the point. there, i've gotten to it. but this is silly...i am embarking
on this poem with the cleanest of objectives, one that squeaks because it must under
the fridge with a broken back and paralyzed mouth slobbering on the fragrant
cheese of dream cartoons, a brie that shimmers in perfection in the army
surplus jacket of bearded mystery, a lindberger stench from under the botox where his
son is wrinklefree in bondage to a television console sans cable, a cheezetwig that
sprouts over the page like a funeral cloak mysteriously unwinding as the zero,
mr. fuckass to you, comes washing in on the beach naked& quoting hisself,
reciting the junkfood of sirens: whoa, that started taking too mush shape,
i need to rewire this beast with goofballs, ride its noxious fuckbluster breath
like a bronco, bottle of exlax in hand, trying to coax out the skittish image
hunched under the fern in the corner---and out one comes as i rattle
its lair, a tornado on fire exploding with purple question marks that all ask
why the edited lady is barbequed on the beach with a baby strugglin
out of the repulsion striding over the hypodermic missles with a
dull black fist branding an x across the scene making us
feel guilty of awareness of bums caught peeing on squawmart making them
pop up like mormons
james brown kisses his self thru the bars aiding in the instruction of
america in some barely knowable way we enjoy, precluding
the faces of children imagined as clouds escaping
unpublishable gusts, no cosmic insight, no nutritional value, no hint of the nature
of hinting no peep into the innards(see them strewn loosely
no nothing save general silliness feigning nothingness just to plead more contest
which is just the point of illumination i accomplished long ago, many
crappy guts ago
Lo, John Brown 1989 Lawrence ks
"and the cut on the brow shall heal no more"
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