
four poems from the Psychotic Notebooks
NOT A LUXURY:
WHEN HE SAYS HE DOESN’T LIKE BIG WORDS
HE MEANS HE DOESN’T LIKE POVERTY
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a poet called another poet a merchant of sugar
and we just looked at each other
cycles of holding and being held
haggling for a sound mind
the curtain offers me definition
to hell with symbols I want the real
that painting
once from a standing perspective
or Pollock
and his canvas on the floor
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a new chapter of the kama sutra
“my Own Private Idaho”
rented but never watched
attentively enough for the discussion
a willingness to move to the US
“phone’s dying” friends
I need fewer
“Phone’s dying” friends
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my mouth bubbling underwater
the narrator mentions me by name
I am the cliff hanger
for one of a thousand nights before slaughter
having asked more questions than I have answered
in the city within the city I swerve
among the cacophony of the tunnel
an ocean within an ocean
the dung beetle on its knees
in front of a pile of shit
or the suicide hotline
and its hold music
watch out !
I am not a mountain
but the sand in your sandals years after the beach
the viral memory of an ex-
fellated in darkness
once upon a time
the narrator mentioned me by name and I
was the consequence of desire
in the city of escape-artistry
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I am dressed for the poem
it doesn’t take much to forge new memories
the pitch-darkness of the cradle
and the flour’s ghostly shape on the ground
the nationally defined sabbath
and its afternoon boredom
wishing to be a moment on Television
hushing the entire world around
kneeling on University avenue
a gun
and an immigration’s exit wounds
tired of bus-size projections of well-being
be right back
I have fireworks
knocking at my door