Greg Fuchs

Greg Fuchs (travmar03@email.msn.com) "was born and raised in

the deepest of Southern towns, New Orleans. The City that Care Forgot

has left an indelible impression upon his writing--a revolutionary

Rabelasianism. He wrangles for survival as an editor and photographer

all up and down the East Coast."

New Mad Cow Alert

The hamburger I want to eat for lunch is insane.

Girls are going bonkers in Yonkers over men that never love them.

And dandies on the verge of exploding vanity

hear every flushing toilet flushing for them.

It is centrifugally and centripetally so

when you're packing mighty gravity packets you out burn the sun.

The psychological width of the Hudson River

stretches the tunnel from the city of cosmopolitan assurance

all the way to the virtual backwaters of man

taking off his millennial fins for flip flops.

Of course the G train is the train to no where

it never reaches the only somewhere that spends almost

all of your money convincing you that you are there. So there.

In other words the tunnel connects a quaint neighborhood

of bohemian pretensions with a quaint neighborhood of capitalist

sweatshirts. Mad making distractions splitting our heads in two

is our only refuge in the always open twenty four seven.

Unless we can drive it all into our hamburgers

then I'll become ballad of a thin man and fall in love with a vegetarian.

star power

corpus christi

McNichol

when an actress is dead

they're not really dead

it's difficult to be alive

when you're burning celluloid

but when the girl

in the back of the loft

is diagnosed with an improbable

disease that may strike at any moment

life becomes real

but she can't live it.

corpus fucking A christi

An American Family isn't any wealthier

than any other dumb fuck on the planet.

The Kung Fu grip

for Anselm Berrigan

The Dutch Masters fondle the Brillo box

wondering how it wound up in their century.

>From the scalp of the thrift store rug a Mardi Gras

Indian nods--get your ass in 5th gear or all the fun

will drive by and kill you. And the baby

is about to be sent to Saturn at the cost of plu

tonium tongues of fire. The terrorism of popular

science should be included in the presidential list

instead of the Tamil Tigers who are setting off

pipe bombs so they can have a life--the extreme

st of pleasures puts snowboarding in a category

with polo, the sport of kings. New Jersey latter

day love phones during lunch & I desperately

try to convince her to leave her boyfriend

who's always putting his race towards a remote

career before his pause button of sweetness

and light. Whatta, jackass! The love doll

deflates on the knoll, the grass that fades.

He rolls on towards a pot of gold

despite gold's lack of value. Knock thrice

on the pressed tin ciel. Bretts jackassing

over to the bar for you through night's

unclenching grip. I'm not a traditionalist

nor do I subscribe to the instant replay.

The op-ed vampire, gov't

snow hanging off his nose, hunts the la

bor organizer across the mall

until his knees are full of carpet

burn in the oval office, yawps,

"Redneck speak, speak." Philosopher

dough king on pundit sofa reaction

ary avant-garde hosanna so

cratic method govern thyself. In the lab

oratory of the ivy league

psychology school blood is ex

changed for saline dying our bones

for a higher good. From the 16th

century until last week beauty agency

a rupture causes visual

pleasure's refusal to vote yes

demolition man

fugly side of life.