What May Happen

When the time comes to transfer

the funds from the less stable what-ma-thingy

to the more stable whipper will, please bring your

paper towels and the bleach. Also, it might be nice

to have those surgical gloves. The interesting thing

about gloves is how they provide a layer, a boundary,

a fence (if you will) between the weird yard of your

skin and the weird yard of the thing you're touching.

Often, on lab days, when no one's around and

the secretaries are at lunch, I will open the scroll

that reads, like, like a menu of torture methods. I always

stop about mid-way through, fatigue mounting

me into a prison bitch. Lazing on the sofa,

dreaming of the time change, dreaming of the Jedi,

dreaming of the weird dreams of sleepwalk. Still,

to relieve the pressure, I'm going to have to

move quicker than I am accustomed to. I am used

to being very slow and snail-ish. I'm usually

proud of my sloth, but these days, with the economy

how it is and with all the regular bullshit

of regular living, I find my normally stable brain

is teetering and then, like a tiny bird egg, I'm somehow

lost in the grass and the perfect vegetable for a snake.

Having Real Ideas

No one cares if this is written or if I say

something or nothing. No one cares if, for once,

something happens or doesn't. I know people

who have strong feelings, but very few

of them know my initials. I have parents but

they have no bullhorns or cheer routines. No

one cares if I move on to something else, or if I stick

to something for a long, long, lengthy time.

Time gets very stretchy, like warmish taffy.

Time possess a similarity in sweetness and plasticity.

Also, there are wars and rumors of wars.

Also, for god so loved his something.

Also, there are different allusions that could be created

and many of them could be biblical in nature.

For instance, well, I think this has been covered.

For instance, fear not, for thou are with me, be

very afraid because I'm not easy to find but

I'm watching from a vase of fake flowers!

Nothing to Do

Gotta do this fucking poem!

Gotta do this fucking poem!

Gotta do this fucking poem!

Gotta do this fucking poem!

Gotta do this fucking poem!

Cheerleader

The big danger here

is lying

and not much to

say about it, but that

that danger is real

and, dude,

I could lie

or not lie

but the danger

is real.

So, when

you can,

change,

and, well,

if you can't

don't but

just

blame

yourself,

yea.

Car Ride

I

hope

I ain't

that

bad

a dad

cause

I try

but

it's

got

hard on

it cause

life

is

not

for

the

new

people

like

me

Realer

I don't believe in ghosts. Meaning,

I don't believe that spirits live on or something

and then kinda float around knocking things over

and causing water pipes to make extra nosies

and/or maybe making semi-scary moaning

sounds and/or appearing as bright orbs or

something in the background or foreground

of photographs. I know people say they've

seen ghosts and heard ghosts and felt

ghostly presences and all of that, but I don't

buy it. I think all of those people are in some way

mistaken. I don't think they're lying, I just think

they're confused about what happened. Have you

been confused before? It's an unpleasant sensation.

To remedy this sensation, human beings come

up with explanations. These explanations vary

in their degree of believability. I myself have

believed stuff before. That sensation is much

more enjoyable than the sensation of confusion.

Confusion feels funny in your bones. It might

shift around a little and make you feel as if you're

on a boat. That boat may be in a storm. That

storm may be causing giant waves to crash on

the deck. That deck needed to be cleaned anyway.

The death of the sailors is like the death of all

ghosts, sinking to the floor of the ocean and waiting

there, patiently, for something to make them realer.

The Rescue Operation

I told the girl I would try one of her

funky poems and I will, but not now, because

funky poems are hard poems and this

kind of poetry here is easier and more likely

to cause my mind to wander. I keep thinking

of the beasts in the field and the soil in

the earth. I also think of the yolk in the egg

and the egg in the belly of the alligator. I can

imagine the air lifting the leaves and the

trees teeming with certain grubs. I keep

thinking of the shellfish in the sea

and the water that it takes to move

a large, large ship through the ocean. I am

barely thinking of the girl now. Barely

imagining how she forms words with her

mouth and with the words she forms

whole rotations and spins. Sometime,

in the dark volcano of clocks, something will

rise up and up and, like a bird or a

paper airplane, sail out of this joint, into

the box where the rest of us are waiting

with our tied, tiny hands and our gags.

Big Auto

I've got this thing to do, see,

this thing to do, see,

see, I got this thing to do.

You know man, I've got

activities, man. Really,

you should pay attention.

Really, seriously,

I've got this thing to do so

I do it. Or it's midnight

and the largest car

on earth is just starting.

New PPP! Review in H_ngm_n!

"Peter Davis is able to say so much without saying, essentially, anything."

Bird Hopes

This is the sort of joke

that doesn't have a punch line

so I only mention it to make

some point I'm unaware of.

Shanna was talking about

training parrots and I'm down

with that and I'm sure others

are too. We all want to rule

parrots and make them

do our bidding. Ruling parrots

is the essence of humanity.

Also, I want to ride a jaguar

to work and, on arrival,

I want to enter my

office on the back

of a turtle and use some

sort of dinosaur blood to

endorse my paycheck,

Tina.

The Spirit World

I'm searching for the answers

and they ain't appearing no where

and so every redneck

with a guitar will do just fine

by me, seeing as how I've got

nothing to feel good or bad

about and not even a chance

or hope for salvation, just more

dead rabbits and unmended fences

and bridges that can't be built

without the help of seasoned,

alien workers, and scabs and scabs

and scabs on all of them and on

me and on you, I'm guessing. What

else is there in this universe but

a disco ball of doom and a DJ

who won't play the song you

want, but won't quit playing

all the other songs? That DJ is

called DJ GOD MUTHA FUCKA

and he can rock your shit for

a while, but, eventually, he's

going to leave you and you're

not going to get a chance to

say goodbye and, when you

get home, that night, you're gonna

cry cry cry because you're

his silly little bitch.

Facts, Tina

I don't want to do this and that's

pretty obvious. You and your thick

bones, your poof-y hair

and your insistence.

I hear you,

I'm just bitter about it.

I know exactly what you're saying,

but I think you're wrong.

I hear exactly where you're coming from,

I just think you're ridiculous.

You can stop now, or, if you want,

you can go on and on and on to

no one listening.

A Sonnet for Tina

Well I wonder how it happens that the weather

where you are isn't exactly the same as the weather

where I am. I'm no meteorologist, but it just seems logical

that the weather would be exactly the same everywhere

and yet, here we are: you in a very warm

climate, me where it is brisker. I also find it interesting

that not every single human being agrees completely

with all other human beings. In short, people have

slight variations, which seems unlikely, to say the least,

and yet, again, we find ourselves surrounded with

certain evidence. I don't know about you, but I used

to enjoy crime dramas. Also, I've played Frisbee and

rode a go-cart a little as a child. It's starting to

come together I think. This mystery about the weather.

B-Boy Ideas

You should accompany yourself with a radio

so as fill your brain with stuff so as to travel

more distractedly and thus more easily like a

quiet child, putting things away in an efficient

manner. You should bring extra radios

in case you must present one to a stranger

or leave one in the blank hands of an Amish boy.

If you are a person who enjoys horses,

then bring a horse or two. Or if you enjoy

baking, bring yourself baking supplies

and a decent sized portable oven. I can't know

all of your interests and beliefs, but use these

examples as examples of the kind of material

that is permissible, even encouraged in

small pockets of the population. Still I'm sure

the most important items are not transportable

and can't be folded into sections or unassembled

and really, besides, mostly we don't want

that shit, which would ultimately bog us down

into those muddy swamps we've been trying

to evolve from for, like, at least 15 minutes.

Seriously, it may have as much as 20 or 25

minutes. I'm old school. I think like that.

Quick

And I'll miss Friday too if I don't do something quick.

Missing Thursday

I missed a poem yesterday and

I feel really bad about that

because I know you, my dear, sweet reader

really missed the poem I missed yesterday.

But I swear to you and I mean this sincerely:

You missed nothing. My head was full of

baguettes and my soul was stuffed with olives.

My legs and toes were crammed with that

pink insulation stuff and my chest was

heaving drastic teardrops that fell as far

as a hundred feet or more before

dissolving into a pool of all the

teardrops that have already dropped.

Seriously salty up in this mutha.

Obviousness

One drives a car because the car is a set of functions

that requires a person to activate it. So you

activate that shit and you pull out of your driveway

and you follow various signs and you direct

your face and auto toward something that isn't

immediately available. That is called the future.

The future, as I understand it, is a concept meant to

indicate something that may or may not happen

in an hour that is to come. All of the hours that come

seem similar to the hours that have passed, except

for when they deviate wildly, causing very strange

sensations that cause readjustments in the attitude

or outlook of your mind-eye. Jesus, Tina,

seriously, you should get this. All of your time

studying various philosophy and yet you still look at

me all gape-mouthed? It's simple: certain concepts

instruct you pretty much so just by thinking them.

Tuesday Evening

It's not that I don't know what to say

it's just that there are too many options and too many

rules and a truckload of misaligned shit that has to saddle

up with it and keep it all together while moving it

forward in such a direction that is progress, if not entirely linear.

Most of my life I've been very confused. The amount of time that

I've spent confused is equal to the cold strangeness of hunting

very small animals. I know most of us know what I mean. We

know the feeling of stalking through a field

in an olive green hunting cap, with rust-colored boots, and

flannel trim on our gloves. We all know the buttery rush of memory

and the half second of Death springing into the wounded torso

of some furry little situation of small animalness.

Who has not yelled to the gods? Who hasn't screamed to a million

unseen fences and tossed rings over hundreds of human heads?

Everyone has these same messy nightmares, except

some people don't know it. I'm of the type who is confused and messy

myself. All some small animal situation myself. You know how

this goes back. Before long, you're consulting your mother

about your uncle who is a tall gentleman with a wide, brown mustache.

It gets gone almost before you even get there. It's like you

wouldn't notice but you do. In that position, you wake, put on your

clothes and reach into open air. By constantly changing the

empty space around you, you feel like a rich man for micro seconds,

and that's good enough, or, say, sorta.

A Letter from the Past

It is not good news to get bad news, especially

involving words like "degenerative" and "chronic"

and "analogy." You have to adjust your ears in such

a situation, so as to loosen the vibrations a bit,

and allow them to trickle toward your innards. My

innards are powerful lonely and my teardrops

contain a little jewel of the past. To imagine

the decisions of childhood matter! That there

was never any house money! O, honey, I wish

I was a new culprit of dawn! I wish I could dredge

the dregs from this soupy mess. As a kid, you have

eyes which you use to imagine and as an adult

you have eyes which you use to re-imagine. The

pattern isn't perfect, but it's close enough to

remind you of home. And where is a home for

someone from the future? In your bones, idiot.

In the way they hold themselves in your body.

One Problem with Children

The only known solution to a lost child is to

find the child and return the child to wherever

the child is from. There's a girl lost in the neighborhood.

There are children all over the world who disappear.

There are children everywhere that are being mistreated

badly. So much so that nobody understands the

nature of, say, even a basketball game. We look like

very stupid faces when we get on TV and try to

predict the course of the future. O, the future! That

vibrant little package of hope! We are unwrapping

it even now. Even now we are unwrapping it more.

It keeps unwrapping and we keep speaking about

our faces and how stupid they are. Even very stupid

writing poetry! I mean, of course, poetry. The parts

you don't count on are what sticks from the past,

that vibrant mercurial beast of Cling Town. From those

cages whole hosts are unleashed and breathe forth

with biblical happiness. Which is hardly happy but

at least able to set fire to cities and kill, say, everything.

My Brother

My brother rode whole teams of cougars through

the mall, screaming, his long blond hair ribboning out

behind him, his legs hairy and ribs hard

as asphalt. When he drank, he held jugs of water

before himself and let himself pour the water

into himself before himself would devour loaves

of bread and so many biscuits that the bakery

held 4o0 X 4 bakers, there were two dozen workers involved

in the washing of bakers' hats alone, there was a break room

filled with message therapists. There were days no one

slept more than a couple of hours at a time. My

brother would eat for weeks, but when it was time for

a battle he'd eat less. He'd still eat, but they'd close

the third shift. Some people missed the overtime

but most were just glad to work a regular ten hour day,

have a couple of drinks and play with their kids. By

the time I reached junior high he walked as if on a

trampoline. Springing up over the shoulders of the largest

men on earth. He was tattooed from the tips of his digits

through the vast ocean of his back and the wild

plains of his abdomen. These were brutal times in a way,

the way cavemen were evolving and beating each other to death

with big rocks. The tribesmen sucking on the marrow

of a bone, etc. a whole course of sagging evolution happening.

My brother's ear lobes were giant horse shoes and his

pelvis held a mint of silver. He boots were made of

leopard fur and leopard leather and laced

together with the intestines of a giant. He was a site in the

supermarket, eating a bag of onions while whiling his

way through the produce. His autograph was the size of

a guitar and his eyelids were like peach-halves.

But that's all done with now, anyway. Long live the Captain

Spider of Love! Long live the Beloved Blow Torch of Coma!

Happy life to the Supreme Star Super Power of Odessa

and the Earth! All hail Lord Owns It Suburbia!

New Review of PPP!

We who are about to die

Real Stanzas

You can't become a monkey just because you want to.

You've got to earn your way to monkeydom. Likewise,

You can't become a person just because you want to.

You've got to earn your way to persondom.

You can't adjust the valves of your toilet without

certain kinds of tools and your own opposable thumbs.

You can't sleep soundly and warmly in a bed made

of discarded slaughterhouse animal products.

One needs a warm blanket and a pillow, or two

warm blankets and two pillows.

Some people may end up with four or more of each

and maybe even earplugs, a cat and long underwear.

One can't just wish themselves to have a certain color hair.

One can't just make sense of the universe with a book.

One can't climb into a basket and expect to be picked up

and delivered to the correct address.

These expectations lead to lots of disappointments.

These disappointments rise up with greenish teeth.

One can not just make monsters out of an empty heart,

the monster has to be real enough to smell monster-y.

The Thursday

For this poem, I shall release the hounds!

What the hounds are likely to do is any body's guess.

Sometimes they attack the attacker, sometimes they

nap on the porch, often you can find them upon

their paws, watching a fly or something and occasionally

tilting their heads. This poem is so much more than

they can imagine and so much less.

At the same time, this poem is frightened and full

of fatigue and emptiness. The type of fullness

that is wasted in echoes struggling to conquer the universe.

All day, a chipmunk of doom crossed over my insides,

gnawing like a word you consistently spell wrong. I

have known tiny, teardrop-shaped caves and have slept

in the bad bed, bunches. Even now a tiny galloping is

happening across my insides and a field of animals are

stamping and glowering and pacing. In my life, I've never

hunted wild game. In my life, I've never set foot in Africa

or seen a lion maul a member of my family. I'm ignorant of tons!

I have seen animals on TV doing lots of stuff, however. I have

also been an animal my whole life. So what I'm saying is this:

I believe that some of my thoughts are valid. I think

sometimes my perceptions jive with reality. And, in that case,

I'm at a strange loss and also itchy. You know,

Tina?

Old Problems

My wife calls on the phone and I answer it. Have you

received phone calls before, Tina? Do you know what

this is like? Well, then why don't you keep your

mouth shut for a change and let me explain. The phone

is this device that allows one human (or a group of humans)

to communicate with another human (or a group of humans).

You hold it against the side of your head. Imagine

that it's a banana and you put one end near your mouth

and the other end near your ear. When you speak, the other

person (who could be as close, say, as a near neighbor, or

as far away, say, as all the way around the earth), who is

also holding a "phone," can hear what you say and when

that person speaks you can hear it on your "end of the line,"

on your "phone." My wife calls and she's lonely so she's

calling me to say so. I respond to her with some sort of

reassuring statement, like, glad you called. This kind

of banter continues for a few minutes and then it's

over with, I'm back to being off the phone and back to

helping you with all your dumbfuck ideas. So cool it!

Just take a step back, relax and put the ABBA record down.

Options

I never know if the mail I receive is really for me. Sure, some of it is signed,

"love, Mom" and some of it personally addresses me with salutations like "Hey Pete"

or "Dear Peter" or, even, "For my beloved, Peter" but mostly it's all

pretty ambiguous. The mail carrier won't look me in the face and when

I call out to her, in a good natured way, like, say, "Excuse me, Ms. I think you

dropped an envelope," she never responds with anything but a purple glare.

I should say too that that shade of purple is not meant for a face. What

confuses me most are the addresses which rarely actually indicate the street I live on.

I live on Grant Street, but most of my mail says stuff like "Grum Street" and

"Grime Stipe" and "Gutter Humper." The area code is rarely correct and many

of the actual packages I receive are clearly meant for others because they'll say things

like "Dear Margery" and "Hello Sven" and "Good Evening Mrs Turnbuckle."

Still, this stuff winds up in my hands and I'm left to consider the possibility that

these are for me, that I might be Sven and live on Grum Street. But, here's the thing,

I know I'm not Mrs. Turnbuckle and, even if I was, I'd hate myself big time. So, all day,

everyday, all I do is think about my options.

The Alsoness of Living

One good thing on the television is chef Gordon Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares program

in which he rehabs bad restaurants. First he breaks the will of the owner/chef/whoever

of a bad restaurant by belittling them and the operation for a while. Then

he watches them work and tells them what a fucked up job they're doing.

And finally he changes the menu, redecorates, re-trains the staff, oversees

a successful dinner service and, poof, he disappears into the back of my television. This show is so, so good because the way all of the stuff that happens

in it happens is always really entertaining and thus fun and real good, you know?

Other interesting things include certain branches of science and different pastry shops.

I also am a fan of zero calorie flavored waters that usually come in plastic bottles.

Some people really like saunas. The world can be like that. I've noticed that some

men enjoy wearing gold, silver, or platinum bracelets! It takes time to notice, but as

the weather changes during the course of a day, the temperature may vary slightly, or

drastically. This type of circumstance can be appreciated for what it is. I enjoy wearing

shoes, but some people don't like them. Once, it occurred to me that

people have various thoughts regarding sex and that one person may personally really enjoy

a certain sexual idea that another person may enjoy too, but to a lesser degree. I

find the whole event of being a person is a tad bizarre. Just today, returning from

an errand in my car, I noticed there were other people out there and that, by and

large, they look different from one another! Everywhere I seemed to look, there was

a person and that person was different in appearance from the previous person! Wild!

Coming into my house I noticed the evidence of animals, perhaps birds or chipmunks.

I thought, there are bats hiding in dark places right now. As I understand it, other people

have thoughts as well. Some may have seen the evidence of animals too!

Saying Something

Along with my Bloofmates from Bloof books, I am writing a poem a day during the month of April for what is commonly known as NaPoWriMo. Just thought I'd say something. That's what's going to be going on around here.

Death Urge!

People get upset about PC language because they've had it

their way for so long and got to determine the good and

bad for so long that they feel something's been taken away from them

when someone else says, hey, I think I'm going to assert myself

into the language too. It's just these tadpole ideas that grow into real frogs leaping

with slippery death legs, an egyptian plague that was promised and

now there are piles of frogs everywhere and everywhere one steps one

steps on an alive frog or a dead frog. All this stuff in the universe, including the

young couples that stroll through neighborhoods, the joggers, the various

killers of humans, the etc, like, say, the extra movements of the trees, the rustling-dealeo

we usually mention when we mention the wind causing these extra, twitchy movements

in the trees. All of this stuff is like something taken away from someone else.

All of this stuff is like something awarded to a pumpkin. Every sin I am in love

with is in love with me too and we get together and get some real love on!

Salutations!

One has a future or, perhaps, only a minute

or two to go, but in either case

a person has an idea which is pretty much the same thing.

What are you possibly thinking, that I wouldn't

be bogged down with the weight of weightiness? Unbelievable!

Just now the sun bellyaches its way into the room

and the folding chairs at the stadiums begin to swarm

with insects both alive and dead. And in countries that I've

never been to and don't know what, say, the name of their money is,

or anything of substance except that I'm pretty dumb, in those

countries people are really getting fucking bombed. So good morning,

new day of future ideas and stupid poems! O stupid poem, you

lovely little darling! You cute little jump suit! You often

admired chunk of happy! I salute your weird beard and the

coffin you happen to ride in! I salute your curly-q desire for

lunch! I am proud to have galloped at your side in the

whiskery dawn of impromptu suffering! I am neither sad about,

nor unimpressed, with your emptiness! I care not about

your terrible results! You furry rodent of doom! What up, G?!

Who's in the mutha fuckin house?!

Like, Something

I find the rain like a reminder of something, like,

I don't know, Holy Crap! It's Friday and in one room a child

is flushing a toilet and singing and in another room a

another is making lots of whooshing, zapping noises

and my dog is under my legs and my legs are up on the table

and someone says I'm looking down at the ceiling

and down there is danger that has the face of a, like,

deep down clown in a distance. Following the sound

of distances, yuck yuck yuck yuck yuck yuck!

Yuck yuck yuck yuck I say to my head because my head

needed a talking to. So I talked indeed as I was cozying

up with a blanket, a beanbag, and another blanket.

For some reason I get extra cold sometimes. Have you

experienced the sensation of being chilled? It's not like

you're freezing to death, but something unpleasant is happening.

I know long ago in different scenarios I imagined new ways

to cope with various sensations, but each time I have to

pull out the blanket I seem to lose a bit of my life.

It's hard to describe in detail, especially since you can

be such a little bitch, Tina! I'm trying to say something new

about the universe and all you fucking care about is

padding your sense of security. You can be so petty.