Trot

I will canter out a rhythm

a song

I will sugar and sweeten

a song

I will sylvan and stylistic

a song

I will know my song well

before I start singing.

;'-/

Crying and winking at the same time would be the weirdest thing you could do to someone.

That is all.

Blondell

Bells-A-Song

Trouvere

Traversing

Tumbling verse

Waiting for lambs to be Lion-hearted bleaters
of a war song

procure a sense of smell / manage hatred / and weep little lion man

After Jon Schaff

I'll give up my words too
and wait to see what my vocabulary did to me...

r e c k / l e s s
f e c k / l e s s

and dreaming of San Francisco

Jack and Jack

Where's my drink?

i'll give up my words

i'm sleepy in the city

when it's hot

and i do not care to write.

the train behind the house:

i'm sleepy then, too

when it sounds a sustained wave

a wave a-crashin'.

ac: for people who can't live in season

ha, fuck those people

not me, though: i'll sleep unclothed

under a bed sheet

wake up before morning

i've sweat the bed

then i'm never sleepy.

Pusillanimous Pussyfarts

Thank you, Eli, for that warm and tender introduction. Your words have humped the folds of my heart. Or, did they fump the holds of my fart? In any case, my panties are moist.

I used to live in the sweaty breast-folds of antiquity. Now, after bursting forth from the labia of my subconscious, I can finally taste the nectar of tumidity. I am the meninges. I am the pons. There is a vas deferens between muscle and appetite, a meta-world of tubes, mcconaugheys, and fluttering mandy barftwats. I am the sperm banker that suckles the bailout milk from the tit of the capitalist scrodum. I am your swollen balls to bare (the balls of a bear?), your dangling albatross of aristocracy. But no matter how swiftly they sperm-churn, they will never bling you down.

Introducing: DAVID ROSS PINSOF

Ladies and gentlemen of the goblosphere, I would like to introduce to you a dear friend of mine, a compelling little creature and entirely beyond mythology, sicknasty. If I habitually wore shirts with breast pockets, I would keep him there and nothing else--little Pinsof resting his bearded cheek in the crook of my nipple, his vertebrae bumping against my heartbeat. A pretty girl would ask me to borrow a pen and I would fiddle in my pockets and brush Pinsof's eager body with my finger. My heart would sigh and I would suddenly remember that I needed a pen for this girl and accidentally swallow my gum or something. Thanks, David.

And as the girl recedes back into the mystery zone, I glance down at my breast pocket and say, "Well, I guess it's just you and me, Pinsy." But the pocket is empty. I raise my head in time to see old D.P. dangling from the hem of the girl's skirt, bellowing like an ancient warrior as he hauls himself up to seize his glittering prize.

And so as budding virgins shall we welcome David to the fold. So let it be written, so let it be done.