You cry because
Of Swag Onion;
I cry because
Of A Gin Swoon. 

I issued forth
Like a puff of talc,
A smarmy
Repressed hum—
Alone at my desk
In the buzzlit office
Of this rainy day
Nonprofit—all
Neutral Milk bootlegs
And Tanzanian peaberry.
I am this website's
Person of interest.

I come
          from a line of
dicktypers.
Proud men
                  soilclose
and            vineveined
and       
       in the virginian sun
with the heat all around
like a wet blanket
               i would scratch parallel lines
in the soil, dicktyper
Typin dicks. 

It's Real Estate—
A decent band;
But they garner fame
By being bland. 

You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!

Far be it from me
To question diction,
But this word will always
Incite friction.

"Cleromancy?"
Divining stones?
Watch out, Archmage;
Your cover's blown. 

Melancholia
Doesn't pass by us;
It passes through us—
Like a fever, and likewise unpleasant
Although the imagery was
More pat and simplistic
Than any fever-dream I've had.

I can't help but feel you dropped the ball
By not utilizing "uterine wall." 

Lest we not forget the casting of siberia;
Let us layer liquid light against silvered panes,
And lay the sullen evening like a silent ghost
Against the sky—
The clouds like flaccid muscles
Along the spine of trees.
When comes across the wind
What comes across the wet air
And burnishes our private insurrections
All…

So my intent
Was to spend the weekend
                                       —the first weekend back—
With a book.
Or two—something light. Maybe write a bit.
I was going to do some yardwork
Take my girlfriend
To see a play
                  —some still do that—
A microbrew on the porch,
Watching the prickling stars
Out over…

So at first
I thought it was the aspect ratio
That was distorting
Your face into something
Feline and puttied,
Blurred topography of a vanished civilization's
Caves and cookfires. But you
You are cavalier with carving your flesh,
And it isn't the film grain
Or the television—
Here's space for you still;
You'll post returns,…

"As null and blank
As a snowy field
This only thing worse
Is this movie's yield."
—The Astral Disaster Poetaster, The A.V. Club. January 5th, 2012

The evolution of things
Is at the sticking place
Where non-linear meter
Is
The tits.

Daddy
        When you dress,
        And the house is silent
Save for the owls in the trees
Outside
And the refrigerator song
And you put on
             Your pearls—
Daddy
       Stop watching
       The blitherlight
of Work It. You may make
Dustin Hoffman
          look like
Alison Brie.
But you are better. You are.

When Downtown Abbey Brown dances,
The world is a broken champagne flute,
Effervescence and jagged edges—
But Downtown Abbey Brown
Never dances for long,
And cut lips heal,
And foam bursts.

Oh post-millenial America!
Land of Tebow and God! A seething tree of
Martyrs to autism and solipsism,
Broad-beamed and built on the soil
Of sweeter-breathed lands—
What champion comes,
What saint could be delivered,
But a hunched little gnome
Tracts of text in the knolls of his face,
The strength to clutch, and to hold,
And to…

'i am the new america'
he said, his fingers sapped,
his eyes vein-knotted.
'but when my family comes,
i will be the outcast again.'
He gave me an orange he had taken
A changeling fruit, pulp and bitter flesh,
[IT IS A METAPHOR FOR IMMIGRATION RIGHTS].

Awards season always comes
With dismaying suddenness,
Like an exercise in sullen unwrapping;
The same names repeated
As those on British tombstones.
At some point,
You become tempted
(those of you so inclined)
To edit in false titles
And create new guilds
And creative boards.
Don't;
We are watching.
And we know
The Producers' Guild
…

I have always pronounced it
                          coming trippingly—
some autumnal sibilance,
All gutter leaves and cool water—
                          Ke' Ssha' A. Oh muse, oh holiness enjambed.