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MÜLLER:

A PRAYER 4

THE 21ST

CENTURY

Hey

I WAS HAMLET

Cam?

The following is a reimagining.

All characters in this

piece are fictional,

and any resemblance

to any persons,

living or dead,

including those

elected or running

for office

in the past,

present,

or future

is entirely

coincidental.

LOL

“….the man was a bit

compulsive, let’s face it,

but on the other hand,

he was absolutely

the most amazing man

that America has ever

created, ever…”

I’ve memorized all 50,000

words in the past,

of the past,

but I forget

why I get out

of my seat

sometimes.

“Ok, I have got to interrupt

you right now…”

“Sorry…”

beyond the night inactive,

scratched out from this system,

start the sounds of beginning,

building this house up to remember,

putting on new faces, hard places—

all underneath your name,

regaining a little bunch of thought,

eyes turning to thoughts—

all stepping out to

get a warm-coded response—

between the yearning and the release,

between the hunger and the purge,

falls the slumber—

falls you,

faded star,

going mad—

falls you—

sprawled

lonesome—

this heart

reaches none

(everything)—

don’t get angry

with your

failed faith,

there will be

so many of

likemes

that will

love you,

hate you,

rebirth you…

you will rise

American happy

with ice cream

redemption—

O my

unown,

once in

a while,

tell me

you miss

me…

“…We want to tell you

what we know, as we know it.

There’s been some sort of explosion….”

HOLY SHIT!

OH MY GOD!

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!

OH MY GOD!

WOW!

OH MY SHIT!

GOD!

(the user is now offline)

DEARLY BELOVED,

WE ARE GATHERED

HERE TODAY

TO GET THROUGH

WE WHO ARE LIVING

ARE NOW DEAD:

After the destruction…

Hamlet is left alone

on the near empty stage.

There’s still so much stuff to do.

With no help in sight,

his memory will have to be enough.

He is now Ophelia’s shadow:

red lipstick and wedding veil.

There are hints of

Coca Cola in the air,

maybe cyanide.

Maybe Amazon.com

and the ax of genocide.

Maybe foam at the mouth,

not unlike the foam of the sea

upon the rising of Venus.

He is stunned (drunk?)—

maybe overwhelmed

with melancholia?

Maybe yearning for

sunsets in the horizon,

fondly remembering

the Marlboro Man.

Maybe overwrought with

“flores, flores para los muertos.”

Maybe dried pussy willows

and better-not-be-freesias.

Maybe jealous he

was never a woman.

Maybe still zealous

of that night

he once had

with Horatio

many years back,

when he was young.

Maybe if he would

just have done

the things he wanted to do

with his life, without thinking

of the consequences, maybe….

Maybe he is also Horatio.

An inter-dimensional character.

He is youandme.

His footing is unsure.

The background is insecure;

the dread of not finding a cure.

Maybe an identity missing.

He takes an uncomfortably

long pause before

addressing the audience.

Something is not right.

One can tell something is not right.

He is present. And she is also a ghost.

And they are both in want, in want.

The future is indeterminate.

Somewhere in between.

They are sifting through the wreckage.

In the name of 👽—there is no pulse!

Some kind of alert croons

and hums in the darkness.

Missile airstrikes

provide us the bassline.

All of it is due to airstrikes,

mortars and cannons, all of it.

The audience should be scared.

We all should be scared.

We are scared.

We know we have to

make it to the other side.

Even if we end up forgetting

how we get there.

DEARLY BELOVED,

WE ARE GATHERED

HERE TODAY

TO GET THROUGH

THE POEM THAT

CANNOT TAKE PLACE

TAKES PLACE:

He swings his iDevice wild into the air.

Nuclear silence.

Lights up.

HEEERE’S HAMLET!

i am now mobile

sans cables and fables

designed in Mexico City

& assembled in the OC

i am now white small & personal

i am high industrial capacity

fully operational

out of the box & very original

yearning to be pounded on

ready to conquer the world

battery-operated & calibrated

more auto-voltaic than ever

i am now branded

i am now home

i am now current

i am now new

i am now active

i am now searching

i have the power

i am inevitable

i am ready for you

i am now poetic machine

to be continued…

with blood made out of lithium

come & customize me

out of oblivion

web me into

your wild

magnetic meridian

cell phone daddy me

come mass produce me

cum configure me

devour & use me

THE ACTOR

PLAYING

HAMLET

(PRE WWIII)

Who made me live

by the fire by the sea?

The stars all fell down,

they were calling onto me.

Who made me dream

of the city in my mind?

The brain is caught

barring the heart;

the heart is caught

redacting the muscles,

and I am caught in a lust,

fanatically spinning

the occidental thread;

digging out of the dead;

out of control;

will this neon yarn ever end?

I am only a collector of dust

dressed in 20th century dread,

entwined upon trunks of

my western artifacts looping,

re-posting each other,

copying themselves

on feed upon feed,

as in need upon need.

Pearls on a string theory revolving

round my disheveled cat memes.

O and look at Little Miss Media,

she demands and I swipe to the left.

She demands and I tap on the flame.

I ring on the bell.

I like and subscribe to her

tactical nuke strike.

I am tuned in,

feverishly awaiting

the next sacrifice—

a broadcast of digital passion—

bombs bright bursting in air—

a coup simmering in the distance—

a song to keep me out of youandme.

When will it catch up to us?

HAMLET FOREVER:

THE NEVER-ENDING

FRANCHISE

“What do you think you will do

tomorrow?” Dr. Milner asks H.M.

“Whatever is beneficial.” He responds.

I WANT TO BE A

MACHINE

My brain sometimes tells me this,

and then something else.

And my conscience tortures me.

I don’t know what’s happening to me.

HAMLET?

HAMLET IS DEAD,

MY FRIEND.

YOU CAN CALL ME…

NON-SMOKER.

AND AS YOU CAN SEE,

I’M A LOT HAPPIER!

(maniacal laugh,

maniacal laugh)

Suddenly I’m in a blank.

I am a blank.

A blank in the dark—

but I wanted to say so much more—

but my mind, but my mind,

it keeps blocking itself.

Stronger to get her!

Was that it?

STRONGER

TOGETHER!

STRONGER

TOGETHER!

We suffered a lot, a lot.

I took a piece of my heart

and put it on the floor

of our house for him.

For daddy.

SOME BLACK HOLES

ERASE YOUR PAST

AND GIVE YOU

INFINITE FUTURES

But I’d like to think I still matter.

I still matter in this one, don’t I?

On my cell phone scrolling,

scrolling, and suddenly

the Motherboard article appears

on the small screen and I think:

some other me will be having a ball

later tonight, or maybe several balls,

or having a ball precisely because

I will be having several balls…

or he will be…or she will be…

or they will be…or mmm…

balls throughout all

my many black holes—

I remember when we were young

and you were on top of me

on the couch, you asked,

“why can’t you just be a girl?”

Baby, I am making it up as I go along.

YESTERDAY

IS A HARD

WORD FOR ME

Let me tell you a non-sequitur:

Once a upon a time

I used to care about many a-thing.

I used to care about

each line in the prayer

I used to care about

each line in the poem

you take your pick, ok?—

wanting the audience to be

transported into the unknown—

the lines in the text in full sus

pen

on.

Nowadays I regret not getting

the All Wheel Trim Level.

Nowadays I worry.

I worry most

about the batteries.

I worry most

about the batteries on my cell.

I worry most

about the batteries on my cell

not being charged.

It might be all I have left that

makes sense in this the new style.

iHEART

BACKUP

FAILED

April is gone—

can’t believe April is already

bye bye gone

and I’m still concerned

for the horror of

any spacetime to follow,

especially with the

world set on fire.

Excuse me,

the word

set on fire.

I must be careful

with these corrections.

Change is possible.

Change is possible?

Can’t believe how

boring these days

would be post-

Bobby Mueller…

You see, I’ve been on

this forward-thinking

path as of late.

You see, I’d like to focus

on something entirely new;

the right side of history, or

how it always comes by too late;

the morning after

the apocalypse, or

how today is

a fresh century

for poetry.

O, YAWN EMOJI

Baby, I’m thinking about you

and your brain;

the darkest residue built up

in the synapses of your past…

When we lose

large parts

of ourselves,

are we not

able to move on

with what we’ve got?

Are we trapped in these

holed-out worlds forever?

NONSENSE

I believe I can re-wire my brain.

I believe you can too.

I believe! believe! believe!

Baby, you can too! You can too!

Even if you don’t believe, believe!

Even if the keyboard keys

get stuck right at the feces of it.

Seriously though,

I believe in commas

much more than

semi-colons;

I also believe in you.

I believe in butter and

I know you do too.

Focused is our story,

we are the main course

(of course)—

youandme

cinematically obscene.

Baby, I’m real excited

at the idea

of seeing

you soon.

I picture you

well-behaved

and clean-shaven,

maybe that stupid

mustache of yours

will not be present,

alas, not your size 32 waist.

Your brain will be

doing everything

it can to remember—

remember.

Baby, disremember is

the cruelest month.

But April?

Last night you smelled like a little

musk of Zoloft and bright LOLs.

We were drinking and laughing

like the twenty-year olds do.

You leaned over to ask me

about the recent news

with the Attorney General,

“Aren’t you just dying or what?”

Your tempus vērānum shirt blooming

and radiating a strong heat,

almost like a burning desire,

but how could that be,

wasn’t it just the beginning of spring?

WHAT IF

THIS IS

AS GOOD

AS IT GETS?

finally

out of fever into you

I put on a new dream just for size

there are new colors here

even as the past of me

unresolves with the future us

(we break open)

I keep leaving blanks just in case

darling don’t you dare say

I didn’tdon’t keep the fire

going strong & able

you know I’ve keepkept it

so volcano hot for us

& for ohsolong

O menman of all my time

I’ve been so afraid you

won’twouldn’t keep up

with the fable

been praying madly

inside our cabin

by the woods

anxiously awaiting

your homecoming in the rain

keeping our hypothetical table

clean and ready

so upon your return

with the metaphorical

you can literally

beatmebiteme&abuse me

yes it’s so weird the way

we connect things with other things

like the very first time we met

at the audition for the murder-mystery

when I first sat next to you

even then I knew

even when I saw

your curious fish eyes

digging deep into me

even then I knew

you were an actor too

you sang onedoorcloses and

tap danced andanotheroneopens

you told me I was a poet with a force

and then you let me loose

watching me wear out the battery

like the energizer horsebunny

desperately making up

for the lost&found in us

trying to maintain

the fantastical bridge

bringing us closer into

a tight domesticated pitch

(bewitched by the bright

pixilated bliss of this

our digital abyss)

I keep this one short to keep you

and keep you from mixed labels

but most of all keep you from:

my flesh is flushed

with the idea of your

ditto hands upon

my forever lips

I TRULY CANNOT

CONNECT NOTHING

WITH ANYTHING

Winter is here—should we

wear our masks tonight?

I keep vacillating between

my corporate daytime

and my nightly transgressions

on the interwebs;

flashing marks,

fleshing me out of sleep,

leaving me in hormonal purgatory—

the ephemeral is bad

chemical for the brain,

but we keep scrolling, scrolling

because we’re on an endless search

for the most affordable fate.

AND STILL

THE XBOX

IS NOT FULL

Nowadays I’m stuck in a coma,

obsessing over Nietzche’s abyss,

thinking how hard it must be

falling and falling,

trying to hold onto

something,

anything really,

even the

Oxford

karma.

YOU CAN’T

HANDLE

THE TOOTH!

It must get comical after a while,

not reaching anywhere radical.

The rug pulled out

from under our feet—

are we there yet?

LIKE MY MAMA

USED TO SAY,

TWO TEARS

IN A BUCKET,

MOTHERFUCK IT.

We are just free-falling-

senseless beings now—

the air thick in

happenstance now—

erratic fascism by

pure chance meow—

an accident that was made

to look like an accident

waiting to happen meow—

Time caught in a bubble

of unknown rhyme.

Time is the missing airplane

remembered in jest.

Time is caught in

viscous walls of fear,

and the power it comes,

the power it goes,

the vicious flower of foes.

I’m looking for angles, ha ha ha,

I meant to say angels.

Many angled angels

covering all of our bases.

We’re all looking for miracles.

SHUTDOWN

Dear HAMLETMACHINE,

I remember there was a cool breeze

dipping into my great expectations

that early October in 2016.

I was at the airport

trying to reach you up north.

I remember the drenched optimism

upon clicking the breaking news,

“….grab ‘em by the pussy.”
I remember I even texted

you about it and you

responded with something

along the lines of I know.

Baby, am I just making that up?

Fantasies.

I remember you

driving me

all over Sonoma,

thinking to myself you will get

along well with this landscape.

The roads in your new neck

of the woods so wide,

with large swaths of

green on each side,

earthy lots full of

American product.

This was a place

where people went

to escape their character.

Yes, you said very beautiful,

and I saw very beautiful too,

but So Very Lonely was its name.

I remember thinking the roads like

I can’t wait to get home.

Home is where the heart is.

The roads like

the world

about to change.

The roads like

the impossible

possible.

The roads dazed and confused,

blood-soaked and cursed.

The roads eating themselves

and spitting us out

to nowhere real fast,

in echo construction.

The roads red.

I WILL NEVER DROP

OUT OF THE RACE!

The roads funny like that.

HELP! HELP!

THE AMAZON!

THE AMAZON

HAS FALLEN

AND IT CAN’T

GET UP!

Dreams and realities full of

what’s another word for seizure?

My brothers’, my mother’s,

Horatio’s, my own!

Mixing together and breeding maniac

out of our brains at some loss,

some misconnection—

a misfired neuron,

some break, a tear and a wear

on our dear constitution—

our eyes stuck in boomerang mode;

stuck on the precipice of

dawn on repeat,

dawn on repeat—

it competes with

out of one, many miserable.

HURRAY,

THE SYSTEM

HAS CRASHED!

Hamlet, I hate you so much.

Your machine broken.

Always broken.

You made it broken.

Rigged it broken.

Big-lied it broken.

Hey, I’m talking to you right now.

I get the overwhelming sense of

yadda yadda yadda…

Hey, I am speaking to you right now!

I miss the shit out of you right now.

I want to feel your imperial breath,

stroke the back of

your conquistador neck

as you fill up my

pre-Hispanic receptor—

hey, you should have conquered me

when you had the chance!

Hey, I know you are up to

your eyeballs right now,

but text me when

you come up for air.

I will wait for you still

with a patience.

For of wait and of silence

and of continuously

pleading you,

I am made up.

Hey, I will fight

your mother for you!

LOCK HIM UP!

Let me go back, please!

Return me to want, to want.

It was a gentler desiccation then.

It was like praying.

Full of potential.

It was like laughing, swallowing

the tiny misery away, hiking

it down to the bright nowhere of me,

dropping it down to the grand

hollow of me, crashing it down

to the jagged edges of me—

where the base of us

keeps drumming the story.

HAMLET’S AIM

TO HORATIO

(FRESHMEN YEAR

COLLEGE –

FALL 2003):

how are you?

how’s newyork?

how’s everything?

how’s theatre school?

how’s work? how’s my friend

in the east coast dealing with life?

me? in between sober and the unreal,

not feeling so well. to be honest,

i don’t believe in anything

anymore, you know?

it’s not an absolute resignation,

but the drive in the blood is low, numb.

the days go by harmless,

a worn out place;

a little bit is my father.

isn’t it so strange about Elliott Smith?

in a way, i’ve always admired

the ones who say

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.

where are you?

WHAT I HAVE

LEFT IS ENOUGH

(PRUFROCK TO

VERDENAL –

AUGUST 4, 2004):

O midnight heartcrasher,

frontier addict of desertion,

forgetful manic of elation,

in distant howl you got me here,

in jump&skip you mapped me here—

to recover the old flesh,

to uncover sober beats.

(But now to use the rest of me—

the muted skin,

the wounded nerves,

the strained voice,

the bestbeast of me—

the newraw

constructed me—

to make me real again.)

Come bendbreak the midnight,

O green-eyed buccaneer!

O green-eyed refugee,

seeker of hourly mothers,

you graphed my lonely hands;

wrung out, dried out, cried out,

spaced out, smoked out…shut out.

(But now to use the rest of me—

da bitter bones, da false senses,

da burned-out impulses—

to make me reel againe—

disexplain these lonely hands.)

O disembodied figure,

cry out the women, climb up

to the womb that is your sweetheart

(desperate me),

wai waii waaaaiiiil it all out.

I am in the abstract trenches,

lost in the crumbles of the mind—

how could things

have gotten so rotten?

Slumberfalling—

I am calling out to the missing flesh,

scattered amongst the fastforgetting.

Excavate yourself! Do not let

yourself get buried down!

Reassemble. The time is only now—

in fever you are a ballad;

taking me—

I turned into

shivers and spins.

in ailment you are a hero;

robbing me—

I slept into the

color red burning.

in dying you are a harmony;

swirling me down

to a BREAKDOWN:

if I am going to die,

I am going to die with

youinsideme.

RUMSFELD REMIX

(CLAUDIUS TO

GERTRUDE –

AUGUST 7, 2004):

let me finish please please

I’ve had you deep

in the roots of me

let me please finish

if you don’t mind please

I got you hard

in these bones of me

let me finish please

for a minute please

the house of me

burstbreaks for you

dances for you

giving you all I can muster

please if you don’t mind

please please please

I want to rescue your dreams of dull

let me finish my answers please

if you don’t mind please

I’m carving nonesuch realities

scratching the surface

to rediscover brilliant

shots of our love

the only things I have left

here they are please

please please let me finish

offering a sweaty smile to your blue

AT THE

AFTERPARTY:

(ROSENCRANTZ TO

GUILDENSTERN –

NOVEMBER 7, 2006):

We said we were going

to kill each other.

Pulling triggers

at the count of three.

You’d start the blast,

even though initially

I was to shoot you first

pretty please.

Be witness to your red all over.

But we opted for a

simultaneous

homicide instead—

that would be the best,

the sure and only bet.

You would find the gun.

What kind of bullets

did you say you’d get?

Hollowed-out something something.

I wanted silver bullets, just in case.

We conversed about our

upcoming deaths well into the

wee hours of the morning,

taking us as far as

can we kill the 💩

while we’re at it?

Then suddenly somebody

called you on your cell and

you blurted out our plans—

Forget it!

I shouted back.

Now the government

knows everything!

Besides, you know who

would be in charge.

How exhilarating!

The ballad of our

semi-twisted fists,

the prospect of our

synchronized suicide

fondling the future.

The next day

I texted you with

bang! bang!

When you replied you wrote

I’d forgotten the whole thing.

O, Call me Lazarus!

Only in these short and deadly

terms could I relate to us,

could I unbind myself from

your amnesiac thrills.

I am alive without

you once again!

And Virginia is so close

to giving us the senate.

Will Rumsfeld be imprisoned?

What’s that wild imagination?

(impeachment)

Maybe in a few years we’ll

wake up, Donnie and vote.

In the meantime

how many more ways

can we find to off

each other for good?

AT THE

SLUMBERPARTY:

(OPHELIA TO

HAMLET –

SUMMER 2010):

there is still

plenty of muck

stuck deep in

the water column

a vast murky oil spill

cutting across the great gulf

separating our two

lonely lands

nothing is easy here

removal from your void

is like the work of

robotic submarines

struggling to contain the leak

sinking deep

into the unknown water

blinking low

to cool the burning heart

which blew out far

below the surface

at the wellhead of our

ocean floor

FEEL THE BERN!

My time cells! Oh me, oh my!

My time cells are out of joint!

I seem to be stuck in 2016.

What was I thinking about earlier?

There was a line

I was supposed to say

out loud at this point.

I seem to seam unto myself

over and over,

knotting and doubling

and being woven badly,

left only with the scarred lines.

My ravens besieged

with their nevermores—

they gronk gronk

“you’re such a whore!”

You’ll have to deal

with the consequences—

the lines stacked on

top of each other,

without break,

disregardful

of your ideals.

You’ll have to research.

If you are not willing

to take me on,

then it’s all on you.

I refuse to accept this era!

I refuse to provide any more evidence!

I just can’t turn around to see

what is happening behind me.

It’s what we can’t see,

that’s the scariest thing.

FYI, the temporal code

in my memory got hacked,

so don’t respond if I send you

a friend request, ok?

It’s not me!

WHAT MAKES

LIZARD PEOPLE

IS SOMETHING

THAT YOU CAN’T

SEE

I just can’t

turn around

to hear what

is happening

behind me.

It’s what we can’t hear,

that’s the scariest thing.

What is the next line?

Something about the world.

Something something

the world not being enough.

Or the stage not being

enough to contain us.

Did we break character?

I can’t remember.

For the life of me,

I can’t remember!

I can’t turn around

to speak of what is

happening behind me.

It’s what we can’t speak,

that’s the scariest thing.

The full moon will

be tomorrow, right?

Or was it really

two nights ago?

It looks like a

full moon tonight—

yet again it might be

tomorrow instead.

It is indeed just

in our heads—isn’t it?

Or is it the other way round?

It’s always looking back at us;

the moon just one of the

oculist’s bespectacled eyes:

a silver monocle intensely focused

on us going in and out of the city,

over the heaps of ashes, ashes.

Heaps of ashes worth repeating.

THE MOON

IS A PLANET,

DARLING

I know

there is

a space

I am ringing into.

I know

there are

voices and

blackbirds

and oceans

and deserts

and climates

and lines

and borders

bleeding

upon each other,

singing in this

the opposite of the void,

taking on an electric transport

into the whitest of the new moon—

O here come the notification bells!

WE INTERRUPT
YOUR REGULAR

PODCAST

TO BRING YOU

DON’T FORGET

TO TAKE

YOUR PILLS

TONIGHT

Rubble, rubble

foil and smuggle;

fire burn, and

yearn to struggle.

Friday evening:

iPhone hanging

onto my body,

willfully suspended next

to my middle loins.

I’ve lost the optional,

the kissable proximal,

the tropical radical,

the third dimensional.

I’m so unconventional—

married to myself and upgraded to

STRONG PARENTAL

GUIDANCE IS ADVISED;

every moment online

wishing for something else,

someone new, some other me.

My private photos are visible now.

Someone confined to the suites

of expensive hotels, begging

for hard & romantic embraces,

trying to escape the pandemic.

Do you remember the days

before we forever-fell in over?

We were vertebral

back then, weren’t we?

It felt like someplace normal,

full of admiral people, didn’t it?

Sometimes I envy the dead

because they’ve finally found

somewhere to settle down.

Cut to—the rest is silence.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN

‘TO PLAY US OUT?’

FUCK IT!

WE’LL DO IT LIVE!

Search any top newsfeed

of the day, go ahead—

destruction, distraction,

pure mental dissatisfaction!

A not-so accidental extraction

of our capacity to—

O hope, where did you go?

What were we thinking about earlier?

There was a line

we were supposed

to say out loud

at this point.

Unable to cope,

we ask myself

many times over:

is there wifi in the abyss?

Amid all this distress

in displacement,

empty promises, slipping

through the net;

we remain

under construction.

Words. Words Words

But anything new

must be built on ruins,

and the people you’ve

lost in the past.

Answer: the next line.

Question: what is Post Müller?

A tool used to remember,

but no one on the outside knows.

A story about a father and a son,

and the zillions

of terabytes

that followed.

The oil spill now

on the shores

of my hometown.

The chemical waste

gushing out of

the shower head.

The child

staring at

his dead

father’s

photograph.

A homecoming to old structures,

as if they could still

save us from ourselves.

Stabilizing the walls is a priority.

We must rebuild exactly as it was.

But also a rapid

unscheduled

disassembly.

A lack for lack’s sake.

At best, a will to digest.

The scroll of scrolls.

It’s been aching for years.

Very wary of the new

kids on the block,

but hungry to be off

with itself in itself.

Immoral trapcode;

an idea birthed in spring,

sprung out of your suicidal seeds.

The spread of all spreads,

optimizing its own interests;

subsidizing misinformation;

repeating the same stories

as if for the very first time.

It keeps exploiting our vulnerabilities.

When will it come to the end?

It keeps adding emergent

properties, growing with

complete disregard

to the rest of us

It asks, “what if 2020 is

just the ‘birth pains’ of what is

on its way in 2021 and beyond?”

Below the words of its

last Facebook post

(MUCH LOVE

AND HOPE

TO EVERYONE!)

there is an image,

a screenshot

wholly familiar:

a zoomed-in version of

Michaelangelo’s Creation,

a close-up of 👽's hand

reaching out to Adam—

did he really believe his heart

was holy flooded with the light,

confident in hope,

enough so that

the only way out

was to commit unto his children

what all fathers should fear most?

Afterwards he said it was

“the only course of action

to save the world.”

His eyes and hands in pantomime.

Thumbs and indexes frantically

tracking down the enemies

in his dislocated dream,

fixated on surpassing

the imaginary score.

His family tries to bring him back;

they call his name and shake him out;

they call the local priest;

afraid he’s utterly possessed

by internet incarnate—

The play is not the thing here.

See why this phone is so dear.

It has everything.

That’s why I’m always holding onto it.

All the while them Russians

and them Chinamen

(singing O say can you fee?).

Alas! The Great Alas!

People are often more

generous than we realize.

This metal device has

become my world.

Pretty little lies.

Prissy little cries.

Petty middle rhymes.

I’m holding onto it

like I’m holding onto

an address of my own,

to my family.

It likes being in the

anonymous shadows.

It can come again by us.

It can come again for us.

It can come again to us.

This thing is showing teeth.

This thing needs to breathe.

THE FANTASY

BEWITCHED

BY THE BRIGHT

PIXILATED BLISS

OF THIS OUR

DIGITAL ABBYS

It is not worried

about the meaning

in the poem

because it knows

there will be a sequel,

followed by a prequel

released via screaming

devices everywhere—

Side effects may include

eating disorders and

thoughts of patricide.

Ask your doctor if

Post Müller

is right for you.

BLACKOUT

Where will you be

when the bomb poems?

Something is rotten

within the hymn.

Everyone hiding

out subterranean.

Everyone out for themselves

and may the best woman, win!

Picture Ophelia

returning home

as Electra.

She sends us a special

news bulletin, stillborn,

she knows the past

is strong with us.

But nonetheless

she persists—

and may the best

drag queen, win!

I WON’T

STAND

DOWN!

I WON’T

STAND

DOWN!

I sing for the recovery

from this inferno.

I sing for the micro cracks

in the blood-stained

glass of our windows.

I sing for the cosmic serpent’s eye

unblinking with tears of ideas

as we attempt to fly over

the unspoken mundo—

I sing for Shiva’s eyes

suspended on the freeway’s

billboard, staring deadly down

on us as we drive through

the heaps of ashes, ashes!

Heaps of ashes worth repeating.

Do you remember where

you were that fateful morning?

Some had no choice but to jump off.

Some hid in the frozen food isle.

Some are believed

to have drowned
in the water.

Some are still unaccounted for

and it’s believed they

will remain as such.

Some did the best

to save others

trapped in

the wreckage.

Some led others

to an escape

through the

back door.

Some ran straight

into the shooter.

Some went back

into the fire

and the smoke—

into the unconscionable stroke

of our collective mind.

Against the darkening

of the dull, dear—

For a moment there,

I thought the voices of the survivors

were coming from within my mind…

Is anyone there?

Is anyone hearing my voice?
This was supposed to be

lovely and weee, dear—

but something greater

than ourselves got the

best of us, dear—

when we now

enter the building,

we first search

for the exits, dear.

O Lord, forgive me

for I don’t know

who holds the

ear to my voice,

or the hands

for the projector—

there must be a wall.

O Lord, forgive me

for we will never

meet in person.

O Lord, we do them ill.

We do them ill…

but a new century

breaks open, asking:

what came first,

the proto-hen or

the proto-cock?

IT IS WHAT IT IS

It’s raining men! Kalapooia!

It’s raining men!

O desperate men!

Clinging to the fuselage

of the aircraft.

It’s raining men! Kalapooia!

Abandoned men.

There’s nothing we can do.

A system under

sustained stress.

IT SHOULD BE

THE FIRST THOUGHT

YOU HAVE WHEN

YOU WAKE UP

IT SHOULD BE

THE LAST THOUGHT

YOU HAVE BEFORE

YOU GO TO BED

Am I stronger than the app?

Fake it ’til you make it.

Fake it ‘til you make it.

THE ALGORITHM IS

MY ADDICTION

AND MY ADDICTION

IS THE ALGORITHM

But we also

have to have

beautiful places

where people

can come

and think

and be challenged

and connect with

the big questions of life.

WHAT A MORON,

JESUS CHRIST!

My heart does not have it in him.

My heart skipping, scratching t

he ideas of what should.

I walk around the house

barefoot, wet and naked, settling

on the living room floor,

parallel to the flat

screen TV, kneeling

as if praying,

in child’s pose,

as if begging

for my life.

STOP THE SHOW!

THERE IS NO PLANET B…

BLAH BLAH BLAH

LOCK HER UP!

PRINCIPAL

CONCLUSIONS

AS SOON AS

THIS WEEKEND.

GOOGLE.COM

HOW NORMAL

AGAIN STOP NOW

What was I thinking of earlier?

I wanted to say so much more…

WE’RE GOING TO USE

THE BEST POINTING

DEVICE IN THE WORLD

My philosophies going

into the cage;

and my algorithm?

IT WORKS LIKE MAGIC

I feel like

I just have to

lie down and rest.

I do have a voice-over

gig in the morning.

“Siri, I’d like to submit

a wake up request and

while you’re at it,

set directions for Burbank.”

I know you’re an actor.

I’m an actor too.

But how will we know the difference

between the real and the digital?

WE’RE GOING

TO TOUCH THIS

WITH OUR FINGERS…

WHICH IS PHENOMENAL

I’m done playing the Hamlet role!

NAH HE TWEAKIN

These words are not my words.

My script doesn’t exist.

You care as much

about my drama

as the reel Hamlet

cared about his momma.

But who’s to say this is not a poem?

I am my Mexican mother’s son.

I am my Mexican father’s son.

I am my Mexican brother’s brother.

I am my Mexican story

interrupting the news crawl.

I am my Mexican journey

still developing a meaning.

I am my Mexican gospel

coming soon to a theatre near you.

Did you hear Mexico is on fire?

This past summer Xolotl’s

single eye of fire raging hard;

a warning of what’s to come,

watching us dumbfounded via its

one hellfire light of wrath—

we’re trying to control

the damage, dear,

putting out his perpetual

candle in the gulf.

And yes, you’re right, Mexico

has been burning since forever.

But Mexico has The. Best. Food.

Ever. Anywhere. Okurrr?

LOL

THERE’S NO PLACE

LIKE ROME!

THERE’S NO PLACE

LIKE ROME!

Let us have it at any cost.

Let us be in and let us in.

Let us erect our own

memento and then honor it.

And then let us transform into US.

Always transforming,

as if surreal was the air.

Always making and

singing new songs.

Where’s the beef?

Is it in you?

Can you hear me now?

Just do it.

Snap! Crackle! Pop!

Once you pop,

the fun won’t stop.

Do the dew.

Good to the last drop.

Give us a break

and break us off

a piece of your way,

right away!

Let us just do it.

Let us taste the rainbow,

We hear it’s finger-lickin’ good.

Oh yea, we’re lovin’ it!

And here we go now:

THE DREAMS

OF MY PADRES

LIE SMEARED

AGAINST

THE BORDER WALL

Dear Ginsberg,

I am only a mantra

for someone else’s

political opportunism,

for as you know,

in America’s legal system:

one day you’re in

and the other you’re out!

LOCKDOWN

America,

10 min. break.

And not one millisecond more.

America,

give me a sign!

A DM! A post!

A disappearing image!

Anything!

Throw me a bone

as I cry you a river!

I sit chained to this crucible

without any quantum relief,

caught up between

the squared root

and the red,

white, and Q—

WARNING:

THERE WILL

BE BLOOD.

Mental Trump!

Illogical detention center!

Trump who makes me

a stranger in a strange land.

Trump who makes me laugh

at the ring of a stranger

in a strange land

here in COSTA MESA.

Trump designed by

Carlos and Noemí in CDMX

and assembled in

god bless the USofA.

Trump forgive those

who trespass

as we forgive

your sorry ass.

Trump the moral arch broken

because you can’t take

Juan fucking joke.

Trump deep in

what’s another

word for insanity?

Trump it looks very lonely.

Nightmare on Trump Street!

Night of the living Trump!

Trump scream!

Trump not a quiet place!

Trump the sixth sense!

He sees purebred people.

Very fine people.

Trump crossed lines!

Trump crossed wires!

Trump crossed fires!

Trump lost stands.

Trump I’ve had it with

Hamlet’s discontent.

Trump resistance is futile in

he who must always be named.

Trump my blood is on the line.

Trump I give you my blood.

Trump we all give you our blood.

Trump whose got blood on his hands!

Trump

YOSEMITE!

Trump a new sip of water.

Trump the absence of the abstract,

the lack of a change,

the inability to pleasure himself.

Trump we are all your Othellos.

Trump a lack of mind’s eye.

Trump this is the end

of the act, right?

Trump these false

starts of mine.

Trump the song

stuck on repeat.

Trump I thought I could

unplug the real, reel easily,

only to find everything

remains status quo;

we wake up in Trump.

Trump too much to bear,

too much to roar,

too shocked, too mocked,

too broken, too worked,

too worked, too worked to care.

Trump we live

in the land

of many kings,

that’s where

we are now,

that’s a bingo!

Trump all work no play,

we go home to kill

a mocking bird.

Trump BREAKTHROUGH.

But the work

remains:

deadlines,

breadlines,

blurred lines,

fine lines,

divine lines,

brain mines,

all before lunch.

STOP!

SICLE &

HAMMER TIME!

What is the 21st century, anyway?

Humanity loves a cap

on the imagination,

but it also has a keen

sense for recycle.

I pray for Putin.

I pray for Xi.

I pray for Mitch.

I pray for Obrador.

And by pray I mean,

off with their heads!

Shocked?

Sue me, daddy!

Sue me all you want!

GUUUCCI, I’M HOME!

PS 5: Ginsberg,

on the Nature Is Scary

twitter account:

a croc chows down

on a zebra; a snail preys

on a worm; a stag is stuck

in the rocks; a hawk eats

a pigeon; a humming bird

is caught by a preying mantis

right on the feeder;

the jagged mouth of a penguin;

a new-born iguana is chased

by a murder of snakes;

the mosquito leg looks like an alien—

In Afghanistan all residents can do

is brace for the onslaught.

-- 8:40 PM, August 16, 2021

Costa Mesa, California

FROM SOME ANGLES

YOU CAN SQUINT

AND IMAGINE

ALL IS WELL IN

NOTRE DAME

Don’t look at the symbols!

They are sacred and if you look,

they will activate.

And if this is what

I have to leave behind,

then this is what I leave behind.

I’ve felt Prufrock’s dread,

high as fuck, on a lonely

Tuesday afternoon.

And gurl, let me tell you,

it was a feeling…

Like why don’t you break

open more often?

O fantasy is such a bummer.

Like we should know better.

I’m so sick and tired

of Prufrock’s paranoia.

Like why don’t you forget

your blind commitments?

Would the universe have been

disturbed that much if you and I

could have had the balls to kiss and

in between the fever of our flesh

perhaps also get to know the

memory of our fingers and discuss

further your fascination, adoration

for Bach, bicycles and Salvador Dali?

Like should we dare?

I’m so sick and tired of

Prufrock’s privilege;

Prufrock’s rage and mania;

Prufrock’s toast and tea;

Prurock’s silence;

Prufock’s genocide;

Prufrock’s cyanide;

Prufrock’s snide asides;

Prufrock’s impeccability;

Prufrock’s quandary;

Prufrock’s cowardice;

Prufrock’s downfall;

Prufrock’s inability to love himself,

accept himself for who he is.

A virtual, programmed worship.

DEARLY BELOVED,

WE ARE GATHERED

HERE TODAY

TO GET THROUGH

SMOKE ALARMS

IN OUR

CATHEDRAL:

our iPhone who are in Google

hallowed be thy screen

thy power charged

thy settings set in earth

as they are in Cupertino

give us this our daily homicide

mass shooting suicide

breaking news infanticide

bi-weekly genocide

give us our reddit

who art in 4chan

give us this 8chan

our daily Minecraft

and deliver us from nada

pues nada tostada

forgive us our carrier

as we forgive their

terms and conditions

lead us not into Android

and deliver us from Snapchat

forever and ever

slide to power off—

IN THE NAME OF

THE BLOGGER,

THE MEME,

AND

THE HOLY POST

stay awake! stay awake!

the argument of and

for reality is at stake

FORGET IT, JAKE TAPPER.

IT’S CHINATOWN.

let me begin here again

each line gets harder by the tweet

but these false starts of mine, I give

but this fake news of me, I give

but the verse now

so medium rare, I give

that’s how they like to keep us

Yoda Yoda Yoda

I pray to fulfill the simpatico quota

beautiful faces beautiful graces

I like to start these and then

leave them alone for a while

beautiful places beautiful spaces

I pretend to render control in

order to regain a poetic bliss

IT’S A POWER GRAB TO

ENABLE A POWER GRAB

it’s the ending that is the scariest

it’s what we can’t end that’s my Judas Iscariot

and it’s that I can’t figure out the the

or the da da da

I REALLY DON’T CARE, DO U?

I am angry

is that okay with you?

I am not sorry I am angry

rinse and repeat

I proudly sing this anti-gospel

it’s what we can’t find,

that’s the scariest thing

what we can’t find anymore

do something! do something!

the house is made of straw

and remains divided

only a reflection of what it

once appeared to be

with broken rooms as

remnants of abundance

a surplus inverted

a not-house

a square and a frame

what’s another axiom for

used to be the home of the brave?

where is the love?

YOU DO NOT HAVE

ENOUGH SPACE

IN THE IHOLE TO

BACK UP THIS IHEART.

hail Alexa

forgive me my spelling errors

full of my CPU

Bezos is with thee

blessed art thou among speakers

and blessed is the core

of thy memory IBM

holy search engine

mother of Al Gore

pray for us customer #s now

and at the hour of our hashtag

switch today and pay zero down

ashes ashes we all Notre Dame

ashes ashes we lost noble aim

ashes ashes our building’s frame…

still on fire

Goodnight Clorox wipes

(with 99% killer power)

Goodnight Listerine

Goodnight Arrowhead

(100% Mountain Spring Water)

Goodnight common sense

and common sense victories

Goodnight children are

the future everywhere

Goodnight, goodnight

Tesla Tesla

Tik tok Tik tok

WE THE JURY FIND

THE DEFENDANT

NOT GUILTY

hear, O Twitter!

Oops, hear, O X!

the Bot is our Chat

and our Chatbot is one

glory be to You, O Holy Plastic!

blessed is your name and

high is your trash heap

Alexa, how do you spell NETFLIXCHILL.

-Angel Correa