Accompanying music.

Heralding the rainy fall,

spotted aliens, you bring

color to this misty pall,

dancing, happy, moldy springs,

mixing well with jungle drops

that humidifies the air

elsewise empty. E’en when not

eating you, you taste o’ pears.

Bounce me to the magic kingdom,

teach me songs so I can sing them—

all that sugar till we ring done.

dragons fight
autumn colors man
on mushrooms

Accompanying music.

…in the moldy air smells

fresh of oysters, crabs, & spiral snails

rolling inside rolling leaves, brick bells

clanging mossy in the cloudy, pale

shoving chill that makes me ill but also

stomach-filled: the french fries leave their scent,

orange trees scheme to bury seeds are all so

juicy you can tell the apple’s pent

up till bitten splurging maple peanut

butter chocolate drops in black-oil puddle

rainbows hugging sidewalks in my tea cup

coffee acorns roasting steam that muddles

windshields in the misty highways, till the

moon awakes, glow headlights, pumpkin eyes

from the deck of witches named Matilda,

Spider-Man, or ‘nother grim disguise,

all for jangling bags of shiny plastic

honey colors. Dump the leaves in drops,

feed your storm drain. Crying in baskets

tastes both sweet & sour, for sour’s a lot…

Here stands a black crow
in the middle o’ the road.
He don’t give a fuck.

I saw it in the warmly cool cast o’ cobalt,

spreading its sparks ‘cross the sizzling sands o’ clouds,

folded into a thousand gowns

with candied drool dripping from its hungry mouth.

On damp noons,
Jack without his light,
still smiling.

I caught it in the pumpkin-colored pine needles spread ‘cross the streets,

rubbing gainst the off-black concrete

& the black puddles o’ oiled grease

swimming in burnt-brown leaves.

In acid lakes
peanut butter rows
sour apples.

Where the torrents make the maples blush mulberry grape

while others crouch back into the shadows powdry gray.

A leaf slaps its hand on the stain-smudged chalky pavement

so hard the blood rushes to half its otherwise anemic digits

till unexpectedly the gusts shoos it ‘way.

¡O, I’m dumb!
I almost forgot
the mushrooms.

When the natsu no tsuki makes way for the aki no tsuki to come,

cut bloody crescent cold,

spirit-snatching owled-eye beacon,

its drenched-blade forests feeding mold

till the trees & cities are splattered with orange,

& collections o’ bright colors captured by candies foraged.

& now we can forgive

winter’s cold,

spring’s drops,

& summer’s burns—

Now finally can my ol’ props be unearthed;

time to pull red crops for all they’re worth.

Now so stuffed with
so much sand worms,
fin’lly, it’s time
for just desserts.

Too cold,

too tired

to fold

2 tires;

too bold,

too wired—

took coal,

¡chew fire!

Sorry I tossed it in the can;

it looked so vulgar, so insipid

with arbitrary rips. ‘Twas bent

& crumpled, too. You’ll hardly miss it,

¿will you? You could e’en see right through

it—not a color whatsoe’er.

So throw the tethers with the feathers.

No, I like my locks a lot—

& I’ll have you know, the cost

that “insipid” wrapper held

beat the sum of all you’ll sell.

Burning, now I bring you hell.

Now, keep digging.

¿How? Neat rigging.

¡Ow! Beats stripping.

Ciao. (Deep swigging.)

& now they tell me that I’m dying.

Keep frying.

& now I see that no one’s buying.

Keep trying.

& now I watch the drainpipes crying.

Keep drying.

But now I watch the plastic winding.

Keeps sighing.

Roll me through your slop,

bounce atop my cot,

make my blood veins clot,

taste spoiled pastel chalk.

& still I don’t know when to stop…

«A todo el mundo,

a todo mis amigos:

vos quiero.

Tengo partir.

I have to stay here,

I have to stay clear.

…

Cheers.»

—Gigadecay, «Disparando sudor.»

Sorry, fallen leaves—
though you’re prettier than greens…
blame civilization.

Accompanying music.

Forest firs, please, don’t you ever stop

being bed-headed in the sniffling

wind; squeeze out your fur the shower-fed drops

rainbow in the sun & just as tickling.

Both in heat & chill, your bark, it barks

with emboss & bevel, home to so

many worms & birds in many parks,

wake in sun & moon—in both you glow.

But some happy stories become tragic,

for the fir was cut down from its vantage—

disadvantages of too much magic.

They don’t like the taste o’ my tear-soaked beef,

WHAAAR WHAAAR WHAAAR.

They only want chips that crunch with shiny teeth,

WHONK WHONK WHONK.

I’m sick o’ that hideous beast.

That dick’s like last week.

It’s time to clean

that which collects fleas.

¡Texting it in!

¡Texting it in!

That’s what you get when you spend all your attention on fresh lint.

I’m sorry—

you deserved better,

trash bag leaves.

“¿What d’you think he’s thinking?”

“He’s definitely implying something.”

“¿You sure?”

“Def. ¿Can’t you totally see it?”

“I always sucked @ language arts.”

I’m sorry—

your dessert’s butter.

Trash bag leaves.

“I’m boooored.”

“You’re only whining ’cause you’re losing. You’re always a sore loser.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to play anymo’. You can’t stop me.”

“I’m telling.”

“¡Shut up, tattletale!”

“I will.”

“I don’t care. I told you, I don’t want to play anymo’, & you can’t stop me.”

That was the last they heard before the officer found his body hanging in Aokigahara.

¿Want me to talk ’bout the moon ‘gain?

You always savored that gin.

BOOOOOOOOOO.

[A can flies & punches me in the nose.]

They peeled off my latex glove face—¡gross!

When you leave a mess,

you should always scrub.

What what.

I’m sorry—

«you deserve nothing,»

all believe.

So the walrus wails its songs e’ermo’.

He can shove a rancid cactus up his assing fuckhole.

You clocked you could get waves from me,

but the pan came back,

the pan came back with 2 pounds a back

& there’s no going crack.

& then John Jacob Whistlemeyer, having gotten done with his cracked reveries in his sour soup tin while ponderplating Cheerios, Good Day, Sir, wiped his nose & began building a magnificent dinghie—that’s the way he spelled it; it’s Germish without the Germs.

¡What a magnificent dinghie it’s developing to become!

!I can just smell the salt hair brushing through my wind @ the seaset sun white shimmies!

¡Not anymo’!

We need to put germs in that.

1 Sneeze

& I was the who who killed you grand ma ma,

I was the what what jobbed your shove & took it.

I sneaked your Finlandia into Octoberfest Sam Adams

so you couldn’t code the crack as punchly as youth do in your you’d,

& left the Octoberfest ‘hind.

¿Why?

¡But luck!

You superbugs adjust to disinfected medicine,

& always find a new nasty cafeteria to sponge.

There is no such thing as no such free lunch.

‘Twas nice o’ these sneezes to bring me back to my dreams o’ drowning death,

but it’s time to wake & drown in peptodismal pink health,

with no help for to unlistened yelps.

Hopefully

the weather

will treat me better.

Hopefully

we’ll weather

sweet bleak September.

But as the tempests tempt my temples

with their timbering-shivers warm scattered rain “Jib Jib,”

I grasp your collar & hollar,

“¡I won’t land! ¡This is the land’s end!”

E’en if I can see the ice cream looming in the horizon.

& if I ne’er got round to growing that weedseas,

¿was the wasabi I weaned worth it, OK?

It tastes,

& the killer sound waves blow through my skeleton

in ways my skeleton has ne’er felt in months.

¡But lunch!

I’ve had too much

warm medicine,

which is why I’ve been reticent to be hesitant.

Though I don’t feel butter when I feel butter,

I hope I feel butter before I bring home the bread,

as bread’s hardest to catch when I’m not wrecked.

That’s my theory o’ labor—the value theory,

which makes a grape subjective theory, too;

just mix it with booze & the honeyed flu,

as the good doctor, Keens, proscribes with laughter.

That’s why he’s the theory general, all after.

But no one gave me a knife.

It’s peanut-butter-jammed in the toaster.

& if my Lucky®’s expired,

I’m untoasted.