The Moleskin Poems (written in Bangkok)

The electic eye opens:

Pillow posed there with hat on your head

you silly softy

put there in place of a friend who didn’t want his photo taken

you, said pillow, always bend for people and sigh

so helplessly

you, wild pillow, vomit your down raining a billion feathers
as teens fight

slinging you

wet pillow all drooled on
you were made by a machine
in Bangladesh

wet pillow in little pieces
at the riverbed

Ginsberian pillow barreling
through the universe like a glossy star of David

of course disappearing in
the universe’s asshole: the cosmic washing machine

Dadaist pillow made of many swirling dots:

cloud, smoke, fuzzy ghost, yet somehow distinct, certain, and sure

Ernest Garcia Marquez now eats the pillow as he did as a child

Allen Cabral de Melo Neto

stop trying to drop
the pillow (like acid)

tune out!

The electric eye closes

Cue the music

something like Dizzy Gillespie

like St. Louis Blues

like rain, trumpet, and saxophone:

prairie dogs kissing

red with a little bit of purple

statues flown in on helicopter

mad riffs

jazz is riffing, churning

but it hardly matters now that you’re here

listening while you rub your temples, the space under the eye sockets—sounds like Hollywood trumpets that signal character trouble:

another headache?

keep it quiet

so I don’t have to scream to be heard

shall we stroll or pace the earth or stay and wait for it to spin past us

until you answer, how can I talk with you?

Half asleep already, let us doze then

let the blobs of sleep pull you out to the
ocean milk of sleep

where trees dream, no dogs ever bark

and money is asleep

so the aparts—the separates, distincts, others, not here but over theres—mingle without any of that resentment, envy, and cowardice;

one with the name that means tiger in Spanish

with the curly hair and sloping forehead

like a Maya Queen and taco vendor

looks at you to see if you’re here or there, like her.

I close my eyes and watch the ocean milk churned by long lines of Khmers

milk dropped from the craters of the moon

when we earthlings worm-holed in

part of the churning

universe building

already we’re halfway into it
this book, I obsess I am nothing more than a comma

(a grammatical bridge)

who wants to be an Em dash

(a grammatical wormhole),

whether by momentum or inertia
open to the ideas and let the page stir

the philatelic museum will put this moment in a border

to preserve the creative

which is being extinguished in America

a mad run to the far reaches of

crashing cosmos of timpani symphony

quasars, quarks, and nebula

wormholes, blackholes, cedulla

Ode to the Butts

Sulfuric matches sit slipping from cigarette box

that case, briefcase of social circles

with its companion

a swapping friends and lovers kind of tobacco relationship

add ashtrays and glasses

and muscle shirt on the bar

like this table that the writs lean on

a lacquered phenom below frion

Leon, from Phnom Phen speaks the loudest

smokes the least

yammering, chirping, grinding

on the dance floor a girl with glasses

below her eyes above shaking asses

heat, sweat, sticky hands, from drinks themselves

   sweating and watering, the cubes dying

   inside the mixed drink sea

a sea above on catwalks

   and balconies

   canned lighting that at

               desolate hours

               cats climb

               chirps chime

   that is the essential sea

of me and we, innate

   duplicity and complicity

   complexity

   and it all matters so

much—it’s what’s truly

creative and scares us

and forces us to renourish ourselves

in ways we can’t know how

but find discovering and uncovering

little by little

split many ways, like cakes passed then in little dishes

people lick fingers

plastic forks cut inside

chocolate going to the side

the side a black rock beach

   made from Santorini’s centuries

old volcano

   the rocks themselves relics

annoy the heels of your feet

swimming volcanic, yes, volcanic in its black dust heaviness

you know the rocks

   entropic rocks

               instinctive rocks

                           regenerative rolls

rock in the sea

come swimming now

inside this page and its ebbs and flows

   and false crescendos, capos—pitch

   itself a fever or a fiend

bloodletting here

               there measured and contained

come diving into the waves

Haiku to Teaching

Bulging lips

the student broods

many deaths by fire

Haiku to Teaching Part 2 (Teacher’s Manual)

circular towers of coins on the circular table

   remind the drinker of where he was

Ode to the & sign (the ampersand)

How do you want your style to be?

   don’t limit the light you shed, young matchstick,

   the cosmic brilliance of sun and shine

   chaos and doubt, anxiety and reason

Configure! Configure!

   when it dances it’s hot

of course you knew this, my friend

   some come and see how it has fallen

   this once

relax, open up your ears to this

   sawasdeekap!

4,057 letters in lines

enemy of lines enemies in lines enemies waiting in lines

scrolls and conch shells,  

   the possibilities are many

   that reading out loud gives one

   tones change and modulate

   like strung out “and” signs: &&&

three men sitting drinking tea with both hands

perhaps they are under a tree on a hot August day

or in lines with feet shackled in a jail somewhere

getting that bit of sustenance or at a temple

just before prayer time, three Buddhists sipping tea

reading this is touch with its exotic

as that stand and do aerobics

bent over and stretching

while staring in a mirror

   letting the rest of the gym fade out

so I thank you, my friend

for staying here with eyes fixed

transfixed linguistic blips

like hip-hop flow going so it goes as flow

though  no-one know where it go

Ode to Americans

They're always fat and unfit

they go around shouting anywhere

they throw their garbage on the floor.

Ode to the Bushes

They eat garbage and throw

plastic cups

Ode for the fucking sake of it

I want

the honking, smell of knishes and sauerkraut

whiff of delicious peanuts that taste like shit

I want

the Latinas with hoops and jeeps

   the parks and it’s unique craziness

   man in elephantnose riding bike

   man in grey suit playing flute

   woman in fountain giving speech

   SWAT team in gear

               invisible on rooftops, in vans

I want

the hoods and dancers

the wall street crews and camaraderie

the bridges and bikepaths

   incense tables, books, and DVDs

   rats making garbage pails shimmie

graffiti on the walls and subways—deep in the tunnels packed with crews

the crews busting hip-hop

   playing ball

   wearing Yankees jerseys and gold

the bodegas selling dope

   speaking Spanish

the passersby blowing kisses at men’s dates

the man saying yum to the tall girl in heels

the dog runs, the chess tables, the arches

lakes, boathouses, and trees

the screeching subways with their express and local, stained-glass stations, jazz musicians, and drummers

the piers, the canals, the rivers, the ferries

the shimmering of skyline night

the terrorist attacks, the steel burning, the buildings falling,

the smoke that stayed, hovered, stank

of burning flesh and steel

the following altruism, anger, and apathy

all the park benches

the corners and their dealers

the barrios and the bullies on bicycles

and most of all the stoops—their games, their gossip, and a girl with a nice neckline to smoke with—

Ode to America

American big baby playing with toys

nobody else has

in a room full of men

Ode to Cunts

Peeing now I see a big cabbage in the lines

   of water sprinkle, wake, and ripple

   a mid-bowl tsunami

   oceans of notions, Rushdie?

   or at least just a sea of pee,

and that blue dye

A magic carpet with a meditating man:

   the counter culture karma compulsive cunt police

Insert photo here: “stoned cunts on chairs”

   and below it insert copy:

The texture of this piece as seen expressed thematically in the artists works thus far, said part has gained radiant depth and an unconscious appreciation and manifestation of the atmosphere

poems at the bottom of emails spam through the Internet—high speed 2byt virtual daredevils

C://test.flyingcarpet_beach_photo2.jpeg

Ads by Goodle, Dooble, Kabooble #FOOCC 258x250 pop out

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They’re on the loose to make you stagnate:

music on buses, announcements on subways, musak, news anchors, cell phone bells, blings, bleeps, deeps, pacheeps, and rings, klaxons, buzzes, neurons, audio toxins these tocsins

all to distract you—in cahoots with your hobbies, families, jobs, worries—from being you

Don’t ever say it in North America: Cunt! says the meditating man with vibrating head—cunt police task force

Remember story of man saying, “you, sir, are impolite!” (link to: http://you sir are impolite.html if only you’d said:

“You, sir, are a stark raving mad cunt.”

Comapnion piece to Ode to Cunts

a successful cunt: that darth vader

ambiance

   light

               matter

                           sound

                                       color

                                                   then the world

of solar sun grew out and around and

abound—I remember a subway in the jungle—an alternate Montclair

   nostalgic cunt

   chlymidiatic cunt

   2.

I pee, therefore I am

   for laughs and giggles

…before we lived

in a time most pure

lived giant Smelphsies

that thought much more

and they knew everything

but they still had to do it

till one day the guru Smelph

said, “hey, screw it!”

I can make little Smelphsies

just like you man

they’ll be smart like us

and I’ll call them human

so he worked and he worked

and soon we became

but little did we know

we were part of their game

cause he made other creatures

like fishies and cats

like bugs, birds, zebras

elephants, and bats

soon enough

we knew we were alive

why should we

have to work 9 to 5

that’s it that’s all

I am just not gonna do it

just like these Smelphs

I can say, “hey, screw it!”

I’ll make this machine

and that will compute it

Everything I do

A computer will do it

so free I’ll be

like mars and the stars

so free I’ll be

like the air not a care

so everything’ll be happy

all will be nice

suddenly us humans

will have a life…

Soon enough

they knew they were alive

why should we

have to work while they thrive

that’s it that all

I’m just not gonna do it

just like those humans

I can say, “hey, screw it!”

I’ll make this machine

and that will compute it

everything I do

an atom will do it

I’ll make other things

like infrared lights

like quarks, quasars, lasers

and sixty gigabytes…

A creative cunt once wrote

   those lyrics

--------------------

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**For I am here. Everyone rise. Loan me your funky mind and we’ll see if we can’t vibe off the mothership. We won’t do you any harm. Are you ready for the second coming of Dr. Funkenstein? They say the bigger the headache, the bigger the pill. Well, they call me the Big Pill.

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***Microbiologically speaking when I start churning, burning, and turning it will make your atoms move so fast expanding your molecules causing a friction fire burning you on your neutron causing you to scream, "hit me in my proton, baby!"

Comments

[Suzanne Chiaia]

Moleskin is the most mature work you have done so far. It's insane, poignant and exotic. The kind of work we have come to expect from you. I've read it three times so far.

[Ra Gabriel]

Moleskin is wild! The poems are everywhere and nowhere at once. They seem to reinvent the language in some ways while melding things that already exist like literature and hip-hop.

[Suzanne Chiaia]

Just read "You Sir"...I laughed till I cried. I've been to Seoul and you aced it.

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just....wow~~wow~~
u r always super genius~~
Luv ya...and miss ya :D

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