Without chaos with reciprocity for the horse, I bow down to a lonely dog. I’m still pounded by the iron fist of my me. Hey, you be a tequila. Mister wears a skirt. I am stronger by the way. Him doubt him right mind. How go forward in train, waiting to hear rags, or a rock? Them endings, endings of them. My muscles hurt, I meditate. I monk my life and me anyway making things wordsy: a choice, the addressee, this a poem. Slap a new date on it and find the way crumbles go down. Find some place in head to cavern out, westering, ever going. Yaws, a transport. Tonsils not victims. Them grow and make things, themselves, making life a complex raid on reason. On smacked-out liar heads. From these shifting wisps a life is made? Yes, and the risks are too grand to try and make a Bigger so best to shut it down. Too risked out most find it to make a Colossus, a Tangerine of Super Proportions. Mutts get it, even retrievers too. You make a life by working overtime. In tinted hollow moments nobody hardly anybody gets that.
Where am I? I wish I knew. Good-Bye Giant Head. My heart is muerto? With world completely upside-down, goodbye to the bee. Goodbye to the knee. Goodbye to meeting in dreamworld, if there ever was one. Goodbye to poke poke. Goodbye to Mount Lemmon. Goodbye to burger-jaunts. Goodbye to chin hiccups. Goodbye to hairpulling. Goodbye fingerpulling and cracking knuckles. Goodbye Gitane. Goodbye shivery lake swims. Goodbye Bahia Kino. Goodbye blind-climbing. Goodbye tamales. Goodbye to monkey box liaisons. Goodbye broken-winged bird. Goodbye turd. Goodbye baby. Goodbye to pictures. Goodbye face. Goodbye hammock and hug. Goodbye egg cream. Goodbye mouse in the house. Goodbye the Santa Suit, arriving on Wednesday. Goodbye to the world that is too many people not enough in love. Goodbye to the bean. Goodbye to the many toe enamels. Goodbye bum thumb. Goodbye lega tibs. Goodbye avocado rolls. Goodbye Halloween. Goodbye Cannondale. Goodbye long fingers. Goodbye little snores. Goodbye chicken sausage. Goodbye Gogol. Goodbye Bordello. Goodbye bamboo bike. Goodbye Jimmy Santiago Baca. Goodbye português. Goodbye longboard. Goodbye black dirt and resolution, Rose Captain and song for the dead. Goodbye ringlets. Goodbye green dress. Goodbye Oscars. Goodbye kirtans. Goodbye 7 Falls. Goodbye Dustgarden. Goodbye cabin. Goodbye little t-shirts. Goodbye Evo. Goodbye green toothbrush. Goodbye running and riding. Goodbye Lights on Friday Night. Goodbye to spooning. Goodbye evening ice cream. Goodbye red dye in my sink. Goodbye cherry pancakes. Goodbye young one, who don' wanna go crazzy with me.
I run the Superman equation. It runs, like an apegirl on a drainpipe, up a curve, then breaks off into a period. Or an exclamation punt. ********* reminds me of plastic bags, dancing in the wind. But crime is everywhere, Supe. And I, too, have been trans*****ed against. Now my days are filled with work And occasionally cake. To what dark galactic hollow could you hurl me, Kal El? What quiet place?
I was standing. You came behind me and put a knee into my knee. It was winter. Someone saw us moving from inside a ****way. We pulled each other fast and cannibal’d time. You must guess that we are time. The wrong moment for the right folks. I guessed it long ago and something. It holds water? It was a story that told a poem. It’s a double why. I thought I could bend ****. The wind pushed us together. We huddled and huddled.
Go ahead and clack when walking. Make that umph sound when striking, using a superman punch, overpacked, energetically realizing all highness. Give someone a long tall drink. Drink them cool milling molecules, young outlaws in the surround. Someone shadowed her collective documents and gathered things with her deadpan wedgeface. Ninesense and reading teams, nickel and Cadillacs, shouldering the wait of ten years in a bag. Goliath down to your watering whole bag of feed and knuckles in two pockets, spilt tiller up in a ground. Range over acidic econo-dollops, fly fast away from a fickle folkster figgering ways to git free. Dumb heads touch faces, wonder about sleep, keep wallopy uppercuts coming out in springtime. Soul-bare idears get met with shut-up shit-blanked hater moves. Just flow, go, screen-dense yoga purgation, rut out dank corners of tomorrow and chase things on a bike.
An Italian-American Spaceman Foresees His Death:
Smashing against ashen walls, alone in space,/
Weirdly wired, mind warping/
Through the void, veering over/
The vapid edge of madness, mumbling aloud,/
"Per aspera ad astra, you young asshole./
It’s a rough road to the stars, Rotando."