Note To Selves

My True Love’s a fighter
& when we square off
I can’t sleep for three weeks, six years
her child-genius voice rangs
Ha in ma ears
yet through the red tears
I can see she’s waiting
Yes, with her two cute dukes
up

Houses are made of trees

Lives are made of conflict

& your fantastic rack still speaks to me
In a language far superior
To any rendered here

Pristine Heaven, God of Fuck,

Is that your wet mouth
So near my ear?

I promise to swallow your secrets whole, & thoughtlessly

…These things that I cannot know alone

But only in communion with the shining

Luscious tits of my amazing woman

I won’t turn you into a siren
If you won’t make me dead

Please come back to my apartment

It’s on the corner of Dumb and I’m In Love With You

I have cigarets and beer
And peanut butter crackers

Please come here
Come back to my apartment

Remember when you were here? At my apartment?

It’s a boat in the trees
That I cannot steer

You are the wind in the sails of my apartment
Why won’t you settle down and come here?

I promise I won’t sing anymore, while you’re here

Just open up the front door of my apartment

Do not join the forgot-ments
In the callouses on my heart-ment

Get into your dilapidated luxury automobile and drive it to my apartment

Everything on the face of the earth
Is worse than your vagina

Everything in the Universe
is inferior to your crotch

Nothing else I could write here
Rhymes with your Vagina

I can think of nothing else
But your genitalia

Consider this another poem
Botched

pablo neruda

Facing you
I am not jealous.

Come with a man
at your back,
come with a hundred men in your hair,
come with a thousand men between your bosom
and your feet
come like a river
filled with drowned men
that meets the furious sea,
the eternal foam, the weather.

Bring them all
where I wait for you:
we shall always be alone,
we shall always be, you and I,
alone upon the earth
to begin life.

The End and the Beginning

After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won’t
straighten themselves up, after all.

Someone has to push the rubble
to the sides of the road,
so the corpse-laden wagons
can pass.

Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.

Someone must drag in a girder
to prop up a wall,
Someone must glaze a window,
rehang a door.

Photogenic it’s not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.

Again we’ll need bridges
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.

Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls how it was.
Someone listens
and nods with unsevered head.
Yet others milling about
already find it dull.

From behind the bush
sometimes someone still unearths
rust-eaten arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.

Those who knew
what was going on here
must give way to
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.

In the grass which has overgrown
reasons and causes,
someone must be stretched out
blade of grass in his mouth
gazing at the clouds.

Come as near as you can
To me, this page, this summer

Bring your mouth and your muscles,
Bring your homework, bring Einstein

Tell all your friends, break your piggy bank,
Put all your clothes on and take them all off

Get into your dilapidated luxury automobile,
Drive it to my tree house and hear THIS:

I don’t believe in your soul,
Or mine.

You can’t have it.

There is nothing to possess.

The glass is half more,

Less does not exist.

And so

I’m going to eat you.

There she reclines

Plagued by devotions

She makes a good screen

The Burning Psychic Siren Child

One hand on your lap

One hand on her list