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Maybe There Are Mathematics

(some of these poems have appeared online in MIPO & THUNDER SANDWICH, & maybe other places – the author does not keep track of such things, but wishes to thank those who did originally publish the works)

Poems By Ron Androla (2013)

Maybe There Are Mathematics

I want words with double o's at their end. Scoff at all etymology as an ugly incision Stitched poorly, seeping infection. Like Puking up slaughtered infants or faces of Ancestors beat with broken sandstone, Language. Mimosa does the Twist Between a leaning garage & pirouetting Tiptoe pines. Chewing on a beached whale Under a cliff of dark sky, a moon headache. Half people, most people are half people. Flesh & clouds, skin & wet air, hair & erased Moon, Oak trees tango. Maples trot down the Violent road. Our bed is an egg. Our soft goo Feather, curling, beginnings.

Old Days

I miss the nicotine Days, corn-stalks, Low sky, rust & Weeds in the bottom Of an useless canoe In a field beside a Rotting barn. Samantha Tickles the root of my Erection with a bunny Nose from a black & White television. Gray Hair great-uncles, greatAunts speak twisted Italian between bottles of Red wine during Ed Sullivan in a cloudy Room filled with cousins. Car-doors, grasshopper Spit, limestone gravel. Amerika is a non-filter Chesterfield. I miss The overwhelming odor Of iodine in Dr. Caplan's Office.

The End Of The

I'm quite a sight without Dentures wrapping my gums. One half-real tooth remains, Post into my bottom jawbone, Nerveless. Otherwise, porcelain & Suction. Without teeth, without edges, I realize I look as old as the foggy Moon; White, wispy hair, mostly white beard. A cane, leg pain, & I can't see Shit these days even with glasses. Medicines, pills, Dr. visits, disgust Must be the heavy load breaking Brittle, spiraling bridges of neurons. Why Care we're broke in a house a bank Owns until I'm 85. I'm 58. Fuck The house & all the things it needs. That's the attitude. A small, silly Moon breaks down gray ladder Sky branches like a cannon Ball cracking thru wood. Soft Yard dirt is a ripped, ineffective Trampoline. In younger times My heart was a tight Trampoline, & I had actual Teeth to say, to mean Poetry, & existence, & various Renditions of those words.

I Hate Facebook

I thought my online board, Pressure Press, Wld bring my friends & their words & Pictures & videos & chat into my small room Like the early internet days, but no, not even Close – a few hits a day – with my close friend Mark Hartenbach contributing most Postings. Not that I'm diminishing his work In any way, I don't mean that, I mean, look: I don't expect the ghost of Cait to flash clit & Nipple, nor the spirit of Michael to throw tarry Blood at the screen; not even Jazzbo ablaze On moonshine & amphetamines boxing The face of a scar-less, surfing, clueless Poet who so easily feels defeat by The knuckles of a pussy-munching, southern, Bourbon boy in an old man's bones who Shatters everything shaped like a Box – & it is a very square world, here, everywhere, With edges of glass, wood, plastic, manufactured Molecules, or my fucking ethics. I don't know why or how I have hundred of facebook friends. Facebook Makes Me Nauseous, the rocking Back & Forth & Pork – pork – pork

Why Fight It

Rolling over an electron Ball of a moment, face-first, The surface is sometimes Water, sometimes hot sand, Sometimes broken bottle Glass, sometimes flaring Fire. What we fall Into always changes, In my experience it's Been shit changes, nor Can we avoid the Roll, waking after Dreaming. The Sun & its Rabbit-punches, & the Moon Is a straw with the sucking Occurring behind the Moon. We are skulls & scars & wounds, Walnut heads. Like suckable Tubes fall from Heaven, Caffeine & dead food. Toothless people Laugh less. We all compose Voice Songs thru the decades.

Wonderment As A Trap

“Do not question the warmth of a Spring day in early January, not in Erie, of all places,” Ann extrapolates To Trisha at our kitchen table. We Open windows, I shut off the furnace, & thru the backdoor screen, a thousand Wrens stitch & tweet inside our hedges, In the trees, & sky, & other yards, thousands & thousands of brown, old, regular wrens, Who friend or tolerate the English sparrows. The cats act like spies frozen mid-step to a Sill. Our 70 year old dog doesn't give a fuck What the birds, or the cats, or the jet-streams Do. I stand with my black cane & false teeth, At the silver sink, turning to see & to hear Trisha's reaction. She giggles like little, Innocent birds as white kittens leap out of Her thrown hands at the low ceiling. “It is so beautiful today, isn't it Grandpa?” I grin. I nod. I don't tell her I smell mice.


I quit smoking tobacco early last year, Djarum Black cigars/cigarettes, to be specific, Quit a few other times in the past: Once for 3 whole years. A Djarum Cigar/cigarette sits on my desk. I Have been able to stop the burning Of tobacco leaf by way of Swedish Snus, Which I order online from Sweden. Packet of Mashed tobacco, salt, in a tiny tea-bag delivers Nicotine via mouth & gum mucous, so no Withdrawal symptoms nor cravings. That Was/is the point – that horrible withdrawal. Swedish snus has been studied, medically, For decades, & tho dangers exist, they are Tiny, statistically, to cigarettes. It's the Process the Swedes use in snus production, Regulated like food – the same standards. Pasteurization. They do not deny addiction. My favorite brand is Ettan, white portions, Since 1822 it's been produced in Sweden, Spit-less. A good 8 mgs. nicotine hit in blood To brain, minus all the cancer & medical Problems associated with inhaling flaming Tobacco tubes. Snus has worked. Harm reduction. Cost is mostly for the shipping, & even that is Much, much cheaper than American smokes. Sweden has the lowest lung cancer rate in

The civilized world, & this is why. I have Popped one & pressed its juice out in the Left corner of my mouth where my dentures Don't cover my gums. I switch left & right. At night, when I remove my false teeth, I Put the snus where it is supposed to be placed, Top, under the lip. Sometimes I do spit the drip, & tho a packet is meant to last nearly 2 hours, I oscillate between 5 minutes & an hour. A black Djarum sits on my desk to my right. Clove. I Was buying cartons, almost $60/week, which I can no longer afford as a way to tolerate Nicotine addiction. I tried everything available In the U.S. – even the brain pill – which I will Never take again. Awful dreams really warp the Mind. Of course, Amerika got into the snus Business via the Big Tobacco companies, But not as a way to quit cigarettes, & the things Are not pasteurized, just sweetened & perverted. Failure. So Sweden, yes, those Swedes are Smart & on the goddamn ball. Why Amerika Refuses to acknowledge Swedish snus is simple: Money. Amerika is all about money. If I was young I wld consider moving to Sweden. The clove cigar sits on my desk. When I quit them I had 3 packs left in the carton – where they stay On my low table. I pull one out, here it is, On my desk, waiting for a flame. Mmmm, the Ettan is Delicious, reminds me of Red Man Chew taste, which I loved as a Young, stupid Kid. Big, wet wad of it, mmmm.

I don't know why I want To live into old age. One Djarum, lit & snapping, Why The fuck Not. Oh, the thousands of deadly Chemicals, combusted, Sure, that's why the fuck Not. But Why in all Fuck not. One (made in Indonesia) Djarum, It's a fucking yes On a freezing, Sunday Afternoon in 21st century Amerika, land of the “free”.

Another Picture

The dog barks like an elephant Submerged in a cave of blood, & Baby-blue trucks suck the skin limbs Of deflating drivers. These weird, dawn Reflections occur upon a moist Surface of dirt. We announce leaf Noise, grow oval windows from Ends of our fingers & toes & lips, Poems. Cricket dew. The tiny birds. Eventual spin in the heart of a wild onion. Tango days of doors. Heavenly, door-less Ejaculate crashes thru glass centuries Odored by iron. Green rust mosses over Waves in a womb capture a purple, glandular Dragonfly. Name him Sam. He hovered. Cinnamon in the morning with strong Coffee & a lifetime lashed to a Pendulum of oxygen, pulsating, walking trees, We people think. We think thru many decades Because we are atomic gods, hydrogen & helium Line-backers after the proton snaps. Sensed, Our vivid, personal, movie nebula Burns In the wind of the Sun. Packed inside an acorn, an Antelope

Wakes, bristled by natural fury, With slices of orange melon teeth. Sam is made of molecules & viruses. An antelope is full of clawing monkeys. Whatever our mouths say, it's a zoo. It's a zoo of tragedy. It's very beautiful. Existence requires tragedy. Smiling breaks a law. Hey You.


Water rolls. Released Cupcakes, severed heads Of the enemy, turtle-colored Wine bottles, roll. Marbles Roll under silt words, roll From round shadows of lung Sighs like black, coffin coins. Air rolls. The blue cake of the Very sky, cloud butter, the Caramelizing Sun, all rolling. Something always rolls behind Us, rolls thru our bones like ionized Ozone particles. Roll with A slow, wasted day roped Around yr knees, goddamn cow Bells, poems rolling in the dust. Goddamn cow bells, poems Rolling in the dust. A descending Jet sounds like a rolling dump-truck Over the city, Erie International Airport is a few miles away by Bowling-ball. Conversations on Our backs, we roll minds, methane moons roll, The act of dreaming rolls. Rock scissors & fucking roll. The paper hour is curved. Whatever happens rolls. Whatever bit of Us we are is rolling after life fact like edges Of gray dust in oblong, sunlit, Half-balloons, half-souls bouncing on Moon Gravity break – dig the hoop of net heaven rolling From a necessary score. Horror rolls its circles Under our slippery feet. Hemorrhoids roll like Lawrence Welk bubbles from edges of ass glass. Gods Roll fatties.

What To Do About Love (for Jazzbo)

$500 for a complete, thru-the-roof Blow-job. She is a possible soul Terrorist armed with anthrax-releasing Capsules implanted inside her teeth. Her Tongue gun, sawed-off, slaps circles around Yr old, cat-fish pole. You wish you pray You plead you petition it is all one Huge joke, but there is no way in all fuck A hellish top bunk is funny or jail's In cement heaven. Hallowed be thine Cunt spraying bleach upon fleshy, Untreated wounds, scabbed, sermon skin. There is always nobody, no body, no Face, pussy, hands, nothing of nobody, Sky clouds for tits. She isn't Even real, so she is extremely Beautiful in a small Tennessee Bunker. Dig in & up. A man's cock is a psychotic Protrusion, a spike to throw at Jesus, at Satan, at ghosts, At all the women who suck Dick for $500 & a bottle Of Beam. You smell her Say with yr cum on her breath What a great writer you are.

I Am Snapping

I am snapping photographs by holding A camera at an angle I think an eye Sees from my waist, snapping the button To freeze the action frame by frame. What's funny is I am taking pictures Of my ex-wife's grandfather, Scott, & His 2nd wife, Lil, who are dancing on A sun-lit road bank. I slowly realize both are Dead, & have been dead for many years, & I am dreaming. The photographs are In my head like light as I wake at dawn.

My Freedom Has Been Compromised

I can't write about... & I can't write about... Nor can I write about things like... If I write about...oh the consequences! If I write about...more of a mess. Writing's only pain & rebuttal. When I speak I am told I am screaming. When I hold my tongue I am perceived as Cruel. Muttering, I'm told I mutter. I cannot write about... Because... Or else... So I don't fucking write. Nobody understands how to Read, thus everyone is happy, Except me & my brooding Despair, my internal disgust: Nobody deserves my dark poetry. The most necessary occurrence in Life is the death of a Poet, & his/her poems, written & Not. Especially Poems Nobody ever writes or reads.


I am sick of thinking. I am sick of writing. I am sick of being in pain. It makes me sick to think. It makes me sick to write. It makes me sick to piss while Standing. I can't stand Without being in pain. It makes me sick to think I care about everyone else But those I care about don't Care about me because I am Wrong. I wld carry you Over a river of fire. You wld Drop me in a pit of shit.

Epiphany Boogie

It ain't me, it is not my self, As I assume from the beginning. My tongue rolls like a long, wet rug To an entrance blasted by electrified Silver dust confetti & black, vacuum Depth. My pure flesh. My blood shirt, Blood pants, blood shoes. A rusted Nozzle, trickles of gray hair break From the pores, my blood syrup. I have been writing poems with my Blood my whole life to prove my Bravery & insistence, & fuck you If there's a problem with that, Or there's a problem with me. With my middle finger dipped In blood from my ear I write This in the sky, across the air. A blood mist cloud poem as Ineffective as God slapping down Centuries of an Apache curse. An ignored poet is Immediately Not guilty.

It Is Only

It is only life. Skin Tensions, a blood Ocean of oxygen, juices Of a gray, alien brain Surrounded by 21st Century corporate-fed skull in Amerika. It is only death. The gone, those I still see, Hear, react to as alive. 500 Years ago, I don't know What my DNA is doing. What Does it matter. It does not, But as an odd, horrific example. Pump a thing with language To form the idea, which is Natural, elastic, tumultuous. Years of the past trail like butchered People & screaming crows, so many People, dawn & evening crows, dismal Fruition of decisions, the red Pill, & blue pill, & lake gulls Pushed ashore by heavy snow in daylight. It's late August, I'm thinking winter. Poetry is an eventual illness. Disregard The drunken poet, the piss on one's Hands like old syrup by simple Touch of skin to any thing including the

Imagined, & the soaked, fish face of The existential fuck down Boogie by a blue bridge named Night. In ionized weeds, quarks rock Insect time. Light of a smile from Nipple to nipple like velvet-shaded Neon. Curve the torture, Aging. My lack of teeth, my Thin, gray hair. A barrage of Medicines like squadrons of Noise from slapped palms of moments. Canadian Geese arrive early, & louder. Many people have died Before reaching 58 years old who Are not remembered in life continuation. Every ghost is false. I have cousins in England with blue eyes & marbled Minds. Inside caves the sun is cut Stone. My aunts speak an ancient, Dramatic tongue. Perfume Pepper, spices of tea & glass, plums Roll from the shirt of a poor peasant To the dust floor & shadows. Freaks Like Picasso re-spin the planet. There Are a lot of bastards re-spinning this Planet all the goddamn time, & most Of them are dead. That milks something From important life issues. Current Culture is a miserable failure of Current power, such sadness infects Air words with anvils of Finality, of fuck You weight & fury. Every surface

Is covered by yard grass & wild-flowers & Chipmunk shit & stirred jars of muddy worms, It's crazy. It is only sanity. The good, that known anchor, is our one Out, whether as a momentary Eclipse or a dream without end. This simplicity cannot be simply understood. Only thru thick decades of prisms a final Word hovers from a poem to be A night gnat. A giant electron. Be strong without sticking Reasons to be strong, to stick To photons & Pixels & this other World. It is only An awful, poetic, Easy Life.

Sunday Morning Breakdown

Tell me something Good, she insists. I Sit there thinking, & thinking of something Good to say, but my upper Gums are shrinking, My left knee swells With old cantaloupe, & I feel devastated by Viewing even seasonal Devastation. I got nothing, I eventually Admit. Summer is Already over & baby Jack turns 1 on Thursday, Incredibly. Things Used to improve & work Out for the best, I knew That as a truth, as a Balance to the Universe; now, The flag of Victory burns like a lace Hand in the sky. A gull on fire spills From guts of low Lake clouds, Screaming down Hard-edged steps of a Falling, scorched ladder.

You Don't Want To Hear

I never wanted to hear My grandmother's pain, Just to walk hurt her. Over 35 years later I Listen, & ache. Grandma, How you suffer for a Poem. No poem is worth Suffering. Ineffective Poet & an ancient cellar Floor, a soft drain Punctures Stone & water moss To mean Eternal sleep. Not Sensing you before You flower, before You add Shadow to a poem, I Mourn.

Canadian Geese

Gas-masked clowns moon Dawn. Car door shuts like Breaking wood echo. WindChimes, versions of cutlery In sparkling sky, cloud gristle, looming Clarity. It's terrifying we Lose limbs, eyes, grips, attitudes, pouches, Poems, people, memory as we fly over A sleeping city on a Great Lake As loud as a last day. Smoke a million, Fucking cigarettes, & Regret it. Living thru deaths, Aging is not Graceful. More, honking, Comically Obscene – Be Absolutely Pissed.

Most People

They are waste. They Are butchered flesh & Old blood, minus wings. They think to the lip Of a revolutionary river, & Sink into mud banks like Anvils. Designing metal Latches in the mind by Cartoon manipulation, Name it commerce, give it Love. At love, most people Don't got it. They are Income & inclination, Reduction plus addition. They float to the last lash Edge of visual heaven, But black doors bang & crush innocent molecules. Fire in the hearts of clouds Smoulders. Liquid lions Leap from tadpoles, c'est La vie on a montage of Mars & Curiosity. Most people Never sing over a song. They hide behind the Sounds of life in extreme Silence. For this, I am thankful, thank You. There are always Too many goddamn Poets in the world.

11 P.M.

I have swallowed my Night pills, used both Eye-drops in each eye. Sitting in my shadowed Room, toothless, my face Is not the face I remember In a mirror. Guzzling green Bottles of wet Rolling Rocks. Chain-smoking Marlboro Red, hard-pack. Those years Have ended, no more heavy Drinking & surging in a black, Erie night. I fall to sleep with Our small television playing, Spread like an angel, the point My left knee does not throb. I wake to the pain of my leg. My cane is black metal. Using It helps reduce the inflammation While moving in a normal world. Still, medicines slap like mud to Keep me whole tho every surface Shakes & sifts, & a day will arrive As grizzled with disgust as Frankenstein I will hopefully announce enough is Enough, & let the ledge pull My blood & black mind. To be happy, I shld not be sad. It is negative Power, which is wrong. Base Therapy on time waste rewards. I know in my bones, the ends of people. Throw fucking flowers? Ass. Wait, Waiting is always the right thing to be Doing.

I Am Curious, Mars

Yellow, my Love like a fast Leaf, turns Upon a point -ed shadow in Nitrogen clouds For the small Sun Set to be oddly Blue Rust dust Shells Of ancient microbes, Time-mirrors. The weeping Werewolves. Aussi, Humanity With electric eyes.

Stopping The Calendar

It's the 2nd but my calendar Remains last month. This is Something different, a wrong Month on the pumpkin-colored Wall, unusual, but also not Changing the calendar page feels Wonderful, & dare I utter Poetic in these dark, hollow Years – conform conform be Be, & have money. August Urinates Tabu & tiny, purple Pearls. Some perfect, sensitive, Representative, adjustable Moment stained by day shadows Hovers with the popping quarks. An old, gray man chuckles no. Morning sky moves its granite Gears, to allow rain. Burst before floating. Halo one's squares.

Griping Like Anybody

Poets can be real pains in the asses By sheer existence. An existing paradox Pulses down the wet belly of a snake, Round as an egg mole surrounded by Sinking eyes of muscle veins. Lavender Moon, oh beautiful dust blood & no belief! Which, is it not, is the point, that tuned, Momentary catch; beneath, the world Shatters its glassy, water song. What a Pain in the ass world. If living is difficult, You are on the right track. There is nothing Easy about hours, or hatchets free-flying Between neurons. Poets must write poems, Write using words like bones, branches, bells. Life is some messy shit, yet it shines, brightness, Baby, inside our centers, & there are Poets. Listen to a Poet's Silence – where they are full cosmological soul. Poetry is disturbing. You better think. Or don't think, & be happier, of course, Happier. How can a Poet fault a person for wanting to be Happy by not reading the poem? My song is black, & bleak, made of Shadow & train echo. Are you into Pain? I'm not, but I'm a tortured Poet. Pain is the alley beside our house. How prepared are you to understand Ramifications of yr choices decades down The old pike to nowhere. I don't know what To tell you, kid, I wish I did, & maybe At some point in the past I found a nail, 2 planks of wood, & a sharp chunk of granite. It wasn't pretty.

Poem For The Grand-Kids

“Do not weep,” always appears As a dead man's wish. A wish For the living without death, Without pain, without spiritual Constructs. Hell, some cultures Celebrate with drink the departed, Seems ideal. Listen, I have lived More of this life than I ever imagined. A wild, exhilarating ride across The surface of earth, a mustard-colored Cowboy on a blue & white bronco Waving a poem like a wide hat. The future Is always surprise, which is some comfort, But various definitions consistently exist. You may be tempted to gulp from an upTurned half-gallon of Jim Beam bourbon, Whatever. Do not write poetry. Oh, I know You will, in school & such, but whatever Occurs, do not be a poet. Read poetry. Most poetry is ridiculous dribble, but Within the spit are golden protons aptly Named poems. Taste for them. Fucking Sugar for the soul. Now, I mean the poem, Not the poet. Most poets are downright Assholes hunching down to shit oxygen Bricks on a thin, glass floor – great idea, A poet taking a shit as the floor shatters. Keep a safe distance away from poets, Needless to Say, & things will be fine. Smile.

Early In The Morning

This is going to be a very gray, dark day, With rain, 9 days into September. Football Games – Trisha, grandpa wants to watch Football on the living room television, gorge On fresh, smoked salmon & cold tea, okay? Somehow this is not so simple, in fact this Isn't even in an equation. What I want & What happens aren't related by logic but by Trisha's sheer energy, she's nearly 7. I think I hear her waking up in the den which was Ann's large room & our sort of den but has Been transformed into Trisha's bedroom Shared with Ann. It's very much a girl's Room. Trisha chatters at her little desk At the window, wisely choosing crayons, Humming, while our cats creep under her Bed. They are pulled by a mysterious Force from their spots downstairs, & she is Trisha! Moon Princess! Beyond All the horror & brutality we must Endure, know this, realize this, you know Love. Treasure it & give it Life. Love. Most people never Love. Somebody's in the kitchen & It Isn't Me clanking things.

His Pipe (for John Elsberg, r.i.p.)

If burning bacon grease is Music, specifically as intricate As Jazz, Monk, Coltrane, D.C. Traffic, brushing teeth with Black jello, to be a flesh flute As apple trees turn to dreams Shuddering against another Quaking sunset in the center of History; a black stem Perspires, the pipe Is so goddamn, deliciously Hot. Fire plums at the poets. They are reading Mr. Williams, Failing to fit what exists with What never occurs.

Her Insight

She began losing her sight 15 years ago. She now sees light & Shadow distinctions, but that's Failing, too, at times. I doubt she Will but I say don't sit on me While we wait in a familiar lobby. She raises her cane & laughs, feels The air for another near chair. I am now using a cane like you, I Tell her, I messed up my left knee, & it's a real pain. Oh? Yeah, I'm 58, Loss of cartilage, age-related, I hear That all the time. Oh, I didn't know We're the same age, I always thought By yr voice you were younger. Nah, I'm an old man with a cane & gray hair. She hesitates, but I can see she decides to Verbalize it anyways, We seem to really recognize our mortality at About age 55. I think it's a natural mental Process, don't you think? Her blind stare Looks North.


I wear my hair like Jesus if He'd lived to be 58 years old * My passion, my passion, my pumpkin, My damnable, rotting passion * Coffee crush, craving egg, Mash in a tiny teabag turns orange * Don't let the poem shit you Out with its wise, sensible excrement * Along an oblong, lemony cartilage Flea / a buckling knee / wear of soul hope * Football in the air! Fuck it. Game Changes into crucifixions & commercials. * Getting gasoline after work I pay kid 20 A city police officer stands, a kid, at ease * It's the ghetto don't you realize? She asks. No, I paint in the sky with a bone. *

Not even a bird, one Wing pressed on parking lot pavement * Next door dog is barking like he's burning Sunrise caramelizes blood * Half of God exists As one holy dream, sweet luck * The Falling Man succeeds Since 9/11 continues falling, painting the sky * Sunday morning train crunches crosses A pterodactyl's painful orbit after slaughter * Random men named Mark Fist purple thistles in moonlight for miracles * That witch is a floppy, furred, fish frog Robed like a low bell in murky sewage * Fearing the mottled tomato of death Inside the chest of a Roman soldier * To levitate, to ascend, Give up, to grow to be a rising ghost *

They weep for reason. They are phosphorous humans. They Murder for idea. They are phosphorous humans. * At The Last Supper which is always repeating Jimi Hendrix is laughing & tripping * Water be walkable Squeeze wine from the spiraling clouds * She hesitates recognizing Honey. The first, frozen moment. * This gross flesh Bag, bone, blood, organs – mind! * Vultures scream from a Future dawn, you're dead, you're dead * & the vultures Smile from the inside like tight turnips. * I'm not kicking a football with my Left leg, Jesus whispers.

Street-Sweeper Friday Morning

All the thin, wooden, fur feathers half-blown Out of trees lining Raspberry Street run along The sides of the road, & there is a sign explaining Parking regulations, etc..., the whole why. It's a Windy day. Sort of wet. Sort of gray. The crows Feel wild & exorbitant clenching top, swaying Pyramidal branches. Their skeletons shot like scorched Plastic. The weapons program, what we got, what they got, What is possible, what ensures sirens echo thru The other half of the city. There is East-side, & there Is West-side Erie, which is very tiring to be ridiculous True. A North/South Erie doesn't carry the distinction. North Korea sounds dangerous, a pit-bull bred for Decades, bred for blood & death, to fight for North Korea. The street-sweeper has, with its huge brush Rollers, cleaned the slaughtered chickens & mallard Ducks from the sides of Raspberry Street – all is old Concrete, again. Radiation will crisp us & all objects, All belief, & whatever is intellect is false, residual dream. Nuclear disaster is a certainty. Duck.


The more I lose my eyesight The less I care about how things Look like the ancient, dirty carpet, Flat-screen television dust, wood smear, Which makes me a reasonable Man with vastly decreasing urgency. That's in some corral of god territory, Eternity & human logic, dry dirt Back-hooves clouds in my face. The urgency will press into air atoms & bucky Balls & halfDimensional Sense – questions without answers Are more than enough & on their Own, their own. Without visual focus Curves spin slower. I don't see ashes. I see dead fire. The Moon is my bang, My eye-patch, my way of seeing this Blur.

A Complicated Lemon

I don't see ashes. I see dead fire. The Moon is my Forehead hair bang, My eye-patch, my way of seeing this Blur. Squares/rectangles & circles dominate Human creation. Myriad renditions Spray across the ages. I wish the yellow lamp Was a pyramid cone. I wish my brain Was a round, tapering circle: The Great Pyramid after the Great lathe galactic-ally trims it Spinning like mad, clay milk Under a hazy Sun in the noisy Sand. How much wish is actual Reality, a swath of dream mud, Pulled by a mild, contagious star. Instantaneous insistence knits Curves, causation, every object Waters into water.

I Never Thought

Things we do during consciousness Between dreams, fuck, get drunk on Bourbon & beer & fire in a gray Cellar, sure, working 3rd shift in Another Erie factory, of course, Plus write, live a life with my Kids, try to pay charred bills, genuflect To the hateful gods vaulting onto The raft-like fingers of Monk, Write poems in my special room As normal as shooting pool in the Morning, break the egg of a Wren between one finger & a thumb, Walnuts from a walnut tree Beneath thick, green skin My rotting awareness & growing Disgust as a nut gnat Burning alone like an onyx nun on a Picnic table at night Sitting on the top, feet on the Long seat, crickets scream From petunias, punctured Angels spray a cannabis mist Eventually, water shut-off That's real horror, no water, But I had bourbon & candles & poems to write as I Died I obviously survived that death With poems lost on the early Internet What do I do now

Another Last Poem

Folders fill with pages of poems Inside my computer documents The titles to the folders are in Natural, alphabetical order, but I Go for the letter “A” as recent Title beginnings to manuscripts since They are quicker to Find & open & scroll This is page 70 I see ending Another Shit Document 70 page scroll-downs is a Lot but 3 page-down presses & It is here – what begins as “ab...”? Abridge A goddamn bridge: the poem A goddamn Bridge will be My next verbal Space to noun space Where an “o” Bulges with blood & smells like new Orange juice A “d” drips hooks to catch Elongated, elastic, anchor tongues

“g” is full of curling, rainbow Snakes & hot aquariums “a” inhales sets of chrome Harley mufflers & a big “B” is a hollow, Armageddon mirror drum A goddamn Bridge A wire shivers across the Alps A few bricks tossed in low, cosmic air Baking inside the skull of An “e”, a burning cupcake idea Black Icing rolls over my words Onto a new Document, right after I Say This A goddamn Bridge From Me back to me Drunk behind A standard, '65 Mustang It is a bright, Fucking night across the river We are all magical bridges We are all drastically intoxicated

Maybe There Are Mathematics  

collections of poems (c) (2013)

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