for the NY Daily News
He knew only enough Japanese
to call a cab or rape a teenage girl,
and his words splattered
against the concrete like fresh afterbirth,
speckling his soldier costume.
He devoured me
as one would a single grain of rice,
electing to cum inside. He smashed my skull
with the spent skeleton of
liquid nationalism, whistling starts and stripes
forever.
I have a funny thought
in the rapture of Osakai Station,
two seconds before I fall backwards
into the mouth of God,
and it is this:
I hope the American troop that raped me
flies home to find everyone he ever loved
gone. Not dead, just gone.
I hope the pills just make it worse.
together at last, my
pakistani-manufactured perforated girl.
i chain smoke love while
my heart masturbates in my chest.
o’ to be a real gone
estuary of old crow on shrooms
tripping smeared mirror monstrosities—
my friends, laughing at penis.
so high! so impossible ,
willie’s cat eyes bleed yellow against
the void, where i submit totally to
the million black wires.
i feel cool grass on my feet,
Yukio Mishima nibbles on my ear
as he twists the blade fucking my stomach—
alex is glistening as she becomes the sword.
my penis is my friend
a soft and sophisticated fellow, like myself
that is used to being jerked around.
he is small and square
when pondering politics of pussy,
a turtlenecked beat philosopher without a cross.
when you come to know him
know the sad scar, ripped into fruition
by the twisted bumber of mazda pickup
that beautifies my member
like the bow of a matrimonial hanbok,
and serves no concrete purpose
but to pay tribute
to twenty million purgatoried gods
dancing within the temple of my golden scrotum
I arise to discover a decrepit seagull
has perished picking the fat off my
fish heads—He is
Kentucky Fried Chicken to me,
I lick my blackened fingers and wonder
if evolution is nothing more
than the process of becoming tastier.
Shitting seagulls, if only I
had known it was hope spilling out
your assholes onto the weathered
swan I call my home.
Shitting seagulls—Holy, Holy, Holy
is the Lord, all the earth
is filled with your glory!
Lord, let my shit turn seed into wheat,
let my bleeding hands give birth to
noodles!
O’ 자장면, though I picked
you up in your imperfect form,
twelve grams of you make me crumble,
자장면 I contemplate eating you dry
like dirt, 자장면—my mantra, my hope!
O’ Caramel, how was it again
you caress the black bean,
O’ flour, and damned delicious
modified Glucosyl Stevia—
O’ Hope!
Drenched in my salty sweat
I am the most delicious thing
at the top of the evolutionary chain.
Like a teenage girl on the moon
I taste myself for the first time,
I am damn delicious!
If I had been blessed in December of 81’
with the foresight that comes with
slow decay, I think as I converse with Afrikan ghosts,
dreadlocks of purgatorial grey,
the man in the cloudy mirror hardly recognizable
as I stare into the black hole of myself,
what would I have done back then?
I would have shot the fucker with my own gun
until the smell of urine bled into blood
on the corner of 13th and Locust,
and when I finally faced Albert, I’d say that’s right,
I am indeed the nigger of your nightmares, who used
the blackened black remains of my brothers
like charcoal to sketch your fascist cracker genocide
on the mind of Philly like sidewalk chalk,
and no amount of pig blood will wash away the
collective whip-scars of the niggers of the world,
and I’m not the last nigger on the face of the earth
with thumbs and a pen clinched in an angry fist
like a prison shiv, ask the Japanese parliamentary niggers
about Afrika and Mumia, you fascist fuck who thinks
they probably forgave us for those Atomic bombs.
I’ma go all Baruch Goldstein
on these Pacifist cocksmokers,
and I’ma get away with it too.
As long as the media construes
my actions as in alignment with
Jewish factions,
I think I may well be a Jew.
“How the fuck can they fund terrorism if they can’t afford food?”
Shut the fuck up.
You want to stop the bombings
cuz you’re not in the mood.
If Iraq and Afghanistan were pussies,
you think were not tapping that asshole too?
Yes, We can!
Annihilate Iran
So who’d you vote for, man?
That nigger or the mormon?
As long as you’re conforming,
I don’t really give a damn.
Forward!
with a strong foreign policy
summed up in four words—
MAKE THE MUSLIMS PAY—
In the American petrodollar, anyway
I mean, why you think we
lynched Saddam Hussein?
Get it through your fucking brain.
Adolf Hitler was pretty peaceful
if you disregard the genocide of
3 million Jewish people
I for one don’t see any dead Muslims on TV—
I guess that means were just making them free!
Thanks, motherfucker, for voting for me.
(Again)
Vague as a firefly in the night,
I caress this melancholic wheel
Somewhere south of the snaking highway,
I think of Ben Nichols’ Kissing the Bottle
I caress this melancholic wheel
with a million loveless fireflies—
I think of Ben Nichols, kissing the bottle,
the distance between us stepping stone-close.
With a million loveless fireflies
glowing, lonely behind the wheel—
The distance between us, stepping stone close
I think, as if I’m about to die.
Glowing lonely behind the wheel
without even one joint to placate my head
I think as if I’m about to die,
it would be lovely to gaze in her eyes.
Without even one joint to placate my head,
a deer, in headlights, on the road—
It would be lovely to gaze in her eyes
but I’m drunk, and it’s late, and I have to move on.
A deer in headlights on the road,
she put me to bed where we burned for the night
But I’m drunk and it’s late, and I have to move on—
too drunk to drive, I might as well die.
She put me to bed, where we burned, for the night
somewhere south of the snaking highway,
too drunk to drive I might as well die
vague as a firefly in the night.
I once was, yes
and I may be,
still— and if this were that,
I would come this moment.
Truthfully, I
adore your tits
your soul, your skin, your mouth
your real, your true, that look
in the back of
your head, your feet—
pink and white and true and
God, I can only breathe
your naked feet
and hold your hand,
come one thousand years I
will be dead, unashamed.
Do you smell the cigarette smoke on my bed sheets?
It has been agonizing awaiting your return.
In surgery I put myself to sleep with tiny pink pills.
For two days I chain smoke in mournful dreamscapes.
I would have left a cigarrete in the pack,
Had I planned on hearing the sparrows’ pitiful song.
Do you smell the cigarette smoke on my bed sheets?
It has been agonizing awaiting your return.
One look at the awkward hands jutting out of shoulders,
tells that it will be a miracle if you live to see the age of three,
much less learn to drive a car, or experience orgasm,
be it by your own hand, or that of another human being.
Of those that do survive, I imagine, almost all choose to live in Fallujah.
Not for the rustic antiquity of dilapidated school buildings,
but for the cancer that pulsates in microscopic particles soaked in D-38,
a radioactive womb to wait out a tepid existence.
It’s the same logic that keeps Phillip Morris in the black,
and being born with glistening tentacles twisting out of ear canals,
without a skull to keep your bulging brain from spilling out the back of your head,
one would wonder if the violence of your very existence
is just too much for prime-time news viewers to swallow,
even having the luxury of fully developed American stomachs.
Something about the rape and re-education of Iraqi children, now bullet-ridden corpses
stinks of the Davidians’ grand experiment and subsequent execution,
so the flame-spewing tanks and drone bombings really come as no surprise.
Depleted uranium babies give the term “Invisible Children” a whole new meaning.
Try being born in the Middle East, which, thanks to America, has a nuclear half-life of 4.5 billion years,
with string bean legs and a scaly impotent dick, and love the new regime
while pasty Poli-sci professors in America’s prestigious universities deny that you actually exist.
(I’m looking at you Professor Yang)
Try explaining this shit to your conservative priest, or your liberal professor
and receiving a look that modern humans generally reserve for only the vilest of
crack addicted pedophiles, and then say you love your fucking country.
Better yet, try masturbating the soft cocks of twenty-some college students with flaccid poetry
about the shit that makes you want to eat a Kimber SOLO 9mm
while gaining nothing, nothing but the absolute assurance that there is not one
piece of goddamn pussy in this room that wants to fuck you,
much less talk about American foreign policy, over overpriced coffee
with the ghosts of Ethiopian slaves steaming out of the blackness.
lonely and resigned
to huddled naked monkhood
the walls bleed worms
as it becomes time
to tear out the mechanical pussy
into the arms of the moon
tentacles of trees
twist in sexual ecstasy
and whistle wind
as we light elastic cigarettes
and collect branches
slimy with placenta
시 follows the sinking swelling blue blur
as it bisects white line through
life’s semipermeable membrane,
smells burning mortal crust
in midnight air inebriate,
high off the pills and the clouds.
시 breathes automobile air
in full bloom waiting to die
like dehydrated roadside flowers
lying naked beside a tepid cross,
takes notes yawns masturbates
anything to pass the time.
시 gazes into the inferno
letting the smell of death linger
notices the hue of death
panties an eternal grey,
sky a perfect match with black cloud lace
she wonders which pair 시
will wear when 시 finally lets go.
시 brushes bloody fingers through hair,
pressure producing a sickening crunch
skull milk that seeps into dirt,
where the sprinkled teeth
resemble seashells of childhood,
birth control pills bloody little roaches how they resemble
eternity itself abstract outside your mouth,
시 smiles as 시 picks flowers of flesh
and tattered articles of fashion from
the roadside garden.
시 watches God dangling vindictive over the dead
casting shows onto rescue workers frantic
to cut fabric skin and metal,
mesmerized by putrid bulgolgi
captivating nostrils in the backseat
once a child called Destiny.
How many lips we kissed,
how many bottles—
How many dreams shared
under trazodone trees,
Dreams of Buddhist suicides
and encroaching drones—
Dreams of endless rice
swaying lazily in the wind,
as we lay naked
in the fertile soil
I.
Broken aborted thoughts
pulled out of mailbox,
shirt and cigarette soaked-
the sky orgasms and squirts
what I suppose must be urine
while academia scrambles
to understand the dark intricacies
of the female orgasm.
I loved her, sorta,
and the bitch pissed
all over me, every Saturday,
for six months.
II.
Kim Yoon-Suk is a sexual neophite
barely born into the world of
choking on Pakistani pubes, mind still reeling
from too many psilocybin mushrooms ,
stripped down in bathroom stall then
forced to violate everyone, completely
and sickeningly aware of telescreen
eyes blinking and focusing and dripping like
lead paint in Presidents Park.
Nam-Dong-Saeng does not know these horrors,
but even he knows that
Chinese women are cheap.
