Eightieth Entry

More of the Gross poems. I've actually found inspiration in this term. Also, my life is a horrifying depression, so why not find beauty in the gross? Is it like flarf? Who knows? Who the hell knows what flarf is anyway? Not me, gentle reader.

New links are up. Robert Szot is an amazing painter who I adore and who gives me drinks. Kseniya Yarosh is a talented zinester/artist/social commentator who put together my chapbook and who kisses me daily.

Here's my poem:

PURE VOMIT

The thoroughfare. Parades always end like this.
I pride myself on my work. It is always about
the pure biology of a given ejaculation, given
moments, I take them. I used a paper plate
with straying stains of former barbecue foods
to wipe the liquid from my face, rubbing
till sore to clean my beard. This is a change
in my ongoing descent, one that always nestles
in my skin waiting for a proper or improper moment.
There are things on my lips, dangling liquidly.
The pavement seems a very nice canvas and,
more than that, social commentary! My face
is pointed in a given direction and that direction
symbolizes the future but it is really just
a direction, one which I will now take in my quest
to find the purity of vomit.

Seventy-Ninth Entry

Man, my days include a number of ups and downs.
Dan Hoy inspired me to write this poem.

Here's my poem:

DIARRHEA

for Dan Hoy

Wearing new clothes against the mist,
sitting down, the cacophony of my bowels,
mixing with the symphonic music, time
for a change is the proverbial electoral chant,
not unlike the Gregorians. Not unlike
the ancients who climbed mounts and
sermonized. I heard these words rip
back at me while the surf burst in my face.
I became tearful. I stretched out my fingers
but no other fingers were near.

Seventy-Eighth Entry

So horribly insanely ZONKED today.
Kseniya recently described me as going through my "gross period," so today's poem is something really pretty with her in mind.

Here's my poem:

BODIES TRANSMUTATED INTO GARBAGE

Fitful nights disturbed by rustling sacks
formerly made of skin, piled up in the street
neatly, bodies with green smudges, reading
the paper on the train has never been my thing.

I drink orange juice. A woman's bloody, jaundiced
arm stares back at me out my window.
There are pine needles sticking out of the skin.
I throw the thick pulpy concoction back
and see the outline of the woman's face,
hiding behind the stretchy skin of the bag.

I go outside and into the park, sticking
needles in my arm and punching myself
till bruises. Then I wrap myself in a bag
and wait all night, finally being transported
by truck to the pile of eviscerated torsos
with nothing to do. I am fascinated
by a particular human thorax, I believe
it used to be the one I love. I still love
her, and I collect her bowels and stuff
them back in herself and begin to dance
and she seems to say all the old things
to me, shredded crimson lips dangling
against my cheek.

Seventy-Seventh Entry

Well, we had a fun little reading, didn't we? John Findura was in rare form and read some great poems. The other reader whose name I can't remember was also good. And we had a nice little party that quickly got out of hand.

Here's my poem:

MORE FOOD

Stoking the fire with aluminum foil,
black toes crisped by the night air,
I eat potatoes mashed together
with beef, afterwards, I muddle
around to find my fallen teeth,
which are so hot they burn in the dry leaves.

That's why it's easy to find them.
In L.A. I found my first tooth on the lamb
I was eating, sunglasses reflecting the newly
hot sun, wearing shorts. I like pork
as well, and turtle meats, and mice
that poke their reddish tails into
my taco. I'm not much of a chef,
I merely throw together what I find.

Seventy-Sixth Entry

Alex Smith is writing this one with me before we go by the reading. Hope to see ya'll there.

HI MOM!

Here's my poem:

The lawnmower
went over
the yard of bats,

leaving cropped
grass and a field
drawn of flesh.

A sea of maggots--
quick everybody
get in my skin.

Inspecting further,
disemboweling,
nothing really in there.

Maggot face scrub
and shampoo
for the lost children

by the out of ground
pool, hair coarse
from months

of chlorine,
no black water
from the shower head,

they wash themselves
in the white husks.
they wear tusks

and dance the rain song
waiting for fire,
who's gonna show them,

the maggot tribesman.
I really like maggots.
The one in my foot

sent me a letter.
"I have never seen daylight,
I long blindly for many things."

Seventy-Fifth Entry

The days are getting more stressful and more surreal. Please someone take care of my life for me. In the meantime:

Reading at Cornelia Street Cafe Tuesday the 25th at 6 pm.
Cornelia Street Café
29 Cornelia Street
New York NY 10014
(212) 989-9319
www.corneliastreetcafe.com

Be there or I'll find you and kill you.

Here's my poem:

LEECHES

Melted from stone into shade,
hiding on the back surface of a tree
just when I want to go inside.
I sit on the day bed surrounded
by plush dolls with blonde yarn-hair
and begin my diary:
"Today began too early, I have mixed
the contents of my sack lunch together
and now I swing it over my head. Inside
are black worms, crawling, cute little things
I took as my own offspring, and built
them a little community out of plastic
forks and paper plates. They elected
a mayor. They watched a lot of movies
with Italian actors playing Italian
career criminals, while career criminals
are out there playing innocent. I'd like
to lick the blood from their fingernails.

Seventy-Fourth Entry

Hanging out at the pad, you know, just chilling. Today's poem was written on Amy's typewriter.

Here's my poem:

SYMPATHY FOR THE WEEVIL

Tumbling comets, staying
out of sight like video game
minions,buggered in ruddy
tunnels, awaiting
editing, hidden in the dark
production suite, suit
hanging on the coatrack,
elegant protagonists outside,
polite, awkwardly walking
in the directions of said storms,
watching my body in the midst
of an imperfect dive, just
at the edge of decadence, sad
that the point of the quest
was to be cool and sage-like
not wandering the highway but
chasing a lovelorn valkyrie,
broken in half by the plot
straightened and re-connected
and then torn back apart
before the final chapter.

Seventy-Third Entry

Um.....


Here's my poem:

POLICEMAN YOU GO FOR IT

Like a dork, you sleep your shift away.
Guess you had to be there is something you say,
tilting your head and tilting your glass
to get the last bit of pepsi. Now is when
you button your shirt and forget who you are.
Work is a way for us to separate ourselves
from the apes. But you spend your days
hauling apes away. The prisons hold
together the hands of America's men.
Not often do they come back, bend
to kneel, thank you and confess.

Seventy-Second Entry

The days are getting rougher and rougher. There's light at the end of the tunnel. I just want a job to be at the end of the tunnel, as well. A. Grayson Benko and I wrote this one together because I'm fatigued, and I'm a consumate cheater.

Reading at Cornelia Street Cafe Tuesday the 25th at 6 pm.
Cornelia Street Café
29 Cornelia Street
New York NY 10014
(212) 989-9319
www.corneliastreetcafe.com

Here's my poem:

SHIRTS OF GLORY

Beginning now, I'm only shirtless
in water or hot weather. Buying
stranger's love is new
like collars on dresses, and timeless
watches melt inside
pockets like crayons. Once
you've found stores,
you've found yourself.
No amount of money
can change that.

Seventy-First Entry

My neck and back hurt really bad.

Come whet your tongues on crisp evening cocktails, and cutting edge poetry.

It's time for another

Graduate Reading Night
at
Cornelia Street Cafe


Please join us on Tuesday April 25th to hear:

John Findura - New School
Steve Roberts - New School
Alli Shaloum - Sarah Lawrence

6pm, $6 door gets you one free drink

Located in Greenwich Village, the Cornelia Street Café, opened its doors in July 1977 and has become known for its diverse range of artistic performances. Nightly scheduled events include poetry and fiction readings, musical performances, and visual art receptions.

The Graduate Poetry Series, one of New York's longest-running, is held on the fourth Tuesday of every month. It was established to give students from NYC's graduate writing programs an opportunity to read their poetry in a safe, intimate and supportive environment.

If you are interested in participating, please submit a cover letter with contact information, name of your school/current semester and 5-7 pages of poetry electronically to corneliastseries@gmail.com
Cornelia Street Café
29 Cornelia Street
New York NY 10014
(212) 989-9319
www.corneliastreetcafe.com

Here's my poem:

ARMBAND

What is worn around the arm
leads me to believe
in a higher purpose
for arms, and a more serene
existence for their hairs.

Seventieth Entry

I will be reading at the Cornelia Street Reading Series this coming Tuesday, the 25th. I will be selling copies of my new chapbook, based almost entirely on NaPoWriMo poetry. Consider myself warned.

Here's my poem:

TERRIFIC

I briefly enjoyed Philadelphia:
obnoxious South street smells,
small armies of cops, love
is a ratio here. I begin to classify
various types of mammals I can see
from my girlfriend(?)'s roof. I love
the way she walks down the street,
preparing to yell at me. The air
tackles me like a warm wrestler.
I think I hear the liberty bell
being struck. It is actually someone
being shot. It is not me. I grab you
in your sleep and you grab me in mine,
and we try and pull each other out of there.

Sixty-Ninth Entry

In light of my 69th post I was moved to write something on the topic of sex.

Here's my poem:

A MOVIE ABOUT SEX

In the days in which people had it
I often heard them referring to it, how
this was done to that person,
which chandeliers or candelabras
the various skins of the practitioners
would reflect off of, in light of the camera,
facing forward towards the projector.
In the magazine about sex, articles
represented it as occuring the world round,
constantly, but this was a fair bit of hyperbole.
I know now from reading up on my history
that it occured once, in the Bible, and that
those involved lived to regret it
and I can show you the pages
stained with their remarks
though you won't find them terribly interesting.

Sixty-Eighth Entry

Note to the readers/founders/practicioners of NaPoWriMo:

I've been enjoying this quite a bit. It's jumpstarted me. I have a reading coming up next week and I'll be reading almost exclusively NaPoWriMo stuff. But I don't own a computer! I know, how pathetic! And events are transpiring to make it harder for me to update regularly, so I'm going to miss a few more days in the month and for this I apologize.


Here's my poem:

A SONG

Everyone's so friendly I feel bad explaining the lyrics.
The first part is about a ghost, I'm not really sure
what he looks like or what he says, it's a mood piece,
there are fourteen ghosts in my real life and I wanted
to dedicate it to them, but the song doesn't really
refer to ghosts as much as it does to funerals.

Funerals are like theme parties. Every time
I kill I have to play the part of repentant,
kneeling before some family. Using glycerine
for tears. The second part, the middle eight,
I think or maybe the bridge? I wrote it
in the backseat of a bus coming from Philly,
it was about longing, which I had never felt,
and continue not to feel. I am most likely
a sheep, somehow converted into human form,
I do what the big boys tell me, be it
crime, punishment, it all paid the same,
so who cared?

Sixty-Seventh Entry

Man, I just seem to be getting more and more tired the more sleep I get.

Here's my poem:

ZILLIONS

My first fortune became stones in Wyoming.
You can see my statue there, chiseled hollow
pupils staring down the empty highway,
symbolizing my dominion over earth.

Now I sell cheap metrocards.

Sixty-Sixth Entry

Yep.

Here's my poem:

ODE TO A SHOPAHOLIC

I found nutmeg in my coffee
and coffee in my shoes
and shoes in my backpack
and a backpack in my purse
but I ran towards Macy's
elbowing my way towards you.

Between many mannequins
in a world of pinks and reds
you were buying anything
half-price and wearing
it right out of the store
where it would get wet in the rain
and you would take it back.

I grabbed you and pulled
the tag off of your collar.

You looked at me
and asked where I got my glasses.

Sixty-Fifth Entry

Here's my poem:

I DECIDED

There is no blood spattered on Doric columns.
The faces of the elderly have not yet been erased.
The elderly are not slowly climbing the tower’s steps.

Surely the lives of the young are not different.
The young do not believe their lives to be virtual or insignificant.
There is no blood affixed to the trunk of the oak.

What I am is virtual and insignificant.
Who I am talking to is the trunk of the oak.
It is cumbersome to keep the air in my chest.

I am muttering about the air and the words escape.
My relatives are not the type of people to sit on the beach.
There is a thin partition between me and my relatives.

The opacity of the sky makes seeing the neon implausible.
I have been many places, seen few.
I impose myself as a guest on the beach.

I show them my tattoo of a neon rectangle.
I am given white flowers and am allowed to stay.
The young consider themselves native to nowhere.

The elderly clothe themselves in their traveled distance.
A typical week will include slumber and scent.
An ocean is quiet when it wears a shroud.

The virtue of the ocean is the weight and the volume.
In a haze I can peer out and see the blue towers.
The sketch will not convey the virtues of the ocean.

I could cheat and explain it.
My mouth would swell as the air escaped.
I like to think about details.

It is plausible that the young do not consider details.
In a rustic setting, the young may forget the details.
Years from now, there will nothing but details.

From afar, I can see the other side of the desert.
I then throw the amassed accoutrements into the sand.
It is always easy to find yourself swimming.

The elderly have foreseen this.
The tower in the desert is majestic and white.
For a moment I climb out of the fountain.

I design a tower in my sketchbook.
I refer to it in conversation.
The desert is central to the understanding of youth.

I am sketching the top of the tower up.
The tower is reflecting off of my eye.
I am speaking deceptively about details.

The bizarre thing about the ocean is what’s inside it.
Conveniently I am at the bottom.
The young do not care to know the terminology.

The elderly are content to remain immobile.
I swam to the bottom to find the foundation.
I found a society in its place.

I simply looked and I found it.
But it is harmful to anticipate it.
When I left I was bordering a woodland glen.

Including myself there was nobody there.
But I found ruins of an elderly civilization.
I aspire simultaneously to be brash and wise.

The civilization was left unfinished.
The ruins of the civilization appeared uncertain.
The ruins were waiting there for someone.

Perhaps when the person came the ruins might leave.
I leaned on the sill of an ancient window.
I misunderstood the pebbled trail.

I assumed the ruins were almost a tower.
Whatever was there had no obvious purpose.
The inside of the tower is empty and tall.

Standing at the top, I could feel the rush of popularity.
I found closed curtains and a comfortable throne.
I pretended these objects were my new companions.

One had an annoying laugh, the other a sympathetic cough.
I quickly became sick of their politeness.
I stole a carriage and rode hard into the city.

The skyscrapers shunted out like stumps in the dusk.
Finally I found a computer lab.
With proper indentation I began my history of the elderly.

The perfection of the city is that it grows as it dies.
The event that sparks a city’s birth is interesting.
I also like colored illustrations of cities.

And skyscrapers aren’t so bad, like mottled towers.
The elderly sit at the top, sounding practical and correct.
The throne was well-decorated, all in all very nice.

I climbed up the tower even though there was no reason to.
My breathing intensified as I reached the precipice.
I waited anxiously for the arrival of the flying machine.

I beheld the bottle of liquor in my hand with amazement.
I was wholly unaware of its existence.
It had slept unseen in my hand all this time.

Years later the pilot descended from a cloud.
The tower had been re-plastered and I was a bearded ragamuffin.
In fact the tower and the city lay in ruins.

The pilot had no discernable imagination.
He shouted at me when I dropped the bottle of liquor.
He scowled while we continued our idiosyncratic ascent.

All told the entire trip had been a delicious bore.
Including the surly pilot and his secret schemes.
And our visit to the clouds which ended with much exhaustion.

In fact the white tower was a most awful place.
I spent much of my time there sitting on the curb.
I ignored the virginal maidens spinning about the horizon.

They chatted with the pilot for about twenty minutes.
I drifted off like a genius.
I appeared to slip through a hidden hole.

I plummeted towards land, limbs flailing about.
The moment you perceive the end of your life is the most fun.
For refuge I pulled my shirt over my head and hummed.

I landed with a wonderful smack on some nation.
I got up and glanced around for my next endeavor.
I found myself in a startling fiery chasm.

Ripped from the pages of our planet’s infancy.
With a representation of a facsimile of the ultimate evil.
I didn’t enjoy it and I was covered in germs.

I made an attempt at looking scared.
I crossed a hot catwalk suspended above flames.
I thank my young friends for being discrete.

I borrowed a trident and a demon costume from work.
At the gate, I found a lost soul and asked her
for directions, given this purgatory’s sprawling nature.

Before she could answer I wriggled out a window.
I formed a shapeless mass like a mercury ball.
I left a suitable tip and found a ride.

The sky had an unhealthy tinge that I liked.
I wanted to find a grotesque way of life.
If it’s too clean I sort of lose my edge.

I also don’t like windows with too much sun.
The afternoon blue is a lot like a soft kiss.
The youth don’t find me imposing anymore.

When I was born, the elderly were still kind of young.
I was altered over the years and got much larger.
Adults are taller, and are wizened by their elevation.

Another thing I can’t stand is the weather.
Together the young and the elderly combine to form everybody.
Actually I’m not sure about foreign people.

When I was a certain age I was given a vehicle.
I had glass lenses to regulate my vision.
This is before I really fell in love with shadows.

I wasn’t concerned with the meaning of things.
I went to high school and slept alone in bed.
My head enlarged as I got older.

At that point sleeping alone wasn’t unbearable.
Years later I was polishing my laurels.
Even as a young man I felt I possessed a certain wit.

After my travels I missed arguing with my parents.
I was ready to begin gaining several fortunes.
I tried to and weathered the ensuing disasters.

Then I became elderly, rattling around my old home.
I’d like to think I peacefully stood down.
Life became something for others to investigate.

I tried to enjoy the September of old age.
I became sullen and impervious to all happiness.
I think I might have missed the point all this time.

Was I really available for adventure this entire time?
I went on multiple quests and gained many treasures.
I puzzled over the mysteries of science and got dumped.

I traveled the world and through the great beyond.
These adventures made me cross and tense.
My presence never seemed to change people.

My adolescence was a bit of an adventure.
Now I am dead, unwilling to live anymore.
Events I have seen have colored my overall opinion.

I wrote about much of it but it got smudged.
My parents thought me ingenious for surviving this way.
Past death, I’m not sure where else I could go.

It’s apparent this is meant to be the end in some way.
I’ve reviewed my life and it’s satisfactory.
It’s easy to stay composed at the end.

I’m a professional of sorts.
I won many decorations from some country.
I am dead so I see no open alternative.

After all this I’ve become unfashionable.
I’ve heard too many words at different volumes.
Hopefully there was some sort of pattern to it.

Hopefully I didn’t interfere with important actions.
I only did what was in my nature.

Sixty-Fourth Entry

Coming up with a poem each day is sort of easy. Coming up with witty banter is becoming exceedingly difficult.

Here's my poem:

A MINOR ESSAY

My feet never fit in my shoes.
Even when I use my glues.
I walk on my hands
because nobody stands
I guess feet just aren't something I use.

Sixty-Third Entry

Welcome back, your dreams were your ticket out....



Here's my poem:

PRAYER FOR A MINNOW WHO DID NOT DIE

I'm a mess who needs to stop going to confession.
A while ago I didn't do my penance and now I'm paying for it.
While I'm sinning, I like to watch the creatures squirm in the creek.
I'm on the bank counting money gained from loan-sharking and drugs.
On that topic I never say much, what drugs I do, how much, how often.
That a minnow can survive in the muck of the creek is uplifting to me.
A thing like prayer is useless if you don't know how to pretend to believe.
Thing is, I like the unhealthy color of the creek for some reason.
Is that odd? I've often been attracted to muddy greens like that.
That is why I don't pray that often, I feel I'm some sort of subversive weirdo.
Is it time for me to abandon all hope in the church and enter "here"?
It (the church) hasn't helped me the way that parents do; invisibly.
The time spent praying could be spent throwing dice and making money.
Time is like a prison guard. It's not very nice and it won't let you escape.
Is swimming natural for the minnow? Is it something it has to learn?
Swimming gracefully as a child made me feel innocent for once.
Gracefully I slit a loan shark's throat and later wash my hands.
I dump the body in the crick, say a worthless prayer for myself.
Dump or not, the ghetto near the church is where I've lived my life.
Or most of it anyway, the parts not concerning the creek I don't count.

Sixty-Second Entry

I just saw a person get hit by a car.

Here's my poem:

WHEREWOLF

I abided this wooden country long enough,
threw my hat in the muck,
ran for office. Now I am clothed happily
in my defeat. People back home don't know
I've changed, and recently while shaving
I found a whole nother person in there,
but don't tell him that.

Sixty-First Entry

SORRY! Didn't have a comp this weekend.

Poem for Saturday is here!

Here's my poem:

SICK

Barely conscious of the difference,
we hustle along the bridge, trying to get across
before the storm's throw reaches. When I want
to smile, I smile, no matter what you say, and I
also feel it's time to clean my closet: off-white
shirts face out like teeth and bother me. They
want to drape around my shoulders and
instruct me like an angel and a devil in a cartoon.
On the way back, the bridge blows mist and cold.
I want it to be dark like this at the end of my life,
I want it to mean you have to work to die.

Sixtieth Entry

Night One of the Grand Ball of Ashbery. It wasn't too bad, many of the readers were entertaining. The Polish poets, who seem to have a feverish love of Ashbery, read with thick accents and quiet intensity. Ron Padgett was great, as was Anne what's her face, the young one. I bet Amy that David Shapiro would talk for half an hour and surprise surprise! But, as I commented to reader Mark Bibbins afterwards "It's David's world, we just live in it." "It's David's world, Kenneth Koch just lives in it," he said. Then Amy and I and some friends went to the Cedar in order to avoid being confused with shmoozers at the Loup. Which of course we are, but it's important to avoid the impression being given. Now on to round two.

Here's my poem:

WAREWOLF

Heads made of destruction derby wreckage,
a pine branch snaps in the glen, aboard
a stealthy clipper I entertain
my crew, dancing the day away, holding
hands with the rough-skinned sailors, eyes
to the heavens, hearts in the water. Only
later are the bodies found below decks.
The highway blurs as the camera
sticking out of a speeding car
is clicked on by the crew, and behind
the lighting display, in a tarp-covered tent
my makeup is applied, hair glued, glue
painted, like the old masters in Europe
might have done, thick with color,
lousy with oil, canvas strecthed like
skin while it's young, expressing
something, being seen by people,
quietly walking through white rooms
looking at walls and talking about
how they understand it.

Fifty-Ninth Entry

I am soooooooo god-awfully sick. It was probably from that date I went on the other night where we walked about 15 blocks in the rain, and me with no umbrella. I STILL think it was worth it though.

In the words of Atom and His Package, "people in this computer lab should shut the hell up."

Today's poem is titled after a Chrome song that I particularly like. My challenge to you fellow NaPoWriMo-ers (if you actually are reading) is to write a poem based on a favorite song title.

Here's my poem:

ZOMBIE WARFARE (Never Let It Get You Down)

Your skins have encountered my faces
several times, unfortunately alone in dark
places, for this I can only shrug my shoulder.
Let's stumble down the street and watch
the fight between bitter dead arch-rivals.
Are there sufficient answers
for our meager, half-pronounced questions?
Enunciating is difficult, the sun takes
its toll, laboriously melting me into
some sort of soup, if possible, we could
eat this soup and gain some sort of power.
Ever since birth I have been obsessed
in a middle-class way with power, having
never really had any, I muse on what
exactly it is. I will probably (now)
never find out, but at least I can walk
deliberately in the street without fear.
No cars are coming, and they would do
no significant damage. Now it is a question
of continuing on, as in "how long
can I continue?" Is there method
here? With whom would I discuss it?
The coffee bar is closed.

Fifty-Seventh Entry

Coming in just under the wire for this one.

There was a blizzard for like a couple of hours and then a clear sky. What the heck?

Here's my poem:

STEALING POLAROIDS

I place them on the stolen refridgerator.
We have a gig tonight. Issac's band
has twelve guitarists who taught themselves
how to play. I take you to a photo booth
and rub my face all over yours. I miss
you now, like I miss home, not because
it was so great, but because nothing else
has happened. When the Beatles were in
Hamburg they went by the name the
Mighty Blue Birds, they had three
guitarists who taught themselves how
to play. When I steal their photographs
I will fashion a medallion of their tongues
and this enchantment will surely,
finally for once, give me some luck.

Fifty-Sixth Entry

Taking a LONG lunch break to write a poem today. Would Frank "Lunch Poems" O'Hara be proud? YOU BE THE JUDGE:

Here's my poem:

OVERWEIGHT VEGANS

The skeletal skull,
freakish alien hood, yellow work gloves
because we don’t want to be tainted.
Curving the blanket around two,
built for one. Now there are four of us,
did you hear that howl? Should I wait
for the swinging whines of the train
to jump or just jump? Why are we eating this?
The trash in the park has developed
a society, often while walking through
I will bear witness to a cultural event.
Often some sort of sporting event
is occurring, often the bridge falls
into the sea as the sun rises, it’s
really very emotional for many people.

Fifty-Fifth Entry

Man, I keep having a hard time sleeping ever since my curtain broke. The garbage truck woke me up at like 6 in the morning today and I haven't quite recovered.

NaPoWriMo seems to be going quite well for people. I have nothing else constructive to say about it.

I'm featured on my college's website with a few sample poems. Goody! And a picture. Although my stupid anti-bush sticker is edited out, which I find hilarious. Go here: http://www.csf.edu/csf/academics/chi/samplework-profiles.html

My poem today is about a Japanese video game called Chu Chu Rocket.

Here's my poem:

CHU CHU ROCKET

Chu Chu Rocket is a video game about sinners, welts, heroin, violence, snot, grime and oil.

Chu Chu Rocket is a game by Bradley in which the spaceman must confront his nimble mistress with his sudden, aching disease while the General Hospital organ music swells.

Chu Chu Rocket is a visual representation of liquid circuitry, denying the existence of the Torah and the popularity of comedians Rowan and Martin.

Chu Chu Rocket sees your alluring creamy naked form, patting the pillow and winking a mile wide, it sees you as a series of ones and zeros.

Chu Chu Rocket injects me (as I play it) with squid sugar and wraps my face in scotch tape like I was Pee-Wee Herman.

Chu Chu Rocket has certain viewpoints about homosexuals.

Fifty-Fourth Entry

New Entry HOOOOOOOOOOO!

Jackson has been singing a song using my poem as lyrics while I've been writing it. Here are the results of our "collaboration."

Here's my poem:

WEARWOLF

Hymen encased in foil.
Now we remember our youths as janitors.
The potion removes skin, encases the lucky ones
in a foul bag of humours.

Claws scratching the midnight, oh you,
Now we remember the minutes with skin
backwards, blown out under the bridge
old newspapers worn by deaf urchins.

I stay away from the doctor at night.
I hide in moss like a secret, yowling
eaten along the path. Moments later
I enshroud the moon with my delights.

Fifty-Third Entry

YAY it's happy NaPoWriMO day! for more info please see Maureen's blog on my links.

I'm writing a poem a day all month. This one's title is again supplied by Shanna Compton.

Here's my poem:

SNACKS FOR THE PARTY

I tell you my intestines are full.
The parasites within them are bloated,
and are relaxing on couches
and are unloosening their belt-buckles.

They are watching the Dallas Cowboys lose.
I am telling you about diseases I could get
that I might enjoy, you are telling me to eat
chex mix because the salt compliments my beer,

and how long have you been a witch? I noticed
the cauldron but of course said nothing
until you threw chicken dumplings in
the hot tub. I was using that,

and you were using me. Our friends
will be along soon, I wonder what
I will do when you’re gone, when
the spell I cast is finally broken.

I like candy, too, but my real
passion is chips, so before
the party starts let’s put a few things out
on the table, and hope no one suspects.