MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017--part 89)
scent of the day: Nose Rest Day
MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 89)
Spiderman in the desert
the nerds now do the killing—via drones
a smoked aroma on the head of the vibrator weeks after the ice-cream-tub marathon
how to trust the doctor, so young, with your dying
the days of sweethearts in wallets rather than cellphones
not seeing that others suffer too means not exiting adolescence
even white male babies have as much value as crippled black ones—it is just a fad
before you shoot up whole theaters on the slide to suicide, remember it is just a fad
play-acting drunk, in a cash-only pinch, because sober sex is too serious
the whore dozing mid vanilla fuck, you only lengthen the ordeal by feeling bad about how long you are taking—either tuck her in or choke your way into the dehumanization that gets everyone off
septic clitoridectomies
embrace of transgenderism even as we reject transracialism
an addict’s promise to the mirror: “Just one.”
the medical prolongation of dying now a norm that would buoy Goebbels
meeting someone for the first time whom you have already beat off to: “Yeah slut!”
the moral alibi of a sofa blanket as you beat off next to the peekaboo toddler
merely because you are a good person you deserve to achieve something unrelated to being a good person?
famous war sites reclaimed by the bloom of flora
an addict’s promise to the mirror: “This will the last.”
even if you were born to be hanged, you could still be drowned first
what will the rest of us miss if you do not die?
their corpses sold for anatomy lessons, commodification— thorough enough to match Prairie-Tribe usage of buffalo— sometimes extended beyond the life of the “nigger slave”
donated bball jerseys that do not quite fit the kids on the block
play-acting drunk because who rides a stranger rubberless on the last train home?
if you are going to drop the n-bomb, do not come sheepish with it—full throat, from below the belly like secure singer
our inner voicing of the obvious to ourselves— that lady is beautiful—is to make it human-real and to carve a space to check if we are correct
no matter what you might hear, it is impossible to be a bad house guest of the World-All—unless, of course, we lower the bar enough to count spiders and lions bad
we could at least trust that the one who goes psycho does not work, or at least does not think he does, for the man—and so we elected the untrustworthy
would you be willing to hand your friend the kill pills were he to request them?
for whom, seriously, are all these photos interrupting our experiences?
play-acting drunk beneath Mom’s squirting cowgirl to spare her at the breakfast table
our constant rerun of some shame, although as normal in private as flying dogs in dreams, would look insane broadcasted on a news ticker
the dying-battery warble of cassette music
the body of the porn star seeming cartoonish up close in real life
the herb brought back that infectious laugh of the four-year-old
playing into the narrative of your opponents by rejecting the entire kind of which they are only a dinky species
shared interests have you believe the youth are on your side
the loved one etched so perfectly in your dream
at least you gave someone something to talk about
sold an air guitar with case not included
Botox says “I’d rather be a fuckbot cadaver than someone you can ignore”
if labor is entrenched as unendurable when epidurals become the norm, imagine what happens with death when physician-assisted suicide becomes the norm
enough people around that no one intervenes to stop the mugging
crazy we say are those who verbalize inner thoughts as do children in play
killed for being raped: out of sight out of mind
so much lying from the administration that the people do not even care anymore
men hung as ornaments from the photo tree
imagine blasphemy being a criminal offense
“I’m a good person,” you insist while mewling about not getting the job
teens pleasuring themselves to primetime actresses
on grounds that the political objective is most important, pre-planned answers to questions—questions different from those even asked—are given in good conscience
requesting help with the dishes as a pretense, thinly-veiled but too sad to recognize, for company— and even for a few seconds of shoulders touching
nurtured in nothing but nugatory talk (weather and sports), now it is easy at least to feel at home among strangers
cigarettes extending the fire season
drugs to prop up the withering charisma on which everyone was addicted
however noble the activities, escaping into them does not change that you are complicit in the family’s disintegration
suspicion that community-college teachers and male nurses are ball-droppers—inadequate, perhaps even possessing a criminal record—disseminates even among themselves
might it help to remember that the so-called “ugly cry” is human-all-too-human?
a timorous look over the shoulder before unshelving the self-help book
the dead hand still warm
patronage on one condition: that he be painted—just in the background, of course—in the resurrection scene
to fail to use your nonX platform of privilege to speak against racism against X people is itself racism, and yet to speak too loudly is to elevate your own voice over X-people as if—in an appalling display of racism—you feel you have the right to speak for them
awed humble before Mt. Fuji when above us the whole time was that colossal void of black
needier for your attention the more absorbed you are in what fails to involve them
