wheels of cheese
tracked with dung
scabbed in places

belts of toothed impression
glassy chips of dead milk

roll the wheel and squash the snails
who ooze to be squashed, gleaming giblets
endowed with life

i gag on the edible
choke on rose-tinted lenses

people have funny names, joke names,
my supername is rudy

wear a strong condemn, spit on my chode

i want brisket gloves

my me rods zap
electrodes on my tongue
and it will lick fleece
stuffing from my turkey

i chewed a downy earlobe
kneaded the wrinkles from a bulldog's jowls

more junkboys tic 'yes' tic 'no'
foolscap, pergamum, i saw chess pieces
made of butter

suction cups caked with wet pencil shavings,
horses champ flaking haunches, dogs roll over,
women just lie there

"get" explain this word "get"
what is "get"?

my unsung teeth

my unsung teeth

ripple

like young titty-meat

pocketed

twixt hairy fingers.

snail

to want to wait, bolts thud

back, ab ovo, begin again,

nested in a blackberry’s

latched drupelets sleeps  

the patient pearl

purple-black bathed, ticking

with dreams of slugdom  

jams gandolfini

navel belched lint

skanky as in: melba toast, marmite,

blackmail, young Howard Stern, Sydney Pollack,

 

I can see the anger in your eyes,

without chemicals, he points.

this isn’t a watch And that’s

not the time you put into it

 

time of a different sort:

not made for watches

 

I find malls compelling,

but they give me a crick in the neck

a cervical disorder similar to:

wet hair in cold daylight, full stomach in the shallow end,

spray cheese. these have no skank.

 

they’re honest and well-intentioned

they say <<the road to hell is paved with good intentions>>

I say <<heck, I got a match, your ass and my face or is it…?>>

“hey got a match?”

“smoke cigarettes?”

“love ‘em?”

“hate ‘em?”

“Sometimes.”

Dot Dot Dot

“iuhno...you tell me.”

Same blank as in gap, mind it,

Go to Italy, lift weights, watch a movie,

All a distraction before ya die

 

we distruct

Harvest Moon!

Friendship thrives beneath the harvest moon!
Where no one does not love sweet wine!
They pity those who are not concerned
To revel for revelry's sake, and laugh at those
Who sit and think and thumb their nose
And open and shut and open big books
And sneeze at the doing of it.

For no one does not love what he loves to do
But that he sits and reads because he feels he should
At the right time but drinks at the wrong moment,
And though his parts disband some, his muscles unclasp their fellows,
Though he forgets his arms, legs, and curious shoulders:
He does not lose himself, He does not love wine,
He sees a moon, and sees it laugh, and does not know
That it laughs at him, or, if he does, does not know,
It laughs at all like him, not him alone.

So please, in the meantime,
Drink and Dance!
Without a thought of these words
And that man.

He's nowhere to be found
And the moon, unseen,
Still cackles.

For My Friend

I never noticed his knuckles

But then it seemed any of the ruddy indices

Of his body might have given me a clue, as if there were clues to be found

And he was composed of them solely, though one, among the others

Which had had him hold on, gave out,

Where I thought to moor

The first attitude of that early afternoon.

The past perfect and the present perfect compounded:

“he’s always been…,” and I’d thought, “no, he had always been”,

But the words stuck in my throat.

Now, as then, when one point in time lobs itself forward,

And you fail to admire the colors left in its wake,

The parabola is all too clear, its bent too definite,

Its trajectory too perfected.

He was Iscoceles with two obtuse angles,

Or the palimpsest, whose faded scrawl vies with the all too decipherable:

Of the two we read what appears to be read, what was written lately,

What is spaced generously on the blistering parchment.

Help us to read again and to right the angles

But also to love the hidden, the disjointed, that most felt,

Most sweet, most joyful, most gentle,

Handsome and quiet young man who often held his gaze

To the ground while in his head he cupped the silt of genius.

I imagine his knuckles were imperfect and I ask not which or why,

The conceit has run its course.