#4,000,007
Dear Kindly Participant:
You are not a novelist
with short blonde hair
and marbles in your head
that record each miniscule twitch.
You have never written a book
full of miasmatic hipsters.
Someday you will finish your meal
whip the empty plate across the room
and say Fuck you, Mayor Quimby.
Go straight to hell.
Until then, be sure the tailgate
is securely fastened. The beer
properly ensconced.
#16
When the minstrels came in the door, I left.
It was entirely their fault
for in me they had created a wall a wall
on which the pounding of my head
seemed entirely necessary and practical.
But that is the price of being alive.
You must be willing to endure
a seemingly unending series of illusions
one after another like puberty
or cup after cup of instant coffee
that cause you to become
the same person.
#76
Located somewhere within the circuitry
of the warm soft thought machine
composed of a series of sensations
that equivocate a life made mostly
of breathing and a single droplet
from which the effluvia suffer
to emit their gasps—
I have settled upon a small bowl of noodles
for my midday meal.
O blurry whisperers
suffer me not.
I am the worst sort of manager.
Always looking to end things
with little expertise…
#333
I am most grateful to the forces
which allow me to appreciate
the handiwork of fuckups.
I seek a pure beauty
unavailable to men and women
who don their oxygen masks
to visit the observation deck.
I cradle my ideas
made for those who seek
such things as whimper dross
whimper dross, etc…
I am the worst sort of manager.
Always looking to mend things
with simple flocks of geese.