nutcracker

Daddy are you ready? I’m gonna go.

I’m gonna do it fast.

out there was a picture of him

with two of his closest friend’s

cocks draped across his forehead

because he passed out

with his boots 
on

or around defendant's 9th birthday,

the landlord would store the foreclosed

inventory of an adult book store

in the basement of his step-father’s pizzeria

I’m gonna show you somethin, daddy. You ready?

it was the two ladies

thumbing phones

sipping Zinfandel while

the gentlemen finished

making minor adjustments

on an illegal transaction

(over plates of spicy noodles!)

Eww, my God, she said

the other confirmed the cut of his jib

Watch out, daddy

I’m a squirrel!

I’m gonna get your nuts!

reunion

 Screaming karaoke

until the room is empty

wall to wall

stained and bruised

you engorge

the florid marks

of your bondage

The ecosystem changes down below

in the creek

running shallow

underneath

cathedral ceiling cypress trees

coiled coven snake roots

exhale the stink of decomposing

creatures

fingerling fish

nip dead

skin from my crazing feet

little Vincent lends me his goggles

to retrieve your glasses.

flew off your turn

on the rope swing,

that does not get more complex with age.

we think,

how can we protect this one now

how can we with what little we have

to protect our own

memoir of a footnote

she restrained a fugitive bull
walrus at the cincinnati zoo
with an old pair of pearl
spider stockings.

she preferred silk
as she preferred
the term criminal
to inmate.

a stab
at country music stardom
forever branded her a muse
pure blasts
of immortal morse code

embedded in vinyl records,
spun in the shadows
cast by marquee crooners

 her trick?
slipping pictures
into books
she’d read

worked less and less
as the bookcases
devolved
into wall paper.

getting out of bed—
like unpressing
a hand print
from cement—

upset
the dust
gathered
on her vanity.

payphone voice collection

evening

Motherfucker. you

take life too serious.

you know?

it’s po-

etic sure

but how am I supposed to respond to you?

she came.

again and again

didn’t she?

How was it?

just to visit.

told me about

finding you

in the bathroom.

all she said was, Brown

v. Board of Education

could’ve been

less condescending

and you’re not some serial killer geek.

even if, still

plenty of

inhumanity

beneath you.

yes, but that’s just natural.

death is natural.  so

technically, sure

we’re all dead,

showing up

Half-pathetic

unprepared

shamed by the same

village idiot

who coronates that poor goat

all night long

believe me,

you don't know a fraction

take the heavy lifting,

divide lack of imagination

by restricted vision and

Bingo!

a new color scheme on the

walls of the system

just about ready.

as in Israel and Palestine

are just about ready

why would you hold your breath?

it’s just a figure of speech.

I do too read.

but how am I supposed to respond to you?

broken-hand-bills

whisper
thru drywall in 
the candy striped cabin.
stick it in
high pitch
wad it up for later
under the table
unloading Albert Camus
under-roos
fluffy and warm

perched on a flat bed stoop,
gift of gab
answers
rainbows to riddles,
works his cock into the equation
for eternal questions
of want and woe.
a soiled-soul
cleanser

a ginsu-dragon,
(signature hold: suffocating embrace)
butcher of tightly conducted adventure excursions,
is cut down to
one act.
the sharp wings of Mothra
upstaged his orchestra
blowing lace smithereens

present this flyer for 10% off tastefully blessed partial pardon panties

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
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cold storage
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