Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Speaking of Pathetic . . .

John Wayne was the biggest pussy I’ve ever seen.

Best

My poems don’t
have fancy references,
or symbolism,
or allusions,
or rhymes.

My poems just tell people
what to think
and feel.
That’s why I like to write them.

Because people are stupid
and will do
anything you tell them.

Thursday, May 25, 2006

A Long Stretch Upon Pile on Pile on Pile, or Do You Have the Endurance? Understood.

This is part of a work in progress. It is not done. Nor will it ever be.

In the name of WAR and
antiquated beliefs the people
of the People's Republic of Nair
have asked of me this question:

Do you like rock star,
cock star, pop-and-lock
and jock star? Or starry-night
and canola? Tell me a lie,
or you'll receive no truth, no truth,
no truth, no truth
NOT RUTH!?!?

And then some.
When the cops came and burned down the house
that Abner Runbuttons ran, he ran, ran, ran
so the law couldn't find him, and he lived underground
in a cave in them parts of the country without teeth and
booksmarts, and he lived with his commonlaw husband,
John C. McMammal and together what a time they had!
Bank robbers and cannibals, stage coach robbers and
hairpin turners: Abner Runbuttons, furry kind and fuzzy
gentleman cannibal emerging from the recesses of vampiric instinct
and John C. McMammal, the coldest cold-blooded killer to
emerge from the devil's deep-freeeeeeeze!

And time stood still.
That alien dimension from which Vlad depended,
it was his one stilt of benefit,
that kept him a foot ahead
and a tooth within at all times.

"My how that Abner's all grown up," Grandma Runbuttons
used to say when she knock-knock-knocked on the door, with her
fetid smile and drawn-on eyebrows, a butcher of EPIC proportions . . .

Transcendance and dance and dance dance you FURKING HIPPEISISISISISIS?!?!
"My face melts in the sun?" she said/wept/thought/dulled/curled/lisped/whimpered.

Shrunkenness, which had struck him so again into a darker street, and reaching at such a sacred and beautiful and as he looked he spied the Trojans over the wall knowing that HORSE would soon belong to an abundant place in history books.

A lip of smoke curls around the mighty mountain he calls a nose, but to punch through it is nothing. There is no wall, and that mountain not so big against a rainfall of knuckles brashed.

Come on my lips? Was that the question passed between those two gossipers of unknown whispers. I only love what I cannot see,
and eat what I cannot feel,
and feel what I cannot eat,
and see what I cannot love.
Here are some words:
In this spring of
1953 the free
world weighs one question
above all others: the chance for a just peace for all
peoples.

Natalie Peoples dropped herself off
in no man's land and worked herself
off into delirium searching for the sacred
self in honor of Siddhartha and Kerouac
and Bukowski and Shit
and came out on the other side the exact
same girl.
And tell me again how this Hightower person came
to submit his work to such a prestigious journal (PIGS)
as this one here upon which we select the works (TOYS)?
He sent it to us in the mail, sir.
And what do you think of it, Mr. Fently?
Well, it's quite shit, sir. Quite shit.
Wot's that? How do you mean?

Sticky nipples and starcrossed love manifestoes
clog the pipes in this old building.
Rubber booties and stump colored pickaninnies.

Lick that honey from the lips of time, and see how
fast you die. It's not for you to open the pages
of this manuscript until the last page is burned
and then you'll see an ash-colored golem that has been
sent to wipe the slate of black, black earth clean
as a
bloody cutting board.

Kidneys? Really, Mr. Joyce. Kidneys?
Cueball in the corner pocket, eh?
Well, scratch this
off your list, goatpoker!

Kick on the face of time=money!

Here's an equation you're sure to figure out, if you
can focus for a moment:
I don't + care + what you think + about + anything = Hilton Hightower
So eat it.

And so I dropped into interview a famous poet in light of his views:

Hilton Hightower: Why are you such a stupid asshole?

FAmous Poet: I don't know. What would the definition of that be? It's like asking someone, do you write for you, or for your reader?

Hilton Hightower: Shut up. Like I said, you're a stupid asshole.

Nimrod: I'm sorry. It seems interviews get more and more difficult with every book I publish. Every interviewer wants to engage you in some transitional way that mediates one's work with one's personal thoughts.

HH: You dumb speck, that's ridiculous. You're an idiot, and your braindead followers need to be kicked and stripped of their reproductive organs.

Dickhead: I don't think you're right there. Listen, I've struggled my whole life to put words on the page. I write the way I perceive, and that's a very raw and honest way to commit one's self to ideas. When I put something out there, I at least expect it to be respected by my peers, and hopefully enjoyed.

HH: WAH, WAH, WAH! You're a crybaby, is that it?

There is only one tunnel of time,
and it's filled with mosquitoes
and when you get to the end
you realize there's nothing there either.
There's no sunshine, no darkness,
just a punch in the space of
nothing.

splitting atoms down
to hairs and dancing on the
torsoes of fallen soldiers
you've forgotten to bury completely,
and dang buggers keep poking their fingers
back on up.

fib,
jostle,
fibo
crow, CROW, crow


Somewhere deep in John C McMammal's
reptilian brain is the following desire:
to catch the tears of every crying man, woman, and child
and drink them all; to feel that quenching liquid
is to feel finally fulfilled and ready to
strike, again.
And Abner Runbuttons wants to do a 1,000 piece puzzle on
the bathroom floor in the House of Representatives,
but John C. McMammal tells him it's not possible, unless
he can find some way to levitate in between dimensions, but
everyone knows you can't levitate with a box of puzzle pieces,
or at least not in between the folds of dimensional cardboard.

An Ode on the Self-Defense of Those, Those Being the Violent Deer Down South

I am a man.
She is a deer,
a doe, a female deer.
Oh shit I'm getting kicked in the head
by this doe, a female deer.
She's really messing my shit up,
split lip,
busted forehead,
and OH GOD WILL I EVER GET OUT OF THIS
MELEE AlIVE! bounces through my head.

What is a man to do in a boxing match with nature?

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Abner Runbuttons

Hi.
I'm Abner Runbuttons.
I like to write poetry and play with my cat.
He's a tender pussy named Ezekiel Matthias Bruner Runbuttons.
His hair is a problem in the summer time.
It chokes him up.
I like to listen to entertaining pop music.
I'm about as plain as can be.
I like to sing songs to pussy.
I sing him songs all the time,
songs about love and ministry and this one about all the tuna
in the sea. Oh, the sea.
Most everyone I meet likes me.
My friend, Joseph Stinkwater says, "It's hard to dislike something
with no flavor, especially when the texture is nice."
My Poppa run off when I was but a wee lad.
Mom, well she's got a nice angel collection.
"They're nice to look at," she says, "But a foot in the bog to dust."
I like when visitors come out to see me and Mom.
We always invite them in for a cup of coffee
("Black or cream?" we always ask, Mom taught me.)
and an old browse of the Good Book
and then we chop them up into pieces
and eat them and bury what we can't eat in a
hole under the house.
"You can never be too safe, "
Mom always says.

Monday, May 22, 2006

MySpace Pages are Pathetic Cries to the World that You Have Low Self-Esteem

People who have Myspace pages
are all pathetic, useless,
and shallow people
who want to obsess over
how "popular" they are.

Having a MySpace page is the
equivalent of having a personalized
license plate on the web.

What a Dick . . . ens!

First off, Charles Dickens
was a breeder.
Ten kids he brought into this
miserable world.

The Dickens kids were a bunch of
whiny snotbuckets, too, let me assure you.
Just like daddy. A perfect example of how
a poor man who makes good will raise
annoying assholes for children.

And here's a story for you idiots who think
Dickens was some sort of moral icon
because Oliver Twist was so damn good
with its perfect little protagonist:

Dickens left his wife and
messed around with her sister.
(All of her twist.)

According to you human beings, that's a strict
violation of your moral code, but somehow
I bet you'll manage to forgive him
because he's so famous, and you
think his writing is so "good" and "witty"
and "wonderful" and so many other pathetic
adjectives that can't even begin to scratch
the surface of your stupid, inane views on literature.

Dickens was so naive,
with his zest for life,
and all of his idealised characters,
and his concern for social welfare.
His gravestone will tell you
he sympathized with the poor
and the suffering and the
oppressed.

I will tell you big deal.
The guy was such a crybaby,
always whining about poor working conditions
and poverty and yet
despite all of his popularity,
all he did for poverty and
suffering was write about it,
which proves the theorem that
writing accomplishes nothing.

Big deal, Charles. You certainly
put the "dick" in Dickens.

Brute

Thursday, May 18, 2006

Hilton Hightower's Template for Writing Awesome Poetry (If You Like Terrible Poetry) -- Lesson 1, blockhead

blockhead
in this poem i won't use any punctuation or capitalization and that will make my poem totally artistic and cool and i will think no one has ever done this before and i'll sit around with my other dumbass artistic friends and we'll read our terrible poems to each other and think about how smart we are and how much we want to have our poems published and how much we want to be great writers like some guy we saw in a movie and try to impress our creative writing teacher who will act like a huge pretentious cockknocker when i take this poem to class and he'll tell me that the form doesn't really work and that i need to take it home and revise it some more and then he'll turn and flirt with some of the girls in class and i'll still deep down think i've stumbled on something great

Did Someone Shart? No, It's Just Children's Art

If this poem were the children's art in a local public school
it would look like shit
and I would laugh at it.

Why? A Poem Written From the Perspective of Gary, the Roommate of Dave

How many days have you gone without a drink, Dave?
I asked you that the other day.
Why did you hit me? I'll never know, now.
You left and never came back.
I miss you Dave.
I'm having a hard time picking up your half of the rent, too.

Dessert

Like chocolate?
Then stuff your ugly face with some
and stop talking about it.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

To Two Morons

You two idiots
can't even
grill steak kabobs.

Tonight, Tonight

A sphincter a day
keeps the vampires away.

Sunday, May 14, 2006

A/B, or On The Occasion to Dream of Ones and Zeros

There are no
right answers.

There are only
wrong answers.

Chuck Norris, Not Only Are You Weak, But You Are Also Pathetic and a Crybaby

If that girl, Chuck
Norris,
ever gets it
into her head to
try and roundhouse
kick me,
she'll regret it.

Oh how she'll regret it!

A Message from Earth

You friggin' assholes!

Thanks for leaving your
garbage all over the fucking
place!

How would you like me to crap on
your face? Huh? How would you like
it?

Upon Losing Her Way While Dreaming of Her Wonderful Marriage

Steve Garvey, Steve Garvey! GO! GO! GO!

I don't know why you say
good-bye,
I say
Steve Garvey.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

New Reviews for the Hilton Hightower Book

Look at these reviews of the book. Reviews like this come in daily.

"I like to read this book while I'm taking a crap. The pages are of a very fine consistency for wiping my ass." -- Jason Edelman, Literary Review Union

"People like this Hightower fellow really have their dipstick in the oil of humanity. Now if someone just had a match." -- Dick K. Fellows, Chaos Poets Club

"If only this Hilton Hightower had important literary friends in high literary places, we might actually embrace him, or even see this terrible poetry published in the pages of Poetry." -- Maria Constance, Crimefighters and Killers International

Everything

Everything
in this
goddamn
motherfucking
piece of shit
fucking world
sucks a fat
fucking dumbshit
goddamn
dick.

Monday, May 08, 2006

She, the Poor Boone Girl Was Returned, Unhurt; or On Frontier Slutitude

Daniel Boone's only job was to flush out a path
so the frontier colonists
could pass over.

He set out to slashswingslashswingslash
his way through thorny underbrush and tangled briers.
He was fittin' to hedge out the Warriors' Path
between Cumberland Gap to the banks of the bloody Ohio.
He took thirty big guns and mean sawtooth killers
with him to murder
any natives that stood up to halt the progress of MAN.
He had a mind to establish fortification wherever
in hell he liked.

This happy white man established himself on
the banks of the Kentucky.
Despite rumors of kidnap and capture,
his daughter (who was known to be a lethal combination of
loose hips and strong frontier spirit)
ran off with a gang of Shawonoes.
Several of her frontier lovers joined
Boone in pursuit of the girl and her
"captors."
John Floyd joined the crew, too, for he owed Boone
a certain debt, and he was a notorious ass-kisser.
After a several days journey, hunting and tracking
the natives and Jemima Boone,
Daniel stumbled on them,
(they being completely unaware)
killed them,
retrieved his daughter,
and returned her
to the lust-filled arms
of his frontier comrades.

Bludgeonasmic Preponderance

Saturday, May 06, 2006

You Little Hemophiliac, You

Little
Tsarevich Alexie Nikolaevich,
your disease
let Daddy in
the door.
He tore it open
and full bored the Romanovs
to their very funny
end.

ant shits

Teenagers are
all pathetic,
ignorant shits.

Poseidon's Adventure On the High Seas

Art
rhymes
with
fart.

Upon a 200th Anniversary, or How Poetry Sucks

Poets are all scum.
I've never met a poet that
didn't deserve to be dragged
into a hot street and scrambled
like an egg.

Friday, May 05, 2006

HH, on Dining for One

Hilton Hightower
will fucking
knock your
teeth out
and eat them.

Nomenclature of Tzara, the Cut-Up Adversary of

I destroy the drawers of the brain and of
hell to heaven, restore the fecund wheel
and the imagination
of every individual.
Of a universal circus to objective
forces social organization: spread hand from
heaven to hell, my eyes from demoralization
wherever I go and cast my

A Poem Written from the Perspective of the Mouth on a 63-Year-Old Woman Walking Around the Mall

By God,
I can eat a lot of
ice cream.
I'm a big fat mouth,
and ugly too.

I mean, look at this
shit. Have you ever
seen a mouth so fat
and nasty?

I will go at this ice cream
cone like this old broad's
never eaten before.

And trust me, ice cream's
not the only thing she
has me attack.

I also ravage her husband's
ears. That bastard's constantly
in need of a lesson,
a good what-for!
and I give it to 'im.

And those fuckin' kids.
They always need it, too.

A Monkey Urine Synopsis

Everyone wishes
he/she could be great.
But no one
is.
Everyone sucks.

Especially you.


Yes, you.

No one likes you.

Thursday, May 04, 2006

Upon Which Population Has Become the Theoretical Name of the Game

Fistfighting Dante

Let me tell you something about
Dante Alighieri.
The only thing divinely comedic
about that pansy
was his glass jaw.

I mean, what a pus.
The guy couldn't take a punch
to save his life.

Dante's Inferno, my ass.

Karma's Revenge

MFA students
all think they
discovered reckless
sexual behavior.

You punks deserve
every sexually transmitted
disease you get. It's karma's
way of paying you back for
writing all that horrible
crap.

Monday, May 01, 2006

Might Black as Night

Have I put it into your head?

. . . blood was on her mind,
she was hell-bent,
and quivering with fire
a nightmare portrait
fisticuffs
and empty emblazoned,
full rage
like a tire fire
instigated with motor oil
circle mind
black wisps
it was slit or kiss,
death or depth of
flavor
in madness and
rituals of remembering
prokaryotic assemblage.

A butterfly flits across the room.
Flit. Flit.
A butterfly flits across the room.
Flit. The dog leaps off the couch,
catches butterfly, knocks butterfly
down, traps butterfly, tears off
butterfly head, eats.

Where have you gone Steamy Nix?
And where will you go again,
and when?
and then, she was back up again,
pushing and biting
lashing and pumping
fist after fist into stump
of meat and biscuit,
a urinal cake of dilemma
washes over her heart,
as a fountain of desire
pushes her onward
over mountain night
and into desert morning
mourning the loss of
Johnny, Johnny Liver J
a stump of raw
and a pump of blaw
and he pushed himself over
snowy night and snowy dawn
of day,
with a mouthful of guts
steaming every smile
he gives,
a fist in the heart of his eyes
Can there be forgiveness
in the consumption of a liver,
such as this?
He smiles his steamy smile and
knows above all knows
that this is not so.
The liver is an organ of vengeance,
built of tissues of revenge,
assembled of cells that long ago forgot
the meaning of compassion.

You push me, Mr. Bank Manager, to force
my breath up close to yours,
and crumple your tie in my hands,
and issue this warning thus,
I've separated many men from the world
of the living, and I'm fixing to liberate
another if this deal doesn't go my way.

But I scoff, it's another day.

I roll over, the deep scar,
the impact of red hot sword fire
deep into my cage,
has already been repaired.

You know this is all true,
Mr. Silencio.