Fugue

(for Natasha Lyonne)

split
i am split
like sunday i scream vomit

i asked her for water
and she gave me gasoline

no sodium pentothal no milk no ice 

superset i try to think of me
and can only think of me instead
when does it end
this zipper confusion
of whiplash licorice anger
spliced with a musical interlude schizm
of brainfade terrazzo tiles on formica teeth

i scream
one sexually molested dog
and a collapsed lung later
here i am
back to back
good as new
knew it would be easy
but can’t. but can’t.
instead
ice cream

About the Crumbs

this is about insignificant

crumbs of nothing

you

are an insignificant

crumb of nothing

your size, when compared

with the sheer vastness

of our known universe

is roughly that of an atom

floating above the Gobi desert

we (you, me, everyone you’ve

ever met) are all insignificant

crumbs of nothing

if you could get a bird’s eye 

view of our entire universe 

the vast collection of billions 

of interstellar shopping malls 

you couldn’t even see our galaxy 

the curiously monikered Milky Way

neither would you see any of 

our neighboring galaxies or 

even the cluster of galaxies 

we hide within; no, we are 

truly insignificant 

crumbs of nothing

but, we are conscious 

at least, we think so 

possibly just possibly

the only conscious beings 

in the entire universe 

as unlikely as that may seem

and each of us: you, me, your

mother, that dog down the street

were all composed of atoms

birthed in the big bang

we are all the same age

and we are all made up

from what was once smaller

than the head of a pin

you, a potted fern, and a

stapler are all essentially the same 

except you are conscious

think about that

these conscious crumbs

developed a method of

communicating through time

consider in a universe of 

this size throughout its 

entire history the sheer 

improbability of a crumb

like you

sitting down to read 

this communication through 

time

its words printed on crumb pages

or glowing on crumb pixels

composed of atoms birthed

in the big bang

and so were you

happy birthday

Who was Mrs. Ray?

Gladys Ray was this strung-out hophead who lived below me. Strung-out is likely a redundant term when it comes to hopheads, but not with Gladys. She was the Picasso of hopheads.

Last Xmas we had this huge party, and Gladys, of course, showed up with a handful of my least favorite people in the world . . . Snaggletooth, Wiley Willy, and Monday Moonie. I don’t think those are their real names. Anyway, she and the rest of her cohorts took off immediately to the bathroom and proceeded to start shooting up amphetamine, which bothered me. Not shooting amphetamine, what do I care, but shooting amphetamine in my bathroom ... it’s my personal sanctuary, and besides—it was a party. People needed to use the bathroom. I know I’m not the only one who gets the trots from Labatt 50. 

At any rate, long story short, Monday Moonie—that rat bastard—had been trying to knock Gladys off for the better part of a year, to no avail. She was a hophead, but no fool; she and Moonie had some sort of deficient Batman/Joker relationship, although I have no idea which each considered the other. I'm sure in each of their minds they were Batman, but you never know with those two. It all started with a bad wet-willy one April Fools Day—let that be a lesson to anyone interested: wet willys can open a door to all sorts of shenanigans you don’t want to get involved with ... anyway, where was I? Right, how Moonie knocked her off ... he got her to shoot this combination of pixie sticks and pop rocks which can be apparently rather lethal when mainlined. In this particular case it certainly was. Gladys Ray exploded. 

I couldn't think of anything else to say except, “Well, that is certainly going to stain the rug.” 

Of course, none of them cared about that, they were too busy taking a run for the door. Every single one of those putzes took off, leaving me to clean up the bits and pieces of an exploded A-head. I pieced her back together as best I could, wrapped her in a garbage bag, draped some tinsel around it, and left her on the curb. She was gone the next morning. 

I’ve only thought of her once since then, and that was when my friend Slappy shook up a can of Dr. Pepper, which exploded directly into my face. I thought of Gladys, and for the first time I found it funny. I guess time really does heal all wounds.

Germ 101

minor tremors
far from oral walls
incite vicious swans to
rear up and attack
flesh
particularly the lips
and the
teeth

gnashing shards with fervor
and licking with feverish glee
carnival blood spills to my chin
violently beautiful
a single dark bubble belches
and splits down the center
revealing
spark plugs, bicycle chains,
                                             and brains

Prime Quality Beef

calibrate me
primarily through
non-existent color

one through twenty-three
gaunch skidoo
like uh helluva guru
pink n flirty n bulbous
like uh man show
guns n ammo
mano-a-mano
i yam what i yammo

shiatsu bones crack n splinter
the new wooden teeth licks
and damn well sucks
like the beef selling hoovers to huxley

in the end
what can you do
but chew?

Kids Need Talent

watch watch watch my parents insist

elbows jammed deeply into startled ribs

the stage set

a hush falls over the crowd

some kids hit home runs

other play piano

good grades trophies medals ribbons recitals

i like to think i am learning a vocation

a well-rounded adult should know how to chug a beer

  but

kids need talent

the label reads: carbonated water sugar caramel color phosphoric acid

but nowhere does it label showmanship

                                                                that part is all me

the bottle tips back

glimmering green in the late summer sunlight

i open my throat

as the smiles freeze on

their shining faces

Update

I have been barely holding my crazy together for a matter of months now.

There is a microcosm/macrocosm thing going on here too as I look at the world and see my crazy out there reflected back at me.

But I am desperately trying to hold that crazy in, for the same reason I don't use other people's bathrooms. Your rose tinted toiletpaper is your business, and you don't need to know I mostly use self check out lanes at the grocery store so I won't have to talk to another human. So I won't have to look another person in the eye. 

Which goes double for mirrors, because while I suspect the other people know, I know I know. Boy, do I know. My gaze is the worst of all, and the most painful.

So I pretend to sit shiva and take back doors, little used alleyways, and paths rarely trodden.

Wherever you go, there you are.