Smell

Fresh baked bread in my hands
I turn it over, stick my nose in
It smells like a bakery
I have done something that smells like a bakery
Walking down the street, the bakery is heaven
It calls the stomach
Tosses the mind
grain, yeast, water
Cooking
The contours of the loaf
Imperfect, eddied
I move my fingers along the rough crags
arisen in violence
Like islands on the Pacific rim of fire
Where the gods forgot to finish
And evil spirits have yet begun
Turmoil, chemical reaction, severe heat
You can bake all day and nobody
Ever
Chastises you for smelling like a bakery
Drink all day, hell,
you’ll see how people think of breweries
Where the men work with
grain, yeast, water:
hallmarks of civilization
fast and easy luxuries of the expanding slave state,
bread and beer,
all I need
to smell of one and smell of the other
freed from this gross expansion

Once Upon

Nothing to nothing in overtime
casually ignoring fatalities
in honor of fatal casualties
suffocated under blankets of falling fleas
surrender to Japanese… lies
in Manchurian hinterlands,
prey to small devices
seeking blood
vomiting plague
oh my child this is your war
of bites and sucks and ichor
get it on while you can
fuck, fuck, fuck
until the world turns against you
irascibly, inexorably, in agony
what an in to where we want to be
mothers nurturing and fathers doubtless
of where it came from
whose it is
why it must be
and why we can’t make it a mistake
of simple cocks and cunts
going about their sad movements
pitching and catching
appetizing and ever so quite fetching
in the real fields of twat despair
holding their own everywhere
unable to keep it inside,
exorcised
get it out… demons real
spew them away
as if a maggot is a fly
and never take it for granted
that every word against you is a lie
of bad habits
caught in despairing webs where flies and fleas get sucked like men
731 – forever and pretend
pestilence and bombs
my ever after, happily looks forward
to the next happily ever after
when it’s an end
open to the prophetic assumptions of charlatans.

Think Green

Our moon is called moon,
in English anyway,
neither original nor romantic
is it?
Some call the thing Luna,
sounds better,
to English ears anyway,
but it’s about the same,
our moon
is lunar
it’s got cycles –
lunar ones,
and when it’s blotted out
that’s a lunar eclipse.
Men cruise its powdery surface
on what?
Lunar rovers after landing in what?
Lunar modules,
but those astronauts clomp upon it in…
moon boots.
The terms, you see, aren’t interchangeable,
damn close to,
although
not quite.
The sun isn’t named star after all, but
sadly, the planet we call home
while not formally christened “planet”
is Earth… dirt to you and me.
When he touches down on this foreign globe
Mr. anthropomorphic spaceman asks,
“What do you call this wonderful world of yours?”
and Mr. hypothetical earthling answers,
“Planet Earth.”
“Dirt, huh?” questions the E.T.
“Yup,” the dirtling says, “Planet dirt.”
“Is that why…” the aliens loaded question begins,
“You dirt people show such disdain
and much ambivalence
about the waters, the air,
the flora
the fauna
all because it’s small “e” dirt that matters so?”
After a reflective moment,
our man, our guy, our ambassador,
he says, “Fuck you, faggot!”
and raises a polished Smith & Wesson
to this intergalactic tree-hugger’s
exposed, erotically throbbing
über-brain
and finds it highly satisfying and ironic
to see the blood spray
glistening in the lunar light
is, of all colors, if you can fucking believe it,
green.

Cock-pology

Skinward, it stabs, etching permanency
unless by modern lasers erased
cattle brands and master’s hands
subdermal desires bleeding through
I love the fallacies punching needles chisel
Lies that survive apology
unlike yesterday, tomorrow
contains today – in happiness, in frolic, in shiver
love empties capacious into the future
where fools abide and sad insects devour
the smaller bugs of their lesser angels
as minor demons itch the world under
cool as a tender twist of meat
beneath uncured rat-plagues of locusts
that know no more than bubbling pots of glue
exploding in a cold Seattle night.
Big dumb pollocks and the cows of
cuntish cow owners
cities burning to the ground
the land of the civilized
like its skin
is an agitated filth of the moment
where tragedy is a laugh and
comedy a cry
we laugh and cry – we do or die
fall and fail, never going asail
out-to-sea is a fantasy
those surviving for our present
do not comprehend the scratch-able, tickle-able
belly that fingers may probe for a laugh – in all of that
it’s best said you get a grip – get a grip you fuck and apologize.

Hell to Pay

At the end of the bridge I encountered a troll
too far down on his luck to demand him a toll
he was like an unemployed banker
or one of those guys who talk a lot about God
he had no doubt that he was owed
told me as much
life had given him a bad draw
took a bum bounce to bumdom come
everybody deserves a second chance
in the big Oxygenated casino
why not?
Roll ‘em… Spin ‘er… Call it…
hope for the best
and if the best is the worst
double down and go again…
the troll clubs the little man
aiming to cross…
it’s his way… your way or the river
and pay you will
as long as you never mind
what was built was built
on the labor of your antecedents
Mr. Troll claims as his own –
his sweat, his blood, his tears
his Mercedes Benz is his birthright
as a troll
and you – mere squatting shit
haven’t a claim to life’s greatest hit
that of smiling comfortably and taking the handouts
the handouts the trolls have come to expect, for themselves
snarling in contempt at the bowing meek
who give it all away without question
graciously crossing the bridge again and again,
suckers, so owned they’ll happily pay rent in Hell

Me

I am a sputtering glut of half-
ejaculated jackasseries
spasmed into life
airborne like an unhatched egg
learning to fly
PLAP! – meal for multitudes
balling up pearly protein globules
in their servant mandibles
marching to the underground
beat of the royal bitch bug
hungry for her honors
eating me up
in sundered, measured doses
line after line
halfway there –
hot on the dusty pheromone trail of my own ass

Out of My Way Commie!

The labor isn’t worth it
The money and the credit
the labor brings isn’t worth it.

The luxuries purchased to fill in
life’s cheap corners aren’t worth it.

The time consumed in daily crematorium flames
working, earning, buying – repeating
all to gain the brief comforts
of giggling like an imbecile
along to the laughs
of perky good-morning-slave-state television
and “ain’t-I-a-little-stinker?” radio personalities
whose smug buffoonery
slides unctuously out of the cars
two-thousand dollar stereo system speakers:
butyl rubber
Kevlar cone body
neodymium rare-earth type magnet
a full tenth of the vehicle’s value

But it sounds so rich
and full
and dynamic
and can’t you hear
that hi-fidelty
that bass-boost
that trebly tweeter?

O, it was worth it!
Don’t you think it was worth it?
Don’t you?
Well?
O, fuck you anyway
always so negative
just forget it
live in a damn cave and eat tree-bark
if that’s what you want
just leave me alone.

But I promise
I’ll think of you
and your big bunches of nothing
wind in my hair – up and down the PCH
Born to be wild
in digital discrete
5.1 surround
BEEP! BEEP!
VRRRRRROW!
Out of my way Commie!

Rage Radio

The public is attacked over their own airwaves
struck by scurrilous voices of specious reason
who despise the people
it would seem
for the very fact of their personhood
and demean them of it
by extending the definition of it
to cover corporations and fertilized eggs
while pronouncing all who dare
disagree, who protest,
who choose to defy the long arm of the bully:
filthy animals, rapists, sluts, prostitutes, magic negroes – need I go on?

The radio is the bullhorn
that assaults all dissenters
it blasts them for their humanity
tears into them with the cacophonous cunning of crepuscular hyenas
to achieve its goals – getting the unwashed
to shut the fuck up
under the onslaught of relentless verbal harassment,
scorn and degradation
dribbling form thick quivering lips, grease slick
like a glistening glaze of chicken fat
after a sloppily consumed
gluttonous bucketful of deep fried dismemberment
it is their way – condemning others their needs:
health care, shelter, food
all the while sating their every sick appetite:
popping pills, puffing fat cigars,
fucking Dominican children on sex tour vacations
trolling for cocksuckers in public restrooms… now that…
that’s a public service they find acceptable

Wiener

I wanted Paris
to be the Paris of expatriated poets at famed Parisian sidewalk cafes
taking wine in cups
vacantly musing on life’s hurly-burly
while puffing Gauloises
and quickly scribbling their precious inspirations
in orange Rhodia notebooks

my want went on wanting
instead it was crooked arms and cocked heads
saddled up to the cellphone – Merde!
Alexander Graham, Merde!
I had no time to find my ideal

on blood ruptured blisters,
too long untrimmed toenails
gouging tender vittles from their neighbors, I limped
my new shoes were black leather iron maidens
as I hurriedly stumbled along la rues,
l’avenues and alleys

from Notre Dame to Louvre to tower
though I saw David, Mona Lisa and stained glass to call up wails from the faithful…
and though I saw many a Mary, a saint, a nail-weary Lord
and gamey tourists in waiting rows
for their imminent ascension
the greatest attraction was Carrousel Gourmand
where girls clad in white from cap to stockings
performed for free
beneath neon signs for crèmes, crepes and gaufres

cradled gently in the delicate hands of their sex
they deftly impaled
petite baguettes
on a steel horn
as if it was no less a profound moment
as pounding in the gold spike
at the east-west intercontinental rail union

into the bread’s gaping wound they squeezed copious mustard
a lubricant for the hotdog
they thrust into it
repeatedly – in, out, in –
plowing it deeper, deeper
stuffing that wiener up to the balls if it had had any
their perverse episode at an end
they hand over the post-coital sandwich
to the customer – no doubt confused
in exactly which hungry hole to stick it

yes, this was the Paris I got
where simple all-American foods
are a pornographic sideshow
that allowed me a brief but merciful respite
from my foot bath of congealing blood
as my lascivious glances through stained-glass eyes
awaited the next fucking miracle

Artropod

A spider like a woman
on a distant world –
she eats colored jelly organisms
they tremble in neurotic fear in their aquarium
as her mouthpieces close in
to carefully sort through the frantic darting bodies
testing for hue
vibrancy
saturation
even flavor
suck, suck, suck
She’d get the right ones no problem
once inside her body, the gelatinous screamy
squirmy beans
were mixed, transformed by heat, acids and enzymes
excreted
deft spinnerets manipulated
the waste as it came out
molded, modeled
sculpted
her anal aperture could spin
like a potter’s wheel
she was the best
her creation’s sought
far and wide, intergalactically, faster than light,
right out of her ass,
comes art.