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Tuesday, December 26, 2017


How Much of Life is Pittsburgh?

Mars potato salad the lobster redux flatbed full of 
meshuggana elbow spread & Batman with you
panther
flagstaff
panther

Sparrow ashtray
horse full of moon
earphones
pain on a stick
crag tinfoil
flood control setting
cork
fugitives at the speed of sound
The Illuminati 1

Thursday, December 21, 2017

=My Autobiography in 100 Pieces of Garbage=

34. & 35.


Outfitting Ourselves for the End

There's nothing like a secret admirer.
She quickly realized the burgeoning science could only progress if she had observations that were systematic.
Stars, for instance, are not the same as pigs.
Let’s say, I have unique ways to allocate.
Let's say, I have ways.
Let's say I'm being robbed, but I choose to believe I'm pushing my daughter on the swings in the park across from the Methodist church
Let's say we're developing a vector graphics application. It will allow the user to create lines, rectangles, circles, text, etc. and manipulate them independently.
You can only enter the instance between 8 am and 11:30 pm server time.
When we went our separate ways, I remember thinking, when the winter storms arrive both sexes, which are strictly herbivorous, move to steep rocky slopes to avoid the heavy drifts of blinding snow and the archers.
Who can tell if we’re shouting when we have laryngitis?
Let’s say, we shrink them a bit.
Let’s say we beg.
They should fit comfortably and not interfere with breathing.
They should fit snug and protect all parts of the exposed skull.
They should not fit high on the crown of the head.
They should not trip us and make us fall into the fire.
100 years after we first arrived in Belgium we were still looking forward to a very exciting future
Then she fell into a gruesome nightmare, one that chilled her to the bone.
For every 1,000 words spoken, we make one or two errors.
Something that you say by accident when you intended to say something else can change water into wine.
The Gospel says: The microscopic tardigrade—also known as the water bear—is the only animal
that can survive the cold, irradiated, irrational vacuum
of outer space.
Hearing that, I had a strong feeling that I was pregnant.
Hearing that, I had the power to stand up and clap at the end.

Thursday, December 14, 2017

Pterodactyl

I feel like I’m tending
an anorectic flame
in memory of myself
this wavering will
to live.

Everything threatens it.
Even joy.

The shark moves flat as a coffin on autopilot through the seas of your dreams.

It’s loaded
with bombs that could wipe out
all the life on earth ten times over
but it’s looking for you alone.

How do we just sit there
eating cereal in the morning?
How do we stand so patiently in line
at the DMV?
If this were a horror movie
we'd run for the exit 
ready to lose our lunch.
If this were a love story
it would be the saddest ever told.
Why aren’t we screaming?
Why aren’t we screaming all the time?

Every time you draw that feeling out of me
I stand off to the side amazed
and watch it thunder passed
like a train with a thousand cars
loaded with god-only-knows-what
blowing me backward from the tracks.

Stand there, speechless,
staring in awe in the direction
of the tunnel
into the darkness stretching backward
farther than any eye can see.

=My Autobiography in 100 Pieces of Garbage=

32.



Saturday, December 9, 2017

Opribaru

Flight pattern pontificate
the harbinger of nows
stand inside the platinum ponies
         portnoy
         coinface
         a thousand forms of wow
         the port of call
         calling
         commander
         crepuscular
         gown

Red gone left
                 corduroy
                 the feathered one somehow
                 a pocketful of missing numbers
                 a bough
                 the scattered name of John


Sunday, December 3, 2017

You Are Always Here —> x

When you’re walking down the street
holding your life like a nothing-balloon
above your head, your allegiance
to the fork is unassailable.

I was never so spatially challenged
that I couldn’t find anything better
than an axe in a liquor store.
I was never that naïve.
I believe in my own disbelief.
I believe in a few things of my own losing.

I believe in the acne-scarred skin
of the orange I dig my thumbs into
on a Saturday afternoon, the accidental claw
of the cat leaping from my lap, the oxygen tent
in which lies crash-damaged the alien

that used to be my father. The radio
issuing a burbling stream of alphabet
over my cupped hands. And yet
I thirst. There’s something
I never said before, there must be.

I imagine all the children I never had
thanking me for sparing them this life
my kiss of death. You’re welcome, I whisper,
and pull the darkness back
over their bright little heads, still singing.

Oh my darling Brussels sprouts!

The moon,
bitter as an aspirin.

My black lips
talking
talking like this without me.