four poems

Mike Hauser

What With

Intimacy, the found

Object cast on a dark

Republic, a green spread

Of real estate, cute animal

Discipline of formatted

Antiseptic rage, on such

Ruptured climes, we

Feel a rent calling us.

Such awesome technology

I have as my cynicism, the boast

The kayfabe, the amazing detail

Around a benign wheat stain.

The performance was of wrathful

Cinnamon thru a bright

Feeding tube. The President

Fogged what we saw as burning

As rent, as clever equivocation.

Sing the hooded Jack-up

Attitude-sublime restive

Transmission, as the pain that

Is ordinary, a leak, cements, cements

An economy. Found intimacy

Rates much fumbled

Tender and ordinary gestures

Cast into performance

Algorithms. These

New England facelifts

We thought would help,

As such strange and abusive

Vocabulary enters our limits

Salt Bae opens up about

Bitcoin mining. Enjoying a

Beer with a funny reason why

And today is lot of sun

But tomorrow is never more than

A palimpsest on the future, super

Impositions forming a country, and

A string over the rousted people

Of our habitat. Colonized places

Hold memory til whatever comes

Home to roost can be packaged.

Pale Memory

Slow motion nuke

Of trad bird brain

Makes a new sun

In a closed mind

Points ahead

Polar or voluble

Sex roles

On their tongues

Bedrock falling

Into nasty boys

Blind date kremes

Illusory cubes of

Hate body action

Twitching fleeces

Closing up on

Long pale memories

Backroom Sonnet

Not in that syndrome’s room-space

thought-scape stalely swiping, wiping

a mouth of air, a separate dazzle of dimension–

the toggle must be satiated to sovereignty–

make view bigger until balance is plump tight nightie

the underwear stretched to view–

it is such

that it reduces my testosterone!

I am more than Alaska, a cultivate of aerosols

and awesome-sauce. I must make my dream a room

with a view, elaborating a goose that much more than I

can explain here, to you, in a bounce-house. Is this bad?

To wanna, and expand a hallway in your head-space

a squirrel in a binding loggerhead

it is what it degrades you can tell by

what I offer to bring, as a dish.

I like to toggle, and you can tell

an adjacent room holds the master’s minutes

it is what offers no view to nothing to view–

The Neonatalists

Genetic superior spud growths of Silicon Valley

Must be allowed to thrive on immaterial

Polyester mattress pads of idle and ridiculous thought.

Calvinist egotism must supplant

Gerontocratic orbitrons in salved hardware.

Who let the dogs out? Theistic carbon bars.

Each human a mixed bag of telegraphed automatism and

And profuse gravity making molecules

Move thru abstractions of suffering and bliss.

Predicting the behavior of the sun, staunch billionaires

Fly perfect parallelograms thru mushroom

Structures bright with tandem quality. They believe

Their children will throng wetly at the timely

Abyss that is programmed by the Thinking Man’s Philosopher.

They feed innards to their offspring when it is

Time to regale their puntings by sound of

Mooching artificial spray off planets of harried

Experiencing your cash dimension of scrolling stock

Capital image-generation morning star veggie burger with

The best minds of your generation.