(My latest piece to be submitted to, and rejected by, McSweeney’s. Live long, and keep writing.)
Our connection seems faint, an imperceptible nod from a passerby at some un-appointed hour. Does it not? What is this, do I know you?
Yet, here we are breathing the same air. You’re a lot like me, I bet. Stubborn and given to brash episodes of furious ingratitude, consumed by a facile self-obsession, a rancorous preoccupation with feeding and napping and all of it punctuated with a factory-like production of pant soiling emergencies. Don’t I know it. Continue reading “Address to an Infant in a Stranger’s Baby Carriage”
a panicked lust for power
is what fear sees when it
looks in the mirror
at the corner bar, or
savages in tailored suits
men of every cloth
laying claim to the woman’s womb
the factory of our kind
you flat-lined in a speckless green room
long nursing that saline bit of light
departing all, the tactics, ploys
the body that you thought was you
with all its hopes and needs and joys
has up and gone, it slipped away
so now you search for haunts anew
nowhere to go, no way to stay
the heartbeat line is flat, a bow
to fleeting breath, and hope’s decay
they note the time of death as now
and exeunt all, give o’er the play
Q. What do you call an opioid epidemic in a white neighborhood?
A. Opioid epidemic.
Q. What do you call an opioid epidemic in a black neighborhood?
A. Crime wave.
Q. What’s the difference between a pharmaceutical company and a drug cartel?
A. I give up, what.
Q. What is the purpose of the law?
A. To protect people who have stuff from people who don’t.
Q. What do you call a white man with an assault rifle?
A. Open carry advocate.
Q. What do you call black boy with a squirt gun?
A. Officer involved shooting.
Q. What do you call a rapist who runs for president?
A. Mr. President.
Q. What do you make of this fucking country anymore?
A. Fuck me, IDK.
orbituary: n. the official announcement
when a satellite looses orbital inertia,
and plunges back to the planet’s surface.
see: obituary, orbit
a truly original work
would not be recognized as art
and language cannot begin to function
without tapping the manifold intents
of its every instance
from the first lowbrow grunt
to the last ephemeral buzzword
creation implies something springing from nothing
a nonstarter, a hat trick beyond
the scope of even a heavenly godcraft
The stupider it looks, the more important it probably is.
—J. R. “Bob” Dobbs
flood water anklets
trade in a wink for a shove
sky crossed with jet trails
no olive branch and no dove
some poet moon thief
stole all the light from above
(i used to think that)
can’t get enough of your love
(originally posted here in July 2016)
Remember the movie Idiocracy?
I think it’s happening.
refracted in the moondust
saucer round, the light
it comes our way, obey
her, cyclic lunatic
the hounds and wolves
have paced all day
come out, come out
come out and play
but soft what light the
tidepull on your hunger
and your wolven groin
she’s close enough to fuck
with tides and passions
nerves and hormones, luck
to man and beast alike on
land or sea or airborne tern
that fucking moon
we never learn
In honor of this evening’s full moon. Get
out there and sing to her then, shall we?
Immigrant goes to America
Many hellos in America
Nobody knows in America
Puerto Rico’s in America!
—”America” from West Side Story (excerpt)
© Leonard Bernstein Music Publishing Company