Yawp

Mealy tongue in my mouth
Severed, crumbles
Dregs stuck to the ribbed roof.
My tongue, most thick
Of muscles, most mobile, slopes into
The unuttering chasm.

The mouth takes in what it spits out,
Chews up what it takes down,
Words its cud to work its jaw
One hinge loose, two bolts rattle.

A mouthful of squirming copper
Jellies to gunk, teeth droop
Breathe tucks in a tight squeeze, soundless,
Unripe, wasted with vowels.

Crustaceous Gums, Oh you
Crustaceous Gums who rope!
Why do you cradle what writhes free?
The sameness, its squalid, septic rigging
Clutched tight to frame most palpable chalk.

Spit and rockets, temporal or divine,
Enthrall the tang of snot and syllable, dust and grain,
Aramaic, Catalan, the thirty-thousandth letter
Of fetid scribes, all their numbers, cloaked, bearded
Whisked to the depths of the sea.

Oh sky! Covetous sky!
Your one note trilled clean
Arches peaceable about our mealy globe.
Who primal yawped?
Me! Me ate thunder! Ate metal.

Mine! Mine! Mine!

use all six of your senses:
sludge, one, the ability to
see the undigested in a pile of man,
two, milk, you sucked it through a tatter
now bleed,
third, fire, all-consuming, you can form it
by keeping your object close to the mind's eye,
(and spin),
faux, sweat, wine of baked flesh,
let the sun throttle in from you,
five, jazz, errbody's got it!,
six, talcum, uh, chalk, it's in your bones
to grind as muscles worm down
for what governs every humor is what governs all:
the intrinsic pull of what's down,
everything moves down.

playboy

very early on, I was scheming
for an out
not so wakefully, but biding
my time to
scalpel every glob of spume

and using those words that want
what they denote: short, frank, economy,
man will say half of what he's already halved
to time everything aright.

say this now when a word yodeled
does to be yodeled
yodel into flesh
the very mist of your loins

tug handfuls of hair but fitfully
not sure of the consequence -- the force employed --
the meaning of the knot uprooted

thereof, therefore, you say to yourself
exist two approaches: gentleman, playboy

the former bon-bons and starched collars
the latter all pluck and dash

who is remembered? in what haze of ideality do its particles die clean as all must inevitably blink off, one day, maybe at a bus-stop, you'd tap her on the shoulder, introduce yourself, relay a smile, consider the inverted arch of her lips relayed back, scour it of good tidings, and shrink

or, in a crowd, shoulder your way
she glances
you glance back
trade switchboards, flip switches
roast, blister, and suture
all with your molten ego

but too, too late, gone

arm in arm with half the man you thought you'd assembled
in a quarter of the time it took to braid yourself
together

and how much braiding held? enough tendrils to chafe you into the semblance of trying in the hope that that trying, truly unseen, might be borne out by the misting that pervades all like the rainbow
spanning this world and the next

all the while balancing a soap bubble on the veriest tip of your tongue
stood on the tippiest of toes

unable to ascertain if the bubble is still there
or long dead,
tickles you yet

for what we know of the matter, where we differentiate nuts and bolts from gas and mist
and from mist a cheek's blush and from a cheek's blush, cheap rouge, and make-up
from the luminous forms ensconced in the ether.

what we know of the differences induces us to bet on what we can toss
drop, kick, and dribble,
knowing that though the hackey-sack remains in motion
by dint of deft limbs, we'd put down on the hackey-sack rather
than the ether pervading it, truly sustaining it, pervading all as it
does it,
ensuring, in its sensibility that so long as a something can be experienced
a something is eternal.

The kebab is one gaping
papoose
spice it, have a sheet of fingers
wrap it
maybe an elbow depress the center
eat it upright, not so much jabbing it
facewards but nodding earthwards
in a general direction.

trophy laced
with colorless veg
mayo drenched.
how is it that elements  huddled
in a tight fix will always find their
symmetry or, but, not amenable
to their mates, refine their symmetry
because hidden?
because the body does well to secret itself
just as these our soggy artefacts can
luxuriate
in pita or piada
or guts.

all comes out in the worsh, so be thankful for pipes and paper,
the mazelike artifice beneath your toes
and the great sun who shines down, yes, he is a god,
though I don't know which

weird tail

where do you find? whatmeans?

san Quentin quail is girlish boy

or womanish girl in pants or mini-dress or chunky turtleneck

is it possible that part and parcel all

flesh cheese upset column and latin conjugation

write out the same voluptuousnesses

to kip on. ok, there’s no guarantor

of the sun who rises because nothing better’s

doing but step in front of a greyhound and see

if it won’t take you somewhere…ticket or no

 

hazmat, has matt done what? he did one thing

for forever. not eating nothing. never saw a cheeto

touch his lips. here EAT THESE!

but there’s estrogen in MSG and cheez-wiz

in the flambé. who wants to eat this? who wants

to take one bite? I take care to put what I want

my body to think it wants  for my body’s benefit.

isn’t that right, brother donkey?

 

girls don’t fart they fluff, nothing so

lily white extrudes black pasted down

her inner thigh wants for my clammy

hands to clean her or at least move it

up to where it makes sense

 

 

think of the heart its so many

pipings gunked

tentacling to outer regions

so long that it knocks

we knock about        crumby

no girl, no job, no problem

ballooning ketchup to this end

to bring your adidases

unlaced soiled

to smelly It’ly

where sunned pukes

in genie pants and anoraks

feed their hearts kebab meat

heini swilling unloving and sound

S’no clambake

he said lacrimose

ill pretend she’s your girlfrayend

no rhythm, nervous energy, wants to contort

every which way, ascolana breath

beat back my chapped lips

“dat’s dead skin baby!”

he can’t just be an asshole. you need a reason:

he’s an asshole.