Pet sesame seed bun
poor furry baby echo baby
dicey

a stranger just fired you
the day after a big party
I read an old bit of poetry
of Henri's,

tho roughly
enjoyed myself
tho!

full, a sleepy, round,
cruel piece of garbage
I didn't say stop
but I was sad

(cock & balls poem)

accept love as a
city with an
entangled highway
in her hair
    I hear symbals
    in the morning
    I feel szleepy
    in the evenings
    a tad guilty
but, not kidding,
I sang praises to her
two ducks somehow
in the Ocean,
In Fantasy land,
where some poets are,
cocks like up ta here
balls down to molten earth
unmanageable mounds
forgive me butt,
who will get there?

im nutter

even after the read
you can count a lot

on his aimmagination

and then to watch the roots

of him, in the local, whatever

more terrible or 

whatever yours 

 is,

in the call 

   I must answer

he is my teacher

and knowing we dropped rubbish

at the foot of the roots

hands in pockets, 

   biting

'whoa! you'd better catch me!'

'whoa!                    catch me!'

no solitary lovers out

on the corner, what a circle of birds

                                                    smoking

The biggest one I went after

'Where is Jack Krick?' I shouted

apparently the mayor was present

My breathlessness defines life.

Remember to take down (every day)

one cock & balls poem

for Jackie

locked out

the weather is
getting better
let's have lunch
w/ avi w/
his sick beard
w/ ryan w/
his Newman's Own
is twelve ravioli
enough?
I watch him slow
down by the 11th
as for Carlos
what a great hugger
I told your story to
five coworkers
who don't
know shit about you
as it should
when I released him
I knew
our friendship
came too late

o o

when yr cheeks puff out
mouthful of water
or yr own favorite drink

holding onto something
extending pleasure (or pain    or both!
writing my name

w/ my nostrils o  o

mr

LSA in Fishtown Beach
unofficially named
there after pizza
unofficial food of us
under the overpass,
Matt Richardson stored a bag
of cement mix.
Going to build a little
ramp to skate on.
And so, believing it to be,
not necessarily a safe spot,
but hidden enough,
we left it.

I age.

 memories
like half-sunken logs
in the mouth

the bank curved along
over our right shoulders
we step gingerly

walking away

'if ten is happiness'
again, in the din
of the kitchen piled
w/ paper, pizza.

namoon

oh namoon
what weeds
they should raise
a monument
my arrogance
was swearing
at this dumb bird
trod on slaves
burnished bone
of a fish
in America
we celebrate
all senses
this destroyed
what little
magazines
remember
always to eat
what men eat

beyond the muscle

what small desires
wind up in a volley
in the city I took tests
to end the matter,
or in simpler terms -- there isn't !
there was my discreetness
there was Mr Cohen in a room with me
there was crumpled newspaper and a vase
he told me, 'you are to draw this', this still life
an elaborate and intuitive scrawl
and shading and cross-hatching
drew -- ha!
me from Feltonville
where lawns only held the illusion
of an stretched plain
where I launched waves
of suction cup arrows
at the approaching

where I am no good, I write
'I don't operate often,
when I do, companions take note'.
How dare so-and-so not be impressed
with Love and Fame?
Madam, I feel the same.

about
you
I only
love
forms
from a
private
man's
deficits
a town
like this
people
like this
words
like his

anh anh anh
anh anh
anh anh

tasty place
is his heart
food place

tim tim tim
tim tim
my treat

cosmolog y

you're older and i'm younger
let's do that then
in the membrane of the moon
a blanket and several snoozing bodies
(as to why so many bodies!
she and i were early space
during that period chaos
                          chaos!

chaos! cho!
i was in lips
and i spy
a sneaky spy
on planet x
engulfing
my blushes
my blushing
pushing pushing

there was a water cooler
by a bench in the dark kitchen
sucking is no word
and neither is glug to
describe the rising of bubbles
in one massive expansion

cosmolog 2

we live in a galaxy that's about
100,000 ly across and is slowly rotating
so tonight I'll drink my fill
we've come a long way since Aristotle
on my way into work I hand him
some coins, I couldn't help but peek
into his bag,

there, I found yellow
orange, foods.
every day night cycle
is a fucking grind

I say, this really ain't so much
with the wind being the
way
 it is
there is no
     smoke from a cigarette

the gazer looked at me
teeth like suns
through water
 and already it was as if though
 I couldn't see the old man's
                     
        size or
          shape

cosmolog

you're a poet you're a locomotive
out of fashion like fig. 1
a poet is a locomotive is a galaxy
one that looks like ours to someone living
in another galaxy
now the radiance of yourself you call it nothing
perhaps maybe call it the dinner you made
of which you were so proud,
call it luminosity, which is one factor.
the other being how distant you are from me.
A poet'll work out the luminosity and the distance
to figure out exactly how bright you are.
conversely, if you knew the luminosity of other poets
in the galaxy (to keep it simple     )
you can work out their distance from you
by measuring their apparent brightness

blurb

all these poets
are too well-read
I look at my own
collection and some of these
are Captain Underpants
I got the Lazy Sunday Book
and a few others from Watterson
it's how I learned to draw trees
and rocks -- the best things to draw
because no one should tell you
that this tree or this rock
looks way off
man I've seen some
way off rocks

feynman said something

like,
science is knowing
how much
we don't know.
that we're always
at the frontier of
our ignorance
and that it should
be what excites
us. something
that doesn't fit
into the current
model is
what we
should explore.
in regards to this
debate,
the notion of god
excites ken ham.
it gives him a massive boner,
and it gives a lot
of americans boners
as well.
can't blame them,
as much as i want to.

cramp

i'll take your painting in my arms
and tell you that it speaks to me

i'll come out in the cold and wind
in and out and tell you i support the arts

i'll fall ill
i'll scrunch my nose in telling you 'nah'
where there is noise and color
and bicycles and black hair

if you walked up Frankford
we'd be imagining two streets

in one, a young white American boy
and a friend of his, both no older than 15
cracks a lightning paw
into my pocket
and withdraws his lead
(this is how Bruce Lee instructed on using the 'lead')
just as sudden

'what?'

his still open
mouth his eyes

his pitter patter as he thundered
down a sidestreet
that are cursed
as unplowed

but nevertheless i stood there electrified, feet
tired, lonesome banter, in my hair
mix of sweat and septa,
continued walking the hour home
until finally, before Pennypack,
where I found myself nursing
with a patch of grass
my charlie horse

I catch the next 66
and become mistaken
for someone who killed
someone else's grandpa
in WWII