Uncle Max

Absolute, Resolute.
Maximillion stands to reason.

And he stands up

to my father.

He stands on the pedestals of the poor,
And walks over the faces of the weak.
He gropes at the hands of the powerful,
Softly licking their fingers and picking the meat bits out of their chops.

He punches holes through things.

Like thick meaty walls and
Thick meaty balls.
Aluminum, Titanium, Cinnamon rolls.

Rapture beset by the narrow focus of his evil machinations.

Colloquial protests, knees bent and hands up high to the sky
In the clouds
On the moon
Over the planet Pluto
Which is still a planet
In the eyes of Maximillion who shits
Red Wine
And pisses
Vinegar
On his enemies who are weak and defenseless but not Max no he could fight you, he could fight you and win because he has the skills he is so dirty at shit you don’t even want to step to Maximillion.

No, you don’t.

The Sea of Green

Slippery slopes
Sloppy frog croaks
Dog man grope
Lost our hope.

I hope to never find
A tie that never binds
I had it in my mind
To push play not rewind

Ten million wild antlers
In a sea of green,
To find one is a miracle,
To miss one is obscene.

YUMMMMMMMMMM.
Finally, A taste of summer.

Father's Pasta

Father’s

pasta jammed into my jar
crammed in - oh so tightly
Put your hand into my jar
I do so every nightly

I like it cold and stringy
like meatloaf from a lukewarm
can

Words for describing Father’s pasta sauce:

Hemoglobin

Red

Hemogoblin
Red
Homogoblin
Red

down, down, down the stairs

pussyfooting springy slow

put your hand into my jar

no one will ever know

Jesus in the Ice Cream

I’m tempted to reveal it
Like Jesus in the wilderness

Hidden secrets,

Darkened treasures
Ancient memories that can’t bear to see the light of day

It’s sitting in my basement
Waiting not to be revealed

I must tell!

No! Fuck no!

I swore a sacred oath upon Frankie’s grave
At Jimmy’s funeral
And again at Steve’s wake
But,
The devil that tempts me taunts me
With sugary teats:

Chocolate-covered men
Chocolate-stained overalls
Chocolate-stained rugs
Chocolate-stained breath

He plays a chocolate fiddle

O glorious music play!
O Caloo Monet!

Quickly moving Satan-hands
Over strings made of lost souls

Oh how I am tempted...
The promises he makes!

You will have kings before you, hands on their swords
You will have beasts of all kind call you master
You will have all 151 Pokémon (including mew)
You will have souls coming out the wazoo
You will have me…

I think I might reveal it
Like Jesus at the Ice-Cream Social

Your Nightmare

can you picture?
fifty naked men?
with bat wings?
made of skin?
opaque as a crepe?
flap, flap, flapping?

ears like wolves.
snouts like wolves.
swim through blood
like fish tank
frequenters.

caverns like locker rooms.
naked and free.
naked and steamy.
naked and clean.
naked and mean.

close your eyes.

can you picture?
your nightmare?
give it wings.
give it wolfish snarls.
take off its clothes.

your nightmare is
fifty naked men
with bat wings
made of skin
opaque as a crepe
flap, flap, flapping.

isn’t it?

Killing Swine in '09

Andale! Andale!
Arriba! Arriba!
Not even-
Speedy Gonzales can outrun
The tide of swine.

Sea of Cortez
or
the
Cerebral cortex

Swine Flu.
Or should I say
Mind Flu?
Coincidence?
I think not.

Doctor’s orders
To smite these swiney brainy disorders:
Splay across the borders
Of mind and mexico.
Skull and El Paso

Parents orders:
Go to your room
There’s swine fluey doom!

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 2

Man the Battleships!
Launch the defense dingo-bots!
Cousin Ralph is here!

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 2

Bard strikes the harpstring
Jarvis smelks a potato
Late night at the pub

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 2

Bless the evil men
Who cavort in outhouses
Lets see some titties

The Epidemic

Onward Swine,
To pull my load-

The foul beasts of an ancient land
Long gone,
Long forgotten-
Plaguing the memories of my father,
And his father,
And a million fathers before.

Onward Swine,
Until your wretched stench,
I can bare no more.

Onward Swine,
You punk bitch,
As they say...

Your illness is my promise,
Your demise is my saving grace.

The catcalls and the screeching boar-cries,
The pig hoards and the hoary cockadoodledoodlers
Sit in quiet agony.

Onward Swine,
Pollute our fragile minds,
Until we are no more.

The Filthswine Flu

“Oink, oink!
Cough, cough!
Well, you’ve got trouble my friend; terrible, terrible trouble
because
The filthswine flu is coming to a town near you.

Beautiful days,
Once used for loving and fishing and big game hunting.
Now are wasted-
Spent in an foolhardy haze
This, my pet, is the clouded curse of the filthswine flu.

Dogs no longer walk like men
Billy Goats no longer has a beard like a man
Men no longer act like men
Why should they?
When they’ve got the filthswine flu.

Eastern delights?
The Big Crapple!
Buzzwords of industry
Buzzwords of nonproductive invalids
Buzzwords of…
The filthswine flu”

-Charles Dodgson (1872)

The House Where I Live

sooty
floral couches littered less than generously
the crooked living room
yellowed picture frames slumped, straining
grinning corpses in a camera jar
yellow apple picking corpse
yellow garden planting corpse
yellow melting birthday corpse
for a laugh –
I fell corner nail and cupboard
wooden faces burn better
togetherness can creak and rot decay
so give me fire light
and run

Do the Dog Trot

In the end of the world,

Will the Harold Angels sing,

Or spit?

In the end of the world,

Will my tongue speak wise words,

Or shit?

In the end of the world,

Our final respite.

In due time,

My gaussian stares will turn

The leaf litter

Into an impenetrable barrier.

For the Heroes of yesteryear,

To bathe in.

And fuck in.

And call the wild calls they longed to call but never called and now will call and now will call but at what cost?

What cost?

What cost?

What cost.

My Lordy Lordy King

Some time earlier:
My mind touched upon a thought,
It stroked an impression – a notion?
No, it’s a musing it’s more of a -
More of an -
More of the –
More of uh –

Contemplation

I’m sorry imsorry
It comes and it goes and it goes and it grows like a plantwithnonoseandakingandakingfrompekingcakefrostingisbetterinbrown
And yet –
A Prince had a spiritual kind of carnal knowledge with my mind
and he spoke:

“the flesh of a brain is a (possibly frankly speaking as) possibly speaking as frankly (fleshy brains make fleshy thoughts) without brains the My Lordy Lordy King would (disintegration is frankly well frankly well) frankly well (frankly well) flesh of brain and the flesh of my Lordy Lordy King is production of art the production of artists the fleshy procreation of fleshy brains (it’s the putting the pen on the paper) the pen on the paper the ink on the finger the finger on the thought on the thought on the finger on the thought that he touched upon (the brain with the thought touched upon “Some time earlier:”?) yes yes yes yes yes yes yes. I promise you. That’s the impressionalthoughtful production of a fleshy, Lordy, fleshy&beautiful brain.”

What he said.

50 Days to San Jose's

Atop the parapet
stands a noble beast?
A lion, perhaps? A Busey?
No, it is I, king of kings and spacetime.

I stand

atop the parapet
Cosmic lasers!

Shot from my bosom!

God’s divine breath in laser form
God’s divine fury in bosom form.

I falter…
Poised to puke
eons of regurgitates from
atop the parapet.
The parapet crumbles,
weighed down by the wearies of weights of eons of lovemaking
atop the parapet.

Grandparents
Regular ol’ parents
Future parents
Never-parents

All of them once in bygone yesterdays
atop the parapet.
I fall
alongside the crumbly parapet.
atop and abelow
the falling parapet.
I scream…
but all I scream is-
“Atop the parapet.”

The Capstone Chronicle

The conceited tabernacle,
Where a childhood playmate,
Became a war-torn primate.

The cruel intentions of a million men,
And women,
Lay buried deep,
In the constipated bowels of the past.

Carry on, and carry on,
Carry on away,
Ceaselessly into the sun,
To find our brighter day.

Builders! Builders!

Lengthways!
cried the builders
of the horizontal tower
over - under - beaming sturdy
beaming strong
it won't be long - it won't be lengthy
til our vision sees fruition
shaking handly
shaking boldly
builders! builders! of my tower -
ever breaking by the hour -
every stone is like - a flower
scenting sweetly - so concretely!
Remember - Stan?
who fell -
from grace -
onto his -
beaming -
smiling -
face?
Oh! the gkirsh -
of head implosion - brainymelon! tired over!
gkirsh! gkirsh!

It's windy work to work
alength the horizontal tower
but - I like it - yes it's lovely!
ever breaking by the hour!

Hump Day Haiku

Hark! For pork shank scent
hath reached unto my snout length.
Me? A wolf, wolf, wolf.

Hump Day Haiku

Hallelujah Jim,
Our nuptial agreements hold
More venom than shit.

Hump Day Haiku

Flacid Penises
Flopping down the mountainside
I drink your milkshake

Common European Ash Mountain

My grandfather used to sit me on his lap
“Grandson, somewhere, beyond all your tomorrows, lies a mountain.”
He never got further,

his denture glue wouldn’t allow it.
his wrinkled face wouldn’t allow it
his hairy ears wouldn’t allow it
his nagging wife wouldn’t allow it

Now I know what grandfather meant.

I think

Please don’t quote me on this

Beyond everyone lies a mountain
Not a real one, figurative
It could be love

Or drugs

Or coyote sculptures

Or cigar-store Indians

Or island tikis

We all must
climb the mountain
Bloody, briny cunts that we are
We all must transcend the monotony of the rat race
The demagoguery of life
All represented by the mountain beyond our tomorrows
Mine is made of ‘75 Chevy Camaro’s

Disney World

Let my people free,

From this horrid nothing-scape,

The continuum of shotguns,

Firing shit,

Into the heavens.

Four score and twenty years from now,

Will the cantankerous cries of the weak,

Outgrabe the unwieldy asses of the privileged?

No one can tell.

No one, that is,

But the spring peepers-

Who rest peacefully,

Quietly,

On my shoulder blades.

Water is the Curse of the Drinking Classes

Have you ever seen a man with two dicks on each dick?

I have

Have you ever seen ghosts that walk like men?

I have

Have you ever heard the smells of sages long dead?

I have

Have you ever fallen in love with something you can’t comprehend?

I have

Have you ever gleaned the teeth of the bishop?

I have

Have you ever praised the devil that mocks your life?

I have

Have you ever planted your seed in foreign soil?

I have, many times

Have you ever gyrated to the disco beat with prairie dogs and coyotes?

I have

Have you ever read true love in the pages of Dickens?

I have

Have you ever blasted snot from the caverns of denial?

I have

Have you ever plunked out fantasies of lordship on a sitar?

I have

Have you ever kissed the walrus prince?

I have

Have you ever rapped with an ancient Hindu god?

I have

Have you ever laughed at monks playing on a jungle-gym?

I have

Have you ever schmoozed about with harlots with harts of gold?

I have

Have you ever felt the breeze run through your mustache?

I have

Have you ever seen my manhood?
I haven’t

nightencover

In molten velvet mountains
I stole’d on towards the nightencover
branchy crackles!
owly downing!
thrushing covers!
silken linens rivelled over: writhing under
streaming fogways – burbles babbling
how sweet
and strange
the ancient oakens stand
a gaze or two or three
benounced my footaways away
me; downwards greenly
slip serenely
more waltz than amblers
in leaves it seems

take up arms take up legs!
if not for the sake of your being –
better for the molten velvet mountains
of our progenitors

Cadaverous Ghostlies

Lizard eyes and top hat
Stare at me from beyond my tomorrow
And my today
My love lies

barren, in a field of dicks.

Big dicks

Small dicks

Samoan ones, mostly
But they are all dicks in their unique way

The lizardface hisses and pisses
Ejaculating ink into words on the papers strewn across my flesh
Novels of ecstasy and semen and divine judgment from my estranged uncle
O Frabjous Day!
Caloo Calay!

The lizardface speaks to me in a dead language I cannot fathom
Tongue-lashings, no doubt, from my grandchild’s ghost
That hasn’t been born yet, but speaks through time
Like the ancients used to say
You can’t judge my cock by its cover…

Unless

That cover looks like my cock

The Imperial Cruise

Cocksure cries from the gunners’ bowels,

Cahoots!! They’re in cahoots!!!

Screams the captain from beneath his faded covers,

The acquiescence of certain arguments is inevitable

Sagan had it right in 62,

And in 67,

And in 73.

Our new religion, acidity.

Charlestown

Tenfold to the bare naked of bones of my father sit,

Obligatory reactions from a holy child,

The weary call of the cat,

The naked mole-man’s testicle,

All things with true natures show,

The endless bottomless pit below,

Of horrible stank and shadeless land,

The barren borogroves,

Of mankind’s’ oligatrophic anus.

Goodnight, cruel specters,

Let my future intentions waver with repudiated profundity.


Carl Jung, Walachian high priest, circa 1957.

Along The Seine

Saturday afternoon along the Seine
Vomiting epithets on the destitute -

“The Swamp Man”
“Old Longface”
“No-Balls”

They grunt and lurch along
They lurch along the Seine

Saturday afternoon along the Seine
Spewing insults on lovers -

“Stenchful whores”
“Love is a lie”
“No-Balls”

They hump and stroll along
They stroll along the Seine

Saturday afternoon along the Seine
Barfing fabrications on Kings -

“Meaty chops”
“Nothing like a dog”
“Many-Balls”

They bellow and strut along
They strut along the Seine

Saturday afternoon along the Seine
Regurgitating undigested distgust on my Seiney reflection –

“No-Balls”
“No-Balls”
“No-Balls”

I weep and weep along
I weep along the Seine

The Deep Wood

The woods are dark and menacing this afternoon,
The branches tangle like hearty roots,
They twist sensually around one another,
Like snakes in the throes of passion.
The humidity,
And the sun,
Blaze.
The pressure seems low, the air is still,
Ominous.
Surely what the heavens have in store,
Is strong.
The leaves crunch, yet no creature is afoot.
Methinks I heard an owl hoot,
As the clouds start to roll in.
Then, they roll back out.
The day will go on,
Without a storm.
The air is still, yet calm.
The branches don’t seem so ominous now,
They are sensual,
Not severe.
Deep in my heart,
I know,
That somewhere,
Deep in this wood,
Sits an owl,
In the throes of passion.

Sambone Cooper-Barley

Oh! Alabamba’s prodigal son!

How gracious of you

To recant your ways,

And stand here,

Amongst your brothers’ and fathers’ bones

And recount that ancient tale.

That tale of fear, and deceit.

Played out upon a turkey-strewn field.


Winter 1487

An indigent’s hoary cry,

At the sight of a dying houndman’s eye

That eye of a king,

Yet that snout of daschund,

That ear of pug,

What fowl demon swept this under the rug?

What flock of turkeys?

Did swallow up

The noises?

The cruel machinations of the night?


????????

A Werewolf‘s Obloquy

Alas!

For a dogman

Is what I am not
Scorn!

Terrible shame

The stinging blows upon my testes
Fat townspeople

laughing their asses

On.
Rocks tumble ‘gainst my scrote launched from the hands of a child

Acceptance!

That whory grail!

Chalice of blunders?

Jungle jiving hips sway in the breeze
Cowboy tits

and Rooster calls

The dogmen laugh

Acceptance they have

Souls they do not

Souls I have

Acceptance I do not

Parents Just Don’t Understand

Felicity, That Harlot so Pure

Mother asked me today
“Where have all the good men gone?”

I
Told
Her

They’ve gone to a land beyond the buttercup trees
Where they laugh and love and do what they please
Father plays with his bar buddies all hours of the day
Sister(yes, sister) chomps of gumdrop flowers
Stepbrother I hate has no fun, No Way!
Grandfather I hear, has now tremendous powers
To kill and be killed, or to love and be loved
They say
He walks through the fields
Watching love grow
From the smallest titmouse
To the tallest giraffe
And the flowers and bees and boars and bards
Grow tall from the ground and fruitful they are
It never rains, and the sun never shines
No snow, no wind, no dark coal mines
For the men to slave away in.

Mother
Was
Pleased
And
Bought
Me
Iced
Cream

But I lied

The good men have not gone to that beautiful place beyond
The buttercup trees.
They’re all upstairs
In my closet drawers.

The Snake

A snake torso thrusts –
Throbbing its upper body.
A serpent head burns –
Pounding its dome against trees.
A cobra tail weeps –
Slamming its wet nutsack on the bone-dry pavement.

Who is the snake?
Cut thricely,
Guilty of betrayal,
Obliterating its testes – knowing full well
What he has done and can never undo.

You are the snake.

One-Third Pi R Squared Times Height

That which haunteth my dreams
Has come forth to me from beyond my grave
And image most foul!
Hounds sprouting everywhere
Like houndlike trees
Limbs like fish skeletons
Skeleton like fish
Teeth of bone, and bones of teeth

Hair on the body like the burning wild heath.

The feet of a pauper, the skin of a lord

A pleasant aroma wafts from the word-hoard.

Fingers like daggers piercing my plum pie

Shrieks and moans come from its eye

A laugh like that clown that sits upon my bed

And never knows when to shut its clownish head

Egads! Methinks, ye Gods have overrun
The world with a goblin apocalypse now has begun!

This beast!
Which feeds on my tears
Eats at my sorrow
Nibbles my misery
Loves thine melancholy

My Uncle Jerry

I Have Seen Things

I have seen things
No dog should ever see
The wife of the butcher loving on a stork
The dogs of the city floating on sausage breezes

mailmen fucking

like drunken sailors

Peasants fucking

like drunken sailors

Wizards fucking

like drunken sailors

The mayor fucking

like drunken sailors

Obama fucking

like drunken sailors

my accountant fucking

like drunken sailors

Greasemonkeys fucking

like drunken sailors

The king fucking

some drunken sailors

I have seen mountains of boobs fall to the sea of rage
the high Dennis Quaid on my doorstep blues

The high priest freaking out like a weird fucker

The king and his courtesans playing parcheesi with humans

Lords and peasants alike, holding hands and swapping dicks


Christmas 1986

Thorny Mexico

The thorny path to Mexico,
caves full of roses,
descending a merry distance, my
rope unraveling, strings loosed, I
sank into a bed of poppies.

The thorny path to Mexico,
I’m the cactus by a lonely pump,
Rattlesnakes are God, His
vengeful bite, the
sun slides off the plateau.

The thorny path to Mexico,
Decapitated bandits mingle with the dust,
desert air strangles and refreshes, my
grave lies under the arid steppe, my
salvation, in the sagebrush.