knowing your love for me has wilted
as a flower weeping
in spring snow,
I stole the puppy I bought you
and cooked his flesh in a stew of green onions
and chili paste.
knowing your love for me has wilted
Taqito grease and Jasmine
Winesweat and baby.
because my body doesn’t smell
like a corpse yet.
redolent of Gabriel, piss shined
in the toilet of gods. I
smell human cause
I am human.
Oniondrunk and blood smelling
God is poisoning our water
and turning frogs into Thai ladyboy faggots
and classes are conducted
Blazed Hondurans fire grenades
at sixteen year old Muslim farm boys
and I bet some farmgirls.
Blazed Hondurans of the State—
women, once soft children
cutting the dicks off corpses in
yearning for the cocks
of their biological blood brothers.
And the eyes.
I would slice my tiny dick off
if I only had the balls.
In soft, soothing sounds
she summons me to a bed
covered in books and
The God of Small Things, Funny
Boy, texts on Hinduism and
A poem entitled
Ode to the Rhythm of Your Asshole
After making love in my shadow,
the man takes a small blade out of his bag
and carves two names into my flesh.
I weep pink petals over the girl’s naked body;
she giggles when one floats down to her nipple,
as the man’s mouth did
mere seconds after coming inside her.
I’ve seen this man before, every time accompanied
by some new farmer’s young daughter.
His name changes every time he mutilates me,
getting longer and longer—the pain is unbearable.
You fucking coward of incomprehensible cruelty,
where are you when the girls you fuck
become ripe with your bastard fruits,
their bellies growing too large to hide within
the confines of their peasant kimonos?
Not being able to tell you how much you hurt me,
how many babies were left to rot
screaming for salvation in the approximate location
of where you made their mothers scream,
and how the lucky ones, upon becoming meals
for wolves, shriek in anguish as fangs puncture
their heads, soft and purple as a decaying cherry,
I can only silently hate you, every ounce of you,
not even flattered that you get wasted
on my springtime beauty.
Your small, callous hand
bleeds purple from the deep wound
that smiles back as I
hold your trembling body
The truck rattles across Guatemala,
pain, mothers holding children
and the ineffable shit-smell
of neocolonial slavery.
If we taste the cane, or even our
hands, we get whipped until we can’t stand.
If we don’t get in the truck at dawn,
our son will not see the sunrise
Licking the length of your
wrist all the way
to where you bleed,
can shared misery really be
for Ai Ogawa
Your second, Cancer, solemnly stared
as you stood above us
with unbound hands clutching a dull sword,
that gleamed crimson in the waning moonlight.
The crowd assembled to watch you
was sparse and sad— some hugged themselves
and searched for words while others
brandished razor blades, inking not-so-virgin
flesh as to jot down your final truths.
You spoke to us about yourself,
about pains of cancer and pain
of sword pressed into soft belly,
pain of poetry and pains of language,
especially of the cruel variety of suffering
that came just before death,
when there was no reason left to ignore the Self,
and every word, spoken in gasping daggers,
took bloody chucks out of the narcissist organ
until your intestines, like Yukio’s,
lay splayed on the ground before us.
Even as you spoke about all this
some of us noticed you were already gone,
with Cancer still quivering from the recoil of
that final sword stroke that sent you into Oblivion,
and so we spoke for you.
They scrape my body off the road
like a twitching crow,
blood feathering boyish black hair
against deathless Huizhou.
Perched on a power line fifty feet above,
I see so the sum of Human garbage
reflecting through my open eyes—
I am bored.
Tell me more about life,
you who lets me kill half your pack,
though we both know
there are no laws in heaven,
that cigarettes are a pack a golden penny
and even stillborn crack babies
and aborted ghetto children smoke
their lungs white night
after endless night.
Tell me more about faith,
you who denies the existence of God
right to that assholes face,
drunk and stoned and beautiful
your wrists wrapping red rope around my neck
that extends down to earth,
attaching itself to the white Ram
still christened in baby blood.
I feel fluid filling my lungs,
plastic snakes sucking angrily.
A million miles away, I am pissing
myself to the warm voice of my mother,
telling me to die before the fever
boils the baby brains inside my pretty head.
Hearing this scares me back to life,
back to picking up tin cans pretending
I don’t see the oncoming traffic.
Living life after having loved and lived and died
inside, the last vestige of Heaven rests
at the corner store near the shelter,
where I buy two packs of smokes
and malt liquor on credit.
There was a time in my early thirties when
I genuinely wanted to help the children,
and if not that, teach them.
Of course, I should have become a real teacher,
but would that have changed anything?
Standing over this punks face,
which has gushed blood over his white uniform top
to the white tiles on which he writhes in imagined agony,
I think only of beating myself,
how much harder I would have to do so
until a student could take pity on me.
Undoing my belt in the hallway of human zebras,
jerking my cock when I could have just as easily
killed that motherfucker, or myself,
there is no question in my mind
that not only will I be arrested and fired,
but that this masturbating monster
will be posted to the internet, by some
sixteen year old girl recording everything,
to the incomprehensible melody of
The snowswept wind whips the branches of
Bluridge Mountain shortleaf pines. Hundreds of feet
below me, they appear to dance and sing like
a thousand drunken football fans,
lending unabashed intoxicated strength
to their blacked out brothers on derby day.
Smoking a cigarette at the desolate overlook,
though the falling snow threatens to soak my jacket
and I can feel the icy mush suffuse through the holes
in my shoes, I contemplate whether
the anonymity afforded me by the blistering blizzard
is real or imaginary, and if that could possibly matter—
Becoming aware of non-moonlight, my back
bathed in the headlights of a driver whose slow crawl
implies an acute awareness of man’s mortality, and
possibly drunkenness, I tip the forty oz. bottle to my lips and
without finishing the last poison sip, cast the bottle
into the moonlit rapture below.
Having made this drive before, the ten mile stretch of
autumnal winter tucked into the mountains— approximately halfway between Harrisonburg and Charlottesville— no longer surprises me.
Opening up another beer as I pull onto the glimmering highway,
I recall where I am going, which is nowhere in particular,
but still, I have already come too far to turn back towards home.
Your body revolts slightly,
playfully, as my curved nose rends the
soft skin of tit and arm fat,
and, tickled by the amputated hairs
of your armpit, inhales honestly,
as one does with their face to flowers,
or fiat currency rolled into tight tubes
that shoot crystals into skulls.
Stripped down to four senses
somewhere in the dark, Me—
Japanese taxicab, breath of
redolent of drunken human baby,
cabbage and sleep,
giggle in ethereal gasps as my face emerges,
thirsty for the vague familiarity
of the taste of your spit.
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
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
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—
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.