You!

Do you think you can discourage the hungry mouse from coming down here?
Do you really think you can charm the apples off a tree,
the seeds out of an apple,
the ivory cream out of a glass of milk?

Soy milk is the only guiltless indulgence.
Unlike milk milk it doesn’t come from a bulging utter.
Unlike almond milk it doesn’t enslave bees.
Soy beans are a mainstay of the American Soy/Corn Agricultural Complex.
They even put nitrogen back into the dirt where they grow.
It doesn’t have a lot of protein though.
Some people say it turns you into a girl.

Do you think you can really, really ask out a high school girl to dance?
I mean back in time of course, of course I mean
really, really go to the prom -
not just with some rando.

Here I am, guiltless, post-soy-milk,
but I had an almond croissant actually.
Dante has one circle of hell for
or in the words of Mr. Roboto
“Bezelbub has a devil set aside for me.”
or was it - “どうもありがとう.”

Heaven’s splendor == milk mixed with Splenda.
Chariot swings Sweet-n-low.
I’m not saying that God’s sugar is fake;
I’m saying he needs to use more of it.
Some butter wouldn’t hurt - it’s Ash Wednesday.
A little charred edge is a sign of a good toast.

Was about to drop a crumb for the mouse:
he scampers silently along the wall crease,
disturbing quiet blur,
almost imagined.
What is he rooting around for these
New York Mice,
bigger than a mouse should be.
How big a mouse should be?
No need to crumb encourage him here.

Do you really think?
A mouse gets less hungry by eating?
I have seen a dog scarffle up its own vomit - is this getting dicey?
Oh no! Oh god sorry I 

I wanted to end things off on a good note
but nicey doesn’t play that game
no he

third person positive 
no he.

No he doesn’t does he. No he does, he
or worth anything

mark my words:

“I’ll reassemble your stinking heap of a conglomerate.”
“I'll stow your cabin bag.”
“I’ll fish you.”

mango morning

i was so sleepy
the dreams were good
a little kid
determined friend 
crying next to his scooter

graffiti on brick 
graffiti on brick
last train from Nostrand is an airborn A C
uptown adventure
we landed on pigs
their snouts all tickled me

i was so sleepy
cutting the mango kept thinking:
“heathenism”
eat this mango like a heathen
but floss after

(instead of my morning banana)

I Shadow

	Who learned a lesson called “I love you” as 
a kid?
		Momma did, Momma said she did
			Love me-you I mean.
	Momma loved the American Baby, she gave that little 
squeaking lump its first smear of eye shadow

Baby learned how to say “I love you”
	Baby learned how to look in the mirror
		Baby learned how to say “I love you” to the mirror
apply eye shadow and now say back - “I love you more.” 

Baby grew up. strut down beauty boulevard in gleamy plats
		glanced in mirror store window - “Baby, I love you.”
mirror grew up too. all new gadgetry. mirror
		slaps eye shadow on Baby with a magic tap
	mirror turns Baby into a damn sexy puppy
			a.n.d. shows off to all Baby’s friends. 

---
teeth bared. I HAVE TO MOVE. I HATE LIVING HERE eyes tense wide open. WHY DO YOU HAVE TO MAKE EVERYTHING SO DIFFICULT cheek trickle shimmers gold and black flecks.
---
there’s gold in that river - there’s enough deep teal sprinkle shine lime lit blinding buckshot scatter glitter to cram every crack in the side walk there’s enough gold in that river to smear on the souls we come home to, too but what alchemy makes two “I love You”’s into “I love I” and “You love You”

sum night viper

Some night viper’s chewing on his plum whisker,
rummaging in his candy satchel, 
the pants are enormous:
swift thwump of redumption.

New biosphere: this one teaming with green life.
We merched to the bank of extinction
where jammed, a new mammoth (mastodon)
rose to the tusk of DNA planter.

As I sort through my lust, mental clutter at dusk
it occurs you were right all along.
Meanwhile, I was left at expense to tap desk
with a pen whose blue ink had been drawn.

Waking Poem 2

what a ride
what a ride
endless dream after dreams.
dream becoming another dream
dream that never ends
halls stair wells and little doors of your imagination 
you chase the witch
she is down there she is down there

focusing on sensation proves the surest path to pleasure
pleasure is intense and realistic
in a dormitory

a blob of ink that hits the page and shatters
into one hundred colorful consciousnesses
some wobble and wane as others burst forth
the name of the game is

you are more than one
you are not alone
within you without
and within you become
multitudinous

oh my
oh my

these friends joined the beds with me

and were alarmed at my unending slumber
careening to the valleys of dream
at times beautiful in others
the terror was so much as to jolt me from sleep
the clamor
the building sensation of fear as suddenly im shot shot
again im shot in my own driveway
for not having any cannabis
im brought down

conquered.

intense and delightful
spears and swords
mirrors on walls
who are we and where

the big house
explore my new environs
nyc out on the street
finding myself in a new scene
its newly realistic - #repainted
look what they did with the place
the magical hall ways are full of signs

i want something different
tired of the same orgiastic pulse

brought my little potted plant army here
along for the ride
they are passengers now on my dream ship

this ship only gives way to fire
and theres no horizon it cannot cross my
dream sheep
asleep in a dream within a dream

all of of us organized oddly in the beds
two here, three in that one
he kindly lets me know im exposed

little greasing of the wheels
oh no no nobody nothing compares to that 
funky splendor that one two cupcake
that here you are and yank you different
i can fall asleep easily
feeling that odd rush that teleports us back
into the dream context
that deeper rush
dreaming within a dream

i might be human
but the coffee im drinking 
came from the dream world

my hand lifts as if by a ghost
and it is moved to write a poem

is somebody making the pancakes

crack of mine morning eye glow
my vista swings broad, alpine 
crater water sings turquosie, rose
are the pearly-green mountainslopes: i'm in bed

haunted by big kitchen mouth feeders
who is making the pancakes? 
is anyone making the pancakes?
Is somebody making. 9am the time, 9:04am

did my dust settle? snorted maybe
tear filled love eyes wiped to hide
away the aborted baby
the boxed up thought-child

nobody is making the pancakes
oh, i am. i am making the pancakes

waking poem 1 [01/16/19]

mr. king konga line’s bringing back sexy
muddled morphibinals glance on the hew
hemingway wannabe sit by the fire with
crackling simple syr stirred in their brew

utica, tuscana, leeds, aramaic 
expedient entelop clusped mormed en shunk
looking box hand me down silver spoonanimals
shiver in boxes and glitter in skunk

i me ma’am am the mixed marble fable made son
of the ungrumbled floogs in the west
the intended recip of chermidgenly solace
the clamberry munchkin, a far from the rest

so murder my noodle my hallogen claproot
my bulb that rolls asphalt and breaks in the yard
slide up with bots that go Z in the night that
explode with delight into scarless dwarf stars

mirror hands

dancing with angelicandor
in the jam of your door
the ledge where your mercy was pledged

dancing with sweet cherubandon
at rim of your canyon
caldera where scarabs were hewn

these were the gold bezeled beetles
whose flight above babylon
offered us quintescent views

those whose wing filament flicks
gaves us glimmers of hope
we could hopelessly choose

to chase mirage pyrimads looming
the painflower blooming
our petal welt skin

still I stand mirror hands 
clutching rose heart in the
casket we’re already in

Happy F'in Birthday

From the inside of the 11:00am Northeast Regional it looks warm outside. I can guarantee you that it is not, and that the further north we go, the colder it is going to get. I still haven’t quite come to terms with whatever I’ll be stepping off into in Boston.

There’s a woman named Maria that I am about to send a text message to. She lives in Boston. We met at Burning Man this summer. She was camping in the camp that hosts the “bootie black rock city” party, which happened to be next to a camp called “The Star Cats” that many of my friends camp in. Maria had a friend at the camp, a 48 year old looking guy with pink hair, strappy leather work gear, and a big exposed belly.  It was his birthday that day. The camp mates ran out into the middle of the clearing by the camp and held up balloons that read:

“Happy Fucking Birthday”

Maria organized it. She stood there and snapped the photo. It was my birthday too, and I told the pink haired man that. “It’s a blessing and a curse,” he said, “to have your birthday during the burn. It’s kind of like having your birthday on Christmas.” My mom’s birthday is on Christmas day. 

A few month after Burning Man I was walking down Ames St. in Cambridge with my bag fully packed, er route to NYC. I saw an awkwardly parked U-Haul van and a woman in black utility boots was standing on the sidewalk evaluating it’s placement.

“Hey,” I said, “I know you. We met at burning man right?”

“Oh yeah,” said Maria, “Nice to see you.”

We hugged and then had a conversation about what she was doing in Cambridge. We added each other on facebook, zero mutual friends, then I left to go get some dumplings. 

Sitting at the counter waiting for my veggie dumplings, I looked at Maria’s facebook. It was her birthday that day. I felt bad missing a chance to tell her happy birthday, especially since she had unwittingly delivered an enthusiastic birthday message on mine. 

After eating I ducked into a bank that looked like they were setting up to have some kind of party with a cake. “We just launched our new branding,” the clerk explained. The new logo updated their font from a gothic calligraphic script (think “New York Times” logo) to something a bit closer to Helvetica.

“Do you have any printer paper I could borrow?” I asked the clerk. 

I took a sharpie out of my bag, and drew a happy birthday note on the sheet of paper, then walked back to the U-Haul and stuck it behind the windshield wiper. There was something else in the windshield wiper too - a parking ticket. 

That was the last time I spoke with Maria, but I’m going to message her again right now. 

. . .

Three days later now I’m on the train again, this time facing backwards as I get hauled from Boston to Providence. Wet and nippy out. Dark.

As for things with Maria, we got drinks at the Independent in Somerville. We smiled at one another. I was a little late, she was a little later. She had spectacular hair. Two beers in I learned that she loves motorcycles and recently started dating someone who rides one. 

“We’ve been friends for a long time.”

She did connect me to the 48 year old looking guy with pink hair. It turns out that his name is Sean and he’s probably 31. We had a 10:30am call and I took it from a nook in the wall of 4th West, an MIT dorm with graffiti on the walls and sticky carpet floor. 

"I'll send you the form, fill it out and if you can make it up to Boston 3 or 4 times you can join our camp." 

the forest house

the big window is high in the trees
there’s a ledge my cat can jump up.
i have all kinds of vehicles here
but my van is jumbled in with the washing machines.
some succulents thrive in the garden
others have gone to rot:
not wanting my grandmother to see the dead ones
i turn over the grainy red dirt
so they won’t show.