Alive In 85

look back in anger, look back in anger, look back in anger.

They Suppose I Am Getting Behind 

So what if I go unannounced?

O anywhere

but here            locust avenue,

crystallized nights

not pastorals over the green road.

There is nothing the road cant fix,

books

books

books,

O

I don’t want no books
I don’t want no books

I don’t want no books

The last thing a poet wants

(or needs) is to sign a book!
Im sorry            so sorry

Im sorry            so sorry.

O I see murdered poets everywhere

someone just past me

he has this:                                “pc loadletter fuckhead”

tattooed on his forehead,

dead

dead

dead:

O,

ooooooooooooooH

but nothing is dead! O subterranean fire!

I still see ghosts on road lines,

and eternal highways, look:            

August Spies!
9:43!

The clocks read sleepy eyes.

Watching

cops

cops

cops—like birds.

Watching

cops

cops

cops—on the stairs

waiting to be scared.

Who is Paul Goodman?

He was here—

where is yr dress boy?

There are flowers on

Sera’s rearview mirror

I’m not sexist right?

Oh good!

SO ANYWAYS
dead

dead

dead:

nothing is dead!

The night still rests warm on windows

and head            skull

moving cool afterrain.             God,

what a drag

it is to be you.

But aint it awfully

chilly tonight

traveling the city

backwards
backwards
backwars,

forgetting where we live!

O lets

danse

danse

danse

like Williams

waving our harry OOOOOHHS

in front of glass
(Thats not a word you dummy)

O

oooooooooooooooh

but there is secret language!

O

oooooooooooooh

our cunts—our everything

dancing in front of mirrors

on the ground,

O

oooooooooooooooooooh

I have holes in my slippers

tip toeing on broken

glass from the turned

over tv on my porch

that has CUNT

carved all over it

I’m not sexist right?!

O

ooooooooooooh

is this poem self indulgent enough yet!?

O

ooooooooooooooooooooh

But what about all this writing?

We made crucifixes with

our feet,

“HAIL SATAN!”

we screamed.

The child with

blue eyes on

the wet newspaper

on my porch looks

more like satan

than any anarchist.

LETS STOMP OUT CAPITALISM!

every insult to our undefined

groins.

Call your crotch whatever you like!

want to be a boy?

want to be a girl?

want to be everything

all at once?

O

oooooooooooooooooooh

I don’t want to write

about post-modernism

and how Lyotard

is stupid, and how

his definition is consistent

with neoliberalism,

subjective asshole.

THERE IS NO CULTURE
THERE IS NO COMMON LANGUAGE

HEY THERE FUCK FACE

HEY THERE FUCK FACE

            now I can remember,

I am behind on

books

books

books:

O

oooooooooooooooooh

I have unread books,                         

so what?


FLATFOOT 

You—watching,

I see you, blossom eyed

eating me, not knowing it.

 

O why?

It’s her—but you

don’t know that,

 

you don’t know

Columbus, her in

my Columbus.

 

But I can’t call

her mine—neither

you, or Columbus.


It is ours!

Our travel—

are you tired?

 

Cold throated,

nervous Columbus

running from

           

daylight and cops,

eaten by floral

patterns on couches.

 

Columbus

Columbus

Columbus.

 

How much can

you know—about

Columbus?


Her Columbus

that I want,

want, want—

 

O Columbus

come close.

Hers is too far.

 

I want nudely,

Can we dance—

flatfoot?