I spent the day in bed listening to Joshua Clover
and a good friend in Europe talking about how
uselessly American I have become over the years
of watching teen flicks and stumbling out of cars
with ash all over my pants or Southern breath.
Its dark at 5: 30 p.m. making it seem like its at
the other end of day, so right now I’m writing this
poem from China right after the genocide at
the opium dens where the weary went to
lay on the floor and look sad as hell while
the Lumiere brothers made a thirty second
movie about, well, anything that they could.
Did you check bbc.co.uk today? while I was
reading The Map Room because it’s the only
one of his poems I could find online;
Has the internet become the new moon?
In that case, ill read the horoscopes off
the freckles on your back and be anything
but a Taurus because I cant change when
I was born and I don’t believe in any of
that bullshit anyway but I want to lay next
to you knowing or not knowing that
tomorrow will be there,
laying next to me.

Review of Gran Torino

Quotable Quotes:
“And who was that
goofball guy you were with?
Was that a date
or something?”

"Get off my lawn."

The Film:
An aged Clint Eastwood does his best
to smile, or not smile, the same old
grimace. this time almost. falling off
his face. Rough life, lonely now;
since the first. scene at her funeral.
Character development, analyzed and
edited into camera angles and panning
shots, developing through swearing,
gestures, and throwbacks to outlaw
past lives. He clings to almost
antique guns from a time when shooting
someone meant something. Our hero sits in
a dark room with a cigarette and glass
in his knuckles. Decisions to be made
implode and string the audience along
until the end, which is, like the beginning,
a funeral.

The Movie-Going Experience:
I couldn’t follow the first fifteen
minutes because all I could think
about was how I wanted to move
up the armrest out of the way.
That son of a bitch cradled you when I
could have been and bumped my elbow
when I leaned. Or maybe I
was just too high. It’s hard
to tell.

Final Words:
I need to buy me a rifle.

Oh! Fuck!

Its been a week now and im tired
not of you at all i just havent slept
since Sunday but this is what happens
when you live off nothing but coffee
for a week straight sewing machine foot
and a stomach ache so heres the question
then will more help us stay awake or
give us the caffeine blues which is
pretty much just laying in bed awake
feeling like glue waiting to happen—

a horse that aint gonna be racing
because of a bad leg

a high school football injury

Whats the term im looking for?
Invariably lame?

Photojournalism

I burned the negatives. The camera
makes you uncomfortable. Coat pulled
up over your face. You turning towards
the wall. Just misses

the chance to remember you. It’s
become a game. One quick snapshot
for someone to bag. But you… you’re good. You
put Polaroid out of business, when you restarted
the Trojan war in the living room.

Arms reaching out and flashes banging
blue picture shows inside my eyelids. I dove
like secret service in front of a Nikon that had
its eye on your silhouette from behind the couch.
You were staring down the crowded hallway,
lined with stupored soldiers booming chorus;
war songs from older days.

well I’m a-walkin’ down the road
with my head in my hands,
lookin’ for a girl who needs
a worried man. only one kind
of favor I’ll ask you, just
allow me one more chance.

We made our way,
through the corridor filled with drunkards,
downstairs to the porch,
to smoke a cigarette
where the light showed right on your face.

You were wearing that hyacinth dress.
You were soaked in champagne.
You looked into my eyes.
I looked down
and dug into my chest.

Lady

You’ve gone
and shacked up with
the moon. You spend
your nights listening to
it play its stupid song on
the piano, and spilling
wine on Cassiopeia.

Truth be told (please)
on those nights when
you come to me
in lieu of sleep,
saying something to
the effect of "Let's get
a bottle and
drink alone tonight,"

I do imagine
how pretty you
would look

with your hair
wrapped around your neck
like a scarf or
necklace

laying
like a princess strung
out across diamonds.

But really, I don’t have
the stomach for

drinking anymore,
and (if

you must know)

I’ve dreamt of a life
on a floor in a blanket
with you.

I’m halfway
there.

Ashley to ashes.
Dope to dust.

I don’t even like
music anymore,
I just want to hear
harmonicas cough.

Ain’t it just like the night,
To be gone by
the time you wake up?

Peace,
Bitch.

Cobwebs On a Window Sill

Eight shaky legs tap across a dusty pane,
shuffling along thin lines like a eunuch
slowly inching across a white
rope while mustachioed grimaces
and mascara eyes burn red.
Sometimes, I wish
that everyone forgot
everything I’ve ever
said or done. Then
I remember that
they probably already
have, and I bury myself
under as many blankets
as I can find and curl up
like a dead spider.
I long to be hanging,
as if by
a thread of your skirt.
Oh! How you set
my heart aflame!—it quietly
crackles in your fireplace
while you curl up with
a book (maybe the Subterraneans)
on that cushy chair and footrest
that was our bed
on the one night when
we never slept closer.
Let’s make love right here,
On this tangent.

Three-way With Dorothy

Oh, hello good friend! Yes,
yes come in. Of course! You
know you’re always welcome
here. What brings you to the
Lake District? Ah, I see, Leiden’s
not so far from here. You say you
met a gyspy gal in France?! My
word! And you traded her
your heart for a harmonica?
“Yeah that’s right, though, I
don’t think it was a fair trade.
I mean, it sings beautifully, but
the damn thing only plays the
blues.” Sounds like you’ve had
quite a journey in B-minor.
Tell me all about it over
tea and swirling smoke.

Believe you me, I know exactly
what you mean. And yes,
Audrey Hepburn is a babe. Let’s
take her to Paris, and reenact the
first chapter of the Dharma Bums
underneath the Eiffel Tower.
Hot damn! Would’ya look at that,
the sun is coming up.
We’ve talked clear through
the night, and greeted the
dawn with fireflies. What
now then? A morning walk
through time and space? That’s
a lot of ground to cover, thank
Buddha we know the shortcuts:
Follow the rain on empty streets,
Turn left on Columbus,
Run, make your lungs
Scream for mercy.
If you hit middle-aged,
You’ve gone too far.

I guess it is true, after all;
we seem to be made
to suffer, it’s our
lot in life.
Laugh!
It is a joke!

Remember when
we were sixteen,
and we plotted
to take
over the world?
Surnames from Native
American ghosts and
MacBeth’s battle dress.
If you’re gonna’ go
balls out, you might
as well wear a
skirt, aye?

Oh, you said it friend—
No one tells a dirty joke
like Shakespeare.

And me and you,
we know answers
don’t mean shit. We
know the real importance:
all our questions are
the same.

We share it all together,
Drinks ands dreams, laughs
and lusty wenches.
What’s mine is yours,
and vices versa.
Any wise man or
fool will tell you what
nirvana is.

A Very Stupid Poem by A Very Stupid Person

Eruption!
Splooging from
its throbbing core,
trickling down
from its peak,
flowing over
your curves.
If only it
would preserve
everything it
touched, like
the flood that
seeped through
every crack and
crevice of Pompeii.
With these columns
fallen over and temples
turned to ancient ruins, you
become an armless effigy
holding me at my waist.
And we will be known only as
this statue, entitled:
“Young man and woman in rapture.”
And they will ask
Were they in love?
Was that typical position?
Did she come?!
Did she come?!

But no, you

Just wipe me
Off your thigh and
Get dressed to
Go back to him.

Still, I take small
delight in knowing
that he cannot have
all of you, because
you left your

panties underneath
my comforter—a treat for
some lonely archaeologist.