Stephen Rodefer

from For More Lectures

Dilatory hair, sweetest flesh, dilapidated rose, another recherche mystagogue intent on silks and socks. Money talks, love walks, children long to go out

and play. It is necessary to remain able, to distinguish the difference between prolific and verbose. Verbs serve humans. Step into her bed and demand an index of last lines, or you won’t sign. Sweet tulips odorless, wild civility,

snow white hairs on me. As a child Picabia replaced the old masters in his house
with copies of his own, and sold the “originals” to finance his stamp collection.
Unadorned by a hardon, spindrift is all. Nice nieces, Writhing writing. Sick glory.
Rabid transit. We arrive in several canoes and have nothing but scorn for those
who do not allow things to be as complicated as they are. She looked gorgeous
in the latest synecdoche, but I was Helen’s man. The suicides will be he’s and she’s
who cannot love life doubtfully. Beards and sleeves, cows and poppies, my mind
is one with Caesar V, not to stray a meter from my poem. But I was kind of humping
that you would lie in these sheets. If I had not been born, another could be drinking this cup. On the hem of the lawn the babies are weaving their clearest saliva on looms of ivy and scum.

In the Alameda a woman walks over to a rose bush and picks a thorn. On her stone bench, sitting on an arm, she proceeds to clean her teeth. Dilapidated pose.
The Picts depicted themselves blue. Smart move. I will break your waves if you will watch my night. The night Kid Ory kicked the bucket, they wailed. I need a protege. Adorable whore, can you butle? I want my responsibility. I miss cacoons and gingermen, and when I handle them elsewhere, it is not the same. It’s a different kettle now of screams, drinking powder, slipping pants, mouthing off. But I see similarities I throw myself into an image. Art links letters. The pile-up figures. Conception

is not as wide as the world, nor deep as well, but Twill suffices. You fill it out.
Mens agitation. Used up preludes. Anemic double bills. Cat shit and dog puke.
God knows we love, but who? Before the stand-in is finished with one thing, you’re asking for another. Be your wax. His weltanschauung was beatup, but his syntax
was in intacking. Who is interested in the eventuality that little J A would come
to dominate the century the way big Ten did last. Now that the new B C was (a) P G. The general were fond of eating women. But that which exists through itself calls M E.