if wit
were a porcupine sat upon

you'd get off


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a swordsman
who is ruled by his sword
attacks everything;
a swordsman
who is master of his sword
attacks nothing--
he cuts as he does not cut;
there is no attacking.

we are wiser than angels
to mourn the loss of cause.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the thinker, facedown
 
 
   oSL

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

vagpipes
rubber baby booger bladders
toad jam

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

he said he said she said she said
she said she said she said he said
i say neither said i say a thing


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

scribble scribble scratch
the drivel that is the nibble
upon the watch of blackberry
bramble and thorn worn out
for that comfortable feel
of welts dealt maliciously
judiciously in winter well
to all the better spring
another thistle as epistle
upon the wrist that is a lip
that numbly gnawing stutters
as fingertip kissing death
who is acid green and lacks
sugar salt and discontent

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

eight dollars plus one cat plus a growing
hole in a five year old shoe plus a television
more mirror for not being turned on plus
four mountains of unsold drawings plus dawn

minus the elegant benevolence of intelligence
minus another night of cigarettes smoked
like salmon spawn minus distance with a thought
minus loss of faith in ego minus song

divided by the continual averaging of light
wrestled with and subdued multiplied by methodical
amplification approaching im/personal truth

equals eight dollars and one cat who stares
in disinterested alacrity with pink tongue out
and the moment the better remainder of youth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fuck your box.
Fuck your wii and WWIII.
Fuck Jerusalem and fuck the Jews.
Fuck the murderer and the thief.

Fuck your cock and fuck your cunt.
Fuck your alma mater and your patrons.
Fuck the pseudo-intellectual sin.
Fuck the wind.

Fuck the mountain and fuck the spring.
Fuck creation and fuck entropy.
Fuck the infinite game, the forest of wisdom

grown from seed of doubt, the fact
you shall be surpassed, the concrete dreams.
Bless the grave of everything.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
The postcard world,
smeared and dog-eared
with return address
forgotten, arrives
as night's black box
discloses and the flags
of dawn refold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You are going to die on the Titanic.
You will be of the deaf, brave musicians.

You will be struck by an automobile.
A phonecam will prove the culprit.

Lightning will strike a mile away.
You will turn, a world behind you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

zero clausal complexity
thinkers anonymous
unite tonight





 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All that is great about America
is that you can leave her
and she'll never call you home.