Sleep comes like a drug / Like the Jonas bros / IN God’s country ///// (Live Poeming the Super Bowl)

I’m thinking of tears in a coffin, seratonin and ways to cheat with glitter, largest breasts and flaring pigskin.

A brief history of Cuddling. Black Eyes. Bo Derek hair. Life’s always cruel. Like a strip mall.




I’m imagining a salon in Phoenix. So much shining hair. The crowd goes bananas every snip, tufts down on through the healthy, desert air. I am thinking of a feast of fat men guzzling Bud. I am thinking of Ben Jonson on his tour of Scotland. He picks up a yellow handkerchief. Gleaming with heather. The hills are alive with caber tossing.

Oscar Pistorius– you could be the Necro King and Queen left and right thumping around the curve. Charlize Theron weds Sean Penn in a bunch of piss-gold glitz. I wish I was profound like Russell Jaffe. My darkness, though, will keep me in stead. My stamped, cliched tattoos. The lawyers fall on me like a pile of starved, patient cats.

(3:40 PST). Lynch. Yeah, men hanged in trees. I grew up in South Africa. Tense. Aggressive. Like the center of the Super Bowl. That’s the great thing about this Live Poeming. You can just say things and blame them on the Super Bowl Serotonin (SBS): (blood)letting them mean what them mean, raw and live and over the middle for a nice little gain. (Pistorius is crying in the background. Bang. Bang. Bang!) We are a culture of electronic misfit trash. A lady in steel underwear on a horse. I hope the Seahawks win.

(3:45 PST). Once upon a time I was at college. (Oscar is crying still.) A couple going at it below me in the darkness. They were like a wounded dog, a three-headed hell dog panting up at me. Where am I now? Katy Perry is the future. I wonder if they’re publishing her face in the tunnel?

(3:47 PST). Kam Chancellor — “he’s the hammer on the back end.” This game tastes vague when you’re Live Poeming. Johnny Depp on horseback about to lose his head 7,000x a second for the rest of the half as we hunt for more and more, howling confetti back and forth in our horse head blowing. I wonder how many murderers are at the Super Bowl? Watching it? How many livestock thieves? How many tweeters? How many mice thumbing away and away and away …

There are 8 stars in the NFL Logo. Man, this Live Poeming sure sharpens the senses. I am on fire. I can see everything. (even this Let Me Smell Your Dick). Piranha are gleaming in my Glasgow eyes.

I’m rising already above this now. Blunt force trauma. Preparing an exit strategy. Russell, ever wanted to just run, find a place to hide?? (Rose! Rose! Rose!)

I wonder if Tom Brady makes love with his hard-hat on? Makes love to America. Tom, with your hard hat on?? “Part of the game plan.” “Stuffed in the back field.” “It’s his quickness.”

And we’re right there to salute you. I think I’m going to skip halftime and type some of this shit up. What do you think, crickets and peanuts??? I wish Russell Jaffe was here to help me. Would he change a word or two?? Would he compare my handwriting to the fall of Adam and Eve?

“you’re going down, son.”

How is this not about sex and the mating of America? #MakeItHappy

Hunting rabbits with a pair of greyhounds, a spotlight (Oscar is crying still), and a pickup roaring through the veldt. There is so much poverty, darkness, the wreckage and death of the Super Bowl. How many people will orgasm in the next American Football Hour ?? and how many will release, subtly, into a candle full of rivers?? I’m going to check my email now. “committed to the sea.” #SaltTheory=a bunch of cruise ships. America you are the candles floating. Alien whorehouse. Snapping turtles. Columns. And I’m dancing.

KimDataStash.Com— if this was nightmare. if/if/if/if/if/if …. if this was an obscene boxing match. if/if/if/if/if/if/if i believe right now I am Katy Perry (Oscar is crying, Mama, Mama) and will feed America. . .

Dig a hole. Make it bigger. And bigger. And bigger. And fill it with breasts, guns and trash. Now, it’s 7-0 Pats. I wonder what RJ (Russell Jaffe) is up to now. Maybe burping Celestine? Maybe fantasizing about Fast and Furious (7)?? I wish I was inside Fast and Furious (7). Dig it. Dig it. And fill it with trash. The world is dogs. And I love dogs. The CIA’s most brilliant mind. Dig.

The players are crossing back and forth like chromosomes. (Oscar’s firing into the bathroom). “Utter Domination.” “Good deep beautiful kick.” “Taken out of bounds.” (Oscar is crying).

I am sad. I was gone for a while. And I miss the Jonas Bros. Those romps through the valleys. All the suffering. And overcoming. If you really want to “punch it in” who better to have on your side than the Jonas Bros. I was looking at a painting elephant. Now the score is 7-7 and I am sad, musing on the Jonas Bros. Lusting for them. (Oscar is crying. Blood. Bullets.) On a porch in the mist, the Jonas Bros, like Mr. Darcy, surging with Super Bowl scarecrow lust. Like Cool Hand Luke. Man, o, Man, this Live Poeming sure digs deep into the writing soul.

I hate McDonalds almost as much as Comcast or Coca-Cola. And sure I’d buy the world some coke. That elephant could get pissed. Perhaps Katy Perry will ride in on a drugged elephant. Will I even watch half time? (evidently not. I am typing away like a bee. bzzzzzz.) Not since Armstrong stepped on the moon…” …. huh, I had no idea Lance Armstrong went to the moon.


Russell-- i am really sorry

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