Dear Sir, Orange is Squeezing Out Its Red

Dear Sir, I am afraid that the moon will not show tonight for it has gotten loss in a tea cup full of blue darkness trying to fill the heart of a wandering word that gently swallow the night.
The sun is full of violent that can be eaten with a spoon made of cloud water and regret for the plight of man.

The old black lady who insists that she is the queen of womanhood is hidden in the fog of the steam vent that keeps her warm in the long night of winter where the stavation of a fat corner full of beginnings is sobbing for the lost sidewalk hiden in the crowed. where the passerby throw coins into the toaster chasing the bread of life

An old white man with his gun of memories of war is playing cowboys and Indians with ants that crawl over his body caught in the warm dark place of sleep.

And Sir it is with regret that I must inform you that the rain is being swallow by flowers planted in the path of the rush hour.

My dear Sir, if the stars are falling do not hold it against the darkness smelling of stale Colt 45 and warm piss.

It is with the utmost regret that I must inform you that the pills that keep you thin are as fat as crime in St. Louis and the doctors of that city are fishing for money in the pocket of the poor where they keep the notion of their Gods.

The fat belly Buddha is as heavy as sin committed in the autumn of an expect eye that will not see the memories of Confucius held in the dark thoughts that people the fare way of a Chinese bicycle

My dear Sir, there is nothing to be done with all the dead butterflies found in the situation of a penetrating suffering full of the pride of pain.

And Sir, the homeless woman with Black-eyed Susan growing from her tongue is fishing for a nun in a river of sperms where the single tail sperm turtle-like nibble at the egg of a would be son.

Sir, I beg of you duration and the humble gratitude that is struggling attentively against the burdensome familiarity of being human tinted with the glory of the common man who wash his hands in the contradictory bank of emotions that was thrown away into the dumpster where squirrels are having a party.

Sir, I must inform you that the essential exaggerations of the common man who is trying to find a way to kill the revolution thoughts of the poet because they wish to keep their limitations company when the TV is baby sitting their human destiny.

I must also inform you Sir, that all the afore mentioned is just the dependencies of the last obligation that must be kept secret in the depth of an earthworm’s insistence that it have a soul full of warm dirt.

My dear, dear Sir, the expressed penetrating expression on the face of a bee is reserved only for the flowers with their reproduction needs exaggerated by the course of the confused sun that confront earth with anger.

While the industechnicsim of a hard-on dream goes about confronting the evident seen in the revolution of the pre-existing order opposed by public existence.

And lastly Sir, the lost red is hiding out in the purple plum masquerading as an orange squeezed into yellow spoils.


We were pledging allegiance to the flag and Dad caught me looking out the window. Mom said she didn't think that was very patriotic of me. I said I was looking at the flag outside on the pole. Dad thought it over and said that from now on we were to all look at the flag inside.

Anchored now,
only a child's memory :

of red brick

locked together
a mason's humble initials

into the grout


An intersection
lit by rain. The buildings

& billboards

in place of gods
or direction

a naked commerce
Violent hyperboles

the interests

of fear & memory

an economy of influence


I want to know what you are up to
When you sink back into me. Are you simply
Wandering about inside?
Or are you reconstructing the temple?

Worse Things

what lies beneath the temple of life?
what number comes after death?

if eve seduced sin

what's wrong with flowers?


Now that
I have
Found her
She's gone.

leather cynosure

What had you been thinking of typing / a poet in eyeliner dies / strapped in to his boots / jacket / a leather cynosure in shades / a plastic bag full of shit / drenched by the rain / collapsed / clinging to itself / a heavy skin saturated by the mist on this hill / this stage of mud and puddle footprints / overtrod / penetrating one another / perhaps this bag is Gucci or Hermes / a new discarded / disposable emergency excrement range / whatever / tis caviar to the experienced climber / a numb punctuation in the aqueous air / lightly prodded with a stick / wafted toward the nostril / the other currently exuding mucus in drips or elongated slimes / nothing a good snort won’t cure / whilst evading rigor mortis / soaked to the bone mortality / I can at least cast a story upon this shit filled plastic bag…

Order 9 Travesty

I sink my teeth into the blue of your body is full of tourists. The walls
are full of insects. There is a sign over your bed that is unintelligible.
The yard is full of tourists. The walls of your body reveals that you kept
in the basement. Someone has left the back door unlocked. For some reason
I never come around any more. I blame the French. They were drawing a smile
across your face with a knife. The sun has been replaced with yawns. The
yard is full of tourists. The walls of your body reveals that your library
contains more tears than anything. I felt like a bird whose flesh was made
of mouths. I propped a ladder up against your window, but when I climbed
up to look in on you, your All of the loud speakers have been discovered
by the flash-bulbs of the dead. Some part of me is disappointed that the
execution was terminated after someone unplugged the river. The meaning
too often relies on an understanding of the method. Your bodies are overcome
with loss. Are night sweats a sign over your bed?

So Beyond My Expections (This Is Marblehead)

A tree, spaced with winking, constitutes long mountain bound with radiant intention, like a boulder. Throng of mentioned boulders continues in bunting on a pole, stretches of rock strewn shoreline, lonely mountain. After ages of clear poems, the words were tired, tried. We winked in the beginning, with Saturday sunlight, a whiff of the sea. Sensual moment. The clouds were as heavy as figs, the streaming of desert down thru the ages. Then this desperate love of love, into the future, and we hold hands. This is a flow, with clouds that swell, with a crunch of sand, political intention in rock, a shoreline with comfort. The yachts are happy, a breeze surplice supplied, and a day is acquired. Acquired begs the day. The tree is filled with clusters of sunlight, flow of sensation, and the imprint of going on. Suddenly, this is present, like a poem. Now is known to happen.