Leaves its cave
hibernation to eat—
lawnmower.

O, well.

All’s well, that end’s well.

Well, it drowns in water full o’ oxygen.

Well, it keeps in its keep stone, white;

itching with beady bones, white;

Well, it keeps still in paroxysm.

Well, O—

Well’s end—that end all ends all.

O: pelicans call.

O: tides fall.

O: winds pass.

O: clouds cast.

X: I fall in & have a bath.

¡What laughs!

Sewage smell.
Soothing sleepiness.
Sunny, bored.

I met Dr. Jekyll (BA-THUMP),

& he wasn’t much better than Mr. Hyde.

He’s not such a rebel (BA-THUMP),

e’en when he’s trying to hide ‘hind his crooked disguise;

but he makes me tremble (BA-THUMP),

he makes me cry in fright the whole god damn night.

He is just a devil (BA-THUMP);

maybe that’s why I can’t get him out o’ my miii-i-i-i-iind…

O… ¿Whyyy-y-y-y-yy…?

In my attempts to shelter rain,

the sun still sneaks inside through blind spots,

stretching stark nights wide awake

& making mornings gorgeous vine clots.

(Thanks.)

O, ¿will I miss another bus

on sidewalks paved with flashing chills?

Why, yes, I will—all because o’ the sun,

who never has to pay the bills.

(What a bum.)

Hey.

Stop cutting up my meters, son—

I must walk 10 to reach my destination.

¿Or was that 8?… Fuck…

“To wait this line you must have patience.”

(¿What?)

But I don’t want to end, my friend—

to leave my friend, the cheddar oak.

¿Who needs birdseed when I could tend

to pinecones pancaked under spokes?

(Shut up—it makes perfect sense.)

2 doves on
creaky branches called
a couplet

departing—
branches sing no more,
“O, fuck it.”

“¿Could you give me just 1 li’l break?”

Wood so old creaks beneath his weight.

His shadow flies o’er winter plains.

The shadow o’the moon makes it fade.

Tú empuñas el cetro,

tú te pones el vestido—

desde la cumbre… a lo más profundo…

-El Fantasma

Trataste de fallar y fallaste,

dijo el espejola en la ventana empapado de la lluvia, negra como petrol.

Good job.

¿Y ahora crees que puedes tener mí néctar meloso?

¿Crees que puedes compartir mí manta cálida,

tú y tus manchas tan sucias?

No debiste ponértelas en primer lugar,

o, mejor dicho, debiste crecer la voluntad limpiarlas.

Pero, no lo hacía;

y es por eso que sabes que eres una socialista mágica.

Así dicen en El Economicon:

„Sie können nicht Ihr DNA widerstehen.“

The sole bride
in this setting life:
moon-reigned nights.

The pills don’t chill

the fever that doesn’t cool,

won’t come to my clasp,

won’t catch the cold

in fevers so ol’,

but still mo’ severe

than the nearest lossage

‘fore my thought drops.

¿Por qué sonríes?

Me dijiste que tienes depresión.

Pero personas con depresión no sonríen.

Ahora que, ¿por qué frunces el ceño?

¿Por qué tienes demasiada depresión?

No me encanta…

y no me encanta que no me encanta.

Was du brauchst, mein Sohn…

was du brauchst, mein Sohn…

Wo Menschen in schwarz kleiden…

Wo dein Gefühle dich ein Ungeheuer gemachen…

Pero, no los diré a ellos—

no los diré nada.

Los secretos de las estrellas brumosas

se guardarán en mi propriedad privada

y desteñirán con mi desaparición,

como no hubieran existido nunca—

como no habían existido…

因此再见…

¡E poi colpisce lampi!

—¿Wen bist du?

Ich kenn nicht.

—¿Wen bist du?

Ich kann mich nicht erinnern…

—Ich sagte, ¿Wen bist du?

¡Ich bin nichts!

—¿Was war das?

Ich sagte, ¡Ich bin nichts!

—Stimmt.

—Du bist nichts.

—Du bist nichts aber der Nichtsmensch.

—Erinnere dich daran.

E poi disperde pioggia…

I’m not having fun

when time flies,

so clip the wings to the stub

& dump my clock in the Rhine.

Right all.

I’m sorry this poem sucked, by the way.

Lies in wait—
bacon cheese sandwich,
growing cold.

Its owner,
hungry, only sleeps.

Yes, I have the sadness,

‘side my flavorless tea & headache cheese crackers;

but it’s not the sadness I had before,

& that’s what most matters.

That was left on the gray beaches o’ summer chills,

wandering & pretending I was knowing & did science,

when nobody invited me to be taught to grow gills.

I’m still waiting for die Tagssonne

to stretch my seed’s boughs.

& this time the point won’t miss its rows.

Just look @ where the sluggish storms sleep now:

when life gifts you oranges,

Mike’s soft bottles don’t e’en crack skulls beyond sore fringes.

Leave me in stitches—p l e a s e.

but I saw
you, flesh-shelled crab… Please.
Keep scuttling.