Certain Things People Do

I understand that people
murder each other and
lift weights obsessively,
tanning and whatnot.
O, I don't know what else they do.
A lot.
Some people pose for photographs
holding giant wreaths and
other people sit in chairs
that are far too small for their
long, thin bodies.
Certain people have to make
important phone calls
and others curl their lips in funny ways.
I'm the sort of person
who gets depressed and then
feels like a little valve somewhere
is leaking. It's complicated.
I keep thinking of things.
I keep thinking of them.
Perhaps sometime you will have
to use the phrase "extra frames"
or "may worsen with."

There Are Things That People Do

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Another Point

Is more simple but is harder to say.
Another point is more simple but is harder to say.
Another point is more simple but it harder to say.
Another point is more simple but is harder to say.
Another point is more simple but is harder to say.
Another point is more simple but is harder to say.
Another point is more simple but is harder to say.
Another point is more simple but is harder to say.
Another point is more simple but is harder to say.

I Am Always Hearing An Echo Mustache

I am always hearing an echo mustache
in every way I move that sounds like
a hollow aluminum, canister.
This empty sensation is followed
by an insect, and a particular virus.
Combining the two, there is an
infected bug in tin in there.
I am wishing to break free from this type
of communication.
I never trust myself when it comes
to interpersonal relationships. I think
that's because I am never even
sure that I know you and yet
here you are, if you are here.
Otherwise, I don't know what is happening.
I see myself as an open
pore that can't be filled.
O god, it's the worst poem ever and
I'm writing it.

And An Economy

My son is like a fizzy,
lime-flavored soda.
He's a sort of a frothy flute.
He's a gravelly fruit
delicious in certain salads
and occasionally served
with cheese.
He is also like a rock-n-roll band.
He is also like mysterious, very
small bags of dirt.
He is nothing like
Hitler's mustache.
He doesn't even know what that is.
He's that sort of history book.
Also, he makes no mention
of steam, engineers, roller derby,
the feudal system, or corn.
Henry V, George Washington,
and Margaret Thatcher are
persona non grata.
I'll give that to him.
His selectivity is inspiring.
I want to see
if he can qualify as a faith-based
program. I am seeking monetary
aid. My son is like a shoebox
and an economy is collapsing
into him.

My Hair

My hair is like dog fur.
No one has ever told me this
but that’s my belief.
Right now my hair has grown out
and it is poofed like a burrito
of chicken feathers.
I’m a sort of head-bearded bird.
I believe there are slaughterhouses
designed to make
my death as efficient as possible.
I mean the death of my hair,
which is unbridled like
a Shepard’s love for metaphor.
My hair is a thatch of
mouse houses.
My mother and father agree
that I have a beautiful color to my hair.
It is varied and rich, mottled browns
and ribald reds.
My mastery of shitty description
is.
My hair like the lisp of a barber. Or
my hair like a British guitar.
My tuft like a rough flowered
broccoli.

A Spider Named Artichoke

Artichoke wasn’t more
stupid than the average spider,
nor was he more smart.
He began to have a strange
feeling during the late
morning and the early evening.
The feeling made the tips
of his legs tingle.
He was worried.
He saw the doctor.
The doctor said, Artichoke,
The problem here seems
metaphysical.
That was way over Artichoke’s
head. He even made a motion
with one of his legs sailing
over his head.
The whole way home he
thought about his early life
and the troubles that
still plagued him.
Baggage, he thought,
grateful to have eight hands,
he thought, and he
was grateful and Artichoke
broke into blossom.

A Mouse Named Artichoke

A mouse named Artichoke
got into the barn
just as a dog nipped at his
tail. He slid through
the hole and began sobbing.
He wrote letters to his friends.
He decided to go
back to college.
He began making drunken
late night phone calls.
For instance, one call began,
"Lisa, I'm here
near the hay, across from the
corn--I've been here for...
hell, forget it, Lisa. It's me,
Artichoke."
He began work on a rap
album and started to work out.
The strain was visible in
everything he did. People said stuff like,
"Have you seen Artichoke? That
mouse is messed up."
He didn't know what to make
of it. He thought, either I'm becoming
something else, like, a different
system of molecules, or nothing
is changing and I've been eaten.
Nothing made sense.
Even years later he seldom slept the
whole night through, finding
himself awake, insect-like,
scratching and sniffing
the barn's wood floor.

Out of the Empty Space

In a way, I don't think it's possible.
In a way, I don't think it's possible.
In a way, I don't think it's possible.

A Small Triumph for the Artist

In 1993 I was in college and lived with a couple of guys in an apartment. In that apartment we kept an Elvis dollar bill (see above) and a Hank Williams Jr. dollar bill (whereabouts unknown) on our refrigerator door. One day, along with some friends, we all played some basketball. We played for a few hours. And we weren't the athletic type, we were just guys who never played basketball, who went out and played a few hours of basketball. We came home worn out. My friend removed his shoes and found enormous blisters on the bottom of both big toes. I do not remember why or how, but he gently clipped the dead skin of his blisters, removing two, quarter-sized chunks of skin. It occurred to either him or me that we should draw on this skin. On one skin, I drew a small portrait of Elvis Presley (above, right) and he drew a small portrait of Hank Williams Jr.(above, left).We inserted these small toe-skin portraits into the plastic pockets that protected our respective novelty dollar bills, where they were mostly proudly displayed. And now I've got them. Now what's that all about? What's the deal with that?

You Should Help Aaron Belz Do Cool Stuff

http://observable.org/dollar/

The Punchline

There are certain flowers
that have names
and then names
which have no flower.
I am thinking of the
the name
Burnt Sickness
which swells in the
throats of students
unable to overcome
finals.
There is always a final
even if you believe
in successive finals
strung together like
necklaces.
I prefer candy necklaces.
What I like about that sort
of necklace is the candy
which is bad for my
teeth but who cares?
My teeth are on a
necklace my daughter wears.
She’s no cannibal
but try telling
her that.

A Poem that Says "O"

Driving through the
country, having laughs
with my wife while
the kids mysteriously sleep
in the backseat. It's
sweet.
I could easily invent
a plastic backdrop here
and unshroud a previously
shrouded shroud.
Perhaps there are sharp
turns in the country road,
and bumps. Perhaps
their metaphorical qualities
are alluded to but
left unexplored because
what's there is too
too.
What kind of poetry is this?
What kind of veer is this?
I say to my wife
when the road buckles
and I can see what she looked
like in 1987. She's
laughing and her hair
is huge. There's no claw
emerging from the forehead
but there's a foresty
vibe, a comfortable nest.
O bird. O Big Bird.
O sleeping demon
denied.

My Understanding Wife

A garage is full of
rock and roll.
It's cold in the garage
because it's winter.
A winter is like
cold rock and roll.
For breakfast
you may microwave
something from
the refrigerator and
call it the most
important meal
of the day.
For me, the day
doesn't really
get going until
a sort of music starts.
One might refer to this
as lift-off, but
I call it 'little bug' and
wrap a scarf around
my beer.

The Thriller

My wife and kids
are so perfect
sometimes I believe
I've wandered into a
Hollywood script
and am acting a part
that was written for me.
I used to hate this
sort of movie, but I'm
changing. I have studied
the skin and the features
of my kids. My son
and daughter are
flawlessly lit and
their noises are
clearly rehearsed.
My fear is only
the camera angle...
I have noticed the man
behind it and his
scarred wrists. I
think he went to my
high school and has since
died. This is what
worries me.

Baby Me!

What I drew the summer before my son was born.

Something I Can't Control

I’ve got such a dirty mind.
Every time a sweet woman
says, let’s make love,
I can’t help but think about sex.
When I’m kissed on the lips
I think about what comes
after the kissing.
Even when watching
pornography, I find
my mind drifting...

Social Situations

A person has opinions on various
subjects, including varying
subjects, and other
subjects.
Additionally, there is the typical
format of a conversation
which begins and ends
complete with
objects, associations, and humans.
Even when we're
good monkeys, we wallow.
I used to think that I controlled
my dreams by prodding
them with dinner forks,
fucking with them,
saying stuff like, what are you,
a baby? Crying like a baby?
You're a piece of shit.
In a way, I was proud
of my cruelty.
But that's called being young.
I was a baby too.
Any psychologist might point
to the obvious, but
I'm already storming out
of the office, bitching
about my HMO.

What to Do with This Poetry?

I could try making a hat. Or
maybe mixing it with a sandy/gravelly
substance to produce a sort
of cement. I might repair a small
hole in the foundation
of my house.
I may create a bee repellent or
some brutal bug zapper.
The possibilities aren't staggering
but they're impressive in their way.
For instance, this poetry
may be read by strangers or friends
and digested in the manner that
poetry may be digested.
Of course, that doesn't sound very
spectacular. The greatest thing
might be a sort of paper hat
that is folded in such as way so as to
frame the face effectively. With my
round face, I need something angular,
while you, with your whatever face,
need whatever you need in the way
of paper hats.

Really...

It's nice to be mentioned.

"As a Poet..." (Blah, Blah, Blah)

Because it's snowing outside, I say
it's snowing. At that moment,
that's exactly what I mean.
Because of the snowflakes, I believe
my statement is accurate.
Of course, by now, all of the
flakes are gone, even if they're still
here, because what matters here
is the lack of real time.
I've been warping time since 2 minutes
ago. Anyway, where you are
it's probably spring
or maybe you live in Ecuador where
it's always summer. (Even if it's
not always summer in Ecuador,
I think you know what I'm saying.)
Besides, anyway
covers a lot of territory and,
as a poet,
that's important to me.

Maintaining

It's never enough.
I made a CD of music
called Good Enough
only because I don't believe it.
I say, look into yourself
see what you see.
An empty basket.
It is entirely dark there.
You wonder over and over again,
what am I clawing for? At
what point will my nails
be crammed with enough filth?
I'm reminded of the
growth of my fingernails,
which seems inordinate.
I sometimes say to my wife,
"It's all I can do to keep up
with conventional nail
hygiene." My wife's a trooper.
She's more beautiful now than
she was when we met. When she
laughs, I believe she doesn't
understand me which means
she does.