Brian Wilson tapped
the bleach-blonde hymns of heaven
and then went to sleep.

Carl Wilson begged
the waves to riffle away
his chubby body.

Dennis Wilson was
the one Beach Boy who could surf.
He died from drowning.

Mike Love wants to sing
about cars and girls for life.
Wake up you old man!

Al Jardine lived
across the street and sang with
a voice rough as sand.

Now that we have reconstructed
Our snug-fit opportunity act
like the popular card game;
2" to 2.5" from Doppler thrombosis,
All the articles wave wrong!

Rush hour shepherds with quiet,
Water-driven, over-the-sock insights
Clip channel "Yes!" on Proposition Swordpoint.

Slam, Bang, Thermaflow, Pharoah and his priests,
Spanish hot and balance sheet appropriate,
Seismic, not yet born,
Collect P.O. Box music
On a nation-wide basis.

This is the age of Ordinary Violence.
It is a history of corporate mergers and break-ups,
So on and so on and so.
"How do you spell that number?" Someone asks.
The Earthquake beckons.

I've got 5 blank lines between each stanza, this is the 1st

If the statues could talk,
They'd laugh you out of town
And spit their words out in chalkdust
On the blacktop.

This is the 2nd blank line. I plan to fill them all!

So, when She gazes at you with contacts,
And smiles at you with crowns,
And holds on to you with Her big rubber arms,
Don't tell me you don't know what it's like
To have loved someone you didn't even know for one second.
My Bible might end with these five words:
"That was something She said."

There will be no blank lines to go if I can help it! 2 more left!

I am the Patron Saint of Kids and I do decree:
"Make sure you make a clean room.
Follow the 7 Laws of Gravity.
Don't worry about That Shit, wear It loose like a shirt.
And, oh, Don't forget your Japanese.
Wake up every morning and tear your Grocery List apart.
Don't spell 27 with a '2' and a '7' if you can spot the difference."

#4, you ain't gonna see but one more!

You should bless me when I cough, it feels better
I won Best Picture, but You're weird, too...

What a way to end! All blanks filled!

Thank you in advance for your kind attention to this matter.
Mine truly,

Darren

The Stummy

Viscous and vascular,
Round and ball bascular,
Should I go up and ask her?
Waistpiece stuffed with slaw.

How do I blub thee?
Let me count the waist.
I've stuffed myself with the best minds of my generation,
Entered an eating contest and placed.

Two roads diverged in a wood
And I ate them, too.
"I sing the Belly Eccentric,"
Quoth the Raven in a stew.

Belly, so jelly,
Stummy, stumbling,
I can hear the refrigerator rumbling,
Turning this widening gyre,
The cookie's crumbling!
It's humbling, but
I can't seem to lose the fucking gut.

The President's New Hair

By the light of the smokestack dusk,
it almost looks real,
that gallant helmet.

I hear they came up with the idea
while at a Bob's Big Boy,
then hired some of the country's
most prestigious auto-mechanics
to design it.

I hear they took some
old record vinyl, mixed it up
with molten gunmetal,
belt-buckle brass,
ground punk,
shoepolish,
a slick of Valvoline
and citral,
formed it into
modest pompadour,
and carefully secured
it with a cat's paw
around each ear.

And everyone admires
the care, the detailed, yet
tasteful, sculpture, the
even rows, like dark, dewy
fields of grain--
especially the children.

It generally works good, too,
except, of course, when he tries
to tip it to the ladies, showing off
the spools of barbed wire, skeins of
audiosplice, ribbons of wax wound tightly
like the heart of a radial tire, next to
parcels wrapped in ripped-out tongues that
heave alongside skull fragments, intricate and
individual as keys, and ink-bleeding playing cards
and pumice-covered rags that dry in the equatorial heat
of his
glass-blown retinae.



But that doesn't happen much.

Hangman

When I was in Catholic school, our teacher used to play a peculiar kind of "Hangman."
Rather than drawing a primitive gallows, he would draw a cross.
Rather than a hanging stickman, he would draw a gruesomely expressionistic Christ.
For each misguess, he would add another heartwrenchingly accurate feature to his chalkmark Christ
until the rendering lept from its green and white print to sweating, bloody life.
The cycle of error and blame creating a maelstrom of guilt
worth a million crucifixions.

The Power of Negative Thinking

Shun Kobayashi has three cockroaches in his stomach. His doctor told him this the other day and he is wondering how they could have gotten there.
His younger brother keeps a pet cockroach in an old Ozeki Sake Cup which he has named Taro after himself and to whom he feeds bits of mayonnaise and Vaseline. But Taro, the younger brother, is a compulsively honest person, so Shun doesn't suspect any late night wrongdoing on his part. How could they have gotten there?
Shun is pondering the possibility of spontaneous generation. He learned about Pasteur and his flask experiments last year in high school; how the great scientist had disproven the medieval belief--the idea that rot, dust, sludge or general dirtiness could birth rats, roaches, and other vermin. In other words, a kind of cruel, unintended magic, a pestilent alchemy....A foolish belief of course.
But Pasteur didn't have roaches in his stomach. And what's more, Shun is a pillar of bodily hygiene, healthy diet, and overall tidiness. How?
Maybe...he thought them there. A spontaneous generation not caused by corporeal grime, but by an unkempt soul. The power of negative thinking.