As We Drive to the Grocery Store


as we drive to the grocery store
   again

           I memorize French grammar amid
an isolation of black swans

               asphyxiated 
by an avalanche
of vowels 
               attempting to jailbreak inertia

my attempts to speak French evaporate as we
approach the highway on-ramp
I will try again! 
( clandestine activities are catalogued always by 
obsessive compulsive night owls ) 

                                   engaged with a toolshed itinerary 
                                   of wands and jackhammers— 
                                   casino windjams
                                   widen my view

                                       a “magical imaginative incursion” --
                 inserts a dream close 
       to my elbow—
as 
I knit my hemispheric wounds
                   my hearing 
       expands

                                  a locomotive motility 
                a tapestry of 
                           windmills and helicopters
  sprinklers              avatars becoming 
                



--------------------------------  Max Wolf Valerio, Jan. 17, 2026 -- Rev. 1 August 31, 2026

                    Umbrella Music 


                       —small     infinitesimal         tiny       
                        toothless                     thoughtful

           and now I must enter! 
                                                the sun!
                 to penetrate
        a 
        heat          

                     trans.     to trans
miraculous as—
     unfolding 

nature.         
                         under 
kleig lights            a halo bursts  
                      
  beneath circus-tight 
       tarantula rope 

              umbrella music       slim 
            antler 
         	           and   whistle.           

from here to there
the sight of 
  I.
an unknown
roams and enters.          solid.    dense and 
actual.                   into the roaring
                     clatter of 
                     hooves on—
                             an expansion 






Max Wolf Valerio,  August 1-12 2026 

# 54


                             flowers  
                                            not wilted or              diminished
                                        instead          vivid            poison-ful    instinct
         to a head -- 

                                                                              a mouth of white soot 
                                                                              black boots and tall 
                                                                              men moving on a background of white skulls
                                                                                       to mountains 
                                                                                       to lakes 
                                                         where water is short and lungs 
                                                         correct the air 
                                                         with powerful movement 

                                                        our faithful               up in arms 
                                                        fighting for and against 
                                                                     the tiger blossoms --






 Oct. 5th, 2014, San Francisco




# 55

the cold is a mountain

have we hit a dry place?

the branches break in a blur

we are walking but we feel as though we are flying

sifting through the frozen white air

a blur of flat shapes racing

the flowers white with a simulation of heat

a longing to ornament our ice houses


 Oct. 10, 2014, San Francisco 


#74 

                                      from the balconies

                                      I saw them —

                                      arranging their hair into triangles and cones

                                      Awaiting summer winds

                                      and joy rides in x-ray

                                      sex cars—

                                                                           

Oct. 22, 2015, San Francisco  
Max Wolf Valerio

Sunset 


the sunset seeps into the sky. a hymn
or an advancing thesis

rigor replaces precognition. an exercise in adversarial 
agitation

sometimes, we believe and other times— we do not. 
it is that simple

simplicity steps in and takes a bow, while the complex weave artificial garlands to 
replace the medals of heroes.  Those have undertaken the task of drilling holes in 
walls or moving concrete to enforce the repetition of vocables, iridescent under light searches and subject to the scrutiny of hands in the water 

the same dance steps
on another stage
instigate criminal passions 
we love to dance! 

a monstrous avocation, where angels lurk as avatars
dreams corrupt and skewer. grace— we only have so much patience

but who is this singular "we"? 
the waking nightmare, an ellipse on a trampoline
nodding off to

rock and roll under a neon bar sign

a presence is implied, but absent since. there is an 
expansion of longing

I live in a desert and howl at the moon on
a regular basis.  I am interred
as local and anonymous however —
anonymous and secret cloud dwellers will acknowledge that I am 
angular in the heavens—
and ascendant 

in the zoo—
we are handicapped by a dwelling, that is oblong and concrete and
encircled by a metal fence. not ornamental yet—
we are vital and able to 
dialogue 
for a fee! 

everything costs money, in particular a back and forth with a tiger
or leopard. the osmosis curtain 
is wavering because it is thin,the crafty will come on in—
unable to suppress their 
curiosity 

on the occasion of heresy
anoint the top of the head
and begin the 
explosives           
don’t hesitate to 
name the 
intruders, the spectral fakers—
who collapse 
the infidel
nomenclature







Max Wolf Valerio, June 21, 2026

the wounding is situated
inside a parasol
a rubber indentation 
an airplane hanger
from the ground up 

the clatter of utensils— 
a cooling fan 
situates itself like an animal 
poised for prey—   
a long grin in an elevator 

a spectacular firing range opens up— 
I expose myself to the elementals 

again and again —over
and again —the repetition serves to 
embellish the hypodermic needle salon 
a threadbare surface 
where thorns are exposed 
in this essential daylight 

I dropkick the truth and wait
inside a line of repressed tongue watchers 
for the repercussions to begin—




Max Wolf Valerio, April 17, 2026

In a Sign


In a sign
I am lost
to the heavens that 
spill
nectar and garbage
the fecund crisis 
that doesn’t neglect 
my attention—

the conversations I witness
from this apex of dreaming 
announce themselves with high pitched squeals
and flow in rage from recognition to 
masquerade       
all is abstract when a nemesis is nudged to life 
beneath a butterfly pavilion 
a river            bobbing with black hats and flowers


I am ready for you to know
who I am without 
an apology
while a smile 
is a secret solvent        my hung teeth
my nephilim   on the bridge to 
a cascade 

I will bargain
again    in preparation 
for a holy day
reserved for 
random strangers
and robots
and only 
the secretive survive
in this land of open 
promises—


Max Wolf Valerio, 
June 4, 2026

Exo-Men in Air Cars


the exo-men in air cars compete
for the inner worlds        of graffiti artists 
they cycle       emotions       to cleave people— 
to siphon their attention     the exo-men are unable to stop talking
about the latest dramatic attempt to lock down 
meaning            as the walls collapse with silence

                     in    this    
economic weather—    evaporating cow bells ignite 
thoughts that terminate 
                         Is it true that in spite of 
their rants 
their cavalcade of dancing knives that
maybe
   the spurs inside 
minds are lifting                    even as a series of gray anonymous shapes
                        circumvent logic    and fears inflate       
                in balloon auditoriums          one last time—

Well    is it? 



Max Wolf Valerio, April 23, 2026

Upheaval


dignity in a calamity where
 hairstyles elude capture

beggars enter the hell realm with a chokehold 
on a chickenbone

sunshine entities reach a flashpoint where Oz
strangles their ideological blindspots

lucid dreams ennoble counterfeit claims 
to paradise through a matchstick inferno

integrity swims upstream into a volcano asylum 
where ice cream is arcane

senility appears nude in a masterpiece theater op-ed
and poses more than once by a urinal and a swimming pool 

no one needs to know more than they already do
when they are flying to work in their paddleboat helicopter cafeteria car 

silent stones litter the auditorium where blank faces
nod in tandem to super hero drama films on endless loop

no one can blame the stardust 
that renders invisible the frauds as they delegate irony to their underlings

I am hoisted above the waiting crowd
unable to move in the iron grip of fascination, perplexed by doom 

you don’t have to be a fabulist to understand
that falling coiled serpents are a sign of light 

I walk with my head above the clouds
perched on a shoestring budget, exchanging reason for hope 

No silence inside the vanguard 
we have deflated all barriers to conquest, while we wait inside the dome of regret





Max Wolf Valerio, April 26, 2026

The Scattered and Anonymous



They are particular and observant of change yet
without hope
unvested     and entirely rootless                   without interest
        not coping—

              With shallow defense mechanisms
        scared of 
prophecy

                              When they hunt—
                              the lure is
                              alabaster—      a transmission of
                          light
                         to entangle      song
                                            a 
                                        vestigial wound
                                   with bright
                              hanging blood spores



2 

(start)       racking
                 it 
                 up
                         inside this stiletto asylum 
                         where wind weaves our lungs
                         into cross-spaces 
                               
BE what they cannot imagine
in a velvet night dream  
that scrawls 
over and across the sky 

typewriter bohemian 
ancillary 
god-lure in an aqueduct —
                                      may potent space quivers
                                      light up our 
                                                 eyes and
                                      separate us from the 
                         —hopeless 




Max Wolf Valerio, April 28, 2026
NaPoWriMo 2026

                                            
        
         

                           

Time: Dimensions 


a labyrinth
          where music
is entangled     inside 
a                          numeral       situated in  
             starlight                       

                                a clock      rests  on a dresser
   wooden.     stationary.      commanding.            silence        as time
                   is evaluated in 
              combinations  
                         of antic appliances        


transparent digital rotunda              an echo sustains attention
                            florid
                                libation        from  flamingo heaven          to happiness 
                         
                          we live in a star lamp sanctuary and will soon
                   outnumber the enclosed ones
                
the sunshine staccato 
      memories         overlap 
            each blade                         abundant and legible
                             warm on stone remnants            keeping time in swollen
                                                                   intervals—       a mosaic
                                                     of hesitation and concentration
                        
                     colors align and disperse
                 as time aligns with 
                                             desire





Max Wolf Valerio, April 22, 2026

                                                    

Enigmas under Examination


There are enigmas—        sea glass
odd musical tangents              a superior sense 
of direction                spiders dreaming in wayward 
                  webs                 an angular voice that consistently interrupts— 
                                                   a spacious meditation under star-shaped lights
Booze and Brilliance 
the high pitch of a 
hammer on a steel sheet
my inability to forget her expression       long after the silence had eroded 
                                                 the emotions   and the distant chariots 
                                                                                               and the fire clogs 
                                                                    I wore to the funeral       I wore them out
                                                                    I should have taken an extra pair—



Max Wolf Valerio, April 15, 2026

Another Circus Life


I am singing 
at the entrance
to the circus tent—
a high-pitched squeal interrupts my
reverie                a blue woman dressed in 
ragged feathers with a yellow striped cone hat
is watching       as the movement of pincers
begins an avalanche    


the milk sea starts to disperse and the 
lions are roaring outside the churches 


A voice I hear is 
strained by memories of sacrificial 
altars             I try to escape
but 
I am called to witness again
Again and
again                  in the star-slaughter auditorium
      where I was once young               a rotating 
                 symbol          that I cannot decipher 
                 mounted on a long pole       
      (  there is no wind and the air is chilled )

 
    when I return from here, if I do— I will 
       understand for once the cacophony    the livid will of all these 
       interruptions and 
       eruptions 
and 
       begin 
              a 
circus life 
free of 
distraction

I will hose the centaur’s hooves and legs
to loosen their supple movements
and consider again
my own singular life 
rotating without blame or guilt
on a plane fast outside nature—







Max Wolf Valerio, April 10, 2026
NaPoWriMo 2026

A Beginning in April                                                               Max Wolf  Valerio


A beginning in April
A nervous infusion of petals
Distinct from claws or shells
Unable to abide 
noise from constriction
noise from abandoned prayers
a stretching intensity
or an algorithm 
cloistered and released -- 

A dance imagined as water 
inside the circular fire 
the wet abstraction 
implodes 
as the wind asserts itself 

I am the finely tuned animal
Simple as a stone 
latent in a cave auditorium
restless in a tunnel 
Look for me and cry 
I will answer you

Longing for G_d and for a life
                            where the impossible is indelibly stained 
             on restrained yet agile 
                             heroes                               







Max Wolf Valerio; April 17, 2019; Rev. March 13, 2026

Predatory Observation of Consumer Practices      




                    calendars infuse the atmosphere with abbreviated longing 
          empty dates float 

all outside the realm of possibility—

                                                                                                                          giggles 

                                                                   charm school
                                               pocket protectors
                                  zigzag
                 hair towers

                a landscape of unexplored possibility!

                zoom ciphers
                hidden in 
                folds of 
                the unqualified 
the un-sanctified                       the hobo vanguards
                                     of heaven

dogs bark 
echo chambers
who knew? 

               a silent romantic obsession— 
               talk show hubris stilt-walks through 
               the ruins—



2
                                      SUMMATION!
                  credit cards!                        silence!      inspection!

reindeer headlamps brighten the mood 
XMAS XYLOPHONES!
cellophane skin wraps!           bone damp burlap! 
         baggy frost pants!                   blue cycle monotone!    eyelid fringes!
                        hot dog escapism!           
                                               moon ankle spa nocturnes! 

       beware the Naming 
the predatory lending 

                     gaskets, ladders and cellos
                     rings, harps, lip filler, motorcycle heartbeats
high achievers gasp as they reach 
for new heights and helium

in dizzy-full 
red light                      tranquil & smiley faces
hover        banging against the artificial—   
the gaslighting               the quiet herding of finger puppets to 
                                  pomp-o-pump jail cells 
                              paper mache prenuptials—

                         angular eyes inspect and inject 

nervous night lights
aloft                  klieg lights—
                                  the rotating stage empties
as intellect zooms to take up space

keys scatter

a million eyes restless as 
                               thoughts clatter         






Max Wolf Valerio; September 9, 2025; Dec. 1, 2025; written... in a Denver suburb

Constraint


because I am constrained by nothing
—the absence 

moves in dark spaces over and throughout
the long walk home

on my head a 
headdress —antlers and a fetish object 

magnetic to direction
the fistula opens 

to blood scalding silence 
walking and pausing

Feel the damp air
a movement over my face

gloved fingers secure a 
singular instance   the second wound

explosive conjoinment of tangled 
velvet        crescent moon in fog 

                the ocular anemone 
                alive and alert 
                beneath anchors
                trilling with an ancient voice 
                one eye open to the long depths
                watching water cool the hidden
                face

                a dark corridor —
                sailors and
                mermaids 
                touch the obelisk

          chance and intelligence 
          water    sea         fog          
          the projection 
          of dark stars      


hairnet equations on a spider umbrella
                                                        
                                       the black mask is removed  
                                                         eyes are shut by paper






Max Wolf Valerio, April 2017; rev. January 20- 27, 2026
                                                     
              

Now, know that I am a Francophile! I am even, on and off, attempting to learn French — Goddess help me. Or whoever it is that helps people learn these languages. In any event, I know Bardot is now deceased, and I dedicate this poem to her. She was controversial yes, but her own woman to the end. And such a beauty! Beauty is nothing to sneer at. No and beauty is a French value we should emulate. 

              Why I love the French

People with French privilege are called Frogs.

That’s “frogs”,  F- R- O- G -S

The “F” is not a vowel or an implement of war, but an “F” simply.  It is quiescent, contained, and ranges far.   It also begins the word “flight” as well as the late 20th century phrase, “far out”.

FAR OUT! 

Now, “frog” is actually, most likely, an insult.  To call someone a “frog” may be seen to diminish

their humanity, even though frogs have French privilege since French people are frogs and privileged.

But don’t call anyone a “frog” without checking to see whether or not it is OK.

Don’t ask why. If you do, your privilege is showing. If your privilege is showing, you will be placed in purgatory.  Even if you, are not French, or a frog. 

Purgatory is full of frogs and French people.  Or, possibly it is not.  Possibly purgatory is really the dreaming place that is limbo between worlds of hot, and worlds of cold. 

The frogs are there already, dipping their long legs in the water. 

I actually thought once, when I was prone to thinking about such things, that French people were called “frogs” because they ate frog legs. My French (ex) girlfriend told me that people called the French “frogs”, because French has that guttural sound.  French erupts with silk panties deep inside the throat and when you pull it out – French becomes a swollen, yet succulent aphrodisiac.  It is moist and highly aromatic.  French is born in fresh waters and ambrosia flowers. 

What about Frog Men?  What happened to Frog Men?   Were they French, or simply imitating frogs by immersing themselves under surface waters?  Were they searching for treasure only, or for the key to the French language?  Do they still exist? 


Now, you may ask, wandering about the lake and tapping with a red-tipped cane at stationary objects, you may ask:  Why do the French possess privilege?

My child, this is simple, the French possess Bridgett Bardot! 

Bardot is old now, but she is not frail.  She still commands the fantasy of motorcycles and thigh tight leather boots, however her cat eyes are no longer as subtle. 

Bardot has fallen from favor even though the French have not yet fallen from French privilege.  This is because Bardot believes that the Muslims are attempting to steal French privilege. 

She is wrong. The Muslims do not believe in French privilege.  And, because they do not believe in French privilege, they can never be French.  They can only become the poltergeists of France. 

There is an insurgency in French art. 

There is revolt and the multiplication of revolt.  There is Superman, who is American, flying toward the collapsing Eiffel tower to prop it up.   The French are sneering at him since he talks with his mouth full. 

 The freedom of the French is a vast panorama of transforming stars. 

There are French fries and exploding French Kisses.  And, if you do not understand French, you cannot have French Privilege. 

 If you have French privilege you should never allow anyone to make slurping sounds when they drink. 

 If you are unsure as to whether or not you possess French privilege you should look into the records kept by the Mormons. 

 The Mormons will be happy to assist you. Right now, as you skim this text, in the great Mormon temple by the great Salt Lake, many low-paid or unpaid data pickers and data sifters are picking through and compiling your genealogical data in its entirety, examining the birth, marriage and death records of everyone vying for French Privilege.  The Mormons are confused, they are uncertain as to how to manifest transformation even as they are transforming all the French into Mormon missionaries. 

The French are penultimate and postmodern.  They unpack their privilege with situationist fingers.  The  truth is relative to the abandonment of polarizing certainties. 

 Poodles are French like topiary.  Poodles are rationally proportioned  to offset the bouncy Chihuahuas.  However, let us note: Poodles are body dysphoric and would rather run wild like arctic wolves. 

The powder puff is French also.  We must not forget!

It is now my firm conclusion, while downing a hyperbolic aperitif, that ALL French privilege should be unpacked.  Right now, right here, don’t delay.   

You skinny Godard women!  Unpack!  Open those thin-strapped purses, blow a kiss to the cameras as you sleekly invade the columns. 

Unpack!  Unpack! 

I didn’t say Repent – I said UNPACK UNPACK

Your privilege – your FRENCH PRIVILEGE — Unpack Unpack Unpack –




Max Wolf Valerio, April 5th, 2012