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?
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?
