Jersey terms
sushi jazz bar smells of fish pussy smoke, spit and piss, and it's hard to distinguish which is which.
incessant thought precession. cant navigate a north star.
if my brain is mother earth maybe i should
strap a bra over my ears? second hand smoking with a finger in the limber
fissure of pons cold cream.
your olfactory bulb
dims in my presence. my essence consumes you.
suck my thalamus.
hi, i was just sitting here thinking of
you and listening to my air conditioner because I havent bought any music
in a long time.
bryllyant says: "that's a satanic question: wouldja patti duke?" i wonder and walk on, "does bob eubanks wear cotton panties exclusively?"
my pustulous self-containment vessel.
i shiver when i let go the moment.
the name of this piece is "i dont want the
tubesteak wrapping buns". my body guard spends most of his workday hiding the guns i used to keep under pillows under yorkies and cutting my conversations
short.
perhaps there is a generation
gap here but i find your breasts to be the perkiest thing i've seen in
weeks. i dont watch the today show tho.
the quarterback was disappointed but he couldn't kick anyone on the field's ass.
i have noticed that speed freaks like vans.
I am mailing this poem
to the NTSB committee on free verse and to all the people who buy bathtubs in rural areas. c'mon, we know those folk dont bathe: they feed us corn
to get us fat, clothe us in cotton and pump us fulla speed so they can
vote repulican. yeah, repulican. (this is working verse.)
this piece is titled in honor of the governor's
wife's favorite brand of lintless-wipe toilet paper.
this piece is now titled playing touch football
with the intellectual nipple licker (for half-dollars). and i'm gonna vote
for the ecentric inventor, who either has a nose full of splinters or is an alcoholic.
if this piece were the
bible part three i'd ask the publisher to give it a rainbow colored cover
and the line about shivering would be held up in endzones as every time for the rest of time the green team only went for two points and those child molesting placekickers wouldnt have time to touch innocent chirren because theyd be too busy waiting in line for a gubment check. or if it this piece was brought up from a valley by a charismatic woman with a beard who could flip her cigarette butts and set tinderbushes alight to the people on the factory floor sweeping up the blood and bones.
a fire! a fire! daddy, a fire!
the foggy memory boys have a song which goes
(i forget the name): "hovering waitress/wouldja amble over and buy me some
cigarettes/then explain to the the ADHD kid why I smoke/ (break) (puff)/hovering
waitress/maybe yeah three years ago/after a coupla beers and a coupla breakups
because of me/the stuff i cant change/like this plate of boiled eggs i
ordered/or this fifty/what's a sufficient tip/from a proletarian POV?/hovering
waitress/sweet tea at 3 a.m./where's the can?/is that dwight yoakum?/yuck,
no it's somewhere in between/hovering waitress/smile one more time/i got
two-hundred thirty miles to go/what do the cooter counter hunchers mean
by sweetie?/have they read the paper?/it's a subject for boozehound rhetoric/but
the argument never survives the piss break/and that's why we're guys."
n e x t
s e r i o u s t r e a t i s e