AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A [PERFORMING] CORPSE

					I AM SOOOOOOOO DEAD!!!!!!!!

					I AM THE CORPSICLE BURIED IN THE FREEZER—		

BUT BACK THEN I HAD A LIFE:

					I WAS THE FIRST BIG BOOKBAG IN THE OUTER BOROUGHS!
	
					I WAS THE TRAPPER KEEPER OF THE SUBURBS!

					I SPRAYPAINTED EATERIES WITH SPITWAD RHYMES AND 
					PUNCHLINES ONLY TO END UP A CONVERTIBLE WINDOW 
					WASHER STRANDED WITH MY SQUEEGEE AT THE TETERBORO 
					AIRPORT;

					I OWNED A HELIPAD IN HILO WHERE T.C. WOULD COME 
					OVER AND START BITCHING ABOUT MAGNUM;

					I FOUNDED AN INNER CITY COLLEGE FOR THE WATCHING OF 
					EXTINCT BIRDS JUST TO SECURE THE GOVERNMENT FUNDING;

					I SLID INTO QUICKSAND SO MANY TIMES LAST I CHECKED 
					THERE WERE MUD CAKES IN MY HARD DRIVE;

					I SOUGHT TO LIVE A “POLITICAL” LIFE IN THE COMPANY OF 
					OTHERS BUT THE OTHERS KEPT DEMEANING ME…AND WITH 
					GOOD REASON;

					I DESIGNED A BUTT TOUPEE TO EVEN OUT THE HAIR ACROSS 
					MY BODY AND ARMPIT IMPLANTS TO SCARE THE 
					HOUSEPLANTS…AND IT WORKED

					I CIRCLE-JERKED MY WAY TO PROMINENCE IN LITERARY 
					CIRCLES RECITING THE LITANIES OF “ TIMES TWICE THE 
					RADIUS OF US”

					I IRRADIATE IRIDIUM!

					I IRRITATE THE FOLKS NEAR THE PROSCENIUM SEEKING 
					SHELTER FROM SYNTHETIC ELEMENTS!

					I AM THE UNUSED IN A USED CAR DEALERSHIP IN 
					BUSHWICK— THE CITY’S REUSABLE INDIGNITY!

					I ROCK THE BAUHAUS!

					I BRING DOWN THE MILHAUS!

					I’M BURNING DOWN THE HOUSEHUSBANDS!
 
					I ROCK THE KARAOKE FROM MUSKOGEE TO MILWAUKEE TO 
					MANATÍ AND BACK HASTA AQUÍ IN OPEN 12 BAR BLUES!

					I KNOW ALL THE LYRICS TO ‘AMERICAN WOMAN’ AND 
					‘BORICUA GUERRERO’—BEING PARTLY BOTH AND WHOLLY 
					NEITHER!

AND MY POETRY WAS ALWAYS A PRETTY PETTY TRAUMA, A LAUNDRY LIST, A LISTSERV IN 
THE MAKING, ALWAYS BRONX-BOUND OR INTO BONDAGE—AND THE OLD ADAGE ABOUT 
GROWING OLD DOESN’T APPLY TO ME:

					I AM TIMELESS PERHAPS BECAUSE I’M TUNELESS! 

					I AM CLASSLESS PERHAPS BECAUSE I’M ROOMLESS!

AND THE VOICES IN MY HEAD PLAY OLD-SCHOOL TECHNO LIKE AN EURO-DJ SCRATCHING 
UP MY BONES:

					I TAKE MY HEADPHONES OFF AND SCOPE THE DANCE FLOOR:

IT’S EMPTY EXCEPT FOR A PINE BOX WHERE A FELLOW CORPSE SITS UP NOW SCATTING IN 
MONO (AND IF YOU KNOW THE SONG PLEASE SING ALONG)
	
					“COZ YOU KNOW--YOU KNOW—YOU KNOW—YOU GOTTA MOVE 
					THIS…YOU GOTTA GROOVE THIS--YOU’RE DOIN’ FINE…”

…SO CUT IT OUT WITH THOSE CORPSE CUT-UPS AND DROP THE MIC AND, BABY,
SHAKE 
	THAT 
		BODYBAG 
				FOR ME!”














Against What Movement (The Choke Poem)

How measure magnitude of what can’t see
What make of asteroids earthbound again
about pelt trailer park   edge city equally
How make sense now
asking questions onlooker ask
of park-bench people   soggy pitas   handheld devices

[Don’t they know everybody chokes]
[[One day will too]]

Leaves greenspaces grow indifferent
in reasonable imitation paradise

[Dass rite]

Everybody talk about A-Rod   Scott Norwood
groundball thru Bill Buckner ‘86
But wattabout daily choke
We carry like newly-spoilt groceries  
en route to end-of-world picnic off Rte. 12
Some us never there
Check keys one last time
as if remind this city of choke

[In nite-clubs chokers worn]
[[These worn nights   Drive point home]]

Rest of us get driven home
in circles   drunken   mumbling
alternative routes
morning alone
death emblems wearing
sub frozen sun
whilst kiddies spit from rooftop balconies

As if to say that he who
spits farthest
will be he who

[Who he]
[[Dass rite]]

never ever 
chokes 













East Village Conviviality Imperatives

East Village 
						As is!

Million Heiress
						Must!

Shaken for granted
						Maraschino stem systemic
Lycheetini mainline 
						Socioaesthetic emporium called “downtown” 
Been recalled 
						(or being so)
Chai smiles
						Topped with can-do attitudes
Sticktoitiveness 
						Post-it artistes play post-aerosol tag

Interpretive dance with daggers   
						Dull sun
Tompkins mohawk’d pooches
						Hip-hop goths given to waxing 
									nostalgic for big hair days
Days when there were heroes
	real bohos
						CBGBs stood
Immigrants on stoops withstood
						[with whom?]
To claim
						[for what?]
Q: Post-millennium?    						
						A: Culture as claiming
Against ‘90s reclaiming
						Eminent domain hosting provided
								courtesy of mullet incestual complex 
Peace corporate
						Etruscanner
ISBN
						…y usted?
The worth of words
						[for trades, for laughs]
What’s wrong wit dat
						[data entry of the future]
No exit			
						Museum cupola leak
Wine and cheese		
						Receptionists
First K-Mart
						[and after art what came?]
Audiences with arms open
						Untenably clothed + retrocoiffed =
Bringing it all back
						The straphang songs of yesteryear
“Rise up East Village!”
						[perhaps in jest]
Post-faux 
						Tuneless tunes
Mixed drangs
						Display case cutups
Convivialitinis
						[overheard] 
Vermouthings   
						[not yet stirred]












Chicken Wings on Broadway

A sum of years     
	spent on asphalt     
		strewn with ketchup packets     
			every night     
				the same recurring dream     
					where you’re an Extra-Tasty-Crispy 
					Wing-and-Thigh Special       
				ready to be served     
			with biscuits & fries     
		to starving picnickers 
	& faceless families   
in some  
	waterfront     
		park
















Vacía Talega

A man. 
A man who gets into a car. 
A car that goes into a tunnel. 
A tunnel that leads to the shore of a dead sea.

A woman. 
A woman who drinks a beer. 
A beer in a can almost empty. 
As empty as the beach that opens to a dead sea.

A dog. 
A dog falling headfirst. 
Headfirst into a well. 
A well that is as empty as the parking lot in front of a beach that opens to a dead sea.

An empty beach. 
A wet bodysuit in the hood of a car and empty bottles in the trunk.
All of them empty: 
The man, the woman, the beer, the dog, the beach, the poem.