Saturday, September 21, 2013

Skip Fox

“Why the need for all the protections?” (all these and more ...

I wonder what would it be like to be the guy about to get horribly
tortured then killed pain straight to the grave for no good reason,
maybe I'd tried to skip as they say but I'm innocence-on-a-stick
(almost) so I ask the man if he couldn't just let me go after all
things being nearly the same as I frantically try to think of ways I
might be of assistance to him but my world's on another planet (as
always) so I attempt to pull some lame existential shit out my ass
one last time but it doesn’t work he just laughs and says You gotta
be kiddin’ Where's your guts man? & for the last bit I get there fast
so fast I surprise myself Can't we just skip the torture part and get
to it? I wouldn’t’ve believed my own ears if it wasn't for the truth 
my mouth had been saying but he’s already thinking something
else as he turns leaving me to a silence shaking with anticipation
surrounded by goons muscle iron facing the inevitable fast ap-
proaching the past disappearing beneath the near term there is no
long term caul of ever-present absence blinding the little left
of living’s eyes yes I wonder what it would be like to be poised in
that exact moment alive to enormities never previously imagined.


Skunk Blue 

and Slippery Butt back slappin' ya smack on the flat of your face
with a fat fish, muscles back, pissin' up your caboose like a tranny
vaudeville act with grisly mugs, shark blue, a darkened revolver
sheen beneath their eyes, bagged like dead game, tutus sprouting
swollen clits the size of little league baseball bats, gnarly shafts
bloated with veins. (Their holes are monstrous and blind, their
minds. . . ? Imagine what a cliff of ice looks like to someone
encased in it for an Arctic ten-thousand-and-one nights. All the
characters out of some hideous children's book, the kind I
would write, where the village idiot never becomes the sage whose
wisdom far exceeds his cultural coordinates, but a merely a small
town drunk, incontinent, a whiny child molester. Invariably. No
remission, none, much less redemption. Nails driven thru reader’s
skull, dick and nutsack. Like Paul Bowles, only not so squeamish.


what is it, the future, to save for? when has it done
anything for us? thus our complaint lightens evening
into night where the sullen blackness of furies gather
as neon stutters thru a small seasick city, staccato, goes
sudden dark, as in an old film, wind slashing strips of
fence-line along the coast, crashing on cliffs to the vast
irregularities of surf, sea, and wind, nearly the self-
same rhythm shuttling through summer’s airy season
like the return of something lost, otherwise flashing
in & out of existence, a shimmer, that which we nearly
can’t see, especially since it may be directly before us,
certain, diaphanous in distance, native to the condition,
a starry crest wound with winds like words where
creatures rise from what it is we think we came to see.


Birthday Card for the New Millennium

your ass in the sling of the song
they found a cure but not for you
and the elements are hysterical with
laughter precisely at your expense, so
what do I care? surely not enough even
by twice the amount minus your minims,
or, . . . do we really need another year?

Angelou, step the fuck aside!  A child can write greeting-card circles around you with your dying
animal poetry and roadkill prose. Case in point, here's one for the new parent:

For the New Parent

You inconsiderate swine!
I can't imagine the presumptive
bloat that would be required to believe
that the world needed another you in any form
much less a living creature who might do as great a harm
to his or her social and psychological environs as you have
to yours, reducing the quotidian richness of possibility
branching from each moment to your petri dish of
naked motivations and we find ourselves
struggling to recalibrate to compensate
for the sudden shift of weight
towards man's crudest
state and it makes
more and more
sense to live
only with


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