moo
   


          moo

 


              moo
       





                  moo
     







                        moo

the brigadier 

 emollients 

   spread on the skin 

   like civil war tents 

         the cannonballs 

        placed on the road 

 for mass effect 

           a corpse strewn 

    skin solution 

         in blue and grey 

         ahhh the South will rise again 

                                      like oozing pustules

             I'd rather be dead in a civil war photograph 

           than have acne

                     "corpse strewn"

    

 

             

     

swimming thru 

 the fish 

eye 

lens of no tomorrow 

night,

 no not right 

       drowning in a sea of old 

loves 

   and moving pianos 

in the night, right?

  just leave it to the 

experts 

 the surreal 

 artists 

   with ironing boards 

 and bicycles 

        and the coast of Spain

   so sore  

 so sorry 

 so sullen 

 and still 

     so sophistry

    is the seed 

   stop maybe?

     Yes!

 oops wait

   what's that?

       oh never mind 

 no?

        just clean up this shit 

   and gtfo

Phobos-Grunt


Hardy creatures,
   the tardigrades,
      able to survive
 temperatures close to absolute zero
  and up to 149 celsius
    were nonetheless
        unable to weather
            the storm
                when Phobos-Grunt
     crashed and burned
 into the Pacific Ocean
    on January 15th,
  2012.

don't drown in the sea
    watching for
   the rainbow
       she said
 don't lay in the street
    hoping for tire tracks across your
face
   do you know how to kiss?
    don't loosen the strings that hold you to
the never ending dream
 don't wash your face after
eating
 don't call me after 6
     i forgot all the things
she told me
these are just some of them

who 

stretched 

 this 

 fantastic 

taffy pull 

 of a 

   story?

      was it a hot day?

 or cold?

      was the tv on?

     did you have 

                           toast that morning?

   with butter 

and blackberry 

jam?

     maybe 

 just

    maybe 

so sleepy ..

rain finally rolled in...
 grey San Francisco..
 no waiting
on no one now
    just a big grey sky
 and the dripping
    through the window
   -for a little fresh air
  Napoleon never weeped
      but you can step on Tom Waits'
   hand
    If you owned a loft in Tribeca
in the nineties
   -one that has a swing in the living area
  large paintings
      no plants though
     too dark
     I dreamt I found a flat file
    but it was all covered in black plastic
We went to Sissy's job in NY
   taking care of Avedon's plants
       her husband worked at the Cloisters
    a medieval castle
  it never had any monks
or nuns
   but they have tapestries
     "we're here to inspect the tapestries"
    -some movie
    Sean Connery?
   wearing a beret?
     
   
    
   

c 

 thought 

 rebellion 

 was in 

 the air

   but the 

 car 

wouldn't 

        not go 

     no matter 

how she tried 

           - it was a stupid letter 

   she found 

 written 

 years ago 

 and never 

 sent 

 just reading 

 it was 

painful-

      so 

     she put on her shoes and 

got out 

of 

the 

house

sad writing of forlorn 

 and empty 

love 

 writing 

   my insecurity 

  now needs of the fire 

 to purge 

     the past 

    from my blood 

      so many 

    drawing books 

          so many shitty drawings 

      with a blue magic marker 

  what were you thinking 

  

a house like a museum of 

1978 

      filled with mice and 

   letters 

       books covered in 

 dust 

                  box them up 

 take them somewhere 

   somewhere not here

      don't bring that here 

   too late 

                                start again

sad writing...

-the coldest winter
   I ever spent
    was a summer
       with your mother-

in SF winter
   is a summer
       day in Montreal
a rainy cold

 summer day
     or maybe fall in NJ
   yeah
 Fall in NJ
  


        

'secrets hide in your dna'
   f u internets
blahbitty
     bit fux
       byte me
       

To Althea, from Prison: By: RICHARD LOVELACE (written in 1642) 

When Love with unconfinèd wings Hovers within my Gates,
 And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the Grates; 
 When I lie tangled in her hair,
 And fettered to her eye, 
The Gods that wanton in the Air, 
Know no such Liberty. 
 When flowing Cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with Roses bound, 
Our hearts with Loyal Flames; When thirsty grief in Wine we steep, 
When Healths and draughts go free, 
Fishes that tipple in the Deep Know no such Liberty. 
When (like committed linnets) I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, 
Mercy, 
Majesty, 
 And glories of my King; 
When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how Great should be, 
 Enlargèd Winds, that curl the Flood, 
 Know no such Liberty.
 Stone Walls do not a Prison make,
 Nor Iron bars a Cage; 
Minds innocent and quiet take That for an Hermitage. 
If I have freedom in my Love,
 And in my soul am free,
 Angels alone that soar above, 
 Enjoy such Liberty.

 I 

caved 

b

 side 

 the shallow 

 walls   

        plunked down 

      n 

 dark 

 ness

       looked at 

 light 

     shining 

 some

        where

     HOPE

        praps 

    or a crack 

   n 

 the 

wall

     window 

    door 

     forever 

    mistaking 

 my 

    doubts 

       for 

        realism 

            shine 

         a light 

 spelunker

    

you 

shone 

             like the sun 

   in your mirrored 

                           sunglasses  

tripping 

acid 

         in the park 

            playing 

   frisbee 

       whoo

                       frisbee!

         

every 

 where

 are fuck 

faces 

    fucky 

     fucky 

fuck                        

faces            

doing 

 their 

     fucky 

       fucky 

      face 

            fucking 

 fucking 

 me 

  fucking 

you 

fucking 

        everyone  

                         fuckfaces!

 

               

stately 

   plump

     oh shit 

 who spilled 

                    beer all over 

 the floor 

  S

seems 

       like  

           a 

 pos

                              but 

 somethings 

 wrong 

 w 

 the meter 

    these days 

 rats 

                                  and   

                               lisinopril 

                  still we send 

 our

   telegrams 

        to 

                         Indiana Jones 

            and watch the skies 

          for shelter