Nutrageous Nineties

Boy bands in sourer times conceived on their fly shit

The bill-fold of Holy Writ with sex tapes

That fattened jealous pockets and Trapper Keepers,

The patterned flatulence, of balding monkeys.

Insane: why would you purchase it if it's free?

It's been a hundred years since then and warm as fresh milk.

Raping his inspiration for $300 and some baby oil,

You're in it with native pornography.

--My face is a hole and stratigraphy

Lines it up and sleeps impersonally;

No shit plasters the walls of that boring office.

Ugh! Hang money! Then shout to burned statues

In the living rooms of my teen memories,

“The masturbator, my hands; the love, my eyes!”

After Baudelaire's “Le Mauvais Moine”

Costuming

The sleepy chorus shades all cities
like the carving of a smiling pumpkin.
When some elements fall patted in nice spots,
they jump punks in the streets (touche)

and grow their own crops and ample words.
Every goddamn day (brush and floss)
the possum wakes up, budges.
If a dude at the Red Room

ends up with the flu,
people talk, "Alter the schedule:
Dork: Girly bodies, glitter,
fired-up jostle of grandpa's rifle,

Freddy Krueger furniture into oven,
bake his legacy for 20-25 minutes."
The mailbox in front of my house looks painted.
By the time she gets back, she of peanut butter, he must shout

his nice kitty eating the batter
to go to hell.  Get to work!
Never sleep alone, my feathered friend--stay up late!
The night floats like a fog--

grinding, buds, gags,
a jar of Cheez Whiz, distances,
the uppers, donuts which make you go "Go!"
If the actor would only paint instead!

In Tucson Arizona, the bumpy sky
leaves little room for clouds methodically
and blankets out like red sand blowing.
Every fall, pumpkins in the supermarket like sandbags.

Dad returns home.
Thus women submit themselves
and by a sort of genital jealousy hump
the leavings, the shadows, pissing in coffee,

the defiance, rubbing against the dark beans.
Then silver, they splinter--decrypt the nightgown's
jolting buzz.  The purse begins at dawn.
A child surfs across dusty toilets.

After Kenward Elmslie's "The Champ"

mildred's first baby blog

 hello: this is the blog for mildred.  dude, you can all join mildred.

Time and Temperature

And when the brims have been coated
and vacation themes overcooked,
forever budding in and around you,
eleven times your expected span
in a shivering tease, we can padlock
our genitals and call her quits.
At last the pathetic will inherit the earth
like we knew they would, the deeper
(because hollow) souls.  Okay,
though, you first need candy skulls.
I think that Zebo the Clown said
lifetimes were very long.  Before online,
thatched homes jingled and slept in forest fog,
and ice cream was all hand-cranked. 
Once the dragon came to town we slapped a saddle
on him and rode toward the soulless black cave.
I've yet to see a dinner finer than the next, look:
you slept with your bong and woke up on fire
after tasting Key lime yogurt and Kool-Aid. 
To burn and rise is a humble aspiration.
This is how we wanted it, and when the rent is due,
we'll rip up the kitchen tiles and move down the street.

Then was a good time without ever being.
New life hangs in the balance.
Forget about roads.  Fork tongues and foods.
We'll spit fire without anyone's permission.

After John Ashbery's “Tango and Schottische”