At The Crack Of A Whip

I am not a workhorse, I say.

When people ask what I am,

I never say "horse."

But I beg for attention, applause, that wreath!

I admit:

I want to feel what it's like,

the weight of the garland, the scent.

It's not like me to want it,

It is too human, too stupid. 

Even I know!

A hoof can't hold a goddamn thing.

It just scratches and scrapes

at the surface of the shape.

Still,

I point my big head to the sky and say,

"I'll do it again, and again, and again!"

I only have one name. 

...

(k)

Bumblefoot

Slap On the Stamp

Branded: Weathered.

Cattle Clothes and,

Blackened Blows and,

Abracadabra --

You're Healed!

Torpid Little Girl.

You'll Never

Understand How

the World Works

Wearing Those.

an Ode to Synapses Firing Doggedly

oh, my sweet synecdoche!

is the beauty of

a one plus a two

=3?

-[m]

Technical Armor

This is what it's about then,

isn't it?  The leftover, mesmeric

scraps of mash-ups & counter-culture?

tossed in with bones & bouillon?

This is what it's come to then?

The spatial collapse of now and

almost-now? -- piled neatly into

nasal cavities? waiting to sneeze?

This must be the right time,

right?  To lay down our spartan

defenses, hiding in the attic

all these years?  Handle with Care.

Burnish it

Brandish it

        Wield it Brilliantly;

                          Carry it Top-Heavy

                          Spilling Digits.

This is our unfurnished

destiny?  To speak of the rot laid

before us?  in continually uninteresting

ways? blown to the ground by warm breath?

We've bellied ourselves

in backyard composting bins, in

the physical doors to nowhere in

homemade marmalades & pestos.

We've nuzzled each other

with the commodifications, counter-

clockwise stagnations & stases.

Crystalline shards on our elbows.

We're the leather-bound mole-

skin impersonating vinyl or ceramic

or anything else conveniently dis-

covered in black & blue scrapheaps.

Stare at Me, Austin.

Stare at Me, Jealousy.

         Stare at Me, Unmoving

                                Callous Kettle

                                Calling Itself.

We're the wind I've swept

beneath my feet?  We're the

tragic stoicism?  The mythic

throw rug? on the fast-track

to the spare room?

-[m]

Grab the Reins

Accounting can come

from anywhere,

staring anemic towards

a wall; shriveling

Blank inspirations of

numbers & actuary 

tables, even abaci - 

if they still use them.

Take it where you

can get it, I say;

don't starve yourself

for artistry's sake

It certainly wouldn't

do the same for you.

-[m]

FOXNEWSDOTCOMFOUNDPOEMZ

We found the skeleton

up in the tree

with the pistol

hanging on a rope

next to it

Sense of Humor

The sun is shining 

and the snow is falling.

It is Kafkaesque.

It is grotesque and Roman.

It is a surrealist painting.

It is every painting combined. 

It is Goddard and Revelations.

It is past and present and sex. 

The two boys across the street 

playing catch yell, "the sky is falling!"

They continue playing,

constantly missing, 

OK with all of it. 

They never notice my gaze, my presence,

as I sit on the porch smoking cigarettes

contemplating the absurdity 

of weather and planning. 

We always think of ourselves

as invincible. 

...

(k)

New Yorkfdh*

Walking beside the street

(LOOMING DEPRESSION)

Smiling, to no-one

(LOOMING DEPRESSION)

Headphoneless even

(LOOMING DEPRESSION)

Help a tourist

(LOOMING DEPRESSION)

Destination?

(LOOMING DEPRESSION)

No sir, you are too close to capture the entire thing, try 40th street

(LOOMING DEPRESSION)

Hotdogs taste very good in 50 degree weather

(LOOMING DEPRESSION)

Made 16 cents on a cigarette

(LOOMING DEPRESSION)

I did the math.

--

{q}

Mr. Mentat

Consumer Drug.

To augment, stretch, tear and PerFect

Future~Branches

Glass and hollow,

Run alongside the trunk (technocracy)

Separate, save certain perspectives.

"Falling into the Wrong hands!" They said.

"Bringing our fears to life!" They said.

"The only thing we have to fear is fear ITself!" - Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1932.

Mr Mentat they call me. Volunteer No. 00001 they call me.

Great Sense of Purpose.

"They put it inside him!" They say.

"He doesn't need!" They say.

"Needless!" Needles.

M. Mentat feels happy. Feels a paranoid life. Suspects anything. Knows nothing.

Lighter payload, heavier engine.

Memories like dollars.

"IT will save us!" They'll say.

"Kill IT!" They'll say.

"IT killed IS and saved us all." They'll say, eventually.

--

{q}

Bolaño

Are you the poet

who chose his path at sixteen

and let the blue

lines lie across his canvas

for spiders to nest?

I can always say

with certainty: Yes, I am

with skink skitters

littered in crumpled clumps,

of unlit corners

in my studio apartment.

This path didn't

choose me, no art ever does.

And don't trust

a liar, pedaling himself

In theatrical form.

-[m]

On the Smoothness of Skulls

It's a barren wilderness;

guarding fossils for patents

& harboring names for dates.

You always end up with

one another, don't you?

asking of the other what

you only ask yourself?

Why are the teeth the

indicators?  The red flag

of prosperity?  Do our

eating habits, & dietary

concerns always catalogue,

& cladogram so easily?

Is it true, what they've said

once: You were what we ate?

-[m]

Legs & Blue Skirts

Legs and Blue Skirts,

shimmering effortless.

No one around to stop them.

-[m]

Rocky-Mountain Freshness

Two peaks with a line,

done with a line,

symbolizes our freedom.

Two squiggles for snow

caps, two dashes flair,

and we're off, staggering

swagger at its feet.

It's tough to catch a

trademark

buried so solemnly grave;

But hidden within

the stitches and trim,

the object that

even mountains crave.

An amassing.  A garnishment.

A sprinkling of calloustude.

So gallantly conceived,

an ego swelled to etude.

-[m]

Richard Burton, 1967

I can't play with girls;

I'm not a Romantic actor,

in that sense.

Gibbering across the stage,

Galavanting as one would,

in such a situation.

No, I'm a epithet for

Equality.  But not one I live by.

In the strictest way.

I might be found mumbling,

perfectly at ease with

my surroundings;

And for that, I can find

contentment without them.

-[m]