A pretzel on the side of the freeway,
or road kill, a dog hit by a car.
I thought it was my father for a minute.
The doctors came out of their tents.
Passing tankers almost touched their zippers.
One scratched and said: “We should operate.”
“Hmm, don’t want to say bladder infection just yet.”
My rifle fired embalming fluid into the sky.
I told the doctors about lipstick.
I said my father’s sad grins were populated
by formulas you could never memorize.
“And sunsets should shut up because they are tawdry.”
We decided to paint rouge on his coffin.
I chased my sex doll with a wedding ring.
Until I was tossed wet handshakes from its grave.
“It is wrong to fall in love without permission from the radio.”
The doctor recommended symbiotic turf flagging down my sweat.
Like gauze around the fact that I’m a lad.
They tended to dye your radar with memories about property.
They’d stereotype your sputum if you made it a chore.
Cornered by the grandiose pail of my birth’s proclivity,
the huskiest tourniquets were employed.
“We can’t autopsy your hoops without proper credit.”
“Sir, bazillions of maggots watch me through a magnifying glass.
I am pretend moist for their entertainment.
I’m somewhat their rogue bib at the cabana.
Spitting cremations for the faultily licked.
Exercising at gunpoint and groomed half to death.
Who plays spin-the-bottle with police sirens.”
I was convicted of drawing my own chalk outline.
Convicted of stealing my own chalk outline from the Louvre.
You shatter my tumor with lullabies.
You repo my waterbed with a syringe.
You spit tobacco in my ventriloquism.
You file a lawsuit so I will hold your hand.
You always fake holding my hand.
You replace the tires on my car with your diaphragm.
I train our baby on the volcano.
Neat breaks of ammo stung the weather.
They played my father’s rigor mortis over the loudspeaker.
Doctors with poor eyesight wearing rubber boots
through his carrion, with southern accents in his carrion,
on lunch break, the color of lotion, his carrion in tents,
said: “Toothbrush removes father.” They
said: “He served us well, your daddy pile
of Frogger super-genes gone splat.”
“A microbe of contorted dung.
Cerebellum of a dog whacked to lettuce.
Dead egg roll strap-on parent.
We’ll save him with Bioplasty and good intentions.
Kiss musical gangrene with politics you deserve.
A greeting card for the biohazard that came you here.
Applaud his temperature. Burn the ass a second
thermometer hole. We’re on the smelly job.
Septic hieroglyph, STAT. Shake its hand, STAT.”
I told them I don’t sing. I told them I don’t do anything.
They wanted to roll me in mayonnaise until I talked.
I told them I self-reflected once.
Christ trifecta dreamgallow waltzed the fetish
into bigger, badder stoves than that.
I dreamed of noose-filled kitchens on purpose.
I had become a transvestite to get closer to mom.
Wearing pants was lonely. I laminated my first pair of pants.
I agreed (passive aggressively) to lecture
(a defense mechanism) about gangrene
(defined as) a nocturnal emission cornered by microphones.
The white guilt prognosis, indicated by lack of sex drive.
The posse of corpse puddle or doctor
wanted my tongue for the evening news.
I was handed a legal document that said I had to sit down.
If we are in a room and you turn on
the television I might jump out of the room
and take the room with me.
Their surgery lamp swung the rain at queer angles.
“We’ll hide scabs in all your funeral roses.
Give us a smile, we insist. We need something to clean the port-a-potties with.
Do you see how the skin of this freeway is like gangrene?
Notice the unpleasant texture as I grate your face against it.
Never let me catch you putting lipstick on this freeway.
The cracks remind me of my daughter.
Did you know that some patients have been caught
trying to hide their gangrene under gobs of mascara?
But you always know who’s gone putrid a second
before it happens because you smell the circulation stop
and when you touch her it’s like Play-Doh in the microwave.
You’ve had your five minutes up my daughter,
cough her to me, chuck her next to your shit smear
and we’ll take a family portrait.”
My parents dressed like tag team wrestlers when they beat me.
My parents dressed like Laurel and Hardy when they molested me.
“Doesn’t that thing between your legs feel like an incomplete masterpiece?”
my father was fond of saying.
Nevertheless, scatological as it may sound,
he was like a father to me, my father.
We used a podium for our stains, oinked into garbage bags.
Hereditary gangrene, compost DNA, born with
spinach headaches, that smell, maggots posing as a brain
treated my glands like dog food, until I bent in squalid
light and prayed for AIDS or anything to applaud.
“When I say ‘fuck you in the ass’ I mean
you specifically and by that I mean whoever.”
My mother was apologetic for failing to abort me.
You can tell by the way I climb stairs.
Night of my first erection, I hoped the earth would die.
You should have seen my lawn in those days.
“By ‘your wife,’ I mean: genocide colanders of piss
or until stitches follow someone else’s progress.”
“A dog bites its tail until gangrene.
Now we are in love. Our bodies no longer require food.
I don’t go around having sex with a lot of people or mannequins.
I drink the hydrocephalic runoff of my loved ones.
The color of my hand is really just a radio. My radio is radio-colored.
I put it on a trampoline instead of voting.
Because I have a background in pornography.
Did you get your hysterectomy at Toys R Us?
Another whiff of sainthood might kill this flavor.
The first contraceptive was old age. The second was your face.
Let me explain. Your face is a trampoline for syphilis.
Why do you make a habit of corners and excuse your tardiness with lewd photography?
Your underwear runs like a diseased egg through the humidity of my palm.
You love me with too much of your history intact.
How many war zones occur when you shut those peepers?
They pretend to be insects, but are really the veins of your eye.
They fine you with pink ribbons. They rub medicine on your house.
They know how to stage a good sex crime. They travel up your daughter
until she accidentally expels an older version of herself. Do you express joy?
Reflective surfaces have always been a problem for you. Accordions are involved.
Traffic, by the way, is how you were circumcised.”
We smoked the lake. The lake was too wet
to smoke. We smoked the lake. The lake was popular.
I came out holding a television. They charged me with rape.
I utilized a banjo. A roomful of traitors masturbated into a cup.
The pigment of your life was all I’d trained myself to wound.
They wiretapped our piss with too much adoration.
Doctors had rhythm. That was all they had.
It was regulation to breathe in the city.
If you refused, someone did it for you.
I held my breath so hard I ended up in the country.
You were standing there in the road with your fake signs
that made me love you.
I used to want to kill anyone who played guitar.
Before I met you, I used to want to kill
anyone who had small hands and I don’t know why.
I’d still kill you, though.
You were going to ask for my green card
and I was going to show you the freeway
with dead toppings that called me son.
Instead, we pretended to fire each other from jobs we never had.
We all go tee hee in the open sore of consciousness.
Vanilla Ice girlfriend haircuts dictate lingerie genealogy.
We tried once and lost our underwear. We tried underwear once.
We lost our pelvis to good conditioners.
We had a bag of fat people tears that we used like a telephone.
We were totally into public execution before it was popular.
“We’re in a disentangled wood, being varicose.
Fiddling with our Christian Science haircuts.
Hosing our balletic undercarriages like a patriot.
Whistling spaghetti earfuls, gunshot nod at 1000mph.
I cup your bathroom pitter-pat.
Use measuring tape to comb your yogurt off my antlers.
You newsreel vomit cosmetic half-English wines.
So lactose and raggedy our knees prang the earth.
You premiere your gossamer spaying with a canzonet.
More a gospel inbuilt than rehearsing your stains.
What helps the swole pond mutilate its instruments?
Plastering forty-five caliber buzz girls might trumpet.
You’ve torn the skin off our money, you big physician.
Well, whack that clit with a staircase. It sins like clocks.
Knife your cum into my sinuses. I will gargle portraiture of us smiling.
Shrunken thing, drawn in spite of gravity.
In bowties of conversation, you polka dot corn.
Symptom of our peel, draped in dial tones.
I perch in the fig scullery of your Ureaplasma.
The New York Times diamond death threat.
Crowbar darling tasting of the warts that will survive us.”
My mother died a pinup gal.
With Chlamydia jump ropes in her underwear.
Petting injuries against the radiator.
Her dribble was removed until she was a boy.
She was considered so seriously Albanian her parish came by the canister.
Doctors canonized the pulp in a dank fridge.
They hemmed her up with a sandal. Fashioned the crust.
They were platonic about her spinach even though I said my bad.
“We snort her kidney stones to get high.
A rockstar keeps the entropy of her starch in his kilo.
His clutch is mere porn. No one overdoses enough.
By pottying in my heart, alas.”
“Your glorious squat thrusts nibble me.
Bungled helicopter birth canal and mini-mall cleavage.
Fatwa paraphernalia I squat anyway.
Mean whispers vacuum my brain. Pet my hernia with a basketball.
The Reading Rainbow Bangbus full of snarky androids.
Their clove butts eclipsed by kittens passed away.
A kamikaze in each tuxedo, belching Alzheimer’s.
Rigor mortis popsicle anointed by the sideburn.
Humming canned laughter into my bedpan.
I bring binoculars to your bulimia. Store it in a terrarium.
Bravo, you’ve carved what peeves you into your straight jacket.”
“Clinical Report: My medical training is limited both to the proximity of the wounds I create for myself and to the punctuality of human rot: a minor, self-injurious culture of paltry accumulation. I know, for instance, enemy means anyone. I refer to the mating process. As a doctor, I am no fan of reducing body counts. It is a field free of standards, an amorphously roving site wherein no house may fret becoming an addition to its community. There we mimic our corresponding birthmarks. Syncopated dimensionalities afflict us from the borrowed memories of a deceased giraffe. The nightmare of bodies unified is no longer public. There are incestuous clues, reeking of size. Yes, it is advisable to keep a dictionary of your fading audience at hand, if a fire is nearby.”
I loved the color of your fur before
you signed it all away to undeserving charities.
I sent this fucked up letter about how you made my face
glossy like birds, remember? You were Apple Beak Grin Girl.
What kind of skewer did you call these arms
when they held someone who smelled like me?
I was executed by doctors because of poor metabolism.
When they pulled the trigger, my hair became pigtails.
“Beauty takes the grease you know.”
A snifter of posh screams will make you itch.
A glob of telephone brings health.
Put me to sleep with enemas of snow.
Snow my pox until skin doesn’t happen.
Beauty takes the grease you know.