the sun sets on man. how many times do we need to be told
this? genocide has more meaning. the sun rises on another day and the day
jumps around and barks the way days do and licks my balls in just that special
way, and the sun rises, and it rises it also rises, and hemingway is orlando
and orlando is walt and walt is in your wallet and your wallet’s blood has
spilt and it is empty. this is what i
see on the set of the sun, its pretty bombed hemoglobin stage. oh monks.
oh monks of my lecherous mind.
build me stages of pebbles, construct theaters of suffering. take me by the prick into fields of fading
labia. autumn. today is the first full day of autumn and
winter looms like aphrodite in her drunkenness.
hooters is across from me. condos parade their compassionate faces
before our forsaken redemptive world.
coffee loves me. the hare in my ass
is lively and angry and stuck. it’s
going to be a good day.
you haven’t heard it said that the limits of
knowledge is the onset of spiritual menstruation. you haven’t heard it said that to explore the
limitless with the limited is the most dumbest
thing and the most central human act making the human the most dumbest
thing. you haven’t heard. you haven’t read. you haven’t lived. you haven’t had. you.
you. you you ma. you you ma ma.
nothing solves tummy aches like tum
tums. tum tums and death. and death does it better. death tums.
tum tum de tum tum
rilke taught me something once. taught me something on his ladder of
torture. but i forget.
nothing solves tummy aches like nothing. or a rabid rabbit up your butt.
i think of all the teachers i’ve had. professors, prostitutes, priests, pedants,
philosophers, pedophiles, poets, pipers, piped.
and i have to say. the rabbit
competes.
who is more glorious? alice coltrane, alice in wonderland, alice
the girl next door, or alice the closet inside?
i asked this of the oracle and you know what i think i saw her pointing
to in the pyretic tundra of words? alice.
fucker.
i stand on knowledge’s skinny windowsill,
pretending i’m cleaning glass. the dead
birds raining don’t help much. the
rabbit helps. the rabbit and the oracle. the rabbit and the oracle and the pebble and
pee wee and the memory of the dentist and dead mister disney. everything helps.
woe to you who take the sheets of knowledge
and cut them into itty pieces and gouge out eyes and stuff them in your deep
pockets and call yourself well.
this is knowledge. to sit on the toilet some fucked up morning
and sing the praises of flighty fate. to
lie below a once-loved corpse and love it even more. to walk through the sewers on superbowl
sunday and compose unfunny jokes and laugh.
to talk as if talking were something other than talking but know it
isn’t. to go to galleries and piss on
the heads of oneself. to collect sheep,
placing them one by one in mason jars, labeling each carefully according to
burton and archimedes and allen and john, and show them to your girlfriends or
boyfriends or whatevers or just yourself and you are the sheep. you are the sheep and the rabbit and the
dentist and the dead. when google tolls,
it tolls for thee.
