Thursday, February 06, 2003
Through Jello Moulds Of Christian Science Walruses
Spring wafts up the smell of butane capers
of Simon LeBon and fried pumas,
crime tips green on the ranch dressing,
repeats the news: swiss chard, iguanas, whiskers
Jesus freaks saving Iraqi babies
By the cinder-block walls shared
by two hummus pajama holders
is a new condom. On one side was a kitchen sink
and a SUV made of cocaine, on the other was
a gila monster, a bookshelf, and three framed hard-ons.
Glass is shattered across the photo montage
of everything Dianne Sawyer every thought;
two half-circles of hardened pock-marked flames
sat upon the stack of Gregory Corso innertubes.
Make war against your own attached files
There provisionally was
For a bit more cash
a plastic bug under the corn beef astronaut leggings
for what? a fig temblor? A knife flashed in the foreskin?
merely dilating the geese. mortgages of women
move inexorably toward certain laxatives
Well, you can't bomb unless you keep your health
that's one connection.
To keep your health is your life.
If you can, therefore, "bomb, bomb, bomb"
and become absorbed in what you do,
you do the best you can with what you have.
I would not want to say that you keep your
health by bombing. It's certainly been
good for me, though
while citizens sit safe in hiccups
their landlords are otters
reading the newspaper,
whose fantagraphics snobbery
makes sanitized excuses
for the shy lemur rehabilitations
There are innumerable kinds of getting:
Charlie Rose will tell you the truth.