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Scantily Clad Press, 2008

POETS IN THE NEW YORKER I am Diane Keaton The Poetess in Woody Allen's Interiors. I cross my sweatered arms and stare at the waves crashing and hissing up Long Island's beaches. I think of Heraclitus, not Frank O'Hara. Today it's either compete with Edna St. Vincent Millay or shop the outlets. I have never had the good taste to forget we are all going to die someday. My sisters are Mary Beth Hurt and some other actress whose name I can't remember. No one can. The primary reason I became a poet was to stand out from my siblings and this has worked out wonderfully: everyone hates me, even my husband, who has kindly taken to schtupping my sister whose name I can't remember, to help me bathe in the pain that I need, which is synonymous with poetry. I want to take a seminar on how to pose like Sylvia Plath, in exquisite pain but perky. I shop on Ebay for vintage antidepressants no longer approved by the FDA. My sister mentions my latest poem in the New Yorker which I seem to have forgotten. I stand with my sisters and make a Bergmanesque triune profile at the window. My mother has killed herself but that's decor. My mother died in an abortive attempt to create IKEA. It was too soon. I watch my would-be stepmother bring my drowned sister back to life. I thought of intervening but CPR is rarely lyrical. I aspire to be Gwyneth Paltrow in Sylvia but I detest tweed. I am still furious with Ted Hughes' abandonment, though we have never met.

AFTER THE SANSKRIT In the bedroom's darkness, half-drunk I pull my lover's big leg over me a sexy Dravidian bow. Ancient, perfect. And wonder at my gift for destruction A COMPLEX AND REALISTIC SPIN The garden. Sleep amid thieves. The body. But there is an army. HIGHLY NUMINOUS AND EXTREMELY AMBIVALENT POWER THAT MANIFESTS ITSELF IN DEATH. Feel the comic book spaces of religions whose suns are too bright, but do the White Stripes truly love one another? If so, how?

RUSSIAN PROVERBS (found)

1. Could not breathe enough before death. (Never you could not do all you want.) 2. It is impossible say “good health” before every sternutation. 3. Everywhere you cast—all is a wedge. (There exists desperate situations.) 4. An affectionate calf sucks two mothers. 5. If even you live hundred years—you must permanent learn. (Nevertheless you would die a fool.) 6. Your own shirt is nearer to your body. 7. To teach a fool is same as treat a dead man. 8. Even the wart adds something to the body. 9. Just a friendship but tobacco is separate. 10. Do not mind you are a wolf having calfs tail. 11. Get anything given—run being beaten. 12. Do not swear of pauper-bag and prison. 13. The glory lies—the abuse is running. 14. Insufficient sating is on the table, too much salt is on back. 15. The legend is still fresh but hard to believe. 16. The dream is terrible but the Lord is full of charity. 17. Having removed the head off, do not cry for hairs. 18. The love is vicious—you can fall in love with the billy-goat. 19. A sea water level can reach only the knee of a drunken man. 20. Do not exclaim “Up” having not crossed Chop

NOTE: SOMETHING TO TELL THE ANALYST Last night I dreamt my ex was preparing a massive trip to Spain, flying all his family across the Ocean. We haven’t spoken in years. If I told him this dream (to test the filaments of my psychic web) he would go deeply in debt just to make it real, just to irritate me. That’s the sort of person he is. If he went to Spain, he would probably die there, in my dream-trap. That’s the sort of person I am.

THOUGHT FOR TODAY During the Black Death half the world died in a short span. But this was a solution to unemployment, made landowners of serfs and nobles, for once, broke their own backs at fieldwork. Universities were born and the Renaissance began in earnest. Basically, all got laid out of either grief or joy. God retreated for a bit, appeared only as some quotes on a calendar. Today, I got wasted and watched Jerry Springer's karmic contortionists for about three hours. Then I masturbated, somewhat disinterestedly I should confess. Still, I believe like Oprah that God has a plan.

JOBS OF 2005 I regretfully resign my position and wave goodbye forever to the xenophobic, flatulent octopus whose chair I shared. I hereby resign, effective immediately, in light of the kuru-fad spreading like mange among the work-herd. It is with great regret that I must say goodbye to the old gang of sticky-fingered, cocksucking lemurs. No one will miss more than I the cacchinations and absolute terror of our mastodon hunts. Yet I know deep in my heart I cannot remain on this veldt, dear Xanaxivorous australopithecines. Thus, it is with great sadness that I downsize myself, beloved Atkins-dieting tribe of tarantulas. I go forward with many fond memories of the ever-challenging caucus of coyote-fellatio that was. Many are the days I shall nostalgiacally recall the sharks we fed that bloody woodchipper-spew, and how it felt like home.

LIFETIME TELEVISION MOVIE FOR POETS You beat your muse. You're on COPS half-naked, sneering. Laugh when the muse tries to lie for you, to keep you out of lockdown. But the muse slips up, they see the abuse. Bend over. Handcuffs clamp shut. The muse spits at you while you're bent over the cruiser. Now she's laughing, flirting with a bad wannabe-novelist cop. "Whatever, bitch... I'm just glad to get a rest from your tired ass." And it's true. She can't make coffee or clean a bathtub. She vanishes all the time. And you have the strongest suspicion she's fucking all your friends.

BACK AND FORTH: WINDOW AND MORNING T.V. Crows topping the dumpster, ringing the dumpster, raiding the dumpster. Eating their curds and whey. Eating this morning's omelet of scrambled eggs and condoms. There's a framed poster of Tom Cruise with his pussy-eating smile, somebody leaned against the dumpster, his astronaut's twinkle. Ruins the view. It's enough to make you sick. The beautiful people, indeed. It's enough to make you wish Marilyn Manson could come over for a whiskey breakfast and redecorate the place, redecorate your mind with a lighter shade of fuck it. What would he have to say, anyway? He's just a trailer park away from Jerry Springer. "TRANNIE CAT FIGHTS" CNN in love with another war. Hey, the crows are flapping off, screeching, carrying the unborn in a beak. Cold condom. Where will they drop it? I say a little prayer for the abortion picketers.

ROBERT CREELEY has gone, into The Gap where no one clothes you anymore in language, styles, he put no stock on hands, left feet, words go as the people they are

QUEER LOVE'S HOUDINI FINISH Put the t.v. in the center of the room on a little castered t.v. table in the center of a winter's day. Put on The Talented Mr. Ripley and wait for the gayest moment when Matt whisper-sings "My Funny Valentine" to Jude. Now have another t.v. also pulled out facing it, tete a tete, and play Hitchcock's Psycho so the gay lonelinesses speak to each other while you stare in the icebox and whisper your poem to him, the Hannibal Lecter you need to coax you out of this constricting skin.

SO WHAT'D'YOU DO TODAY? Yesterday, the police visited briefly in the afternoon. I answered the door in my underwear--in best COPS fashion-and they watched me dress. I felt I should pay them for the thrill. Oh, also someone was beheaded after crying. They didn't have any unusual cheeses at the grocery store. I made my peace, at last, with the seventeenth century. Spent hours thinking about gabbro, that igneous amalgamation. I touched my cock and rubbed it on a 22-year-old. Escaped language for approximately 47 minutes, but it came back. Believed the cat escaped into the fourth dimension for seven minutes. Did Wittgensteinian analysis for a felon in New Jersey on AOL in the early evening. Saw father return as Banquo's ghost. Could only think of Banquet t.v. dinners. Translated some translations back. Mother Tongue licked me in gratitude. Wondered why my dwelling feels like a World Trade Center 747. Oh yeah, the t.v. Thought about someone getting done in the rear by a cooper. In 1813. "I mean, the Buddhist wheel is a wheel for a reason." Kept seeing the shopping cart as a paradigm for holding in America. Thought about filming a porno that would take place entirely in shopping carts. My lover and I ate a beast, licked our fingers, while watching Six Feet Under. The treatment of Nan Goldin on HBO made me remember how Jagermeister tastes like Nyquil but how at seventeen you don't mind. Then I didn't mind and went to bed thinking about Lauren Ambrose on a 747 thinking about Iraq, then thinking about Liz Phair holding Nan Goldin close to her heart, because those words hurt, she has lived the life of an exile, and no one owns your feelings.

MY BLOG'S VENUS FLY TRAP HENTAI VAMPIRE SEX STORIES NOSEBREATHER VAMPIRE GIRLS WANT IT DEEP ELMO ON ICE ANIME PUFFINSTUFF SEX MICHAEL VICK PRISON SEX LESBIAN SLEEPOVER LESBIAN POODLEBALL PILLOWFIGHT LESBIAN ANIME JELLO WRESTLING HERSHEY HIGHWAY LESBIANS GAY DAVID BECKHAM SEX SLAVES HERSHEY HIGHWAY GAYBOS MANGA DOUBLEDECKER DILDO SEX BISEXUAL DAVID BECKHAM HERSHEY HIGHWAY PILLOWFIGHT DON'T TASE ME, BRO MANGA SEX CLUB STICKERS ANIME SEX TORTURE LOVEBOYS EAT CORN FROM MY NOOTCHIE RICHARD GERE MEETS THE HENTAI GERBILS IN SPACE LESBIANS WHO LIKE POODLEBALLING STRAIGHT GUYS BISEXUAL TRIPLEDECKER DILDO ANIME WHAT VICTORIA DOESN'T KNOW DAVID CHEEZ WHIZZES GAY OCTOPUS INVASION TRIPLE PENETRATION ANIME ANIME SEX SLAVES OF DAVID BECKHAM LINDSAY LOHAN OCTOPUSSING SAMANTHA MUFF SHOT SAMANTHA POODLEBALLING HENTAI LINDSAY LOHAN

BISEXUAL TRIPLEDECKER DILDO BOYS MANGA GAY SWOLLEN MANGA TRANSSEXUAL BREAK MY HAIRY ONE IN MANGA TRANSSEXUAL TRIPLE-GERBIL SNUFF ANIME VAMPIRE IMMORTAL BAREBACKING ANIME GAY VAMPIRE TWILIGHT ANIME DON'T TASE MY GAY ANIME VAMPIRE SEX SLAVE, BRO GAY VAMPIRE TWILIGHT MANGA DAVID BECKHAM CHEEZ WHIZZES TEAM GAY VAMPIRE ANIME LESBIANS WHO LIKE STRAIGHT GUYS BISEXUAL VAMPIRE MANGA LESBIANS WHO LIKE STRAIGHT GUYS GAY ANIME SEX STORIES PUFF'N'SNUFF ANIME PUFF'N'SNUFF MANGA SNUFF TWILIGHT MANGA SNUFF GAY VAMPIRE ANIME LESBIANS WHO LIKE STRAIGHT GUY STORIES SNUFF BISEXUAL VAMPIRE ANIME LESBIANS WHO LIKE STRAIGHT GUY STORIES OPRAH WINFREY SNUFF FILM BISEXUAL LESBIANS WHO LIKE DAVID BECKHAM OPRAH WINFREY DR. PHIL SNUFF FILM GAY ANIME OPRAH WINFREY EATS CORN FROM HER NOOTCHIE BISEXUAL DR. PHIL MANGA SEX SLAVES EAT CORN FROM HER NOOTCHIE DAVID BECKHAM SPONGEBOB SNUFF FILM MICHAEL VICK ANIME SPACE SEX SLAVES WHO LOVE LESBIAN DOGFIGHTING

ANIME DOGFIGHTING ANIME DOGFIGHTING SEX ANIME LESBIAN DOGFIGHTING SEX ANIME FISTING MANGA FISTING OPRAH WINFREY DR PHIL FISTING SPACE SPONGEBOB LESBIAN DREAM WEBKINZ

PUTTING THINGS IN PERSPECTIVE No living poet is famous as Pikachu, nor as powerful. No living poet is modest as Pikachu nor as docile. No living poet has comforted children as Pikachu has. No living poet will ever earn as much as Pikachu, not even if Oprah should marry this poet or opt for a domestic union with this living poet. Pikachu will probably live forever, or at least a few hundred years when the entirety of living poets will be as visible and relevant as a bicycle built for two or wooden dentures.

DREAM CUNT This sea has not yet taken place. PRE-KARMIC DREAM CUNT. What reason were you given for avoiding the light? DEMONIC DREAM CUNT. So I see a new battle. BIOGRAPHICAL DREAM CUNT. Home will never be like this. NOSTALGIAC DREAM CUNT. With this supply, they can survive for many days. SURVIVALIST DREAM CUNT. In the fracas, one of the looters struck the painting twice with his sword, but before he could do any other damage, he fell writhing in agony and died. SUPERSTITIOUS DREAM CUNT. While relations with Ethiopia remained good in 1995, those with the Sudan deteriorated. MILITARISTIC DREAM CUNT. Imagine all the people. LENNONISTIC DREAM CUNT. And then I realized I could never make you happy, never enter into that place where the radiant silhouette you imagined could stay in constant view, warm you so that you felt your presence was godlike, life-sustaining. HALLMARK DREAM CUNT. Who ate the last donut? HOMER SIMPSONIC DREAM CUNT. And there Dante encountered a spirt which would lead him into the fire of wisdom he craved from earliest boyhood FAG POET DREAM CUNT. They swim unceasingly. SALMON DREAM CUNT. He felt the futility of life all the more keenly. STARBUCKS DREAM CUNT. Oh honey, I was certain you had meant to kill me. I feel so foolish. HITCHCOCKIAN DREAM CUNT. I just want the chatbot to write the whole damn novel for me, why should I have to think at all, really? NET POTATO DREAM CUNT. Ants don't really exist as single entities, but are rather like neurons of a large brain spread out over the ground. What is a single ant alone? FLOATING WORLD DREAM CUNT. Righteousness will prevail. MANIFEST DESTINY DREAM CUNT. They are burnt over 90% of their bodies. BUSH FAMILY DREAM CUNT. I want you to feel how wet I am right now. TELEMARKETING DREAM CUNT. He is missing two limbs but happy to be exploring his dream of being a plumber thanks to the G.I. bill BE ALL THAT YOU CAN BE DREAM CUNT. But writing like this shows no empathy, exhibits no real centeredness. MEANING NAZI DREAM CUNT. I just want to keep cumming and cumming for days on end, in a tantric orgasm that echoes like a thunder clap. THIRTEEN YEAR OLD DREAM CUNT. I like big butts and I can't deny. EGYPTIAN GHETTO HAREM DREAM CUNT. Oh where oh where has my little dog gone? ANUBIS-LOVING BESTIALITY DREAM CUNT. We reduce the fraction to the lowest common denominator. S.A.T DREAM CUNT. We can use the drippings to make the meat even tastier, more succulent. IRON CHEF DREAM CUNT. Why can't you just shut up? BUDDHIST DREAM CUNT. And there I found myself more truly, and more strange. CORPULENT INSURANCE EXECUTIVE DREAM CUNT. I like going to places I read about in the works of Jack Kerouac. I feel a real connectivity with his spirt there. JOHNNY DEPP ASS PIRATE DREAM CUNT HOLLYWOOD JERRY LEWIS WANNABE DREAM CUNT. Pi is equivanent to 3.14159.....CIRCULAR DREAM CUNT. Oh whoa oh oh what a feeling to drive Toyota. RICE BURNING DREAM CUNT. I can't feel my legs. JAWS OF LIFE DREAM CUNT. He was just standing on the beach fifteen minutes ago, and now there's not a trace of him anywhere. It's as if he just vanished off the planet. TSUNAMI DREAM CUNT.

IF YOU WERE A FLINTSTONE, WHICH FLINTSTONE WOULD YOU BE? This one's easy. I would be DINO, because he is boyish, & purple & oh-so-gay. Yet mercifully lacks flamboyance. But Dino always gets locked out of the house and cries at the door like a 19th century French protagonist. You'd think in time he would realize there is fortune & adventure sometimes in being on the cold side of the door, and go find another agonist, purple & boyish, who loves to tackle as much as he do and do and do and do each other

inside & out. doing it & doing it & doing it well, dinosaur sex. Dino at the Castro. Dino on a cruise. Dino just needs to find another dinosaur who will never tell him to grow up (Dino will probably end up an alcoholic) because death can always smell when the child suit falls off. I choose Dino. Dino I say. I want to be the Other purple one. But I want to sleep on you. The Other bedrock. Can I do?

FOX POEM The yoke of insane passion has fallen off me cuz some magic mice chewed it off because i bribed them with French cocaine & juliette greco records O Magic Mice, Magic Mice thank you for removing his hold from my soul he was a usual horrible disease of desire, some ship rigged with orgasmic sails and he owns a Terrible Ocean where I was blind with sun & happy being ridiculous I am returned to the Land quick-witted in my winter Now I am my own fox happy in my bright blizzard I know the way back I will kill whatever warm thing crosses my path & my merry little fangs will smile the natural smile of the cold & the just

1868

He said, oh you are a bleeder for sure & the poem is your tampon. So I punched him in the nose for all sissies. & he bled all the way home. snowy streets that led to his superior dwelling glowed with his blood's breadcrumbs all night. in a Grimm forest men hunt their loves from their tricks. some acquire ghoulish radar but never a kiss. he was one of those. turn the page to see the illustration on the onion-thin paper of the heart.

W.B. Keckler was born in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and is widely published in America and the United Kingdom. Books include Sanskrit of the Body (2002, Viking Penguin), which won in the U.S. National Poetry Series), and Ants Dissolve in Moonlight (1995, Fugue State Press). Forthcoming from Six Gallery Press in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, is a large volume: Okay, But I'm Gonna Burn Down the Building. This brings together a large number of uncollected poems published over the last decade. He is translator of Andre Malraux's early works RoyaumeFarfelu and Lunes en Papier, published as The Kingdom of Farfelu, With Paper Moons (2005, Fugue State Press). Over 200 pages of Keckler's poetry can be found exclusively online.


"¿Que Es Mas Homo?" by W.B. Keckler