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.

You clocked you could get waves from me,

but the pan came back,

the pan came back with 2 pounds a back

& there’s no going crack.

& then John Jacob Whistlemeyer, having gotten done with his cracked reveries in his sour soup tin while ponderplating Cheerios, Good Day, Sir, wiped his nose & began building a magnificent dinghie—that’s the way he spelled it; it’s Germish without the Germs.

¡What a magnificent dinghie it’s developing to become!

!I can just smell the salt hair brushing through my wind @ the seaset sun white shimmies!

¡Not anymo’!

We need to put germs in that.

1 Sneeze

& I was the who who killed you grand ma ma,

I was the what what jobbed your shove & took it.

I sneaked your Finlandia into Octoberfest Sam Adams

so you couldn’t code the crack as punchly as youth do in your you’d,

& left the Octoberfest ‘hind.

¿Why?

¡But luck!

You superbugs adjust to disinfected medicine,

& always find a new nasty cafeteria to sponge.

There is no such thing as no such free lunch.

‘Twas nice o’ these sneezes to bring me back to my dreams o’ drowning death,

but it’s time to wake & drown in peptodismal pink health,

with no help for to unlistened yelps.

Hopefully

the weather

will treat me better.

Hopefully

we’ll weather

sweet bleak September.

But as the tempests tempt my temples

with their timbering-shivers warm scattered rain “Jib Jib,”

I grasp your collar & hollar,

“¡I won’t land! ¡This is the land’s end!”

E’en if I can see the ice cream looming in the horizon.

& if I ne’er got round to growing that weedseas,

¿was the wasabi I weaned worth it, OK?

It tastes,

& the killer sound waves blow through my skeleton

in ways my skeleton has ne’er felt in months.

¡But lunch!

I’ve had too much

warm medicine,

which is why I’ve been reticent to be hesitant.

Though I don’t feel butter when I feel butter,

I hope I feel butter before I bring home the bread,

as bread’s hardest to catch when I’m not wrecked.

That’s my theory o’ labor—the value theory,

which makes a grape subjective theory, too;

just mix it with booze & the honeyed flu,

as the good doctor, Keens, proscribes with laughter.

That’s why he’s the theory general, all after.

But no one gave me a knife.

It’s peanut-butter-jammed in the toaster.

& if my Lucky®’s expired,

I’m untoasted.

I fill my rucksack with pine cones & acorns,

stuff closets with branches & boughs—

sap so sticky, so golden under the sun—

collect stacks o’ grass in pillow cases—

tickling my nose with sweet dirt-filled fragrance.

They try to stop me.

They say I’m crazy.

What’s wrong with crazies?

What, are they Nazis?

‘Cause I know they’ll take it all ‘way someday—

the sky & the clouds & the rain,

the moon & the stars & the sun,

the blooms, the bushes, & the dirt,

the trees & their fall-fallen leaves,

the bees, their precious honey, & their wicked hives,

the wind & the rain & the snow,

my skin…

So I squeeze it ‘tween my shoulders,

huff it up my nostrils,

like one deserted in a desert, just coming into contact with water for the 1st time,

‘fore someone warned her that huffing water is bad for one’s nostrils.

No!

You can’t have it back!

Just give me a few mo’ minutes with them!

No!

You always say you’ll give them back later—

but I know you plan to destroy me ‘fore that comes.

You always plan to destroy me ‘fore summer comes ‘gain,

& I always barely miss destruction.

But I know this time won’t go so well.

This time’s different.

You’ve got me just where you want me.

Checkmate.

…

I’ll miss you, sweetie.

(Kisses oak branch.)

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.

Accompanying music.

You’ve been passing round my ears

since I was in kindergarten,

always growling soothing cheers

in your warblin’ Martian garblin’.

What’s the song you sing today?

Not the same as years ago,

though all share the calming waves,

many single-showing shows.

Who are you under those hoods?

On to work or buying goods?

Stay as shady as you should.

I thirst for autumnal rain that tastes o’ English Breakfast Tea.

There was none, so I returned to my sand castle under the sea.

I returned tomorrow,

but they only had summer sunshine that tasted o’ Sunny D,

which was all right in itself, I s’pose.

But I still wanted that rain.

& then they said they had summer rain,

& I told them to stop being zany.

—Summer rain.

What kind o’ bullshit is that?—

I told the guy,

I told him, —Hey, I know what discus you’re throwing.

You’re trying to hoard all o’ the autumnal rain ‘way from me.

You think I don’t deserve autumnal rain,

think I’m not good ‘nough.

You all despise me,

Think I’m dirt.

OK.

I understand.

You’re probably right.

Goodbye—.

So I went home to brood in my shady gray chamber o’er how best to drown my head in the sink

when I heard a tink.

I went outside & there I found

rain blurring into white smoke gainst the gray clouds.

I opened my mouth to drown myself in its icy ichor

when it occurred to me that it didn’t taste as sweet as I’d originally inferred.

I sneezed, freezing.

I went back inside to ‘scape the jacket-breaking breeze

(seriously, the wind just grabbed my jacket & ripped it ‘part like a gorilla.

What the fuck?)

& as I brooded in my briny mood, it occurred to me,

that I could use winter snow that tastes like chocolate-chip mint ice cream.

In bubbling magma
my flaky flesh melts like snow:
summer inferno.

Accompanying music.

Is it gray or is it blue?

Leaves between both black & green.

Sunny’s shift is ending soon.

Zephyrs scurry up my sleeve.

Feel a tingling in my chest.

Minutes pass without a thing.

Papers lying with the rest.

I just want to catch the seas.

Now I see some purple there.

Still I feel the still chill air.

Stare @ shades o’ midnight wares.

Now it’s time we tuned back to those classic tunes

‘bout the moon-a in the June-a in the afternoon;

& we don’t need no modern-fangled feats

o’ olden tricks, like meter, rhymes, & feet;

we don’t need to throw chi or respond these pictures

o’ stars that aren’t stars

but whatever-the-something put into jars.

There are only a few grains o’ tricks hid in my pouch;

soon or late,

whether swoon or hate,

we’ll have to life your face out o’ that crevice in the couch.

—But gramps, I’m sick o’ that rusty ol’ sky;

¿don’t you know the moon is so last night?

Everyone knows that rainy gray afternoons

are the tunes that make the spoons on dudes swoon—.

But dummy youth blind

that hungry youth lap

up that ol’ night whine

e’en if in a new glass.

The Gorilla Glaciers to this night

swoon «¿Are You Gonna Be Mine, June Fly?»

on the ol’ compact disc device,

e’en if in a new context,

e’en if its text is in that new-fashioned texting text.

So go ‘head, put that needle back on the disc;

listen to the Crane build his Brooklyn Bridge;

let up or down the curtain;

curl under a blanket that makes it all certain;

& put on those ol’ MIDIs

o’ tinny sequin-amp-skinned ditties

o’ Koopa’s Road.

We all want to be home. We all want to be emo.

So fuck the stale laugh;

in fact the moonsong does e’erlast.

«Good dawn & good chance.»