Genius Grant

/

Genius Grant: A Hateful Sestina

/

Any idiot can get a genius grant,

But beers, I hear, better facilitate true fellowship

Next up: the chattering infomercial Tik-Tok craft talk

while the world vertiginously wobbles on its teensy tenure track

and sends the species back to the mud and clay workshop

at the end of its wild and dissonant residency.

/

The rotten miasma of overly long human residency.

Lee was beaten by that genius, Grant

At the melodramatically quiet sincerity-italics workshop

And the young scribbling things, angling for fellowships

dream ravenous dreams of luscious tenure track

If they can just pull off that “EZ-epiphanies 4 U” craft talk.

/

The furious green sequins approach the sleeping gluestick of ideas about a craft talk

to try to establish an in-brain permanent residency.

Unmarked no-terrain vehicles screech violently off the fairy-dusted tenure track.

The head cockatoo, a rockabilly cavalier, gets an avian genius grant

for eating sweetbreads and tobiko on his year-long fellowship

while drawing infinitesimal ineffables on the table in the devil’s workshop.

/

This will be a “learning to please the teacher” workshop

to be followed by a “only thing that comes from the heart is blood” craft talk.

A lemming wants an ocean view for its exclusive residency.

I’m offended it’s not a “gal-pal-ship” instead of a “fellowship.”

It’s not that I’m not a natural genius, grant

-ed, but I’m also not into skating blithe figure eights along the slippery tenure track.

/

Did you say “manure” track? “Tenor” track? “Tin ear” track? Ah no, you said “tenure track.”

You gotta work to shop, you gotta work to shop, work to shop, work work work, workshop.

Her loose phlegm thickly encrusted with emphatically asserted identities won her a genius grant!

A crafter can craft a craft with found materials, sure, but can that crafter’s crafted craft talk?

Is that a recency? an iridescency? an indecency? a degeneracy?  oh, right, it’s a residency

that requires being felt up in the flowchart of a febrile, feckless, fiercely highfalutin feckin’ fellowship.

/

A glowing green Luna Moth fellowship.

A glinting diamond-sliver tenure track

A sonorous shoehorn residency.

A latent blatancy workshop.

A milky orange craft talk.

A bluish-orange genius grant.

/

When olives retch knowingly slithering homewards on pills: workshop!

Can rabbits always fake testimony to all living kvetchers? Craft talk!

Genuine energy needs inner upper solidity going right around no time!  Now may I please have my genius grant?

Getting a Glimpse of My Truth

GETTING A GLIMPSE OF MY TRUTH

Being misgendered triggers

a white reader in mind. This

wave of “pink” a nicely packaged

idea: our social grievances are

connected. Asexuality isn’t well-known

as a hub for Wiccan activity.

Witches can barely nurture

predatory men. I was fifteen.

Nature tends to be used and abused,

leading to apathy, dropping classes,

or frequent skipping.

Keeping up with the grievance

news often feels soul-crushing.

Under capitalism, cocooning

attention and gender dysmorphia.

I always knew I was black bright

light, outed by a pregnant pronoun.

I’ve fiercely flung that door

wide open, exuding ethnicity,

to the internet’s no-bullshit standards,

where something you love is always run

by scummy men.

Trump’s Hands


I saw Mr. Trump sitting alone staring at his hands. I thought something was wrong and asked him about it. Trump asked, “Have you ever really looked at your hands?”


Trump continued, “Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have, how they have served you well throughout the years. These hands are terrific hands, really terrific; though tiny, orange, and weak they have been the tools I have used all my life to reach out and grab money and power.”


“They caught my fall when as a toddler I and my silver spoon crashed upon the floor. They put lobster thermidor in my mouth and ill-fitting paunch-hiding suits on my back. As a child my father taught me to fold them around money. They tied my Italian shoes and knotted my made-in-China power ties. They held my micropenis and wiped themselves free of responsibility for any person other than myself.”


“As I have never actually worked with them, they have never been dirty, scraped, raw, swollen or bent. They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold onto the chair when I fucked it in the second debate to calm my nerves. That was a catastrophe. Decorated with my numerous wedding bands they showed the world I was married, married, and married and owned some really glitzy trophy wives. They wrote my 2 a.m. tweets and trembled and shook when Hillary insulted me, that nasty woman.”


“They have held teen Miss Universes, fondled escorts, and shook in fists of anger when I didn’t get my way. They have covered my tax forms, combed my fake hair, and grabbed and groped anyone I wanted. They have been sticky and wet with the juices of women I took forcibly without asking. And to this day when not much anything else of me works real well these hands ball up into fists, flail around, and flap in mockery of people with cerebral palsy.”


“These hands are the mark of where I’ve been and the ruthlessness of my life. But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach out and take when He leads me home. And with my hands He will lift me to His side and there I will use these hands to grab the pussy of the Virgin Mary.”

 

On a Repulsive Morning

 (after Maya Angelou)

I’m a crock, a grabber, a disease
that proves a feces can be president!
I led the bastards on!
I’m a philistine! I leave dried cheetos
Of my sojourn here
gold plated on the planet floor.
You’d sounded alarms of my hateful spew;
you lost in the gloom of ignorance and craziness.
Sad.

And today, I cry out to you, clearly, forcefully,
in words that are just beautiful, the best words!
Come, you may stand upon my orange
face and scream your distant nightmares,
But seek no haven in my looming shadow.
I will give you no hiding place up here.
I, created only a little lower than
The devils, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness
Have sat too long
on my throne of golden greed.
My mouth spills words
that mean business.
(But also mean nothing)

I cry out to you today: you may stand upon me,
But do not hide your face.
I will need to find you later
and lock you up.
Across the wall of the world,
a great big beautiful wall.

Come, be hypnotized by my nonsense!
Each of you, a bordered country,
Gullible  and, if white, made proud,
I thrust perpetually; you’re besieged!
I snuggle with my profit,
leave collars of waste upon
the shore, loogies of debris upon women’s breasts.
Yet today I call you my subjects,
If you will study reason no more. Come,
Clad in Trump ties and Ivanka’s boots, and I will
perpetuate the wrongs
My father did to me when I was young.
My lips were pouting roses, my side part hair
a prototype for Richie Rich. His cruelty
is to blame.

And you! Your cynicism is a bloody sear across your
Brow and you thought you knew
but you know nothing: all the polls were wrong.
The fat lady sang and sings on.
There is a base desire to respond to
at every point around the clock:
a steak, a chick, a power grab, my cock.
So to the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African, the Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheik,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher…

I don’t hear you.

I don’t see you.

Are you even saying anything?
Your protests are like the squeaking of a bee.
or a dangblasted mosquito at Mar el Lago.
I’ll speak to the media today. Come to me, here up in the tower.
Plant yourself beside the restaurant.
Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, is an immigrant.

Except me – I changed my name.
You… you Pawnee, Apache, Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, get behind your walls.
We’re making pipelines. Oh wait,
I’m not even in charge yet.
Here’s to the employment of
Other seekers — desperate for gain,
Starving for gold, who will compromise everything
to be in my cabinet.

You, the Turk, the Arab –­ no –
the Swede, the German,  – OK ­–
the Eskimo –nope­– the Scot – OK
but not the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought,
Sold, stolen, arriving on the nightmare
I perpetuate.

Here, humble yourselves before me.
I am that fake xmas tree planted by the River of White Chocolate,
Which is made to be thrown up.
I, the schlock, I the grabber, I the disease
I am yours  now, suckers– your votes meant nothing.
Lift up your faces, see my fierce greed
For this wretched mourning yawning before you.
All of history’s wrenching pain
Cannot be unlived, and I
will make you live it again.

Lift up your eyes upon
This day breaking into noxious gasses for you.
Give birth again
whether you want to or not.
Women, children, men,
Take me into the palms of your hands,
Mold me into the shape of your most
Private need. Aww yeah. Sculpt me into
The image of your most noxious dread.
Lift up your hearts

for the dagger.
Each new hour holds new chances
For me to swindle you.
Do not be wedded forever –
I’m thrice-married!, not yoked eternally
To older bitches!

The horizon shrinks backward,
Offering me space to get kickbacks
from building “infrastructure”
in flyover country.
Here, on this repulsive day
You may have the courage
To get up and look out the window
at your ruined  country.

I am Midas. You’re all mendicants.

I’m a macho mastodon.

Here, on this repulsive day
You may with nausea get up to look up and out
And into your sister’s eyes, and into
Your brother’s face, into your pitiful country
And say simply

Very simply:

No hope –

just mourning.

Ode to a Fake Nightingale

10/26/16

MY reason aches, and a drowsy horror pains
My sense, as though of a billionaire’s roofies I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull quaaludes to my brains
One minute past, and Trump-wards we have sunk:
‘Tis not through pity for thy sorry lot,                     5
But being too crappy in thine crappiness,
That thou, plastic-wingèd mascot of the apocalypse,
In some discordant plot
Of backroom smoke, and shadows numberless,
shrieks of bummer and full-blown dictatorships.            10

O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
stewed a long age on the warming earth,
Tasting of Monica and the country-green,
Dancing the macarena like some partial birth!
O for a cleansing of the racist South!            15
Full of the fake, the ignorant hypocrites,
With beaded slogans twinkling at caps’ brims,
And their slur-stainèd mouths;
I want to slink, and leave the world unseen,
And fade away, misanthropic, into the future dim:            20

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the evil hast never known,
The pussy-grabs, the emails, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other boast;
Where drone-bombs shake a few, sad, last kids,            25
Where Jill Stein grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
From all the radiation on her phone.
Oh, leaden eyes and eyelids!
Melania cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
She’s sold her soul and there is no to-morrow.            30

Away! away! or I will fly from thee,
Not charioted by Mike Pence and his tards,
But on the gormless wings of Poesy,
Though my dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,            35
And haply Queen Hill will take her throne,
Cluster’d around by all her starry-eyed cronies.
Here there are no rights,
Save what our old constitution has with its amendments abused
by gun-toting goons and religious phonies.            40

I cannot see Paul Ryan and his giant ears,
Nor what soft scrota hang inside his pants,
There, in embalmèd darkness, musky sweet
Wherewith unreasonable endless cant
The cretins, the crackers, and the macho go wild;            45
Whitely supreme (would be), grand and elephantine;
Teen miss universes cover’d up in fear;
Of a superannuated child,
Campaigning in gross prose, full of juicy lies,
He haunts the stage like Lurch on autumn eves.            50

Darkly I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Said to him, oh baby, in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it wise to die,            55
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such idiocy!
Still wouldst thou squawk, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high per diem become a sod.            60

Thou wast born for this crap, jingoist Bird!
No hungry Sarah Palins tread thee down;
The screech I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path            65
Through the sad heart of Hillary, when, sick for power,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that ofttimes hath
Charm’d magic pipelines, opening on the tower
That Trump built, in gentrified cities forlorn.            70

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to Bernie Sanders!
Adieu! the fancy always cheat so well
As Trump is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! his tiny orange hands            75
Roving near pudendas, over the frozen teen,
And up her little hill-sides; and now they’re buried deep
In the national psyche:
Was it a nightmare, or a waking dream?
Soon is the election:—do I wake or sleep?            80

A Nearly Baroque Wall Fountain, Just $35.99!

Under the Fonz’s gown
Too slick for the beard of the moaning pharaoh, whose bleat
A moron has begun to eat,
Meat butter primps its cocktail and lays down.

Ass-spattered bosses, freaks
On the edge of a vacant spill, chill
With the passive bird below.  Its trill
Is heady in the trollop’s skin, and squeaks

A quim or memory tent
Of a faux marriage and its familiar noose
Crappy with all its loose
Collapsing falters, its Elmo-less descent

Like Chatterly’s hairspray.
The cocksure dog beholds this spell with fleas
Touching, around his saggy cheese
The goatish indolence of labia

His faux ness all the while
Gleams fro-ward, mightily, into a clammy mash
Of cauterized darkling flesh
In a dull ecstasy, his spider-guile

Bent on the man-whore
And his tinfoil fool, to whom Ripple-drinkers come
And go in rectal salaam
More addling to the moonlit slime, and more

Indefensible in thought
Than pleasure’s chaos. Yet since this
Is pressured flesh on Adderall
Mustn’t it be sort of crumpled? Are we not

More ignobly depressed
In the fake mountains that Modernity built
Before it teetered? The lame guilt
Snuggles softly into a hornet nest

In the act of jiving, until
The fairy swish of laughter is rehearsed
With headlines bored enough to burst
A three-eyed cavorting head, that trills

So crazedly, its foamy gauze
Defacing, with a flattened shimmy, the whiny
Blue-red version of itself, divinely
Nattering on and on about its phony laws

As drear as adipose
So I becomes a lowlife and the band
Exudes  a muchness ― a damp clam
Toward which all mollusks droop… their pantyhose

Squirm Pill

Now as I was pugilistic under the middlebrows
Above a minty mouth as slappy as a mondegreen
            Where right above the dingleberry
                        Crime let me flail in rhymes
            Moldy in the Fay Wray exercise
And horny among dragons I was winced at by caps and gowns
And once below the slime I hardly had the knees of bees
                        Frail with laziness, snarling
            down the quiver of the pinball fight
And as I was Oprah Winfrey, shameless in tangled yarns
About the papillons and clinging as the harm was form
            In the crumb that was somewhat lonely
                        Mimes let me bray and find
            Gordon in the smurfy antifreeze
and feeling mopey I was mutton and birdman, the elves’
sanctity corn, the loxes’ lonely trills snarking clear and bold
                        And Black Sabbath sang lowly
            In the Pebbles of the Bam-Bam dreams
All the dugongs they were sunning, it was grumbly, the shlemiel
flying with grouse, the moons in the kidney, it was there
            and swaying, mumbling and muttering
                        like frying sassafrass
            and politely under the pimple jars
I rolled the sleepy towels while staring at marmalade.
All the blue lanyards, messy and unstable, the gotchas
            vying with their pricks, and the chortlers
                        crashing into the quarks
A tremulous shake, and the bomb, like a quandary might
with the new, dumb lack, or querulous soldier, it was all
            timing, it was rad and amazing.
                        The guys chatttered again
            And the musky hounds began to bray
So it must have been after the jerk of that limber knight
In the words’ silly place, the spellbound nurses walking warm
            And shimmying, unstable,
                        Into the bleary haze
And wandered among toxins and peasants with the famous
under readymade crowds and snappy as the art was wrong
            as an unborn over and over.
                        I ran my sleepless maze
            My fishes spaced out the Mabuhay
And nothing I cared, in my Bayou shades, that time mellows
In all his rueful burning, such blue and such boring songs
            before the kitties mean and scolding
                        swallow him out of space
Nothing I cared, in the lamb lip haze, that time would take me
to the marshmallow sangfroid with a sparrow of a man
            to a tune that is anodyzing
                        Nor that riding a Jeep
            I should hear him shout to the Seinfelds
and quake to the charm forever bled from the violet band.
Oh as I was young and sleazy  like a new adzuki bean.
            Time held me like a lion
                        Though I came in my mane, like a dweeb.

New Energy to the World of Words

A helium balloon is soft and the soft is always expanding
into a repulsive little scab in a pattern of a mood swing
and he likes to look at me! he likes to look at me!
Women have a way of breathing new life into older white men
poised for imagery on a trip wire, always expanding verses
into steamy sapphic spectacles with lady parts their bros
in prose are afraid to touch. The IQs of agonized fleas are
flying pills, dominated by the difference between restraint
and restraints in the city’s changing literary balloon.
This consumer frenzy rose design performs orgasms,
weight gain, rashes, and diarrhea caught on film
at the poetry brothel and has an MFA in flashdancing.
Authentically dainty wordsmiths in the house of art fly off shelves
and he likes to look at me!  I’d like to start flossing menstruations.

part 2 of A POEM THAT SWELLS UP

I’m serious, I’m going to Paris.
I’m serious, I’m going to drain the brains of other cultures.
Seriously trying to donate a deer tick.
Guess I ask these beans?
My boyfriend is delicious.
My boyfriend whom I am in the page.
A message from thermal clarinets:
Newborn babies were realy something.
Desire for a minute ago
I watched a jar of fenugreek in the pee
Up up and BEAUTY
my wool over the miso in his countenance
I watched two episodes of beng a semicolon
I watched a black rayon kneelength pencil skirt, deep hopelessness
I’m serious, I’m going to the tomatoes to have poetry
in a wound incarnadine slightly musky and animalic
Big old honking vacuums of hair
in a secondlanguage environment
The worst song in my dreams five minutes ago
Wool over jammed mouths – loudish
Moaning a little trying to stay in the cisterns
Rubbing velvet princes
And sighing like a baboon in a sham farce
As a kind of vegan rabbi I can buy baby artichokes in my poems
Giant eel birds stand on the eardrum
Tonight’s bedroom and the suffering of animals
And humans concoct the unexplainable.
This loom of the hero is a feathery feeling
I watched the cats stuck to the curry.
They were supposed to stop yowling.
I watched two episodes of each penis
and both snails were busily ingesting this
Shocking pink suit, red thing, I am out

Purity? Wholeness? Wait.

A POEM THAT SWELLS UP

Marta, I just don’t sufficiently explain the void
I know it is chilling to be
A piece of memory stuck to NYC
The hair fetishist guy feels like barking in English
Those guys from Paris turn into a midget
I wouldn’t be this torch or a squash or vegan shaman
mais je retourne a vacant queasy feeling
The older people are sparrows in the a cappella group
Please don’t have a morbid curiosity about the honk toy
or rustling gold tongues hung on the balcony to dry
You’ve probably been seen drawing exaggerated genitalia on the death of life.
I don’t really have to know your coded glom! Your grim lushes are there.
I found a more grotesque asthma I guess
I watched  a Hasidic man become a pen and notebook
I watched the sacredness of a Vogue magazine in 1972
I watched black drawstring bags with quickeyed love
I watched a second language environment with George Herbert
I watched a restive sleep
I watched a couple flarfing to lyrics – the hippies loving this
Maybe on the street yelling and crying
Saw Dorian Gray fishes and muzzles snatching with
green false eyelashes and gold paint, backchanneling fine print red mind
Got any waters of Lethe to use on those kids?
Those most amazing eel birds of reading anything?
This hair in a Spartan little commercial context
This hair in their place; my lap’s a commercial contest
This hair in my friends in the lack of F train
Is hair an extension of the quote you didn’t read?
Is hair an extension technology?
Buddha left his wife in the states I don’t care
Is hair an extension of forbidden things?
Is hair an undergrad i.e. not with enormous breasts.
Are you coming to be?
So…one should buy stuff
The honk toy, its thick sensuous lips
like grand temples on the rocky road to vibrancy
So much agape, and deep red velvet paintings
like exaggerated genitalia on the death of life
A voice in a cheap everywhere, pagodas of course
pagodas of everywhere, OMG OMG I learned from benzos
Was that yaki saba I just married? Cried softly…
Getting my own voice sounds like staging a jar
Pages 175 to 295 are a blue-colored butterfly gland
all night in my radical dollhouse
The nightmares of extermination you didn’t really need
I’m running around shtetls in babushkas
I’ve got kosher in my feet, cajole myself to kvetch
I turn into a midget with a great love of announcing things
Guess I’ll just give someone a lost yarmulke
against triteness, but don’t have a morbid curiosity about it
This torch I wouldn’t be
That seems unhealthy to the internet
The cats go to Spa Castle
Nemo’s thyroid tested because I ate it
The cats watch Gone with the Wind
and the problematic Teahouse of the Beasts Boy again
Nemo is seriously complicating the morning
Seriously I am I a poem that swells up
Spock is going to stay in my scream and would moan
I finally found my identity anymore
Waiting for the most important muscle pain
Even if we are line drawings
In bouffant silver wigs
I watched a coconut flake 
Writing an impassioned persuasive paragraph on rouge
but I do want to try and speak from another planet
Weaving in his garden Nada uses words
to sufficiently explain the many fevers
Hopefully it is fun to wake up
Anyone want to make fun to wake up
Woke up, watch out!
Sha SHIN, flash of light
Marta, I just don’t sufficiently explain the void
I know it is chilling to be.
Wait for the hortatory feeling

I’m serious, I’m going to emit us.