These fucking people

'These fucking people with their pathetic "allergies" - they make me sick!'
Grandpa said to his nurse, waiting to see his next patient . Then he dropped dead choking on his own anger, like a real man.

Dead calling of my lonely heart

Dead calling of my
lonely heart;
to open this plane
organically / to melt through this
window myself only, keeping the seal
exact to my body till it closes
safely behind me
& I plummet down through these clouds
to whatever city that is which
lies below.

Then what? Just
another town and
with a twisted ankle to
slow me down.

Pointless, dead calling: to
limp slightly for a moment or two
until I heal and see just where
I've landed. Feeling guilty if
I scared anyone on the plane.

Guilty verdict on myself always,
even
when slapped by a raving nurse
while
pulling bodies from
my hometown's
rubble; even when kicked by a
ravishing mystic
in the sweltering burn of my adopted
metropolis. What will change here?

Suddenly free from even a limp, yet having fallen from the sky, I anticipate what follows.
The blue skinned wing-browed locals think me a deity or a trickster.
I deny
any divinity and admit to the
latter characterization.

- Then why the guilt? The wiry, azure
Madonna asks.
- That was a Hell of a trick;
I'll bet you've got more.

Love. At last. Real love. Free from judging, emblazoned with trust, not injurious in the slightest.
We wed in the floating town centre. A true intimacy with my bag of tricks and she's with child. We name the baby Jesus. For mischief. And, just the same, maybe.

Super

I've always

had it wrong

why I'll never become a

Superhero.

It's not that I ain't

Super enough

already.

It's just I will

never be

a

hero.

I have become

I have become dizzy
with lust for Tomorrow
I am drunk
with memories of
Yesterday
I can barely
stand
Today

I descended

I descended
into the sewer
made love to a
denizen of the city underworld.
Our child rose so high
back to the surface
became the first openly
Under Governor.

Let us rot
in the belly of
the old mob
town.

We pirouetted
anyway
disowned by our
successful progeny.

You never want to
die before your child
but we had to kill
the bastard one day.

Not really a bastard
but he would not admit
I was his Sire;
so practically a bastard.
Got too big for his bridges
far underneath which we'd
bred him.

Now we have a
vastly loyal
daughter,
supports us on the
campaign trail
right from the
gutter to the
White House.
The usual path.

She'll be queen of the
Oververse
someday.

I Don't Have Much

I don't have much time left /
They come for me a little past dawn /
so I make it through the bars
go sit on the chair

- last place they'd think to look ;

by the time they feel the light &
find me, I've tinkered
with the machinery
to amplify my abilities rather than
terminally diminish me.

I don't spare any of them
Drop 'em all to the glistening floor
with one last laugh each
Leave not one standing

Need the world to know
the rest of us are not to be trifled with
or stripped
in any way
or of anything

And yet the arrogant baker

And yet the arrogant baker snubbed my request to slice.

Enter Earth's Power Yoga

"enter earth's power yoga" The sign wasn't very convincing. I walked past it. fell into a hole in the ground. Fellated by a series of diseased witches. Danced with unrepentant Confederate soldiers. This is my time in Hell. Nixon singles in a run. Castro's on the same team pitching a perfect All Star game but back on earth he's still alive. He died tomorrow. He's just visiting. All the movies are sold out, esoterically the one about me which the demons especially love.

I represent myself; get off on a technicality. Spit back up the whole to ol' Earth.

Hell wasn't so bad, looking back; more like the womb then I woulda guessed. I still don't remember the best parts. But my vantage point was likely skewed. I was so very bored, and alone, and I just wasn't up for Earth's Power Yoga. Just not in the mood, ya know? Maybe if there'd been a better sign. The signs in Hell were all wack, direct you the wrong way as the Fallen Angel is wont to do. But you knew that, going in. I had no idea what to expect from Earth's Power Yoga. Pagans? Heartache? Some hybrid with Pilates or robotics? And I didn't even care. Poor salesmanship. Poor signage. They could learn a thing or two from Hell.

Oh, Hell. I just realized. That sign, "earth's power yoga." That was purely a detour toward the damned. I went after all. I recall some stretching, and some rending of flesh poses, some eternal hellfire salutations. The usual.

Note: now I'm bored again. Damn it. And Hell's actually kind of a bore, when they know you don't belong there. That was the technicality I got off on: not damned; Do Not Belong. Same loophole that makes me an outsider here. But here, there's nowhere to be returned to. Never no going back. No womb at the in, Sonny. No place like home, because home is a fiction like heaven and hell.

Windows

Windows & Android got big
copying Apple.
Apple got big
copying Xerox.
Xerox got big
copying.
I'm getting nowhere
too far removed from my sources on
Mount Olympus
Hermes, mainly, methinks; whoever. Maybe
my system sourced
Pong, or an abacus. Intellivision, or Chutes
and Ladders. The snake in the Tree.
Zoroaster or Blake. Bill
Finger or Steve Gerber.
Some forgotten saint. Some dead
Singer.  That
Charlatan,  main man of
the Mercury Theater on the Air.
Hermes, Mercury: copies (eloquent tricksters,
GUIdes, winged messengers).
When in Rome, it's still Olympus. I'm going to
fiddle with this poem while
America burns.

Hey in thin cotton

Hey
in thin cotton
Atop your bedsheets
Fan blowing, central
Air
Someone/s else beside you
Now. Tonight. Tomorrow. Yesterday.
Whenever, forever. Even alone.

I was just driving so fast now; impossibly fast;
how did I push this so fast ¿
As if speed would either allow me to taste you
Or crash me into a
Different wish.

I. Will tell

I. Will tell
The world
From a rusty
Mountaintop
I will make a florid
Gutter
I will puke
A dozen words
Or so
I will pass dirty
And unshowered
And filthy
With feeling
In the late
Desert
Still breeze
I will sing your name
And defying Satan
I will plummet
For only a
Filthy
Generation
Demands proof.
I extinguish
Doubt
I speak
The truth of my
Unvarnished truth:
Embrace me.

Weaponize your heart

Weaponize your heart
Weaponize your soul
Burn out your eyes
Sleep away your dreams
Leave your mind exhausted.
Put your hand where it's
hottest. Put your
hand on the swampy
altar of our
desire. Let it sink into the
murk where we shall finally
fully meet.
With your heart and soul
aimed for the kill
& the whole of me
distracted
enamored
by your fingertips
in the bog we've engineered.

I decided to be

I decided to be my own mascots. Which is funny, because sometimes people mistake the mascot I'm being for me.

I guess I'm having a black President

I guess having a black President
spy on us turns
"Big Brother"
into a sad belated pun.

There is no new word

There is no new word for breeze today. There are only the same words as before. There is a breeze at the beach as long as he sidesteps the jellyfish.

Royal Prop Infant

They already have the Royal Prop Infant gestating for display, as in sooth the future queen shall birth a venomous beast as foretold in the prophecies of the imminent endtimes.

Any alliance with even merely decorative royalty is yet another betrayal of all the blood we have spilled.

It will be our time to defeat that lot again, or face the return of the ungodly right of kings and queens and their privileged and insidious lineage!

Macabre Me-Thing

I have just made the
disconcerting realization
that my empathy overrides my other
capacities.
Please have no
Fear.

I had this idea

I had this idea so
I made a lake from a pond.

I need a name for it.

Have a Red, White, and Blue

Have a
Red, White, and Blue
Independence Day.
Or
whatever colors you prefer,
really;
It's a free country.

A pencil today

I found a pencil today
with no eraser.
I found a typewriter
without correction ribbon.
I technically excised
Undo from my
computers so if I try now
( if I try frantically )
all I get is a
command to sleep:
zzzzzzzzzzz…

Rectifier: false

Technology has enabled my
regretful illusion that I can
connect zzzz
correct things.

I'm sticking with what's broken
or just leaving it
alone.

I Was Driving Just Slow

I was driving just slow in the rain. The song I wrote for you came on the radio. I turned it off. And it was silent, except for the rain.

I think the moon

I think the moon is going to leave. Honor its presence in the meantime; recognize its pull; soon will be time to commemorate its departure.