Robert Baumann

We Call You a Jew in the Right Context and Are Excused.

The “mulatto” is assumed
suicidal; he fails to complete
racial classification.

The “mulatta” is a woman white enough
implies “Quadroon”
generally credited as the first work
of white gender
while avoiding white “characters.”

Generally,
a woman who can attempt
to love a white man
eventually suffers
all the social graces
that come along with slavery.

A common objection to oppressed or
enslaved races of whiteness
is instead of sympathizing with one’s own race
they often lay in lurid fantasy
of a small amount
of “black blood”
that renders [them] fit
for proper marriage.

Today’s bi-racial peoples
seem to be key. Halle Berry
recently spent most of her life
“trying on the other hand.”
Other Black, White, and Jewish continually state,
“Civil Rights Movement, baby; not tragic.”

To this trope:
Barack Obama.
* *

Some Man Myths

maceration – excessive fasting

liquor-ish bible-doubt
exclusive lint trap—gold fibrous
nervous – o sinewy of the sinews
(of the many sinews of the body
pertaining to
) fear – anticipation of the state

of terror
by terror
for terror
the vast harm of the lemming

a trail of lemming dung like Reese’s
Pieces to my bedroom
one’s my stretchy elbow—

surrogate scrotum-like:
a nicotine patch
the vast herpes of early ‘80s Berlin
cat dick tattoo guy—gay asian

oh for barbed wire or
broom handle homicide

on the rise.

cleptic – as of the stolen
holy relic—art

what must be worth it—
art
what anal Viagra witness
takes the stand
against art
by art
behind or from—
possibly passing art by
giving it to art
giving it the old reach around
treatment
in the next millennium,
forgetting us.
by for of
bi-curious buns,
yet studies have shown
less food waste
comes from
no lunch for students.

your tax dollars at
work on the clit
as exact midpoint.

the female orgasm does exist
in porno myth.
* *

If in the Autumn a Plesiosaur

in denying its own existence
holds a banana in
its finny hand
walks only slightly hunched
then turns back to
market its poontang
splaying its vast flaps
all ocean-wide and shit
making its own tits jealous,
making its own ass
manifest like a ship’s
manifest all written out then
on that landing strip to its flaps
we could build a stove
and stoke it with our faces.

The very language of which,
of course,
forebodes we’re fucked.

If, then, assuming in summary
a face appears in meat things
far and
cooling in coolers that drip burnt
umber something—but
a face none knows like one
knows the hairy
chin of Christ—then
then an end must come
to all things under
Hustler, published still by
Larry in Indiana.

Jesus’ dick has a chin
that you’ll punch lightly
so someone blushes
aw shucks so that
the fall of man comes
the banks drop trou’
the car companies
fail the Detroit Lions
now play
in Afghanistan
don’t hate the player hate
Beijing where the creepy
Chinese play for free
having already rejected
payment in American dollars
or China dolls
Made in China in America.

People I say to you gripping all my junk in a hamburger bun
we are fucked.

I feel like saying
“fuck you” here—to myself—
since when
I say “fuck you”
in general
it makes me feel like
auctions have been won for
very vast plesiosaur
flaps, catching wind on the ocean
taking me away
to animation:
James Cameron directs
groundbreaking 3D effects
of my vast balls finally
that finally sway in jibberish
draw tight
rest on your chin
like Jesus longed for white messiah
for “trippy” tree people

a baby, kindling
for our autumn oven
Honey.

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