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if you don't believe in the force
believe then in a cat paw
marring your memory away
til its only left:
this, what you want
a spine. a dead flesh
tree. a root growing
away from you
so you can finally
see where you are.

fart factory images

palatable for Mecca

we whisper in the men’s latrine,
pedal deeply inside each others’
guts                gray-scaled baroque
renderings of your hunger,
my hunger churning
maternity leave

who will be the first one to
forget our inside chyme?
who will mew the good-bye
phrase?

once,            we called you a Sally
now,    you lay hands on my neck
     a frontiersman lapping up new
menarches                       shoring
   ¾  sleeved    mommy-and-me’s,
hopscotches up my arms
casinos, a regimen of the dating scene,
a cubicle, a rave pantry, tribal paint
in my trigeminal nerve (the chewing,
biting, swallowing nerve)  now, crazy
straw doubling my belly

my ghost towns teeming with news
              networks renegotiating “no,
please, no” subdivisions      task light
reaching a brand new nest,  opulent
with semen-so-silly               he does wear
his ring in a marrying club   in the morning
we pluck chin hairs at no-turn-on-red’s

who will buy my bifocal no-doze when
my stats are beaten so low?   my résumé
littered with a green screen of nothing and
a magnetic plate of days looping on days

my Übermensch, a man palatable for Mecca
and me: pancake errors, microwave s’mores,
                           all with passive verb tenses

devil in the bed pages

Had to say no, we only have one John Fante book, and never read a Burroughs poem in my life. Top of my mouth burnt cause I'm gluttonous like that.
 A psycho babble coming back all boomerang and shit it felt familiar, forgot the feeling, of expression but more vile like vomit.
 You speech patterns you bus time you favor bizarre meals your orbital planets believe in making gardens that you ignore.
 Two kids hid in a forest. Detectives constantly behind your shoulders talking you can't tell who's who.
 All of the world lives in L.A. and the arrival soon of winter.

norway ice fight

honole campoli
whosit going to profit
frankenstern pipe learn
frozen scorn upper lip
outworded by another

she smokeys in a corner a bar at sparky cracked breath night he sifts to linger or hair of hers all red and brown and dust flakes of curls and dust and hot and stale a sky through rock sides tendons behinder eyes snapping powder crusted dusty blood he asks she answers him one normal word but normler cool he towers but crouched he drools and feel what feeling she field in days precede those true and smellbound air and water seemed new to a year now years claim water and air as data say put some dust in it your true friend a statistic now go log it in the grey binder now D57Y you'll never find the sea again nowhere there people don't be they're percentages they've two heads it's soon they're coming and be building bars out to sea again broom dusty floors over the sea and then new islands above the sea again and mermaids will get paid. i've lost a sweet friend to sea again and dust is friend i'm dust to a friend dust to the end no end to dust dust must floss before bed

this is a picture of a jamoke this is a poem about i forgot what it is about

I only saw 7
no, it;s a knot
o plz

indigo hoops
yarn inside
frightful
excuses

divine