thoughts on vibration because why not
ask for taint close-up
ask Isabelle Huppert if she wants to converse with me
at a Viennese restaurant
we sat on the porch
under her supervision or with her knowledge
or was my family suddenly polite
the color loosens when water is applied
when she proposed “stir-crazy” as a new concept
near the birding retreat in emulation
a poetry magazine by the toilet for newcomers
habitués of the garlic festival
climbing the rock hill with presidential delusions
pretending I’m crawling under his desk
looking upward at the clock rather than at my crotch
pick-up-sticks on the fireplace bricks and hot egg nog
a tour of ABBA’s dressingroom
and I keep bringing up starlings
or the eel breakfast with beans
why sex seems like a shortcut to the symphony
typing a play about the angel in the backyard
he said aural massage
he is the plateau and I am the magazine
shower and peer through the hole
the bus trip could be a liberation-fest
like El Capitan in Yosemite but Lust Capitan
hoodwinked by natural sublimity on 8mm reel
Venice too with its cupcake holes
sedentary angel with collapsed ribs
grabbing my arm in the taxi to scold me for not being aesthetically radical
I was somewhat radical but I chickened out
and then he died but not as a result of my cowardice
town of the cats where masturbation on a bumpy floor
dropped licorice-like into the past’s mouth
shoplifted a radical book
expecting mystical hints
but what are sour balls
can you seize the homoerotic cavern
climbing over the sprocket holes
can you be cavalier about the arrival of the sleeping masses
nickel-and-diming the hot-tub salesman
I’m a fashion publicist
I teach drama to kindergartners
basic theater exercises
did your girlfriend ask you to shave your dick or was it your idea
did I offend you by including your name
or omitting it
and then more sex he said after undetectable
hang around the cavern until it starts popping out tidbits
like a gumball machine with big suckers
he also has a penchant for asymptotes
dipping his overalls in the toilet by accident
toss everything into the elegy machine and tumble dry
"The poet is of no party." BaudelaireOur manifesto is an act of substantiation.
We reject all forms of futilitarianism, in whatever disguise.
We believe that comedy is the song of the village and tragedy the song of the goat.
We believe what is written in the books, but now we want to see for ourselves.
The single idea, beating on the same doors in vain.
The analogue and the invention.
The death cell.
The first permission.
Though we watch the stage for things to happen, though our minds wander.
By ourselves in the green field, playing our diversion.
Though the story begins with the loss of a home.
Out of the machine, we shift restlessly in our seats.