Category: ___________ Me, Jesus!


Call it epidemic mass hysteria

dripping through the “aw, shucks”

futile hands that raise a barrier

in prayer to the national jugular

vein, a limp, frowning Jackson

Pollock, classify it, deconstruct

it, but never forget the practical

issues at play here, as in, wait

a minute, do we ever find out what

becomes of those beautiful dream-

ers plucked from the mind’s eye,

or are we left with nothing but our

dread, our week of stasis, disrupted

digestion that will carry any onus but

the burden of proof, I suppose, and

is it so wrong to imagine a pleasant

little slaughterhouse built on the edge

of the bleeding Soviet clouds just before

twilight, truly they have come here to

help us, “snatch” is too pejorative when

you are this weary, by God, they have

come to do the hard stuff, I shall be

only too pleased in the pod, raising

crystal hallelujahs, this invader, he has

given me my life back, given me everything!

404 me, Jesus!

They say you can find anything these

days, and I cannot help but imagine

it more classically, a romanticized

web of truth in the sky or underground,

light as air but dense with meaning.

 

Is it wrong to be this blue, to communicate

without understanding, sign without

significance, speak without knowing?

 

Not found, never more lost than when

I am sure somebody must be looking.

 

Tell me, why don’t you, if the error

is really in what I was looking for,

or in ever having searched at all.

can you give me some reason for faith

to triumph over reason (get get get away,

satan, it is written) can you turn my water

into (keep the good wine til later i’ll take

rum bourbon brandy vodka til I see the proof

myself) can you get rid of at least some

of these homosexshuls (just Adam, it will

hurt Steve all the more to be left in silence)

can you (flyyyyyy me to the mooooon, let

me dance among the staaaaars) can you

make me a more sophisticated argument

than look at all the atrocities committed in

your name (crusades, um, the other ones,

give it a rest for Chrissake sorry about the

blasphemy) can you (I know you can but

will you, is the thrust of this whole thing)

can you make me want to stay (with you

you mean ol jezebel) can you look me

in the eye and tell me what this has begun

to look like can you tell me: get away

That’s right you pussy son of a bitch,

don’t fuck around with any faggot P.C.

pidgin, doesn’t the motherfucking shock

at least resemble truth somewhere along

the line? Maybe the truth is we were

damned to original sin the first time some

cunt cocksucker ever said nigger. No, don’t

blame it on the language, we’ve been

vivisected for millennia of kikes and dykes,

since slope was just an obstacle and

chink was still a weak point, and they

persist as such in a way, but don’t, don’t you

motherfucker act like cutting all this

bullshit out of the jargon is enough, you

avant-garde mewling asshole. Take a sharper

tool, go for the whoreson’s throat, my mind,

your mind, and dig it out until your vision

catches just one raw and bloody color, red

rainbow, but you better be ready, ready

for pain like this, motherfucker, ready to feel

it sting and bite as initials and symbols and

bleeps and substitutions, ready to learn

just how original your sin really is, ready to

repent, to pull it from your heart, glistening.

— Jiminy Crab Cakes, what in the name

of all that is good and, like, you know,

fucking holy is that thing?

 

 

— It’s, ah, looking right at me, the kind

of stare that lays bare ones innermost

conviction that Descartes was full

of shit, that we need better proof to

argue our existence on a world that

could produce this, ah, thing that

is currently giving me the willies.

 

 

— A fucking cicada? You think it’s a

fucking cicada? Why don’t you come

look at it? It’s got these like, oh God,

are those veins coursing up and down

its flanks as it lazily kicks one segmented

leg in the air? Those are firehoses, deep

sea oil pipelines, autobahns engorged

with sticky black traffic.

 

 

— I’m not going to, ah, touch it.

 

 

— Ugh. It’s like squinting at me somehow.

I can’t smell it, but I’m confident that if I

moved my face closer, it would reek like

the tomb. I find myself inevitably doubting

the awkward, fumbling advances of those

who insist on Nature’s master design plan

coming from some sort of creative intelligence.

 

 

— Or if it did, he/she was having one hell of an off day.

 

 

— FUCKING A, LET ME BACK IN THE CAR!

 

 

— I’m the coward? I’m the coward?

Did you see it fly at me just then? Miss

Stay-in-the-goddamn-Datsun-and-watch

is forced to conclude that I am the coward

in this relationship from her lofty perch.

 

 

— Great.

 

 

— You know, I really think that may

actually have been a cicada.

When the inner landscape is fecund and fertile,

radiating poorly organized potential, there is nothing

left for you but to plummet. Facefirst is the way

to go, to wear your old forgotten playthings like

a tribal mask painted with a permanent frown

that sobs violent red down your chin. You had

forgotten they were even in here, these kowtowing

ghosts of places you once sat in cross-legged circles.

Even first kisses and break-ups are sepia photographs

with the faces erased. Remember when you thought

all this shit was the key to answering the big question?

But really, who’s to say if you were wronger then or now?

You have changed in the minute iterations of clockhands,

but you were deceived, millennia must have passed by

now, and once you’ve started, it is too late to undo

all of this rooting through the trash heap. The nature

of the game has changed: to somehow wear these

tattered garments proudly, or to shut the dumpster’s

ridged black gate, somehow pretend that rusty whimper

doesn’t sound just like your name on the putrefying breeze?

 

I carry complexes wholesale, you might

say I’m very complex, American voyeur

yanking his own, uh, chain to high class

neurotic art, but this guy I talk to whose

sports jackets look like my uncle’s beetle

wings painted in tweed, he tells me all kinds

of empowering things, like “did you know you

can own a gun in this country?”, and if I keep

comparing like a real capitalist, one day I’ll

grow up to be the most ferventest Ouroborous,

eat enough of me to disappear, “you’re better

than this inferiority complex, son!” but isn’t

that a scary thought, is this one of them sliding

scale type things, don’t push it too far, the winner

will be the one who bids the closest without going

over, and winner, that’s right, “there are winners

and losers son, so tell me, which kind are you?”

How about don’t call me angel of the morning

until your eyes know for sure that the thick rim

of light you see is just an inker’s outline in the sun’s

calligraphy pen. Even gas prices being what they are

doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it, sprinkling

myself with pungent, biting ritual meal. This will

be on TV when you watch it with your toddler,

but they have to grow up sooner or later, and we

may as well all get this party started on my terms.

Call me bedtime for bonsō. Call me martyr.

Call me anything you want, just don’t call me

late for dinner! They say it doesn’t even hurt,

asphyxiation takes over so quickly one might

as well just do it in their Mazda with a dishrag stuffed

in the tailpipe, speakers leaking “Dancing Queen”.

But what then of the whirling grey union with the breeze?

 

Wanted: pubic relations expert with an eye

like a metal detector who can jingle not jangle,

can help me pass a neck biopsy seeking

redness and/or lymphadenopathy. Must love

blogs. Understand when I tell you the devil

wears product in his hair, the horns ain’t natural

but he’s got a good image guy/gal. I need a good

image guy/gal, somebody to make the typo in my

first line seem deliberate and edgy, somebody

to shroud me in human-sized soup can labels and if

that don’t work to put me on sale for buy two get three

for the price of the free toaster you got as a signing

bonus. Wanted: a clue. Wanted: a haircut. I’ve heard

I’m old-fashioned, but maybe if you wrap me up in 

cellophane you can rook somebody at the flea market,

act like the smudges add character, collector’s value.

Dude’s like an abomination, a monstrosity,

a freaking monstromination, he like punches

babies and shit (haha, you see, this is what

passes for wit and political commentary now,

you asked for it), have you seen his views

on women, black dudes, and oh my god,

you should see the shit about female black

dudes, which I guess are called black women,

anyway, I’m only asking because I haven’t

seen any of these things, but I’m sure it’s

real real bad, I sort of picture the guy as like

a tornado with raggedy black arms, oh dude,

but I’m not saying they’re black because of, you get it,

right, anyway, I don’t know a whole lot about

[“your” candidate here] but it feels right, you know,

and people laugh when I say these things about

him, and actually, shit, that’s pretty good, I’m

like, personable and stuff, funny, a laugh riot

(and it should be said I’m not afraid to throw real

riots, like, uh, for the people and/or if my teams win),

I’m starting to feel all white-robed and sandaled here,

pretty goddamn electable, and I don’t know how

that other asshole sleeps at night, but if he felt

as smart as I do right now, I bet it’d be pretty easy.

My story is there’s too many sizzling

pixels vying for supremacy over

this holy Hollywood junta in charge

of my flashing, weeping neuronal

shadows, but it ain’t so bad, hey man,

what are you gonna do? Nobody bites

their tongue off in this constituency,

I don’t, Shirley don’t, I say la vie

est belle belle belle, and all this

fancy French reminds me, have

you seen La V In Rows? Here:

v v v v v v v v v

v v v v v v v v v

v v v v v v v v v

v v v v v v v v v

v v v v v v v v v

v v v v v v v v and well you get

the idea, it’s a pretty long one actually,

that beauty goes on for hours and hours,

a bit of a snoozer, so I just gave you a, uh,

truncated version, but it’s got this

sort of austere charm, right? The poetic

equivalent of a still photo of Helen

Mirren frowning on a beige background.

You should check it out, make sure

you check everything out, because

have something to say, is the point,

and this helps, silence is the golden

idol that gets God sticking your sorry

fork in a wall socket, because he knows,

because ignorance is the enemy,

and that CO2 won’t leave your lungs

all by its lonesome now will it?