real cool pumpkin

in the jungle the farty jungle
the puma king stalks a bean curd salad

its eyes pervue the ridges looking for swisschard escaping over the horizon
the puma walks on egg shells, having hard boiled
and pepperred the bread

listen to the sway of the swagger
and the jaguager

machito y gang

bop foundry
squal lines
flapping
south cubano be
cubano stop here
and breath the north night
air while drummers role

Dear Jerks

I gave you my lif an my love
but you did not car
we could have mak this work


I'm gonna enlist
so I gan go over see
and desist from the shit that they
piss in the grainge and the homes
on the range filed with tax returns. Its strange
how when you come back and get shot
in the brains and they fall a little bit out of
the givens and the given-nots and they dont cairo
no slow mo po po eating donuts with a fo fo in their
belt, pullin they girth into fit the fat check
that they pull that the people pay instead of their rent
(which that money was spent prior on bread)
and then your dead. not over there, but here.

damn pigs piling wastelines on picket lines
debit credit sell out and forget it.

maybe the mohamad was right,
dont eat ham tonight, its
unholy.

maybe torah was right,
dont cut the pork roast
its dirty.

and filthy
and stinkin
and cowardly to the max.

china shrink wrap shrimp

in the bay of yangtze, a chunk
of ice floats faster than the junk
that scoops turd tasteing shrimp out of
cold brown water, separating filth
from life in general, invisible trotskys
divisible lenins sailing yachts stocked with
dollars and blood clots

cooking with fire

we gotta get to the flower
a bud chock full of ambition
spaghetti dinner prices
where the pepper and salt is all that you
can bite.

we gotta get to the four
horseriders of the hyacinths,
sniffing the breeze like bees
from their nest stinging you in the ass
like jackets full of nettles.

we gotta get the flour
mills spinning wind chimes out over the horizon
wolf howls be damned if any drip of snow
will fall and then the tracks lead to
lichen covered ice lodges.

high rollers

low strollers, holding
the shoes to the pavement
with sincerity,

the metal clouds are blown to the side of the road
by the thermic vortices driving cars
, where there on the curb, they feel spurned like eels, fresh
from some loathsome enclave.

the stars pulling sledges
worry about dinner.

roaring leaves dissapear into mud streaked
pitcher-esque goblets, eight pound phone bills later,
the moment of solidarity with the strong topical palm tree seal
finds a way to pay

handle on the pot

the cook is crooked
loose and goose down
bed sheats boiled for dinner
listen to the hunger of the teeth in the mill
grind their way through oats and beans
and barley, go and fetch a picture
of water and make sure theeer's not hole in it

keeping up with the times, demands a certain material
restraint. Its a quiver full of purpose
and porcupine remains that at the end of that day,
leaves us fat and sappy. like the titanic
but if the iceberg was only lettuce.

I've got a fly

its sitting in a bag
its got legs and eyes and
a brain as big
as a bundle of cash.

when I leave the house today,
this bug will leave the trash.
and then will go hustle
and bustle till all the bills
are payed or torn up .

when I come home, this
bug will hide in the gutter and fly out
when the water falls and it will shout!
hey, I paid all the bills AND stole a pumpkin pie
from the old lady across the street. then I spit in her eye!

and I will say, dear bug, you are rotten!
get out of my house. and take the trash with you.

grape vines

setting into the yellow sun shines
today finally


its been two whole weeks since
grass and leaves that left
saw the hotness that made them
burst red white and blue last,
that was the spirit
hamburger lines across the atlantic
book binds covered in dust
on the top shelf in the library
till 3 in the morning.

octavius

what will the rain look like
when it stops to fall?

what will the ocean smell like
when it stops to tide?

what will the plants sound like
when they stop to grow?


when all god's chillun got shoes,
what will nike do?

Loch Over

Loch over by crazyfacehands

occult occupation

seeing ghost butts fly in on winter ligands
and brush strokes, cat hair pulled for comb
dome sugar plantation sandwhich breaths
out of breath hardly dressed, the morning
freezes the next good arrest from a cardiac
artist, tea and chocolate sets the revolution
up for the peace with justice juice cup slurps

If there is something to believe in
it much might be the diagrams of
howling moons and warbling wolves
in the forest graves blujay swords
playing catch with the mud and color
of autumn and coleslaugh

down on the corner

put out on the street
you and the garbage man,
first time that you eat
from the same bucket
its metal shiny new,
the door to the walmart
is opened up a zoo

all of the people, greeting at the store
goin bout their business, happy as before
all of the tourists, arrive in the boat
grinning and snapping, pictures of the goats

I think I see the stop sign
melting into chalk
lines around the people,
not allowed to talk.
they think that they are given
rights by the big old words
but when the cops come swinging
the ink is on the horse.

out on the doorstop, up in the tree
many many people, no longer free
away in the manger, away on the farm
pheasant shooting pillgrims, set their car alarms.

Wall Street.

let me get off the bus
and get down on walleye street
where the fish run the beet
and the market is full of snail feet
gas ass trophy pods,
hangnail spools pooling over the
gum stained ground,

They are a long ways from zoning the party
a halloween freak show,
and the lack of focus is only to say that
the objective is too big for the scope.

I wasnt to break free

if your reading this write
now, then you are reading,
which can be more than said
for the millippeeddee that inhabits
the lawndry nest you can call a pile (and
with conviction, if not even conffection)

so just remember, maybe you want to read it wout loud.
so the little legged people can know too
what is what and where it is.

black and white

black into white mixing
rivers of thought
is like key west
form , the huricane
wishing to make a big name,
must fill out,

float away, sand into waves,

beach house into beach hose

rooms removed for some foam.

the plants are in

the plants
in roots
upshot
through the door to become a mantle plant

dawn till now

before that it was not dawn
nor dusk, but the clod
of spray, settling
out and over ever
and every crevasse
and corner.

should the sound of rickety
line fences fail to make it,
then remember the pancake breakfast
that wasnt