Two Poems

where (I) lost (my)

barely slept and the hostel had fifty dollar rooms and the six am cafe is snotty and the jelly purses are fifty percent off and the Natalie Merchant is roadside memory fresh and I smell homesick and roadsick and parasite paranoid and sleep deprived and I barely crept and the turnstile had fifty scholar tokens and the six- armed paté is plotting and the jelly roll morton is half bred (ed) and the National Merchants are turning over ecstasy french rolls and I smell hassenpheffer and road runner and practically putrid and need a revival and I scarcely think that the footstool makes a good roaster and the picks are mangé/es pion age/while a fella strolls in June, half dead (yes) and the practical mechanics are revving their essence mensch tolls and it strolls with Hassan i Sabbah and Stetasonic heretics and rack of lamb mmm and vegans are turning in their casein and the toad school makes a good revolution and the sticks are beckoning/get it, beck on/ring! hello? A toll in bikini, too? OK, I’ll half your dreads (maybe) and prance all over your Mabuhay/they’re specializing in French situationism and it’s starting to get on my nerves and meanwhile hairstyles are up forty and packs of man-eating flesh pods start resuming gates and taking total awareness stakes a good beefsteak and the tomatoes are (...)/still, it/sing, so that the store to stare your debts (is) and poverty allots/o your mauve/testicles, they’re/suckling a wrench for titulation/and I thought you divorced me, or did I divorce you?/nevermind, the/skylight is/exploding/and surely/you must/need to/sleep/by now the new transgression switchblade-carrying stone femme tranny dykes, manginas, girl dicks everywhere, saying “oh, is that your penis?” to a total stranger, carrying a picture of your cunt in a locket around your neck, intersexuality not being hot for a change, scalpel- wielding, slicing open, “for the good of the child” dancing eugenics masters tit clamps as foreplay and burning down their clinics as climax, sex in the meadow every time you think of starfucking Tom Cruise—that’s a good girl—prrrr—aaaah, balloons (it’s a fetish - look it up), making out with the Homeland (in)Security model pics on SF transit then ripping them up afterwards for the cameras and the whole world to see, running naked across the tarmac because they declined your credit cards at the ticket counter again, no more putting out for red meat repugnicans and their blue balled supporters until they abdicate our crown of thorns, no rest.

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