On Substance:

1.

Is it talent or acid passion?

gust of twinkle dust

twirled inside big metal sail

Henrietta chunks over

green rock devil spine.

We see lake as dark hill

We sell snow devil as much wind stop.

Boo-ba-lee-doo-doo

Eigengrau water

and fluffy water swirl

and sky water

All shoved around

in a tough love

spirit sucking east.

Behind the Conoco

and a snow cloud

is 16,000 feet

-- maybe more –

of vertical sublime

to which my only response

is a confused porn

startle.

2.

Bartender flirts with a ladies night

I lick my lips in the eyes of a strange bass line

Light dims. Dance floor unfolds.

"What are you doin' writin' poetry on a barstool anyway, darlin'?"

Written blocks in carpel tunnels

savage words and salvage what

birdstock remains in this world.

freedom in flight or in grass

don't be fooled by the looking glass.

This is when and why

I do drugs.

Distract me from life and its

perilous mundanity

From people and their

casual cruelty

From my own bigotry.

Call me Player-Hater.

I can spit on the game just fine from here,

thank you.

3.

At the bottom of an inland sea,

dried up to flower pot entropy,

an old bacteria rebreathes

from mild-mosh machinery.

Recycles nostalgia swaying

support limbs interlocked,

balances drinks on twig tips.

Throws up prayers

-- swallow in strokes –

that Granny goes down with the gin.

Standing on the crusty fishbowl floor

smoking, still chainlinked,

against mesa club mortared,

hover questions no one asks of

the pre-teen revolution.

“Again!”

Thrown-up prayers

-- swallow in strokes –

that Granny goes down with the gin.

4.

All punks are hybrid

freaky androgynous alien bunnies

that vary in size

depending on the circumference

of the hole in the community

vending machine.

All my priorities are ranked

in order from Ghetto Racist

to Anime Acrobat.

All paper is joint paper

exchanged between two types of people:

thosewhobelieveinthedichotomy

and

thosewhodont.

5.

“Too ‘enigma’ for me”

-- prints Dali;

Master away –

Chandelier Playground.

Pardon me,
Why do you eat
  and how do you breathe?
Is this house cultured
  or dressed nice?
All the rugs are the same
  but none alike.
{homegrown key limes . . .
models of stupid industry proper}

We prefer beats intelligentsia.

6.

I am subjective;

vindictive;

a cresting spiral, and another,

indicative of my last four hours.

When Jesus sits down to play poker

it’s at the same slumping

ice capade at which Che Guevara

and Stalin sit. Round table rifts.

7.

I believe in panorama

the wide shot

draining the plight of

shooting the stars.

But if in an image I reside,

kindly cut me out

and paste me upside down

on some cardboard

and hang me from the rafters.

I'm after a different bride.

Scythes of Zion, cut me open

open me up.

Slash a lover's mark upon

my nuptials and

define the difference

between bluff and blood.

By the sum of what is not
invested in God,

kill me.
I declare a fanciful war

for cold air again.

This arrogance

will ne'er win

my devotions

my lungs

my mouth.
 I'd rather scratch them out.

So now:

I desire to say I am in love.

Desire to say it plainly.

Let my lack of poetic device

be itself sacrifice

to convey

how I let this love maul me today,

No longer willing

to stand in it's way.