Nixon in China

That liar and cheat
all the way in China for world peace.

Would it be wise
to help them rise?

Imagine, if you dare with him,
the whole world on its knees
before you.

Need they adore you?

Nixon sneering in a
central office with no AC,
wanting a drink besides tea.
Demanding numbers.

In long black socks,
watching art,
thinking ethnic slurs.
Jesus, the heat.

Applauding.
Concentrating on being commanding.
Joining China standing.

 

 

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Aside From My Foot Being on Fire, Everything’s Actually Pretty Incredible

AAAAAAAAAAH!!!

FIIIIRE!!!

FUUUUUCK!!! MY FOOT’S ON FIRE! JESUS HOLY
FUCK PUT IT OUT!

PUT IT OOOOOOUT! AAAIII—

I don’t even know how it started.
or when.
but MOTHERFUCKER IT FUCKING KILLS!

It’s been at least a year—
JESUS!

On the other hand,
I can’t believe
HOW GODDAMN GOOD
this ICE CREAM is.

BEN & JERRY’S, BABY!

WAFFLE CONE, MOTHERFUCKER!

And this massage is
really getting in there.

I can feel SO MUCH TENSION
just like GUSHING
                           A     W     a     y   .     .     .

And honestly I feel
pretty guilty I even requested it but
BEYONCE’S BREASTS IN MY FACE
are like WORKS OF ART.

Even compared to all these Picassos,
they’re—
MMMMMMMMMMMMMM. . .

—BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB!!!

Bbbbbbbbbb is for
BBBBBEEE-YONNN-CEEEEEE!

I love that she thinks that’s funny.

Eating the ice cream from her skin. This is
really leading
            somewhere
                        delicious!

But GODDAMN I just WISH my fucking
FOOT WASN’T ON FIRE!

AH—FUUUCK!
How does it even—
So LONG!

Just—JUST—
ohhhhhhhhhh, elbows.
LOVE when the elbows get in there.

And who even made those bouquets?
How can anything smell so,
I don’t know—
so, like, I guess just GOOD?

Oh and that slight funk when our tongues meet . . .

With only one part feeling any pain,
I guess it’s hard to complain.

And HELL’s BELLS, what a TRIP
all these puppies are!

TICKLISH MOUND OF TICKLING!
RECKLESS TENDER JOY!

In such moonlight.
Ice cream almost not frozen lifted from
HOLY SHIT BEYONCE’S INCREDIBLE–

TOO MUCH! TOO MANY PICASSOS!
TOO RICH SOUL MUSIC!
MOONLIT PUPPY PILES SQUIRMING IN CONSTANT SURPRISE EVERYWHERE! EVERYWHERE I SEE!

These younger women, too—
yes, I get that they’re celebrities, but I don’t
follow the newer stuff. Who even
are they? Whomf—
MMMFF! MMMMMF.
MMMMMMMMMMMMFFFFFFF.

MMMMFUUCK, though!
It’s just except my foot, is all. I know,
again—STILL!

FIRE!

FIIIIIIIIRE!

OH, GOD, OH, GOHOD,
OH GOD OF THIS FUCKING WORLD!!!!

 

 

 

Hope

How much do the children
need to see
of the gristly crease
and the gulf beyond;

how much cold
before they wear their hats;

how close to the dead,
the dead with their hungry cheeks
turned for kisses,

being felled again and lumped
in heaps, the deep stars
humming something else—

we love their (the children’s)
wings folded against our hands;
a kiss!—

of course, but for them,
meaning for us,
walking on air with eyes closed—

a gape of rain and thunder,
drops open as love;

in the flash we look out
or meet eyes—

how safe will it make us
to know it,

to plunge into or
study

the darkness?