Whip Bam Boo and Hello Son

I hang through white stomas of cloud

like a milk stench finger, curled and wanting.

I play dead beneath the hair-thick arms of flies.

Angry whispers vacuum my brain.

I am kissed by a Tommy gun with an eye patch,

gleaming smoke like busted rubbers.

I bleed in a forest of microphones.

Each drop sings the national anthem.

I submit to mini-malls of plastic cleavage,

gossiping my sperm into bite-sized hearts.

I pet my hernia as the wind groans across your stomach.

Your lover speaks of touched faces, but my dead hands must sail.

I pose biting cheese for typhoid apertures.

"This cigar would taste better with your hair in it."

I've memorized today's line up in endless county morgues.

I only want to kiss parts of you that have been weighed.

It's important that the poet loses automatically, however possible, especially at poetry, and, with any luck, does so in the most humiliating way -- having a Myspace, for starters, or a lover. It is important. Because.

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