possibly the worst poem ever written

e questo

5. constellating

red scharlach, conan o'brien,
i'm with you in rockland.
mr. ed, mr. parker,
watermelon man, i'm with you. i'm with you.

i tried on black, black, black,
black this and black that:
a black coat and black shoes and a black hat.

i lost some cities once.

my fingers smell like cranberries.
it's a red smell, that cranberry smell.
it's so like candy (so like candy).

cogwheels, i'm with you.
tchaikovsky and nephew, brian littrell,
you, guy in the subway with your crazed violin,
e.t.a. hoffman, i'm with you in rockland.

4. x =

i tried on black all day--all day and night.
i have been to the chain store--and the other chain.
i have outwalked the furthest city light.
black dress black gloves black tights.
space.

it's the place.

i chased down emmet kelley, lillian shapiro
and william h. macey.

i gave my entire family problem gas.

3.

menotti, i'm with you in rockland.
i'm with you, prokofiev, and sartre, reluctantly.

freaking pour names down on me like sand, fill me with sandlike names.
libatum me, domine, something something...
in die illa tremendousness, something something.

over-arcing, the sweet scent of narcissus-white jasmine
riding the soft image of clouds at a summer sunset so that
pink becomes a smell,
transmutated into a time and place,
fixed down like prometheus on the rock.

blood, fat and ashes.

i'm with you in rockland sirius the dogstar
and cerberus, sisyphus and persephone and the
shades in the asphodel named as such. fertility and its overtones of death:
narcissus. white. with smooth petals. i've got you in rockland.

2. pantywaist

the smells of summer:
kettle corn, vodka, heat.
rich in color like camelias or
someone else's tanned shoulders.

reach down into it with mouth and
taste that fat. plunge tongue into it.
open it with beak and talons. repeat, god, repeat.

i have a zit on my upper lip.

i'm with you in rockland, anyone i know or have ever heard of.

5.
she's fucking dead papiols. lay off the tambour.