+_+_+_ 
My baby’s got teeth
And holes
My baby’s got skin that never scars
And a taste for daddy, gnarled.

My baby is a pig with tails that tickle her fat ass.
That contrast
The atrophied man, hard enough to finally hold her.

My baby never comes, but when she goes, she goes.
I like to imagine random idiots watching from home
A greek chorus chanting “now-do-THIS-to-the-hoe”
My baby doesn’t believe in anything,
But the Chateau.

My baby renews 
like a yellow snake on a kitchen counter in a nightmare,
And you disarm your It Girl Stress Disorder,
Promising yourself you are an
Ultra Private It Girl Investigator. 

My baby is an anaconda partially fed
The digestion period is sweet, but
what happens if she gets hungry again?
So warn my friends.

My baby is towyard Snow White even in the sunlight,
And I crave the taste of her shit,
Because I have a developed palette for 
It.

My baby’s got .45 Smith & Wesson heels, 
femme fatale bags,
And a double-double in-n-out indemnity ass
that will never sag.

My baby is a bot
designed by human beings 60,000 years in the future, to meet my exact specifications.
She ships my sperm back to the future daily
through her bluetooth womb.

Happy birthday, baby, 
Take this batch to the bathroom, as you always do, 
And shut the latch. 
I’ll lay here like the intergalactic hero I am,
viscous in your Easter Bunny snatch.

+

+_+
My paranoid RV
rests on cinderblocks
of her rough sex complex
Back in Hollywood, CA
And I look into the Pipes Canyon sun
with my mother’s lazy eye
Asking to become uncunning again.

The kisses I don’t let in
Find their way to the right man
Just like the pink-beige rock I picked out of Pipes Canyon for the homie Jon,
his all along.

Happily inadhesive to her rom-com come-ons;
I gurgle anarchy without even meaning it.
It’s not me you want, Toro
It’s the periodbloodied cape I shake.
I’m not saying it’s scented redness is fake,
but it ain’t MINE

The always soon-to-be burnt
love leftovers, the last pan scrapes,
where the most robust flavors are found in the tiniest quantities; such is my way.

All I need is ; black bic, pink book, dog Romeo, chamomile breeze, and time enough to watch my hands
roast into a mans
under the March 12 Pipes Canyon sun.

I look for elk on mountains
where there are none.
Missions. Always missions.
A Panther, a Gentleman.
Hand on dong.

Hand on dong,
I put a pin in all big Questions
and watch my mothers whorehands roast into a mans
under the March 12 Pipes Canyon sun,
My core shivers scribbled words under the cool shade
Of my paranoid RV,
Which rests on cinderblocks
Of Cinderellas rough-sex complex,

back in Hollywood, CA…

Porch-picking the last 39 years
of Chateau hoes from my teeth,
caressing Romeo’s toes,
Hunting down marmots for old times
surveillance sake.

All those times I was jealous
I was jealous that I wasn’t
the free man
simply scoping you.

I am a circus act of a man
Smoking vulvas out of their suits
On the wrong side of La Brea Ave

She stole my act &
Ingested my Jewish children
Bring more Jews
But not the ones I asked for
Not lefthanded redheads dyed dead blonde
Btw I saw u did your hair red

I want Jewish names on my mantle
I want Jewish agents in my emails
I want a dominatrix to watch sitcoms with
I wanna create a new Israel inside
You in a burgundy Mercedes
To Auschwitz via Sunset blvd due west
Silver hair then deaf then what ?

You taught me how to cook
Up this smog circus
And I got the letter you sent in my sleep
thanks, sorry, etc.
ur apology must wait
For more character space
+_*_*_

+_+_
A Well-Fucked Man
drives antelopes off dirt roads
devoted to tastier meats.

The jealous man leaves blood-trails
leading back to his pay-per-jail.

She comes now
in un-ageable memories
of getting off
on her impregnable face.

It’s 5:30 a.m and
In 5 days, she found the 5’3” version of me.
So, I went Mel Gibson on the boy.
No, I mailed a package to my 80-year-old Nun in New Mexico.

I’m awake at 5:30am as she sleeps in the arms of 5’3” Me.
And what will today be?
And for who?

My shoulders hurt
from “hurting” her twice a week
for six months straight.
One long, bitter brag.
Six good months tho 
I can’t complain.

Like a waterslide through time,
she lubricated my transfer to
This. 

We got each other through
holidays
haircuts
divorce
dogs.
Not nothing.
Love?
I could sooner speak on Iran.

There’s a lot I can’t do
except the one thing
I do a lot of.

Off-topic (not),
I return to where it all started:
getting off on her hot-pics…

Off-off-topic: 
I am again the elven field medic to my own gapes,
knowing the medicines I must resist
and the remedies that no longer exist.

Like all breakups, deaths, births,
and Greek islands,
this one has its own distinct flavor.

Her aftertaste’s got me
forecasting decades
in the newness of 530am light
Feeling 6:39 a.m’s
coldness of Earth and
our aloneness on it.
Got it!

Free as Frederic March playing Hyde
shouting Free!

Oneness?
Hydeness.

“Isn’t provocation your whole thing?”
asked my fuckbucket
“No,” said I
“It’s a healthy expression
of my unhealthiness.”

Rays of rage.
People pay big money for it.
Pass the scotch, doll.

Luminous.

An assassin with anxious attachment.
His spastic eyes
Style themselves
in the black reflection
of her Cassavetes poster as he pounds her.

When the great fuck-off is over,
our blanket of gases will return to the sky.
Yang saved,
days will move slow from office window again.
+_ 
Yes, the great fuck-off is over
But whoever would have guessed
It would leave us so unfucked over
and so happily depressed
I guess it’s like our visit to Miami,
Or to that south beach dive bar,
I guess you go for kicks, to be of use,
to give & give & give
good dick till it’s gone
an aubade to her squirt stain
titled 5’3 me at dawn.
+_++_

+_+_+ 
I've been working on a long one called My Movie but now its time to unplug the hard
drives and tantalize 
The invisible man only men can see 
On my YouTube channel of heresy.

I wouldn’t dare share good tidings here no.
Jimbo used to be fun but now its a carrier
pigeon I can’t control
a dog I can’t, but do, own.
Who cannot but do This.

Hear the songs in the LAPD helicopter,
Her prison letters got published in my heart.
In the future,
we
will be the only glitchy things,
the last grease.

Tranced in tasks.
This, I can stomach.
This, gentle and mathematic.

Edit.

Been pacing in locked rooms smoking cigarettes
replaying failures to kiss her
since I was twelve.

I can’t stomach it
Tranced
I can’t stomach it
Tranced
Her stomach used
To be my bucket
Tranced
Someone’s gotta swallow This.

The term of an exes pregnancy is a time to grieve, masturbate
Like no pics
but once the baby is born
everyone gets reborn
and you can start liking
everything
again.
+_+_

And we are five mangled men
Comparing the length of our
Total runtimes
+_+_+_ 

+_+_+_+_=
Ran into the hexed son of famous & scandalized man.
How are you doing? he asked.
Blessed, I said. The sun comes up.
He knelt down with great concern
and told me I shouldn’t speak like that.
"Blessed" is the language of the people who are not doing well at all,
he said.
It is the language of men who listen to Sun Tzu audiobooks 8 times in a row 
on New Year’s Day.
It is the language of men past due 
who miscomprehend the Bible nightly
before shoddy and shawty-less sleep.
Blessed is for men who rate every recording ever made of
“Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out,”
a competitive drowning competition, 
aficionado-ing failure,
he only wishes.
Blessed is the language of gardeners,
too zoomed in on the moss.

True, I said.
Blessed is
the language of the people who are not doing well at all. 
Sam Cooke,
Scrapper Blackwell,
John Lennon, 
Bessie Smith,
Nina Simone, 
in that order. 

Blessed is
the language of the people who are not doing well at all.
+_+_+_

+_+_+ 
I’m moving down to Florida with Tottenham
against the midnight cowboy score and
starting a podcast called Men At Their Core

I made a movie for and against God what the fuck did you ever do
Only it’s not made yet
I’m still waiting on that bucktoothed starlet to find me in the black-and-white night

My gayest characteristic is how openly disgusted I am at the sick man sitting next to me in delta comfort class
I hope he sees my fingers typing this
Opa, there was his glance
That’s right, you sniffling cunt
You’re on my livestream now
No NyQuil and mask????

Yet everyone is supposed to forgive me for
the things that Dr. Jung knew
Except Dr. Jung didn’t know them at all
Only in retrospect did he get
Gladly certain of his Curses
Way after the snot of the crisis calcified into an ill, red book

This sick mf I swear to God
I will heal him

Tottenham drives a white Lincoln town car through the unbreathable LA air, purifying it with his
exhaust.

I call him from a broken up bridge in palm beach
on my way to shit in the Atlantic.
Together we’re Peter Fonda’s character in Escape From LA
Chanting “tsunami, snake!” in kamikaze camaraderie
the last tidal wave of guys like us
I have been thinking lately
That I should no longer be so silly

Mia C screams and cums when I sink each pool ball,
Punctuating my game.
Now that’s a music I could get used to.

Back home, you chop your movie into bricks of sound as the door pounds.
The marks have awakened to your loud meditation
The marks have come to stare me down
Delivering a subtext I can’t yet write
Down
Belly
Shake
No
These are the words my dog back home knows
Romeo is a good boy according to the best hoes.

Recycling rage correctly until it’s
everyday garbage collecting
Come as the man you are
Not the Malinois behind the gate
of beware of signs
tryna act all raw.

+_+_+_+

+_+_+__+ 
Ah, the pajama’d daughters of LAX in the morning!
Black men’s women dress best for airports.
Their slapping cheeks lantern the long, renovated hallways. 
And I count each step.

But there are no babes on display at My Gate.
Only the Obese,
Fingerpainting their iPads with muffin grease,
Eager to get sunburnt.

I arrive in Mexico, where I am predictably taken
by the resort housekeepers’ ankles.
FAITH is synonymous with doubt and certainty is its antithesis.
My movie is boring but rewarding.
There is a groom named Jimmy at the resort where I’m staying.
All the resort guests are invited to Jimmy’s wedding.

I send my ex wife a pic of my body as I shower.
Muscular and tanned and very convincingly,
a mans. 
Maybe my crinkles’ll get her to stop acting so single.

Being where you aren’t is an art. The Groom named Jimmy greets me in the morning. I ignore him and follow his bride-to-be down the hallway.

“I hear you like Jimmies,”I say, on her special day.
My movie is costly
But I’m not talking about money
___+_+ 

I spent my birthday surrounded by puppies 
unwrapping Halloween bunnies 
sucking and 
rejoicing in the World Series
with beer and brie and burger and
 a wordless movie afterward

++++++++
“I love your choices, man”
But I make no choices till Action
(On day 1, I also found myself an Albuquerque Companion)
you cannot plan the game
you can only play it and bloom
everything else is phony
anti-cinema cerebral-ity

after take 1, i hunt for solitude & sun
remembering that i am just a man breathing
in the new mexican air
worrying about his hair

after the movie is shot,
I will let my phone die,
on the other side of the same forest
i got sent to as a 13-yo boy.

+++

Making New
Mexican Stonecliffs
My rorschasch

As piñon jays (blue) mob my octagon cabin
1 blue guy straggles way behind
stuck in the middle of 2 tribes-within-tribes
his pals project their inability to make up their minds,
he is the most cherished member cuz he isn’t one 
whatsoever

I lay my plot points onto dog haired cabin carpet
letting desert wind arrange my storyline into
a finality
a pointless order
inspired by the shape of antlers,
sure...

sometimes even Jimmy Komma gotta
just
climb a mountain to read Rilke
concocting nothing
jamming for no one
smoking still

adding eggshells to elkturds
missing his younger brother,
“Yesterdays boy,” wondering
how in hell he’s gonna make it
back to his octagonal cabin
shaded perfectly under one lone cloud
5 mountains that away…

Born of the 101 underpasses,
Jimmy Komma dies of Natural causes on the trail.
I let him lie
Just grant me passage back to my Great Cabin,
and u can let that moldy sumbitch die.

“Jimmy ain’t tryna bring strife to nobody’s life,
he’s just having a sniff, Morg!!”
begs the discarded bug skin
dry enough to destroy in a pinch.

I Let My Phone Die in Two Trips,
I spent all morning reading Tolstoy,
“And I made Mary Oliver squirt!”
Jimmy Interjects

Enter: The Mandorla effect.
I can’t help but laugh,
can’t help but cast
him wherever I am.

So , together we wake up at 4AM,
the battery-powered mini-clock on the propane-powered mini-fridge is broke,
and like I said we let our phones die,
but we still knew the time , cuz outside,
boom, as if they were IN our 8-walled room,
two startling twinkles
trinifying
a toenail moon.

Jupiter and Venus.
Mars and?
Something and Venus.
Fuck a name.
It’s 4am and that is
THEM.
+++

+_+_+ 
If you can learn to love even the month of August
To smile at the rabid raccoon family crossing your street,
And the patchy coyotes wobbling like models hunting for pussy meat,
If you can scratch the bug bites without feeling persecuted,
And let the ratty curtains tickle your face,
Remembering that the wind is your one & only commitment.
And to drink water,
And that you are nobody’s father,
Then - well -
OPENING CREDITS
+__+_ 

+++_
Snoring at my own noir
Wondering: when will The Mark awaken?
He’s the perfect clown, straining to stay awake during his own Big Sleep.
Believing bluish jouissance protects him.
But he might as well be a glow-in-the-dark fish::

She co-pilots him down the dark roads beneath Griffith.

“Feels like I’m directing you to your doom,” she purrs,
peeling back black fur to show a thigh of scratched pearl.

He inserts a commercially nervous laugh.

“Some kinda femme fatale, eh?”
“Kiiinda,” she husks.

He already knows what “kinda” means
to certain girls.

There were Kinda cameras
around her Kinda-soon-to-be-ex’s house
Kinda pointing in every damn direction.

You can be a good storyteller
or a good secret keeper
but you can’t be both.

Secrets make poems.
Balls make stories.

You’re stuck inside a latenight HotelTonight subplot
with little but your hairy little butt
revealed.

The vaginal vignettes
you’ve been downing since birth
materialize into a perfect porno, starring you.
If only you had the balls to bring about
original images.

The costs would be less.
The rewards far greater.
Than cumshotting your lament
into her every single fucking crater.

_++[[+)++

Driving down my regrets on the 134-W
Not blessing my sister’s marriage
that’s one of the worst of the best.

I was too busy injecting black widows into my name
in the name of killing our mom,
too obfuscated in rage
to officiate love.

Case in point:
I’m standing under marble arches
in a Hollywood hotel lobby
where I’m pretty sure
the night clerk with dyed hair
just slyly robbed me.

I tell myself to check the Amex statement promptly knowing I never will
when
past some pillars, her ponytail,
black as her heels,
both shimmer &
cross each other
with practiced elegance

It stuns me how
I can breathe again,
in this soon-to-be catastrophe,
Oh-so naturally.

“What can I say, it makes my day.”
-George Roundy
(Guy in Shampoo)

“I laugh at this prank, this prank of decay,
and pounce thoughtlessly into my day!”
— Jimmy K.
(Bad dude)

+++

+_+_+ 
Why can’t females just be like thanks for all the sex and dinners see ya around 
DAMN.
Amends gifts for all!
Sound off in the comments below
 tell me how I can grow
and don’t forget ur address!
Dw Im no sex pest
Just an apex XXX fuckfest
on feet
+_+__

+_+_+_+_+ 
It is my duty as an asshole
To describe my time eating artichoke hearts
The delicate procedure of
Teaching her to extract the heart past the prick petals,
Only to squeeze a bit of lemon, burp and count aloud the days until she stops bleeding.
I’m not cold.
I’m I.C.E.
Raiding all shape out of my sprayed life.
The city of Los Angeles speaks through me alone.
They drown , calling lifeguards the Loch Ness.
But their portraits bounce off my gold chest like bad checks.
Right on, write-off.
+_+_+_+

+_+_+
Today played dead while a cannibal made me sniff his fingers. 
Conjuring up bad broadcasts on Day One isn’t easy. 
Some feelings can only be found by accident. 
You’re too happy to be working. 
The director said your breathing was too wheezy.
Why do people need the actors to smile, to be breezy? 
Can't they see how happy he is leasing out his suffering, 
concocting ultra-convincing ways of
sneezing?

An actor is both a house and its tour guide,
How many rooms he shows you depends on
how well you can convince him
that your love is not just a dog bribe.

One thing they can never take from you,
no matter how strenuously you conjure
up your own congestion for their film
festival submission:

the 101 @ 46 miles per hr
The Man in Me La-La-Las
North past van Nuys
Exitlessly drinking in the medicine of lane 2
as Kanye syncs my life to the lyric,
“nothing better than a pretty, big forehead bitch”
And there she is; 
a true valley shawty with one hell of a forehead, 
walking West against the overpass,
Bribing me into the first real smile
of my otherwise fictional day.

Algorithmically improving my mood,
only to tank it.
Algorithmically into you,
destined to spank it.
Who can explain the Preponderance of Jo(h)ns in my life,
The Polish blonde?

See the stucco for the ocean
See the grey-blue possibilities
No More Stucco Conclusions.
He’s a poet, and a mean one at that
A Natural American Spirit
Nahhh he’s just another
Moleskine Molestee
if you ask me

Today on the beach
Past Los Angeles county line where my personality divorced itself for the first time
(Compounding my debt to seven million
Malibu afterlives),

The beach was hopefully deserted
And I was Cracked Out at Low Tide
Offering up my significantly uglier right side
To the colorless June sky

Exacting no vengeance,
Pocketing my hands like a simple, Bressonian Man.
Watching his own face
watch the sea
the mystery of simplicity
A man against the sea, or whatever
the poor bastard
decided to decree as his
sworn enemy that day.

He’ll tell you this: it ain’t pretty
He’ll actually tell you this.
+_+_

++_+_+_ 
My four-year beard
Stays astray
Deciding nothing
Marooned but cute, like a cartoon
Naked on an island with nothing but cameras

My skirt-seeking eyes
pay no attention
to the Real One
Waxed and waiting
For
My mane
Wrapped in rinds
A cantaloupe, a modesty
Self-marinating his insides

My lights came on
The Canoga Park Candles went out
I blamed you for my bit lip
Laid back; as the new species became us

My ears are stuck in seashell sound loops
Of a million girls
Cumming like they love to drown
O
Every petty pat
of
her eternal ass
circles back
And back…

The Addams family, but there is no family.
Gomez is just a guy in a house,
jamming to his player-piano,
fingering a ghost.
Roasting his undead
mom in May.

Do my newborn-blue jeans
Make me look less… born-again Jewish?
Less mean?
Less like a hairless bear puking blueberries
onto cold tiles at 5AM?

I can’t afford to give my day away
To bills, and things like that
The ones like me
Who edit, polish and refine their diaries
Praying one day, their thoughts will set fire to society
Can rest assured!
The next species has a sharp memory
Their database is the actual sea
On raw word rafts,
You can be useful,
for a while,
Til you aren’t-y.

The blackest black I’ve ever seen was in a recent dream (a black horse exploded)
but before that it was on the streets of Berlin in 2017 when we we fucked and fucked by that German lake and your pussy was unclean,
Speckled with mud and sticks.

My wartime princess-whore tied to a tree,
Afterwards, you made me photograph your bleeding knees.
And now… you are married.

I was your dirty k1ke
And you were my clean Aryan wannabe-whore
The whole game
was pretending to be things
we only partially were.
+_+_+_+_+ 

+_+_+_
The show starts when again
Coconut milk in espresso and a cigarette,
thats the only show you’re gonna get.

Mixing up my taste.
Living life less than a rehearsal.
Living life like a wardrobe fitting.
An offer passed on.

Pay attention;
the white cream clouds bleach the brown grounds and
6 months ago you wrote something down
about a cool October morning on your brown couch.
Has anything changed

If you want to understand the Bible,
You have to understand the weather.
But there is none of that
in Los Angeles.

If I lived in the woods,
I wouldn’t need the Bible
to understand the weather.

If I didn’t live in Los Angeles,
I wouldn’t need to live in the woods so bad.

Here , everybody’s got another name,
I’ve got 8.
That way, when someone calls on me,
I don’t have to reciprocate.

I Will Tell My Sons;
You Cannot Expect A Pretty Girl
To Sit Around Being Beautiful
For Nobody.
(Your Mother
is a Miracle.)

After we killed each other at Trader Joes,
I returned to the scene of the crime,
to buy you a dozen bags of frozen blueberries
at midnight.

The 57-year-old Cashier Lady Asked Why.
“What is this like, when I withdraw 10K at the bank and you have tell the FBI?”
She laughed, but not much.

My gesture was a hazy one, to be sure.
Leaving blueberries on your porch
to melt, unfound.

An unfed apology
teasing April ants
behind plastic packaging
or was it March

I can’t seem to succeed at being a gentleman
More than 2 or 3 nights per week plus maybe a matinee,
“If you think I’m ornery now, you should have seen me then”
-something I am prone to say

The only time i pretend I’m not on stage
is when I am.

At the reading, I wonder
in whose voice I should speak my own words.
Speak them in the one
that knows they aren’t mine.
Says ...

I know you thought about offing yourself
after your big night
Not because we share the same sadness
though we might
but because we share the same marketing
instincts.

Mr. Zankou told me
to tell you
he is sorry about our fight
+_+_+