poemsTogetStonedto

when head
was a truck
under a bus
broke up
weed on
the dash
when the roof
came off
at the doors
was a convertible
sticking nugs
in the glass
when hanging
fingers from
the sarlaac pit
figuratively figured
not Boba Fett
was the juncture
when red & green
formed to form
black & nobody
threw rocks
but

I pledge allegiance to the United nipple clamps of androginy,
to the silver dollar States of smothered in syrup.
to the birdseed under my radiator
doing jumping-jacks with the oscillating fan of America.

I pledge Red
allegiance to the White
phillips-head screwdriver of my Blue
precocious youth.

I pledge allegorical to the United

k-holes of allegiance,
to the return policy of the genetic States of orangutang,
to the come on down your the next contestant of America.

I raise my right hand to the passionate
lips of piranha, to the pasty white thighs of my desire,
with my left hand on the bible
to synchronized swimming in an elevator,
to the rent-a-cop of my sanity,
to the fraternal order of bolt & shift,
to the ancient art of mouth-fucking.

I prefer autonomy to the United

hallucination of cannon's being dragged through a cornfield,
to the zoetrope States of hand-cuff your litany to a bus,
to the BURN MOTHER FUCKER BURN of America.

At nine:
cut into the skin
under my rib
with a rock,

pulled out my spleen
& buried it in the mud,
there were birds
in the mud eating worms.

The pilot light in there oven went out.
So I fixed it.

We ate fried worms and for desert
I stuffed the birds in the hole in my chest.

A few days before nine
my Grandmother
showed me how to sew.
So I sewed the birds where my spleen was.

The constant fluttering like a dunken
barn-dance under my organs became
the burning anxiety of glass houses in a rock fight.

At nine I threw down the teddy bear and picked up the black hole.

At nine:
ate razors
& spit them out in the dreams of my laughing fist.

At nine I was playing an axe
strung with fishguts
& the never-ending bliss of tomorrow.

I was a really well behaved child,
walking up to old woman, I'd say
"hello, I'm a really well behaved child"
they would smile "Oh, I bet your mother is proud.
For some reason, when I do this now, noone thinks my mother is proud.

When my wife became a member of the family my cousin said
"to make it official you have to pick an addiction".
Like it had been on her mind already,
my wife quickly responded "Gambling".
I feel a little suspicious about the way she looked at "Me" while saying "Gambling".

I used to work with this kid Geoff who drank his own piss,
he heard you are what you ingest and wanted to be himself.
I'm meeting him Wednesday for coffee,
I heard he now amuses himself by licking the sun.

I was an easily amused child,
doing the dishes was one of my favorite games.
I don't remember what it was about dish washing I liked so much,
but to this day there's something about the green gop
of Palmolive coating my hands that feels like fun.

For fun my wife goes into high priced furniture stores pretnding to be remodeling,
she has the staff show her fabrics and match colors, just to make them work.
It has been said she has managerial skills. I say she needs medication.

I had a dream about a folding chair and a mega-phone.
Sitting in the chair a voice came from behind me asking that eternal question
"If a shipper smashes a glass vase
unloading a crate of them into a housewares store
did that glass vase ever exist?"
I've been napping all weekend trying to get back to the dream
so I could ask if they got a signiture upon delivery,
but you can't expect that type of confirmation from a dream.

"I came back as a bag of groceries accidently taken off the shelf
before the experation date"

With "They Might Be Giants" blaring from my bedroom speakers
the artist formerly known as Freddy Crack wakes
me up at 8am with a plate of pure E. We snap a few lines then drive
into Boston so Fred can sell mushrooms & ecstasy to this kid Boomer
(who will sell me an once of brown weed for $80). This went as well

as you would think a meeting with a kid named Boomer
would go: we got the pot & the money & we left
in Fred's 1970 Buick Riviera, where he hands me a pile of mushrooms
while we're moving down 93N in Dorchester
only now it looks more like rte 2 in Belmont (if Belmont
had all these bright lights & beautiful buzzing sounds).

"Did a large procession wave their torches
as my head fell in the basket, that was everybody dancing on my casket"

WhenwegethomeFredfillsthegerbilswaterbottlewithvodka
IhookuptheAtarisowecanplay"Stampede"
&thephonerings: ourroomateMichaelisontheline&ashestartstalking
tometherecievertransformsintohisfacethechordsalldanglingdown
fromhischinandhesays"Dude What Are You Doing"WHATAMIDOING!
I'vegothisfaceinmyhandbutIdon'tquiteknowhowtoexplainthistohim,

so I just let his head keep talking while Freddy Crack & I heard cattle & smoke shit weed.

"Now it's over I'm dead and I haven't done anything that I want
or I'm still alive and there's nothing I want to do"

I've spent my life feeding the people I love so many lines
I'm begining to feel like breakfast.

I have a suitcase with so many compartments
when I go on vacation I end up wearing the same clothes

over and over again, because I get confused by the choices.
I've spent the past week keeping myself

from screaming at telephone poles
parked cars & the kid down the street

that tapes birds together.
42 years old & He Still Tapes Birds Together;

chucks them off the curb, feathers fly in a fury
of wing & blood (very similar to the insides of Mama Cass

at the time of death). But I'm off the point, watching it dance
like darting needles over the water on sweltering hot N.H. days,

all I can manage are street lights & bad jokes about dead people.
I must be putting to much milk in my cereal.

I Don't Even Like Cereal:
haven't a bowl since the third grade when I puked into my Super Golden Crisp

(at 9 years old that's equivalent to an alcoholic, rock bottom,
the only real difference is what you puke up).

thought i saw new york in the grass
under a jersey barrier on memorial drive
dancing blade to blade wondering where
the music left off

a cat comes out of the yard with a pigeon in its mouth
tries to tell me something but I cant understand it

We walk home from the store
and I try to convice you to have sex with me in your neighbors yard
(what a date I am baby; crab grass

& pebbles up your ass!) You refuse;
tell me I'm dirty, complain about being horny
and look at me like you want me to fuck you on your neighbors lawn

(3 cruisers fly by, sirens racing, protecting, serving).

A few years back, Jack and Dean picked up a hooker;
3am drunk my daisy. When they were through

her father rapped on the door & cried "I forgive you
my sweet angel". Still undressed, she replied, with her hand

again on Jack's dick "I'm everybody's angel now, forgive yourself"!

...this dictionary is a waste of time;
no room for electrocution, nevermind blank pages.

In this neighborhood I write about
the young boys tie sneakers together
throw them over the telephone wires
signifying loss of virginity. The parents
think it means they're drug dealers
& call the cops. In a raid of houses
the boys sit with smiles as the pigs reach
with blue arms into g-spot socks
finding there was never a need
for the sneakers in the first place.

Everything happens for a reason,
the way baseball & laundry bleed valium through a place where a son with no
seatbelt murders his mother & guts her blue swine fuck. There's nothing left
to understand after you've hit that curve!

*******disconnected from synaptic lashes
over-dubbed five seconds behind
a cycle of spasms & speech
the plots unfolding backwards
halls upon rooms upon halls
of wire & want twisted
with knowing with rusted steel
humming mutilated mutation
* at a pitch that sounds like narration
* at a pitch that sounds like avoidance
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*evacuated from their houses
*given a cot & a spot in the field. the infected

secrete a thick oily mucus
rub dirt & vasoline

after days of greys and greens
the cracked crusted substance
dusts off flesh onto floor. the infected

drop on knees draw lines
in the residue crust
saliva drips from their mouths. the infected

scratch beyond lines residue emit a symbiotic falsetto
******descend into the divides center******
the field fills with turquoise horses looking for God but God's
not here there's only this divide spitting out this tree
bark saturated with mucus oil drips off the branches
pools around the edges******the solution has become
a diseased river****** the horses perch at the point
believing the sound is the voice of God they follow the lubricated
******echo vibrates from the divide******
*
*
*
*
*
*
& in that doll house
lies a table like a saint
crying, plastic horses,
the muse and the nightmare
sitting pretty, quiet.
*
*
*
Climb from your casket
& give us a kiss:
I wanna sit in mind fields
& watch each other masturbate.
*
*
*
& you will know when we get there
my pretty child, my sweet, for the door
will open and breath******

heaven is an opium den in midnight
suburbs & it speaks the native tongue

on the side of the road in the dirt
a dead dog; attracted like flies
children poke at it with sticks.

survival says to stay on the porch.

the mail comes.
another check is written.

When I'm alone I can taste you like salt cascading
down my neck. Desire is an angel with poison arrows,
she knows her targets intimately & kills w/o

discretion. This is not about desire but
there's something in your air that makes me need!
No use for lungs the drums in your hair keep me, taste them

on your neck---drink---melt to last thursday night: we're
driving around 2am (Malden 3x over) what was said never mattered
it was more like a dance, a movement.

& I will

build towers to watch you ride horses through our bed.

& I will

guild frames for the pictures of you painted on the inside of my skin.

& I will

stretch my flesh like a gallery. I will walk my days raw for you.

I’ve started chain-smoking
to replace you. Every time
I dream of pressing my lips to yours,
another cigarette. There are no dreams
of a cigarette; nothing special about
each one. You simply inhale
and release.

I pulled the weed from Hunter's top drawer,
pushed the soap and grapefruit boxes aside,
then threw his desk out the window (it landed
in the front seat of Thompson's '67 El Dorado
like it had a few stories left in it).

I began breaking weed up
on the toilet seat cover, when in walked Dr. Gonzo
in a hot pink bathrobe & fly-fishing pants,
Tequilla bottle in one hand
cattle-prod in the other, singing
the star-spangled banner in pig latin.

I handed him the joint, told him Aristotle
said "the law is reason devoid of compassion".
He lit the joint with the cattle-prod
exclaiming his produce guy says vitamin C
is essential if Iwe're going to maintain this pace. Reaching into
the fridge, he pulled out a copy of "The Great Gatsby"

Without exhaling, he described
the time he met Aristotle at a bus stop
across the street from the United Nations.
Over a ham-on-rye, Ari handed him this leather bound
edition of the Fitzgerald classic.

Taking back the joint, I explained
I meant the philosopher not the billionaire tycoon.
Undeterred by the truth he handed me the book,
proclaimed “ no matter what they say I am not Deep Throat
(this is a rumor started by Wenner to boost magazine sales)".

Though Duke did intimate smoking a joint with Deep Throat,
Paul Begala & Ben Stein in the oval office
during Clinton's first innaugural address,
“the only right way to cover a Clinton speech”.

Suddenly Hunter S. stumbled downstairs,
jumped in the Cadillac & said something under his breath
to his desk, before the duo disappeared into the desert.

Dear Miss Milton Academy,
Don't let them get to you! When I was in highschool
giving head to the hockey team wouldn't have made
the top ten list, never mind the six o'clock news.
The head cheerleader, Suzanne, did herself
with a frozen hot dog, it defrosted from the heat of the friction
and broke off in her box. Her friend Angelina banged six dudes
at a movie theatre, lined up in a row, sitting in their seats watching
Sleepless In Seattle. If Meg Ryan had done this
it would have been a far better film.

And then there was the kid who stuck his head in the oven to get high
off the fumes, while he was sprawled across the kitchen floor, naked
his mom walked in. Lewis now sells cars for VW. And we can't forget
my personal friend Jay, who jerked off in the back of class
while we were watching Romeo & Juliet, then flicked his DNA
on the back of Michelle "The Bird Girl's" head. He's a high school history
teacher (nobody ever asks that question at a job interview).

Today at the bank I gave my cash and deposit slip to Elizabeth Donnelly
I've seen this girl eat old chicken out of the trash on her way to school
more than once, and today, I handed her my money.
Michael Tucker was a cat fucker, now he's a general contracter.
My ex-girlfriend's friend Tara liked her boyfriends to stick a Guiness bottle
in her ass, specificly, a "Guiness" bottle. These days she's a mental
health professional. Their other friend Jen had sex with half of Lynnfield
so she could still go to the same parties as her heroin addict ex-boyfriend.
She currently plays the part of Cinderella at the Magic Kingdom.

The coke dealer Issiah, got a blow job from his sister Amanda, by accident
at a house party. She was in the bathroom, sucking off every guy that walked
in, when along came Issiah. He's a mailman and she attends PTA meetings.
Not once has any of this ended up in the minutes of these meetings.

And as it turns out, maybe you would have made the top ten list,
but as aweful as it may be, believe me, ten years from now,
the people that work for you won't know anything about it.
So fear not young vixen of Milton Acedemy,
soon enough some teacher will nail a student and we'll forget all about you.

All My Best,
Jeff Taylor

PS
my phone number is 555 - 5469