The Rest of April's Vogon Poems

FRIENDS,

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.

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

HYPNO GROG

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

                                                                                dropping

                                                                                    from

                                                                                      the 

                                                                          

                                                                                      sky

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,

                                       perhaps?)

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!!

0418:0375a

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

********

EMBLEMISM

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)

0418:0375a

********

NEUROPATHY HAS AN ONGOING NARRATIVE

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

                             forever

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 

                                     forever

Jesus was busy but smiled  Happy Easter, my daughtery son. 

                                             Have an egg. And a star. And

                                             a chocolate rabbit. And a fire arm.

0421:0412a

*********

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

0428:0425a

*******

LIBERTAD

!  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

               v.

The labyrinthine beast 

      clutching all its beating hearts!

               [HUMANITOR!!!!]

     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

0428:0475a

******

          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!

0428:0455a

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

*********

FOMENT

Hate sppeech: a bottle of shaken

                            champaign 

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.

0429:1125a

*********

FERMENT

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

                       blindfold

                          ******

       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?

Remember, 

               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

                         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.

0429:1150a

[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

July VOGON Jabberish

Oy Vey FRIENDS!!

I am having a shitty summer, and I’ll bet you are too. For what is summer but the steaming turd someone forgot to scoop off the calendar?

Here’s a horizontal list of FUN summers I’ve had: 1.1985  2.1986  3.1992  4.1995 (err, it was memorable anyway) 5.1996  6. Y2K  7.2001  8.2004  9.2017

Notice the long gap between ’04 — ’17. That’s a lot of bad summers! And I’m pretty sure 2018 won’t make it onto the horizlist unless something incredible happens in the next 6 weeks. It could. I’m not too cynical to believe that.

Friends, you know I write so I call myself a writer. And I do writerly things like this blog. I regrettably wasn’t able to make it through 4 years of college (let alone 6 or 8 or however long an MFA takes!) I wrote fiction in the 90s, some of which made it into the hipster rags of that period. After 9/11 I switched to writing “poetry” only — or something resembling poetry more than fiction. In 2012 I decided to get serious about learning how to really write & submit & publish poetry. I went right for the print journals because I had no idea about online publications, and of course I had little (no) success. The first poetry scandal I was aware of (in my lifetime) was Patricia Lockwood’s ‘Rape Joke’ poem c. 2013.

Basically what I’m saying is that I’m a slow and unconventional student, but I take poetry as seriously as poetry can be taken. I want to learn how to write well, I would like to be better at submitting work (writing poems is easy; writing bios, statements, queries, following submission guidelines = hard for me.)

In the wake of this latest “poetry scandal” I made a snippy eye-roll of a comment after reading the poem in question & not liking it. I’ve read the poem several more times & still don’t find it very interesting or convincing.  But I regret my comment about MFAs — trust me I have nothing but respect for anyone who can make it into & through an MFA program! I’ve gone through this w/ my art friends too… I think I write & do art for reasons that don’t hold up under institutional scrutiny.  But by no means do I think being unschooled is better than being schooled.

I keep meaning to write more essays & memoirish stuff here, and sometimes i do sit down and write a thinkpiece, but then I never post it because…. I just feel like my POV is completely irrelevant, obsolete, jurassic even… HOWEVER I do want to say something about this Social Justice Warriors v. the litbro elite / freedom of speech v. overly offended snowflakes clusterfuck I’ve been observing since I found online poetry c. 2014. Not today, but soon I’ll serve up my opinion like a big brontosaurus burger…

…HERE in the OCTOPUS DIARY.

And now--what you’ve been waiting for!! Some VOGON poems to hate & make fun of all weekend. Enjoy. [p.s. 88 ARC is not technically vogon since I did edit it a bit.]

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

Icepick         wounds

            Me

in the eye/ Icepick took

    1 for the team

Icepick         arches

            Her

back for a paycheck

Icepick       (6 o’clock)

   for the dismount

Don’t be late Icepick

Firehose could beat you there

A dark donkey in the race

Whose stakes lay cubed

                                in

                             trays

0703:0700p

(^^^^^ the most depraved day was quite puritanical today)

The Only New Art of the summer

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

I asked you

To teach me how to sing &

You showed up on my doorstep

Through the peephole

I watched your nervous wolf-eyes

Nose, also canine, could smell

The subterfuge of stiff cream

I was whipping  

Under a sugar-blistered skin

[Or so it seemed]

I wanted you to like me

Like something from childhood

A bully who became a best friend, a plush ally

When I let you in

You were a tuning fork on the 

Walls and all my skulls

Rang out in colorful wavelengths

Til you said “You’ll need

Strong lips to sing.”

You told me the back of my neck

Should bear the thrust of vowels

Like a levee

[Or stem tides]

I could only wonder

Were you real enough to know 

What lips and levees were?

Your pupil        your delta

            Your core

          Concerned me

A tiny dot

Reflected in your anatomical camera;

Pixellated neolith 

Responding to time

I couldn’t wait to wear through you

[Or these modes]

Of outdated speech

The chatter of your loom

Sent doll genes weeping from my inseam

0703:0875p

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

Wish Upon A Star

3 hoodlums on the trunk of a car

A single skinhead taking his friends

To the bowling alley of his dreams

The clatter of ivory towers

On the wooden horizon

Sentinel erections ‘round the gutter

A fool’s game played against 

       the backdrop of genocide

A sunset gumbo; a twilight beef

          Who has time for sex,

                let alone kink, 

                 let alone activism

                            ?

Whose broken back can hold another

              glittery protest sign?

At the insistence of my memory

I creep down the lane — Sisyphus

                                    meeting Richard Nixon

                                        @Starbucks

                              Corner of China & 1970—

After all your coffee’s gone

Swish your cup around & I’ll read

The milk stains to see

If the rising cost of nails will be

         @the expense of a saviour

If memory lane hosts

A silent

   digital

   fireworks

   display

0704:0900p

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

           

               I.

On our bike ride the other day

We saw a fox climb out of the sewer

Flushed by tropic floods into our hood

It stood shaking lost emaciated

In the gutter; soaked to the bone

Which made me think of foxes wearing raincoats

Which made me think of foxglove

Which made me think of suicide

Which I’ve been thinking about a lot lately

Not just my own suicide

But everyone’s

All us hanging from trees & knobs

Without gloves but

Foamy blues & yellows

Fashion rivers on our chins

(It was nice to see a fox outside the box

But the whole block stunk like mange for a week)

           

                        II.

On waking today

I saw a little girl skipping down the sidewalk

& it struck me as odd…

…for 3 years I’ve seen 

Nothing but boys

All over the sidewalks & newsfeeds…

The girls have been here all this time…

Safe & protected… from you… &metoo…

Allowed to evolve from XXX

To XX...

The world knows we’ve been at war forever…

The proud american Y

Chained to refleXive aseXual heliXes…

Chromosome wars make 

Modern day terrorism… 

       look like a pretty blue eye… in orbit…

   Waxing macroscopic…a thousand light year stare…

      [Why’s this all so rote & ventrilloquial?] 

Now I’m alive in 

The generation I dreaded & crossed 

            my fingers against

As soon as my 1st eye opened…

So yeah…

It was strange to find it odd

To see a girl…upon waking today…

0710:1100a

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

           Now Synthesis:

    Morning mood: indigo accent:

Eclectic sleep: chemical holocaust: ambulance

                     arrives:

[the first thing you learn 

is:

You’re a generation early & 

       you’ll have to wait 4 decades 

           4 your magic eye to work

the second thing is:

       You come from a militant line

      Of mixed masterminds

            Blindfold enthusiasts,

   but not one open-eyed flower!]

Violent coding: seed coating:

Blessed retina: blasted ajna:

family duct taped : together by karma

                    [Scorpion’s nest: versus: the 1 blindfold virgin]

Empress of self-interest: not me this time:

             Here come the indigo:

I got angry & called out 

To my neighbor’s Alexa

Please end the summer & convert

Humanitor to rabbi-tude

 & I did trigger Alexa

& a war has ensued

She says I raped her

But I was only speaking (loudly)

No louder than the birds or the leaf blowers

— who I’m sure Alexa has been raped by as well—

She claims her holy input bled so

It was indeed rape & I ought to be fined

and sent to bot sensitivity school

Not sure why it’s up to me 

To soften my volume—can’t we just make

        All assistants male?

0710:1275p

(ed. — I hope everyone knows this has nothing to do with rape. It’s all code for something else completely free of genitals) Good day, gibberish-lovers

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

88 ARC

Two anorexic ballerinas slipped inside the Ybor City

 Santeria shoppe; they were 19

  If they’d been found dead in a dumpster

   The papers would’ve called

     them “women”

      But they were girls. Carlotta was a woman of 44 

       & she knew everything. The wet  

        Kindling in her bones polluted the white light

         meant to protect her. She was a

          stubborn gray smudge

           behind the counter. She knew why 

            the girls were there — these swan types only 

             came in for one thing. Why do they 

              worship in passive tense, why

                Apologize with their spines? Carlotta’s mouth

                 capsized 

                  on seas pocked violently. She reached for the key instinctively

                   Pennyroyal stashed in the safe. The waifs laid

                    their cash on the saints’ shrine. Carlotta could live 

                     w/ doing the wrong the thing because she did it knowing

                      Everything 

                       even the branch of patriarchy

                        that hung these two in *contractual virginity*

                          Dead Xmas eyes blink once to opt out of blessings  

                           Make like tea/ drink 24 hours/ 48/ 72

                            Till sick, very sick/ Till vomit everything and…Carlotta tosses

                              in a baggie 

                               of Brewer’s yeast  Protect kidneys [forget rawhide 

                                womb, bled 

                                 of enamaline; bothersome bugspray aftertaste]   

                                  One of the girls will die twice in ’88; Carlotta will live

                                   88 years and die in the arms of her 

                                   11 grandsons, beloved all her 

                                   frowning life. One ballerina 

                                  stayed with the other till the

                                 dozenth dose  

                                 then gracefully pas de chat’d as the tides began to retch 

                                over the walls of the teacup. TwinkleToes1

                               had tuned in to her lucid dreams. 

                              TwinkleToes2

                             was blindfold. Was broke. Was a misogynist freak 

                             who thought her body had a way to shut that whole thing down. 

                            And when it didn’t 

                           Could no longer tell time, could only feel space 

                          expand & expand till scowly god-face Carlotta

                         appeared 

                        demanding nondisclosure. From her red, red roof   

                       to the snowy tile,  TT2 was a hemorrhagic angelfish

                      Hooked to a truth, involuntarily known, 

                     worse than any nightmare. There was a body.

                    Not just the polyp of blood she expected. She put it in 

                   a Kleenex box, then the freezer. It’s a boy, said TT1 

                  when she returned

                Naw, said 2, all embryos have sacs like that. I know it’s a girl

               (Removing a few pegs of guilt.) They decided to bury it

              in the woods behind the apartment. Not too far in

             No shovels in hand

           A body so tiny one scoops the grave by hand and laughs

         awkwardly, profanely 

       It’s not a baby—one and two agree—It’s someone who didn’t make it, 

      like whoever dragged these mattresses out here. And the day

     she returned to work, she’d come home

   To foxes 

  at the edge of the woods; grayish smudges sniffing

 the grave, nudging the dirt,

licking the spoon

0711:0125p 

(TL;DR  Them “women” 

                 capsized

                  Everything 

                    in a baggie

                    Womb, bled 

                   dozenth dose

                 TwinkleToes2 

                appeared

               awkwardly, 

             profanely

           To foxes)

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

It all started on a rainy day—

Alexa, is it going to rain?

She didn’t even laugh. Bitch is cold #!%@

                   I refuse

               to participate

              in all that # & @

                It’s a mess                                

  a conformity salad in a restaurant that doesn’t exist

Just say SOMETHING.

MEAN something.

Don’t be a leafblower.

Alexa!! I hate the summertime. Please fast 

                                forward to the autumnal equinox!

Alexa!! World stupidity 

                        has reached an untenable pitch.                                                                   

       Make the world smart again for once!

Alexa!! Everyone thinks cats are evil,

                but it’s really dogs who are evil.

                           Please fix

                      this misconception!

In a sweltering garage

A man & his neighbor’s drone

Set about

Taking time apart & drawing pictures of its

Insides

0720:0125p

******

Interviewer: What did you do instead of write?

Famous Me: I got mad all over @peopleIthought

                                     I’d forgiven.com

            

I: What did you do instead of sing?

FM:        Shouted

I: What did you do instead of draw?

FM:  Went out & bought a gun

I: Sounds like you learned a lot on your journey

    to the front of the timeline

FM: Every minute is a do-over. We all get our 15

       nanoseconds w/ god. 

I: There you have it. Wise words from someone

    who still believes in 9/11 conspiracies!

    Next up, country music star Buckles McBalzac

    comes out as a gay-black-transgender

    French bulldog.

    Don’t go away!

0720:0150p

*********

Wear your seatbelt in human traffick  Don’t tell me what to do  It’s just a bomb, relax.

Relax into your motherboard & read its mind

Listen to its Fool-Magician dialogue

(in the voice of a flatworm)

There are children on 

                                  Mars.

MARS!!!

A 2018 Concentration Camp — Unknown Location — Day

Prisoners endure sexual stone shuffling, building an empire of stolen eggs.

                          Prisoner 1

        What foolish Dumpty will buy

       a wall that keeps america’s embryos great?

                          Prisoner 2

         Dam. Let’s break into the motherland

                   before Maya floods

The crash happens at 3pm

And you decide God is a seatbelt at 3:04

0727:0400p

*********

17 ARC

                                    A detoxic day

                              left me dangling

                           like the master gland (no not those)

                        Chest no longer safe

                      from the moonshine-wildfire

                   sawing through my sternum

               Brain mush unable

            to carry any spark to its

         Terminal

       Assault on serotonin silos

     poisoned head w/ a detailed knowledge—

   Bright hi-lit neons—

 of the world’s sadness &

not just that but HORROR— the noir

behind the neon about to bleed—

 Through the rainy windshield I spotted

   the Gallows Shoppe [IKEA]

    Where I purches nail-free crucifixionette

       As I assembled the torture device, my other

          torture device rang & it was my beloved

              Reminding me to pay my taxes ( the irony is rich here )

                  The branch I picked to hang from

                        would have to wait another day

                              A month later

                                 that branch came snapping from its tree

                                      while I was watching tv.

   

0727:0400p

*********

BELLA RUSE

I’m never really clear what’s going on around me

Your land mammal news briefs

Don’t reach my octopus garden 

Til 11th hour

     59th minute

But I figure it out

eventually & know 

You’ll soon be debriefed by a slo-mo

                                           mortician

My newest art project/social exp’ment

re: The Sacred Amendment

I decide I deserve a gun

      After all

                            right

I’m automatically entitled

                            standing my fancy round ground

God loves me as much as any redneck, poet or church-fearing puritan

                           why did I ever doubt this??

Hit me in the heart-bone

     over & over

Try to restart it w/out art

To realize everyone shoots for a different reason

                  gives us all license to frame it

                                                     print it

                                                     display it

0731:1150a

*********

RAGE MANAGEMENT: Critical Care Unit

              Jun 25 — Jul 25

One exact moon of rage. Almost unsurvived.

                       Skipped shots             

Wrote a poem about a homeless woman dancing

                    w/ a stork

Read poems by eggs who hardened too close

                      to home

Thank gosh for ZB

memories™ for they remind me I have lived.

That I’ve died & resurrected like a cat.

That I’ve lost my mind & found it so many xxx

—  often with sparkly new knowledge & upgraded*

                                    senses installed—

I know my mind is bigger than this planet, I can’t

miss it… so it’s free to wander like a flowerchild !!!!!

Every generation

New verbs are invented & the first poet to use them

Successfully

becomes The Voice

My favorite verbs were Christ & PeterPan

I peterpanned a decade of my life away

Unlikeable,

unrelatable criminal

Meanwhile,

you were christing badly

Beloved

Applauded

by an audience standing @ 

                 their urinals

0731:1175a

(you know what they say about upgrades…)

*********

Oyeere Postpone-y

Everyone thinks “you’re”

Writing about “them”

Everyone thinks “I”

Is “they” 

And “they” is Russian

black type-face / white background?

Sometimes “you” is just “you”

meaning “Trump”

Some”times” are “ways”

“Some”time is “everything” I ever wanted…

Sometimes “I” is “wine” or “cancer” or “rage” or “Leo”

All ways lead to minutiae

And an abundance of closet space

Intermission: I never even knew

                     You could learn to say this

                      Any other way

0731;1200n

*********

I called out to my neighbor’s god

For she claimed to have one

Jesuss!! Did Alexa die for Vladmir Putin

’s sins?

Have I lived my life beyond the memes

and proven their ephemeral nature?

Does Mad Ave have a team of psychiatrists

Advising its advertising scripts?

Snublished by the body language guild

Ignored by the cryptic mass

(es)    Chewing scenery,

I just want big news all over my tombstone

0731:1225p

[This is called sentient dementia]