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.

Eliot Ness was a fucking mess and...

A leader of the prohibition movement in Chicago, an alcoholic, a Cleveland legend, and a rather tasty beer. I could tell you about 8 billion more inconsequential facts about 8 billion inconsequential things. Instead of doing work I should do I look up Norwegian black metal bands (Gorgoroth, Dimmu Borgir, Immortal, Mayhem, etc.). I know I am not the only one who takes them seriously. I am also trying to find an article on my youngest half-brother's Grandfather, who stabbed his wife to death (who would have been my brother's Grandmother) in the late 70's. Nothing.

What's important here is that I've decided to write an epic poem that would shock the likes of both Pound and Koch, make them feel the sheer ridiculousness of this even in their deaths. I will use words I don't even know the definition of and they will be big and weird and important. Come find me in 30 years or so to see how its coming along. Thus far, it hasn't even metamorphosed itself onto paper; It's just a sad little egg in my sad little head.

I'm also going to drop out of art school and open a brewery. My brewing years will be the best years for my ongoing poem. I promise to let all of you have running tabs at the bar, tabs you will never have to pay. Free beer is an endorphin.

I need to stop pretending to be rebellious now and read. Wait, let me use the word fuck here at least once and I will feel better. Okay, better now. Farewell and be kind.

David Bowie understands me.

And it suddenly hit me; it's okay to be leaving everything, I will always be back, ya dig?

If you have the opportunity to listen to the writer read their shit, do it. All those stupid bricks fall into their stupid places 8000 times faster.

Tinamou: little foxes, are you shitting me?

In place of books, I would like a pair of hot Nike Dunks. I'd rather look fly than read.

Oooooooooh, we love Aladdin Sane.

Mission appropriation done. If anyone feels like reading the Story of the Eye for the 21st century, hit me up.

I haven't even been trying to touch that Koch poem. I hate Koch's contemporaries.

See above, a.k.a a bold faced lie.

I used to think Anon. was a person, an extremely prolific writer.

Would it be a problem to name a girl Bronson?

Today is Friday, and I've totally got it on my mind.

Sincerely,
Anon.

Teenage dreams so hard to eat:

What if we rewrote every novel into a flash fiction piece? Imagine the Fountainhead in two to three pages. Ayn Rand would be a god if she could get the same amount of information down in a novella, let alone a short story, let alone a lightning-short short story. Ulysses made into a short blurb. How about non-fiction. Biographies slashed and diced until you have several pages that illustrate so and so's life even better than the previous 600 paged monster it was before. Tolstoy, eat your heart out. Your books would suffer the same fate. Or would it really be an improvement?