WHAT DAY IS IT

poetry books filled with slime

pages of this year’s books

full of damp

covers of paperbacks curl upwards

what was the problem?

not enough rigor

no motivation

or a crowd of lesser, but easily got, satisfactions

blunting the will

and spelling the death of hustle

not enough witches

not enough wolves in the throne room

not enough darkness on the throne

perhaps there was never enough geometry

to begin with

I sure as hell neglected

mine

LASS UNS LEBEN

scream the German elephants

which if I had the imagination

I would totally do

why does my cellaphone smell

like meat

why  does my plasama screen

smell like alcohol and mold?

why do all creatures run away from me

how far in that direction am I

allowed

to travel?

SICKO

 The doctor said, 

‘the pure products of America

go crazy’

you would know that better than most

if you weren’t so damn crazy

but I’ll say this for you

you are robust in your naked criminality

your  lust and puerile prodigality

your disease

whatever it is

is having a good ride

 

but there is no Asclepius with a cure

for your sovereign sickness

the doctor's got  no ℞ on his pad

for the thing that ails

your slowly boiling self

you’ll just have to lobster it out

NOSEBLEED PROPHECY

with a deep-crimson nosebleed

i started the day

i raised my flag

days of rice and beans

days of rice and beans and blood

afternoons of loneliness and tears

recordings assist

in bringing to life

the wailing of the children

beyond

and well within

and all along

the borderline

anti-psychotics

for children in tears

banners for nosebleeds

hollowed-out retail space 

for concentrating

small inconsolable captives

here is my prophecy:

  when this all flips

   you will die

most horribly

cf. Sophokles, Oedipus Tyrannus, ll. 1-13

 

O CHILDREN

of old from the Kadmean line

what brings you even here

strewing the porches of the shrine

with laurel branches

wound with wool

and assuming the contorted postures

of supplication

?

The city's air is choked with incense

and heavy with groans

and the murmur of prayer: therefore

I must know

from you

what is up!

*

...such was, and is, a good thing

for a king to ask

his suffering people

even if the answer

will ruin his house

and cause him to tear out his eyes

and send him forever

alone

to his shrivelly place

SOMEBODY REMIND HIM

 

If you don't remind me I'll forget

to send you that bibliographical source

to read your poem so full of beauty and force

as I already know that it is

alas the brain

is lousy with concepts and appointments

whose purpose the soul cannot fathom

so please remind me

that everything except

• poetry

• bibliography

• and sex

is completely useless

please please you freak

whoever you are please

remind me in case i forget

VENI, PRODIGIOSE

Hear me, abnormal one
come out of hiding:
they should be hiding
from you
the world should be watching its back

creep out a little and
stretch
industrial parts and pieces

and slabs of debris  
(I'll put my back into it)

can be cleared away
to give you space

what it feels like now to be a person
I know: a mere symptom

a presentation
a point of blood
in a great splotchy patch

of pulsing psoriatic red

a flesh cloud
a puzzle whose guts are exposed

not that you need interpretations from me:

you're the one living on the edge

be a demon: rock, barf, kill

or sit still
and be a total expert:

open your school

or whatever the hell:

you can do it completely

without a plan

hail to thee abnormal one

you're free!

WHAT?

what? happened?

today?

standing atop the 

tomb of law I can 

see

the whole graveyard

THE ALBIGENSIAN CRUSADE

"Caedite eos. Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius."

Always at the daunting beginning of something

you can see these hot-red formations

feel their new positions

close to the heart.

The Song of the Cathar Wars:

'bels chanz, mala crozada':

too many brains and jawbones

on blood-soaked fields.

Too many noble ladies thrown into the fire

or down a well.

Too many kitchenboys and mercenaries

entitled to pillage and rape,

too many meetings

with bishops and abbots and legates

that drag on forever!

And the many siege engines groaning

mangonels, cats and bitches;

to say nothing of the Weasel.

But it was fun to watch Simon de Montfort

coming unglued 

at the siege of Toulouse:

his speeches are increasingly insane

and so thick with flourishes that it's a mercy

when he is finally brained

by a little stone

launched from within.

That was a stone

right close to the heart.

OCTOBER 2023

the problem was (is)

that it all started

too close to the end

life-destroying  diagrams 

interruptions which fail to suspend the narrative

or prevailing force-space dialectic...

our junk is everywhere now.

Now it appears

holes in the narrative are filled with worms 

(insect and worm protein is the fucking future! 

grubs!)

Biden’s unconditional support of Israel

is all swirled up in the looks I get

on the streets of Cairo.

The ¼ sleeping pill Molly gave me

has me wide awake,

and I complain about it like a prince.

(O cursed spite!)

If you’re not careful, your charmed life

will keep you up all night.

AMY'S INSECTS

Amy's insects are crawling

singing softly by night

chattering by day

what in their wisdom

are these ancient ones 

trying to say?

Much effort it takes to listen.

But the sense at last appears:

"Thomas!" they say (for now it is

perfectly clear)

"A. You don't have a soul--

but, B. That's OK:

You don't really need one!

So don't freak out."