Vi un abeto magenta

y casi me atraganté con el radicalismo de la naturaleza.

Ahora voy a pintar todos los árboles en no solo todos los colores en el arco iris,

sino también todos los colores fueras,

que, sí, incluye «montañas púrpuras majestuosas».

I saw a magenta fir

& almost choked on nature’s radicalism.

Now I’m going to paint every tree not only every color in the rainbow,

but also every color outside the rainbow

—yes, e’en “Purple Mountain’s Majesty.”

The only way to win

is through scratches on a cat’s chin.

E’en if duller than a non-Italian plumber,

you can’t have a book that smells like fresh rubber.

My mental span’s variety spans wider than the types o’ trees,

so now that I’m too naturally coked-out to read

the ventures o’ a recovering alcoholic in book clubs,

I’ll bug you, insipid Muse,

whatever vapid, abstract meaningless you’re meant to represent.

Sorry.

That’s bitter graphite.

Should store that deep in the kegs.—

No! You should let it free, expressively!—

No! Don’t be so bleak!

Just pretend it’s not there—

No! You must be honest with yourself.

See, these are all tricky philosophies.

That’s what make them so wise.

Would the alphabet be so sexy if A always meant A,

& not 5, as in Brain Games’s “CodeBreaker” puzzle?

It’s time you stopped making ‘scuses.

Gotta get out in the game,

get a new frame,

taste the frost on the flakes,

stop sweeping with a broken rake,

put your feet in the freezing lake,

taste the rainbow in the rain,

I secretly hold Hitler’s brain,

get mo’ buck for your bang,

get insane in the membrane,

do as the good books say,

I’m on a plain with cocaine,

toss the sugar & keep the cane,

we have nothing to lose but our chains,

put ice in your veins,

don’t play the blame game,

get through the red tape,

have you seen my husky, Blaine?,

put your fists on the crane,

get in the quick lane,

eat your carrots before your steak,

don’t delay,

don’t stay,

shake & bake,

easy as cake,

less than Jake,

ache,

snake,

ape,

shlpape,

don’t you feel the tightening hold on your heart like a wrench squeezing all o’ the tears from you with constantly building misery till your nerves want to cry out & the fear finally devours you as if you were nothing but a puny, worthless, splotched, & mushy grape?

I do, too.

I do, too.

Don’t touch me there.

That’s my private place:

only I get to touch me there.

No one else can.

Todas las canciones:

unas son nuevas conocidas,

y unas son las viejas parientes cálidas que has olvidado,

mezcladas con fragmentos de muchos voces de dibjuos animados,

y absurda microficción con Old Navy y la vodka #9 de obreros en el papel de protagonistas.

Y entonces te dan alguna mierda extraña en las medianoches de fin de semana,

con líricos y guitarras que gritan presentados por Mr. Rogers.

All o’ the songs:

some new acquaintances,

& some warm ol’ relatives that you’ve forgotten,

meshed with clips o’ many cartoon voices,

& absurdist microfiction with Old Navy & Worker’s #9 Vodka as protagonists.

& then you get some strange shit on late weekend midnights,

o’ screaming lyrics & guitars introduced by Mr. Rogers.

When all o’ the towels fall off the bottom rung,

a piece o’ relief comes from a butter cracker on the tongue.

Las tazas son grasientas,

y no son cierto si yo debiera sentirme triste o alegre.

The cups are greasy,

& I don’t know if I should feel sad or happy.

Tasting the clouds’ gorgeous tears

is the only elixir that makes mine clear

—objective, scientific proof that happiness is a 0-sum game.

& this time I’m eating the whole banana.

«That’s right: I neglected to wash my mitts this time—

That’s right: I neglected to wash my mi—

—glected to wash—»

You’ve already played that tape, Jacob;

maybe it’s time you bought a new plush

—1 without stuffing sputtering out o’ its stomach.

I’m not here to clip your wing;

I only want to refine them.

You truly won’t miss the smiling lemon sucker once it’s gone;

its cream has already soured. Can’t you sing?

Who said that?

Your wackiness is back with a scratch, I see…

won’t leave the fresh wound for the salty sea.

Well, it won’t be so fresh for much longer…

when constructing castles will seem like such a laugh,

when all o’ the air’s been popped from the volleyball

by fireflies demanding tedious shells

& a fear for malignant crabs.

So shatter all o’ those records, daddy-O;

you won’t need them where we’ll go.

What’s that?

Ha, why not sell them & make yourself a wise profit?

That’s dangerous suspicions, person:

if you worsen, you’ll only worsen.

«’Cause life’s a beach,

& then you dry;

that’s why we sink lines,

’cause you ne’er know when a fish’ll bite.»