Mrs. White with the Candlestick in the Hall
Prof. Plum with the Lead Pipe in the Lounge
Col. Mustard with the Rope in the Dining Room
Mrs. Peacock with the Wrench in the Kitchen
Mr. Green with the Revolver in the Conservatory
Miss Scarlett with the Knife in the Study
Prof. Plum with the Knife in the Study
Col. Mustard with the Candlestick in the Hall
Mrs. Peacock with the Lead Pipe in the Library
Mr. Green with the Rope in the Lounge
Miss Scarlett with the Wrench in the Kitchen
Mrs. White with the Revolver in the Ball Room
Col. Mustard with the Revolver in the Billiard Room
Mrs. Peacock with the Knife in the Study
Mr. Green with the Candlestick in the Kitchen
Miss Scarlett with the Lead Pipe in the Hall
Mrs. White with the Rope in the Lounge
Prof. Plum with the Wrench in the Library
Mrs. Peacock with the Wrench in the Conservatory
Mr. Green with the Revolver in the Dining Room
Miss Scarlett with the Knife in the Lounge
Mrs. White with the Candlestick in the Study
Prof. Plum with the Lead Pipe in the Hall
Col. Mustard with the Rope in the Kitchen
Mr. Green with the Rope in the Kitchen
Miss Scarlett with the Wrench in the Library
Mrs. White with the Revolver in the Hall
Prof. Plum with the Knife in the Billiard Room
Col. Mustard with the Candlestick in the Study
Mrs. Peacock with the Lead Pipe in the Lounge
Miss Scarlett with the Lead Pipe in the Lounge
Mrs. White with the Rope in the Kitchen
Prof. Plum with the Wrench in the Study
Col. Mustard with the Revolver in the Conservatory
Mrs. Peacock with the Knife in the Ball Room
Mr. Green with the Candlestick in the Hall
Mrs. White with the Candlestick in the Lounge
Prof. Plum with the Rope in the Kitchen
Col. Mustard with the Revolver in the Study
Choke: I am a bloke. My name is choke.
Wheel: I am a wheel, central feel of the automobile.
Gear: I am a gear. You all fear me.
Tires: I am the tires, a raspberry is filled with sins.
Window: I am a window. I know everything.
Windshield Wiper: I am a wiper of window that shieldwiper.
Crank: I am a crank.
Crankcase: I am a crankcase.
Nurse: Bottoms up.
Transmission: I am the transmission, ever close to you.
Trunk: I am a trunk, full of personality.
Dashboard: I am my setting sun, a dashboard.
Clutch: I clutch. We like each other.
Brake: Brake, brake, brake.
Shift: Shifty me you like to see.
Roof: I am roof, the winter’s tooth.
Throttle: They call me throttle. Relax everybody.
Backseat: I am the backseat. Climb up and down.
Petroleum: I am petroleum, love’s dream.
Doctor: Where the hell is that nurse?
Nurse: I am in the glove compartment.
Glove Compartment: I am the glove compartment, your love department.
If lucky, you might capture that
elusive flight of ideas which involve you
when you’re “in love” with the chosen one.
One fine day, in other words, your
fleet might come waltzing around
your door. With luck you’ll be looking for what
it implies about truth, beauty, and gratitude—
that kind of stuff. You are my kind
of guy. I am the lucky one. I am
awaiting one sign, or this romanticized look in my eyes
has a way of throwing its dead weight around when
you keep me at arm’s length.
The longer I wait, the more I want you.
I’m in love with you, you big galoot!
Put simply, if I’m allowed to lose total control of myself
for a guy, as if you didn’t know. Don’t go.
1/9/85, NYC, 5:54 p.m.
I was visiting Dennis in New York; we wrote “S.O.S.” in the living room of his
apartment on Twelfth Street (just off of Second Avenue). A few years earlier we’d
written, while driving from San Francisco to Los Angeles, a poem called “The
Ordeal,” so this was our second—and in my opinion more successful—collaboration.
I don’t think we ever wrote another. The title is from the ABBA song; I’m
sure it came from Dennis, as ABBA was one of his favorite groups. I remember
that we alternated lines, and that Dennis was responsible for the ending, which
I liked, which I still like. “One fine day” in the fourth line had to have come
from me: I was obsessed with 60s girl groups at the time; “One Fine Day” was
a hit by the Chiffons. I also remember that I had a big (ultimately unrequited)
crush on someone in Los Angeles; this kind of wistful energy fueled not only
the poem with Dennis, but many of my own poems from that period as well.
So uh this is abut the uh things on the table so this one will be counting up If you see any of those baggy pants, chuck the hills And if somehody asked him, it was trees
the uh scarf of where in black and white that this one will be sittin’ this about the uh things on the table this will be counting up
so uh uh this is about the uh things on the table the uh scarf of where in black and white that this one is sittin’ this is about the uh things that were If you see any of those, then this could be one of them so stop here so stop this so look here so this is written Hey Mr Bojangles Hey Mr Bojangles Hey Mr Bojangles so this could be the one that was so if you see this one, then...
Gun gun gun gun Hey Mr Bojangles Hey Mr Bojangles Hey Mr Bojangles Christopher Knowles bank robbery so if you know bank robbery bank robbery bank robbery is punishable by 20 years in federal prison so this is written so if you know this is one so so look here so Christopher Knowles and the Beatles so so
I feel the earth move... I feel the tumbling down tumbling down... There was a judge who like puts in a court. And the judge have like in what able jail what it could be a spanking. Or a whack. Or a smack. Or a swat. Or a hit. This could be where of judges and courts and jails. And who was it. This will be doing the facts of David Cassidy of were in this case of feelings. That could make you happy. That could make you sad. That could make you mad. Or that could make you jealous. So do you know a jail is. A court and a judge could do this could be like in those green Christmas Trees. So Santa Claus has about red. And now the Einstin Trail is like in Einstine on the Beach. So this will. So if you know that fafffffffff facts. So this what happen what I saw in. Lucy or a kite. You raced all the way up.This is a race. So this one will have eight in types into a pink rink. So this way could be very magic. So this will be like to Scene women comes out to grab her. So this what She grabbed her. S if you lie on the grass. So this could be where if the earth move or not. So here we go. I feel the earth move under my feet. I feel tumbling down tumbling down. I feel if Some ostriches are a like into a satchel. Some like them. I went to the window and wanted to draw the earth. So David Cassidy tells you when to go into this on onto a meat. So where would a red dress. So this will get some gas. So this could This would be some all of my friends. Cindy Jay Steve Julia Robyn Rick Kit and Liz. So this would get any energy. So if you know what some like into were. So... So about one song. I FEEL THE EARTH MOVE CAROLE KING So that was one song this what it could in the Einstein On The Beach with a trial to jail. But a court were it could happen. So when David Casidy tells you all of you to go on get going get going. So this one in like on WABC New York... JAY REYNOLDS from midnight to 6 00. HARRY HARRISON So heres what in like of WABC....... JAY REYNOLDS from midnight to 6 AM HARRY HARRISON from 6 AM to L I feel the earth move from WABC... JAY REYNOLDS from midnight to 6 AM. HARRY HARRISON from 6 AM to 10 AM. RON LUNDY from 10 AM to 2 PM. DAN INGRAM from 2 PM to So this can misteaks try it aga9... JAY REYNOLDS from midnight to 6 AM. HARRY HARRISON from 6 AM This could be true on WABC. JAY REYNOLDS froj This can be wrong. This would WABC. JAY REYNOLDS from midnight to 6 AM. HARRY HARRISON from 6 AM to 10 AM. RON LUNDY from 10 AM to 2 PM. DAN INGRAM from 2 PM to 6 PM. GEORCE MICHAEL from 6 PM to 10 PM. CHUCK LEONARD from 10 PM to midnight. JOHNNY DONOVAN from 10 PM to 3 AM. STEVE-O-BRION from 2 PM to 6 PM. JOHNNY DONOVAN from 6 PM to 10 PM. CHUCK LEONARD from 3 AM to 5 AM. JOHNNY DONOVAN from 6 PM to 10 PM. STEVE-O-BRION from 4 30 AM to 6 AM STEVE-O-BRION from 4 30 AM to 6 AM JOHNNY DONOVAN from 4 30 AM to 6 AM
I used to be a boat rower in times in dreams at least to be freaky. Be on your on. So turn off your taperecorder off and go to sleep. So that why we call so. Like bad mad sad but you shold be glad to be proud of you. So this won’t wreck and destroy your things to be. So if your actress no behave to be so. To be announcing the Philadelphia Freedom. But when you’re with my Daddy never is. I used to be a boat rower in times in dreams at least to be freaky. Be on your on. So turn off your taperecorder off and go to sleep. So that why we call so. Like bad mad sad but you shold be glad to be proud of you. So this won't wreck and destroy your things to be. So if your actress no behave to be so. To be announcing the Philadelphia Freedom. But when you’re with my Daddy never is. I used to be a boat rower in times in dreams at least to be freaky. Be on your on. So turn off your taperecorder off and go to sleep. So that why we call so. Like bad mad sad but you shold be glad to be proud of you. So this won’t wreck and destroy your things to be. So if your actress no behave to be so. To be announcing the Philadelphia Freedom. But when you’re with my Daddy never is. I used to be a boat rower in times in dreams at least to be freaky. Be on your on. So turn off your taperecorder off and go to sleep. So that why we call so. Like bad mad sad but you shold be glad to be proud of you. So this won't wreck and destroy your things to be. So if your actress no behave to be so. To be announcing the Philadelphia Freedom. But when you’re with my Daddy never is. To be announcing the Philadelphia Freedom. But when you’re with my Daddy never is. To be announcing the Philadelphia Freedom.
Tomorrow is St. Valentine’s: tomorrow I’ll think about that. Always nervous, even after a good sleep I’d like to climb back into. The sun shines on yesterday’s new- fallen snow and yestereven it turned the world to pink and rose and steel-blue buildings. Helene is restless: leaving soon. And what then will I do with myself? Some- one is watching morning TV. I’m not reduced to that yet. I wish one could press snowflakes in a book like flowers.
The Professor and Ginger are standing in the space in front
of the Skipper’s cabin. The Professor is wearing deck shoes,
brushed denim jeans, and a white shirt open at the throat.
Ginger is wearing spike heels, false eyelashes, and a white
satin kimono. The Professor looks at her with veiled lust
in his eyes. He raises an articulate eyebrow and addresses
her as Cio-Cio-San. Ginger blanches and falls on her knife.
* * *
Meanwhile it is raining in northern California. In a tiny
village on the coast, Rod Taylor and Tippi Hedren are totally
concerned. They realize that something terrible is happening.
Each has been savagely attacked by a wild songbird within
the last twenty-four hours. Outside their window thousands
of birds have gathered in anticipation of the famous school-
yard scene. Tippi Hedren is wearing a colorful lipstick.
* * *
Ginger stares back at the Professor. His sullen good looks
are the perfect foil for her radiant smile. The Skipper and
Gilligan come into sight. The Skipper has been chasing
Gilligan around the lagoon for a long time now. Gilligan
holds onto his hat in the stupid way he has of doing things
like that. The Professor’s lips part in a sneer of perfect
contempt. Ginger bares her teeth, as if in appreciation.
* * *
Jackie Kennedy bares her teeth. Behind and above her, the
muzzle of a high-powered rifle protrudes from a window. A little
man is aiming at Jackie Kennedy’s husband. The man is wearing
bluejeans and a white T-shirt. There isn’t a bird to be seen.
As he squeezes the trigger, the little man mutters between
clenched teeth, “Certs is a candy mint.” The hands of Jackie
Kennedy’s husband jerk automatically toward his head.
* * *
The Professor is noticing Ginger’s breasts. He thinks of
the wife he left at home, who probably thinks he’s dead.
He thinks of his mother, and all of the women he has ever
known. Mr. and Mrs. Howell are asleep in their hut, secure
in their little lives as character actors. Ginger shifts her
weight to the other foot. The intensity of the moment reminds
the Professor of a Japanese city before the end of the war.
* * *
In his mind he goes down each aisle in his government class,
focusing on each face, each body. He is lying on his bed
with his white shirt off and his trousers open. Dorothy
Kirsten’s voice fills the room. He settles on a boy who sits
two desks behind him. He begins to masturbate, his body moving
in time with the sad music. At moments like these he feels
farthest away. As he shoots, his lips part and he bares his teeth.
* * *
The Professor and Ginger are watching each other across the
narrow space. The Skipper and Gilligan have disappeared down
the beach. The Howells are quietly snoring. The Professor
and Ginger are alone. From the woods comes the sound of
strange birds. From the water comes a thick and eerie
tropical silence. The famous conversation scene is about
to start. Clouds appear in the sky, and it begins to snow.
Only springing to life, as it were, under pressure of grave danger. Like, if you were making toast, he wouldn’t be Superman for that. He would be Clark Kent making you toast, and maybe his glasses would fog up with the steam or something, but that’s all. Or say a country in Africa has been without clean water for pretty much forever: he’d just be Clark Kent for that. That’s already beyond the pale.
i was at a poetics conference and heard michael golston say in a paper on clark coolidge, ‘poetry is love in action’. i jotted it down. i desperately want that formula to be true, like bubblebaths make you sleep well (i haven't slept well in the bath since we first got together, because it frightens you to think i might slip under and not wake up. you forget i'm a little large to drown in our bath, i barely fit in, so could i drown?) but what kind of love in action's poetry? when i was a teenager, i was hopelessly in love with some guy (this happened rather often, with more than one guy so i don't have one in particular in mind) and i invariably associated a song with him, sometimes a song i'd heard him hum, or sometimes a song that just happened to play when we were both in a corridor. i'd lie in my bedroom and play the song over and over on cassette tape. play. rewind. play. rewind. play. rewind. i would do this for hours and i have to admit that although in the first instance i was filled with desire for the guy, gradually this shifted to being desire to hear the song, until at some point it would dawn on me that my desire was strongest for the gap in between when, with my finger on the button i would hear the very familiar buzz. i love that faint whurr and my anticipation of the assertive click-click. desire, through a conviction that it wouldn't ever be fulfilled, focused on the act of rewinding, a repetitive act, passive, lonely and, because i would lie there for hours, i surefootedly can say i was in the throes of a kind of erotically- charged boredom. it is surely not difficult to speculate why i so fixated on this act. i was obscenely obsessed with my own self-pity, always going back to the start and playing it through again. schopenhauer said that boredom is just the reversal of fascination, that both depend on being on the outside of something rather than the inside, and that one leads to the other. i certainly felt 'on the outside' and as i rewound pop songs on cassette tapes my intense boredom and equally strong fascination continually outstripped each other like long-distance runners. when one dropped back, the other steamed on. or like dough kneaded full of air and knocked back to deflation, and then re-kneaded, and so on. i wasn't doing this through a conviction that i'd find back- tracked satanic messages that had been leading me and others so frighteningly astray a la the band 'cradle of filth'. (scratch that, maybe i was. up in my room rewinding tapes, i think i must have been looking for messages, my desire so used to pointing outwards fruitlessly towards guys at school that i would be willing to find some kind of response anywhere, be it spooky as you like.) i'm not sure whether it comes across for anyone else but when typing this out i sometimes felt as though i was back listening compulsively to that buzz again, caught up in conflicting senses of possibility and boring inevitability.
Valentine’s Day is coming again, so i’m going to write a love letter. Anyone can use this love letter for their lover.
There are a lot of butterflies on the planet. But none in the winter. You are my winter butterfly.
I want to lick the inside of your belly button. I want to lick the lint out of it and then kiss you. Then you have the lint in your mouth. We are naked and you laugh.
(If you are a straight man or lesbian) I want to grab your pussy. I want to cup your naked pussy in my hand. Your pussy is like a leaf with dew on it on a July Morning. That means I like when your pussy is wet. I like your pussy more when it is wet than when it is dry.
(If you a woman or a gay man) I want to hold your soft penis in my hand. Then I want to caress it until it becomes hard and then I’ll call it a cock. I want you to do things with your cock that will make me moan and make strange sounds.
I want to eat candy with you and check our facebooks sitting close.
We need each other like poor people need food and politicians need votes.
We need each other like cell phones need signals and books need readers.
Right now I’m yearning for your genitals to be near by, for your laugh, for your arms, and your legs to wrap around me and pull me deeper.
I can never get deep enough into you.
I want you have my babies. I want our babies to look like us.
We will raise our children to be nervous and strange and to love music like we do.
I keep seeing your belly in my mind, your belly flat, I rest my head on your belly, your belly is soft and we watch a movie. A movie staring Will Ferrell. Everything is right with the world. We have good credit and our grades are good.
I want to fuck until both of our genitals are chafed and sore.
There are a lot of butterflies on the planet. But none in the winter. You are my winter butterfly.
Now that our hero has come back to us in his white pants and we know his nose trembling like a flag under fire, we see the calm cold river is supporting our forces, the beautiful history.
To be more revolutionary than a nun is our desire, to be secular and intimate as, when sighting a redcoat, you smile and pull the trigger. Anxieties and animosities, flaming and feeding
on theoretical considerations and the jealous spiritualities of the abstract the robot? they’re smoke, billows above the physical event. They have burned up. See how free we are! as a nation of persons.
Dear father of our country, so alive you must have lied incessantly to be immediate, here are your bones crossed on my breast like a rusty flintlock, a pirate’s flag, bravely specific
and ever so light in the misty glare of a crossing by water in winter to a shore other than that the bridge reaches for. Don’t shoot until, the white of freedom glinting on your gun barrel, you see the general fear.
Alison stared into the mirror and combed her hair. How
beautiful she was! "I look awful," she said. I bent down and
tied my shoe and hit my head on the coffee table on the way up.
"Ouch," I said. "What did you say, honey?" she said. "I said
we ought to buy a new couch," I said. "I thought we just bought
one," she said. "We could buy another one so we'd have a backup
in case anything happens to this one," I said. She didn't answer
me, but continued to brush her hair. I stared down at my shoes
and said, "Something is so wrong there." "What did you say, honey?"
she said. I said, "It will be wonderful to be there tonight."
"Where's that, honey?" she said. "Wherever it is that we're going,"
I said. "We're not going anywhere," she said. "I meant here. It
will be wonderful to be here tonight," I said. "A little romantic
night at home," she said. What did she mean by "nomadic"? A little
nomadic night at home. There were times when I worried about
Alison. She hovered right on the borderline, about to cross over into
her own private realm, where nothing she sees or hears corresponds
to anything in the known world. I live with this fear daily. My
shoes are on the wrong feet, or so it seems to me now.
Ava piece a banana BOYZ sed the Commish PONG CHOOEY Ternight yer in fer a real treat and alla manyata stripped down to her knees and there a mantle a mantle of finest ivory that Casticcini made or Ezra Let us alone / or like Yeatsy "Let me ALONE" and Radinbranath in Terhune reading the Chicago papers and asking after Minsky the burlesk Minsky BANG GONG and the gold dust hit in the face his teeth broken his gold teeth broken O Anna Magnani the pity that has broken my doily SAITH Themis and my rock garden is empty no flower nor beast pusheth because of phooey Phooey hath eaten my garden Evil the cowslip and the gem that are tainted with phooey dit Wang Chu 972 B.C. And you will grow up to be a high commercial So that people of esteem will read your verses Then you shall return to this valley and teach eating For who hath eaten phooey Returneth not unto paradise Dem mudder fuckers doan unnerstan me Said princess Toy Ling A.D. 1922 Dey doan unnerstan nuttin but smut That was the year the doves fell at Livorgno Six thousand of them and Caspia walking among them From morning till night until finally there was nothing But her feet and then nothing But her ankles as white as doves nothing but ankles moving I have brought these jewels to Mantua I have been fortunate in my choice of birds for this beak eateth phooey PING CHONG for this beak eateth Ping Chong phooey.
I never saw a rat
Sorry for itself.
I never saw two rats
Consoling one another for being rats.
Rats live good full rat-lives with other rats.
Rat mind and rat heart plunge them into rat sex with other impassioned rats.
People say they are poison and ugly and cause disease.
I say people cause disease.
I never caught a cold or syphilis or gonorrhea or manic depression from a rat.