Before February I always take out the garbage, I take it to the highway, and throw it at cars. 

While taking a nap in my tree house, I bundled myself up in loose leaves, cutting out the feeling of rain on skin.

I have a wife who does the same. She is the designated weapons cabinet, making sure 

 that the childproof scissors are the only tools I have in my hands before February 3rd. 

She is very good at protecting me. Her only real job besides that is to keep tire tracks out of the yard, 

which she sometimes will not do, and refuses to state why. I honestly just keep the fan running. 

I love my job, running the fan.

So, here I sit in a bowl of coffee soup, running the fan and clapping nervously. 

The room gets cold, the room gets hot. The trees change shape outside the window, change color. 

My desperation becomes a new drug and I get customers at the window, new buyers. 

The rest of the house is on stilts, and people wander through on them stilts holding close the doggy, and kitty. 

With a handle on one end, I see the house flip upside down and some of the coffee I am drinking tips into my mouth. 

Upside down in my chair, hair hanging to the ceiling, almost touches the chandelier. A couple sips later, bathed and clean.

Now, I am effectively ripping out tiles from our garage, and holding up my brand name tile removers I smile.

This is when you see that me teeth are gold and one of them twinkles. At you. At the camera. 

I take out from within the tile remover bottle, what looks to the viewers to be a fucking blanket. 

And it is my fucking blanket. One in which I’ve had sex upon multiple times in the past. 

This is not part of the commercial. I assure you. I put the white blanket over my shoulders and wrap it around two times. 

I stand next to the laundry machines in the basement of our house, waiting here. Water helps me relax.

Goodbye. I say.


At that moment viewers see quick redundant close up shots of semen stains in microscope. 

They see circles appearing on screen that are magnified shots of my blanket . Some of my arm hair. Some of my chin. 

There are always cans of soup above the dryer and the soup cans appear on screen in a magnification of seven hundred times. 

This only happens for a moment, and I am back to commercial.


Whisked off stage, I am nothing more than a half way built robot skeleton with faux human flesh. 

Stage hands pull me in a chair and repair the moving parts that were broken earlier. 

After that, I am shoved onto a belt and will now be inventoried for later use. 

After tomorrow, my memory can be wiped, and kept in storage for three weeks until I am needed again for television. 

They say that one good thing about having me around is I never do anything out of the ordinary unless, 

like today when I have a malfunction.

Taking inventory of all my parts, separate machines designed go to work. Unscrewing and adjusting, 

unhinging and disassembling.

A cup of tea is placed inside my belly and adjusted. Down through the floors of the factory, 

piece by piece of me is removed and checked before reassembly down stairs. I watch T.V. 

The whole time as I am worked on T.V.

The main area, where all of my regular, and biannual  faculties, and thoughts rest, are still intact, 

so that I may hold onto the memory retention needed for my next commercial. Although I should practice my lines, 

I rather do inventory in this peaceful a manner, and with the quiet prodding of the modern Television show I watch. 

In any case, it is useless for me to practice my lines since the stage hands, managers will wipe my card soon any way.

“Goodbye.” I say.


“Hello and welcome to our new show.” We have with us today one of many new guests, Humphrey Wilson! 

He is going to show you the art of making any dish you like purely from meat and cheese!

By taking you on a tour with his latest invention, the speaking cheese easy, grate and date! 

He’s traveled all across the country, telling people like you about their future in eating right, 

without the hassle of vegetables and just under ten minutes! Show them what we got peter!”

Snagging beetle with the meeshka sneak a snapping indigo bunting smacking turtle, twelve miles south east portion -- turtle crackers too, indigo meeshgoo hyrax -- nerd fuse casement cassava weird bird fuzz

Richter leaks out a length of chain inside the harbor -- laughing as he hooks the chain down to a cylinder -- this is the pulley -- he yanks at and drops of rust colored water drip between the cracks as the chain compacts onto itself -- a hundred yards of it piles together -- releasing a strong smell of creosote into the boat --

As the chain reels in , the boat sags to the side from a coarse weight and the chain tenses -- Richter laughs and grips his red gloves around the pulley handle, staring off into the little screen with his ping signal, which registers the large object in its neon vision -- the weight becomes too much and almost loses it -- pressing down the lock and repositioning so that his weight is proportionate with the sag of the boat -- after a moment he lights the ship pipe and gets back to work on the pulley -- The chain lets up and a cage lands in the boat opening it, Richter spots a table and chairs in the center of the cage -- two chickens emerge from under the table and erupt in shivering that flips fish away, hitting Richter’s face and jacket -- and aluminum space man emerges laughing, and pulls out a cigar -- its the motor mouth never speaks into the microphone --

And in the avalanche there is birth, the letters: joy, made of Christmas ornaments - shoes fit me really good -- their blue Tuesday, and plaid Latina’s fit little vinyl gloves on, a place in here -- these sharp reflections sending off there, broken down mirrors stacked and a woman’s costume house, full of beds, snail trail of couches to the cheese lettuce tomato bed sheets, pillow mattress flower print blues, sandwiches tucked in with the low ceiling, and the sky light, squashed to the door, adjacent to the netting, stockings, dresses, costume chest, tucked into the mirror. Oh, go throw some things in the air -- dance and catch the sun like beads as they fall -- they say into your pocket -- dance under a cloud and kite dance and the bus opens the lid and we all pile out and fall in love!

That’s right -- the shoe fits! (cups) Hamilton daisy fry -- shaking roses out of the hat - what higher diary --

Eject button -- first form at the house (Ralph’s (cups) house) sitting swallowed lettuce brier patch 

(cups) circles and circles around entry shivers the onlooker teased logic returns to a shaving kit - 

it is a new day my young dolphin! The sh-ally shoo, the shirt shoo fits logic good! What (cups) a pair - 

these dolphins, what (cups) a hair pair - we’re married I bet, that’s why this logic keeps coming up. 

because we’re  married - and there are dolphins swimming logic and you are a porcupine and I am a maple tree -

I’ve got to hide in details, for rails lead not only this way and that way but also before I’ve heard to beware of this and that, 

which upon standing, I agree to seek this answer for public recognition, therefore in detail I will go for lousy wind and wings / 

tea for eyes on a package with a bar-code label label, cause of death for factoring in the “Stay Patient” quote of the day, hide,

hide. Stay, stay or do  the things unheard or, touch the cold, grab it from its deepest roots, 

and pull on the branch and tug and tug, yes! Tearing the sickness from unbeatable sound scape’s, 

touching the fat without bone, and throwing, yes throwing it out into traffic, while moving to the left. 

reach down and deep before and after your entire breathing mountain, reach into the Freon, 

ice covered throat of yes, your cold and demand your money back from it, before throwing it out with the trash.  

L’ Article

"Although the yellow legs were reluctant and pieced of wooden scrap, and snuggly, 

next to the sourdough bread beneath my own forced hand, the glowing glove in the background sounds 

of the ground I holding now a cup of the gathering, folding delicate clocks workings

— now with a sixty foot corroding hillside - a long rope bridge assembling

itself before the lands staggering inside pieced quietly inside —

the shadow figure tries to announce something of a name, a practice, and even farther -

alone I lay my head on steel even the walls have cages around them- At the exact time, there must be a number —

I tell the glass"

"All that was to make lights dash in razor and static were the glitched lines of a broken computer and the rain rinsed 

over shape from my perch at the estuary — Part of me sleeping in a cover of the patterns on the roof, 

of Ushi playing drums — But Amefurikozo, in his broken umbrella was running with his lantern in his hand —

All of the trees painted on watercolor paper lanterns growing out of the branches and lighting up on seeing 

Amefurikozo laughing in the rain, until it turned to cherry blossoms and spring sun pouring onto his joyous dancing.”

Why introduce knives into a horny body, must it never examine a total eclipse you have, the relaxation of a total room

why undress the night with computer screens, and dance alone to a cocaine gypsy, tuned to the radio static of last year, must we always dance alone, drunk on our own stasis? Look inside of the real world for your poems, this is where the true story is, look into the brick, the story in the brick, the wires,
listen, as you compose, to the rhythm as it matches the story you speak.




Every universe has its first, delicate, slow-motion, then it is the grab hands, the knob counter,

the corroded area of the  the glass, all too null and tumbling to corner, and bookshelf water,

(these machines can drink absolutes down their tunnels. Got the guts for it, and the library for it.)

I, father of NOVA Anjer must admit these contained rooms, for the spider man toys told me so, 

and the transformer toys said so too, and We eat stacks of fake fruit, no problem. 

But in every universe there is devouring like we do, even in the Allen Ginsberg universe, 

always in the Jeanette Winterson universe, Louis Zukofsky wrote you all up for dirty dishes and broken homes! 

| i.2014 |

Walk the satellite to an English reflection, turning his head into “cellphone” taxi cabs, wires, etc. 

caution tape blowing motorcycle sunlight or a retreat of an animal spiral.

| ii.2010 |

Grass sips, dials wood slats of premium Yuengling, clock reflecting ounces of foam (exit sign lit,) 

leans in, puzzled. Spin slow, 1679, mouth stools, fake flowers, mouth wallpaper, couches, 

dial bricks, and ketchup, and window frames, talk quietly —

Tiles reach the coast. Wander up, and kneel —

Tan stitched reflections, always absorbing with soft control, the evils of my hands, 

and forming the new ethereal pages out of grin I have bought for $3.00 at a corner. 

In a penciled area of your body there is the sound of my routine breaking in on the silence that you keep safer than I. 

You know, I stole you from the grocers, because they had in mind a kind of routine you may have died under. 

Their gloves would have torn you open, and dished you to a city built of garbage, 

like the rest of their words they devour and throw away. Like the rest of us, who get caught inside of their trap, 

markings they call them.

Taken from a short film, a map that carries all necks, a goose, and starfish hands, creepy crawly day time beach time-line. 

(Anomalies of Candy’s rear view mirror, driving a shame so deep into the each of us, a handful.) 

Handful of yellow gravel paved roads, and a garden of dreams, those fish swimming trees,

neon frosting roses, and the nightingales, flying lights circling a house. 


Crawl Tv’s,

     drink Silly pink.

Drink VHS cassettes,


horizon, black fur.

Shadows cross bedrooms





Aluminum wings sleep


dark paper,


blinker paper

wing’ed cut-outs



Crows headdress

       white breeze

Yarn arm

sky ~








Enter trees

AREA 5+7

(fro teacup galax)

A note draws up light weave here, it is in thin cotton air. 

Inside the pastel card, letters line in the dimension of rag oxygenate molecules dispersing [e]’s followed by exiting [c]’s. 

The note is blank. Dollar bills blow by foot, on Toothy. Since before reality, she has been he, and curls around my legs. 

The black suit is squirmy. Laser hand shuffles settings, in a teal interface.

“Maybe It’s demon suit. Lead me astray on the grid, huh Toot?” Toothy shivers, jumps from my foot, 

shaking dollars off of her violently, letting out a small, perturbed yawn.

“Town, that sews me to the wrong threads! Never in my entire stay have I heard of Town, Toothy?” 

She shakes her head and sneezes.

“I checked pronunciation.” It disappears in digits, no pronunciation! I make out the last E’s bleeding a tiny dance, numbers maybe? Temptation is to put on fur, watch thick growing, uncontrollable urge and have strange burdens. That seems to be right, I am by the minute plagued. I linger in the middle of the field,waiting for Toothy to get out of the clutters of her yawn.”

Feathers in the windows of the house

Chase me away into the suburbs, feeding

lengths of fog, draped upon buildings.

Howling bar-code winters into perfect,

When you tear my paper heart in half

you, please remember threaded virgins

with electric finger nails escaping

Shining eyes, your gold slip

draped sculpture cattails

silhouette the dream of wild

horses ~ silver fur, that snowy

horizon, every  other dream

I wanna sing you gold

Umbrellas, sing neon porcupine

a paisley raft to take a

triangle and its glass case

with our watches set at our own

times — the hour under the

flipped boat, kissing glitter and

seaweed, kissing algae with

our watches set to the times

we chose because it was the

only option in that bored curiosity

of the moments passing in small

waves. The hour in clouds,

bent to our instruments,

performing our harps and

our garlands, chewing rose —

to spit out songs from our

mouths in red strawberry

gentle now to lose gravity

so that petals and songs

and strings mix as

strawberry, free

in front of us —

The Persian Scissors

up acute

meek liquid
glass rubric,
eats etchings

to the speed
of jazz,

for the brush,
a hand in the
grain, and
turn into clocks.

All Moon

Curve on
rue divine,
that dance

eyes like
gypsy white

low mountain
of shoulders,

curving tails
in the skin
all night train
all moon

The falls apart
an exact replica
you know — the
art of your eyes

A liver full of passengers
the taste of twelve o’clock
that’s root beer enough for me —

I didn’t eat anything but
pasta this morning —
between is a song —

the sound of shoes —
and when stomping
visions of termite pathways —

You think in cake,
advertisements, ribbons,
your language has liquids
all over it - its rubber and
silverware -

There is an impala in one eye
and a chandelier in the
other - neon signs make
up the prayers, bar codes,

to look in those eyes —
A careful mistake —
So delicate the radio colors
your room —

The shamans are grave digging tonight into the next night
and shoes were fit onto the feet of an evening flower, toes,
sing dawns until the parade collapses into syllables, but the never knowing
wrong turn into thin dreams as all of us do, the time to lose control, and go crazy. 

This fishing for a worth, feeling for colors on the marble black length of rooms.

She was wearing an incised moon
and carried a handful of
sparse doves, I dusted
my legs and Lazarus Jewel
Box — I pulled
forward Triangular
Nutmeg —
and watched her
organize a Peruvian Hat —
from Shuttlecock Volva
and Heavy Bonnet

There’s a gold ghost in the floor
(that’s the witch, she hurt
our friend with bells in her hair)
we got a laser gun
and a strawberry gun that
we can get the witch
and we’ll shoot strawberries
at the ghost so we can
see her dancing in the
living room and then
you’ll shoot her with the
laser — okay, go!

Micah is drunk and losing his hour —
we found each other rolling down
a hill and eating sushi while
he screamed curses because he
cares— and I walk into traffic
with him and he escorted the cars to get away and we
ran the night — we ate more
sushi and Micah is drunk
and losing his voice —

Mass Hysteria


the speaker
eats at the


curved a length
all porportion

of whatever

it flows

roll backwards
down string

this leaks up
yellow chair

one felt tongue
licks the tree up

the ladder,
snakes along

the leg
of the

bull. I’m
here too!

I’m here
too! Hold

on, little
guy. TV

blurs little
black and

white box
wisdom glows

all to


A liter of diesel gods, tiny dolls. Espresso in Germanic night vertical fig trees, 

at the bar in the day of an elf book stabbing ethyl halter-tops, and konte crayons 

dripping wax down the fingers, hands, and in the mouth, wearing a baby sized strawberry patch kids fur, 

died with purple crayons, Gotham vortex plays the radio hit “DEAD” i drive in my ford eating lichen, listening, 

our heads are erect with helmets, once we got nicked, Al’s head hurts, and he mutters of creative commons 

license as a drivers license, I give him ginger bread as a hat.

Universe no.1

The medical doctor on fifty seven buses outward -

to clutch a nest of finch chicadees -- owls, he feeds

the nuts from his mouth into their beaks -

A defined shuttle of faeries -- They can be admired

from every side and deciphered with a can and a string

from eagles tree house to raccoons -

Lethargic in the nest of underwear-- mothered by coins

and quilts -- lions napping in [place] of clouds, devine

lunatics. Keys, indicated orbiting lake Gen Rose, set under

lake purguae -- day the sea calmed -- day lion, at a table,

lesbian in his homes -

Yes, missing the way pouring shapes elaborate the; hands,

pouring all lace; wander forms, miss the pouring days at the

lake; days miss the pouring of hands days late.

Where does the great tree figure in the mind of a newborn

dragon? Who first entered the gate? Harmony with two wives

and three cats, and a butterfly-

Where did the oldest demon come from when you first saw him

on your steps? His name could be malice? His name could be Danika.

His name could be unnamed forgotten for better names.

The mirage, a vision, at the chest of drawers -- An Aviator doing

a ditty. Lift under the page like a blanket

Universe No. 2

Itch too El the creation and creator paint whining, squirly raybans

cascades diamonds? as the skiers fly off the slopes -- Happy! Tin roof!

flying houses,

the feline cat creak, avenues in the maps key, numerous as gravel in city.

39. -- lakes, articulated by definition, infinity songs: for the parsley ingestion

could feed an albatross, or even a dinosaur -- for feelers to use.

What is the key signature of the cacophonic symphony? One day near the shore

one night with cymbals under the bridge-- crashing them and cars pass.

festival of mazes where I first met Coral

the tongue, the tits, the figure

Swerve through her glowing retinas

sewing a way through the noise

spat out of the conditioner

Lurching figure, black, weaving a new

nightmare, stitching under

the winding of hair

an essence the door (vader meat)

sings them the gold furniture so