Hollow and Solid Chocolate Santas
By Quasimofo and Halifax
For Haggard and Halloo Readers
(Merry X-mas!)

Sometimes i chomp into a Santa
head thinking it’s solid chocolate
but forget to read the package
which says “hollow” and i bite
my tongue spurting a powdered-
sugared blood-glaze atop dainty
nutbreads and fruitcakes.
Somewhere inside my mouth
the decapitated Santa is laughing
at me and taunting me with slurs
like: “I see you when you’re
you’re sleeping with sex-dolls!”
But then i chug down rummed
eggnog and introduce Santa
to the stomach acids lake-of-fire
Hell in my rumbly wish-list tumbly
(along with the Justin Bieber
X-mas CD i mistook
for peanut brittle)
and i get the last laugh!
Or do I?

It’s times like this i think maybe
naughty and nice       really     don’t
share the same fate…

Thoughts mused in a jalopy of a porta-potty
outside a Gentleman’s cabaret serviced by the ‘Mobile Throne Co.’
by Fictional Self-Occupy

i like to go window shopping
for those who put their pain on display
…for those who break the mold and break the bank
so that’s why i’ve created this little five and dime:

It’s not so much the W o R l D
but the bastards and bitches living in it!
–so please–
Plunger Flush this simultaneous exsponging
of colon cleanse projectile upchuck
from the quivering lips of emotionally bereft sphincters.

God casts a disapproving glance not because
of the BYOB all nude
but because this crapper is 20 years overdue
for cleaning and it stinks to high heaven.
(Last serviced by Mr. Log Handler)

{But yes, there comes a time when you
can’t take people’s shit anymore
and you just have to tell them:
“Pull your head outta yer ass,
kiss my ass,
go to Hell,
and go fuck yourself!”}
[Usually that does the trick though they prolly won't do it
and will look at you like you're Satan's pillow-fluffer].

Back to topic:
Men go to strip clubs;
Women go to strip-malls;
Women like shopping carts;
Men like go-carts and go-go girls.

So i did my homage to literal
and figurative Olympic size cesspool
and walked into that establishment where i
could find the finest Baby’s Mama,
eat Texas jalapeño nachos off her naked torso
the way Japanese do with sushi,
make sure we wanted the same things outta life
and that we could be each other’s one person
outside it all that could be inside it all,
get married right then and there,
then move to a trailer house surrounded
by synth-pop flower gardens of ROY G. BIV perennials.

Some landro-cycles later,
your previous kid and our love child make
inseperable half-bros–
one with a mohawk, one with an afro,
and they go to Montessori,
become genius millionaires developing
the ‘portable therapist’ ap for cell phones.

We clean our systems of garbonzo attachment
of the disappearing dirt that is earth
as we lay beside a rattling box fan
staring into the night at a moth who
has mistaken a street light for the moon.

A Mayhem of Sanskrit Missionary, jecuzzi fireplace, bumper sticker bocce, 9 band Bastardillo, faith-fling-sprawl; food, beer, Amy Winehouse and gas…to the tune–‘Opera of the Cunning Little Vixen’

For Venkatesan Iyengar

Ekam

god created the first man and woman and we fucked like highly expressive abstract art giving gist to a refurbished downtown meat-packing plant turned revitalized cultural district studio picture gallery exhibition to pussy-vomit the rest. ditzy preggers and java erectus dickweed burn bans put fire to arcade tabernacles leaving naked and famous shambles. Masses in gas mask-es huddle at glossy tiled mall fountains wading into the shallow unknown of their Mr. Bubble Punked chiropr-aching souls. Come ye full circle K in a tilted change of token heart to drawn and quartered doggie yoga yodeling. They tread water with life preservers jam preserve packed with their masochrist confessional wish hisses 2nd story tossed from the Adult Gift Store that makes romance better by using butter.  Cowboy churches are wilderness militia training grounds. They spring up in idyllic pastures full of cowshit and dot the  jeckyled sunsets till armadilloes are lonestar black-grilled. But it’s not a true Cowboy church if they don’t allow trailers in the parking lots made of salt. Where will you be seated in eternity? …at the byob 5 buck lapdance table chowing down on medium-well angus-cut ribeye?

Dve

Polyeurthane this longest Punjab Summer of going-against-the-grain again, grrr!  Whole Wheat bull-honkey antitoxins ramble defense stratego are corporate Gepettoes painting our pulled fingernails with pastryotic pallette pageantry!  Our bleached assholes are the new ‘white collars’ of America! [ah hell, not another anti-capitalist rant sticking it to 'THE MAN' with Nat King Cole's molded dildo!]  The Fabric of the Universe is made of the same burlap sack you’re tied & tossed into the lazy river with, pith-mite!  Sometimes the honest man is the one who most doesn’t give a damn or even taunts the mocking bird to death and wears it as a feathered headdress. shame! shame! We’ve gone lockjaw with soundbite!

Trini

We crawled from the primordial ease of watering our front yards in a watered-down waterfall waterslide plunging fear of death thru lonliness and all the sticky clumps of crapolio that go with it!  Chemically balance your wastewater treatment plant my ‘would you like to add me as a friend’  friends. Click ‘check background first‘ and use your animated series imagination to quench your electrotroglodyte-driven thirst–or just drink tap. Let’s trash the library by having a blood-orgy in the self-help section and make fervent foment love to the ‘More-Shushin’ for the Pushin” Librarians! {At this point in the poem, the primary pronoun will change from ‘we‘ to ‘I’ so as to esoterically express some of the poet’s current life struggles, joys, and exageratted galaxian  turn-based observations.}

Catvari

I’d like to reinvent myself but the patent is pending depending on over-the-counter bending. ish and ism wander like a sleeping cat’s dreams yodeling hairball remedy cheatcodes. Stay back 20 feet! Not Responsible for how good i don’t look naked if i could only lose 40 lbs!  Thank God for Vevo. I’ve made my embed–now i’ll sleep in it!  One time I was in a gay marriage smoking cigarettes and pot during an abortion right in the middle of sex while watching porn waving a 9 mm gat–but this can only be done on Grand Theft Auto 16: Waco, Texas Baptist Beatdown!   i have gone steady with this 2 year crosskuntry escapade in the rural beforemath of nuclear plants ready to be stone-aged by Banksy grafitti. My sessions gloat like a three-eyed mind’s eye bullfrog discovering Buddha nature at the Last Supper on a lilly maxi pad. The Life Coach wiggles her shawl over fruity smiling cantaloupe-without-the-girls. A homecoming appearence would just put a crammed frito pie on my tied-together 24 colored marker sky erasing all trace of the peyote gardens of my frontal lobe lawn which is better than my neighbors cause it has a more beautifuller array of flowers, snub shrubberies, and wackidelic herbs, and plus i have the best motherfucking gnomes in town cause rednecks spend all their money on Keystone Light and Dish Network!

Panca

i will calmly let the energy i deserve sink into my tanned chapped ass and let mother nature brand each cheek till the flesh smokes like a delicatessened burnt bologna. i will write my rules on the fartclouds of hummingbirds and wait patiently to see if it rains 3 dollar raises, no-harm-harmonious-harmonica friends who give a shit, and the bushido of living vicariously thru the clan daimyo of a 16th century Japanese warlord vying for saké, geishas, and the ultimate dominance of the Shogunate!  I threw away all my Dr. Phil books including the one that made you an expert on rehab gone wild fucked-up awry. When you back way off, put me on a shelf, make it about you, shut me out, give me up, wait for the hint to hit, lipsink lipservice, and napalm our napa winery…it kicks my crutches leaving me hobbled broken and a perfect bottom-feeder. So in the time being, this human being will just settle for being…stocking up on my food, beer, wine, and gas. 

Poem on Taschen’s Compendium of Alchemy and Mysticism;
or Inmate Hangs Self with own Bluejeans—
For whom the Bellbottoms Toll…
by Quasimofo

“I assure you that anyone who attempts a literal understanding of the writings of hermetic philosophers will lose himself in the twists and turns of a labyrinth from which he will never find the way out.” (Livre de Artephius, Bibl. des Philosophes Chimiques, Paris, 1741)

A cro ss my most exquisite comic shop on the planet
gusts deuce wind {mill}-er time}turbines hefting Bubble-wrap Omni-apts. of naked bow-flex geezer sporting welding torch sun-dick. /gopher me my 3D shades, pfor favor/
He’s got a Rachel Ray beatin’ the shit outta Paula Dean Easy-Meal Cookbook in one hand and smack-down rod in the other. A derby cap crown says he pays the dues for vintage Spring Break beach ball lionweiler guard-dogging 25th year bubbly.
In this Hermetic Museum, scarmoonface and starrycabeza mime-jibe
chicken-scratch diatomaceous earth into Mediterranean ISBN.
But let us first decoct the death mask upon this search and rescue sailing expedite(-e/ition)
evading Charlie Sheen’s truth torpedoes.
We’ve received pet peeve 747′s chain linking calisthenics da Vinci crash dummies who smirk as if they know something we don’t and think it’s funny [is that the true test?].
4 purr-maids on medicine balls balancing jugs of wine-turned-water
dance to Satan’s old band tuning a-twixt a linear accelerator.
Mac crochet the w o r l d in2 my crow philo bratkids pointing blame
in the general directions of neat diagrams and atomic beer keg’s Christianopolis.
Show every man woman child our keen circular explanation in contradictory calligraphy atop winding staircase ladders leading to wicked Wikipedia genius cuss… Convert dirt to gold glory god and
cons kiss tea-whores.
Oui oui si’ si’…getting over the hump can be a living hell especially when we find the hump is where we dwell [though humping is the cheapest form of entertainment and that's why there's billions of wii's].
Factory patrons figet the figurer’s newfandangled firma-(breath)mint in B.C. vo id s ,
‘Heil Hitlers!’ and spread beagle buzzards polishing flagpole knobs.
Divy it out into subsection and juggle melons fanning zodiac absolution in Gregorian Taunt recess com pleat with a fortress of animal riddles. The Fall of Adam is chaos and purification of resort club [doubles as an actual stick] lake of fire water skiing UfO’s and Post- mod ern isms min i mal isms imfetus container tupper wear zip locker rooms…
Deny and any and every two of you may free your elf from vegetable chemistree.
Oh heavens to Megatron, i didn’t know she weighed a megaton!
Just pay that fox what she wants and chalk the bitchin’ to a bad day in creation.
“Order, order in the courtesans sans the cattail details!” yells the women’s work & child’s play sanatorium in a sanitarium . Bottleneck the assembly chime
trinity Big Daddy Little Shit and Spook with b/w woodcarvings!
Beat that Rattler ov er the he ad and make fake snake skin samurai swords conjunctio making out making fo ur sea sons 4 ele ment love at the arse of a flower vase.
?: Conjunction junction, what’s your motherfucking function?
Answer: Hooking up with MBA ho’s at strip-clubs and truck-stops…
(i’m a philosopher stoner with a philosopher’s boner babee…)
Melt symbolism extract from sen story per except ion con jec ture and unionize the damn sex slaves…
Androgeny is alive and well-fed with rice cakes in lighter/darknesses of the modeling Clay lego scene.  Jostle brick outpourings of reasonable emotes archetype the fire of burning pubic-doos; Crack the egg of knowledge up on the ledge then jump…scramble the herdologies…Splash into the matrix wish-for-a-pure fountain…
Pluck without being pricked; fuck without being licked;
i luv boobs and will paint my casket putrefaction mauve to save your
God-confirming/Devil-affirming tata’s.
Oh the spirit and the soul, the stickit and the hole! Christ’s blood is where we get Cabaret Savignon snipping vasectomfooleries puppet duck-tape. Divine intention rests with cutesy geometry tied bound and gag-ravished head to pinky toe-stool.
Planetary brain and Xibalba memory…i forget the rest cause it got dog-eared and my wandering thoughts went to play F-E-T-C-H.
Sign these constipated constellations, rotate, whirl and magnet…in visions of the beyond.
Slap outta it you ouija widget occult-pelt Romantic Ninja, ewe!
A protractor caged imagination before gang initiation and smacked it into a million indexes after-thought after-bang with the tw0-faced
wheel/tired combo bonus phlegming wild uncontrolled [is that reduncedant?]
harmonious ring of crayola 64 colors natural laws discovered and recovered.
To see the ground from the ground up one has to unlock cheat-codes for grappling hooks and lasers and good-looking underwear!
Only then may we witness a door as the substitute for two doors…

On Arriving at the Age of Forty-One in an Albrecht Dürer
Kitchen Gallery
For Dane Haggard

by Quasimofo

i.
Milton Bradley Sonnetgram for Love Child:

If Time must be clock-wise and weld Human,
Then let Her be a lingerie model
With hourglass figure I’ve seen in brothels!
She’s my backdoor backwoods cottage woman!
Her skin simmers slow-cooking my mind’s sands,
And like a toppled metronome we will
Make sweet fragrant love from Hell’s Death-grovel
Breathing life into burglared red heart’s Heav’n.
…Pillow talk ripe with flowery love-sighs…
She has my back and she has me on it!
I am inside the Origin of Man!
She says: “You’re a prudish, licentious wit!”
And “Youth is yours only through a child’s eyes.”
–A Cavalier peg in a Roundhead jam!

ii.
..in a field of forget-me-nots i drift into 5th Dimensia:

Having failed as a carpenter’s apprentice to two stepfathers and a savior
i finally found a job at the Temp Agency for fill-in duty
with the 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse. At first i said ‘no way, dude!’
But they said it’d be fun and i could ride a Shetland Pony if i wanted.
I’ll cover vacations and sick days.
Pestilence is taking off for the Bahamas, then War is heading
to the Australian Outback, Famine to Disneyland, and Death
to the new Twilight movie followed by bed and breakfast
at Nuremberg-Auschwitz.
hmm—what we do for the minimum wage of sin…
It’s been the best i could do, since you have to go out
and get what God’s given you.
ahh, they say the sky is the limit
but the sky has fallen and we’re walking on it.
No, i’m not in the ‘know’, in my articulately detailed
hare-brained still-water still-life
i’ve vivaciously lived vicariously drooping Melancholia eking silent
‘hells-yeah’ bells at humane centers draped in ironic iconic stale questing
knighthood in rosy Devil perspectacles.
What is written in stone or cut into wood
—our collared collaborances are a bore mating praying hands clasped on a damned evening of falling men
—blame the lamenting repentant
creator for all your kneeling feet ills
—what happened to life’s manual?
…and learning to love the nativity of martyrdom in an imperfect creation?
i am dressed for church and ready for my on-line nemesis and nature’s CPU.

iii.
?Wanderjahre …or are you just avoiding the plague? :

You must make your own coat of arms and hope to have amorous armour skin as thick as a Rhinoceros [not flypaper] in this Anno Dominatrix forging gold smith’s cutesy jowls peasant smiling/jiggling to so many small delights in so many self-portrait fur-lined parka personas evicted from the sparrow bushes of out-of-the doghouse into the 100ft. tower of birdhouse safehouse near and dear to pleading plethora saints with lucky-brain wiring and large horses made for riding whips and writing quips. it’s always the young who are, tempted, adored then betrayed, ravished, abducted on a unicorn wailing the sorrows of men & virgins (or both)
…i see naked hairy broken-down shock
in their sockets when they wonder ‘Am i in love with it or its love?’
Heed the 4 witch-bitch Kardashians who two-face two-step naked round a disco ball
made from lover’s skulls—an offer of love is often ill-sorted!
If you aren’t needy then you need to be—weep like cherub angel heads in your engraved passion time-share by the pond or mill {about} town built with skillfully carved sacrificial chamber music of commerce crosses…the glow of deceived gods who killed themselves in Mercedes garages gargling monochrome oxide taps your noggin
in a study with cross-bred lion/pooch nipping the doorways—
you fight with whatever you have even if it’s a cane-pole!
Sometimes, i am a smart-ass sarcastic/sarcasm satyr tooting baroquen-hoe-down cantatas luring Fortune-Chickadee to the poor-man’s penitent wilderness hide-out hide-away with plush bearskin rugs in pup-tents midst Pecan trees hoping to get to 3rd base while watching the World Series of Emblematic Cruci-asphixiations.

iiii.
Beautopia in a Redbox with Germaniac subtitles:

what rock are you shining upon what distant star? She certainly became tough but oh so dense. The worst empty is lonely and yes if i was a little dumber i wouldn’t know any better.
..see the bright side of things by looking from the dark side of the moon, we’ll have our day in the sun even if it takes a million heat lamps. To get to the bottom of things hit rock bottom and start a quarry. Just because you have a beef against the world doesn’t mean you should blow up cows with your Panzer Tank Squadrons, rommey!
the in-crowd/the out-mob—you have to outfox the desert wanderings!
we Neo-Imagist Poets create our own world thru words cause this one sux rat-rafters on hanging Mass balconies but it’s the best we can über-glue and it’s ours to proportion drinking power of creation to void our powerlessness 6 goblet Google goo-goo doll Barbie and Ken playing Malibu dream-haus.
YOU have to be your own best friend, father, neighbor, and lover! If life is a dream, wake up, and try out some of your studio workshop agony-protest dance moves on importuning honey-thieves!

iiiii. [the i's have it]
Rebirth Borealis—Adoration Trinity of Painter, Printmaker, and Theorist [or in my case--Poet, Truck-Driver, and Sex-Addict]:

My one and fortieth year has pounced upon me like the curtain slung back
in an underwear department store dressing room on a naked idler contemplating deity- feigned purpose, satin-lace chemise, crotchless existence, and prodigal crossroads on this so-called great piece of Turf.
There are 12 sessions left for 12 months so cover your bases in whack-a-mole pic-shun-airy-cloud-in-the-heads work eat sheep and fuck like you’re 20
for as long as you can pray when you just want something.
No one blows cyclones thru spitball curvature straws on your tricycle tightrope trellis.
…A gentle jack-off escapade in your king-sized motorcade
living to social network like life is a red bull
and we are all matadors slopping
Oil of Ole’ onto our picturesque crude nudes Flora and/or Florins ~!@#$%^&*()_+? Loose Hair Furleger Lager!!! Save your cheap gas receipts junk
food burritos
and artsy Tea Cans with stun ray foraging pizza
in ‘grab a hunk’ box `craving`
the Vishnu blue counter top as wayward roaches quest in a bourgeois insect playground snorkeling kitchen aroma thru mindful exoskeletons in an open-season scavenger hunt for succulent sustenance. There are no mistakes; it just is what it is. In a bet one can merely fretfully regret. So somewhere between living each moment like it’s your last and living as if you’ll live forever, you will die happy and your house will be made a museum to the world.

How to get towed through life with a piece of Dental Floss: Ascetic Sutra Mach Five
by Quasimofo

How to get towed through life
with a piece of Dental Floss:
Ascetic Sutra Mach Five

on1
i should get paid to breathe, dammit!
and if money grew on trees,
it would be legal tender
for the money lender
right after it
drops as autumn leaves..
use a rake—not a mulcher!
lay back in the chair and hold her while Mr. dentist drills
e(Erie) root canals down your wench and pulley
lazy lifestyle filling in the dead nerves with lead memoirs
false biographies, porcelain cruci-fix{it all}fixture fictions..
brace yourself for the harsh braces that form the crux
of modern-day scrape-goading check-ups.
time to wash-out? spit fluoride onto florida recounts..
take heart in fake wrestling bouts..like moving the tongue from side to side
to make for better space..
clean with a nap kin(d)ling), and shine white god’s plaque on the wall grace!
man i wish the picture on the ceiling i’ve been staring at 2 hours
was
a centerfold of my 8th grade English teacher
and not mountain goats on the Rockies mts..

tw2
I’d like to be worshipped as the Greek God of Goofiness!
i filled out the forms, but Zeus got pissed..
yep—should have called him ‘Jupiter’
since he was seated next to the junipers..
*(Workin’ class poets always use the Greek names for those bozos;
College Academics always hone in on the Roman).

{incidentally—i can stereotype 65 groups of people a minute—did you know that lonely people long for inclusion?
..and that the race for racial pro filing clerks is mostly
won by backwater jerks..?

anyways..so i appealed to the equal opportunity commission for a job
at Mount Olympus and am suing for 40 thousand gallons of nectar!
Ix-nay on that order for the self-molded plastic statues
with the archaic smiling fig-leafs..
It’s kinda T(Hera)-P’eww tic {for the}tic-toc wal-mart dark-wooded
grandfather clock
to replace realistic fiends with imaginary friends..

thre3
i used to think the only way to talk
with enemies
was to tear them new assholes and stir up their brain cells—
now i’ve learned to kiss and tell them off..
to turn the other spread cheek..
to chomp moon pies with their lighter grey-minded cavities..
but sure, what was customary then
is not customary now..
if you don’t believe me
try finding something lost and found..
–though it is mostly the custom for Mary to
be quiet with her ex-con boyfriend larry..
Be wary of the weary, I’m a bastard son
cause I started before it had all be [gun] – control}
–pat the backs of the dumb-fun patrol..].

fou4
when i have headaches,
i beat the different drummers
and let the others march acapella..
yeah, if you insist on wearing tuxedoes, suit yourself!
how do we break poetry out of its vacuum?
..my Coahuilian cleaning lady unplugs the {social} outlet
and unzips the bag over (and after) the shag..
can we
use mid-grade cologne for more than covering cheap stink?

..waiting in the unemployment lines
i stagger and wish i hadn’t drank
all those home-made do-it yourself -{in}wines..
as a matter of fact, there’s no shame
in walking across the house naked
with a half-wiped behind to reach
the other side
and take stock[s] of double-plied
butt-tissue
streaking thru the middle
of your mom’s Pampered Chef
Get-together…
hmm.—time to start a scrap-booking club..

fiv5
when i was a runt of a man,
i thought being a poet could get me laid,
i just didn’t realize it never paid…
i feel like a migrant client now
with a cancelled appointment in a town
i’ve lived 15 years to own…
the lights of wreckers show
rusted chains and splintered cables
in between throbs of pain and bright lamp numbness..
nowadays, the only job that pays
to use your hands is being a strangler..
by the way, movies should not be rated R for nudity
if the nudity’s of cadavers…
Rock stars say: ‘We work when we want money!’
and i can only seem to chew without wisdom (teeth)
what will ensure 20 bucks in my pockets ever-after
for 10 dollar music CD’s and a meal at the Taco House..
but why do i go to the ATM 5 times for 20 a piece
instead of going once for one-hundred?
Working hard is hardly working for me
peeing behind this chain-sawed tree
trying to believe if i can trim a spring bush
and summer hedge..?
–this garden of life might give me some sort
of edge..
..and having a man date does not mean
you’re gay..
while the sheep herders flock morality
in catchy watered upsidedownwardspiral phrases like:
Get a stool! Grab some wool! Push and pull!
–[an inside{the barn} joke that’s not so funny..]
can i ever open my mouth again self-prodded?

It should be legal to marry 2 women;
that way there could be two low-wage-earners
while one stayed at home with the kids and cooked food on burners..
But don’t take my word for it—
i don’t have the moral buds
to know what’s distasteful if it has sugar in it..
/exhale..}
‘chi-ching’…
Care for a toothpick?!?

{The} Joy [of] Division; Never speak to me again, We can never be friends again                          For My Dead Muse

“love will tear us apart”
….it was all that and everything so very much it bursts the veins sprouting god passion vomiting volcano of red red rosy life snapping the vertebrae twiglike calibrated to such weak vessels driftingly tossed open into cursed cursed love.

“incubation”
pre dis pose all sleppt thru it alll in t e n s e sense of sell ffff
dic t ate see(c) ures wasiswasnot nod thru it allll a wake en gulf 2 2 2 2 2 2 much to u ch…

“disorder”
letmeknowifyoushutyourwallsletmeknowifyouleaveourplaceletmeknowifyou

can’tspeakthewordsweusetoknoweachotherletmeknowifyoudon’tknowme

“no love lost”
mind is what on fling-flung this lost this love this no bottled up released washed corks crowding fire theatre threads become bare unravel this fabric uni vers e .. the chorus the shaky finger swaddling bottle that never picked me up never cried and gave…

“shadowplay”
hissing hints of nuance was some seance catching drifts froze the cold shoulder where the furnace once was by gone dog gone dreary pebbles falling as light in winter skies cannot re assure res urr ect romantic rowboats with a wish and another and another and another and another and another and another and another … it ricochets off your kaleidoscope like a dead first flight bird.

“closer-the eternal”
i w a s t h e n i c e s t g u y t o e v e r b e c o m e a n a n t i c h r i s t g u r g l i n g n e e d i n e s s w h e r e h a v e y o u g o n e t o b e c k o n r i g a m o r t i s f o n d l e t h e s w e e t l i p p e d o r i f i c e o f o u r b a t t e r e d h e a r t s a n d s c r a p e t h e r e s i d u e o f a b a n d o n m e n t o n t o a c h a r r e d a n d t e a r y

c o r p s e . ? . ? . ? .

i. one 1
mad fuck kayaking down stream of consciousness
e g o t i s t i c a l i s t e n i x n a y ,
the lunch money bully pulpit pastor prescience tense
in future soapboxes SUDS like mail-order hydrophobie
eccentric/bohemian/renaissance case-study filling
in for the 4 mermaids of the apocalypse
[note: never rustle their tailfins]…
is it difference or disability in this disintegrative
psycho-social communicative abnormality?
with victims or victimizers?
i’ve got 6 3X5 standard memo books gorged
with one – sided long winded audacities like:
“When you take in everything it bottlenecks the funnel so you get nothing.”
and
“Seeing ourselves thru other’s eyes makes the whole world blind.”
–these clumsy gaits are just the tip of the iceberg lettuce from the
Titanic dinning hall.
My hypersensitive cognitivium never gets to the point since
this hyperness is merely an optical delusion
loop-the-loop bivouacking high felutin’ falafels diving
into low end cascade of pedantic prosody
rhythm intonation of verbose wackitaffy.

ii. two 2
Difficulty falling asleep and identifying/describing
one’s emotions can make it hard for dream poets’
genetic eugenics coon hunt of the Robert Frost
rod-riding Jack Frost on a tennis court with no net—
Twitter that you bush meat eatin’ poppin’ jays!
We fuck and fuck up all over the placebo;
ah , i just earned an Aspie Award
but my Freudian slip earned me a pink slip.
The maturation of my skills refurbish thru
impairment in Peri Banou’s magic apartment—
When it’s hot as Hell in Hell it’s a good idea
to open a snow cone stand.

iii. three 3
The born romantic begets adopted cynic begets petri dish fascist
in this 1st person shooter 3rd person tag-along B O O B Q U A K E ! ! !
Can we highlight these colossalient conundrummings and cook up
some charbroiled razzle dazzle with embryonic connectivity
to the neurotomical mechanism?
What happened to the fucking manual?
So much is unknown with our interfering imitations.
sCReeNing DiagNOSIS and maNageMent kills the PROgnoSiS.
You knew this when you told me i was your favorite and you thought about me all the time. This is where the reader recognizes a shift in the poem from ranting confessional diatribe of the soul to yearning lovers’ mewing bliss in the spirit of dawn’s fragrant blossoming twilight—
but in reality i use ‘you’ here in addressing that part of me i wouldn’t quite call myself.

iv. four 4
a complex syndrome rather than a disease to be cured
creates neurodiversity tolerance
in awkward trudging forward
thru no common sense sense of self
expecting doors for door prizes
and wild hairs to be removed during waxing sessions.
Let’s see how all this comes together now, shall we:

v. five 5
With Indian headdress in muddy mosh pit slamdance
i’m gonna bust outta ice haus like white-boy John Henry
slammin’ 20 lb. sledges smackin’ frigid slush inhibition hiber-habitation;
i’m gonna free-step into the comfort of new skin
& ampersand dance with glow-worm psychicks
who radiate inner Emersonian transcendental tuning fork
joyful ferocity-being in goodwill lingerie.
I’m gonna go from horror to whore and eat Captain Crunch
with Willie Shakespoone who’ll grab me by the difficulty-rating nozzle
and exclaim: “I’ll write till from my bones my flesh be hacked!”
I’m gonna nitrous blast in Campbell’s souped-up El Camino
along the 401 passing hard-cock brainy punk-asses in their Rancheros.
I’m gonna put strap-ons on horses’ heads for Kinky Unicorn Day!
I’m gonna steal from the rich and throw keg parties at Trailer Parks!
I’m gonna go-cart naked into malls throwing rotten tomatoes
at Dept. Store manicans!
I’m gonna go panty-raiding in Nursing Homes!
I’m gonna burn down quick-cash stores who sucker white-trash
with payday and title loans!
I’m gonna go back to Medical School and become a Mammogram Technician!
I’m gonna collect pastels, go in the van, and paint the town Van Gogh!
I’m gonna camp in a pup-tent outside Scarlet Johansson’s mansion
offering to be the father of her babies and if she objects
sing in spontaneous karaoke: ‘Frankly Scarlet, i don’t give a damn!’
I’m gonna be outlandish in the outlands by building the only outhouse!
I’m gonna take carpentry nails to the salon for manicures!
But most of all, most of all,
now that i know who i am,
i’m gonna start life.

i. (is the horniest number)
Get more virtuosic bang for your buck
at brothels having sex in a sedan
coupling in a coupe cranking that curiosity throttle
circumsalivating the global intercourse positioning
saddled sate-night-lite…
…umm mama, all i need is a minute
with your hourglass figure—ooolala!
But this poem isn’t about sex and love
as a burning i n f e r n o
as much as it’s about
Sex and Love as a fire-escape.
Suit up at this uncouth line of scrimmage
if you triple doggie-style dare.
There is a terse flab of 2nd puberty yowch
on overcast days scrounged from gaunt heaps memoreasons
sulking custom glutton nipple ring cheerios in this vico-den-of-sin.
Yo is the disgruntler nerd at a geekfest getting dork-style physical
with the existfiscal – ‘i’ll show you mine if you show me yours” -
backscratching that we long to atone for in this
                   missed -              out -              on
         checklist/            chicklist/            bucketlist.
But it’s time to face the music of a goddamned symphony blaring
out sour-candied-shoot-an-apple-off-the-head-post-it-notes:
“I’m not good enough, I’m not supposed to be here,
I surely don’t belong cause all of this is so awe and all-fully wrong.”
Ahhh, Thank god for
Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing Therapy!

ii. –delete me again, yada yada yada…–
Pippi Barbarella befriends you on some social networking site
growing weed on Farmville to bake you special brownies
in Cafe World telling you yer her favorite Potato gun pistolier.
“Look at me! Look at me! in my lonely spinster soliloquy!” she blathers
with flower panty power & pom-pom bespeckled lacodaisies.
It feels like a match-stick ‘made in heathen’ you could love till death do us particles…
—cause you take love where you can find it sputters the cerebral vortex
..and you call it your go-to safe-haven P-A-R-A-D-I-S-O
just floating air-stream elatedly along
in her hot-air balloon between moral ground and aesthetic heaven
fancy-free traveling the fucking world
in 80 fucking days ablaze with a happy harpy flavor-of-the-weak-minded fury—
That’s when the fair-weather ends and i’m cut loose
like a deadweight sandbag…
..i find myself whooshing reflecting deeply next to descending body length mirrors—
the split-pea personalities break off holding hands forming
ski-diving hoops midst turbulence destined to desecrate
fresh urban art concrete but i pull paper hearts parachutes and plunge into abstract bubble bath with mermaid barmaids who serve me cold beer and give me
sponge massages healing life-long wounds and worries.
Your loss fly girl!
Whatever floats your boat jostles like subtactically
strategic shit cause loose lips sinks relationships, babey!
We are all in the same boat until someone rocks it and someone jumps it.
Being tough doesn’t matter if your heart gets hard.
But don’t fret on your weeping guitar, Princess Goddess, u need no beauty sleep since beauty’s only skin deep—and lord knows you put on enough make-up to fool a raccoon.

iii. {conciliatory filthy minded-ness}
Masturbating mastodons peder out as you
desperately sling on your big-boy panties.
I’d rather be laid than laid-off in this
unending rat amazing 24 hour fitness finesse club.
Save me Saint Joan of Arcade!
Take me under your wing
oh Pirate Lass of the Adventuresque
High-School Seas[onings]!
I’m the only one who can give a candy-gram
with a mammogram in this flick
where all you need is two fingers
below and a tongue in the top—
yes, i’d rather be finger painting
than finger pointing
(just stay away from the eschatological excrement)!
..chap stick after the lapstick please.

iv. (fluids)
A romantic get-a-way needs to be a place, not a person,
and this surely is a time when i’m so open-minded it’s like i’m close-minded.
All i ever wanted out of life was a Camaro and a camera.
i want one waterfall afternoon with quilted blanket wicker picnic
sharing secret thoughts & questions with a deathbedbuddy.
We all micromanage to keep ourselves in adoration—
Pummel your kindred spirit lover into grovel heckler secretary
interpersonal code for let me go.
When you’re put on the shelf dust yourself off;
take a hot shower for that cold shoulder;
if you’re avoided like the plague visit the morgue and play dress-up.
There is a one in a million chance your glass will break
so make a million preventative procedures and plan for it.
Those who get first dibs often need first aid.

v.[deep breaths]
Pull the string to your ego doll
and Tickle-me Ozypanzias Chumpanzee will say:
“Look upon the dust that jumped my bones!”
You’ve got to live like you’d rather be dead
like you’d rather be living and just decide
that life’s death is a choice .
In the meantime,
i’ll have a Corndog with a Capricorn,
uproar with Leos,
bullshit with the Taurus,
and ponder as i pander.
…try as i may, i cannot for the life of me & you
find a refill cartridge
for this pen-pal p u r g a t o r i o,
but then again—
that’s what i get for using
you as an excuse
for living,
and not living
for myself.

Testes Theology

A time/space bounce between Shawn Misener and Quasimofo

1.
They erected PVC crosses
marking an apocalyptic energy pattern
from Lansing to Stephenville

They sucked energy drinks through their ears
while Jesus stood at the end of a diving board
made solely of indifferent souls and tungsten

looking down he remarked to his sidekick
about switching the robes out
for a purple body suit made of nylon and sequins

“dude, just do the dive already”
sidekick whined, picking his cosmic nose
“they’ve been waiting a hell of a long time”

2.
Take all the short straws
you got out of life and
put it together for magic hay
in your imaginary petting zoo.

Jet skiing on the Sea of Galilee
takes a little faith since
the Hamas cub scouts take
pot shots with sling shots.

I’ve got an indian friend
i pay to cook for me–
he’s my Sioux Chef–
he scalped Chef Boyardee.

Coming to kung-fu grips
with this coming of age
realizing the pros and cons
is for professionals and convicts.

3.
The Palestinian mired in Wal-Mart
browsed the deli meat
scratching his eight o’ clock shadow

A single shimmering sequin weaved
from the flourscents
and lands in his unwashed hair

A voice in his ear
(the sidekick)
“Congratulations!
The Son of God is in your womb!”

“But no womb have I” he whimpered aloud
frightening the 300 pound woman
twirling in her Hoveround just behind him

Jesus wriggled between two swollen testes
and smelt scrotum swishing sweetly
as they pounded his undeveloped ears

“just go with it, Lord”
transmitted the sidekick, quietly alarmed

4.
They say to get your just desserts
you have to walk upright in the eyes
of the Lord but i haven’t learned
how to eat pussy standing up yet.

Once i made a deal with God–
I said “God give me a million
dollars to make up for all
the wrongs i’ve been dealt!?!”

But it was like preachin’ to the choir
who sings “Welcome to the jungle
babey, you gonna die!”
…stupid Baptists
(Presbyterians who can’t read)!

Oh my heart cries jugs of sparkling
H2 aqua–the kind if you turn it
upside down it makes pretty
refreshment liquid for office
workers who pluck the little
white cones from the bottom–
the kind if you turn it upside down
it makes a dunce cap.

Here’s what it amounts to:
Only Florists can rest on their laurels;
Only Bakers can have their cake and eat it too;
Only Beauticians can give lip-service; and
Only Bureaucrats who moonlight as Butchers
can hack their way thru red tape.