The Maynard
Spring 2015

a rose is a rose is a rose manhattan

               it is not very political. my new work likes to be stroked
               gently along the jawline. my new rose is a work. i am
          sorry. this work is grief. hold my new tenderly a kitten. my new
                    grief is a rose. my work will not
     create new imaginative worlds to help guide the way
          out from the ruins of late-capitalism. my new politic will
     not soothe the wounds of empire. i am sorry about my grief. i am sorry about my new work.

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i have abandoned my plans for a dream of the city:

                    i have abandoned the city, there is no the city, there is
                    not even a city, there is only brutalist post-70s porn-set
                    architecture and falling revenue streams. all my idiocies are built on gossamer dressers and the decoration is stacked, leaking, despair. when my lubricant signals something inside me withers.
               every minute in the shower kills another acre of ocean.
               now I am the father, the son and the holy spirit. the ending of the long dash signals 11 a.m. mountain standard time.

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i leftist civility and set out for the prairies;
                    i set out to undo the cramps of my anchors. i exhumed
                    every trace of ashtray and bonfire shareholder from
                    the earthwork. i hauled them off to seaboard from
               whence they came. no more boffins. no more
               civilities. no more poisons. no more murmur.

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what this town needs is horse statues. more horse statues. another horse statue. a bigger horse statue. we gotta get more monster homes. move out the renters. this baby's priced. this baby’s priced to move.


what this town needs:

                                   horsewoman stay-at-
                              homes. more horsewoman stay-at-homes.
                         another horsewoman stay-at-home. a
                         bigger horsewoman stay-at-home. we
                         gotta get more monument homesteads. move out the renters. this backbencher's priced. this backbencher’s priced to move.

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what this town needs:


               second horse euthanized after bill cosby admitted to three
               year bailout plan. we need robot velociraptors. as a result
               of injuries, second bill cosby euthanized. we need
               chuckwagons on chuckwagons on chuckwagons. secondary
               suite euthanized. we need 3D printed bailout plans. we
               need living cows. we need provisions to assist adults who
               are suffering intolerably as a result of a grievous and
               irremediable medical condition. we need rapid prototyping
               approaches for the secondary bill bailout.

——————————

what this town needs:

               how dare you deign to run a stampede sans tonnes of bourbon.
               check under the ovals for lost items: missing children, stale seafood, your virginity. don’t you know who [enter a rose man]? arrest manhattan. this shit’s serious. stop malcontent out in the halter. stop shaking steak and eating babies. your daughter’s passed out in the battle again. how dare you ask for ID. don’t you know who [a rose manhattan] i am? we need to find the branded cutlery. where’s my simile horseshoe. where’s my brooding horseshoe. where’s my gilded lime velociraptor hospital.




how dare you deign to run a standpipe sans toothpastes of bowler.

check under the overcharges for lost jackasses: missing chimeras, stale seamstress, your virginity. don’t you know who [enter a rotor mandible]? art manhattan. this shit’s serious. stop malfunction out in the hammer. stop shaking steeple / echo backcloths. your daughter’s passed out in the batten again. how dare you ask for ID. don’t you know who [a rotor manhattan] i am? we need to find the branded cutlery. where’s my simulation hospice. where’s my broth hospice. where’s my gilded limousine velociraptor hostess.