gag reflex

you'll thank god later
for this effective reaction
to gastrointestinal adversity

it's so easy
to learn through heaving and hurling
blowing chunks has taught us more
than spinoza, descartes or larry the plumber

however, we should further study
the speed at which some
from deep pleasure learn
they seem so very eager
to learn
and learn
and learn
some more

the first thing
number one
the top of their list
conduct a lot of sex
the second:
avoid the
gag reflex

I Got a Bullet in My Brain

Giant Women of Sandusky, Ohio

The horses are normal size
12 hands high
The women are giants
48 hands high, legs long and strong
It’s not a trick of the lens or the light
The females grow LONG AND STRONG in ohio

THEY outfox men on a regular basis
MAYBE IT HELPS THAT THEY TOWER OVER THE MEN
IN OH-HIGH-OH

Tall women Residents of sandusky ohio
Tend to their twelve HAND
clydesdale stallions
PRANCING HANDsOMELY
in the women’s large palms

THE LARGE WOMEN DWARF THE POWERFUL STALLIONS
THE WOMEN SEEM QUITE PLEASED
AND SO DO THE STALLIONS
THOUGH NEITHER PARTY WILL SAY
I AM QUITE PLEASED

The AVERAGE-SIZED Clydesdales
TWELVE HANDS HIGH AT THEIR POWERFUL SHOULDERS
Obey the WOMENS’ whimS
March! Stop! Whinny! Laugh! SNORT!
Show your teeth! BITE YOUR ASS!
The SUDDENLY tiny horses do as they are told
And like it when the women
Pat their behinds and stroke their long necks
THE CLYDESDALES LIKE THE GIANT
WOMANLY FINGERS ON THEIR LONG NECKS

In the evening the gigantic women
Read large print books
About asteroids and quantum physics
THE HORSE NEBULA AND SINGULARITIES
THE GIANT WOMEN GET all the inside cosmic jokes
THEY Wink knowingly
At each other
Not wishing for anything
Being everything
PALMS OPEN WIDE, FINGERS OUTSTRETCHED

Shunya at the Krog

A series of still photographs put to music. In this one Shunya makes a cup of tea that transports her to the Krog Tunnel and back.

continental breakfast is not real breakfast

continental breakfast is supposed to be refined and cultured
the very best your continent has to offer
in the form of a splendid breakfast

like if your breakfast was a car, it would be
a 1948 double cowl phaeton lincoln continental
with air-conditioned-deep-flow-rubber-leather seats
and an ultrabore hyper-tuned solid sandog v-16
algonquin condor matador motor
it would be all that plus you could eat it on your knees
a grand continental breakfast should be
a lincoln continental divide yosemite canyon experience
and of course, complimentary

unfortunately, on our continent
a continental breakfast
is presented in the corner of the lobby
the innkeeper, as they call her, stares at your back
you pour coffee in your styrofoam cup, it’s way too loud
you spin to catch her looking but she won’t make eye contact
you turn back to the three foot display in the corner
pink slices of chilly coldcuts, rice krispies, bananas
a bright red strawberry
several nice dry donuts . . . what if you take them all?
the innkeeper drives you crazy
you rage in silent loathing at each item on display
everything’s on a goddam lettuce leaf
she’s still staring at your back
but this time you refuse to turn around

if you have a continental breakfast
in the lobby of our continent
you will not need a real breakfast
on our continent
a continental breakfast
is not a real breakfast
but it’s a real continental experience


by the boy poets and a glazed donut

i have a great idea for a movie

opening scene everybody would die except
just two or three would survive, to live
gruesome scabby yet riveting lives
the survivors would have cleft chins
and perfect breasts that heave on command
or off

and they, the stars, the beautiful stars
would repopulate the earth in 90 minutes
make it a better place for kids and golden retrievers

the movie crests into naked euphoria
in the first two seconds
when bill o’reilly explodes in a deluge of magma
surging up from the earth’s core
directly into fox studios

the remaining eighty-eight minutes
with the movie’s perfect pacing
of cliffhanger rescues followed by frenzied fucking
feature nancy grace, the former prosecutor
whose southern accent
with its bitter yet come hither edge
makes me and all other female cinematic
dorky ass viewers of cable tv cringe
and lust mightily at the same time
her full lips feverish and shiny
her open thighs ready to receive
the burning priapus of the sub-plot

anyway i digress from my movie idea
of the people who recopulate the world
and for a brief time live happily, so happy
in utah, where the mormons used to practice posture
before my movie sent them all to kingdom come


in the denoument, just before the climax
a really horrible thing happens, finally
after reams of crazy deaths and ecstatic coupling
but strangely, it seems rightly horrible
you might even say – apropos of
all the things, the death, the life
the well-hung dialogue, the rippling tears
the crippling laughter laced in the sacral bone
the very emulsion of the film itself
all melting together – beguilingly
a strange comic relief, a last straw
in the unending beverage that is my movie

by the stunt boy poets, recopulating

loose words

SHAGGY, JUICY, GROOVY
SHANGRI-LA AND SAN FRANCISCO
MEDIUM, LATER, SWAMP

FRENCH, JAZZ AND JERSEY
BARBEQUE, CRAZY, NEATO

RIGHT-ON, MAYBE AND MONTANA
FUNNY, SURE, SOON

THEM, THOSE AND TEXAS
ANTS, PANTS AND FRANCE

SAUTEE, PARTAY, LANGUID
SQUID, BIDNESS AND SHAMPOO

FULMINATE, SPARK AND ARMADA

LADY GODIVA, SALIVA AND UNCTIOUS
SUMPTUOUS, BUMPKIN AND BUPKISS

TREVOR, TREMOR AND TENNESSEE
STYLE, SUAVE AND SHEMP

CARTILAGE, CABBAGE AND CANADA
LOSER, LANGQUID AND DJ

TONE, TREBLE CLEFF AND CALIFORNIA
GOOSE, GONG AND GLEVELAND

FLORIDIAN, QUOTIDIAN, ROUSABOUT
TAXES, FAXES, SNAPS AND PABST

MARMALADE CLICKETY-CLACK
ALICE IN WONDERLAND SCRATCH MY BACK

BOARDWALK, BLATHER, BE FREER
MOON, SWOON, JUNE FREE BEER HERE

BASTIONS, FASHIONS, DAGGER AND SHEATH
CASTLES AND KINGS, RIVER RUN, RIVER BURST

BOARDWALK PLANKS AND INSULATION
HELLO SO SLOW, LAMINATION

Researchers from Cloyola University, in Huffakers, NV, divide themselves into control groups and found out that crankiness is no more than suppressed horniness.
After months of constant pounding sexual gratification, one group of volunteer researchers found themselves engaged in dry yet disturbing discussions of profound intellectual and moral fetter. While able to disagree about the swampier aspects of global warming, prayer in school, flag-burning, abortion-bashing, bush-busting and other bombast, the group did nevertheless maintain a degree of civility not found outside over-priced restaurants.
The placebo group of researchers, who were told to discuss the same subjects but without the raunchy, compelling and fulfilling sexual activity were soon mired in dead discussions that soon lapsed into recriminations and for some, loss of tenure, or even better, loss of life.

Eau Claire Defendant Cites Intelligent Design
Judy Wanamaker, accused of first degree misdemeanor assault, claimed an Unseen Hand or Spirit Force or Something Weird was responsible for a major melee knockdown catfight with neighbor Judy “Moody” Huff.
"I knew she wasn’t sleeping with my husband", explained Wanamaker, "but the combination of the love letter signed in Moody’s name, her lipstick on Harry's strange penis, and the way he, in a swampy sort of way, shrieked Moody’s name during our yearly scourge of love-making . . . the strange combination directed me to her kitchen where I linserted into her left buttock a swiss army fondue fork accessory.
“I knew nothing’s going on,” continued Wanamaker. “I have utter faith in Harry and Judy. I mean he's my husband, she's my best friend, so all I can conclude is that an Intelligent Designer arranged the evidence in such a compelling fashion to teach me a much deserved lesson in humility and love and some things I may never fully know.
“I apologize to everyone involved from the bottom of my heart. I am sorry for the pain I caused to Harry, Judy, my children and the community, and most of all, to Calvin Klein. He is such an intelligent designer.”



Homeless man refuses to work for food
Jethro Tullnitz, resident of Ponce de Leon boulevard, Anywhere, USA, proclaims, "I'm a bum and proud of it. And as they say under the Auburn Ave Bridge when the mood strikes, if I may paraphrase: Fuck you and Fuck working and Fuck the fucking do-gooders. . .but in a good and life-denying sort of way, of course. . .”
Tullnitz, who claims to have a resume “as long as a donkey’s stiff dick,” offered to appear in “meaningful or erotic independent films for a modest stipend and some decent personal grooming services.”
When asked to comment on any personal philosophy that sustained him in his endeavors, Jethro just smiled and took another swig of Thunderbird before muttering, “Trickle down, baby. Trickle down.”

a red orange horizon sunball
torches the cirrus clouds
in norway golf is played 24 hours a day from may til august
i read it in the ny times and saw pictures
labeled “teeing off at 3 am”

reminds me that i watched my dad
play softball at midnight
in the land of the midnight sun, sunny alaska
just past midnight the sun dip-punched the horizon
and my whole being was saying…..dusk
a few minutes later the sun began climbing
some superbig super-slow motion superball

midnight dawn, dad clobbers a supersoftball
one side spinning gold, the other chilly still purple

confusing to a confused boy of 13
still confused about
certain strong feelings surging through
his adolescent bloodstream
still outstreaking comprehension
still driven wild by kathy mozena
her scent her unforgettable scent

in norway golf is played 24 hours a day
i square up to the superhardball
dimpled ball in a stony dimpled northern land
my thought-swing happy, thought-free
at 3 A.M. I connect, a crisp icy thwack

sharp sound wave penetrates cool north air
sound wave floats across the pole
sound wave settles on a certain overgrown ball field
just across the top of the world

reverse-o-lution

• spinning
• the
• beginning
• never
• explodes
• like
• spelling-bees
• and
• beer
• hot motorcycles
• with hot vibrating women
• dogs barking naked
• like you
• barking at hot
• city lights
• two words
• keep vibrating
• centrioles in anaphase
• mitotic tension
• bristling
• just two words
• waiting to fill oceans

this poem is like open source software
it’s open to public debate, public improvement
subject to change

it started with the strictest of rules
you could write only one word
then later you could write two words

now it has no rules

that’s the whole idea

everything else
from zygotes to corporations
grows in the opposite direction
they have to I know but

they should try this
reverse-o-lution

maybe it is a little easier
maybe it’s a little more fun

rose against white

asleep
wrapped in white in the white attic
looking over the weekapaug salt pond
light, white, a window
in a white room
in a wide world

the only color
the orange sunglow of her skin
a blue boat in the window
two blue men in blue water
raking the bottom of the ocean
for mollusks curled on the ocean floor
two men dreaming about a white room
where a rose lies wrapped in white
a shock of hair black

she almost sleeps
she is lucid, imagines driftwood
dreaming her awake self awake
combing the beach
white with sun and salt and

driftwood
planted in the white sand
rose in black
scales the smooth white plank












by the boy poets drifting above the driftwood

The Claim: Chiggers Attack Humans by Burrowing Under Their Skin - New York Times

just when you think

just when you thought you finally knew roy
he leaves town without a word

you find out from a buddy
that he’s in boise working
working like he never worked around here
living in a yurt by the river and
cooking catfish over an open fire
it’s great in the summer he says
but you know better

he never said goodbye
he just left all of a sudden

so all the filaments that bound us
tear and twist in the sudden distance
throbbing in the jetstream

we’re in kind of a limbo now
stretched out beyond our limbs
on the rack
somewhere between
here and boise where
neither of us actually live
……but

because it was
so hasty
so sudden
so goddam quick
limbo became the only place
we share
a silent space
but not quite empty
who knew limbo
hurt like this, roy?

remember that photo?
at 6 feet under on memorial drive
you sitting on the upstairs patio
looking over oakland cemetery

we drank and laughed and talked
about what happened in april
about what it meant
we talked about these filaments
and what binds us together

it took a while before we both agreed
the waitress took our picture
we split the check
and everything was all tied up

your front view mirror

i glanced in the rear view a moment too long
found myself off-road heading for a brick wall
i could have panicked but instead
i consulted my trusty
front view mirror
a future bent by the soft mercury curvature
all things appear closer than they are
don’t know why or how but
something shifted, i saw
truth and fiction softly intersect
what is and what could be
and what should be
time and space turn smoothly,
i planned it that way
room to spare
time to document
an era to imagine

you never looked so good
we never looked so good
in your front view mirror
we never saw so much
texture
bricks pocked from the kiln and the weather
the sweat and the heft of the masons
you see the universe in the mortar
etched by time and lime and portland cement
you see dave
his name carved in the wet aggregate
flying to morocco for the summer
tells wild hashish tales
of true love and false imprisonment
drunk on beer and martinis
he’s hard to resist

truth and fiction intersect
scrape on the sleek refracting camber
of the front view mirror
in this one way
your front view mirror is a lot like
your rear view mirror

i have a great idea for a movie

opening scene everybody would die except
just two or three would survive, to live
gruesome scabby yet riveting lives
the survivors would have cleft chins
and perfect breasts that heave on command
or off

and they, the stars, the beautiful stars
would repopulate the earth in 90 minutes
make it a better place for kids and golden retrievers

the movie crests into naked euphoria
in the first two seconds
when bill o’reilly explodes in a deluge of magma
surging up from the earth’s core
directly into fox studios

the remaining eighty-eight minutes
with the movie’s perfect pacing
of cliffhanger rescues followed by frenzied fucking
feature nancy grace, the former prosecutor
whose southern accent
with its bitter yet come hither edge
makes me and all other cinematic
dorky ass viewers of cable tv cringe
and lust mightily at the same time
her full lips feverish and shiny
her open thighs ready to receive
the burning priapus of the sub-plot

anyway i digress from my movie idea
of the people who recopulate the world
and for a brief time live happily, so happy
in utah, where the mormons used to practice posture
before my movie sent them all to kingdom come

in the denoument, just before the climax
a really horrible thing happens, finally
after reams of crazy deaths and ecstatic coupling
but strangely, it seems rightly horrible
you might even say – apropos of
all the things, the death, the life
the well-hung dialogue, the rippling tears
the crippling laughter laced in the sacral bone
the very emulsion of the film itself
all melting together – beguilingly
a strange comic relief, a last straw
in the unending beverage that is my movie

we didn’t do what we wanted tonight

we wanted to ride marta without stopping
screaming all the way down the line
to the west end terminus and beyond
blaze new tracks for the good of the community
but the goddam train broke down at MLK
left our boots twitching
us murmuring incantations
over copper tokens—what good’re they now?

we didn’t ride where we wanted tonight
we listened to the same four songs over and over
Captain Beefheart, Boz Scaggs. Penguin Café Orchestra and Whodini
they’re good songs but they don’t mix so well
- - like drinking skanky beer
after a sleek lemon drop martini

so we got off the broken down marta train
its not what we wanted to do tonite
good thing we had our boots on
and a shiny sense of the impossible
otherwise we wouldn’t have walked all the way
to Ponce de Leon
visit Marlene and Kathy
who both work at the Majestic Diner
on Sunday afternoon

we ordered grits and implored them
we said we’d do whatever you want, Marlene and Kathy
we’ll call you Hepburn and deitrich, Kathy and marlene
we’ll fashion a Balkan ferris wheel
from a strand of pearl hominy
we’ll take you
to where we really want to go

but actually, what we really wanted
maybe all we’ve ever wanted, really . . .
is to blow up the marta train that broke down on us
blow it to kingdom come
pieces of aluminum and chrome
raining down all over marta repair yards everywhere
and after that, all we really want
is to do something else
something its hard to argue with
ecstatic coupling would be ideal, for example


by the boy poets, jumping the turnstile

I Cracked Up at City Hall Today
i needed five signatures
so i could sell the house
the house we just finished building
five quick little scrawls
from the bureaucratic maze
and i could sell the house

i got one signature from zoning
and another from the lady around the corner from zoning
the third from the lady with nine diamond rings at site development
and the next from the guy who drooled on the form
i guess he was tired
but i got four signatures
by 11:30 in the sunny spring morning

and then i walk up the stairs to engineering
clutching my paper with 4 john hancocks
and was told that stephanie was outa town
down at the gulf
with her boyfriend stefan
i know stephanie,
she would’ve signed it with a grin
but no, you see, she’s “gone all week”
goddam stephanie
we need the plans signed by tomorrow
and now its lunchtime
and they’re all gone

I waited alone, eating my pride on white knuckles
i’m sure they had a nice, long, wide and sweet
tuna sandwich with dill pickles lunch
while i sucked on antacids for dessert
i paste on a smile as stephanie’s boss ms duckworth comes back at 1:15
and settles her wide sour ass on the swivel chair
she looks at the piece of paper i hold out
that just needs one fucking signature
her signature
and says yes I see
but she doesn’t look at me
your plans go in the queue, she says
along with everyone else with
problems as bad as yours
shouldn’t be more than six weeks
ten tops and you’re good as gold
and that’s all there is to it

i go dizzy, her face fills
the scope of my rifling perception
i strangle her in my mind
and then smile, thank her
for her time and consideration
and while i begin to crack up
i smile some more

so i cracked up today
at city hall
you know, loop de loop
nutty as a fruit cake
lost a year of my life
in the time it takes
to say thank you ms. duckworth
thank you and your very extensive, yet useless, ass

i staggered down another hall
still dizzy, the hall warped like junk carpet
when I saw an office nearby
I walked in on mr. dennis morris
he’s not even in the department
he doesn’t even like me
but i know his name
and he knows mine
and he has a pen
and he works here
for the love of god, man, have pity
I didn’t say that to him, not in words anyway but
sometimes you just have to play the card
the card of common humanity
i know you exist, and you know i exist
we both know the playing field is lumpy and twisted
varying in thickness and warped like junk carpet
and i am crawling on it
on my knees

for the love of god, man, have pity

dennis, i said softly, like we were the drinking buddies we’re not
if you don’t sign this i’m outta business
my life a mere reflection shattered
the unspoken plea
a pause
and he shakes his head
jon, if i could i would but
i’m not even in the department any more
said dennis
i can’t sign it
and he pushes the paper with 4 signatures
back to me

i didn’t say a thing
i just looked at him
all my desperate need broke the surface
spilled through my eyes
when he tried to look away i pulled him back
back into the pure pathos
the tragedy of an unsold house
an empty house for the ages
i just looked at him
held him in the pure gaze of desperate innocence
across the oak desk, stained and carved with the passage
of bureaucratic snafus and tapping fingers
i handed him my favorite pen
he held it for a moment
savoring its shape and fine weight
placed its tip on the form
where the line says sign here
and he signed here

I cracked up at city hall today
But I got 5 signatures

The Sheriff’s Wife

The sheriff’s kids race around at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to a darkened hallway. They’re playing cops and robbers and shout bang bang you’re dead as they pile into the kitchen where their mother places battered bits of chicken into a pot of boiling grease. A tow headed boy squeals to a stop against the back of her legs and sets off a chain reaction: first, the chicken breast slips from her fingers and falls, then the drops of hot grease spurt up to splash against her wrist, then a hiss like steam escaping from her clenched lips as her body stiffens against the pain. She turns slowly to the kids who are staring up at her in surprise and shakes a finger white with cornmeal in their faces. She’s in no mood for games and plays her ace right away: Put away your toys and wash up for dinner RIGHT NOW… she pauses… or you’ll be spending the night UPSTAIRS with the rest of the misbegottens. Now SCAT. Which they do, exiting the kitchen with much the same energy as they had entered.

She busies herself, dabbing margarine on her scalded wrist, wiping down the counters, taking now-fried chicken out of the oil to dry on paper towels. She begins to hum softly to herself as she moves from fridge to table to stove. She seems content, and would say so if asked. She has no real complaints that she can call to mind. She’s still young, but has settled into her life, such as it is. Married to the sheriff, a large home on a corner of the main street, a certain status and respect in the town. Whatever restless dreams she might have had are now still and mostly unrecalled. Rebellion, when it comes at all, comes in quick departures, with no thought given to the act itself. She waves out the window to Luther Johnson, passing by on his way home to his own dinner waiting up the street. Things like a bottle of perfume slipped into her purse at the drugstore. A day trip north to the city when she was supposed to go east to visit cousins. A casual lie when the truth couldn’t hurt. There was never any guilt over these sudden events. How could there be? It was just a little valve somewhere within her that sometimes opened and then closed of its own accord.

The tune she’s been humming is an old gospel and she puts the warm plates on a tray and covers them with a checkered cloth. Dinner in five, she calls to the kids. I’ll fly away, she hums to herself. She stops at the foot of the stairs to adjust the cloth over the tray and begins to walk up. The carpet stops about three-quarters of the way up the flight as she ascends into the darkness. She can hear her slippers slide over the bare wood. At the top she stops and turns to see light spilling into the hallway from the older part of the house, the part that stood by itself, before the jail and the sheriff’s residence became the same thing. A shadow grows over the floor and crawls up the wall as a figure approaches and stands in the doorway. Her humming stops and she shuffles forward carrying the tray, her feet feeling the way. The shadow moves and there’s a click and the hall light goes on. She blinks and then smiles. Evenin’ Jimmy. Evenin’ ma’am, he says, lifting his deputy’s cap and smoothing back his hair. His eyes drop to the tray and he picks up a corner of the checkered cloth. What do we got tonite? Fried chicken, she says, balancing the tray in one hand and pulling the cloth up onto her arm. He makes an appreciative noise and reaches for a plate. Not that one, she says and laughs. This one’s yours. No never mind to me, he says, and unbuckles his gun belt to hang it on a hook. And how’s our guest doing?, she asks. Praying, if he knows what’s good for him, he mutters. He’s only got two days to get right with the Lord. He looks up at her as he lifts the plate off the tray. Hanging’s too good for him if you ask me. She sniffs and shrugs, Well I’m sure I wouldn’t know about that. Enjoy your chicken Jimmy. Thank you ma’am, I will, he says, and walks slowly down to the table at the end of the hall.

She takes a deep breath before stepping into the brightly lit chamber with the maze of metal cages built within it. She can’t help but glance up as she passes beneath the small trap door in the ceiling above her. She knows that directly above that trapdoor there is an iron ring bolted to a rafter and a length of rope coiled nearby. She turns a corner and heads for the rear cell, where a man, a boy really, rises from a metal bunk as she approaches. His fingers wrap around the bars as she stops in front of him and pulls open a slot in the cage door. Brung you some dinner she says without looking up. Looks good he says without glancing at the food. Looks real good. His face breaks out in a wild grin and he says too loudly, Hey I’m a condemned man, y’know. I’m supposed to be able to choose my last meal, that’s what they say. And I wanted to tell you, to ask you, for my last… He doesn’t seem to be able to finish his sentence, like it was a rehearsed line that hadn’t come out right, that ran away as soon as he opened his mouth. She looks up at him for the first time and pushes the plate thru the slot. Maybe you should consider this your last meal, she says. One of his hands slips off the bar and his eyes fill with confusion and fear. She doesn’t look away and doesn’t say anything more but reaches thru the bars and places a hand on his chest and pats it softly. He starts to shake. There’s so much going thru him and suddenly he pushes forward, face first, bending his head to kiss her thru the cage. Her hand stiffens against his chest and he stops short, breathing hard, their eyes locked. For just a moment. Then, with a final pat of her hand she steps back and pulls the cloth back over the tray and walks away without another thought or glance back.

His breathing slowly returns to normal as he stands alone in the metal chamber and he finds himself staring down into a plate of freshly prepared food. His other hand slides from the bar and picks up a piece of fried chicken but it stops just short of his lips. He lets it drop to the floor and stifles a shout by clapping his hand over his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut and is filled with such an unexpected fountain of joy that he thinks he might just shatter on the spot. Because there it was, the key to his heart, or at least his freedom, just waiting there, under a battered breast, right next to the butter beans.

News Item:
Neighborhood sheetrock finisher spills fancy drink all over formica countertop. Miles “Smiley” Flemister, native of the downstate hamlet of Blodona, Alabama, watched the iced shaker slip from his lime-tinged fingers and quickly considered all his options while the expensive ingredients of a “Bahama Schooner” burst forth and sadly spilled in slow motion, like the Wild Bunch in their death throes, spreading out over the counter like only a chilly, over-priced yet quite fruity beverage can.