Make me a sandwich my neighborhood.

Cleveland invades Cincinnati.
My friends are coming down tomorrow and all I can think is,
"Oh shit."
I spent 18 dollars on a mercury Virgin statuette.
This is getting stupid.

Kitten Pepper Kryptonite

By Avril Thurman and Kelly Tadge
{I may have taken some liberties here, I can't transcribe my own handwriting}

You lack your lip off a riger mortis, unnaturally nothing.
Your body isn't the land, this defecates you.
A sedentary cacophony to one horse staying.
The bed stains out your giving redness.
A sun isn't the albumen, this deshells them,
After you aren't cowering from good, an ill-designed, offbeat choice.
Or a sufficient sound expels thatself around a ribbon,
A sound, this dots thatself for a cloud, dislikes the mathematician.
Or non-affliction can gesticulate from affliction.
Spelling your kiss off a dictionary from space,
You forget where that isn't, of rejoice,
Or suffocate doom outside a monolithic pour, a recluse.
Or this you mustn't ravel yourself from, a lamb's loss from heaven.
Or banging unusual, old pavements off a sunny front, bastard writer.

so obviously what I mean to say is that

Gliff is my new favorite word, followed of course by gloam. I also keep slopping back and forth between like and dis of Chris Martin's poems.

FunctionalDespondency = I didn’t sign up to be the party pooper, it just kind of turned out that way.

The goose accidently crossed the freeway. His body froze of rushing’s foreign feelings. His friend watched as the semi truck clipped the lower half of the other goose’s body, spraying feathers like dandelion seeds across the highway, catapulting the body to a heap of bird beside an unforgiving road.
“Oh look, how sad.”
“Poor bird.”
“Road kill.”
“Gross.”
Words feign sadness to be polite.
The other goose was left stunned and confused, squawking a requiem of un-flown flights for his fallen soldier. He too will not return home, byway-highway’s have avian hungry jaws, sticky like tar and permanent like tire tracks.
Why couldn’t they just remember how to fly back to some glassy lake and make bird-love and have bird babies?
I am the goose, the goose’s forlorn friend, the highway, and lakes of the deepest azure. I am going to be heartsick forever.

I try not to make sense: I make too much, I try to make sense: I make too little

When the Sun Tries to Go on Again (or "Come Hither Palindromes and Hear the Sleeping Rats Groan):

And entirely without the couch, I sit my ass on a floor of pins,
facing empty, white, European, oceans,
of love, life, liberty, and O! Destitution!
Your cream-white, milk-fat face,
is a scab on the sacrament. Tampons!
Catch the old men's befuddlement, "Oh dear Billy." When
the boy's stomach crawls out of its belly hole, giggling.
It's believable, this unbelievable fraternity of shit.
Out house out past! The earth belches, madam,
and imposes a salty watermelon on your otherwise perfect lawn-
Furniture! Why is she asking these questions
of nothing-going-here-today? Hootenanny, can the paperboy
really be your mother's lover? If "Farewell to Arms"
meant the absence of said limbs. How now
the brown cow m-Ow-s, beside its dirty pilgrims. Of Lust!
O, I feed the patriotic song of an injustice sandwiches
of the finest ham! The "rushings past" of a million's
"passed (past) gas" sits down to bed one warm winter's
morn. Uroxicide! and beaches of the finest
pronunciation. And how, to be crunched in those
sneering jaws of- Gesticulation!
The hills are alive with the sound of urination,
and I ask your mother how she dared birth you.
Oops.

My rats go apeshit whenever I play Slayer's Reign in Blood or Lou Reed's Transformer; whether with love or hate I can't tell

Hey Mr. Dennigan, I think we (humanity, you, me, chicken, kitten, and rooster)should stop waxing poetic on our fellow unknowns including our own year eleven thousand and one as in A.D., after death, Anno Domini which means the same thing even if you've neglected Christ as your lamb-chop and saving grace. To quote the old adage, "We always think other people's parents are nicer than our own, but we always think our grandparents are nicer than other peoples." But what really isn't an adage at all, but something I overheard in a movie once.
Lo and Behold! I quote a lesser known about our woes dear Dennigan, sir and friend: "We live our lives based on images of things instead of real things." Oh and look fast because here comes another one, your way: "And who knows why we believe in things or why we believe in people." Which is right on outta sight and that's why I don't believe in myself, but let on that I think you could do anything, become an astronaut.
Simic, man, watch out for the sink hole quality of thinking. Advice for the ages. And Revell, my real moss grows over wild work, so you've written it down all wrong and ack basswards, maybe you should just stick to your translations. And oh, oh, Mrs. R-r-ruffles have R-r-ridges Mary Ruefle, is your refrigerator running because you'll never catch up with it.
My love in bigger than your love and sign off and out.

I pronounce myself poet laureate for the anti-states

I keep thinking about Fletcher Street in Philadelphia, and those one hundred horses sandwhiched between ghetto and those kids with the melting faces and not their "I want" mentality, but their "I need" mentality, their childhood sticky fingers completely justified. And that unnerving thought process brings me way back when to my baby years, walking through North Philly with my friends in search of some house show (8pm! 3 bucks! Asshole Parade and TBA! Free Brews - which were long gone and empty bottlenecks by the time we got there) telling everyone that I was 100 percent sure I smelled horse, the odor of which is tattooed onto my senses, and they all said this is ghetto and not cowboy territory but now I know, and I toy with the notion of calling those boys to show them just how wrong they were. But the two whose numbers and friendships I still have would not in anyway remember that and why should they.

A secret lulling to the black cowboys of my dreams and the ones I saw on Vine a month ago, giving pony rides to white kids on the sidewalk and in weedy parking lots. And a ballad for those hungry carriage pulling horses of downtowns across the nation, having to shit in a bag and listen to the drone of traffic and feel hard and not soft underfoot. Oh Oh Oh, goosebumps and a tear for all you grass munching beasts.

A lesson for years to come: anything in an unusual pocket is beautiful.