virginal Slurpees

TWITTER

is not an accurate sandwich.




IN ANY MAJOR CITY NEAR YOU


Behold the hives of poetry!

Pissed-off bees.

Noble honey.


Golden combs.


Wear a special suit.






Gemäldegalerie


There are narwhals rampant
in poetry and elsewhere

It should make you happy

To shave from an Iowa pig one's viewpoint
leaves a big carcass

To ho one's self

Don't misquote The Mad.

They follow you home.




BUT IT

To make this will it
butter Berrigan book sun
some chicory or a daisy
be coming? Even a beach
must say to the patient artist

something.




JOHN CAGE


Resort sands

called errant?





WHY DO YOU VISIT THOSE MUSEUMS?


What is immortal
is absurdity
or paintings to people

unchangeable
getting on buses
of various holocausts

Why crave the known
deficiency of
Nip Tuck islanders

who shit all over the True House's

qualities of calmness?




MOMENT AFTER HANGING UP

I craft
with the eyes
of my city.

Easter Islanders
doubtless
have many different

problems of their own.

Well look, the Giant Auk
is extinct.

Things could be worse.

Say something
in Yiddish, swallow hard

and move back
one geologic era

of misplaced optimism.




NEW YORK POETS


They fell singing

of pills and various pulls.

Lupercalian streetcorner tigers.

Luciferan basket cases.

All under the same sentient diving bell.

The Negligence Bell.

All about traffic, really.


Starving between living and expression

you become a sandwich

in a sort of Roman negligee.


There is a chasteness.





BEACHCOMBING AT DAWN

I'm with Silent not Stupid

What pink tribute little vegetables I've had!