ANSWER

MATH IS MORE FASHIONABLE THAN FATIGUE

COLIN FARRELL IS MORE FASHIONABLE THAN FATIGUE

THE SCIENCE FICTION HELL INSIDE OUR MINDS IS MORE FASHIONABLE THAN FATIGUE

THE WAY ICE CUBE SAYS "THE SCENE OF THE SLAUGHTER" IS MORE FASHIONABLE THAN FATIGUE

ESSENTIALLY

EVERYTHING CRUNCHING

IS MORE

IT'S LIKE KNOWING

THE BUTTERFLIES

WON'T STOP

THE KNOTS

IN YR STOMACH

IT'S LIKE

THE FLAMING MOOSE

IN THE MOVIE KNOWING

IS MORE FASHIONABLE

THAN FATIGUE
 


i'm abt to be
            a potato
                        in the sink

i'm getting slimy
            when i'm getting rubbed on
                        with water hands

i don't mind the sensation
            of being chopped & mashed
                        because it's a sensation
                                    for me to feel

i really want
            a churro
                        & a smile

this is an old
            millenium

the hills
            are melting
                        under my feet

the hills
            are alive

we are alive
            & wearing each other
                        like coats we love to look at

a millennium's give ways

In the trailer, Alexander just cuts the knot, gives a speech or two, ignites tar. And by dilation, something loads, sets its’ cast. We say knot for how many ills each day--- looking back---to an old country road where we were caught. A half-dozen police, those stickered reds and blues. Alexandra in my shirt. And my explanation for running, quite simply: “we weren’t even running from you." So about the movie, I imagine the hero is scolded as a boy for dry-firing his bow. It’s like: knowing the lines won’t stop the butterflies won’t stop the knots (this speech already solved). Over the hill, another, unsmoothable. The complaint’s immemorially cast. As this, a new millennium, what’s more fashionable than fatigue?

I don't know. I think I believe in rain.

Believe in rain's work.
Rain cut a rail
straight through all your non-spacey oceans
faster than anyone's father.

Time is a device
to keep things moving.
A heart thump quickens
the firm grip of a lover.

This mountain top device.
This mountain top. That mountain top.
No mountain top.

Carry a new branch.
Feel heavy from all the cords,
the fire wood at its belt.

Sing chords of praises to a distracted god.
I didn't carve this mold,
my grandfather did. I didn't plant that tree,
his grandfather did. I didn't fence that plot of land,
his grandfather did. I'm just doing the best
with what I'm glad I've got.

The least you could do is drool for me a little. Get
your galoshes on. Get
your diving cap
and scarf
and goggles on.

I'm going splashing.

I'm going canyoning. I'm going canyoning. I'm canyoning every corner of this island, until we both drown in our borders.

After all,
without some god,
all that's left
is drowning.

1 Mile North

Then everything wasn't. Your disappointment delayed launch countdown. The au pair's financial security was in serious jeopardy. The blade you bent back into shape halved its potential for tilling. That soil is only one way to break apart the ground. Fixing shit through others means theft. I need consists of nothing and money and space/time and nothing. How does it mean? Living on the Oregon trail is the same as living in the middle of the Atlantic ocean because they are both dead. Being bit by a pit bull is even less meaningful if the dog is rabid. Let it lie. Don't suck its poison. Now I'm hanging onto less than the last poem. One poem burgles capacity. This poem. That poem. No poem. I'm only trying to tell you I love you in a way that persuades that last branch to bloom again. If you would let me hover over your chest I would drop each fingertip into the mountain top's blown mountain top tip by tip by inch by my own hand. Its hole like the one in none. Poor poem. Believe in rain's work. Or don't. Pain renders your faith irrelevant.

To Nude Drifting

I don't really understand it except
I liked that one line about crescents
I pictured the dough boy, the moon, and the white spots at the base of my toe nails

The earth is just a dump
for some other universe's broken things
and they have an endless supply of things

Healing
is saying screw you
to a distracted god
who thought jell-o molds, cookie cutters, and angel food cake pans
could ever create happy, drooling people

Rain doesn't work that way.

Toward New Drafting

I dreamt a revision

of the work but lengthy still

away from dreams. Without smoke

to breathe through the cloud cover, drooling

down the sky, the rain approaches

a determination of crescents, indentations

left in the palm from tense fists

from holding it in.  The flatulence of an over articulation

the release of externalities

what is not usable, what is not valuable

to the subject for which a template is lacking.

I cannot draft a report

without a mold to start from.

FORCING YR GIRLFRIEND TO LISTEN TO THE REDHOTCHILIPEPPERS

heyo
yr huffing the mess of my leaky arms
i don't hear the ringinging
from your anus anus anus
i don't heroin well or i guess i just rubber band
& snap   in front of yr face
until these dreams stop making you barf
out of any hole
heyo
i once believed things about my father
or giants & money && the balls of god
drooling through cloud cover
the stink of gas
i haven't been high in over twenty-four hours
yr fly machine pumps nos into my veins
like i get excited by an open mouth
like i think about things before they happen
like i would always exist in some way or another
& yr right
say there is a pattern
say i am always away from my IRL dreams
duck from puffs of flatulence
of my lactose intollerant mother
of my diabetic father
of my own decaying boyness
it is all a pass
can you smell it
i am not sure if yr aware
of how short i will linger
the warmth a body leaves on a mattress
press yr face against glass
watch fog come and go
heyo

ew yr face

i can tell you what you smell like
       i can tell you what you smell like, a lax & drooling mess     
i wake up & i'm away from my DREAMS     
but they're coming out in farts
       can you smell the fathers in my farts?

research says

you come to me now,
face creased with pillow welts.

mutter weren't ever a way out,
the route's been sodafied.
things have gone and been made
a sloppy mess of.

your father is wearing a bear suit
blackened lips lax and drooling.

hisses i seen the engine,
know how to plow down a whole snarl,
i have planted the forest of meat trees,
i can tell you what they smell like
at sundown.

dismiss/worship

there's just something about
black metal and charles manson
&
well, fake chicken

yeah, they might've burned that shit down
and killed those people
but morningstar farms
is a division of...

time spent with you is limited now
there is no ________
growth is a tiny green garnish
on a grey plate of neon foods

the dead smell after warm rain
the absence of stars
the dull orange glow
chase true rest away

waiting

not for everything to burn
but for it all to be gone
repulsion ends in getting my gun
repulsion in the modern world
sickness will pass

my dad always said
this wasn't how we were meant

unadulterated man
would you please shut the fuck up
before you have a seizure

i would wager that
i can poke a sleeping bear three times
successfully before he rightfully
rips me in two and saunters off

Chicken

As a boy my dad lit his leg on fire and they 

did a graft where no hair grows. A man sings 

for my neighbor's building's intercom. I want 

to say the leg don't fit in such slick skin. Shiny 

state's shape down the side calf. My phone 

slips across the floor. Look I might call to you, 

you rare thing. Or to the muddy lake I think's 

an ocean. The sea we'll never lose ourselves 

in. You drive the highway and a white line 

skirts your shoulder. Long stretch on a 

sunblonde strip.

YOU CHOP VEGETABLES

They were talking
all protein
&meatballs.

&here comes skin
&here comes
the dish soap.

This chicken
is a fake

chicken.  It was Joni
I’ll say

it was Joni

No more giant
sodas.  No more
March.

The chicken is tangential.

Hey a new one!!!

I should have phoned you over

But I always want to write you,

Write a poem but there is nothing

There, on paper

Getting at some particular approach.

That picture in front of

The Weiner-Mobile we took

Of each other in the back winds

Of your phone memory.

It passes as a flag as a fabric

Limb my reptile self will

Not wear again.

I am a parade degrading with

Marches forward. March on.

March your hunger on its own

Repulsion ends in sex and food.

Repulsion in your modern gut

Reactor, name, your term

of endearment

It’s always broken off

In charged pond broadcasts

Of stone hurls from the cruel

Hands of a boy, the cruel hurling

Of this poem too

Is its boy without attention.

This poem, where your future

Occurred on your palm lines

Are still palm lines.

They lie on your palm anyway.

The first moth flew in my desk lamp

And all soft animals are young again,

Entire species borne in each new heat,

Not dying without everything with them.