pome

Pop Confessional
for Los Angeles, CA


Waterfall syntax

smoke lens caught in the offshoot sparrow

Limb letters and all that candy coated stuff is just pop semblances.

Which one are you; give me your hand and fuck off the radio. I am gun shot

strawberry milkshake after effects gliding silly on these American knees,

Lyotards and cheetah leg warmers not that its ever worth phototexting

Bodies buried in the snow, souls buried in cellphones. And there goes

all the eucharist quarters dispensed into mouths, techno-catholic blow up doll

So give me vegas or the vatican.

pome

The German Abstract Expressionist Brunch Situation
for M. Keenan

A theater of executives,
ice-tooth

           puck
on the ring

a mouth encased in a glass box

The voiceprint thumb pound
cost you love
and couch quarters. 

This is merely hockey,  hockey
merely, on the TV

ricocheting

Central Park mirrors
having preferred Central Park in the mirror
to the real thing
behind your back. 

a surrealist reference to get the day going

skull roses stuffed I wonder what Balzac
would've eaten since he took up most of Central Park
having preferred flesh and light to photography

sport-ghost,
hockey.

pome

Cellphone Hugs
for Michael Keenan

Ampersand clouds-- dove strokes, doves
surrounded us

The city was where perception met perception;
the airplane did not crash
this time around.  Typewriter impressions on the wind

peripatetic
paragraphs, teeth clicks

We are merely pedestrians in search of love
without regard for mailboxes--that's how we do things
these days

"and what".

Its Like that And That's the Way it Is

Dear Buffalo NightLight
When it comes to fighting flu viruses, wash your hands.  Call your friends about doing the same.  Use as directed, said the woman on Pandora between the Grizzly Bear and the Animal Collective slots.  Insert quarters here.  Throw Mallarme's dice there.  The fumblesome sugar toots of paranoia destroyed was really just gum popping.  Throw me a river on this side of my lonely shoulder.  Let me chew afterthought Turkish delights and spit them out through the fog of midnight notion.  Heck, your fingers are pretty.  Darling, they're bitten down to hell's ultimate footnote; a parade of penguin balloons rioting with your ego projected on the street wet with snow.  "Fuck" went a gun shot.  "Fuck" said the little boy bent down ass soft as bubbles in a comic strip stretched fat laced in a nickel arcade; the neighbors texting each other off again.  The neighbor eating cheeseburgers to porn again.  "So when the roof caved in all they found was a room filled with porn tapes, a giraffe calendar still tacked to the wall", said the cop off duty in East Cleveland.  We rode around in his white Ford Expedition looking for some mass murderer named Anthony Sowell and his house full of 15 bodies stuffed between walls and floors.  My cousin Melissa made her Puerto Rican husband chaffeur us through wife beater neighborhoods not even American Apparel could appropriate or Nicholas Kristoff from the New York Times would bother to shove in his column.  "Jesus, Melissa, why the fuck when I come out to visit you you gotta take me to go look for shit like this", I said, but she was already holding her son's five year old hand walking across the street to the fence covered with flowers and teddy bears and xerox copies of women's faces mostly gone, goodbye, text me, leave a message, I'm never coming back.

Bebe

Made in USA. 2008

Notes on Poetics of Hairflip

I want to Be a Shoe Journalist

Dear Fool,
The city of EagleRock sits at the edge of my seat. While you sit across the table reading up on contemporary poetry I feel productive somehow with meringe bursting out the speakers with espresso shot spanks on the counter conjunct a post-headache from the loose New Years 2010 hug. Your coffee is cold and almost done but you'd offer it to me anyway because Elvis will never die no matter how hard a child keeps crying in here. Oh by the way, did I tell you i think we are riding a magic carpet? With all these white and blue Christmas lights blinging blanging all year round the roof of the Bill Cosby base of Bonita Applebaum I don't think we can ever stop being Morisson's LA Women, do you? Tell me which part of America's general syntax is mojo rising and I'll buy you dollar tacos down the street.

Figueroa Avenue
for Sabrina Calle

Somewhere on the syntax a paper clip heart
Got bent at the thought of it. I tossed it, no, you
Tossed it, no, it fell apart when the cellphone vibrated:
"I can get us a free hotel in Puerto Vallarta, what do you say,
lets make something happen." To paste the city of Buffalo
onto the overall collage of our joint anxieties and see what happens.
What you'll get is a genetic infant sketch of your history married to mine
And our house for sale on the moon projected on the exterior wall
of the museum of contemporary art, bartheelona. You see, we are not
all that apathetic as we claim to be, just bored of boredom for boredom's sake
Because its a damn good source to replay the tragic comedy mostly
made up of miles and long distance phone bills and texts and sweat
On the treadmill, that god given treadmill to keep us from going Kerouac mad.

If you could Believe It

Dear McK.
Thank you for the sweet link to the Tibetan lama who made my afternoon after pacing around the apartment waiting to ram my mind into the living room wall. Thank you for keeping me updated on emptiness--that unmovable television of spirits and numbers where the dralas seem to take shape, where those dralas are my own good source of terror. After talking to Elizabeth Bishop on the phone last night, we chased a few out of the room over a long distance call, the window half open, a thick air of consciousness characteristic of my facebook profile while I lay there in a dim light of disinterest. The cat and rabbit entertaining themselves in the living room, skirting around the looser threads of a sad and quiet wifi connection and at 7pm no city makes sense when associated with a solid box. Such is a symptom of Craigslist.com dot where are all my friends slash come and meet me for ciders in a bubble bath? It won't take a hot tottie in the lustful Buffalo snow to realize that we are nothing but individual karaoke tornado machines hibernating in our linked syntaxes as a consequence of post-hyper love and terror. A man in a coffee shop in Buffalo, NY says "Janet and the kids went to go see the Anaheim Ducks and said they had a great time" and I think its the most brilliant public utterance I've heard in months.

<3 you millions of %,
B.

Language is a tool to invent one self in the neutrality of the internet. The "poet" is a scavenger of news and culture, recycling what can be used again in the face a technological dark age.

Snow lusts out of the sky. Things accumulate in and out of memory, regardless, the commonality of both are attempts at hitting oneself. I can not work. I propose a documentary on "writer's block" in a series of color photo text-messages. There, it is finished. I am walking around the exhibit of this attempt in dark delight. In dark delight, there is cake or a face or a pornographic gerund swinging forth over me, under me, a pile of trees I crawl around on hands and knees. When someone's hello passed through me, I almost caught it, snapped. in half, halves. A half dozen carton of eggs made me feel so alive, all the uncooked food in the market did this to me, made me love you a little more. Like switching font-types I squeezed your hand when we got it right, that we could be so happy standing there in a poem.