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Everyone tells me to work on myself. But my self is not a good project, a jumbo tongue in a runway rubber suit, a run-a-way bladder on wheels.
In the vein of this, in the vein of that,
my system exults
in non-manageability, I just wanna make out--
my taste buds rippling and glow-in-the-dark, attaching tubules
to this world, that world—
fat black hoses.
I adorn myself with tricked-out mantras— bindis, pasties, gold stars—
because my self needs somewhere to go.
Ladies & Gentlemen,
Take me home & make me delicate.
It’s slipperyhere in warp drive. In my blood fold, deep-in-space—
chin deep, in your face, I’m dripping klieg lights, chinoiserie, lipids,
glory be to deep down things, plural and salivating.
printed in INK BRICK 2 (in a comic collaboration with Bishakh Som)
The Trouble with Humpadori (sing-along book trailer)
It’s been 500 years and I’m trading in my tongue for an imported fluorescent tubule. Stage 5 of an aggressive campaign to tune up the organism. Now I’m really rolling. Now I’m really on— the spitting image of the next millennium, sonic blast and boom.
My latest tongue strobes your lingua franca, my latest graft lights up your primordial past. I can see eternity in your eyes and it’s a dark, wet rag. Evening glistens with interference and amoebas. I can tell you’re not really listening. I guess I’ll have to speak a little slower.
You grope about like some delinquent mime— foaming in public, a blotch in the park, Black bile is more slippery and fun! You may look awful but I expect it.
I’m doing everything I can do with you that can possibly be done We’ve reached the next stage of invective! You. Are. A. Silent. Terror. I’m sorry: with great difficulty and enormous swagger, I’m going to be frank with you: you can’t change your tune in time for the grand opening celebration, the balloons and doves, the awarding of prizes, bubble gum and damsels. You’re late for the parade, your favorite ride: Heaven’s Up. Heaven’s up, Kid! Homo erectus is your default setting, but you’re The Kid so you’re alright. Step into the vault. I’ve been charged by the zeitgeist to stun you, riddle you electric. And you’re fried.