What of fart that farts when I close my eyes
for fart’s own sake and I don’t feel different

like poetry says is eaten by farts
I should so I write indifferent to stink’s

insinuations dispassionately
and accusations or so I pretend

mortgage paid job held tang and taint aren’t guilt
virginity whole but guilt’s avatars

scream at the second knowledge is too keen
bartender goddamn me celebrating

with reinforcing justifications
excess bordering the American

flag jacket now I’m my self-protection
too listening (two beats) from too sharp questions

demanding answers (three) to my critics
as if I owe them I say I’m hungry

as  hungry as you more explanation
and just as shallow than I give myself.


Click, I Clicked

Offered click, I clicked when you clicked on me
billboarded myself you affirmed my work
voluntarily voluntarily
heh slutfully please you were kind but your
notice me while I trackback I don’t mind
try act unconcerned the push-me-pull-you
you do or you don’t don’t say it’s my stain.



I am about to explode, venue, date,
medium, TBD. Too late
for notice, too soon for notice, may be soon,
sooner, maybe. The word is pontoon,

poontang meaning yesterday, pontoon
what’s needed tonight: I need soon
rhyme, will use a common trick, a late
poet about to explode. Venue? Date?



I can’t whisper any louder                                                        I can’t whisper any louder
or shout any quieter, blink                                                       or shout any quieter or blink
in better code or drink and think                                           a secret code or wink or think
any vaster. Of my chowder                                                      any faster. Of my chowder,

I’m resolute: it’s quality                                                             I’m resolute: it’s quality
needs a stickblender, but flavors                                           needs stickblending, but the flavors’
bark true and pissy, the tazer’s                                               bark sharp as my piss, the tazer’s
crisping perfect, tranquility                                                    crisping perfect. Tranquility

smoked, shrink-sealed, frozen, repackaged,                   captured, flash-frozen, repackaged,
defrosted, sold as fresh. New rots                                        defrosted, sold as fresh, eat by
faster now. Your distractors’ shots,                                    then. New rots faster, the supply
survey asks: as I’ve hackaged                                                almost exceeding the hackaged

English have I hackaged you?                                               demand of creening hackagers.
I can’t whisper any louder.                                                     I can’t whisper any louder.



I still think I won’t alone never die not a matter can’t I still think I won’t
die I’m 50 next efforts those who drink or won’t either/ors die I’m 50 this
Friday my teeth ache alone despite best undergird every Friday my teeth ache
twice a night make my imaginative disciplinary twice a night make my
walnut ache ache like waking up 20 religion mostly walnut ache ache like
waking up 20 walnut ache ache like the atheists but waking up 20
imaginative twice a night make my snakehandling speaking imaginative
alone despite best Friday my teeth ache in tongue jeebusers alone despite best
effort those who drink die I’m 50 next who are neither nuts effort those who drink
alone never die I still think I won’t nor blessedly lit alone never die.



In which I turn 50 tomorrow In which I don’t write what needs to be written lucky I don’t place weight on significant dates for a reason In which I hasten my own destruction while accusing a friend of same not hypocrisy if I admit my hastening which I don’t In which I bring a blue pen thinking it a red pen a blue pen with a red cap I thought I was clever I pretend to be clever neopolitan vanilla ink between strawberry and blueberry confectionaire’s sugar In which I insist on the original plan never to admit to readers the plan’s deviancy inks and pens and tablet on purpose In which I act like your boss in your boss’ circle and your lessers in the lesser circles like you in your family circle and you in your in-law circle In which four sylabbles Yale Mallenger neutered your nut to bullshit his bullshit so bullshitty at first I pretended it wasn’t then celebrated it was makes me a less a hypocrite in one sense more a hypocrite in another All of which to not write what needs to be written not writing it worse for intimations of its written worth In which I assume I’d be famous but no closer to reflection than as I’ll never be famous In which waiting for this poem against writing this poem is every poem I write and every day I’ve lived and have lived for the past 35 years since I was fifteen 35 years ago tomorrow In which I wake up tomorrow and forget tonight’s vows.



My life is good I drive on roads my army fights than I should want
I want for nothing paid by my gas wars on my dime I need have more
I need have more taxes except a thousand dimes I want nothing
than I should want cops come when called each inch of road my life is good.




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