J o n n y C o l l a z o —

NAME

All of my books have come with me into the bathroom, or

behind the Wendy’s, have come through the shallow water.

They say it takes both wings to fly. We need, and the angels sing.

Some silver tore through the mood of the cows.

Unburden the growlights.

Low feelings are dissolvable in those moments where a leaf turns back

veers over divider to critique your mirror.

A string of pearls in the eco-mode. Ill vibes, by the way.

Sad platelets of my lineage have arrested their trombones at this lakeside.

In the stout Cortezes of Non-homophobia

craps is an undoable shroud of cupboards

scooping up the pterodactyls of power outage.

Separate girls bless these pans, in-grown hair, and a sudden performing arts.

It takes balls to say it takes a Philadelphia to stand on the world.

In terms of pulling the tablecloth out and everything stayed there,

the black seeds of my life going this way and that way, all lies!

Everyone was handling the raw skin of his hands

in the wool of their vision, their bison milk. Under self plants

we find moments worth replaying. Luditic rawhide of chair!

The fluid of their hills assassinates the temperatures

that give birth to Pain. This complicated island yields

permanently the swords of ambassador.

THE DIAPERS OF BILLINGSGATE

Time tests both of its oblique lacunae by the shorelines,

A fingerable scarlet receiving these brilliant changes

Without past, present, or future. Rules are irrelevant,

It’s the people subject to the law that matter. Their

Weird abidance or avoidance brings the weather

Out of hiding. By end of the interview, it’s worsened

Yet not as bad as forecast by signed and sealed. To

Try and picture just how masked of a wrestler can

Be expected is in their DNA, though timeline unclear.

First my own shit’s constituent parts have to settle.

As one Music dredges over another, so my home

Is lotioned. People are coming around to the idea

That part of its charm is its open hostility. Crime

Produces the lotus of typical imponderabilia,

Hustlers and two-timers seated around the table.

Watch me stay with her in the five senses. Where

Else is this manslaughter to find time to sleep and

Eat as do the nymphomaniacs of the sun? The hard-

Er the surf comes in, the harder it pulls back out.

One hears the bliss of the hats in the raven’s mouth

After killing off the most followed tulip of the world

With one’s own linens enfeoffed or pushing away

Mangled while the lurid vistas of illegible puss ran

The soul’s condition as a slur across the priestesses.

Sexuality is so old there’s a catch tackling corruption.

Functionality never acquires my theosophical sadness.

Birds dragging their testicles along the ground

Call this place home. Well, I admire their boredom.

To the Maya, bugs were the birds’ youngest siblings,

With fewer disappointments—much less hope.

REAL LIFE

Huh

foam, gem, rust

The Mother in between the child,

like mercury, or bulk.

She’s a desert dog on the wheel

sunken into the sharp dirt

of briefcases and recognizing her from across the room

as if this were a besieged city. Different pros and cons.

Words untie themselves from the bowels

if you were god. We might go,

“You are the waterbottles and the labyrinthine manliness,

increment and excrement.”

Sap enters across the face

of the master of asylum, the buttered legs

foundation for ethnopoetics.

Been getting more into the end of time lately

into low mental funtion

into those who have permitted themselves to come close to us again

into a sort of heartwarming rats

into the wrong place and at the ill-chosen hour

Big booty bitches aren’t writing, but neither is that.

Don’t stop laying eggs for forgiveness,

tag me for my unforeseen repairs.

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