Half up the arcade stairs,
the old heavy blue halo
crunching down on us,
earthquake roar, hurtle,
hurricane, heads up,
you speak in tongues on
a cartoon RPG religion.
Our feet stuck to wooden
planks, I set my fishbowl
drink down, sloshing pink
sludge, and repeat after
you three small mantras:
rhythm, respect, and


covered in ketchup and mustard
grassy motherfucker with crab’s claws
claws and grovels into the dirt behind the abandoned
contemporary art building
the old El Nido Triangle,
unburies his – 100th bible – while
buskers and babes watch from the misty sidelines
moaning and sighing in sign,
moist waffles, moist in the puddles of mud–
Steven Howard Jr., now Sony
executive Dr. “Crab” Spencer,
freelance child psychologist,
who reduced his whole train staff into
biblical pages, paces around the office,
its sandy beaches vacant and holy,
et al. Read More

“Can you spell that? I can’t
Think today…” so the receipt girl
Tears a receipt and writes ZANZIBAR
On it, warning me it only works sometimes

I leave a Hello Kitty visual cue on the table
As per the rules of having your coffee and
Drinking it too but Boy #2 seems to not notice
And the code doesn’t work and I rode

The number 2 bus all the way here and my
Sexual desires are comprehensively reviled
And I probably find myself revolting My only
Remaining option is to send hand-drawn

Pictures of my ballsack to some kid’s Gameboy
While I’m driving oh! if only I had a car so
Please, Please let me have another chance
I’ll even do the whole interview again

I swear it’ll go better this time I
Swear I am Fresh to Death I swear

WEST CAMPUS, out of my league:

far below us, kids our age scramble around a
frozen vodka fountain in the dim plaza,
their laughter immense but barely audible, their
search for eternal youth lengthy and sudden.
Stoic, he closes his blinds until only
an orange halo filters in from outside,
illuminating these Oxford sheets,
scratchy, unfamiliar,
, enveloped in pale high school musk,
the occasional wool sock.
A soft whir hums out of the play
station and that
green beep, tumbling disc spinning
on its axis,
a chair dragged across the chipped floor
accompanies his bright mumbling. For
a moment, all is chthonic,
teenagers holding their breaths…

…But Then:
the shattering rumble of the
start screen floating mid-flight
somewhere beyond iridescent
narrows into the harsh glare
of the tv screen,
bouncing back images of a lone idiot
dashing down Kowloon descending into Hell.
“Should I kill
these guys?”
Four tribal hollowed-
out men stand static in treetops, prostrated,
unconcerned, diseased, and in prayer,
my eyes droop for hours, my brain,
steady, my dick–

“Do you want to go to latenight?”

“What time is it?”

In a foreign eatery with gravel floors, my
head on the table, dizzy, he pours us seltzer
and we make fun of and adore four
prostitute girls, je t’adore, je t’aime then
like soil we return to his dorm room. My
sneakers are still wet and
we’re both wearing matching gray jackets.
In the underground tunnels, hooded gypsies
carry baskets of laundry on their heads and
winter’s howl throttles
thin black window panes and I
shiver and swallow my gum
and finger for my phone and remember at 3am I’ll
be out there, dashing and
cursing my luck.

“Lines and prose and text and dance
relates back to something,” Meepo reads, a
post-modern Wagnerite proverb from my Panic!
at the Disco stickered notebook, circa 8th grade.

Perusing Pale Fire in our chagrin casket while avoiding dish duty,
my thought
process adds in both Panic! at the and Das
, but what about the littered girl bodies?
What about the thrashing torrential snake demon
evolved from magic carp?

“How can I relate that to the other stuff?”
Ghastly ShitCup mumbles over
grey grits and peanut butter banana slices.

the cafeteria implodes for the third time that week,
and the grand wizard circle just shrugs it off and
tells everyone to go back to eating.

“Anyway, it just doesn’t all add up like that,”
Pound continues, wiping debris out of his Hitler
Nearby, Dirty Town is evacuated again.
I stare at the slop on my tray and I swear it moves,
their siren sure and rumbling.
It really
didn’t add up, did it?

Apocatastasis for our
bookshelf, look! in
our greasy lofty mirrors:
Surf can see me flex pyramid thighs
and navel forced out of granite,
triangular carbon alloy,
right below something else thick
and full of rust and sand from the depths of
Damascus, harvested off the back of a
great breathing,
slobbering underground mess.
Sheathed sinews beneath purple retro-future
boardshorts bring about the angriest gay love since Rimbaud’s
cerebral nothing,
so I guess I’ll toss
‘em in the chimney pyre, these uncut books. A
brutal shadow stretches
tall from beneath my titan’s
feet, unable and unmovable,
muscle bound, heavy weight.
Immoral manuscripts abound around us
both, I think, and I haven’t
written a love poem in over
four grim years. But how
I write, and how can I
think, when all I really want are
six pack abs and
Muslim gold
around my

pissing on everything that isn’t ESRB rated
as I look for a table to brood
by the window
until I get to section ten or eleven,
I see this real sad guy reading Plato
and he’s stuffing his face with fried chicken
and loathing the existence of Socrates
over dinner with two dopey lackeys.
So my nose slips off my face,
my fingers start to stink,
and my heart might stop completely,
but what I’ve got is freedom
from that exhausted latin tyranny.
At home: I pull a textbook from my shelf,
a pink and blue one,
then another, and another, and realize that
each of these stupidly expensive tomes
are textbooks
for the kinetic and weak.
My essay: paraphrase Cliff Huxtable telling
his wife about
how the children fought him
for years because of
an unconscious desire to own the
house. Flashback a hundred
and twenty years to poor Nietzsche
reading the dialogues
and skimming over Euripides and
constantly wracking
his teen brain, gnashing his teeth over two
thousand year old land deeds.
What would a Deku Scrub give you
for that kind of real estate?
Which sitcom informs me of this?
Is it Three’s Company?