The One Thousand Arms of Poking and Pinching Love


try to remember
a shadowy world
of a stripper.
She walked and talked all
night, wearing a dress
keeping it on. I my-
self still watching and
waiting for further
disclosures, insights
Demi Moore, nearly moored.

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The blood-black dahlias blooming
on the foreheads of all the sapped corpses
in last night's movie–

saw them at the Jardin yesterday.
Also a pale wrinkled moon
of a hibiscus,
some scarlet waterlilies

nothing's happening
in deep August. Except for
silent openings.

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I will take my anti-matter
anti-matter and singling,
wrapped up in a ghost
take that away.
                             'Song)
when I die.
will wash my leeks this morn
in Palmolive Shampoo.

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Death to all evangels,
death to the head of state
death to monsieur's rhetoric,
death to us all!

Death to your pitiful salary
death to your obnoxious blonde beauty
death to your piety, intelligence
your efforts on behalf of your people;
death to your delicate feelings
death to your honor, death to your anarchy
death to your ancient customs, your
lovely usages; your criminality;
death to your goodness
death to all your mystiques.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Inside a mound with a man at night
in a dark misty field of such mounds.
Haven't we been here before? Of course.
And really, there's nothing to fear from the ghosts–
are we the ghosts?–there's
nothing to fear at any rate; there
should never have been anything to fear.
Evolutionist, there should have been no fear
no sorrow...

Later, I'm no longer dead in a mound; I'm
alive again in a large social house
which still had an upper story
and a rosette of trenches on the first floor.
It contains, as well, a fat spiritual presence.
Should the soul eat quite so many
chocolates, oh why not? A more
serious problem is how can it fuck its
lover, with all these people around on the
first floor entrenched...always
about their business right in the house!

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When to end–
ending itself will tell me. It always does.
Maybe not in this poem, maybe the next.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

A lot of pushing
elbowing, poling. The nicest
people do it all the time;
getting you to be good
like them.
Then, sometimes they cry
when you're not.

                          I've taken some
care that this poem not be a nice place.

....nothing to keep one from an
internal freedom
which lifts the person off the whole
globe and its sleazy little continents–

leave the damn place for a while, anytime you want.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

You are a lovely man (you,
not you). A crystal set,
a prick, a coincident entirety.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

I'm being served more chocolate for dessert
tamales with mole sauce
pieces of chocolate hidden in the filling.

While I eat, my companions evince
their problematical natures,
This woman shouts that she's going to have
an operation and an abortion.
This man is very tall, keeps growing taller.

I'm interested , I am, but I eat my chocolate.
She's being served some too–
take it and eat it, you fuckhead;
as far as I can tell, what we're here for,
to scarf up soul goo. You pay for it too,
pay for each course: pay each other to live–
why?–obviously because we're such creeps.
That nice lady there makes me pay her :
she makes me tell her I love her over and over.
Just eat, I want to say, there's plenty of chocolate

a cognac-soaked cherry slides down my throat


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