Light that leads me through the blizzard,
white in flakes, such snuggled blankets.
Tangy sugar never withers,
though this season never bakes it,
only baked so long ago,
you remind me o’ soft bread,
warm tan crescents made o’ snow.
Noses itch in strong, fresh scents.
Red lights warn you: stop & breathe,
drown the death in breakfast tea,
touch the crystals on the leaves.
Ciao, adieu,
& sayonara
till next time.
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.
I’m wrong.
All wrong.
--& I’ve been wrong since the beginning o’ the bomb.
«¡Ack! ¡You’re wrong!
¡Stop being so perverse & admit that everyone’s a lemon wedge on the edge o’ tea!»
But they’re wrong,
& that’s what makes them right,
for the wrongest wrong one can wreak is being right.
Look @ these black leaves strewn ‘cross
pavements oiled in acid rain,
oozing cheap mascaras cross
pimpled skid-mark-darkened f--
«¡Now stop! This imagery is too extreme;
O’ it we’re getting quite so sick. ¿Why don’t
You write ‘bout nice li’l things? Like angel cream
With golden smiles & smokeless, vacuumed ho--»
¡Wrong!
¡Wrong!
¡Wrong!
¡Wrong!
It’s too late to save my brain;
better the sweater is thrown ‘way
than sentenced to life in barnacles from the rain,
no matter how the mold bakes heat aches...
Now, ¿who wants heart aches?
¡Una trampa!
You won’t miss the dead leaves
when you’ve got white cream;
don’t rage @ the dying o’ the midnight,
¿all right?
But when I wished myselves goodlight,
muttering, «You’re right, you’re right...»,
sweaty-eyed, I realized
that they stabbed me with my own knife.
¡The supes in suits strike ‘gain!
¿Why?
¿Why?
¿Why?
Still bubbling–
sidewalk spit.
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.
¡Por ahí! ¡Mira!
¿Ves aquello espacio de estacionamiento
que tiene las grietas y los bultos en la corteza?
Es…
No, viento, no puedes tomar este poema.
Malo, ¿cuándo estaba yo?
Por supuesto:
soy eso espacio agrietado yo.
Ahora, ¿Ves aquello espacio con la boca erótica de tormenta?
No soy eso.
No seré eso nunca.
No.
♪ …así arrugamos… ♫
¡There! ¡Look!
¿See that parking space—
the 1 with the cracks & the bumps in its crust?
That’s—
No, wind, you can’t have this poem.
Anywhere, ¿when was I?
O yeah:
that cracked lot is me.
Now, ¿see that parking lot with the swanky storm drain?
That ain’t me.
That’ll ne’er be me.
♪ …so we creeeeeeease… ♫
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…
Blue in red hell,
not where the roses rot,
but where the rotten roses sniff unsmelled.
The heart’s not warm, but caged in cold,
told the warmth-made water would only feed mold.
Cleanse the black rock o’ fuzzy green monsters.
¿Why e’en bother with those who don’t e’en bother?
¿Find these fish fit O so snugly
in the sunset-drenched canyons o’ Sorrow Ugly?
Show you on the newsprint where the ink smudges—
I just fudge it,
’cause this isn’t it the grudge pit?
With femurs & hamshells,
where the woods sip lakes from the moonlit elk.
That’s such a flimsy pelt.
That’s such a flismy fingernails.
Catch the yolks in all the rain pails.
Find me where the bent cardboard boxes hug me
in the charred forest corpse copse called Sorrow Ugly.
¡Night!
strikes so early;
but its early strikes are stricken so early,
trampling the trampled grass in a hurry.
¿Whither to wither unseen?
Come with me
to the moondown that is Sorrow Ugly.
Coming this fall
that fells us all.
I heard it,
& we’re the worse f’it.
I try to prop it all on my scarlet dictionary,
when the spiral binding should’ve sufficed.
You just can’t fuck with the fluoride fairy.
If you try to, you just might
grow a rosy boil that always feels greasy
—perfection’s perfect foil.
Easy, toy…
& yet I’d ne’er sown my reply;
¿Why,? when aware my awareness is boozed
to arctic hell, where the only thing clean
be the breakfast bell.
Well, we’ll well well in the well-welded well o’ wills
till we realize we ne’er realized
why we faced the inferno
o’ the 1st place.
They will still burn, though.
