A Super Ball from 1968 careening from wall to floor
to ceiling to other wall to floor with force

I can't catch it
It moves at light speed
at crazy angles

I throw my body in front of it

Plastic Foot Breaks Lines

Raymond Farr

A poet’s wristwatch dwindles down to No-Time past(ure) or present(iment). The duration of tic tic is toxic, manic as lovers’ panicked open heart of Heterosexual Field Guide. The presence of an indigo blanket moving in two directions rests in the arms of a particular Selena. A girl like a willow. The brain of someone sings in the attic, dragging off the motionless irony. The motionless irony stays till the end. Her notes remain the idea of a something climaxing orange. In the drudge of a sentence, slack as a pant leg, her voice is the ice she’s trapped in the silence making funny bone her bitch. Meanwhile: elle parle en anglais. Begin again, she says: Selena sits in the bath stall’s shadow. Bubbled up with ambient shrubbery she goes limp at a glance. Her closets are full of infinite closets & divested of realism. O wooden woman frozen in banks of perpetual misdirection yr nightmare suspends you. Yr shroud of proportions is all out of proportion. Something rabid with approaching. Something fundamental as chaos or the meat on yr pork chop enters yr hive. The same clock is dealing its end game. You begin swirling backwards—a head, a spine into a door frame. You strain forward, crazed into solipsism. Such is the autumnal portal a fixture of looking. In yr honeycomb of crazy you meet Little Debbie. You are no one that’s real. You are not Geoffrey Chaucer. You manage a K-mart. You pause taking stock. Yr clouds are a being, solid as stone. Yr big tube of lipstick pedals a bovine. You blink & take heed of wan Little Debbie, who threatens now with her fist upright in yr face. A menace, you now realize, you must take as it comes, & out of nowhere, where moments ago there was the illusion of nothing.

Mona Lisa Interface (post dada goatee)

Mona Lisa disappearing acid flower slices herself left & right of Mona Lisa banjo song. An eye is writing good salami poems above an oboe below a salon. Her lip synch’s her PIN. Absurdist penciled-on fixed association of multiple implications numbered like orgasms. Hands folded neatly in her interface style. I walk in. Discordant pu-pu-pu-puppet Mona Lisa stutters across a fish accordion. In a perigee of a bowl of maggot stars lasting all night at Cabaret Voltaire, I walk out. Mona Lisa extended warranty is made believable / named interface, raffles off a dugout canoe. I am butter & Soolagong made twisted metallic grass hopper Song in the Middle. Searching the grid. Incapable of Mona Lisa interface I eat a banana. All mania wanders in. I spit on the music of the spheres of the past. Their exquisite interface is softer than logic and a dead fucking sea gull crumples up roadsters. burning burning burning burning. Every Mona Lisa ritual spells fire. Release me O hounds! O interface! Mona Lisa stands upright piano lacking interface goatee. That most infamous goatee. Hands curried. Her voice Lemon Pledged in the wings of her video. A yam. A bit o’spasming eternal hoof N mouth like that of Robespierre. & Mona Lisa interface, a small mouth crackling menstrual cake hatchling of prurient S snags onto howls, her Control Group X mocked by the thunder of her Thunder Road road kill. Even as her vole mice churn in the vice of her molars her mama’s a twin. Her dada’s a yarmulke yanked from its yarmulke. A violin pauses. Pursues. Accruing in strangeness of vatic stuningness. & positioned by twelve angry intercessors, every one of which is bald, Mona Lisa is interrogative yellow. I watch as a stillness in the woods follows us home. I salami her wrists. I lumberjack my salvos. Further interfaced. Further goateed. I dote on Mona Lisa licentiousness. Her interface a daisy. A Futurist salami isobar. Her crucible’s her donkey. A deck o’ wildly scattered interfaced storming out brain cells. Across the universe her interface sings: Don’t Google eye my email, mama. Mein calf is fatigued calf. My steak is named “Chop.”

One of the World’s Most Trusted Sources of Info (at yr finger tips)


What is the meaning of Herpes Simplex bag o’cats in terms of a half frozen lamb chop boarding a flight & out of control? The answer is Marcel Duchamp sitting up straight at the cross roads of a jet port sipping Cinzano. His news is not a crime but gossiping owls. His facts are re-sequenced. A punch line that’s stolen & one mad tarantula steamed until pliable as Howard Hughes. We gather at the hearth in the jet port concourse out in these boonies. Just gabbing like ghosts beyond the ink & nose of a civilized poem. He mentions his study of lift & drag. We are two souls stuffed inside a teddy bear. He acts as propeller, accelerant, father mother deity pilot. The answer is quiz. We set out on a spree, two motor mouth Bozos on a papillae jet airplane. We spin into flux. Two embalmed dodos straining for lift amidst a droning of engines. We hear them night & day without seeming to. We feel them in our bellies & on our faces. Their vibrating chill envelopes us as we rush off the tarmac where ten metal teeth biting down on our humorous are the one long in-flight commercial absurdity we can’t escape with our loves. Or a tv with gumption & tubes & tubes of a popular brand of feminine body wash instructing us & every person watching to “Love the skin you’re in.” It is too nice & blue a day. We are of too nice a mind to stop thinking completely. Someone says: “I profit from…” “I’m in love with…” & someone else is airborne.


Duchamp lives to eat sausage. His penis resembles a Jimmy Dean breakfast link. It splurges from both his ears caught in a time warp. He wants to live in the custodian’s closet at the sausage factory outside of Des Moines & eat nothing but kielbasa. Where his sausages are fucking fat fingers, olfactory virtues rearrange what he’s thinking. They affect him like radium nodules sewn into his pants. He grinds up the dead diseased wounded. He likes his pelicans that way—a stump of meat rumbling across the Europe of his intestines. He means nothing but sausage in sterile blue casings. He invents nine particular events that coincide blindingly.


Duchamp listens inadvertently. To cars. He follows instructions. Well. He finds his way. Off road. & on. He navigates the Interstate like a man with a shadow to lose.


Marcel Duchamp is telling you the truth. The truth is a silly rabbit, oblong & poised. The truth is a world in which a sink is a man who calls himself gravy. Whose 4 on the floor is 15 minutes. Whose ice cream of glass structure, looking positively 4th Street, is the opposite of fame. A synonym for pageantry, Duchamp applies logical hands to such mental hallucinations. These defects stumble over pauses. Appearing & disappearing. Monumental as taunts of miniscule reason.


Duchamp’s name is a product. A state sponsored raid on personal information gathered clandestinely & saved in a file. His prayers spark & illuminate like two exposed electrical wires attached to the sky where he bounces a check at the 7-11 having signed it: r. mutt. He is losing his hair. Making art of each clump. He can never shut down what it is he sees coming. He is half dead & half alive & a good time swimming at lobster. His heart is a tool box as wide as two feet in the eyes of a book. & under the law, which he is against, he lives (self-proclaimed) like the hot hot sun on the face of Jack Benny. As he takes a good piss, his piss is a bridge arched over the church of church & state. What else can he do but hold out his penis & piss straight as he can?


Duchamp lights up the edge of police light Teutonic ride-along on a bigger screen than a computer screen. & throbbing till it hurts, he monitors the heat of night as it falls /is falling. The moon is a scab of dulcet tonic mixed with purple limes to make the king English. He rides along shotgun as someone bent is standing alone. He illuminates a side street. A crooked something made to seem real, we dictate Duchamp, up at all hours. Substituting an M for every 7 he envisions a crime & a criminal slash saint assailed like a gull out over a map. In this way no damage is done in numerical order.


One of us is carbon based. A salad on celluloid. In our line of business this city is moss, a non-edible dollar of sociable indifference. It slips loose of one eye. The other eye brims with some blue Contadina whose lover is tomato paste. Duchamp is the difference between Spot, the all plastic canine, & a polyurethane mutt on a mission to eat. Duchamp hails us with bop & a slow moving piano. He shows up speed talking. High on caffeine. As he enters some data into his cell phone, he is vague & red & plastic as he does so. He is swift & long. A fraction of chronometer. In his head it is always the right time. He is interviewing for jobs. He is telling a story. A little girl’s pit bull is a spoonful of Q multiple times. Her little blue pit bull has the shape of an email not found in nature.


Duchamp is writing the hell out of a catalogue of medical supplies. He is modeling Duchamp on the waves of Duchamp asleep at the beach. Someone says: Marcel Duchamp is a secret society, like Sam’s Club, or the Price Club. Someone else says: He is a member only of himself.