Saturday, September 5, 2015

some poetry, meditations on impotence and death written over a span of many years

O!  When will I be heard?

How do I know this?  How can I say this?  From whence my authority, you ask?
Because of the size of my cock. It's like a can of tennis balls.  Well, not my actual cock (wouldn't that be great?  maybe I could finally get some goddamn fucking respect around here...).    No,  I mean the cock in my Mind.  You gotta have a big cock somewhere, whether in the Mind or the body.  Best to have both, but barring that, you gotta link'em somehow.  Like yoga.  Some have both, some have neither.  For them it's easier, more simple.  Most who have only one just wish they had the other.  Maybe if I jam a knitting needle into one of my tear ducts as far as it will go my actual cock will get bigger.  You know, a trade-off.  Then maybe I could finally get some respect around here.  That would be great.


Amy

I.
Nobody would've made a documentary of my life had I died when I was 27.  (which, as anybody who knows me knows I almost did.  so cool....)  Alhamdulillah memory of me would've faded by now, like so many of my dog's stale farts.  and then what?  quiet. darkness. peace. solitude. an entity unto myself, a black hole faintly glowing in the void for who knows how long.  unthinking, dispassionate.   fuck.  i should've died when i was 27.

II.
But I didn't die.  curiosity (along with evolutionary hardwiring) keeps me going now, i suppose.  a different, new quest--- why wait for death?  need we die in order to experience solitude?  for the wind to cease? to glow faintly in the void?  can i be a beacon?  maybe.  fuck. no. yes

Haiku: I-75 in the summer

A whirling helix
vultures dance in an updraft
transfix'd, I drive on

un reve

I dreamt that I had been dead
or at least mistaken to be dead.
We were in Captain and Gran's old house (not Captain and Gran's house)
I remembered my death, a tumbling falling thing.  My brother
is the last thing I saw, then blackness.  Calm.
My concern was whether or not I had been embalmed
while dead, or mistaken to be dead.
We were in a harbour.
Eddie Rivera showed me my grave marking:
an ugly welcome mat with my name on it nailed
to a dock



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