Accompanying music.

Viewed through blinds, your smoky scents

with your rattling tracks & wheels

passes straight through my brain stem

with the rusty steel that peels

scraps & bolts & coal-black fire,

painted muddy brown & red.

Midnight chugged without a tire

& a million-meter bed.

Sure your ghosts are sure cliché,

floating in their dirty rags;

I’ll ride nightmares any day.

Crumple all my papers under

bellies hungry for a scratch;

feel & hear your dormant thunder

while you ready paws to snatch

jackets trying to pass by.

But I know you always flee

from the wall-clung fly-fast lights,

even though just made by CDs.

Playing poker, you beat me;

now I need to pay the fee:

scratch your chin eternally.

To all the

chewy chocolate that’s

‘tween my teeth,

to the tears

o’ stormy clouds both

sour & sweet,

to early

evenings’ smeared lemon

restless lights,

to bus wheels’

jingling thunder-struck

keys on kites,

to flapping

jackets that make the

cool winds warm,

to clapping

firs both ecstatic

& forlorn,

to the tea

& coffee scorching

cherry leaves,

to the bats

that flap their purple

tapestries,

to night planes

giving me a wink

as they pass,

to sluggish

November lunchtime’s

foggy mask,

to the wood

spiders chillin’ on

the drywall,

to skylarks

shrinking into blues

without calls,

to pop-up

ghosts drenched darkly with

neon green,

to buttered

toast drenched starkly in

strawberries,

to the gift

that mixes the moon

& the sun,

to the warm

opposites present

within the

light that’s only bright surrounded

by so many crevices so

dark. Don’t not be gloomy: fountains

freeze next year still always missed, though,

still when I watch shadow pines

brushing far away I find

like I almost like to pine

death’s demise

shaped like fallen maple twigs.

Autumn’s cut so thin.

Hope I get to ‘gain begin…

Accompanying music.

Heralding the rainy fall,

spotted aliens, you bring

color to this misty pall,

dancing, happy, moldy springs,

mixing well with jungle drops

that humidifies the air

elsewise empty. E’en when not

eating you, you taste o’ pears.

Bounce me to the magic kingdom,

teach me songs so I can sing them—

all that sugar till we ring done.

Accompanying music.

…in the moldy air smells

fresh of oysters, crabs, & spiral snails

rolling inside rolling leaves, brick bells

clanging mossy in the cloudy, pale

shoving chill that makes me ill but also

stomach-filled: the french fries leave their scent,

orange trees scheme to bury seeds are all so

juicy you can tell the apple’s pent

up till bitten splurging maple peanut

butter chocolate drops in black-oil puddle

rainbows hugging sidewalks in my tea cup

coffee acorns roasting steam that muddles

windshields in the misty highways, till the

moon awakes, glow headlights, pumpkin eyes

from the deck of witches named Matilda,

Spider-Man, or ‘nother grim disguise,

all for jangling bags of shiny plastic

honey colors. Dump the leaves in drops,

feed your storm drain. Crying in baskets

tastes both sweet & sour, for sour’s a lot…

Too cold,

too tired

to fold

2 tires;

too bold,

too wired—

took coal,

¡chew fire!

Sorry I tossed it in the can;

it looked so vulgar, so insipid

with arbitrary rips. ‘Twas bent

& crumpled, too. You’ll hardly miss it,

¿will you? You could e’en see right through

it—not a color whatsoe’er.

So throw the tethers with the feathers.

No, I like my locks a lot—

& I’ll have you know, the cost

that “insipid” wrapper held

beat the sum of all you’ll sell.

Burning, now I bring you hell.

Now, keep digging.

¿How? Neat rigging.

¡Ow! Beats stripping.

Ciao. (Deep swigging.)

& now they tell me that I’m dying.

Keep frying.

& now I see that no one’s buying.

Keep trying.

& now I watch the drainpipes crying.

Keep drying.

But now I watch the plastic winding.

Keeps sighing.

Roll me through your slop,

bounce atop my cot,

make my blood veins clot,

taste spoiled pastel chalk.

& still I don’t know when to stop…

«A todo el mundo,

a todo mis amigos:

vos quiero.

Tengo partir.

I have to stay here,

I have to stay clear.

…

Cheers.»

—Gigadecay, «Disparando sudor.»

Accompanying music.

Forest firs, please, don’t you ever stop

being bed-headed in the sniffling

wind; squeeze out your fur the shower-fed drops

rainbow in the sun & just as tickling.

Both in heat & chill, your bark, it barks

with emboss & bevel, home to so

many worms & birds in many parks,

wake in sun & moon—in both you glow.

But some happy stories become tragic,

for the fir was cut down from its vantage—

disadvantages of too much magic.

They don’t like the taste o’ my tear-soaked beef,

WHAAAR WHAAAR WHAAAR.

They only want chips that crunch with shiny teeth,

WHONK WHONK WHONK.

I’m sick o’ that hideous beast.

That dick’s like last week.

It’s time to clean

that which collects fleas.

¡Texting it in!

¡Texting it in!

That’s what you get when you spend all your attention on fresh lint.

I’m sorry—

you deserved better,

trash bag leaves.

“¿What d’you think he’s thinking?”

“He’s definitely implying something.”

“¿You sure?”

“Def. ¿Can’t you totally see it?”

“I always sucked @ language arts.”

I’m sorry—

your dessert’s butter.

Trash bag leaves.

“I’m boooored.”

“You’re only whining ’cause you’re losing. You’re always a sore loser.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to play anymo’. You can’t stop me.”

“I’m telling.”

“¡Shut up, tattletale!”

“I will.”

“I don’t care. I told you, I don’t want to play anymo’, & you can’t stop me.”

That was the last they heard before the officer found his body hanging in Aokigahara.

¿Want me to talk ’bout the moon ‘gain?

You always savored that gin.

BOOOOOOOOOO.

[A can flies & punches me in the nose.]

They peeled off my latex glove face—¡gross!

When you leave a mess,

you should always scrub.

What what.

I’m sorry—

«you deserve nothing,»

all believe.

So the walrus wails its songs e’ermo’.

He can shove a rancid cactus up his assing fuckhole.

Accompanying music.

Soft caress against my swollen

tongue, so sticky, O so sweet,

smells like honeyed springtime pollen,

tastes like roasted coffee beans.

Friends with butter, bread, & jelly,

but best friends with creamy chocolate;

but just ‘lone it still fills bellies:

scrape a spoon & take a long lick.

In the time the pantry’s light,

how you filled those lonely nights

just before food stamps arrive.

Accompanying music.

I know that you taste just like

lemon heads or gummy worms;

your bright stars with just 1 bite

blow up in raspberry bursts.

Drink up all your empty black,

drown myself in cherry cola;

don’t care if I rot with plaque—

my sole hope is super nova.

Then I’ve eaten all the stars;

now my universe is starved—

as ‘twas my eternal start.