Sunday, January 12, 2014

hold your applause until the end, please, for ELISABETH WORKMAN!!!!!


PROBABLY THE SONG OF THE UNEMPLOYED SITH LORD

Too much, heavily arranged, too much
probably lonely, lost
in the velvet curtain a mopey ambition
the only attempt too much to wave
an imaginary rebellion
dusting the noble domes
of the Golden Girls

Probably more than anything
the Golden Girls

Jobless despot weekday afternoons
let’s lap in the longest nap ever
mysterious glistening aerosol force
jobless skyrockets
pink tufa dust
of the Golden Girls

Who are not collapsing
who due to a combination
of boredom and mind tricks
are mounting in dreamland
the peon moon
then plunge into the massive pools
of self-tanning republics…

Eyes and opal inlay
ploys shouldered across
Florida lilting pudenda
minty phantom
trophy menace

Kind of like a holograph
with a man-voice
deflowered then divorced
I come to my own
Bea Arthur enormity
 



BULLETS BUILT BY DAD

I am back
like a pigeon
hubba hubba

Yahoo Subliminal Puberty
Insomnia World Domination Project
like the Past on Plastic
I wanna dive-bomb some Paleolithic shit

I am back
like a whorish pterodactyl
the years have been kind

The Deplorable Landlocked Reawakening
begins with deep breathing
in and out and the mantra
hubba hubba
I am NOT ALONE!

PUBERULENT REWRITING
i love u i love you i hate yahoo

PUBIC RESTITUTION
my life for the world to see

I am back
speaking as an American ho ho ho
poems about me by me me me
autobiographical lawn fuses swallowed
hubba hubba
hubba hubba




SOMETIMES NATURE


sometimes nature plays tricks on us
take puffins rainbows shape-shifters god-

fluids flowing up and down the spine
in a recognizably hysterical strain belonging

to an unforetold BOOM

it’s true we have all come
to grips with what clothes are

but not what they came here to
discover or spawn         that’s why

sometimes

you will want to get everything
in zebra print                even chaps

for various occasions

 when a vague recollection
of a nearly sleazy rainbow

burns our eyes
as runtish ponies stare down

a jury of fixed features  molting
into red wings molting into sound

sometimes called stardom sometimes
STARING INTO SPACE
           
I wonder what sort of film
puffins would make

how they might help
when we are carried out

two decimal places
to the exact middle

of a bleating morass
where we’ve all undergone evaluation

and now know
little fleeting things

will be thrown at us


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