Censored Life; It Was the Rhythm of the
Thing to Be; At the Speed of Swound
Look, mother freaker, you
better have my mutual funding money.
If you weren’t such a Shirley head I’d
stick this foolin’ gun up your
mother funkin’ lass.
Look, daddy head, I’m going to make this clear you
You been writin’ checks your
ice can’t cash!
There’s only one thing I want you to do:
Put your hand in that fooling bag and give me my
That’s right you little witch, get up off that maggot little lass.
Do what you’re told,
[Sound of door kicked open. Police enter.]
Freeze, mother forgetter!
It Was the Rhythm of the Thing to Be
That described its permanence, like horoscopes
on a Saturday morning in a Jello chair. Snopes
couldn’t debunk our flirtations at the
laundromat, although we publicly washed separately
the colors of malice and chromatic calm as the
political debate raged on. Even on
weekends while the polis lounges discreetly
sweet how your body calls to me,
as if the quarters we spent on laundry were
apostrophes signifying possessives.
At that altitude, full of confidences it was
kinky that we skied down each vertiginous
moment. Tonight ignoring the reader there who
ferments quietly in glamorous confusion.
At the Speed of Swound
Nap time is my familiar chainsaw.
I have no problem with teensploitation.
In a binary bunch of bananas you’re
wild as a first date but unfortunately we are suitably clothed.
Are there no beasts remaining at the edges of the map?
Is there a burning bush in the eye of bologna?
I once purchased a plastic duck and later burned it.
Black is the color of yes and no on Mondays.
You’ll melt if you keep ruminating over the results.
Kerosene has a way of making friends.
Fourteen is the toothpaste of god.