lunch poems hunger

O'hara, I miss
your Billie holidays, your broke
lunches, you must've been so skinny;

That's why you ate the spring-summer air,
the may fragrance
of subtle toxic petals
where those damned kids, pubescent
library office girls, threw dirt and flower balls dispersing
fast, damp,
in the less than Katz-sandwich breath
of the sweaty, grease-cheeked, American boys of construction,
so professor, you would've rapped my knuckles
and then beg'd t'kiss it
'cause I name-dropped the cereal
that I spilled
out of the box
and off the graffiti'd square chess table.

They were like O's, her mouth was an O,
his asshole was an O, the shape of processed grains
into dusted fields underfoot,
the way I plunged my mouth on it,
like it was the pathway shaped like my mother's cunt,
and up into somebody else's flushed-face o'sms;
oh, oh,

oh! I loved blasphemy, it's the way
I am gliding across your walls (repainted white),
like a bug (a roach), and under my bed,
and I peeled the coat with tape and my nipple
to find an imperfect grey heart,
or maybe a pointed penis head,
but you know y'can't find sex, or love the way I'm grinding
against intangibles to sate
my birth-controlled soul of the need for Pollock and Picasso,
decrepit cities, dirty, ugly New York, high grade vibrators,
and kasha, brothy and deliciously filling me.

Waning, I apologize
the meteoric condition
of the sylph expired;
the moonless tides of lashes
threatening to cradle and break.

The nights often layered
into fetuses in prayer,
shelled in the body of heavy, linted comforter.
These lids pressed to shams,
and blossomed craters and radio waves
on the black of maria pupils and atmosphereless irises.

…Then through the muddled shades,
beneath its dusk and lamp orange webs,
while I was lost and found and wombed and saturated,
it crept in: luminescence,
and it drank away the sleeping universe.

the waking epiphanies

Filaments, mouths,
their acrylic encasements
will flight through ambergreyed avenues.
They leave fires, blurred smoke carriages
scattering, sun-borne.

-
 
I know
that roofs are for jumping.

-

When I first fell in love, the sky pretended to be paintbrush rinse-water.
I became like fresh Chinese calligraphy on white printing paper, laying on the dank bottom of the sink,
the rush of warm faucet water washing over my skin surface, displacing and soaking into every part of me.


(That is a lie. Love has never been like that.)

making lists

i.
they illuminated the water of short-stemmed violet orchids growing out of little rounded glasspots by the tinted window. i can only think of pastiches. it's too much. my mind is a mess.

ii.
a little black mark. i'm undecided on whether to portray it as cancer, a tick bite, or as some little careless puncture wound i caused myself while wasted. either way, i can't write about it anymore. it's done.

iii.
the apocalypse happened. it was less exciting than the ones of my dreams where there are flying spheres of energy, and flawed good|evil characters who are all inherently human and susceptible to loneliness and love. the world always goes on afterwards. i wonder if this means that not too far deep inside, it means i've got a romantic disposition towards life.

iv.
boom! destruction! i don't know which i am. who killed me if i am despair?

i am post-buddhism juxtaposed with desire; i need to sort out myself. (repetition on disorganization of self. this is not a good night for this.)

v.
shade cord tinkling against wine goblet in the wind

vi.
what is existence but thought? ouroboros. beginning touches the end. following the loop. also, buttsex, if not eating the self.

vii.
too many bullshit epiphanies.

viii.
mario. this is a whim, like doritos.

ix.
i had a girlfriend. she wasn't depressed or anything, but sometimes she would take safety pins, and push their tips against her back until her skin broke, and the tiniest bit of the metal went in. she would use a different safety pin for each little puncture. then she would wait until they started to heal, and would go shower. i watched her do this every time she had writer's block.

x.
goodbye and hello, as always.
(digging up zelazny and amber for clarity tonight)

For a moment,
I turned the faucet
and the water sang.
Two notes, a gurgling alto warming her chords.

Then, the flow of water aerating
down the lowly sink, down the steel holes.

Nobody loves me the way the water does.

Last night
the rain struck me
with swifts, half-liquid butterflies.
blinded, I walked onwards anyway,
and clung,
to its pebbling coldness.
then, I too, was sweet rain.
 
A splash.
It nearly kisses me,
but falls away.
I wash my face yet again.
It rinses my sweat, the oil,
but underneath, never pristine,
a dirt girl unearthed to porcelain;
I am yellow pale, a boyfaced zombie.