Full hap the drills you got into, mint zingers,
already you full yet the for tone us?
Drabs. Quibbles on the pike,
Sunrise Highway, mete me at the moves.
Sap onerous pliable keeps,
the tired weeps and ringers
blab a ton and bubble snaps to whatever.
Sucker punch and you pull, droves in cars
upon an over, endings to pops
and head lights. Another boring
the night, no specters of dandies in heels.
You know you never know 
what squall kills in neon, a moody
the nickels, shapes to shift
and nooks, the door is not a jar.
Two positives make a negative, wander.
Those are my principles.
If you don’t like them,
I have others.


Capper hampers and magma moo juice,
miss saying the crocus of copper, banjo bliss beams
and orchards of shucks, vole
questions and rusted girders, a flamingo
pinks, your drama in the walnut.
Of one and a dichotomy heartache.
Simpleton, there is no time
so go get it, under the stand?
The door is Tony Soprano, a bit that is crooked
and awe, swell, the yang
of equity, the pile saw knee jerk whisky.
Lucky thirteen on a hot note,
cough up for a chaser down genius,
school more for whilst, flash art,
bangs and big the whimper
of salts, what says you.


Close to put and shot at, your Žižek
toy to the tender buttons
when cranium drabs in bevy bergs.
A flip in fresh, leisure to coops,
pens in drinks, quasars for dispersal founds,
shipper bands frond, freezers
a la modular, open feelers of machine.
Organ shoppers, grates,
chilly cliché of whacks, but whatever
do you mean by job?
Blown glimpse of pro to fess to up.
Valence means valence,
can you hear me know?
Zaftig callipygian freak,
Shish Kabob and you’re becoming.
When yep not pay, flagrant
the stars of a tragic strip.


Let me tell you about bubelah, small shim la,
barb on hence, secreting hoops,
groupers of zippy
and goop, hilly turners on the clicks
when responses suck skirted.
Bus you in fractions, Mr. Blue
I’m just getting to again,
white bleat of those speakers.
Rock zero out class bound,
radio free shit, literary
makes you look thinner. 
Curious George kilo blights, radical
beer and zoinks! go the char
tubes, theme song migrants bluster
keeps, your mother’s
maiden name. Rock in the face
poor blaster column, electro
thingy on the clacks, a simper and boil
for glue stick goals, Mr. Ed.
Slap shot singers, nets
in rains, October harvesters in sheets,
everybody smokes in nights,
cold at haps the odds of quicker.
Stuck chokes.

«±  ±»

Originally from Long Island and a long-time resident of Boston, chris rizzo currently lives in Albany, New York, where he is working on a Ph.D. in English. His latest chapbooks are Claire Obscure (Katalanché Press, 2005) and Zing (Carve Editions, 2006). His poems have appeared in many magazines over the years, such as Art New England, Carve, Dachshund, Shampoo, and most recently in The Duplications. He is also the editor of Anchorite Press, which he founded in 2003.