OH this demolishing debris
accreting & secreting
Visions of Maya
as veils & velleities

Not so, Gordo replied to the nauseous sailor

Scaffolding

I’ve fucked everything & everyone
fucked them when they’re not looking
when they think nothing nearing coital consciousness

When they’re at wendys, mmm, the newer one
with all those really fab glazes, darling
Love, love, love you bitch!

dangling their fingers in the tea-chinaed spaces
between the ouroborous of their onion rings

Fried out of its skin, mmm
& on the wall, people who know not who they pose as
scream slogans of appropriated koans
redirected, misaligned to
oh EAT YOUR FOOD, AIDAN, BEFORE YOU PLAY WITH THE TOY

and this middle-aged, woman, oblivious
there are things to think about
JOHN UPDIKE DIES
the headlines whispered in dizzying decibels
to her hypnagogic gaze
And oh, well caroline’s husband
he just adores Updike
perhaps i should mention something of it to him

And all the while, just 100% rape, rape rape
into the back of her oblivious head
through her, in her, beside her
rape, rape, rape

BON MOT NOT MOT JUSTE

don’t get it, don’t get it you op ed fiend, do you

There was,
it was on that spidery vellum
BY The MOST EMINENT RABBI SILVERSTEIN
THERE ARE GEMATRIA
ELOHIM TOLD JOHN THE BABTIST IN HIS VISION
TEMURAH TRUTHS IN A BURNING BUSH

said the pre-marine
whose conquests of altogether
politically obscured monstrosities
was prefigured in
the violence of his love-making
heads hitting head-boards
and all for a stupid, silly anecdote

can’t can’t

Constantinople was no city but a thought
or, oh ho, better better,
the quaaludes sinking into the pores of his veins,
A collective hallucination by the
Hellenic Harridans

Pleased with his phrases,
he hit his dog
and then his kid
and slept smugly underneath, underneath.

Copenhagen, too, escaped his lips as he quested queerly into quiescence.

There is no, err, so called QUANTUM ENTANGLEMENT as such, it’s uhh, a Post-Baconian effect of a telephone game of A Sufi ritual, dervishes & devils devoting demonstrably futile time to an ascendence which ughh, err, is not as it seems….

NO LECTURE TODAY

was what he told me

who told you?

Can’t you even forget yourself and pilot the fucking fire engine, for little 7 year old Lucy Bart is burning, and this is no

SELF IMMOLATION

because if youre not dead you do die and if you are dead you don’t

That crosswalk was toooooooooooo

TOOOOOOO
TOOOOO
damn damn damn amorphous
motherfucking amorphosity, bombosity
THE LINES, they are not, static
they move
WHERE DO I CROSSS!?

INRI
is
not
riot
incentive

is not
raw
illumination

is not recalcitrant
Insubordination

Is not restorative inhalations

Its night replying insolently

i’d say
but that is not it, not it not it not it

because there are differences between acts
and a novel and your life
and the life of the man or woman who you saw
12 feet in front of you in aisle 8
stealing bottles of baby formula

NO matter what Phillip K Dick says
his tongue fluttering in his speed-laced elocutions

Glossolia is all that’s available
there here, cacti or shopping carts

don’t freeze, don’t freeze
but burn burn burn
until the conflagration of your past present and future
freeze frames it all
and vaseline smeared lenses
blur the rigidity of what never was more
than a Mandelbrot Steed
pied and horseshoed.

AND IF THERE’S ONE TRUTH IN THIS CREAKY CEMENT WATERSLIDE ITS SOMETHING THAT IS CLOSER TO
smiling at the frown you wear
THAN
Cancer isn’t in vogue this year, but the Hospice in Geneva has a ring of hotels with the charmingest little arab boys!

Can’t win the oreo stacking contest that fucker Benjamin won without breathing into his perfect little family life.

Or so or so, the nauseous sailor said.

I remember that morning vividly
Vividly in a vague way
the way that you continually apply new meanings to memories and dreams

It is laundry day
I stumble out of bed, trying to recollect
the details of the night before
I feel around the floor
in a cursory scan for something to put on, and I come out
with a stale-smelling pair of pants, a ripped t-shirt,
and NO underwear
THIS is how I deduce
that it is laundry day

I had something to do that morning
some meeting to attend or errand to run
I don’t know, I felt I was in a rush

I hurriedly reach under the chest-of-drawers in the corner
in hopes of finding some socks still flexible enough
to fit on a foot
and I find one
a black one with a grey stripe
and as I look up from my search my glazed gaze grazes
the the cluster of clutter atop the desk
and falls on your flower
a single rose stuck in an old jar
I stop and stare all starry-eyed
the rose you plucked from a garden we walked by
and handed to me in such an off-handed manner
I sit entranced by the gift you so shruggingly gave

I fall INto the flower
I penetrate it’s center
let it’s presence enter me
the petals seem to slowly circle inward towards infinity
the deep *Passionate* color of blood
the slightly frayed edges of this blossOM evoke images of you
the hue of your lips, the light in your soulful eyes
the curves of your hips and the secrets I imagine nestled inside them
I want to bathe in your flowery scent
I want to taste your fresh fruit,
to feel the timid trickle of its sweet savory juice
to feast like an Olympian on your bodily nectars
to cover you three times in kisses, make it four for good measure
in the rose I see your face – I just want to touch it!
I must see you! I’m flushed and blushing my heart rushes!

I hurry out the door without a moment’s further consideration
I scurry down the stairs thoughtlessly and hit the pavement
I wordlessly drift down the street in a blissful haze of desire
and breathless I appear and your front stoop
and ring the bell

You appear in a beam of radiance and beauty
and you look at me confused, your head cocked to one side slightly
A wave of bashful self-awareness floods my sight
as I look down at my shabby wardrobe
and the black sock with grey stripe
that I still grip stiffly in my left fist

Bewildered, I hold it up
“Here,” I said, “I found this for you…”

by Peter Hazen