hey

(for Kent)

Who the hell knows
Who Jackie O was.

And Thomas Aquinas,
He was the finest.

But like Pablo Picasso,
Who was an asshole,

What do they know ’bout the plague?

Now they’re dead.
Yeah.

Dead.
Yeah.

Papa says they’re dead.
Yeah.

 

LoadEd

In the space of time
it takes an electron to change states.
None. Where
the rest of stuff can be found.

In the ultimate race of
non-winning v. non-winning—

also known
as winning the non-race.
Getting there in no time.
The best time
ever.

While we rot,
the opposite direction of trees.

The body Being counted By the body Politic.

Nothing special. All holes, houses,
Hoses and skin.

Without a homeland.
Without a prayer.
Lonely and together, side by side,
Engage the world.

You and me, me alone, you alone—
All of us together, manipulate the genome.

One way
And the other.
As many as there are.

The right to life
Allows us killers
To go free.

To make arbitrary lines
In the development of a fetus.

The wild, in all its forms, is available in all forms,

But only one gets to be called life. After this point
And up to that point, you and I decide.
Over and over again—

A song sung.
An ear drummed.

In the rhythm
Of Country Western,
Or lest the story be forgotten:

Not a Texan am I. Texans like it that way.

Not from California or Wyoming. Both are better off.

Australians have much in common
With me and someone in Illinois.

But not the republic. That’s ours, People:
That starts with P, that rhymes with T,
And that spells Trouble…

With universal freedoms. Corny as the carnival.
Older for sure. Cornier, then.

Alone we will fail at our task. But of free will, alone,
Together we are able to tweak it all in spurts,
Smoother than San Andreas’ slips—
Or worse. Ralph commands: Choo-choo—
Choose…

 

Culture worm

With my mysterious abilities—
always hiring
good publicists—

I stay in
your feed.

Navel showing,
Pecs
spelling—

I’m young,
I’m rich,

and
So what.

Leave me alone,
I dare you.

Teen understanding
of success.

All dressed for conflict
But nowhere to go.

So you stay
home alone.
Worse than the movie.

But sick all the same.

Equal
Measures,
Arbitrary
Marks,
And
Full
Of
Them
Self
Only

EMAMAFOTSO?

 

You?

We owe the dead
To learn from them—
Repeated lessons,
Thrustings,
Incorporated
and ritualized,

Frozen in the marketplace,
The enlightened monk—
Lenin,

But chromosome-to-chromosome—
Deeper.

At the either/or stage of decision-making,
Contradictions make sense—
Pissing,
Eating, and
Laying about.

Every pup for himself—
In my case—

More litter, more mouths,
The teet-space is limited!

That’s what my behavior says

Of me.

 

_______________

To be or not to be in Cajun:
Thee
ques – tsee – on,
wetland still
on the mind.

A song in country
about a sorry soul,

a Ba lost,
of an evil man
from our side of the sands.

Crankiness
Covering pain.

Of dying.
Of leaving.
The wickedest thing
That can be done.

Not return
To the station.

Not succumb
To the reward.

Not punish
The punisher.

But relieve the punisher
Of duties.

There, I said it.

By the side of the road,
Maybe.

Still
Far better off
Than the hound
Left wandering

The forest
Un-just last week.

Or take it along—
Drag it by the scruff,
Like a mother did
To the car.
Close the doors.

Get going.

And let—
And join—
Howl

Into the wind.
Howl.

Direction.
Journey.
Destination.
Travel words
In a string.

At the end—
The weighing…

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