Don’t bother with the jabberwock, my son.
Just slay the spam. Be home in time for the nuclear
Personally I now officially despise: music.
picked but still breathing
colors, veins which still sing blood, rivers
of males with lacrosse weaponry jingling off their
spines, all things possessed of spinal columns, all columnists
righties, lefties, statements
of war on words, bloodbaths
where only the living heads of kings buoy above the bubbles
drowned plastic soldiers and mermaids dead
I hate ice cream and its entourage of homophones
dog owners (just leave the dog alone with me
to kiss my nose, because owning
is a liability and because I want it).
I hate music, I hate music, I. hate. music.
in poems, from motorcycles, swans copulating, professors mating
with their precious papers. I hate
the idea of music, the light behind the eyelids of the dark
the smell of Moroccan spice and silken sweeps dyed psychedelic
over a vein of concrete rain,
the blinding beat of emotion
Let the ocean swallow it all
in silence. I even hate
the word hate, how it intersplices pitches
into a circle of fifths, blocking measure from measure
violating empty air with this regime of tyrant music.
On the way home today I saved a tender earthworm
from the mandibles of dormant tires in a parking lot.
Then I squelched on a worm of lipstick-pink and lemon-yellow
and ground its sugary molecules into the sidewalk.
Over it stepped shoes. Yesterday
a girl brought in two flowers, one for me.
I kept it on my staffs of Bach’s prelude, studying how
the burnt brown
edges advanced like a world war
slow but sure towards the heart of sunset-cloud
of pink. It is now dead.
Don’t ask for me
whether in peace or assassination
I am not there at the moment
there is no estimation of return. I’ve gone
to slay the sun deep in the woods
inside my pitless heart.