I wrote this in the last 15 minutes. It exists.

And then in the future there was a poltergeist in my room
a movement so flimsy, and recognizable.
I knew I had met my War of 1812
that my drawers were shit stained
and the cabinets full of meaty refuse.

I ate with the mouth of my ancestors.
washed the pieces of an antiquated satellite
down my 300 pit.

I was a challenger explosion wearing an ICBM mask.
I was a cattle car costumed as an IBM salesman.
I ate all of the hard candies until my teeth bled blackness into the air.
I rubbed the nougats of a variable number of bodies into my hair.

I texted the 5000 African-American soldiers of the American Revolution
We pyramid schemed the others and each made 50,000 USD.
I was reliant on numbers the way oil slicks.
I was a pill pushing prom king full of safety pops and flavored lube.

Samuel Adams came to my bat mitzvah wearing a Samuel Jackson mask
and a spotted bow tie.
We gave those injuns a good walloping then as we sang halleluiah against
the star-fucked sky.

Our members were swollen, they were distended, then.
We argued about the merit of supreme versus superior
at the battle of Agincourt.

You were my part-time bank teller, then,
you transferred monies from my oak tree hole
to my dog-thigh hole.

We were a cavernous failure of an excuse for anthropologists.
We were sex-crazed reformation based apologists.

And then in the days to come we were a kingdom under water.
We drew parallels to Disney shows on ice
We drew parallels to dishwashers on ice
We drew perpendicular lines and held each other as the sun screamed
heat over our algae caked faces.

I was a member of a mysterious army made of stone somewhere in the far east.
you mistook me for a nursery rhyme and severed my lovely legs from my hips.
There was a film over my eyes, it was a short one based on Ambrose Bierce.
We were an occurrence at the totalitarian truth techno jam. we glow sticked.

I was a banner posted to the bulletin board of the American decade society.
I grew exclamation marks and curly hairs where the kind men touched me.

We ate the blood harvested by the HUAC hearings.
I was a tender shade of night light in a tenement house.
We played love songs to Dixie on copper pipes then.

Hangman

The sand is a great big brown shape next to the rocks
I don’t know how to express this to you
I see your brown eyes, they are as desperate and useless as crabs
I am lonely on this Valentine’s Day night
And many people from all over have their eyes on this and do they get it?
It is they grey shape of modern desperation
It is the misuse of desperation that makes us so desperate
I am going to use my GPS unit to find you in the wild untamed world of your sorrow
I am in love with so many things, and alternatively I am surprised
at my sensual perceptions of so many things I am in love with
We are in a conversation and you ask me if I am selfish
My dick is in my hands and I answer have you swung for the fences yet?
Blue lights in my coca cola glass you are halfway across the quai
and fishing for anybody else who can make you feel something while in
the lonely world.

Speak my words to me and breath my language
you are in the past always and you don’t talk with any force.
Above the earth the satellite dishes are listening
they are as folded in and ugly as my ears.
This is the world of dreams
and this is the mask of dreams
and that is the window
and that is back to the window where you could have believed in flying away
so stick around. Or seperate.

Hawaii Meets Texas

The sound of your voice Hawaii meets Texas grating on
the windowpanes of my heartland home
Begins a raindance at the courthouse or a semi-truck flat bed
yoga-fucked by the skin-flint of the road
It makes me proud to be a human
in the galaxy proud to collect images in my memory machine
I could sink or swim or let the valium plummeting down the iv
tunnel take my vision back to zerosum
or I could radiate the motions of the sounds of the soundswept
plains of the moon stars and the sun
blasting out the reckless heat of two fucking teenagers on
a brown dock drinking beer and dropping into the ocean
this is blameworthy somehow we will get to the bottom
of this each one and every reaction
the causal links of the philosophical undercurrents of our lying souls
somehow we will learn
but my baby crawls at me like a fish tank full of fish and snails
and fish food and seaweed
backlit by the flourescent magic of the heat-lamp the stars are just heat lamps
we are burgers and fries and onion rings
i am a carrot in a garden I could crawl out
of my own womb if God would just teach me
i am a carrot in a cold cream sauce at the buffet line
in the colonnade restaurant i am so lonely
i fish for myself in the grey expanse of our dirty lake
i watch the fish ganging up on me
i let the haunting moon rise up and finally rise over me
creep like something dusty and so suddenly over me

a Celebration, Recycling Celebration! in praise of 'Research sheds new light on asteroid disaster'

According to CNN small asteroids approach Earth every 300 years. According to CNN large asteroids approach Earth every 1,000 years. A Jesus Christ/Bruce Willis-level messiah only approaches Earth every 2,000 years or so. I am waiting out the last days recycling my old poems into new poems. They are taking the form of letters. Here are some for official state-sanctioned celebratory purposes.

1st Letter

Yes I have won prizes for spectacular glands! I have won microwave prizes! I am standing with ribbons at the grocery store. The marching band uniforms do little to hide their erections. My shark gland is taped to my neck and has a government ribbon. The cassette of the Redeemer is beautifully worn. It doesn't hide the backward gasps of dead angels like you say. I lead fitful exercises next to produce! They wheel out the baptismal tub with little difficulty. I hold my face for fear of sweating. Remembering the last time I fell in love with the dangerous ways my homeland bathed me.

3rd Letter

Delete my fiction, love. It never held. Delete my fiction we will never hold. It embarrasses your sister I am in love with. Her hands deleted in my dreams the eyes I had closed. Her eyes dreamt the hands I closed with hands. And hands of her arms burst splinters at regular intervals over the eyes she peeled like grapes. She gave the oranges up you wouldn't leave alone. To burst pulp on a splinter our arms were never naked. I needed a sister you never held my love. Delete, my fiction love it's easy. Like that.

7th Letter

I am afraid the Service will leave me. I have lost my bleach. 6 oz standard issue. It was in my pocket. I am afraid the way the bodies leak. I am afraid the way the bodies leak and my men pretend not to see the bodies leak. What is the word for mutiny if you're not on a boat. I don't mind the food or the fires. What scares me is looking at the legs of my bed and seeing wheels.