Mr Millbrae's Miniature Mauser

"Hey, that's a hammer."

Mr. Millbrae fashioned, with his penknife(from a chunk
of pine).
a miniature Mauser.
"Damn Nadzees"

way over yonder where the bluebells sing

Cabling High
Mannfred Mann blossoms
burrowing bloomed
and bastion
solidarity in numbers
solidarity in numbers
whay
whay whay
why am I here?

whay
whay
whay
way over yonder where the bluebells sing
why
why
rose will bloom in nuclear patch
of skeletal letters
a rose will bloom in
march death march
of
chain reaction
the community-ists will
want for peace

trying
trying to scrape the
sunlight from your
tomb
moving down
moving down now
kentucky rifle wood
gunflint blue
on your fingertips
moving down
now the gears
are turning
I'm turning
the blue flint gun metal
aging

whay down yonder in the
Injun Nation
way Dow in the algonquin
hotel hammmer

way down

I could have been a contender

asiatic fever
bending the
ritual no
i'm at a loss here
echo-y laughter in between the buildings
car was spray painted
but that's no more
nothing
i'm speaking to ritual
and sex
hazing
the cubicle mate
for bagels and shmear
and coffee
and the one with
blond dreads
piled high
won't be "back to the kitchen"
two numbers in the same seat
the flapjack
restack
am i making any sense here?
fol de rol
fo de rol

but am i speaking to ritual?
go shave she said
and stop worrying

Vermeer maybe
in Kundlistsomething museum
way the fuck off in
vienna
reading mass market paperbacks
in a youth hostel

will they be gone?
like ripped from the cover
and sent back to a publisher
dime store dickwads
i'm trolling here
moving forward into
literary forgetfullness
Boschian bagelry
garden of earthly cubicles
restack flapjacks
"man, you are going too far" laughing
when I asked for REAL MAPLE SYRUP
but the ritual is now not speaking,
spoken for
summoned
just the same big dumb building staring back at me
it's not like I asked for it
and it's not unusual
calling New Hampshire
about light bulbs
ritual
RESPONSE
but now I'm going to light a cigarette
and think
that's ritual
dot dot dot
echo-y laughter again
that's cyclical thinking
like in the back of the car
waiting for the police that don't exist
in Livermore
I wonder if he had been to the fire station
are you following this
ritual speak?
speaking to?
well no not that
just don't know here
something again
and on
for the time being
and the sway of that big dumb building staring back
staring back

Part II
oh give me a home
where Mark Rufallo prones
where the steer and the cantaloupe pray

Part III
fellow with a big nose
to trip you up

it's an affront
to my (very soul)
ee cummings like poem

I am the BEER o wulf
great hoary hair headed
pylon of pilsner

dire endings

oh dire
you are so tired
SUHleep
POHlease
before I do something
DERastic

perusal of persuasiveness
intoned in your tomblike response
attenuated to a retort
and holding a cigarette
that you just snuffed out

In a World of Stoned

smooth move smooth move
drinking drinking drinking
smooth move smooth move
drinking drinking drinking

foraging agin
in a stoned underworld
in a world of stoned

reminded me of a time when i was at college and my car ran out of gas... after a week I got some gas, put it in and started to drive down the hill to the entrance of the campus which was a four way stop...my brakes didn't work, they went right to the floor and at that moment a motorcycle cop was driving through(did I tell you this already?)and I missed him... literally by inches... if he had been a few seconds slower I would have mowed right over him, probably killing him because I had an old heavy 62 ford fairlane and the suspension was pretty low... I never really thought about it but one day I wondered what my life would have been like if I had run him over...I probably would have been convicted of manslaughter...

flulike symptoms
heat and uncanny
awareness of skin sensation
to smoke or not to smoke
in this heat
dried up
phone vibrating urgently
the window is open but the sound
of a lawnmower
beats against my head
dying in the suburbs

memorizing
post androidian
malfeasance
i squirrel away two
bushels
and forage amongst
the blighted orange and lemon trees
across the hall
a large
vesper
of antinomial proportions
is watching a video
and eating popcorn messily

aluminum cans

his shirt
was torn
the wound
bled through his fingers
she said "oh, you're wounded".
he said. "oh it's just my heart."

reaching through
the broken artifice
his vexed countenance
persuaded the masses to
be calm
and find their voice
to reach beyond
the battered ramparts
to the arms
of the children
the lie down now sweet dear

a summer of July's

The breakdown of
meaningful discourse
served on a bed of spinach

smokind
puffink
burner

feeling
fracked
fucked
and
fore lorn
ambient
temperature
blue bottle ass
cold
searching
for
something
and coming
up
empty

spent
sent
shent
snuffed
puffed
duft
damn
sam
ham
pea
she
we

japanese for because

becasu I love you
becasu the music is pounding
becasu I'm drunk
becasu you're beautiful

not becasu
just becasu

shit what does it mean?

why am I laying here in bed typing on the computer at 8:04 am on a saturday morning in July. I should be watching cartoons.

It doesn't seem like July. None of the months seem any different anymore. I guess that's San Francisco. Foggy and cold even, especially, in the middle of summer. Genius, pure genius.

Downstairs is getting his bump bump on already. Who plays that shit at this hour? His housemate said his music has a lot of *ounce* to it. And yep, it does. And she lives in the same apartment. haha he's starting to boom. weird. I guess he just doesn't think about other people. it sounds like some crap rave music from the nineties. fucking toad.

zoinks,
like a ping pong ball
bouncing down the sidewalk
i'm wary
of awry
no left turn unstoned
I've passed a marker,
a milestone,
a warning in stone, do not build
below this point.