Rihanna Rolling a Blunt on Her Bodyguard’s Head
Sitting secure on shoulders Ripped sweater
brushing stoma off as expurgated phrases
flick by twenty million normals take note
how we all see Again we figured out
black people are onto something Call it
every time I’m, topped off the way I like it
Fox news versus fun-to-watch Fox shows six to nine
and, that girl looks so good she
looks like something out of the page like
she could be Tom Buchanan’s mistress.
Go on sing to me write fan fiction about
the hundred million dollar toy auctioned to a record
then offered to a museum for the public’s benefit
where we each have our own thoughts about it but
the mic’s not mine
If Disney’s the new Medici we
can’t all be Michelangelo. We can’t all read the book
everyone’s talking about or be friends with who
we want to befriend Ultron Voltron Coltrane
Coldplay I love you supreme babe I
swerved out of traffic to get home to you
kismet brought me this far laid me down secure
in my masculinity Realizing what if these people
we worship are horrible and just hide it really well?
make me a hologram Of a hologram, double
tap me on fight night and write it in the lede
how most of us aren’t yet ready how good
we are at getting good at what we “hate.”
On Heat & Energy, as Something Omnipresent Relating to the Human Body
Obsessively reading Kant with the phone off,
locked at home to capture the quiddity
of a work nature shaker mover
near smacked on the front side of the head
punched myself.
So people love cynicism these days
and are repelled by hope. It fits the mood
to gaze into the black fathomless abyss.
“Hope you don’t drop the soap.” Ass rape joke
normalized.
Quotidian male looking for rock solid advice
to go with a rock hard body. Feels like durance
but it’s not, and this living—being somewhat
free breathing air shit is great it’s really
for gods.
Everything’s changed but the process.
Electric idea sniping quietly; can you
scare this ghost out of my house?
The non-tick of her heartbeat
goes counterpoint to living.
I can’t exist here. I will get high & be
a guitar antihero till I pass out. The
children egged my car and the shells
they are part of me, my cracked fluid
skeleton.
On the Sabbath I won’t wrestle relationships
down to the sooty ground dark as anthracite.
Big hits sung knocked out of the park—
ella ella cerebellum, we rats cheep to make
Forbes.
List eight pieces of advice from famous Stanford
commencement speeches and put them in line, so I
can ignore them all. The universe does nothing for me;
it’s random, chaotic. Speak to it slow, drop whispers
into its void.
