generosity
we wake late morning.
behind our heavy bedroom curtain
sunlight is one huge fact.
sunlight & blue
blue opal sky /
ocean horizon.
sail-boats
dot the surface of lake
erie expanse, & we imagine
rich
people
giggling on a saturday morning
sun-glass'd,
spray'd by
tips of white water mist.
curve
of the call
of a gull.
we want
to say
thank you.
uh oh
beatles' white
album over windows
media player loud
in my head between
white computer speakers
i notice ann thru the doorway in
our kitchen making
supper --
bottle of soy sauce.
chunks of beef splatter
in a large
pan on the stove.
i peek,
cautiously;
i see steam-clouds hover over beef-cubes
& the edge of ann's
flowery thigh-
high dress
billows
upwards in a steamy way too.
old skeletons
packed with globs
of clay-like
fat, walrus-
like,
& rapidly mutating.
there's my cock
in yr mouth,
my hand balling
yr whole
delicious breast
makes us
understand
skin pleasure
& kinki-
ness.
the day the government starts fucking its poets
let me say
whatever i
need to
say in the manner of
hope
fulness:
we are
dinosaurs.
someday
our voices will be lost
sounds
among silences. spikes
of a marijuana
leaf:
don't tread on
me: horticulture
for
cultural
intoxica-
tion:
transcend-
ence.
talking to an al qaeda fighter
my wife is drinking bottles of
newcastle brown ale. i, also,
am enjoying guzzling
the delicious brown ale
down my
throat. we went to college
together
in the mountains of new hampshire
almost 30 years ago
when amerika was amerika
& the future
had a sort of hopefulness to it;
not this current-day
dread, this apocalyptic intrusion
where inner-city new york city
towers crumble down like
arnold movies
in a very prelapsarian way.
anyways,
fuck you too, asshole.
fantasy bed island
halle berry
she is my inner spoon baby
warm deep skin hot as black ice
easing thru mid-country afternoon amerika
peter boyle
this is how
we are
reduced to angelic memory
old folk home
oxygen tube
stupid mind
knowing death is real close
but billy bob
fucks halle berry
& he is very
in love -- her too,
i'm certain of it.
she realizes billy bob's
spiritual
evolution,
& life
is a pure
mystery,
a movie playing a moment before its
action.
now plop a couple
of middle-aged
prelapsarian hippies
naked on
a 2nd story floor
king-size
mattress --
they're
high
like
droplets of humans
jetting
from the
cock
of god
half-way thinking
we find our place
ass-ending into
any somewhat compatible
chair. a mirror
doesn't show our
half-brain'd
portrait
of age:
this face,
this eye-sight.
this stare
back at you.
you want a poem?
i'll give you a poem.
you don't want a poem?
ok.
click to view movie/poem - eggs