once I wrote on this blog
'I will let my pubes grow long
let my heart turn into a frosted flake'
or something very close.
I wrote that after being 'heartbroken'
by a girl. (I would have to look at the
date on the poem to know exactly which)

the really funny thing about poetry is how
basically a lot of the time when I write
something that doesn't make me
you know, cringe nauseated in self-loathing,
it is or will become true
but I often don't know it yet
I just think it 'sounds cool'
though maybe real capital-T-Truth
doesn't sound very cool.

maybe real truth sounds more like
the embarrassingly loud percolation
of sugar free redbull and very little else
in my stomach when I'm off food

I drove 4 hours round trip and alllllmost ran out gas
and tried to be a noble (sexy) savage
for others

I don't know if it worked, it felt that it did
at least at the time. There were two others
not savages like me. Some kind of jungle royalty
with 5 cats (one who Parties All The Time)
that are as serene and loving as the monarchs
they all made love to me they stroked me
and put their tongues on my tongue, it felt nice.
I wanted to purr but didn't know just how to do that.

later I knew that it was a one-off, my trip
to that particular jungle. I'm not equipped for such great heights
and the huge complexity of knowing where to put my hands and when

this is not about that though. I am letting myself diverge
this wasn't supposed to be about that at least
it was supposed to be about the frosted flake thing
and how it did come true
in a horrible way that I never considered.
frosted flakes are brittle, saccharine, and small
and are not very filling;

the only person I know
who really likes frosted flakes is Uncle Milton
and he is a strange, smart guy but he is also
callous and mean.

I don't know.
I am trying to be better.
But I'm stuck with this achey-flakey thing
And have  to protect it from being crunched
in the mouths of a rare few women and men

who will even appreciate
how hard I've worked
for these particular
long-ass pubes and cereal heart???

triadalean and ephedrine sulfate and cabernet franc and the slow click of my front right axle

here you want this
go get it there is
source in cave
small dividend
here we go to Mexico no?

bring sorts of
suitcases hangers
that smack of
heresy and high fashion
we are brats

deeper kimchi
a problematic
swim together a lost
notion of this map

(warming up) (glendale)

tonight, I hear the echo of
peninsulas of stripped malls
against valleys of empty
ringing, an orangeish basketball.

I lost my glasses--all of you
have glasses. where are my glasses.
I am still the queen. your royalty spreads
like a fresh shag carpet that my father, mother, brother,
cat and me once rolled on in excitement of things
to come.

stains came. and dog shit.
lots of ash--some dust
accumulated in unvacuumable
corners or places Angie
missed.

what I want to ask is: will
you take me? as one of you?
can I ask for your forgiveness?
for I am (a) miserable! (sinner)

the sinkhole in my ceiling

jesus came from craigslist

jesus came from craigslist

paused in the kitchen gauzy

pink and olive and denim

gay as some prisms sunkist

frizzed benign nazi

popping ecstasy calcium

jesus broke and spit in

souls so plain my psyche

fearing absent venom I

keep evian forward when

faced Him

"trancenoise spine"

If You solve the mystery, Then I get a shank­—

­­—snack. A wire transfer headed south of your

hem and haw. Your cat knots around intentionals

Your father just had his third heart attack.

I am overdrawn in every sense of the word.

1’s understanding of 3’s sin

Hardly working, hustling Dixie—chess

And math and dingy inhalations vex

Long celebrity: self-pitying solace who

scrolls infinitely through a contact list

to find no party to intrude upon.

Enumerating that which has been, the

sum a landfill heaped and reeking of some
                bottomless repetitions that sunk cheekbones.

 Better or worse? Better. Better or worse? Better. Better or worse? Worse. Worse. Worse. Better. Worse. Better. Better. Worse. Better. Worse. Better. That’s it? How much? That door?