On Plumbing and Necessity
Poetry incests me emotionally;
It applies to be seen and to eventually
foresee and climb deeply
a tree, where I can finally
Xanax my dried-up feet––
bent over the can,
clubbing a tussle that
reels round rose-shaped
colours, pendulums of time,
time itself spilling into the bowl.
They, that being me,
quack-marking quasars ahead of all intent,
it is I who am I,
misusing words and rhythms like an Elvis-ass bust
on dusty mantle gore;
another name for the
circle that squares in knife,
simply put: Kike.
I am sleepless, confined, and just fucking dumb.
I drink the juice to fill my caboose
with shit and shovel.
It’s all a go-around, now, isn’t it?
As per usual, please don’t @ me.
As per my email, please don’t fucking @ me.
Instead, I just need you to
spell it for me: G-D,
that earnest ear of corn,
plumb with beginnings,
capitalizing on “K,” rummaging
the grain elevator
at any and all
A portrait of the poet as a landscape
“wouldn’t you like to know it?
There ain’t no [not] [ripe] answer. There ain’t gonna [not] be any [ripe] answer. There never [not] has been an answer [ripe]. That’s the [ripe] answer.
Everybody gets so much [ripe] information all day long that they lose their [not] common [ripe] sense.
Anything scares me, anything scares anyone [ripe] but really after all considering how dangerous everything is nothing is [not] really very frightening.
It takes a lot of time to be a [ripe] genius, you have to sit around so much [not] doing nothing, really [not] doing nothing [ripe].
Generally speaking, [not] everyone is more interesting doing [not] nothing than [not] doing anything [ripe].
A writer should write [ripe] with [not] eyes and a painter [not] paint with [ripe] ears.
Silent gratitude isn’t [not] very much use to anyone [ripe].
Collapsing freights instigate mein sein;
a rose is [not] a rose is [not] certainly a [not] rose––
composed in amicable getups attacking all exits;
later taking the eggs, being
insistent upon [not] dregs and
lippy sing-songs. Cordially yours I am [not] now––
cordially in sores fasting in the daylight’s break.
Of tremulous penny-loafers mincing all floors
and the spaniel left drying in wrecked ice-cream stores.
Nevertheless, tit for tit and tat for tat: Lizzie minds, Rose minds
all seven or eight of them goddamn mind but he
drives off to California. Yielding no stop signs, mirrors blurred
and dwindling, the pygmy background – so very tired.
We: left delighted, [not] [not].
Disconcerting: willowed wisps without anchorage, steam and
drizzle pillowing pillows. A piano plays its [not] in severance; the IRS bemoans
communal ties and woes:
the erasure’s songstress still in her flight, of airborne ruts and tulip sights.
I’m actually actually and that’s factual
I’m actually quite angry at all times and that’s
Was you hornier than me?
Two fidgets fig a freak of frolics &
So, trickle me fricken to do what is
or what’s wont. The lake is
hackling its own reflection,
retroflecting manicured manuals
for the foresight of a time-trapped
goop of predilections that harken back to you,
Then––it’s settled, empirical fricatives
snugging the snot of some piss-n-shit hover,
where, into the gardener’s garden, we were where that is––
all the mens have been collected into the vacuum
of eschatonic boondoggle,
viz. that knot-ripe fact of being wherein
we are [not] always the same [ripe] age inside.
MLA Chernoff (@citation_bb) thanks you for visiting their profile. They are a PhD candidate at The Neoliberal University of York University. MLA’s first collection of pomes, delet this, was released by Bad Books in the spring of 2018. A second collection entitled TERSE THIRSTY is forthcoming with Gap Riot Press in early 2019. Have a nice day and please stay hydrated xo xo.