filthy rich tapestry

Elvis tap dances

down to Chinatown

shopping for a sombrero

to harmonize his blue sari.

 Tonto’s

fresh Maori ink bleeds

(red)

through the cover

of playgirl

magazine.

 squads of

Hasidic leaning 

law school

students glisten

as it rains

champagne

on their barely

legal bodies.

 Scarlett O'Hara

wears a

see thru burqa

in a 30 second spot

pushing patent leather

bindis.

 IKEA honors me

with a Greek

letter on my

Indonesian

sweater when sales of

Aztec Codex Headboards™ 

go geisha.

 Midwestern corn

rows flourish

despite inner city

blight, and

in defense

of the precious expressions

on my exotic cookie

jar archive,

I invoke my color

coordinated friend

(in times like these)

to confirm to the rest of the

(sad emoji) world--

all that i desire

is Dyn-O-Mite!

Willis Dean

Escaped

Noble County

clean.

dropped out

in 7th grade without even having

learnt to read.

speed born,

oxy bred

metrics.

cold,

grave & mean.

Not in any romantic

sense.

still and all,

anecdotal evidence reveals

Males

18-49 trending up holler! Cite hillbilly violence

as a major influence on spending habits

tells a story

better than any:

builds characters

minus the sloppy strokes

of cousin dip shit’s color jokes

His stories curate chaos within

this old system,

of rising action,

suspense...

endings O Henry

would donate

a left nut to nail.

Rachmaninoff's a mathematician

who does not have an alibi

for the drop of infinite existence

between major and minor D,

the realm

of the dove that interrupted

Randy Johnson’s

fastball.

(look that shit up)

just the tip, baby.
wait. wrong poem.
just a piece of the tip

of this realm
knocks

our collective

imagination
completely the fuck
out

God

Damn.

just stand

in line,

di-

vide

the

notes

&

arrange

the

letters.

still and all--

I call Willis Dean

late, late

hear his wake up voice

whisper through the phone:

I wrote a poem about you.

written down upon regaining consciousness outside the Tampa Bay Convention Center

Jazz-Fire tonight at the
Miami Diner
cold weather depression?
come to Miami Diner
or visit our sister,
Everglades!
the smell and taste of Florida,
Indiana style

with special guest
Weds thru Friday
performing the hit single didn’t
suspect his evasions,
one man band,
Juan "green jello" Johnson
live
at Miami Diner

Saturday only:
corner a feeling
at,
Everglades! starring
professional mesmerizer
Nate “gnat nuts” Cohen.
“his talent makes you
sick and excited
at the same time”
                         --unpaid family member

like a WalMart of self betterment
says dance instructor Frank
“Pierce” Brosnan
free afternoon lesson when he can
sneak away at
Miami Diner

blue screen
Everglades! logo up
VO: Happy Hour is what we make it
$2.00 Sinkholes
$1.00 Gator Snatch
$2.50 Blackouts
special event?
make it beg for discipline with
our expert grooming
consultants (free estimates)

where were you?
if watching this, then
not here!
make plans to return
we want in your head for good

don’t forget our sister,
Everglades! serving
American-Made Chinese
and our global dessert cart
you don’t deserve this
much sweet       
                     --voice you heard
                         before nodding off at
                         sunday school

Tuesday’s Brown Bag lunch includes
ice cream, new clothes & grown up drinks
be polite. we’re family
open the door already
Miami Diner on the Lake
don’t trust your whispering instinct

Miami Diner blue
plate special every second morning
featuring this
week, Rashid Samantha and his
Oklahoma Stingers
shudder to think what we’re capable of at
Miami Diner: right under your nose
open on Father’s Day

new at
Everglades! (subsidiary of Miami Diner Inc.)
there's one in every family cabaret revue
you look forward to it.
don't you?
you anticipate;
we deliver!

Craigslist post
filed under
chapter 11 bankruptcy:
72 inch, 8 burner gas oven
cold storage
xxx lg Miami Diner & Everglades!
t-shirts
unbreakable tumblers
permanently embossed

the inability to accept an atomic outlook

Your diversion to occupy my mind is,
there:
now you're bleeding!
but i refuse. I sleep
creep, dick, douche,
cruise control in my head
my psyche,
stuck in this rotten meat bag of a body,
on strike
a small scale coup,
says fuck you,
here’s a demand:
sort it out. 
OR
i will bring your ass to ground,
your head to table,
your face to cradle
in your hands.
I will lock it up and
dance the
drooling comatose. 
continue along this trench,
OR-
get it off your chest

And so that’s where we stand my friend.
unloading, unleashing 
the confession to which you answer
in your broken English
Why you tell me this
SHIT?
Live with it you fucking coward.

congratulations on the new mini-van, hughes

I’m glad we didn’t meet then, when
alone in my 3rd floor efficiency off Magazine
I would trap southern roaches with an upturned cup
slide under a piece of junk mail to cover the mouth
and off to the freezer they'd go
until the next day, or three, depending on when I came to
and damn if I wasn’t surprised going for ice.

Its funny now,
but imagine I make you laugh
hell, you’re in New Orleans.
imagine you’ve said fuck it,
you don’t know that I’ve only just moved here
(seasoned and pickled are similar looks)  and we’re on the streetcar back to my place
you haven’t been this drunk in so long and hand to God
you almost never touch the other stuff.
and even if the unbearable lightness should cause your clothes to float away,
nobody's gonna mistake you for a lamb

My process was to take the creatures out of the freezer,
suspended, comatose, or dead
i never knew
and pose them in tiny chairs,
on paperclip bicycles. Skateboards.
Miniature tables laden with little plates of food,
I would fix hats on their alien heads and place
little slivers of  the Times Picayune
in their  prothoracic legs

imagine shushing your inner bitch as we climb the stairs
past Fury, guarding her doorway
challenging quaint definitions of gender
cursing the curves of your bountiful ass.
here we are,
you, partaking of a little vacation strange,
enter this stale smelling cell,
this coop where I stoop to deposit my insides into the river

It’s funny to think of dozens of these tableaux,
posed roaches caught mid step, twirling
night-night buddy wearing pajamas and a cap,
carrying a candle.
eating, going to bed, lifting weights, staying informed,
the roaches were leading the life that we would eventually establish
because you were not there to see them

now that my roaches are dispatched
with extreme prejudice,
our freezer is stocked with
more civilized
frozen animals.

you're not horrified that
I seem a little strange

corrosion

true maps rendered mute

blinded by

imperial american innocents

 dark-souled excrement

oppressive revolutionaries

consume spells under which

everyday dictators

normalize wonderful

 too exceptional too good too

as slaves imitate masters

 uncontested

full court press

artists orphaned

on doorsteps

in baskets

scent of public school

entrails sun-struck

death blows

delivered with angel arms

outstretched in his name

oh daddy

my son & the

holy fucking shit

It is cold when he dies

smell the inside of that monte carlo he drives
winstons and polo
see that bag of liquor he has
well, hell
may as well
have another smoke
anyway
hey
Mr. M
what are we doing
in English
on Monday?

Values Express

still fresh,  tested
by Sam Shepard channeling Chuck Yeager

we wrap the most abstract
in baby blue bunting for the
tone deaf and empathetically impaired

at first, I borrowed a little from my clients
my champagne flutes
were out of tune
thankfully I’m so disappointed
that I got caught

I can’t tell you how much closer I am
to God
than you
now that you know