supplicate

be   a bee   a bee   a bee
sallow air wisp foxhole infiltrates
sting me in my warren
my den, my warm prairie wind
rustle awake stalks
all that remains, foxed bone
buzzing drone
aimed earthward, shape making
yesteryears crops into fallow
gingerbread men
eagerly awaiting
whistle stop signal the ready aim
flames lick wounds clean
thistle cleanse, sweep milo mounds
batten down my whispered thunder roar    a bee   a bee
a bee

THE END OF THE GAME???????

bea sport
mail me my witchery
to switch up she/victory
i left it all on the respected surface
it was a battle in my blood
fucks me up myself wit my foxy fuck wit
shes a man i mean
i invented the wheel
a spinney vom for my exhaustion
i spoke through the endless round
round
round etc. i mean infinity
is watching a bouncing moon baby
squealing in the muted cheese
the future is a sea
is deep to pummel your difficult mind
mirror sun to look a shining
ass of a guess where my heart is headed
to a hard hating
to rumble in lovey collision
rubbing slimy boulders over my crushed jaw
she belts me
hello smile in my rotting
a rainbow gushes from a fracture
it is disgustingly sweet
of you
to care how tall i can never be
giant in the self destruction air
gallops down the wood
sloppy spin as the rock you live on
hides away sunshine
what the fuck
am i going to do without you???????
singing mother--
mother save your knees for nobody
this is not a road
to call your past a waste
but a vast open prairie refilled
to bursting of the american bison
for you to shoot
froma train
while i clap from over here
whistling something sad
that hasn't happened yet

Imaginary Histories

Fox has mirror over the bed

so when he fucks he sees down: 

himself fucking seeing up 

himself fucking

Basketball was invented when a man

prepared the conditions to have

that what he threw away 

returned to him unchanged

Stopping to consider is a double dribble.

Ribs under the rubble of an parkinglot oracle 

play atonal pebble-notes on the xylophone

of a Delphic motorcade rumbla rambla.

Hard 
            to handle on the jukebox 

 
  Hard loving the intractable

  continuum of balls

  Let’s put a lid on the bottom of the nets
                        a second concentric hoop

  its over

  when it’s in

  Let’s put an fermata on this motherfucker

  I can’t help it when I don’t want it to be over

Put another quarter in

drink another drink

tip back fast the rim

frame you in a glass

originstories

That Nebraska is the smell of coffee in the Great Hall,

a brunch underway beneath it in Fellowship Hall,

the smell of stale helium from a history of basketballs

on the dusty wood echoes in the old gymnasiums

in the way basement by bell choir

where I lifted several heavy bass notes.

I can't really remember the cold war though

or Nostradamous but I moved on from my

first crush in the 90s, got over it with David Duchovny's

monotone eyes and the male middle part of every

darkhaired boy. My 96-97 diary was a fat slice, widening

out from its binding with all the pasting in and his faces

taped everywhere. I think probably his personae was my first exposure to

conspiracy. I wanted to be an FBI agent already after Jodie Foster,

I think if for the stories. It's impossible to know

when I first saw Silence of the lambs but I remember

my Dad vividly telling me the entirety

of Se7en later on in the night in 95 when they'd seen it in theaters.

If you investigate the species

and the histories, the bees still figure

in to our legend significantly,

as a sign of the end times

even. I suppose some people deal with always dying by sublimating

their own mortality awareness. Mortality conciousness?

Their being mortality-conscious. Some people opt to sublimate that,

project the anxiety of it, the fears

elsewhere passionately—ends are terrifying.

In and of themselves. True.

And shit could certainly get like that out there.

I'm Actually Kind of Serious About Sleeping with The Missiles

I will not apologize for my origins.
I am not society's stereotype of a Scary Black Mountain Dew Goat
The best pizza joint North Platte ever had
was run out of business by a rumor that the owner was gay and bleeding AIDS on his pizza
During this same time the local news reported the mere presence of graffiti
as proof of a previously impossible gang presence in town with perfect creditude
Like Serious Doughboy Baker types had invaded the country outposts
and in the 90s they were already saying that Lexington was being swarmed with illegal immigrants
In those days you see the Cold War was still what people had been raised to become
You were a good person only inasmuch the bastards were out to get you

It was a big deal
the killer bees that mad scientists had let go from Brazil
so they could go be languid and bisexual
The bees too were swimming up from Mexico now
By Y2k they would control the Maine woods
In the meantime they would make a welting nightmare of the newly domesticated desert south
Attacking old women with good American names
while they cried in remembrance
Even on Nat Geo
or other such staid pro-nature shit

 That's how bees got to be central to the overriding alien apocalypse arc on "X-Files"
 Killer bees on apocalypse swarm was a real fucking thing
 that proper and serious people knew to be happening in front of our eyes.
 And however strong the consensus that X-Files was "Great" may be
 I like to believe that only I understand
 How fucking perfect it trapped the ghost of 94 in a bottle
 better than any show ever displayed its time before or since
 and how X Files has a perfect case for "GOAT" because of that.

I got my mom into the reruns for awhile
Until she cracked her fucking head and now she can't stand it again.
My family comes to me with the big ideas they have because Josh is smart
Sometimes Dad will rage about the black oil antidote that would have wiped Valdez prestine
only the tree-huggars kept it secret because they're out to destroy good businessmen
My sister reads what this guy said about what this guy said about the prophesies of Nostradamous
How it's all coming true now and we better look out for the world ending soon.
I sit her down and say 'Wendy
The world is going to end when you kill yourself like all of us have always known you would'.


 

WHEN THE WORLD ENDS

DAVE MATTHEWS FAMOUSLY SAID THAT
“WHEN THE WORLDS END
WE’LL ALL BE DANCING.”

I DON’T KNOW WHETHER TO TAKE SUCH A STATEMENT
AS THE WORLD AFFIRMING THERE END
OR THE END BEING A DIRECT RESULT OF THE WORLD’S DANCING.

HISTORIANS DISAGREE ON THE CORRECT INTERPRETATION
BUT ALL ARE ALL WILLING TO ACCEPT THE POSSIBILITY OF A
‘DOUBLING MEANING’

I DON’T KNOW HOW THE WORLD WILL END.
I DON’T EVEN THINK DAVE MATTHEWS KNOWS
HOW THE WORLD WILL END.


I’M BEING STUPID TO HIDE THE EDIT.
MY THOUGHTS
NOT YET MY THOUGHTS.
EVERY EDIT IS A LIE
THEY SAY.
BUT WHAT EDIT IS MORE A LINE?

A MAYAN STOMACH ON A BONEFIRE
A COFFEE’S FUTILE ATTEMPT TO SAVE THE WORLD
A GOD’S PUPILS BURSTING WITH SNOW?
I DON’T KNOW IF I READ THAT QUESTION RIGHT.

VOICE DRAWN INTO THE WASTE’S MIRAGE
DON’T THINK OF IT AS LUCK
THINK OF IT

AS HARBORING THE MIRROR’
STRETCH ACROSS
THE EASTERN PLAINS OF NEBRASKA
ONE NIGHT WHEN YOU WERE TOO
HIGH TO PULL YOUR FEVERISH HANDS
BACK FROM THE BEE STINGER.

WHAT EVER HAPPENED WITH THAT?
WHAT EVER HAPPENED WITH COUNTLESS THINGS
ON EARTH
THAT ARE DEAD?
TIME WAS, WE MURDER BECAUSE
THE ACT FELT COMFORTABLE.

NOW
THOSE IN POWER WOULD HAVE YOU BELIEVE
THE DEATH OF ALL BEES WOULD SIGNIFY
THE CONQUERING OF THE FINAL OBSTACLE
BETWEEN THE  ASSURED CONTINUANCE OF MANKIND
AND AN UNAVOIDABLE CAREENING INTO OBLIVION.

THEY WOULD HAVE YOU BELIEVE
THE IDEA OF RUINING A MOTHER FUCKER
JUST BECAUSE HE OR SHE DIDN’T T HAVE
THE GUMPTION TO RUN AWAY
FEELS MILDLY OUT OF VOGUE.

THERE IS PLAN.
IT IS A SECRET PLAN
TO CORNER THE MARKET
OF BEES .
THEN LIMIT THE SUPPLY
OF BEES.
THUS CREATING AN ILLOGICAL DEMAND
FOR BEES.

THE GOAL BEING
OF COURSE
TO MAKE EVERYONE CARE ABOUT BEES.

YOU WILL BUY ONE FOR A $1000
YOU WILL KEEP IT IN A CAGE
AND WHEN IT DIES
A SMALL PART OF YOU
WILL DIE ALSO.
AND YOU WILL BUY ANOTHER BEE
FOR $1000.
AND A BEE’S COST VALUE
WILL BE SOMETHING LIKE
A SEED BAG OF PERENNIALS.
AND IT’S SALE PRICE WILL BE
$1000.
THIS IS HOW THE BEE EXCHANGE
WILL WORK IN THE FUTURE.

AT PRESENT
THE BEE MARKET IS STILL
 A BUYERS MARKET.
EVEN THE “KILLER BEE’S”
 WHAT THE FUCK DID THEY EVER DO?

THEY WORSHIPED A MAN
SO UNCOMFORTED BY INFLUENCE
HE CALLED HIMSELF AN ‘OLD DIRTY BASTARD’
AND SMOKED CRACK TO DEATH.
WHAT A FUCKING FATIGUING THOUGHT.

SO WHO GIVES A FUCK ABOUT BEES?
WHO GIVES A FUCK
ABOUT A KILO OF BEES?

WELL MY SISTER FOR ONE.
BUT NOT IN ANY SORT OF
FISCALLY RESPONSIBLE WAY.

SHE ONLY KNOWS THAT THERE ARE BEES
AND THEY COULD MURDER HER
IF SHE FANCIED A JAUNT INTO NATURE
WITHOUT HER EPIPEN.

I IMAGINE FOR EXAMPLE
SHE WOULD FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE
DRINKING A GLASS OF WINE
ON A PICNIC DATE
WITH THAT GUY SHE REALLY LIKES
IF THERE WERE KILLER BEES AROUND.

I IMAGINE
 TO PUT HER ‘HONEY ‘AT EASE
SHE WOULD SAY “NO GREG,
THIS FACE OF CONSUMING REGRET
IS NOT BECAUSE I WENT ON THIS PICNIC
DATE WITH YOU. IT IS BECAUSE I FORGOT
 MY EPIPEN.
AND WITHOUT MY EPIPEN
I COULD STEP ON A DEAD BEE
OR BE ASSAULTED BY A LIVING BEE
AND THEN I WOULD MOST LIKELY DIE
HAVING NEVER FULFILLED MY GREATEST DESIRE
TO HAVE TWO POLITE CHILDREN WITH YOU.

I ALSO THINK
I JUST DRANK A BEE
THAT CRAWLED INTO MY WINEGLASS

BUT NEVER MIND.
WHAT KIND OF GEMSTONES
WILL YOU ENCRUST INTO THE SIDES
OF THE TABLE
YOU BUILD FOR YOUR MOTHER
FOR MOTHER’S DAY?”


I BELIEVE THE DEPLOYMENT
OF POETRY—
I CALL IT “THE BREATH OF THE WORLD”—
—OTHERS CALL IT “GATHERED LIGHT”—
—LIKE THAT MAKES ANY SENSE—
WILL CONTINUE TO INCREASE INDEFINITELY
UNTIL OUR ATOMS ARE PROCESSED 
INTO A FOSSIL JUICE
USED TO LUBRICATE THE GEARS
OF THE BIOMECHANICAL  TRAVBOOK 2K10
ON ITS CAMPAIGN TO
SYSTEMATICALLY DESTROY
EVERY CONSTANT
LEFT IN THE WORLD.

IT’S NOT THAT EVERYTHING
SHUFFLED INTO THIS PHANTASMAL
WOUND ON PURPOSE.
MORE –LIKE ME—EVERYTHING
MISTOOK GOD’S LAST ATTEMPT
TO PRESERVE MANKIND
AS A HARMLESS INCIDENT
THAT COST ME $1200.

IN THE FUTURE:
THE RESISTANCE OF MANKIND
WILL UNITE AS A VOICE
STRIPPED DOWN TO RADIO WAVES
THAT LIMP ACROSS THE RAGGED SKY
PRAYING TO GRAVITY:

BRINGS DOWN A CHUNK OF DEAD PLANET.
BRING DOWN A CHUNK OF DEAD PLANET
LARGE ENOUGH TO RETURN US TO THE SUN.

(BY MIKE KNOTT)

VICTORY FOR BEES

* for all the embedded links, click to open and return to reading 

(click)

no more alchohol

says the bee mom

no more buzzing and 

poisoning and 

we have only one life

only one only 

one annoying body prop

but it doesn't have to be

i am stung

with a tiny globe of bone

vibrating my insides

straight from mars

shitting my altruism 

listening to alien cow music

with emo men, damn

we are all stoners

i am still waiting for you

to talk to me about 

your personal take on

ecology and capitalism

and the plight of bees

we are all drawing this map

with pollution bells ringing

weeee-oooooowwwwwwww

and the car alarm bird shining

and at least neonicatinoid 

pesticide use banning is happening

in europe

for two years

at least 

(put that on the map)

(put it in poured concrete

in the shape of a turtle

like turtle earth, like that)

(ok)

i can't howl because i am smoking

i can't moon with my sisters

because i am creating a facsimile

of my face out of internet, not

a beehive made of skin

i am letting the rum soak my table

drawing goofy breasts on a cactus

with my homies 

we are from earth

i asked google

what's the earth's area code?

883 google said

and what is the population of humans?

it fluctuates, says google

it fluctuates

but it is around seven billion

one hundred and eighteen million

four hundred and fifteen thousand

three hundred and thirty

(now) i am a planet

hurrying along in the interstellar

atmosphere and i try to comprehend

a hawk? or a mouth? i remember

the moon from the universe

or, i remember everything that is 

contained within me

the way that you remember

your village

in nebraska

with a population of one

              you

when people send you letters...

what am i saying

no-one sends you letters

they send them to me,

and i read them to you,

and here's one now