squirrel. Squirrel.

                      I'm        being       
      watched    by          a  pigeon.
My 
                  ass      takes   up      approximately       
    2.93 bricks                and     mortar.
                 More bird.
       A        little robin           guy nearby.
  I'm        being        watched              by       two
pigeons           now.       My grandma        said     
       her             brother             looked 
       like a   sasquatch. It's        a 
                   strange      word,             
     squirrel.          Squirrel.        I        look
 up         to the          squirrels       who 
cross roads        and   eat    without            looking.

The Shit I Learn-ed....?

Change your pickle water once a day
for sixteen and a half days, and that's
just one of the things I know. There's
free water behind every Bojangles if
you have the right tool and parables are
worthless if you can't see in the dark.

There is no hi-jet on a bronchial endoscope
and if your joint canoes, burn the canoe. See
the paper through the page just as you would
a jar for the pickles. Dance the way your great-
aunt would dance in 1985. Watch out for 
beers, they'll getcha. Don't eat with your nose
closed, or your nose. Never ever use off-brand
Post-It notes or those orange-ish yellow ones,
canary yellow, only.

Always skip breakfast, never lunch, lunch alone
often and lunch with friends even more often.

Fly a kite on the beach. Sing to the moon on 
long drives. Let loose. Reclaim your place
whenever you can (or can't). Put peanut-butter
on both sides of the bread and put your name
on everything you own. 

Haiku #009

This fleeting moment
of magnificent bliss
is all that matters.

Sixteen Cups of Tea

I always felt, where
it's all left out, let's make
a break for it, eat out, 
milk it, learn the banjo
naked, cook for the queen 
and fuck the king, save the
worms, not one
man, it begins with a 
word, just like us, cut
up, cut cheese, down 
low,

killing the species, writing
Jackson, eating the candle
wax, writing mom, starring
in something, leading you
on, fridging it,

you could design it, steal
the planet, boof a pagan
ritual, type it (if it even 
matters), fly, grill 
out, fry up, wash it 
down, bread n' butter,
soap in a cup,

she walks the land, heavy
head, neon pants, a picture
frame, keys of lead, golden
gates, an empty tube of 
SpongeBob toothpaste, a 
million miasmas, hers to taste, 
a brown balloon, hers to 
take, hit the range, three
men of tain, her song
of songs, a day without rain,

empty lawnmowers, dried
out soup, Fabuloso, exotic
expat worms, cotton-candied
Family Guy, a bible
made of chocolate, overdue, 
look out, on the mirror, 
in the toilet, on the wall,
meditating, transcending,
unneeding, unending, undeserving,
unlearning,

desire.

Lunar Love

And so like the shadows under

your feet is the moon to shine

so bright. So meek to the others

but not to me. You speak the 

lunar language I yearn to understand

but know is birthed. Stupid

are successful, why do I push myself

away? Climb the hole again. The whole

of myself again. I need you, I don't.

Ultra Death Chess Club Initiation Sequence

Eating a bag of Original Ruffles
next to an incomplete
chess board. Your move
to the next big place 
took my face. 

Next to the elucidatarian sea
who aspires malignant change.

And now, some pretzels. The
queens face off. Between her 
lesbian nuns with her little
yellow hat and her little coal
shoes which are still too big
and she stands there washing
her hands between her lesbian
nuns who wear black bonnets
like shellacked roaches, Shakespearean 
sonnets, perfect and polished.

To her left, a black hat halted,
Sister Margaret, to her right, 
a scowling Pam.

"'Start when you can,' said 
Scowling Pam," said the 
sitting man 
waiting for her little hand 
to move,
to stand.

My Iranian Film Class

My favorite class I ever took was called
Iranian Film and it’s Filmmakers, or
something like that. My classmates and I 
turned into cows and rugs and oceans and vampires and taxi drivers and celebrity impersonators and lovers and. The movies
are so different from Hollywood, so 
different from New York, and so different
from my childhood bedroom. 
O their food and their quirks. I've
watched five different Tahdig tutorials,
I cook it on my birthday, with real saffron. 
New ways to love. To love your friends, not just
love them but love them. To forgive your enemies, and
feed them. To be arrested for
making films and to never stop making them.

Who are we but artists? Who are you and I but 
children?

The Black Meditation

Swimming through the lights
I saw as a child with thumbs
pressed hard against my
frightened eyes, foreshadowing
the journey.

I'm not convinced I can return,
although, who can say why the
alphabet backwards is?

Knowing is the only battle, knowing
will ruin it; the sex is in the delusions
of the romantic, not
the treasure chest. 

A poet with the same name as me
who looks a lot like me, in fact, he
looks identical to me despite what looks
like a tattoo of a red hammer
on his forehead. Although it's not a
hammer. It's a saxophone. 

The Poet

A poet with a tattoo of a red saxophone
which looks a lot like a hammer speaks:

"The poet is a fool whomst poetry is
constantly thought and shat out," 

and thus, an untitled poem is written:

Untitled Poem #8,097

The poet is
a fool whomst
poetry is constantly
thought and shat out.

Fucking Pencils

There are pencils everywhere and I cannot escape them no matter 
how hard I try.

The pencils are regenerative like a hydra; if I break one 
(snap!) right in half, led grows from the side with the eraser and an eraser
grows from the side with the led.

There are pencils fucking everywhere!

Pencils fucking, now that would be a whole new set of problems because 
then I would surely have to worry about pencil pregnancies, then pencil
pubescents (which, god forbid, may include pencil puberty). Then THOSE
pencils will fuck each other and become even more pencils. SO,

allow me to rephrase:

There are fucking pencils everywhere!

Well, now, I suppose a fucking pencil could still fuck another pencil, and, more shockingly, this may propose that the fucking pencil can fuck anything it wants, like a dog that won't stop humping a leg, you call that a fucking dog, it just wants to keep on fucking.

Ugly Pink Noises

Crossed winds blow tired clouds across a dull highway 
town. The Wendy’s didn’t know what it had.

We matched on Tinder three times two years ago and 
here we are, reciting TV quotes while doing a Walmart puzzle. 

I talk and walk it the right way to pacify tired old people.

Something tells me my neighbor doesn’t like the smell of weed. 

It’s warm enough for a bonfire that we’ll enjoy for thirty minutes 
then go inside to eat pre-packaged meatloaf and Spaghetti-Os. 


That unfinished Walmart puzzle sat on my roommate’s kitchen table for 59 days.


I’ll find a new girl, I tell her. One who will appreciate
my sculptures.

“He recently got into sculpting,” said the narrator. “He
then sprinted to the library to pick up chicks.”

I need an apartment big enough to hold them. Some of my sculptures
can be over 37 and a half feet long. Some of them
have to be looked over and carefully watched or else
they will come to life (if not kept a careful eye on). Some
of them require daily oil changes, stainings and sandings,
weekly pressure washes, daily drainings of their auxiliary 
water ports, etc.

There’s a lot of work in being a sculptor. Even one who 
only deals in forging famous sculptors' sculptures. 

I’ve got three of those stupid giant balloon dogs in
a storage unit. Who wants one?

Untitled Poem #300

107 vinyl records but
no record player.
No recorder either.

4 electric guitars,
white, black, red, and yella,
no strings to string 'em.

13 bottles of warm light
lager and no corkscrew.

A pen with no ink.

A 56 gram bottle of
Norwegian hand cream.
No hands.

It looks like
a million tangled-up iPhone
chargers all causing
those bad headaches
cured by pinching
the inside of the hand,
between the pollex and
index lies just the word you're
looking for.

Everyone has dry hands
all of a sudden.

Winter Goldfish Pond

Goldfish Pond, goldfish pond. 
What have I done! That 

good ol' goldfish pond behind
my folk's mossy white adirondacks.

Disarray! Dead, or hibernating; 
those chilly willy cattails and

brown pickerels? The fish are
still there. Maybe. I see one or
two.

Thank you, they might say
if they could. You're welcome,
and I'm sorry, I would reply.

It's okay, I hope they'd say
back. 

Bubbles and bubbles. A second 

fish returns. 

Some shrimp-flavored mush
pellets should do it. I smile
and leave.