Summer is nice. That said,
I’ve been thinking a lot. I’ve been meta-thinking a lot. I’ve been pretty meta. <- It took me 3 times to write that sentence. Metal. I am also pretty metal.
The alarms are cyrin’ out for their big-bird mommy, the dirty cotton in the sky, the big deal that blind people in Indiana really don’t see that often, but we often feel the need to say
hey, we’re in the bible belt. I mean tornado alley. But at the same time I do not. That is how this works. Thats why sometimes people don’t get poetry in other languages. I am a bat. pitcher. tent. Things that are penises.
People who are dicks: Fuckin, fuckin, that reverend or guy, or jim jones, that dude-where is he, I dunno. People who are Dick Wadz: friends. (Question: Is this dick-ish?: I sold my iPhone/case/charger, wrote the guy/girl an email explaining that I’m shipping said iPhone/case/charger in a Motorola box. Guy/girl writes back: “hi the phone why the come moterla box i bought aplie iphone the have to come the same box ok.” And I’ve decided to not respond, and send the damn phone like I said.) I actually just finished erasing the hell out of my phone. And took a trip to bummersville.
A POEM THAT HA ah, I just took a two hour break to watch the wind go “wippady-doo I’m a big smelly fart”
A POEM NOW
I am no other among slumber,
turning into the cool attraction
from eyelids stinging low-exposure
hallucinations. A de-humidifier for
the basement, where was found between
ceiling panels the arachnid ghost skeleton.
Glowing open, alive with its shed air.
Down the walls I dream free
from house centipede necking
In the running blue and still warm
antique vapors. Turn into my pores.
Soused and with a waking cramp
I am paralysis until midday. Weighing a profile
or fetal shadow soaked into the sheets.