ABOUT

CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

Poem
by Ronald Palmer

Porno:Canto #9

                    Men think they are better than grass. -- W.S. Merwin (The River of Bees)

M:         (oral)  F:         (law) orbiting my erect ovum:    enter our white:napkin   jazz     shelter sol: vent:          rilo: quist with Jimmy Green on chaos theory blowing a
Brand New World.        A hyper-choreographed     syntax  knocking  within  our   national negative  monuments   in which our eerie  characters  are not safe.        Death within the body of man like a tenor sax gone frantic   with booming in the wound blowing ashes ashes as the little girl in pigtails sashes her pink flowered daisy dress during the candle light vigil, askes her daddy: why does it smell like fireplaces? (September 14th, 2001, 20th Street at 8th Ave). Letter to the future: now we’re fire proofing the bursting economy   with present tense taboos at a one percent interest rate I’ve watched this world consuming the bland theater of wars now they’re happy selling mad squares of sky.   Invent/reject    interplanetary debt--  burn enormous moment burn into sonorous silence.    After all the talk shows claimed our collective unconscious was a collective social hoax, Terror    Sex caused forest riots from coast to coast, but safe blood deletes the control burn.   Similarly, the subway-army-man stiff with his elegant machine gun wiping his sweaty forehead in the air-conditioned glass cube at Grand Street Station downtown NYC:  surf into me your exquisite grimace please stand by for more:soda:wars   water:wars   oil:wars:AIDS’nSARS I’ve sought out like sugar a cleaner discrimination not one sudsied up with marketing strategies living day to day with trans-   families scurried away in locked rooms snacking on Cuban-Chinese-Haitian  takeout while   Immigration   Officers   cyclically mimetic jetting 100s back to snake heads and traffickers’ electrify the streets around the kindergarten   (I’m equally pathetic)   save the sacred lives O robots!  Laser hatching some wall lyrics lingering in  disaster’s   chip I think  I’m hip too I’m trapped in a dilapidated American backbone. The savvy senators have gone hiking through Santo Domingo’s Eucalyptus Park:   as my sham-slash-specious  childhood kept clicksnapping on and off like a nineteen  sixties   light-switch:  when no virus could steal you. Right now my fluorescent gym is my current Jesus: And I don’t mean to  bust chops or anything drifting under the 14th Street apparitional archway. Cue the crying:  Let’s start dying:  at the international airport: the announcement came  over the Loudspeaker: Please have your security identification ready at the screening checkpoints cunning misnomer for sick: Now everyone’s     lying in our muted   mourning dialogic.