i'll have a book, please

so who knew sending my book
to a couple plucky kids from kansas
would lead to me being a published poet.
huge thanks to the poetry editor there, geoff
something, and to the judge magda debünk. stagg
hill was a huge help too, an old friend i'd made in cali.
it's one of those things where you make a contact and
never think that contact will pay off. at a bar fight in
big sur, i wrestled two jerk poets off stagg's back and
lo, he delivers me publication one score later. pays to
step in when someone's wielding a pool stick. and here
i thought i'd masterbated all my major contacts away
through years of dodging people to spend my days
in an undershirt cleaning specks of food from dishes
and blowing bread crumbs from my toaster. the book
should be out in 2010, or early '11 and that's cool.

steven miller sent me a nice letter, even though
i smacked his kid at a louisiana, ks fundraiser
for taking celery from the platter and putting it back.
he got a little heated, i know, but in the end his kid
didn't do it the rest of the night and his press ended
up publishing my little book anyhow. steven turned
out to be a good guy, if not a bad father. but that
munsterman guy, he's a hoot. what a waste of tissue.
he actually took me to a dog racing track, put nachos
in my lap, and left with a wad a money after his bet
on "who's on first" paid dividends.

but the book. i'm elated it is going to happen, but
not as elated to have to go out and shill for myself.
i don't expect that little kansas press to be able
to do anything for me other than supply the books
and list me on their facebook pages. and what's with
this facebook? why don't they just post nude pics
of themselves, give out their social security and credit
card numbers, relate their fears and fetishes, and
get on with it. all this privacy out there, and in such
an uninteresting, non-creative way. if facebook was
a poem, it would need revising hardcore to the ultra-max.

if it was a movie, it would be a tv movie shown once
and never again. if it was a radio show, it would be seacrest.
if it was a soda, it'd be crystal pepsi. if it was an article
in a woman's magazine, it would be ten ways to please
your man who reminds everyone of your father know
never could be pleased and now you've grown a sexual
attachment to his younger doppleganger. my book will
not sell a copy, won't make me one red cent, won't earn
praise for leaning house, won't change the world. but,
maybe i can use it as a coaster, and coast through life
with the knowledge that someone may have read it.

cellar door, drew barrymore?

phrases i like:

awesome possum

confetti yetti

dross moss

spectacular vernacular

on a whim pseudonym

intrepid dipper

caustic acrostic

finger sandwiches

see you latersville

pick up my hiccup

monotone ice cream cone

smattered with hatter

blade in the shade

pelvis harvest

loose caboose

cowbell smell

forest porridge

last poem

this is the goodbye, cruel world poem.
in the sauna for the first time in my life,
i thought this a good time to strategize
my exit, to have a way out. i thought,
jeez it’s hot in here, but not hell hot,
I thought hot like home. elizabeth f—,
that’s what we’ll call her, gave me her
copy of fritz lang’s m because i was
at the pretension and age where I found
german cinema superior to american.
her whole face smiled, then cringed
as a bee swarming over her pink lemonade
landed on her nose in austin, texas.
i think i saw for a moment a glimpse
of what I wanted for myself and like
that bee killed by the boyfriend she’d
abandon for an au pair job in rome,
it squished. now it’s semesters at sea
and collar shirt shifts and the roebuck's.
this is the goodbye cruel world poem
that turns in on itself, rages against death
by contemplating it. father dead, I rest
uneasy for my mother, but not myself.
somewhere in a time-dilapidated house
she naps on a half-empty bed, absence
a ghost haunting both of us. perhaps.

the world is so clear, I couldn’t be happier—
sugar sugar honey baby, &all things sappier.

suicide pantoum

kill me already. my fingers flexed into a gun
imaginary trigger pulled
imaginary not that goes like this:
i didn’t mean to love you, or anyone

i didn’t want to be a burden or for the leaves
kill me already. my fingers flexed into a gun
to change their color without me
imaginary knot that goes like this

around the neck, just so. snap my neck because
i didn’t want to be. a burden before i leave
but i do, i am, and they will.
to change their color without me

girls will still get kissed on the cheek just,
around the neck just so. snap my neck, because
a wrist doesn’t get the job done i’ll slit. used to say
i do, i am. they will

me alive with shed petals, shed tears.
girls will still get blessed at the creek, just
without me pulling their heads back up.
a rest doesn’t get the job done, nor a sit. used to play

cowboys and indians, cops and robbers—
imaginary triggers pulled
at the enemy; didn’t want anything yet.
i didn’t mean to love you, or anyone.

visions of jesus on the way to boise

are sun-warped
slanting cutouts
kinko-copied by
zealots waving
as you head east
down old u.s. 30.

If you stop for a roadside piss, jesus close-up looks like john lennon.

next summer they’re headed for the landfill; trashed like fluorescent
crosses in front of st. matt’s cross, or the devils rising eight feet high
are sun-warped
at donny's used
auto where the
shadow of hell
dances thin and
gaudy over your
face. each jesus
meanwhile rots,
and wobbles as
sun batters into
blossom our ink
and paper savior.

before I was a sexual creature

Before I was a sexual creature,
I didn't have a game plan,
but instead I played games
with dice and glass marbles.
I loved my marbles, sure,
but who knew why? Who knew
why not? They were soft & round
and didn't yet look like an old man's
forehead. I played with them
without even thinking of cancer.
Without even thinking of orgasm.
In case you haven't gotten it yet,
my testicles had such intrinsic
value that I cared for them
more than anything in this world.
I chased girls on the playground,
sure, collapsed to the grass with them,
but what could I do with them?
Before I was a sexual creature,
I wanted them to want them, not for what
the provided. I prided myself
in things that would never get me laid:
being Timothy's best friend
in the whole wide world,
being able to snort a grape seed
up my nose and spit it over
the shortest slide,
having teeth that looked like an ogre's.
Stop me if this sounds too vulgar,
but I could piss on your head
while kneeling. That one actually did
get me laid once, but not with a woman
I would brag about.

What have I kept from those days,
those pre-balloonman days?
Almost nothing. At times, I'll
pick up a pair of socks with helicopter
patterns just to exchange them
with solid brown wool ones.
I still write poetry, I guess,
but that has gotten me laid, at least
twice, though my best friend
in the whole wide world, Timothy,
does as well, and according to him
it hasn't yet had such positive effects.

from and they all went to heaven in a little rowboat

her kitten pisses on my stairs
stares whenever we have sex
tests the thread count of coats
coats her fur in saliva breaks
the hard hearts of alley cats
makes obscene calls at night
lights candles leaves the room
buys crap from infomercials
uses my visa owes thousands
gives bookies my work phone
doesn’t recap the toothpaste
recaps movies I have yet to see
seizes interest in your company
snores and spits drools and farts
calls hip hop hippy hoppy knows
my atm pin knows my password
licks herself at family functions
talks on the cellphone at movies
fakes an awful southern accent
fakes orgasms feigns an interest
never leaves a tip clips her nails
on my bed never says thank you
smokes in my car sits on bibles
drinks all my wine is uncultured
shows up late for work long lunch
eats all the peanuts quotes fletch
steals from poor people makes
racist jokes gets drunk at functions
calls me fat calls me late at night
applied for a government bailout
and got it makes fun of handicapped
makes light of death breaks china
choked on tuna at a fine restaurant
sued the doctor gave the heimlich
lets food go rotten wrinkles suits
doesn’t flush doesn’t wash her hands
introduced britney to kevin federline
introduced anna nicole to pain pills
donates dirty blankets to sioux charities
hitler-staches the maternity ward babies
fraudulently insures old feeble retirees
convinced nbc that leno is still funny
promises girls stardom films them nude
sold my house on craigslist spent cash
knows I’m allergic to peanuts puts it in
everything steals my socks steals change
from the cup holder holds people hostage
drinks at aa meetings yells fire in crowds
burns down orphanages invented autotune
ripped up the aids quilt tests drugs on mice
double dips chips steals my parking space
introduced whitney houston to bobby brown
goes to strip clubs makes it rain counterfeit bills
tells anorexics and bolemics they are fat
pardoned nixon talks shit bootlegs movies
hacked into my computer wrote this poem