Nothing

A: Give me a reason not to be paranoid.

B: Because no one is watching you.

A: But someone is watching me.

B: Then you are not as perverted as him.

Hypertrophy

Postings #1-10 from the chapbook Hypertrophy, December 2008.

Order is relative, but I'd scroll to the bottom.

#10

"(motion to shut the door)"

the few things that you know
will come back to
                           haunt you.

                   *

distinguished enough to die now.

self-immolating wicks—
cracked knuckle
                         trellis.

#9

"it takes one to no one: out of season"

there is no Wal-Mart on Easter Island.

there is no Easter on aisle twelve.

there is no religion that is not religion.

there is an incredulous monk in the bazaar.

there is a notary gone awol,—

                 amerrikah,
   forespacious
   rooms for rent.
                          apply now.

#8

"this afternoon"

jettisoned in the Shop Rite parking lot was neon
mike + jenna girl. she let me have the bag full
of neat spikes + tyrannosaurus texas toast. then,
at approximately twelve fifty-four p.m. god him-
self wandered down here pantless, said the world
was over + anyone left is a crook.

neon bracelet looked like fuck, said "Viagra
does not protect against sexually transmitted
diseases."

        -  including HIV?
        -  including HIV.

who am i, with a Casablanca postcard + incredible
hulk haircut, just tryin' to muscle my way
into the lottery?


(tilapia sandwich. they sell those now in packs of smokes.)

#7

"modesty is a white lie:
           an evening with friends"

this time last year
we were still under the bus

at Ruby Tuesday's, or—

you've got to be kidding me.
i'm not paying for a
               wet salad;

i'm just saying

i'd rather know what time
the bar closes so i can get out
my work clothes.
                           you go out
on Thursday
because it's so similar
                                 to Friday. 

#6

"wrds of counsl (frm the dctr who only spks whn spkn to)"

i.
     first off    levity is impossible—
                       you weigh 138 pounds
     you            who lived sixty-
                    one years before Alzheimer's. good
                    they didn't name it after you.
     (sorry)       we haven't met:
                     i am the doctor who only speaks
                               when spoken to.
                    i came in the white room on
                    Monday + words fell out yr mouth.
                    "life was a fugue," i said
                              to no one in particular.

ii.
                    nurse, nurse!
                    your precondition is a tonic;
                               you look lovely.
                    i met you on a plane.
                    you told me cirrhosis was like
                    cirrus clouds
                                        in a terminal
                     known for flights.

iii.
     where's    self-medicated anesthesiologist?
                    -right.

     listen,       drink whenever you want—just
                    build up strength to
                    duck under the train before
                               god + the nightmare crew
                                   have you
                               eviscerated.

#5

"cul-de sac or impasse"

big wheels flipped over
on our street—upside down
the body parts,
                      crank pedals
            with our hands.

"making ice cream" was
fun, more fun
than selling lemonade
or gatorade
                  that sucked,

since no one's
ever really thirsty
in this town.

#4

"Cairn Made Out of Baseballs"

He who never sees the world
but in his faery head,
the timelessness of nothing
and the ejaculate dead
play pick-up on the iron lot
outside McSorley's.

1951: tinny bleachers hoist
the wistful living, who seldom raise
a banner; now, cairn made out of baseballs
flanks the mound where Reynolds
threw his opening day no-hitter—
           so, so long Rizzuto.

Today, on this day in unhistory,
I forge a death fugue in my head:
my father, barely drunk, not
nine outs in nor half past one,
the smouldering, pyring sun—
           less skeletal bodies then
           colliding with their dated time;
           I put them back into swing.

September 28: the Sox still trail by eight,
the raucous fans still raucous—
concessions freeze the sale of beer
(only because they've run out);
less pine tar in the living room
every time I open up your box of
           tawny baseballs, autographs;
           here's number 10 around the stitch:
           "To Edward—keep your glove down,"
           the best advice you got somehow.

#3

"from the potbellied streets of dawn"

all child's play destroyed
them, pelleted with words—

for birds it is always wartime.

find shagbark out in
flyboy towns—
                          way out,

like a Catskills hospice;
sanatorium in shale,

           where all birds must go.

birds that have hot flashes,
pandemonium

                       dream-compartments

bum-rush the sandpit
& volcano into
                darkness—

hoarding "solid ground,"
shift bodies under bosoms, then fly.

f minor in the courtyard, singing
Greensleeves was all my joy—

straitjacket laden with worm-bits
blades, skeins

                         a flower.

#2

"Conversation with God"

If you gave yourself three years
to fast, that would be an exquisite
offer. I've reached the point
                                        where
I don't know what I'm doing but
I know what I'm doing when I'm
sad.
       Today, the papers: "Ingrid
Betancourt, Une Femme Libre."
Our hell is far away from us.

Heaven is in our midst, a foreign
object.
          The dependency of trust
is wearying. My head, a weight-
less hummer.
                  If you told me more
I wasn't listening. If you told me
less, I'd have forgiven you.
                                      I can't
trust everything you tell me—
language is for whimps. I can't
promise you disaster, though
a thousand hearty
                           hearts have
                           wanted it,—
globally speaking,
                           that's none.

#1

"Stupors"

Père-Lachaise or Mazal Tov or Lazarus

like silver spits revolting 'round the city

or people waking

                             off the metro.

Self-consciousness likes company

but keeps none, except—

           they hate you here, you

           eye their fingernails in passing.

A drink, a gaze, a feuilleton—

what carries us is dead

           and strangers watch us

           in our sleep.