J a m e s G a r w o o d - C o l e —

from Expended Sequence Out Of

XI.

I’m crazy about dudes’

bad craft and stupid work,

unlined-up bearded and

nag callus, rubber my back.

Ugly dense, my little

gut flora nicotine patch,

fresh off sheets

and snaggy hangnail.

You, laying on bedroom and

and your cheek is scratching

it’s so just humiliating, enough

to shtum you up that—my this quiet.

Oh, how small, my teeth

and my ear and my wanting,

my happy embarrassment.

XII.

House has obsessive circular

and trust it to stay, similarly,

and have a people virus, 

waiting out in high corners.

Believe in thinking

about thinking, too 

with quick waters, 

livened up in pipers.

Knitter together sweater curse

that out, this Waste Isolation Pilot Plant,

in kind of seep in salt, spacing under

stilt and shaft and room and skin-barrier.

Ditty stringy and grammar’s

phoning ins, navel-like and 

alike it like that, back-formed.

XIII.

You ever read them

like, r e a l l y read them? 

You go back to the,

   like, back to the beginning…and they don’t make no kind of fucking

      lisp.

TRY IT NOW... you know/ do

you, anyway, conveying rimming

       like it makes itself/falling back

       the same all not right dirty chat? 

If you live on the fourteenth floor

and they missed off thirteen in, “the mailing boxes

hydraulic lifting of up it all,” don’t you out of this hole in the,

still live on the same floor or whatever?

Write about anal sex—

—it’s like you’re a real poet!

There are so many interesting things

inside you.

Poem On And/Or After:

sound. Have:

yes, a large self-esteem big, Botox head and

yes, a very especially bad smoothie, mmhmm

yes, a loving house partner and/or pet

yes, at least twenty-eight affirmatives,

yes, a poem-y expres-

       -sion. More?

Yes, most likely, to think soon, and

composed, loud-like (it’s a sound). Belied

by tarnish-y pendant sonata or madrigal

I’m doing the chunderiest chunder like

retching up yack yack

        yack. Have you seen

my cumsock? I yacked in it. Friend of

the pod, me, last time listen the like

central all yippee cold and sober,

how many should I put on? A baker

doozy, getting side down

         queerly! Made-up:

bruised-ing mispronounce the little

vessel I’m deposited in, cochlear to,

yes, having a pot to piss in one of those

days getting titted as exponent, eaten

alive with couple-up, 

         iterating kin against.

.