarian bathtub, shored, left

The way we were, from here to chicanery

Yore

Hurricane will 

Ride me

Bareback

Saddle shoe                      puddle boat

Your gun.  Your paddle.   Your masochistic kitchen.

More

Important leaves

Not paid to stay afloat

But to drink bourbon @ the bottom of the ocean

1125:0275a

**********

JONNIF KENTITY

A mural of moral fibers — tapt tapestry 

Of blood & other palette cleansers —

There’s no story here —

Move along in your golfcart limousine

There’s no body here

So no story  no art. no memory by next week

Take dictation:  where does one go

To live out one’s undue pardon? Peru in 1949

Where to in 2022?

Highest arab sky scraping oil drilling elevator tower

Your skinny poignant syringe legs

Splayed on the screen

Cartoonish but not masculine

              compared to her 26” bicep

                (less python, more boa) compared to my

                           Oaken fatness

                 Compared to my waning libido

                          moon booty shiv business, closed

Larynx reconnected to lungs

Bellowing as 

Occipital bone ouches the paintjob

Stomach contents

               convert to chasm

Devoid of truth, 

       the world fact checks its sadism

& snopes its emotions

There is only one story here.

1125:0300a

**********

ARTBLOOD PAINTMOON

Illuminated the whole neighborhood

Just for 3 seconds

But I was able to memorize

Your larynx & biceps & analyze

Their entropy

Glorifying the horrors of homosexuality! Instead of hiding

them in church vestries & dorms

Vaults of baby wafers, suckled wines through rose-colored

Bottlenecks/

Cervical wormholes—

Are we giving birth to galaxies at home

Using midwives to fuck the patriarchy out of the next

Aeon?

I can finally breathe again (after 20 years;

I should’ve known it would take that long) but

All this oxygen is making me strange

1125:0300a

***********

JOY READ

Night stand Marxist

   Twisted phone cord — 70s style —

        around chubby finger tips

When I was a tender young maiden

         I read Marx & cringed at all we had

                                  in common

I recognized my zebra pattern

That of sinner heathen scum

 For thinking these very same things

                                         of you

I understood w/ matchstruck clarity

         what the bible says; shadow puppets

               quacking

             cave code

Turducken mishandled by Xtians

      like funds trusted to lions (bulls/bucks)

      Like judgment day to clowns

            (bitches/does)

1127:0250a

***********

PROMO

Stifling my own brand

    of hedonist Opus Dei marxism —

           

      yes the flagellations are divine—

in favor of citizen reporter

Spying from inside — no eye contact, 

no nervous tapping clavicle or

tablet, no outlet,

dead Lois Lane. 

1127:0250a

***********

POOTENANNY

I feel another Singing War would boost

                                       our economy

I sing to overthrow the dominant

            Sound structure of the world

We are filthy singers. We could all

        just think this card stock into a diorama

If we sit super straight & circling the

      world’s tiniest oars w/ opposing

                     digital tips

Sing that you’re hungry for silence

Be more like Marx than Jesus

Stone the leper don’t soap him

Fight the lion & lose

Look what’s left of the colosseum 

Like a blood bank bombed

We are the tubes in the lab testing moods &

We’ve been hit by an earthquack (sic. I’m sure we meant -quake)

1127:0275a

***********

FLASHBACK to What I Remember About MARX —

Upon fact checking the pie chart 

                                       of my life

I see 23% of my time was spent vomiting & only

         21% waiting @ traffic lights

I have more in common w/ your household

Celebrity

Than your average candid-

                                    ate for office

Marx hated women “Between shit & piss we’re born” He hated that

                                                           humans spent so much time

                                                             eating & shitting

                                                                                               [yet still

Like I hate how we spend so much time talking &              

                                                            saying nothing

                                                                                         wanting to fuck]

We pretend to be from One Source, instead of

        individually rapt suckers

1127:0300a