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CANTO XXIII
man, these baby saurs in godzilla
nearly rip off matthew’s face while reno
steel dicks out double doors
but lip service must be licked—
“these feckers in hollywood need to stop remaking
foreign films” made once that’s enough, capisce?
if everything exists as both particle and ray
then we are always alternating between little fireballs
and large muffins thermal pairs
crispus crispus crispus what’s
a father to do? you’re in a state
of denial: what’s hot? getting $100
off a dress: get dressed! urban
eye pope on a rope damage control
worn down by years of fighting over ireland
we’ll keep it short and sweet so you can
too phil spector seal inspector mrs. dallas
said i was exotic for an eleven-year-old
quarks pions waves of radiation
bubbles of plasma mesons baryons
noodles springs strings bands
the concession table has just enough for extras
talent doesn’t need to scarf up the balance
close-ups of burps chewing gum focus tape
you’re smarter than i think?
aren’t you in this movie?
who won’t praise famous men?
people too callas not nin faint fonteyn
beaton glitter gala giggle faster better
gallura guts gander grown gape
greatly stranded in sardinia
stuck in a foreign country deep
in the pitch bedeviled back again
donadio sd/ “how can anyone predict the future
when it’s so hard to predict the past?” looky
is + that + all + you’ll + eat? christ!
trees are for climbing, and books are
for throwing—rabbits have christ!
linger not lightly loose yet freighted
with lead like frati godenti capons
of christ rule the demise of uberti
tread lightly on caiaphas and annas
who lie like their father who lies
lost generation like the last one
genx from what ypres torn
once upon a time we watched bowie
slink across the wall at dc space
search for a clear glass of still
water and let his mind wander
back to that barren sandscape
that might have been mars or mojave
whichever he's just escaped or abandoned
as the first trans trans hermaphro
spacedude allowed to splash himself
onto 35mm without priors or bona
fides to represent his talent as strictly
celeb no vita attached nor no resume
backing a headshot presented to warners
et fils instead spread out pistol forth
and glass backward waiting to be
filled at some trough deep in the desert
like another alien in "petrified forest"
leslie howard he returns love for lead
if i could name a fruit for you
t doesn’t stand for me
it’s the cover of the nyt
style mag “ahead of the curve”
spring 2007 with a tiny “vinyl”
blue cutie hair pulled back—looky
like thom yorke’s girl daiane
but set in sao paulo copan blue
patent leather at $2475 by ghesquiere
then blue on page 3 a pure mope
dude in invisible pool bummed
by his visa bill, i guess, then page 5
calvin’s two kids browned off
on page 6 the guy leaning on a suitcase
is really really a werewolf preparing
to rip the guts out of pertwee in scotland
and my mom thought i was an exciting tour
de force but i liked best to dig holes
in the yard cutting edge symmetry o of o
down where the trolls might go
particle zoo bottles of yoohoo
supersmell quarky dumbified mrs. dallas
thought i’d make a great jockey
cause i was diminutive and she had
horses for harry potter to ride kittens
to cuddle and neutrinos to melt cause atoms
aren’t invisible just small like tiny billiard
balls on god’s snooker table plus i was pisces
with webbed hands and scales from psoriasis
swum deep deep deep floated positive
buoyant as flowers or laurel or lilies or pads
or hyacinth or cattails or grease or the faroes
no, the czech workers utopia no, the mash-up
whether an act of love or greed
to grant all earthly power
through breath and bone
crispus’ da removed to greece
evil began when jealousy unquenched
read reports of foreign entanglements
unknotted and nodded to executioners dispatched
such without theory have all fallen
when polymorphous present succumbs
in the throat of eternity
should we have pinned constantine—
and would that have saved his son his wife mother
not a frigg’n song to sing about crispus
worse crispus sunk to limbo
while his da rose to martian prominence
when wheel rolls downward for you to stop
when bone turns deep in the mountain’s door
when breath blows hard in your face
fairway in dubai no bohemian beijing
no rotterdam no umbrellas up the wolfie’s butt
leaning just so teeth sheathed
tennis and no socks shirt untucked just so
global gambling pod hotels street threads
maxwell’s silver hammer father ado
in the yard SUSY o of o
down where the trolls might go
particle zoo bottles of yoohoo
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