by FT Marinetti

“And we hunted, like young lions, death with its black

 fur dappled with pale crosses, who ran

 before us in the vast violet sky, palpable and living.”

Pray, mantis,
monk, ascetic
leaf-eater.

Smash cricket
against floor-
boards.

Moth, fly into
this devil's
mouth.

Swallow
flies by the
cupful.

There's a hole in my heart and I'm
filling it with cork and maybe bubble
wrap.

Oppenheimer says that
he's death, the destroyer
of worlds.

I say I'm depression,
the destroyer of words.

But switch depression
for television and words
for critical thinking,

you get the one place
we don't want to be, the
one place we're already at.

The television when I turn it on
gloats that Life's Good.

Found mummified cockroach
in cardboard box.

Suburbanites of the Mojave, be warned-- your next
box office movie ticket might explode
all over the evening news like Charlie
Sheen's load, in a town exemplifying how
the West was finally won, not by the cowboys 
but by realtors.


And Vegas was also won by the realtors,
so are you if you play ball, and playing ball when
you're no good at it makes the game easier
for those that are, and playing ball wouldn't
be such a crime if only it was a real ball and not
some immigrant's head that found himself in
the wrong neighborhood in Phoenix.

The world needs more firebenders. And when
I say firebenders, I mean poetry that matters.

Can we make poetry matter?

Neurosis

The iguana firelight trembles
underneath the home turned
landfill, paper boxes stuffed
with dust, mothballs, spider
eggs, hot glue guns, a broken
sewing machine, plastic bins,
hair-dryers, old cell phone chargers,
dust, furniture, knick-knacks,
broken china, unbroken china,
books, books, another printer,
dust, pencils, computer monitors,
symptoms of an overproducing
society plus the nesting instinct,
where money buys misery,
not clean but filthy filthy misery, the
next best thing to happiness.

Waste land, internal clutter, banish
your neuroses--

or your neuroses will banish you.

trying to pack my room into boxes

Dissenting deserters dig dinosaurs, democracies, desserts, dung, dollops of Daisy, dragons, and the letter D.
Californian creepers cream their jeans to the sight of it.
Bland belligerent bigots believe that
ANARCHY IS ANNIHILATION OF ALL THINGS AMERICAN,
but bullshit is bullshit, buster billionaire.
Capitalism cools the collective consciousness into ineffectual ice, and when
dumbsaints demand democracy direct, dilapidated and destitute dogs die by drone-strikes.

In an airport in December

Mitt Romney's on
CNN, 3:00 on
a Saturday drizzle,
and the bilingual chatter
of airport waiting lobbies
echoes like Skywalker
slam-dunking the Rebel
bomb into the Death
Star, use the force Luke,
use the force Occupy,
use the force I say,
tell me who's that ridin'?
John the Revelator! Tell
me who's that ridin'? John
the Revelator! Tell me who's
that ridin'? John the Revelator!
He wrote the book of the seven
seas! But in the meantime, the 
bees keep a-buzzin', the rain
keeps a-bumblin',
geriatrics keep a-dyin',
and I'm dyin' too, bub,
we're all dying within
the confines of airport

waiting lobbies. Skywalker,
John you Revelator,
move down off your myth-
ological mountains. You
have Death Stars to forcibly
dismantle, books to carry
across this placid wasteland.

Chantrelle

I met the witch
Chantrelle, who
lived in a tree and
who could interpret
the whispers of the
wood. I trembled
when she spoke, and
as she took my hand
to show me

her garden, I understood
at once what pilgrims
meant when they said
not to travel in these parts,
for I could see what she saw
in her magic seeing basin,

and then love was felt by all.

Saturate this, Facebook!

25% unemployment in Spain
on this Friday the Thirteenth,
riots in Madrid, the dreams
of JP Morgan toppling like
dominoes across Europe, not
Asia like they predicted. And capital, debts,
savings-bonds, they're not
reality.

The reality is
we're soaked and saturated
in Beethoven's 5th played on
ESPN advertising DirecTV,
saturated and soaked by "ask
your doctor","dramatizations",
literally desensitizing, the Kennedy
Assassination, crime scene investigation
shows, Santa Claus, Cheez-its, Gieco, Farmer's Insurofraud
Barack-Mitt Robama attack ads
sponsored by Citizens United, KONY2012,
Matt Damon...
Oh, Matt Damon!

Saturate this, Facebook!
The Universe channels my
generation though me! I am here
to record, Gonzo-style.
Gonzeaux in French-Canadian
means "bright,

shining path."

Where is this post-industrial American Dream?
Gone, along with the dinosaurs and the indians!

Getting fucked up
is our American Dream.

Our American Dream
is to escape the American Nightmare
of this post-industrialized life.
The service industry is death.
Globalization is death. Having minimal,
4-year election power through politicians slinging
agendas we don't want and oil is death.

Saturated.

We are.

Motionless.

suckadickistan

Can you suckadickistan?
She can suckadickistan
in the capital city of suck-
a-dick-i-stan, a city called
Climate Change, a city so
hot it melts bars of chocolate

in under three minutes. A
person spends more than four
consecutive minutes outside and
they vaporize. Automobiles have
a special film on their windows
to keep this from happening to
petroleum guzzling whores, aka
your average everyday citizen.

Can you suckadickistan? You
definitely are if you're paying
for your petrol, sucking the big
fat suckadickistans of the suit
and tie spilling oil into the mouths
of our children.

Keep sucking-that-dickistan, and
complain when others don't.
Have you heard about Kalamazoo?

2am

girl showing bare shoulders
with jacket five sizes too big,
either prostitute or lost and
drug addled, walking across
Washington Avenue when the
light was green, sniffling and
looking down, going back across
the street when the light was red.

I wanted to give her  ride home, but didn't
because I'm either a coward or a misogynist
or society sucks. Probably all three.

Twenty-First Century Dynamite

COWARDS!
Far and wide has the book been thrown,
across oceans The Word builds truth,
as well as strip clubs and subway terminals--
and it's easier to imagine the end of the
world than the end of capitalism, but woe
to those who imagine the end of the world
as saving what cannot be saved--
people suck, I know.

Buy in to this game of Russian Roulette,
and in return they'll give you air conditioning,
a car, some stock trading inside the company,
and while you're at it, ignore the words said by many, telling us
the truth long before we've opened our ears
to hear it; and we've yet to open those ears!

I am a coward for not leaving this house on
this block with nothing but my shirt, when
man shall be overcome not by Darwinists
and the migration of capital from the many
to the few, but by cooperation and its truemade
honey.

And Zoroaster, the prophet, the man,
the Persian, screams from his mountain:
HOW SHALL MAN BE OVERCOME?
I scream back through four thousand years of struggle:
ANARCHISTS!

Restless, restless, I am restless.
Hello, Restless, I am me, are you?
I am restless, restless, feckless, penniless,
everlasting gobstopping dhikr dhikr Al-lah
Al-lah, this world is a prison, are you
claustrophobic? Escape, escape, remember
you exist, Restless exists too, but guess what
chickenbutt? Life and love are always new.

Sensory overload on Planet Boston,
take a quick look at the parapsychology,
intimate precipitation of sweat that I see
laced on your forehead as you 
wrap yourself around the bottle.


Heinous highness rains like this:
holdup at the AM/PM, twenty cop cars
out front, shots fired in the July evening heat,
discovering what it's like to live outside
the boundaries we know


that we don't know.

Dreams of grandparent
ghosts talking through
mirrors late

in the night, the tearing
hostility of living
for someone

else, the anger,
can't understand in
the moment

that the moment is
temporary, like
grandparent ghosts,

like you,
like me, this place
is temporary.

Harry Meets Russian Hottie

The boy who lived?
Try the girl who kicked
it to the liquor store, try
fifteen men on your old
man's chest, try a bottle
of the Captain radicalized
and immunized into conver-
sation salads, you're at Satan's
Grand Ball with your middle finger
suckled by a girl named Margarita who's
lounging on a Greek sofa, naked.

Meet her, she's a Russian bourgeois,
a diamond on her finger, married
not to the boy who lived but to the
Master that isn't, and know that
adultery isn't adultery if you're in
hell already, let the criminals in attendance
slip through the loophole.

And once you see the shadows
in the noontime, boy who lived
must carry his cross and insert
it into his Margarita's Grey Goose-cooch
for a moaning torgsin sandwich. Severus,
sever-us, SEVER US whydon'tyou?

THE GATES TO GETHSEMANE
will open at eight o'clock/seven central,
so turn off that television and feel
the heartbeats accelerate, feel the pores
opening, sweat glowing hips rustling
legs together only momentarily.

The Golden Snatch boy who lived
catches in his mouth out on the Quidditch
field, boy who lived makes awkward
joke about a wand, Margarita calls it
his broomstick. Bigger, she says.

Boy who lived makes Margarita scream.
She laughs and kisses your chest while
you tell her that everything is body.
She repeats it while you're lying in her bed,
raveled up in blankets. Everything is
body.

You ask her what that means to her while you're
smoking her Russian cigarettes, and she
tells you that souls are commodities, and
smokin' hot Russians like her and boys with
broomsticks like yours do not have souls.
Beautiful people, she says through a drag,
for beautiful people everything is body.

Dreams of weeping
widows in trailers
across the dry seabed.

Dreams of a blond girl lost to me,
car out of control, Nabokov's Lolita
flying around in the passenger seat.

Dreams of elementary
schools with oversized
indoor playgrounds,

grizzly bear in the bathroom
sniffing the stalls for
honey.

Dreams of you.

Dreams of a stripped
'77 Buick, on fire in
the carpool lane.

Dreams of burning
down my house.

Dreams of walking barefoot
into your parents' imminent
divorce, you being the judge.

Dreams of not being me.

Dreams of orange
sunset among a
set of trees off

the side of a dirt
road, descending
into the dark forests

dark with Egypt
smote by YHWY's
wonders, all my

wonders.

Wonder-eyed

1
You're a tourist,
bugs on the front window,
Fremont Street bright

and busy, Saturday
Night is All Right for
Fighting.

And the illusion,
the illusion is plain,
Washington's rain outweighs

the forever droughts
and the flip flops of in-
season Vegas.

2
Ambulance cries--
Saturday morning 445am,
waiting for the wonder-eyed girl.

3
Brush through the Fremont
crowd together, you trip
me in my flip-flops, we laugh.

4

I'm the kind of guy
to make out with while
listening to Snow Patrol.


5
The illusion, the illusion
is plain, our lives tangled
telephone wire,

we're sitting on a couch
in your backyard, smoking
a joint and

I realize I'm waiting,
always waiting for the
wonder-eyed girl.