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
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

Monday, June 27, 2016

'What is to give light, must endure burning'

when I stepped there in my shoe
a jewel pressed on my heel,
what was a rock unburdened in light
as there was fire,
in the light it held its shape
though it did shimmer
as it fell,
from the tapping of the sole,
from the lip,
with my hand,
to the floor, and bouncing,
left no trace in the darkness

Saturday, June 25, 2016

Pride goes

often on a morning just like this today
I find the coffee mug too far away
full knowing when I placed it there
I had assured that this would be the case,

It was still an accident, I am saying, I really want to drink it
before it gets cold, I am saying, but to lean forward, to reach
between table and bed, ah, there's no use, I am saying

the only thing to do is wait until it gets so cold
I am forced to get up and dump it down the sink
then I will fill another cup from the pot steaming goodness
I'll take it back to the bed and after one great gulp
rest it back on the table where it won't be in danger to spill.

It's the time

half the window is gray, half is sunlit
the gray half is leaning south along the highway,
east toward the sea the sunlit half moving away,

below both halves construction murmurs,
muffled voices mixed with clanging steel and stone,

the building across is cutoff by the protruding balcony above,
thin tree branches reach over the railings, little spots of green,

there is a chair on one side and a chair outside, both are facing me,

I am seeing through concrete walls as always facing west.

Friday, June 24, 2016

Welcome to Concrete

for the walls they turned them on end
out over their axis the old globes spun

when you were left there with the other bodies

and the angle on the camera
facial recog fade

no amount of etching on your grave
was enough

everywhere a misdiagnosis
not one single doubt

for the roads they abandoned all their cars
under above their shoulders the fields of rot

where you were left with all the evidence planted.

Thursday, June 23, 2016


Sitting out in the open
on an undefended park bench
I was pretending to read
Lucien Zell's The Salmon Cafe.

Really tho, I had stuffed
another novel inside
its paperback covers.

This one was one of my own.

I am determined that nobody should read it but me.

At least, if I can help it,
for the next one thousand years, or so.


some very even
things to
when lost in
your own

events don't have to go down this way

you can revise and
edit them

and when asked
you can just
as easily lie
using the story
you've invented

that way neither event goes to waste.

Never Remember

I forgot I didn't have shoes on when I got up to go to the bathroom and took one step
on the cold floor with my cold feet before sitting back down
a man I once knew forgot which floor to get off of the elevator from when
I'd pushed the button for the floor above
a woman walked by me and forgot how the sidewalk rose up and down cragged and uneven
she tripped one a break in the flat thinking ground
I forgot how many square little lights could exist until I glanced above my head
at the ceiling of the hallway I was in and saw the pulsing pixels of the world
look down on me

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Secure Print

150 pages loaded
held in digital cartridge line
sliced to rend tree hide
slick scrape spine
semi-automatic snap

stoneblack blood
will be spilt
and sequenced with
my name

spun are the rungs
inside the great machine literate

automatically filed
by RFID remains

shined shoes pounding tight packed rugs
worn down to floorboard signs
500 packs more
500 gallons pumped
500 sq mile controlled burns


wrapped in rorange mesh
this guy and his whole bag of oranges
granulated to their green sick skin
hard translucent pith

both shoved between thin cellulose walls

one sold for 4.99
the other
much less

Friday, June 17, 2016

Remote but for its Buddha Soul

there'll be a body on the peak

at the god-for-end-of-the-world-saken edge

an axe bit in the palm of heaven sky

of the north burnt ridges never regrown

there'll be a body at the peak

heaving lungs catching blue clouds

old growth hairs sprouted from craggy frozen lids

in the heart of the distant ponds a titan eye

there'll be a body left at the peak

scratching out the days on calendar page

summer lightning flashes neon green skagit sores

in person the scorpion tattoo of the ranger folk

there'll be a body called the peak

remote but for its buddha soul

lost poems etched under volcanic bedrock

glacier set to score its immortal paths

there'll be a body on the peak

who featureless is lost to time

in caves of dark winters huddled in white fur

color lost shroud of the cascade range

Thursday, June 16, 2016

4 to 10oz

I hate to waste a coffee at work
it's one less moment to appreciate at home

what am I really enjoying
in this kuerig shit stuff?

     the glorious whiteness of microsoft office 365

     unecheckered email chains

     dust spread across my morning desk

     thick black sludge on old keyboards

     too much florescent lighting

     read-only pdfs

     unresponsive helpdesk ITs

     files that won't be renamed

they provide the device for free
but the cups? nah, they're single sale
in the cafeteria upstairs. Where you
can also buy coffee brewed in large pots
doled out by the 12 oz cup.