Found Poem for E.
Ugh stalagtites, the gentry aflame, pork asbestos gutter flow
made of discarded baby shells & potato massacre sunsets,
the dumbest shade of blue I am & peppy in the thaw. I’m glad
you’re here it keeps me from having to wait for you.
Why I keep seeing a gale coming heart attacks my mentat
as someone once said half thinking about being an object.
Rudderless dumbness writhing away. I am shortly Julius.
Work wash jingle bells with
mad literature cliteratosis
a malformed idea asleep in
open field ain’t all that
leeches may dig scrub
but I ain’t photo disaster
or maybe I am. I am not
proto privileged liberal teacher
I tend to enjoy my problems
though even if occasionally
I feel like I’ve been hit with a Homer
Not all problems identify as problems.
Fisherman’s famous burlesque
the wonder stuff at Irving Plaza
busses make me think of
if you look in my mouth
you’d think of machines
conversation has made
apples seem new again whose
name I dunno
this out detritus of the I-beam
scene has reproportioned my diversions.
let me tell you why life is good
there are these monks made of static, see
& their porch
eyesockets are made of cherries,
see, & you pass it off as other because you’re
to feel proud of the pain
I rolled out from under the ether crisp & dug into
spaces that harness blood, a personal fave’ pepsi shooting out
the ducts where normal masculine guys harbor tennis rackets
& kid memorabilia before burning anger out of sexual fears
beard shaved long hair cut fix Maximus adult double
would you like champagne in your sugar market pulse
the wires we’re trying to make it smoke this switch this
spleen this oral recall to life $1.00 popcorn soon to be
flavored Uncle Engels in the jungle brother I popped off
my “Megatron rejuvinate” it’s scared this flesh to be
devoured this automatic cake, this hard of hearing bartender
these animals reveling in eating other animals I lost
my arm when my daughter ate it off, being dead has
made her strong a hunch of moths barked through
the table became my beer & slipped into the silt
a fine glass I cracked my ass on
Diamonds are an Alain Robbe-Grille
I feel lucky
to show this to you
& lucky if it’s received
more emporium than Helsinki
tho I know not of what I speak
the sheiks come out at night leaving
a paper trail. Just thinging thistle or
bonk the prosody. That word for me is more
about having heard it said than herd its stead. My
old poems would never talk themselves to me that way tho
I have always been somewhat diagonal that space there
Don’t lean on the door jamb if you don’t want to bloom elbows up
we lock poor salt employer of hard rain but the nickel bordering
it’s trace on paper. Re-ember the feel of paste when you were 5?
She argued with you about whether you were 5 or 6. I don’t seem crazy
She’s becoming more like her mother, they’re all getting younger again.
Figure the group emotion as it strikes out at originality or isolation.
Images of ourselves reacting to images of ourselves, shaking hands with the
toaster. This is for me, by the way.