Friday, July 15, 2016

The Elevator and the Pants

standing in the elevator. There were
three of us there. I was standing in the right
corner back against the fold

we were all wearing pants.

After we passed the second floor the
two other people huddled close. whispering
but I could hear them.

"See he has pants on," one said. we all had pants on.
"do you see?" one said. "Yes." the other said.

Their backs were turned to me. I looked
down at my pants. 'I am wearing pants,' I thought.

The elevator doors would not open. How many
floors had gone down. 'They're wearing pants, too." I thought.

Thursday, July 14, 2016

Lunch

behind them. the fire burned on television sets
spitting, ARE YOU GOING TO HELL?

They couldn't know. the sound was
muted. scattered about the room

they were eating lunch. as the fire burned. and
they didn't know they couldn't know.

the suits in front of the fire. three of them
in all colors. it was their words held the answer

but thet were muted. ARE YOU GOING?
they were saying they were telling but no one could tell.

no one could. knowing. they were not knowing.
only the voices could tell and they were speaking before

the fire no heat or smoke but the fire burned. flame.
hot flame. HELL. they held the secret

in their mouths but the words came as silence
comes over a loud room unnoticed. they wouldn't know

what they couldn't know. they remained
with their fate. unknowing. ARE YOU?

IN HELL. they were letting them know
where they were going but there was no sound.

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

High Tops

shake the elevator          go down
chills down your spine           go down
sit still and shimmer
caffeine course through system
base of skull shrink           expand
blood vessels          tighten

smudges in corner of glass roll
                                                   eye socket tension
too many cups on the mantle
                                                   shaking hand

Can't turn a face to the          sun
wrinkled toes in bent shoes          jaw clicks
hours slowed

you can't pick a stone then walk in a          circle
or the words won't lay down          right
what's in my head is sucked down battered in drain
torn by the
                    garabage disposal mechinism

A song about murder

when I first listened to it it was mostly for the melody and the sound of
the voice gravel like and strained and the words bounced kinda bounced
off and I didn't pay attention just to the melody of it and the sound
of it all mixed up and the meaning didn't well it somtimes picked at my
ear but I would lose the thread as the song lost its push and it ended and
I would start it again back at the beginning forgetful with the words
bounced back to the start and starting again it would just go on with the voice
and gravel like I'd forget to pick into the song for its meaning the words
even while after several times I sang the chorus along in my head but that
only brought the words to life with now the lines in my head but the meaning
still bouncing off or washing off and slipping under my feet enjoying the melody
the beauty of the song as it like crested the waves up and down up and down
as it slowed and came to a finish I would remind myself just once more I'll
listen listen to it before I pour over the lyrics to get at what the trees how or what
washed to the river in the night what was that gravel like voice moaning for

Monday, July 11, 2016

Gnat

there
you were the sky
where I grabbed you
and choked you
became your wing your legs
your body
pressed into paste
wiped black and grim
blood like body
or some other curse
where you were
taken
suffocated tortured
and broken
it was only a mistaken
reflex
movement in
the corner of the eye
I reached out for you but you pulled away
why? it was foolish. it was all your fault.

On the day

after the 25th day of no dreams
I recall in the time I dropped in late for work
missing incessant alarms
waking and thinking
finally a dream finally a dream
only to forget where the thought was
what life had been lived in the span
of twenty minute lifetimes
to hurry with creased clothes
wait for screeching underground trains,
no airconditioning no seats
packed with neck-collared bodies
black summer dresses sweating leather bags

and no dreams
no dreams

no dreams

Saturday, July 9, 2016

Night Pome

light hides what's outside,
along with dreams
swirling at the glass,
heat against the door
seeps in
mixes with my sweat
my hopeless rot and the words
squeeze out
tonight nothing changes
nothing goes forward
just the sun spinning
the earth pretend spinning
the sky black spinning to blue
me staring sleeping yawning
nowhere to go

Friday, July 8, 2016

the difference

That man is me but nobody knows me

I'm not content in my house locked up but here I am
anyway

3 floors up 3 more floors below ground

think of all the bones stuck in cement

many many buildings on each
street

many sidewalks underneath

That voice is me but nobody knows me

I'm not able to lead by my words or by my
example

3 words into the microphone 3 words come echo back

think of all the years left as nothing behind you

many many thoughts come to
naught

many thoughts are not worth it

That body is me but nobody knows me

I'm not able to pull the trees from out the grip of dying
cars

more metal mind than stem

think of all the fields with low lying grass

many many little hearts meant for
roadkill

many more will cower alone

That mind is me but nobody knows me

I'm not willing to let go of my blood red
release

3 knives to the back before 3 get me

think of all the pain we can cause

many many acts of retribution
earned

many more to come

That man is me but nobody knows me

the act of compelling observance

red lights are exit signs

                                        green are to shelter in place

which one marks the stop sign while other marks go

jack boots slapped with lacquered black shoe polish snap in the street

the long blue uniformed mind of the law

                                                                    at war with no other side

senseless cowardice is the weapon of the oppressed

isn't it easier to drink the purified water you've been told exists

hand in your calloused gloves for the shackled fists that fit

watch what you do and where you go

alleys at night are bad places meant for the veiny stew

listen for the coming of the army of the republic

wave your banners in the coming blue dawn

                                                                          safety is none of your concern

Thursday, July 7, 2016

9-5

laughter in the halls on the last days

sound like florescent lights emitted by some atmospheric phenomena
     localized above our heads

an hour between eternity and now to spend ingesting death

the white
roses
left
one by one
by
mourning
fractals
from
even
deathlike
hands
sharp
nails
dry
cuticle
encrusted
keyboard
bones

plastic coffins and plastic signs

around with the numbered dial goes time enchained in brass links
     cutting into thin wrists

no space before the collapse of the thin film of resolve.

Apples

my mother used to warn me about worms in apples
and when I was younger I saw traces of their existence,
little cored out tunnels turned brown,
small globs of green decayed bodies,

funny, I was thinking the other day,
'when was the last time I checked an apple for a worm,'
I had a bag full of organic pink ladies,
'not in something like 25 years, maybe,'
I couldn't even remember the last time,

It's strange to think how lucky I've been,
but, maybe even stranger to think where I've gone
that there are no worms left to find any sweet apples
and burrow to eat inside,

the apples seem as sweet as ever,
'moreso', I think, 'than ever before,'

and I wonder where all these worms went
and why their apples gave up on me.

Wednesday, June 29, 2016

Green Eggs

'Shelter,' said the green man, under the green roof, 'is in place.'

then the lights awoke, they were motion sensitive,
there were many more little green man now, they
twisted and walked into each other's faces, I looked down on them,
they grabbed at my cock, 'fuck you' they said,
          'fuck yourself' I said, 'a man once asked why didn't
you just drop jeeps and kitchen appliances into vietnam? why
all the agents orange, guns, steel?'
                                                      'we don't have any women
around to fuck,' they answered, 'what did you expect us to do?'

'surveillance,' said a disembodied green voice, 'is a state.'

then the lights dimmed, we had been still for some time,
there were many unseen bodies around me, they
vibrated in their rigidity becoming each other's faces, I could feel them,
they filled my lungs with their hands, 'we know' they whispered,
          'who told you?' I said, "I was going to say something eventually
I only read it in a book, I never thought to do it myself, it was my
favorite Twilight Zone episode is all.'
                                                             'we don't have finks without
dismembered cocks,' they hissed, 'where should we stick this end?"

'lies,' carved the green hands in green stone, 'bury the dead.'

the halls are built in a circle

martyrdom           is sacrificing open areas for collaborative space
knocking down cubical walls for light to sift through
from the private offices           beyond
bringing just right to boil
the microwave energized hovels of the mail clerk          race
officeALL emails shift to tl;dr outlook
                                                                folders
saved from deletion for another 8 hour day
purity of the mind starts with cleverly placed water fountains
spilling yellow sediment waters into colorful thermos jars          BPA-free

each sign has tape behind
each piece of tape takes factory shape
each factory is buried in dead earth
each dead piece of earth was once          alive                                                                    

The Static Gyre

when little angels
updated streams of webbed consciousness rotate in the static gyre
of the milky way.

a tic-tac-toe correlation is unmistakable.

how many out there know your every move?

tfw they are just voices in the wax cylinder
screaming escape.

do with this what you can
was written on the envelope
left at the far end of the bar
next to the operating system

fml what does that say about me?

you have every right to be frail.
the article says the only way to stay safe is to regulary change your password.

I can offer my expertise
                                        and my fingers
                                                                  and my overtime

if you'll have it and me and me and me.

Tuesday, June 28, 2016

I have not seen this before

these numbers on the wall keep scrolling little red spider-like,
crawling on my unobserved arms where the cameras once stood,
when you lay eyes on the picket fence it doesn't make it any easier,
this could have been where you were born but it's foreign soil,
clearly we have walked way too far down to see back up, if there is up,
funny american phrase of being down so long it you know ha ha ha from here,
in the ocean blank without light there is no direction, sound of gills breathing,
if that is what they do, then, are we fish, maybe, and have been the whole time,
what would you do with all the meaningful tv you've watched?
there'd be no one to talk to about anything, burping bubbles and digging the reef,
but, the eight legs bring you back, thankfully, the fleeting script ticking across,
typed in long distance from remote locations in the Idaho wilderness,
have you seen this boy lately? this girl?
have you reported all the abandoned milk cartons, unawares?
walking leads east or west or maybe north or south, if the land be flat and meek,
the red letters are digital imagery, packed tight in boxed clocks sealed with invisible tape,
a mass of unscented cinnamon bone suspending small orbs won't flush down the sink