what me worry
when lacan said "the ego is an inveigling"
dude musta blown $19.95 plus shipping and handling
on the same exact flobie i considered
an energy efficient way to look great on dates
identity is counterrevolutionary and anyway
lacan wore khakis
i try to wake up every morning and cockamamie show trial clearasil is
but seriously, stereo—me—bought
i'd recommend revisiting your resumé or personal memoir
and if the powers that license 'to be' to you permit,
inserting the hyphenated "rent-a" before a sampling of nouns
then recite it in the marketplace, ok?
o, don't think about it
invasion of the out of body
zip drive ubiquities
remember william hurt afloat in tear-temperature liquid capital?
growing primitivist trivial hirsute about the titties?
it can't happen here
at least while telephones no longer have receivers
hello, my name is when it rings, i walk over to it and
let me ask the panel, are we post-pavlovian?
you can't grow home again
mao modeled the stricter and harsher dicta of the cultural revolution on
pirated scripts of U.S. sitcoms
that's us sitcoms
did you know one of buddy holly's crickets wrote the theme to mary tyler moore?
are you an ethnic or a specialist ?
when i think of identity and innovation,
dumbo choked on his very own snout
pretentious true one" writes brian kim stefans (according to the hyundai blimp)
"i'm the business section" writes brian kim stefans
(according to the tax dollars used to lure the stock exchange to jersey city)
"at least i can stand my own two knees"
writes hung q. tu
you, dear friends, kennedys, and fellow aesthetic supporters,
dear total cultural blackface incitees, fellow mold jones, dear returned and deceased
cola war veterans, target markets, assembled small press poetry lobby, dear www.queerrepublicans.com, dear shebang, dear shebang shebang, dear white males
against white whales, fellow knee jerk back in the good old days when poetry was
cheap damage control team, dear dearly beloved and mandatory daily otherings,
fellow hindenbergish gleaming gasbags, ladies and gentlemen of the society for the
denial of surface area, mr. and mrs. cusp of big crunch, the people who brought you
antonin artaud action figures, the poettasters and the gobble selves, dr. and mrs., who
are here today thanks to the jeez, i'm jerky foundation: "clearing a space in the
crowded commodity culture for the auto-cannibal to have his fill, dear a suffocating
nation of nothing but poetry
—according to you
single white male...umm....I means lotions...I'm totally independentist...in
a recent poem
by tim davis (author of popeye's upper arm now unquotable due to legal squabbles),
tim davis is a single taupe hermaphrodite member of the guild of collective, desperate
single local frontal globe sport labotomists of the glyph of the all-meringue
single caspar weinberger buddha nature illegal flashcard traffic
single blunderbuss versus nanorobots
single latin scholar stuck with identity meaning sameness
single poetry chapbook released into orbit, rips through the hull of a billion dollar
space station, killing crew and timorous beekersful, fucking hell, there's hope single
debtor—owes kim's video his firstborn, can't find lust for life
single white hawaiian triple negatives
single jewish when they come for the camps again hygienist or less
single poet with one lone tool: that'd be *69, think about it, back-assed through the
studly duststorm of miscommunications that can't even stay missed, they'll speak to us
no matter what we see fit to slam shut