success is just failure in slow motion


“poet” is just a four-letter word for “bum”

waiting in the emergency room for you to look up & see the moon


plant on the field that was burned!

He was struck by a fast-moving orange


another band name: “The Unwashed Masses”

nothing should make sense because that almost proves it’s not true


the remains of something good

just like a natural man


tiny songs & flies loops & performances

Mary is a name in the shape of a heart


“my bum is like the moon: big & white”

“why, because our bodies are just broken machines,” she said


a gold telephone, a gold bicycle

falling asleep in the library


nothing comes easily

no, I left something really appealing in your toilet


that’s the name of my new band

“he plays his larynx”


go be lost with the vampires & speed-freak crows

poetry in public washrooms


t-shirts tie-dyed with hippie blood

among my uncles





the concept of the song is outmoded in hardcore


(& that’s not all he said, but the rest is unrepeatable

my Mom brought me some boxes & I packed up all my books


“transcendental medication”

his jacket’s there, but the banjo is gone


& that’s how she slipped out the back door (in reality

his Communist-committed books stacked to the rafters


“you still haven’t heard my song”

the mailbox of all emotions


there are some dreams I’ve neglected to record

salting the ground, playing Nintendo


bac tabac tabac ta

his name was Jacob, & he was a zuckermeister from Lutsk, that’s all I know


watch yourself watching yourself act natural

(ne)crows flyin’ around my be(hea)d


“The Love Addicts”

& it was all real the whole time


& that’s how I became a vegetarian

& the garbage in the gutter, too


they made a legendary noise

an enrichment of bareasses


melodramatic gothic organ solo: he is the organ solo

downtown smelled burning plastic on some kids





band name: “Your Sister’s Ex-Boyfriends”


editing fragments together w/ my sewing machine

that was a classic double-fist trashcan jack-off


& then they fired him… with real fire

every day she wakes up somewhere she has never been before


reflecting on myself in my compound eye

the rampages of the dreaded Drunkenstein


hit song: “Don’t Trust Strange Men”

everybody loves a smoking priest


a box of rocks; wet socks

the satisfaction of the reread novel


trace the shapes in an empty grave

a dress made out of stars


(then D. got on the bus)

I am your sainted mother


the music of failed structures

effort is hard—that’s the scoop


plan traps for yourself to fall into

b.: “she hiccupped in my womb”


wear it as long as you can

so sings the sleepwalker


the killdeer calls from the dead / tunnels under the city

“you’re deterring the conversation”