READY?

from a standing position

shuck pyjamas 

and without falling down

get dressed 

underwear t-shirt

shirt pants socks

as fast as humanly possible

so you don't have to see your body

C U IN HELL

What are you saving that stationery for you freak

those golden days

when you will be at your escritoire?

dashing off cards? 

bent over loving letters?

those days aren't coming

No, somewhere along the line those days have been changed into

stupid dreams nobody wants to hear about 

it’s not your fault

the world will do that: take a turn

which like a horde of bullshit butterflies

changes everything. 

                            Everything.

And then what had seemed perfectly reasonable

in terms of plans

is transformed into 

ridiculous jokes

like sitting in a chair reading a book

or learning Italian 

or as I’m saying now

sitting at your desk

and writing me a letter

in which you will say

(in ways only you still can I bet)

how much you miss me

and really appreciate the slow but steady progress

my poems are making

if we can only dodge time’s preemptive terror

and butterfly bitch-smoke

i bet we can use up our stationery

but we gotta act fast

don’t think about it:

just grab a card and write ‘c u in hell’

and put a stamp on it 

just write ‘Wake up asshole’

don’t even sign it

I’ll get it

and I’ll read it

and whatever it says

I’ll know what you mean

BEFORE WE CONTINUE

before we continue

don't hate me

or at least don't hate me because

my prophecies are always

correct

    like 100% correct

it's not my fault

            you see

i was born with a crystal ball

instead of a heart

all i have to do is peer into the damn thing

for a moment

and, well, you already know

i'll admit one or two minor events

have surprised me

but regarding the big things

and the deep things

and the things

that move in darkness

all around us

right now

my crystal ball have never let me down

not once

FIRST DAY OF SPRING

to the doves remaking their nest

outside the kitchen

and who flip out

every time I open the window

i say chill freakazoids

to the young environmentalist

who referred to me as

        a boomer

i say 

        excuse me

                    missy

i am generation X

and will thank you just

to remember that

to my dogs who will not stop barking

at coyotes and delivery trucks

with equal fury i say

keep it up

to Solaima I say

stand by:

the poem is on its way

to everybody else 

thrashing around in the whole end-of-days

scenario

 i say:

don't have a hyper-spaz

it hasn't even started yet

IN APOCALYPSIN

 

what boneheads everywhere

fail to grasp

but will soon learn

may be found under Apocalypse, the

in my upcoming glossary:

apocalypse is not 

the event itself

happening in the unspecific future

not that occasion

when the comet of many fucks

will turn the sky

the color of dogshit

make everything seethe and boil and bubble

            with eruptions and awesome

            slime from the crypts 

(however much those things will

all happen to you) but no

the apocalypse is not an event at all 

but the uncovering 

a thing already happening

full-on

that is why I am conducting a sun

come with me

radiant one

we will occupy that age

that aeon

    between breaths

    and deaths

    and flares

    and stairs

and make our sauts de cabri

through caves

and graves

and river valleys

and well lit alleys

and crown the dying world with a verse:

whatever one, let's say, is not too burnt

at the end of our long day

though it will surely

be partially burnt

                               

NEXT!

butterfly harming

pesticles already

in my blood!

fascists are visible

in that reddish cloud

in my urine

a cologne called

"Vanity of Monsters"

is all up in my olfactory

region

and i love it

i dine on plankton

and whale

petition's not gonna cut it

CARNAL READING

 

pace St. Augustine

at the end of the day

very few meanings 

are spiritual

in the literal sense of the word

OK I'm ready now:

make it hurt

DIES IRAE DIES ILLA

on that day

when everything is thrown

into the fire 

and the sky is red

like a livid patch of psoriatic skin

and rivers are acrid

turgid 

and grumbling

like a

sweaty drunk

and the air itself is 

like a bowl

of poisoned

frijoles

and you are small

and alone

like a gerbil

in the rain

you will remember 

these similes

and say 

goddamn man

Thomas called it

EMPIRES DIE LIKE SUNS

dear America my heart

is a bluddy sponge

from cleaning up yr messis!

amnesiac bullets

for sleepless-eyed bastards

roaring from your guns

a flaming head of wax

full of children 

burned beyond their skin

empires die like suns

it's not a fail or malfunction

there's nothing else for them to do

the final days however 

and this i hadn't foreseen

are all in slow motion

no need for you or the kids 

to miss a single 

burning frame

my poems you son of a whore

is a bluddie mop

from cleaning up your braines

IT'S A PROMISE

 

when a voice whispers in your ear

I WILL DECOMPOSE YOUR

BULLSHIT

LIKE A FUCK

you had better listen:

it's not a ghost

it's not a god

it's KRONOS

and you've been told

CONTAINER

madness

grows to the size of its container

this has nothing to do however

with biomass

nor

with being stoned off your ass

most measurements in fact

won't factor in 

thank you!

for the leftover nachos

regarding which I was about

to take a certain precaution

but now I think I won't