Heaven
Smells like bacon
Cooking in the morning
Scrumptious whiffs of fatty bacon
And in
Hell, well
People smell a lot like bacon
When their fat is cooking
So Hell smells like
Bacon
The Kitchen
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Tag Archives: #poetry
Get These Please
Two custom eyes
A private lake for looking
A pawn for sale
At the pawn shop
And a nice, fat checking
Account for marriages
Two nice, fat marriages
A bicycle for the yard plants
Your gigantic mother-in-law’s tongue
For our fucking bed
Room and room –
All the room in the land
After that, some time
(But not that much, Jesus
Hurry up, please)
A couple of daughters
Who are just frighteningly smart
And a literal sun
(For a Dyson sphere)
Just one of those, though
Like a small one
For fun
A boxcar of American Spirit
And get yourself a Pepsi
Or something
orion’s belt
am i
heir to this rage?
whose fucking bed is this?
oh frightening, colossal star god,
it’s mine
my plans:
constellations
(silly lines drawn between
one explosion and another) –
fine art
in dreams
i crack my belt
over dad’s ass until
he’s trembling like mom did when he
moved out
life is a gift say thank you dammit
the buffalo
the baby
the king of the jews
i worship what i kill
i can almost smell the ocean
through the bleach
and at this
i take the greatest offense:
my life’s the second
half of a sentence
uttered by a pair of parents)
don’t worry child
i said don’t fucking worry
there’s no goddess of the bonobos
who punishes the chaste
and the onanist
and the barren
you don’t have to make
babies, bison, sense
none of it
but you don’t get
to not want to
teeth
the seraphim
standing sentinel
at the chain-link fence
round the jungle of eden
are not vegetarians
just picture god’s
mouth water when
she thought of sizzling
lamb fat at the altar
remember that angel of death?
probably certain people
have hearts lighter
than god’s – well – no
i guess god has the power
of self-absolution, tricky tricky
if anything in heaven
if one single thing has
a mouth, just knock me
out, i’d rather sleep through
eternity than listen to more chewing
decortication
the acolytes of science
dictate i cannot reach
emotional maturity for
another couple decades
(by no fault of my own
(by way of my y-chromosome))
so i sob in the meantime
and laugh and sob and
grip my fists in anger
and if you asked me why i
felt some way, i couldn’t say
i might peel my own artichoke
to measure the shape
of my very own heart
but how do you reassemble
an artichoke?
“focus on your breathing for a second”
wound up
in the present
tense – following my air –
with all this awareness my brain
can watch
my breath
my molecules – all mine – until
a fresh, wet present tense
murders the last
then dies
beneath
the fresh, wet grasp
of a new present tense –
when i try to control my breath
i tense
my brain
wound up as if i were a watch
then, without awareness,
my body breathes
for me
That love which cannot fail to be
In the way
Infinity contains
Infinite infinities
Or the way
My life divides
Into briefer, lived-out lives
There is a sadness
That branches behind
The green in your eyes
So if you should
Wake up on a train
On its way to Pompeii
And you think you might feel
Lonely watching window rain
Drops wobble and dissolve
But you only feel a sapling sadness:
You’re just living out
One quantum version of me
And life won’t get tough
For a couple more years
So don’t worry
When you get ivied-over
By the branching, lightless sadness
When it’s the same to look
As it is to close your eyes
The god we call Because
Will do the remembering for you
And a love older than life
Will continue because
Living did sometimes feel nice
Safe
A man controlled by a devil
walks calmly throughout your empty house
and finds a fireproof safe full of nothing
but love letters, so there is no one home
when you later arrive
A glossy-plated fattail scorpion
as black as the ocean at night
stops walking across the wall by your crib
(its shadow long in the night-noon
brightness) and ambles on as you yawn
A supermassive dead star rolls
through the spacetime on a path
parallel to your planet, and if any
astronomer had known it was there
she’d have told the press not to panic
daymares
like jealousies
anxieties or grief
haunt like terrible babadooks:
morning
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