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MÜLLER:

A PRAYER

BY THE 21ST

CENTURY

DEARLY BELOVED,

WE ARE GATHERED HERE TODAY

TO GET THROUGH THE POEM

THAT CANNOT TAKE PLACE

TAKES PLACE

LOL

“It is beautiful outside.

A perfect September day.

Miles and miles of sunshine.

Miles Davis. We’re gonna put

Miles out there today. Nice as it can

be along the North East. Rough seas still

from the chop of that hurricane, but other

than that, it’s kind of quiet…

We like quiet. Unless it’s too quiet.

It’s too quiet.”

LOL

OH MY GOD!

HOLY SHIT!

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!

LOL

O Holy Plastic!

Snap! Crackle! Pop!

M’m! M’m! Good!

The fun won’t stop.

LOL

“… he was absolutely the most

amazing man that America

has ever created, ever…”

LOL

“We want to tell you

what we know,

as we know it.

There’s been some

sort of explosion.”

LOL

After the destruction, he is left alone

on the defaulted stage.

With no home in sight, his memory

will have to be enough.

He is now Ophelia’s shadow:

red lipstick and wedding veil.

There are hints of Diet Coke 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 yearning for sunsets

in the horizon, fondly remembering

the Marlboro Man. Maybe overwrought with

“flores, flores para los muertos.”

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.

His footing is unsure.

The background is insecure;

the dread of not finding a cure.

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 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 in the darkness.

Missile airstrikes provide us the bass line.

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.

He swings his iDevice

wild into the air, headphones

cocked onto his red neck—he takes

a big puff off the orange ape.

Nuclear silence.

Lights up.

HEEERE’S HAMLET!

Hey

I WAS HAMLET

Cam?

(the user is now online)

Part I

HAMLET FOREVER:

THE NEVER-ENDING FRANCHISE

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)

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.

THE PLAY IS NOT THE THING HERE

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 this nuclear

circuit in my mind?

Broken city much unkind—

green-glowing capital unfastened

by wicked men inclined to ancient

crime and retribution.

Atomic hub, improper warden

of our magic and illusion;

where did you hide my AC/DC dreams?

You and your deviant devotion to suppress!

O, where is the sensual tenderness?

O, 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 tuned in, feverishly

awaiting the next tribute—

a broadcast of digital passion—

bombs bright bursting in air—

When will it catch up to youandme?

THE POET PLAYING HAMLET (PRE-WWIII)

i am now mobile

sans cables and fables

designed in Mexico City

& assembled in the OC

i am now high

industrial capacity

white small & personal

wireless & 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

i am to be continued…

with blood made of lithium

come & customize me

out of oblivion

web me into your wild

magnetic meridian

come mass produce me

cum you configure me

devour & use me

See why this phone

is so dear?

It has everything.

That’s why I’m always

holding onto it.

I WANT TO BE A MACHINE

His eyes and hands in pantomime,

far beyond the witching hour.

Thumbs and indexes frenetically tracking

down the digital enemies

in his disoriented dream,

fixated on surpassing an imaginary score.

Stuck deep within the royal rabbit hole,

the 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—

All the while them Russians and them

Chinamen singing: O SAY CAN YOU FEE?

YESTERDAY IS A HARD WORD FOR ME

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.

LOL.

Change is possible. Change is possible?

Can’t believe how boring these days

would be post-Bobby Mueller…

O, my Special Counsel!

We placed too much hope

on your shoulders.

You see, I’ve been on this forward-

thinking path as of late. 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 brave

new century

for poetry.

(O, yawn emoji.)

But mostly baby,

I’m thinking

about you and your brain;

the darkest residue build-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?

NONSENSE.

I believe.

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.

WHAT IF THIS IS AS GOOD AS IT GETS?

Focused is our story,

we are the main course

(of course)—youandme

cinematically obscene:

Late in the summer of 2021,

on a pleasant Saturday afternoon,

you allegedly abandoned home with

our two toddler children in tow, driving

from the shores of sunny Santa Barbara

into the murk of Rosarito, checking

into the Hotel City Express.

Two days later, very early in the morn,

you checked out with our two

toddler children in tow, driving

out twenty minutes to a ranch

called El Denscanso. El Descanso,

where you used a spearfish gun to pierce

our two toddler children in tow

a dozen times right through

their embryonic hearts;

violently killing our own making,

leaving their punctured corpses in between

the dried bushes of a small arroyo

near the entrance of the ranch,

coincidentally named The Rest in Español.

Baby, disremember is the cruelest month.

Two years ago this April you smelled of

Xanax, Zoloft, and bright LOLs.

We were drinking and laughing

like twenty-year olds and you

leaned over to ask me about

the recent news with

the Attorney General,

“Aren’t you just dying or what?”

Your tempus vērānum button-up shirt

blooming. Your virile chest hair bursting

and radiating a strong heat,

almost like a burning

desire, but how could that be?

Was it summer already?

Where did the last season go?

“what if 2020 is just the ‘birth pains’

of what is on its way in 2021 and beyond?”

Below the words of your 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 π’s hand reaching

out to Adam’s outstretched—

did you really believe your heart

was holy flooded with the light?

Were you so confident in hope,

enough so to commit unto our children

what all fathers should fear most?

Once apprehended, you told the police it was

the only course of action to save the world.

Baby, disremember is the cruelest month.

But April? It’s so weird the way we connect

things with other things, like the very first

time we met auditioning for

the murder-mystery play.

When you first sat next to me, I knew.

When I saw your curious fish eyes digging

deep into mine, even then I knew:

you are a thespian too.

I TRULY CANNOT CONNECT

NOTHING WITH NOTHING

Winter is here—

out of fever

into you

I put on a

new dream

just for size—

even as the

past of me

unresolves with

the future us

(we break open)—

should we wear

our masks tonight?

we keep scrolling—

tubing on a tedious

search for the most

affordable fate—

bewitched

by the bright

pixilated bliss

of this our

digital abyss

LIKE MY MAMA USED TO SAY,

TWO TEARS IN A BUCKET,

MOTHERFUCK IT.

JUST KIDDING.

MY MOM DON’T

SPEAK ENGLISH SO GOOD.

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 meow—

time caught in a bubble of unknown rhyme.

Time is the missing airplane remembered

in jest. Time caught in viscous walls of fear,

and the power it comes, the power it goes,

the vicious flower of foes. Time is

the perfect recipe for avocado toast.

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.

HELP! HELP! THE AMAZON!

THE AMAZON HAS FALLEN

AND IT CAN’T GET UP!

Nowadays I’m stuck in a coma,

obsessing over Nietzsche’s abyss,

thinking how hard it must be falling,

collapsing, trying to hold onto something,

anything really, even the Oxford karma.

And then it stares back at us,

and so it too falls forward

into our bottomless pit:

the son decapitating his father;

the father shooting his daughter;

Charlottesville, El Paso, Kenosha,

St. Paul, the sixth of January.

YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH!

It must get comical after a while,

reaching always somewhere radical.

The rug pulled out from under

our feet—are we there yet?

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—

SHUTDOWN

Hamletmachine, I hate you so much

in all your Hamlet forms.

Cancel me if you want,

but I just can’t get behind

this shit anymore.

I want something real

and tangible and changing…

I hate you so much.

Your engine broken.

You 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.

Let me feel

your imperial breath,

your WMDs on my lips;

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 in criminal lawsuits

and regime-change battles 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 now, I am made up.

Hey, I will fight your mother for you!

LOCK HIM UP! LOCK HIM UP!

my flesh is flushed with the idea

of your ditto hands upon

my forever face

Part II

DEARLY BELOVED, WE ARE GATHERED HERE TODAY TO GET THROUGH

WE WHO ARE LIVING ARE NOW DEAD

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

(SENIOR 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 AS HORATIO TO

VERDENAL AS HAMLET - 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,

in mournful eyes and tender tongue.

O green-eyed buccaneer!

O green-eyed refugee!

Seeker of per-hourly mothers,

you graphed my lonely hands;

wrung out, dried out, cried out,

spaced out, smoked out…shut out,

in wires crossed and mumbledaffled

you left me here, in and out of sound—

you laid me here deafdancing.

(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 your missing flesh,

scattered amongst the fastforgetting.

Excavate youandme! Do not let

youandme 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 have 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 mine

let me finish please

for a minute please

the house of me

burstbreaks for you

dances for you

giving you all

it can muster

please if you

don’t mind

please please

I want to recuse myself

from your tedious dreams

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 ones, just in case.

Pulling triggers at the count of three.

We merrily chatted about our imminent end

into the wee hours of the morning, taking

us as far as can we kill ® while we’re at it?

Then suddenly somebody called you on

your cell and you blurted out the plans—

Forget it! I shouted back. Now

the government knows everything!

Besides, you know who would be in charge.

But 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! and you soberly replied,

I’d forgotten the whole thing.

O, Call me Lazarus!

I realized right then and there,

only in these crass and deadly terms

could I relate to us. So I decided to unshackle

myself from the convenience

of your amnesiac thrills.

I am alive without you once again!

And with Virginia 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.

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 unknown water

blinking low to cool

the burning heart

which blew out far

below the surface

at the wellhead of

our ocean floor

THE REMAINS OF THE PARTY

(OPHELIA’S LAST CORRESPONDENCE TO HAMLET – NOVEMBER 2013)

Goddamn it, I love you! We should have lived

in a different story you and I—

one where you could act the drunk

like Scott and I’d play the brilliant Zelda.

You are desperate for money

and terribly jealous of Ernest—

on your way to Hollywood.

I am trapped in North Carolina,

at the sanitarium. Every day I am seventeen

and called upon by multiple divisions

of the southern infantry;

I am twenty-three sleeping off a hangover

in our hotel suite, downtown Manhattan;

I am inching up to twenty-eight, crying

because you are not here, holding onto

your one forgotten dress shoe, dreaming

of that day in the Riviera when

I pushed you off the wheel

of the Ford and down we went

through the windy road,

or was it a cliff? We went off a cliff—

lost in space, perhaps pinching

off the fabric of the universe

just enough to keep us jumping back

into the wrongful past.

Darling, what have you become?

We used to believe the sun

would come out, bloom upon

our eyes like the sweetest

wine upon our lips.

And now all you do

is reminisce of the time

I sang you the song about

emotional landscapes

and states of emergency.

The other night it rained

and everything smelled of you.

HURRAY,

THE SYSTEM HAS CRASHED!

(HEINER TO HAMLET GHOST –

MARCH 2019)

Dear HAMLET, 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 and

“….grab ‘em by the pussy.”

I remember texting you

about it and you responded

with something along

the lines of I know.

Baby, am I just making that up?

Fantasies. I remember wanting

to be a bohemian all weekend long.

I remember you taking me all over

Sonoma, thinking to myself

you will get along well with this landscape.

The roads in your latest 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 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,

back to my low interest-rate mortgage,

husband, and tuxedo cat.

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. Meltdown.

I WILL NEVER DROP OUT OF

THE RACE….! The roads funny like that.

I remember that Sunday afternoon

in Sausalito Bay watching The Blue Angels

fly high over Golden Gate, eating

ice cream on the crowded cement

steps by the water’s edge.

I remember being terrified of the white

loops of the jet smoke, preceding

the sonic booms against the blue of the sky,

thinking to myself,

is this the soundtrack to an air strike,

a grand ground attack?

Is this what it will sound like

here on the New Pacific Front?

THE PRINCE OF DENMARK IN:

BACK TO THE FUTURE

(2019-PRESENT)

My time cells!

Oh me, oh my!

My time cells

are out of joint!

They tell me

where we’re going,

we don’t need roads.

I seem to be stuck in 2016.

What was I thinking about earlier?

There was a line I was supposed

to say out loud by this point.

I seem to seam unto myself

over and over, knotting

and doubling and being woven poorly,

left only with the scarred lines.

My ravens besieged with

their nevermores—they gronk gronk

“you’re such a whore!”

Look, 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.

It’s all on you. 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!

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!

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!

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?

No, it looks like a full moon

creeping tonight—yet again,

it might sneak up tomorrow.

It is indeed just in our heads—isn’t it?

Or is it the other way round?

It’s always looking back at us;

a shifty monocle intensely focused

on the trips we take though Circuit City,

over the heaps of ashes, ashes.

Heaps of ashes worth repeating.

It demands I make amends

with my own selfish eyes.

I must go to bed now.

Must wake up early for tomorrow’s

voice-over gig in Burbank,

pure incidentals, dear.

I’ll be pure background chatter.

THE MOON IS A PLANET, DARLING

But 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,

O, here come the notification bells!

O, the machine sprouting

improvedversions of my history!

O, here trickles a synthetic

intimacy all over the brain rot.

The one and the zero and the zero to one.

Bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao…

WE INTERRUPT YOUR

REGULAR PODCAST

TO BRING YOU

DON’T FORGET

TO TAKE YOUR

PILLS TONIGHT

Sometimes I envy the dead

because they’ve finally found

somewhere to settle down.

I DON’T THINK THERE’S ANYTHING

THAT’S GOING TO GET ME INTO HEAVEN

Every moment on-line

wishing for something else,

someone new, some other me—

a matrimonial fog of mental fungi and

my private photos are visible now.

Do you remember the days before

we eternally-fell in? We were vertebral

back then, weren’t we? It felt like someplace

normal, full of admiral people, didn’t it?

Nobody wants the part anymore.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN

‘TO PLAY US OUT?’ FUCK IT!

WE’LL DO IT LIVE!

Words. Words. Words. Search any

top newsfeed of the day, go ahead:

destruction, distraction, pure mental

dissatisfaction! Unable to cope, we ask

many times over: is there WiFi in the abyss?

Words. Words. Words. But anything new

must be built on ruins, and the people

you’ve lost in the past. We remain

under construction.

THE GREAT ALAS!

People are often

more generous

than we realize!

Yeah, right!

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.

BLACKOUT

These words are not my words.

My script does not exist.

You care as much

about my drama

as the reel Hamlet

cared about his momma.

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.

I scrub history to

cover my tracks.

I swipe to the left.

I tap on the flame.

I ring on the bell.

I like and subscribe to

the next tactical nuke strike.

Rubble, rubble foil and smuggle,

fire burn, and yearn to struggle.

The algorithm is my addiction

and my addiction is the algorithm.

Part III

THERE WILL BE BLOOD

What thoughts I have of you today, dear Ginsberg, at an escrow office in Southern California, among fluorescent hums, in between lonely legal descriptions, disregarded program encryptions, dismembered timelines—executions in Baghdad, rockets through Haifa, bombs over Beirut, the Holy Ghost revolution in our backyard, sound the alarm! man your battle stations! lock and load! let us prey! madness in Darfur, hundreds drown in New Orleans, Indonesia sways back and forth (NPR is fatal), Japan's terrified of North Korea, Iran just wants to be green, just like us, plutonic green, lovely green, dollar green, the world chasing its own tail—Ha! Ginsberg, one-hundred, five dollars

and ninety-six cents in the negative—

-- 4:25 pm, July 27, 2006

Costa Mesa, CA

O, 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 preying mantis catches a humming bird 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

What thoughts I have of you today, dear Ginsberg, with buried hands on this Wednesday afternoon, on the third floor of City Hall, yet again stuck in stupid work, and not one single Oscar to my name. Yet again not accepting the election results, dug down amongst a coalition of angry men thrusting the results down my throat—the results! I am a sub to the results. O Ginsberg, I pray for all wannabe dictators, and by pray I mean, off with their heads! Shocked? Sue me, daddy! Sue me all you want!

In America, all residents can do is brace for the onslaught.

-- 3:03 PM, November 6, 2024

Costa Mesa, California

What thoughts I have of you today, dear Ginsberg, where does your beard point to tonight? Still towards the "lost America of love"? I can only hear the click clack advice of my keyboard, I look deep into his black and white eyes, he is like a buddha staring back blankly at my randomness, somewhere on his four eyes lies the answer:

Insert/Home

Delete/End

Ginsberg, my mother’s name is Noemí,

not Naomi, Insert/Home.

Ginsberg, massacres, genocides,

there are so many nowadays,

they each have their own

Tik Tok account, Delete/End.

Ginsberg, I read “Lack Love” yesterday

and it made me want to kiss you and tell you,

I will love you, Insert/Home. Ginsberg, I will

love you if you love me and we will

love the rest of them the same, Delete/End.

PS. PTSD. PS5.

O, 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!

And may the best woman win!

LOCKDOWN

Come America, I’ll make you great again.

America, here I am chained to your crucible,

without any quantum relief,

caught up between the squared root

and the red, white, and Q—

GUUUCCI, I’M HOME!

O America, mental Trump!

Illogical detention center!

Trump the moral arch broken because

you can’t take Juan fucking joke.

Trump resistance is futile in

he who must always be named.

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 the just work remains:

deadlines, breadlines, blurred lines,

fine lines, divine lines, brain mines,

all before lunch.

Trump deep in what’s

another word for insanity?

Trump it looks very lonely.

Trump crossed lines!

Trump crossed wires!

Trump crossed fires!

Trump lost stands.

Nightmare on Trump Street!

Night of the Living Trump!

Trump Scream! Trump Malignant!

Trump Predator! Trump Not

A Quiet Place! Trump The Sixth Sense!

He sees purebred people, very fine people.

Trump forgive those who trespass

as we forgive your sorry ass.

Trump the dreams of my padre lie

smeared against the border wall.

Trump I am my Mexican story

interrupting the news crawl.

Trump I am my Mexican-American gospel

coming soon to a theatre near you.

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 we are all your Othellos.

Trump we live in the land of many kings.

Trump that’s a bingo!

Trump all work no play,

we go home to kill a mocking bird.

Trump a tweet! A tweet! My kingdom for a tweet!

Trump YOSEMITE! YOSEMITE! YOSEMITE!

Trump the absence of the abstract.

Trump the lack of a change.

Trump the inability

to pleasure himself.

Trump a lack of

mind’s eye.

I’M IN A VERY, VERY DARK TUNNEL RIGHT NOW

America, feel the Bern!

America, 10 min. break.

And not one second more.

I said what I said!

America, send me a sign!

A DM! A post!

A disappearing image!

America, anything!

Throw me a bone

as I cry you a river!

O feminine form,

destroy us not all together.

Your love floods us into all things.

Your love floods us into all best.

The soul rushes and burns with it.

O your glorious wounds!

All your glorious wounds!

Sex me with your spirit.

NAH HE TWEAKIN

O, America, do you remember

where you were that fateful morning?

Some hid in the frozen food isle.

Some had no choice but to jump off.

Some are believed to have drowned in the water.

Some covered themselves in the blood

of their fallen brothers and sisters.

Some are still unaccounted for and

it’s believed they will remain as such.

Some went back into the fire and the smoke.

Some ran straight into the unconscionable

stroke of our collective mind, dear—

searching for can and for far, dear—

nestled below nuclear fantasies, dear—

climbing up the Sisyphus hill, dear—

against the darkening of the dull, dear—

ighting the good fight, dear—

they did it with courage, dear heart—

There’s nothing we can do.

It’s raining men! It’s raining men!

O desperate men!

Clinging to the fuselage of the aircraft,

plunging down in their business attire,

crashing down onto the sand

of the concrete jungle.

It’s raining men! Abandoned men!

Now when we enter a building,

we first look up for falling debris.

We search for the closest exit.

This was supposed to

be lovely and weee—

but something greater t

han ourselves

got the best of us, dear—

IT IS WHAT IT IS

Is anyone there?

Is anyone hearing my voice?

What came first,

the proto-hen or the proto-cock?

WHAT A MORON, JESUS CHRIST!

My heart does not have it in him.

My heart skipping, scratching

the ideas of what should be

the narrative of the poem.

I walk around the house barefoot,

unemployed, 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:

WE’RE GOING TO USE

THE BEST POINTING DEVICE

IN THE WORLD

IT WORKS LIKE MAGIC

WE’RE GOING TO TOUCH

THIS WITH OUR FINGERS

WHICH IS PHENOMENAL

BLAH BLAH BLAH

STOP THE SHOW! STOP THE SHOW!

THERE IS NO PLANET B…

LOCK HER UP! LOCK HER UP!

PRINCIPAL CONCLUSIONS

AS SOON AS THIS WEEKEND.

HE SAID ‘BRO,’

HE SAID ‘BRO.’

RED FLAG!

CEASEFIRE NOW!

GOOGLE.COM HOW NORMAL AGAIN STOP NOW

WE DON’T HAVE THE EVIDENCE,

BUT WE HAVE LOTS OF THEORIES

SAUCERS

SEEN OVER

HOLLYWOOD!

AND IF YOU DON’T FIGHT LIKE HELL,

YOU’RE NOT GOING TO HAVE

A COUNTRY ANYMORE.

WE’RE NOT

GOING BACK!

NO THRONES.

NO CROWNS.

NO KINGS.

QUIET! QUIET, PIGGY!

Cut to—the rest is silence.

ANSWER: THE NEXT LINE.

QUESTION: WHAT IS POST MÜLLER?

A tool used to remember,

but no one on the outside knows;

a system under sustained stress;

(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;

hungry to be off with itself in itself.

The spread of all spreads, optimizing

its own interests; subsidizing

misinformation; repeating

the same stories,

as if for the very first time.

When will it come to an end?

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

services everywhere—

Side effects may include

eating disorders and thoughts

of patricide. Ask your doctor if

Post Müller is right for you

THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE ROME!

Delete, dear.

Delete.

Part IV

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

We prepare for the end

in the late summer

within the grounds of

a renovated midcentury

situated in Palm Springs

we prepare for the end

lathered in radioactive potions

chewing off our corporate positions

cocaina ecstasy psychedelic-shrooms

cocaina hotdogs watermelon-spritzers

cocaina fleshlights anti-depressant pills

Give us this our daily genocide

mass shooting suicide

breaking news infanticide

give us our Reddit

who art in 4chan

give us this 8chan

our daily Minecraft

and deliver us from nada

pues nada tostada

We prepare for the end

during our highest peak

wading through the dark

within the safe glow

of the heated Jacuzzi

witnessing nuclear ashes

fallen from the sky

we weave a yarn of

couldhavebeens

smiling at one another

hoarding the water bottles

knowing we cannot drink

the antibiotic pool matter

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

We prepare for the end

by doing everything else

but prepare for the end

how did we get here?

we clearly saw

our liberty blues

all kings and queens

naked on the lam

their fake news

couldn’t deter us

we liked them!

we really liked them!

the dragon descends

again and again snaking

with its perpetually open

mouth inside a mouth

a fierce fire fracking

we are glistened

in fallout

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

godmother of Al Gore

pray for us QR codes 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

We prepare for the end

pretending to rise above

the battles at hand

mining the shine

a splendid mirage

without any limits

as seen from atop

the tallest of towers

soon to fall

IN THE NAME OF THE BLOGGER,

THE MEME, AND THE HOLY POST

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)—

but these nights

and moons fallen,

fusequickly,

and so

comes

not you

or me

or autumn’s

forgiveness—

don’t get

angry

with your

failed faith,

there will be

so many

likemes

who will

love you,

hate you,

rebirth you…

get off your knees;

get on your horse;

start the motorcycle,

engage the truck,

cock your pistol—

rise American happy

with ice cream

redemption—

O my unknown,

once in a while,

tell me

you miss

FORGET IT, JAKE TAPPER. IT’S CHINATOWN.

Goodnight Clorox wipes

(with 99% killer power)

Goodnight Listerine and Arrowhead

(100% Mountain Spring Water)

The Bot is our Chat and

our Chatbot is one.

Blessed is your name and

high is your trash heap.

Adios Adios Sayanora

Tesla Tesla

Tik Tok Tik Tok

Skibidi Skibidi

Francis Scott Key’s

falling down

Francis

Scott

Key’s

Falling

Down

WE THE DEFENDANT FIND

THE JURY GUILTY

Alexa, how do you spell NETFLIXCHILL.