Anthony McCann

[natelyswhore.livejournal.com]

Bay Parkway and 86th


The pope looks like a painting of a pope as he
signs me into this as he
legislates me
to think. I am a creation of post-pope utility
called post-robot deficiency. I am reading Newsweek
in the world. The pope thinks
it is time for me to think. Suddenly
I am not catholic anymore.
Now I am post-rock
hysteria in the post-pharmaceutical fix.
What use is this fact today
on this day without air or with air so poured
through the cracks of today's
elevated rail? It's an inbound B train
that makes my body shake.
I've never been
outside this skin so now
I regret this place.
Sun so poured from overhead
where I go without a tongue to trade
for self. (Now I am post-ideological bliss
at the pre-futurist mass.)
Rumble This, Rumble That.
The world so touched in shapes of light
and news, this
green and gray terrarium
where cars nose and duck the poles while
paper flies. To spit in the lock of the dark
chained to the meter like a bike
is to wake up dreaming in this light.
Pen scratching the form
of poped release
50 dollars will not fix.
This is what I have.
Cricky neck, creaky track and spine
poured over
and then down.
I touch it; get a little fat
in this air like
dry food puffed with air.
This is what I have:
One lost and savory
pope. One pope aloft.
Two pockets of no light--
self intact. An inventory
of sloppy dust that floats,
that pours in
present tense.


Anthony McCann
Father of Noise
Fence Books