_______________________---

slick pearlescent afterbirth wrapped around the body of a newborn calf

interferes with his vision and movement
he lies at her feet until she licks it off
and swallows it bit by bit

after bieng pulled out of her, tied at the feet,to lie in a bony pile in the smelly wet hay

and then he gets up after a while

the trend is dead

on tribularies, tributation, emutarization, nation

The fragile finger , the persistent glock, the silt

March “no”, write “no”, “no more”, wrapping the stumble in the slouch, wrapping the slumber in the lope,
The false glimmering enticingly in the hot sunlight,
Everything slick.

The year winds itself about the day,
The month slides down the spine of the journey

The cold gasping trout asking, asking, asking, his gills stammer, he is an incredulous wonderer just like us
As our boots in the dust as our mules as our tall ass fences as our screens
As our asphalt

Steal us, help us, segregate us, blind us,
Crack us

U.s
.



* * *

She was a dirty old woman

She disregarded my attempts to discuss the plummeting economy. Instead she kept sticking her fingers into a jar of slime, snorting whenever the green sludge emitted a wet fart. I stood in front of her, amazed that those two sausages could both fit into such a small plastic container. I soon became tired of the plastic queefing so I left her struggling with it all, looking like a well-dressed ape on the verge of throwing feces at unsuspecting bipeds.

In my best Henry Higgins saunter I crossed behind her, to the silver shrine she had set up to create a sort of halo around her whenever she sat at that exact spot. Millions of glass bottles reflected my face. A fat bottle of Tequila shaped like a Mexican sombrero caught my eye. It was mostly empty, but I noticed that the worm resting in the dregs seemed to be missing half of its body. Alcohol-soaked dentures had chomped away its boozy dignity.

The bottles seemed to reach back for rows and rows, like Bacchanalian orange groves. I was certain that if I was desperate enough, if in a drunken stupor I placed my sweaty cheek on one of the shelves and hoarsely whispered for some liquid to quench the thirst that none of the now empty bottles could fulfill, the hand of Dionysus himself would appear and tip bourbon of the Gods onto my lips...sweeter than orange juice, deadlier than a switchblade. 

She must have experienced that countless times. The Lord of Moonshine had visited her with a hand-wrapped bottle every year of her life. If I reached back far enough I could find the rubber nipple-tipped bottle of port that still bears the marks of her teething.

I felt a sudden wetness spread over the back of my head. The Grand Ape had thrown the slime at me. Apparently opposable thumbs are no use when it comes to solving the immense puzzle of closing a jar of guar gum. 

But that's the consideration you get when you give your grandmother her Christmas present early.

1:23 by 8:00

1:23

I had bought her a five dollar box of Butter Waffle cookies, French. As she slept I placed it on her pink linoleum table, the cat didn't meow when I came in, the floor didn't creak, the air conditioner didn't stop its particular hum. I just didn;t make an enterance. Her table was strewn with magazines, balls of cat fur, keys and cigarette butts, she didnt smoke though, i noted. In the middle of it all sat a gleaming Joan Diddion anthology, with a copper cover. There it sat next to the chaos of it all. A bible of sorts, maybe a medallion of travel of the Golden State life (1:23) left behind. I placed the butter waffled cookies adjacent to the "bible". And i awaited on her cold kitchenette pastle colored chairs till early evening when she awoke, saw my face and served me coffee without a single word. The polluted sunset was a neon orange that night, partically crimsion. It bounced of her misshaped back in chuncks of blocked color. Caressing her ass, calves and neck in this apocoliptic sort of romance light. She riffled through her silverware drawer for a match. Her dark green silk garment tied around her hips

:this is my dawn isn't it wonderful like this?!"

She stopped and looked at me for ages, seemed like.

"Why?"

:because its supposed to be the treat at the end of the day. Its gluttonous to enjoy it once you awake"

"I don't believe that." She says.

"Obviously."

I don't kiss her. I never have. I cherish her. Her face pock ridden and dirty. Her eyes dull and human. I wish i could play fancy and describe different worlds between her and I. But there lies nothing. I like it like that.
Entertained by her tight green robe and the fast fading sun, I Realised she hadn't noticed the butter cookies. I pushed them close to her, as if a rustle of cardboard would maker her turn. I began changing my body position and taping my fingers against her linolem table. NOthing. She kept looking at her two plates (pink, blue) five bowls (2 porecline, 1 white, 2 green) the six cups (3 mugs, 3 fragile wine glasses) the sun was gone by now. Darkness settled on her figure and on her barren cupboards and scuffed hardwood floor.

"Turn on a light!"

She said faintly dabbing hr head with her index and middle finger.

"I bought you butter cookies."

She cocked her head towards them, creeping towards the box as if examining an exotic beast before handling it in a tap act.

"A five dollar box of cookies!" I said.

She looked timid before them. Picking up the box and reading the fonts and words about it.

"Juuuules Destrooper-Product of Belgium- Paris Butter Waffles."

Her face eased inbetween words.
Opening the silver plasitic, fondeling the fragile geomeetric cookie in her hand Digesting them before her afternoon of 8:00 pm.

a relic, an enigma

who can say when it stops? 'cause the footsteps will fall until the floor caves in, and hoarse voices ring so much sweeter at dawn

the land where nothing grows

the frail hands will do their best

to cradle your angular chest, to convince you of your glory

but this wealth and fear will suck the revolution from your bones,

and we all know that the spirit travels west to die.

this pair of eyes grew milky and blind

while i find i can't even remember the color they used to be.

and that's a discomforting thought, isn't it

because how could i ever know a person such as yourself

without ever having looked you in the eyes?

i'll think of you from time to time

when you are gone

and remember that i reiterated my plea over and over.

my throat went raw 

my knees gave, i stumbled

and the sun burnt the nape of my neck.

i asked

no, i begged,

i begged you to stay.

do you remember the day?

no i suppose

i wouldn't have either.

as i trudge in my adolescent boots.

the German Gypsies
click their heels
into dells

and
i
extinguish my
matches in
old plastic
cups
of
ice water

what of that?

the water bubbles
and out pours the jewish woman.
she clicks her heels
into your lowerlip.


and
i
spend my moments
behind the greek monuments


my shoes untied.
i get up again.
you're face is turned.
to the loose fitting shirts.


ah well.

the myth of

lace crawls around from the edges of your face towards your nose

it fills your airways with spun eiderdown whiteness and spins its way down your throat into your stomach

where it writhes awhile

before slumbering a heavy slumber there.

you have no idea about the doily sheen spooling out from your eyes and weaving your body for you

a decent favor;

your cushy lace feet absorb the soil and ragged chunks of you fall off in the rain

a sodden pinata

children follow you, you haven't anuthing to give them.

Angel Honey, Cover Your Mouth

He was a baby fresh doper

Pockmarks leaving

     plateaus for

Mama's grilled cheese:

     Salt & Oil,

Same things he used to 

     rub on his knuckles

     to fight the slugs

on the stone gnome outside.

And he'd put ketchup on 

     his lips

And grape jelly to stain

     one eye

And kick his squished opponent,

spitting Chiclets out of

     his mouth.

So that it was a true victory.

Now he spends time with

    thin-necked thugs.

The kind who slather their bodies

    not with adolescent condiments,

But premium, under-the-table

    Whale Blubber.

Slick film to slide out of

     tenement windows.

And they know what it means

to look at a 

     cashmere blouse

And "X"-

Mark the spot.

looking the swollen sun

As he sat down he bargined: I'll get you a match for a cigarette?
I decided to oblidge since the cigarettes i was smoking anyway tasted like harems.
:Sure.
He ran away.
he had no chin.
nor shoulders.
but skinny legs perched between hips.
I agreed regardless of the cigarettes in his pocket.
He got me matches.
as i wrapped myself in cinematique reasoning. He complained about life in a spit and smoke.
He stayed to say his say.
and then left.
i was left with seven cigarettes

the song & dance of glued feathers

Dare we flash each other with bare breast?
tissue collapsed on jutting bone & teeth
sometimes red
others white
weening the language of fidelity out of mind, ear drum & cerebral lobe
Dare we throw question to the wind & appear?
naked under clothes
& delivery trucks
& Manhattan hurricanes?
Maybe i will spy on you.
Fly down with cardboard wings covered in Lycra
kissing those who have nothing better to do
you & I: in relative boredom: together

not true, is it.
the small froth of lions laps at the corners of your mouth
whipping the violence into another storm, another storm.
---they left new orleans again, the sieve city, it holds no one.


not true, is it, the gospel truth of the wind and the rain
of the pale, amphibian wrinkles between each finger
the drunken saunter of baboons under baobab roofs

the stories that your grandfather would tell , looking out the window, convinced the plants were real,real, how could they be fake?plastic?no way,no way.

he liked boxing.

'one two punch; says life, to him, her, him and him,wearing earphones spitting into its mike
'what you gonna do baby' it says, like a funky action movie from the seventies,
black cop swinging his hips.


holy water running in rivulets out of every faucet in the nation!
or is it rust, is it blood?

is it jesus' face? what to we do, god damn, is this a sign?should i get my camera?




on her birthday she waters her cacti with wine coolers.eating smoked oysters and wearing those plastic slippers, see through, pink, kitten heels. feathers on the toes.




the light is out of the 'p' at the pick n sav and everyone has gone home.
it's small inside the car.the air is humming.



the small froth of lions laps at the corners of your mouth
the ships heave in the harbor

it's not true,but anyone could have figured that one out.

quips and social etiquette

There is nothing that gets me down anymore-he says.
I don't really believe you-I say.
Well you should. Because well, its true-He says.
What do you mean? I bus full of kids that you happen to run into and kill all of them wouldn't get you down?- i say
Shut up. Of course it would.- He says
Im a bitch- I say
Yeah, you are- He says.

Hes been kissing this girl downtown, claiming that he doesn't feel any remorse any longer.
My self, the cripple, can't believe it.
I apply lipstick with my good hand, and i don't bother kissing anyone any longer.
He used to kiss me, but i wouldn't compare it to Archaic gods or linen sheets or central park. I wouldn't attempt it.

How are you-he says.
Nothing new- i say.
Good i hope?- He says.
Fine- I say.


I attempt to not squander his lovesick heir with my unearthly sickness.
The world opened up, when i lost my fingers, limbs and its steam.
It was more powerful than drugs or sex.
Suddenly my own memories were no longer mine.

So- this downtown girl- I say.
Shes really good- he says.
Good- I say.
Good kisser?- I say.
Yes. Very- He says.
Good- I say

I re birthed myself, on my own, i don't even own a cat.
I wrote songs and recorded my little voice into my computer.
I read nothing.
I ate nothing.
I just sat, listened and opened my mouth when i wanted to.
I can't say anything glorious came from it.
In fact, i most certainly know that nothing DID come from it.
Just a beautiful computer jam packed with one woman's coping method.

i like this- he says.
I realize- i say

he is gripping my good hand in his.
my hand is sweating.
The late august wind had the slightest hint of autumn, my pace slowed to an awkward dull.
In my mouth, chewing on my bubble mint gum.
My throat stings from talking, because i have been talking too much in a very long time.
My mono syllabic responses cough up the backed up flem in my esophagus.
I no longer smoke, but i did that day.

My bad hand is wrapped in a bandage, it is like a sculpture, erupted into bubbling skin, and twisted flesh and bones.
He doesn't acknowledge im sick, or deformed.
I don't either.

Stop!- i say.
Are you okay?- he says.
Yes, i need a cigarette- i say.
I'll buy you some- he says.
Really?!- I say.
Yes, do you still smoke camel lights?- He says
No, i say. I smoke whatever you're smoking- I say.
Oh i don't anymore, ms. downtown doesn't like kissing me when i do.- He says.
oh- i say- camel lights are fine- I say.

In a matter of seconds i get a pack of cigarettes, and tell him to open it for me.
Its in my lips lit, fresh and deadly.
In my virgin lungs again, i feel like my old self again and suddenly my memories are mine again.
He walks past me to through away the plastic off the cigarette pack.
His back looks the same, like when i used to kiss him, and when we'd lie in bed pretending
what we had just done was far more astounding than it was.
I remember the child i took care off after school in college, that is now fourteen.
Anton, he had corn silk hair, he liked Jacques Cousteau.
We made up songs and we went to the movies together.
These two moments, relinked from the dark organ tissue lost from a month of pity.

I open my mouth, and nothing comes out but smoke.

A hurricane is gonna hit New Orleans- He says
I just read it in the New York Times- He says
Right there- He says

I open my mouth, spread my lips and tongue to attempt audible sound.

Shame it is- He says.
Awful news- he says.


i remember the dim lights of parties.
And the one man i loved to kiss at parties.
I remember the books i read.
Whitman, walden, camus.
I remember the incense at college i would burn when i was depressed or high.
I remember the dress of gingham i would wear on dates.

it is- I say
it really is- I say.

I wrap myself in my shawl and begin to cry in my head. a deep cry. inaudible, reverberating in my skull.
deep belly sounds only slightly shaking the tissue of my brain.
The cry transfers down my throat out my nose.
floating down my nostrils, dripping onto my upper lips.
He wipes it for me.
i show him my hand.
we don't kiss.
but i sleep easy that night.

Lemme Show You A Couple Of Tricks

You say it's your first time around these parts?

Well welcome in, buddy, let me show you around.

I'll say hello and high five your belly

Send that putty-stomach operating

     with delight.

Once you see these sights

The truthfulness of All Time

Will make your cranium shake,

Send your brain syrup squirting around

To a thoughtful funk rhythm.

     This is it.

Don't show me that side of your life,

I don't wanna see shadow on that jaw,

     wisps of foam on your upper lip,

      eyes glossed over with a

         thin mist of soul.

I'll hit you hard on the back

And you'll fly-

Landing straight & tall in a 

          cosmic inn

Then you can order up all the...adoration you need,

Suck it all up

With one Hungry proboscis.

The swallows have come back.

Its isn't fair I scream to Guadelupe.
She is easy on the eye- i think.
She gives me options of destruction- cocaine-a hammer-a clogged artery.
I take the cocaine.
But stow it away in the bottom of my stomach hoping the green balloon doesn't pop in the lining of tissue inside me.
And then I met you, had a fit of it all trying to cheat Guadelupe's request.
i read Cotazar, ate pudding, smoked opium, went to paris, kissed women.
The women i kissed you took pictures of naked in college.
Claudia was pretty and had thick legs.
Guadelupe found me in a bordello you left me in, she told me to pop the balloon myself.
But i stabbed her and insisted that I loved you umblasphemously. She writhed in pain as blood cascaded down her leg like a nick when you shave. I thought she was a sissy.
And i ran away. And didn't stay to take pictures of you with the cross dressing prostitue we decided to hideaway with in the Bordello. They would have been nice pictures. Blue, red, negative images of eachother.
I took your old Jesus and Mary Chain albums on the plane back with me. I also took your gray coat.
I will send it back to you before winter comes.
Gabrielle sent me his worn out horn in the mail this morning. I guess thats a sign. Its quiet beatup for someone heavenly and all, pathched up with sap and spit and chewn up gum wads: chipped to reveal the brass bits under its gold paint.

I got this blood and hair crusted all on my ear, I was cutting my hair with kitchen shears .
It’s boy hair now, boy hair for a long droopy neck and a bloody ear.

You could wrap the world in cellophane we wouldn’t miss a thing.


----Have you ever felt like those pigeons, the ones who sat on their wings, or the bald ones, or the gimpy ones, have you ever felt like they were trying to say something to you? Their iridescent neck feathers flashing and they look you right in the eye.

I ate pigeon the other night in a Chinese restaurant and that didn’t even occur to me then.

My Time Away

The fog is stuck on my eyelids, but what a beautiful city it was, I suppose. My ribs hurts with the thought of home, and coming back made me never want to blink again. Change is a strange animal.

dreamin' on that leather

you know the feeling! i dream about it night and day, about it hugging my sides, whispering tough secrets into my ear if i wear it with a dress and growling hooligan howls into my bones f i wear it with creepy creepers or glittering glamming 70's stripper platforms.

it would lead me to old dives and teach me to dance like a wildcat prowler, hissing and spitting punk lines to a jealous moon.


yes yes yes. yes yes yes. i almost found a perfect one in a seconhand store in either frisco or berkely i dont remember---- it was a bomber, perfectly worn, black, nubbly faux fur on the collar and spangled with zippers. it would have been mine but the armpits were too baggy.i was just short of crestfallen.