your face turns red, shades
of pink flash across the flesh
as fast as a diuretic.
clutch your stomach,
and hate that you love
what’s fluttering inside.

sometimes when you freeze a tape,
mid-tracking, you can see things
that aren’t there.
excitement is a function that intends
to disappoint at some point
in the near future.

get used to it,
there’s no happy on the other side.
pull out of the contract
while you still can.
consider yourself lucky to be alive.

look at me, mom;
i’m on t.v.
i don’t know what i’m saying,
but it sounds right.
and if i’m wearing a suit
it has to be true.

turning negro spirituals into nazi hymns
is a hobby of mine.
peel back the flesh,
and pull out the spine.
that’s why liberals are spineless,
just threaten to call them racists.

al sharpton,
inverted image
of adolf hitler.

lobbying the legalization
of affirmative amnesty,
and selling the apple with the worm
as the apple produced
by it’s surroudnings.

you, sir, are a worm;
writhing and wriggling
with a shitty, half-assed
solemn face.

doctor king is dead,
and you’ve stomped out
the embers of his legacy.

turn the dial, adjust
the time. i heard your voice
somewhere in the static.
and i could never find it
again; that song i loved
as it poured from the speakers.
the tune of your movements,
indexed in my memory. the fifth,
the seventh, the chords
are a paint by number
for me to follow you
through the static somewhere.
a cabin on a lake,
that bridge spanning the river.
the sound the wind made
as it passed through the steel,
pushing your hair in your face
for me to brush away.
but i can not find it,
the static fades
and the dial is touchy.
it’s 730 am,
time to wake up,
loveless again.

copy, this is my friend.
his name is carb,
and he likes to get off.

carb, get on.
get on copy.
carb is on, getting off.
carb is getting off on copy.

carb on copy.

as long as he stays away
from emissions.
we don’t want carb on emissions.
we could get aids.
emissions spreads aids
with every ejaculation.
that could cause an evacuation.
an aids ejaculation evacuation.

stay on copy.
copy? ten-four
three, nine, two, one.

now all that remains
to be interpreted
is…

has copy been carbed all over,
or has carb been copied all over?

this carbon copy has been copied,
it’s all over

the front page.

purse your lips, thrust
your hips.
leggings cling to flesh like shit
dries to porcelain.
stick your head in a bucket
and let it all out.
party time is over, and the rest
of you is evacuating
to save itself from embarrassment.

it doesn’t smell as good
in this room, but the depository
is self-cleaning.

it’s times like these
that i bet you wish culture
wasn’t your front,
and you really had a bidet.