I am an orchid. Girls is hornets.
My style is tai-chi. Your views is morbid.
You is a subject. I am a writer.
I tag the wings of red lions with hi-liters.
Kite-string cutter, thought is potato-shaped,
still an ape, Cutty-Sark funneled to my funny face.
Tapes-n-Tapes, I am absorbed in:
displayin how the most trapped asshole’s the warden.

If you drunk teaching children in an air-conditioned building—
—Give yourself a gold star—
If you gotta pretty tag and a messenger bag—
—Give yourself a gold star—
If you read Foucault and eat jalapenos—
—Give yourself a gold star—
If you cut, scratch, break, erase, or rhyme slooow—
—Give yourself a gold star—

The key is play the game and wobble through the tracings.
I cut new maps from cobblestones and lace things.
That interform the world—the map worms and makes flat
rap songs/“real” life/garden walks/and sand cats.
Who loves Tom? Only Jerry can.
I got a Blackberry tin-can phone, Sam—
play it again. I’ll have a gin and smoke.
Callin all Cthulhu cultists to keep me unbroke.

If you re-spect women, pets, and wet sex—
—Give yourself a gold star—
If you cookin curried lentils and yo shirt say "Das EFX"—
—Give yourself a gold star—
If you drinkin old Scotch with like one nice rock—
—Give yourself a gold star—
If you disbelieve in stars, golds, problems, and clocks—
—Give yourself a gold star—

Intruder with a key, B&E, S&M—
messin with these rhizomes is open-system titty-twistin.
Devil Springs creak… C'mon, listen:
The snake eats the apple tree and keeps on hissin.
Spill the whole programme at a glance:
Plug into all machines: All hips and hands,
and when my lips say get down, baby, we gon’ dance—
the core becomes sound—the floor becomes pants!

If you poised to rock Organized Konfusion OR Noise—
—Give yourself a gold star—
If you mix high and low and smoke medical dro—
—Give yourself a gold star—
If your pet cat mates much faster by FireWire—
—Give yourself a gold star—
If your metal balloon dome can't fly no higher—
—Give yourself a gold star—

If you A-plussin that new-math take-home pop quiz—
If your book is the whole world, never-ending, infinite—
Written in the language that the *birds* speak, oh shit—
You phone home in tritones and drink red platelets—
If you far from home, still samplin the Cote-d'Rhone
When in Rome, tossin bones to cougar-crones
…Shit, if you tellin the Empire to suck eggs—
If you stole the Queen’s brandy stock and left behind the dregs…

[Give yourself a gold star]

There ain't no town, there ain't no town
There ain't no rest tonight!