Saturday, April 29, 2017

Finks (Reading for the Binnacle)

Finks (also for the Binnacle)

Second poem for the lit journal Binnacle
dedicated to Old Bulls centennial+2

Swimming Hole (Reading for the Binnacle)

Swimming Hole (recorded for the Binnacle)

been a while since I uploaded onto this...

Friday, April 28, 2017

Darling darling darling; an expose written about and by the universe

walk along the codex

there is no movement
that is not singular

that is not me

the universe unto itself
is one flat landmass
without a rough edge

when i die it will be no more

i will make it so

when i live it will blossom

life will be found in all its non-corners

there will be no end
to life

the trees that grow out the skin
are all one tree living apart from
human time they are gestating
not yet to be born this earth is
too young and only the amoeba
swim on it

when i die i will cast you off

witness that true language is a virus

that thoughts outside your own have
ever slowly crept inside your head

nothing moves without my eyes to see

why have i created all these sad things?

this is not my fault

the rivers are spontaneous memory
do they begin or terminate at the source
without one there is not other imagine
how the mountain and the rain become
the shore and the ocean how land becomes
water and land again

i have ignored all these things

they arose sprouting from my mind as fungus

as vestigial reveries of other worlds

i am pulling the wheel

one day i will walk upon it

next in front

in the end it will crush me

packing me deep in warm soil

i will bask in the womb of entropy

i will have done many great and terrible things

least of which is this.

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Love poem for a bridge

heard abt u 2nd hd--
first reports from the west coast
coming in--only rumor
of course the truth--I
was digging--you'd
crumbled it was true--
erosion flood buckling
you'd fallen into the
canyon--slid down
cliff face--Ragged point
no longer gateway to the
purple sand shifts without
footprint sand blow against
lonely key rock
carmel-by-the-sea in
dead end winding road

I wn't c u ths yr--
won't be coming across
I be a sailor on your
greatest lakes--you'll be
recovered in 6 mo I hear
I hope


I c u thn--
for that victory lap
curl around the coves
where blue meets bluer
and the sky
and the sea
and we
will go
just go

Tuesday, April 25, 2017


telephone is no more
     hangs from its own neck in the hall
phone is an upset child
     clinging to your thigh
     breathing hot air in fitful gasps & blows
     into your hairy sack
     your cancerous bowels
headphones muffle incoming radial frequencies
     kirby krackle waves
     disseminate realities
     pay the bills on time
     in credit
watch is ingested
     is alive
     counting each step into the future
     pushing on & on
     forcing the tick & tock passing of time
clock is digitized
     is a river rising
     is rising but stationary but widening
     but drying out but remaining forever
body is a casket
     made of water & dirt

Friday, April 21, 2017

can you?

can you put
together all the pieces
out of order
in your head
transfer them
by hand transcribe
them by maw to
the brain reconfigure
that white horse
across the rio in
mexico that running
with forgettable brown
mare locked in treadmill
time can you reassemble
rainy days puddles
dark grey smell of
wet clothes was it
when you recalled
the drenched streets
the running window
panes standing under
umbrella awning watching
clouds fill sky feeling
each drop on skin looking
up the sound the
gentle heavy rushing
sound was it summer
winter fall or spring?

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

who needs this world, we'll get a new one

the round clock
                   time tock

I am there
                   I  am not
     a blue blip on a blue map screen

relay information
       in which to go
                 denied location
forward & down
                             six feet in light years
        a million million billion miles
an hour away

                        wrinkled smile
          facial recog
                        dream light cam
mounted on the precipice
           top most peak of earth
                rain down

disturb the quartz-like clouds

solar swell

the curved broken edge
       flat memory superimposed
  mythical structures
                                  lost planet's lost people
                                            lost me
in space
                tethered to the sun
slowly suffocation fetish takes hold
cooked to crisp
                          in artificial life

deficient of the answers to come

set to silent
outerspace mode
                             what come after life
beloved by empty limits of our dream

     substitute what has passed
                                                for what is
              the round world
                                         is smashed down
on paper
uploaded into the sky
                                   shines but a while
is marked for deletion
       by the future children of the colonial age

I am left to be one of those old fashioned things
        better off
tied to the umbilical cord of old worlds
set adrift at launch to lighten the weight
                   burning backwards
                                  burning along with
doomed earth
            doomed sun
                     doomed minds.

bus ride transcript

'what are you doing to my good children?'

--this from back of bus, the
semblance of body, thin grey strands
hair matted to liver spot forehead
sweat, yellowed skin,

'i told you, it doesn't want it!'


'my good girl!'


'get outta my life!'

--alone, no phone

'i earned my credit! how did you do
the machines? no, it will not take

--the silence in each other seat, the counting
of blocks, streets, miles to the next stop

'i told you! drug on drug nothing! i don't want him!
get rid of the stupid
nothing! i
not a
go live your own violence!'

--a few shuffling feet, some unoccupied seats,
some duck duck goose, some buffer, she's all
alone back there three rows removed
from re-situated shuttle geography; pariah

'it doesn't want him!'


'you can't do that to my green children!

--same voice answers?

'say good bye to your career!'

'no i will not!'

--begins to harden

'i said get out of my life!'

--one body speaking

'i'm not talking anymore'

Piss on Trash; I came over here to say this

wobble to the subway doors
           before they'll close
you bridge the gap
     stagger on

at your worn heels
     buttoned up
                leather belted
seriously bent
          anger scowled
anger thrust through plexiglass
     into heart of train


the metal wheel
the metal monster
                              pulls away

If I could make you out in the crowd passing
I would

at length of edge
       off track
                      he quickly turns
veers from departed train
      cuts toward me
throws his hand
            into the past
what was
                 looking into the corner
                                  under escalator
                          by the train mapped
                                  the totem pillar

'that guy!'

'he pissed right there!'

I'm his only audience I am humanity I am made to see
shown the wet lines growing between the tile

'he squatted down and pissed! he pissed!'

passes me too close
      inches from glowing globe
shiny sweated
            nearly brushes my nose

'fuck is wrong with people?'
                       all the veins
clenched indignation
         I respond with blank smile
paper weight

'fuck is wrong with people?'
     one last bit of wisdom before he goes.

Friday, April 7, 2017


it happened that I awoke one morning & the air was solid.

I heaved. I gulped it down. down. into my lungs. like sludge.
like gak. i pressed it into each crevice. nook. against each membrane.

forced it glip gluk glak back out into the space that was no longer
between me & it & my body the floor the wall the sky out there
beyond the wall the wall paper thin wall not wall not paper not
thin not wall not sky no me no lung it will all return to normal
if this is not the right normal this is the realization no air felt air
moving in time moving in place there this is the real this is truth
slowing down becoming visible growing tight around the edges
filling in cementing the cracks abrasions anomalies abnormalities  

there. the mass of everything. everything that was the slow down.
frozen frame. looped image. moved without volition without
acceleration. too still. still frame photo entropy yielding--

i wanted to vomit would have given anything to vomit made to 
vomit but my insides were not my inside was outside was sky was wall
was thick flat like air every corner of me was without & within was
groaning reaching before beyond it

reached out. i reached out. through the flat space. 2d. through the frame.
i was within. for. from. the blue light. the computer screen. my hand.
against it. already. the splinter. bleed light. i had not moved. not within.
i was part of it. without.

death searing end no air no lungs no time no movement no further no 
me no again no beginning no end all one it oneness one thing one being
one flat we are all we have we are nothing different one end one start
one solid friction fiction state glit glat glup glow

once was space life compulsion to breathe 
reason once there was space motion once
there was life once
there was once there
once there was there was once
there was there there--


Big Dog Diedie

--sat here long ago
burned cigarette on this cushion

a hole in things

yellow mold--a feat
long remembered--
low underground

black tips of permanent markers
two hands time around which
in the middle--stops

tag a name.

Thursday, April 6, 2017

storm cloud over dakota badlands

storm cloud over dakota badlands

i recall them now as through another's memory

border x border squared

heavy edged

600 pixels tall

when i stood beneath their belly
who was i?

was it me there unable to grasp the sadness of the past?
what these miles would bring?

even as i went forward
there where more memories behind me

these things that were once for the future

endless in their becoming
they no longer exist

storm cloud over dakota badlands

there are few eyes left to remember them

there are few moments left that are more than
just tomorrow
that are real

soon they will be confused
with other days other memories

the road will sink into nothing

the storm rages
washes the graves
cleanses the bones
polishes the mud

drowns the dust.

Monday, April 3, 2017

Won't be reconciled

with coffee.

it was strange you had
no recollection of me.

when years later
i saw you,
you made no effort to say,
'shit, it's been years, man!'

maybe it's that you
slept almost the entire time,
waking abruptly and shuffling to class.

i wonder, maybe, i had changed
more than i'd thought, becoming
unrecognizable, and
now, it's always going to be strange,

that last awkward memory,
the finality of it,
knowing that you have died.

Friday, March 31, 2017

Poster USA

lil' ruddy face.
flush checks          doe eyed.
shock of blond hair     scout cap.
american child     androgynous

uncle sam sleeve     cufflinked.
imperial hand     slapped over lil' mouth.
deep red hand.
thick red hand     red white & blue.
open palmed     roughly
size of your child's skull

--not whispered--not
spoken--not said--

hard black font     bold capital letters


Two Bodies

     'have you gone west? all the way west?

she says, nothing,
     she says, comatose,

     'I have been ocean to ocean
seen the sea cuts the middle cuts
in between, cuts world in half,'

he says,
     not noticing, not seeing, her twitch

she, speaks,
     unheard of sentences,

she wrote once, before tomorrow, before all this
     'what an awful occurrence, an awful thing, an
awful poem, why?
     isn't there one story worth it to tell?'

he could make no sense of it, remorse,
     talking to himself,

she says,
     a jumble of wrath, moving lips,

'I am a great man.'
     he wrote, hoping it was true
making it so, by the great action
of pen, hoping she wouldn't laugh,
already vengeful, hating her,

'I said I enjoyed it. That it was good.
     What more do you want?'
she says, wondering why to care,
where to go next,

how to respond.

Thursday, March 30, 2017

That Day

The first alteration--
--after it--the change in line
in sky color--in tomorrow's dance
--in the color I've bled--when
  I'm of the earth in blue--
--in white heavy cloud
   when I'm under it--singing
--not in voice--vibration
when the ground is channel--
--bounce--right--there's nothing--
only forward--not time forward
--land sea mountain river canyon
   grass gorge river ocean eye forward--
--mind forward--might I call out
   shook with lightning--forge--ahead
   in the rest--everlasting next life
gray river--
--grant life
currents--clear stream--
--a delta--the next alteration
   of--the filament--sundered
--the surface the me the you the
   above--the stars tree line etched
   upon its face in darkest silhouette
--the screaming violet night--
the blazing day remade--rebirth--
--un-sexed--clothed in green
--rocks split by cold seep
   the rushing spring late
--the ground swell--fire
--fire--doesn't burn--
--bound for next understanding
   wrapped written worn on
   western surge--
--the last alteration--

Tuesday, March 28, 2017


          huddled in and blending
with coffee shop stools

four o clock is an hour before I should be free

windows play at being walls
                can look in
                upon my caged

(there are many operatives here)

         (Many from which to steer clear)
             (believe me)

glances they cast sidelong from lip
of coffee mug
                        mark my destination

they remember my face
one I'm wearing today
contour graphed on hand held meme

(they're out to get me)

out to wrestle from me
the feeling

when sick one should be safely stowed away
(back home)

but you're here
              you're here
      you're here
               how come?

you care to explain this, young man [NAME]?

--they cinch the handcuffs on
              --do you care to explain they lock the cell
          --how that came to be? you incriminate yourself

All the beauty of grammar school

who is it could know me?
                 clothes melting away

what an effort to put into decorum

decorations are seasonally lost oblique--

      stride upon the cracked street system,

home and how many many godly rivers flow
                                 under our feet

much life is buried under toe.

what a life for ants
                   the finite spiral down
                                        towards mathematical

if we could only run the numbers of truth
for monetary gain
                               on the lam from the
cosmic bookie for all time

gamble with beautiful equations
as star ending constellations
hidden from our sight

pulled down to great earth
from the wretched heavens.

life of vols.

uneven, yellow gut, bound scuffed leather skin,
stretched to weaken, stuck with ancient glue,
chipped, dry, chipping;

                                      facing up to white tile
heaven, several infernal layers high;

                                                           beat to shit
by clumsy groping fingers, oil years, oil, years
oil, grease, ignored;

                                 edges fold, looking back,
locked in place, time, stance, break, spinal
snap, rest on floor, under shoes, weathered away,
running from, removed, broken home;

                                                               only the word
holds meaning, printer pressed, scanned and saved,
backed up, addressed, renamed, right on digital screen
tossed spent to metal cans, endless shape, or leaning
lost totems on dusty shelf.

Monday, March 27, 2017

Thinking I might not be here

Here i am
in front seat
foot upon wheel
knees bent

the windows of the two door cracked
wind worries by
rushed along by condo skyline

car double parked in

i find no reflection in the endless
glass house line

i watch for cars running through me or bodies or lines
maybe i'm no longer here?

maybe i'm immovable

maybe i'm the gray sky

maybe it's just sunday afternoon.


Walking east from king st metro. There across the st.
A book store. blank. double doors closed. Reminded
me of another book store. Same st. Few blocks on
opposite side. And I was walking to get coffee. And
inside there was this guy. At the counter. This guy
was tying his scarf into an ascot. Having a hell of a time.
Fumbling. Nervous. This guy. And a man he didn't know.
He asked him, 'What are you doing?' His hands stuffed
down into the fabric. Tugging. 'What are you doing?'
And he ordered the barista. Ignoring, 'What are you
doing?' Ordering the barista, the first man. 'Check out
this Ascot!' Very surreal. 'Oh,' she said. 'chhhhhhhhhhh.'
making my coffee. I took my cup to go. Fitted my own
cap. Being altogether in the line a ghost of coffee money
space time. (Last thing of note.) Neither man nor barista
wore a hat. Though the weather blew and hissed. Cold.
And I clutched pen with icy fingers. Scratching. (Ah).
Of particular importance. Both book stores are still
in operation. It was after 7 PM. Even in the dim light.
The faces were clear. And So were the eyes.


My teeth clenched and          shuddering
       break the      world.

Listen I have done all this     in my own words

on my dry     skin
is written not a single word

only faded scars
I had hoped would never          fade.

Having only memory

even that          imagined

I am left to invent greater, even more terrible, lies.

          a multitude & many

all of this being one
where I bite down
and the rain answers


drowning this attempt at resuscitation

soak & prune thy skin

and replace

I am unworthy of truth

there are none
there is none
there is no
there are no
no no no

look into these scars for they will soon be gone
and no one
                  will remember them
                                        after all
                                                         ever after.


the many legged mile folding the road up,

tomorrow, that was my mistake, the first use of the word
is still with me
                         and without effort I recall,


the cracks in the pavement think remarkable things,
grow greater,
                      only to fall apart,

I read aloud their last will and testament, forge my future
in their hand,
                      sign and date along the line

along the bottom.

Writ in Blu

fit between these covers
                                        blue ink
fine points of human life. many spills
make a line.
                    I am the only one who I was
at death. Does that mean the cycle repeats
or not? After death? or
                                      ever life?

This poem is the sunset.

                                        Until you catch
the clouds moaning      or the cars.
But that could have been the road. It just

without us
                  making those sad sounds into
periscope night skies.
                                    The orbs that are headlights
lead the masquerade.          

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Sign of the Dog

saw your sign glance by

          lost since last august
                           no update     on sad face dog

last seen exiting the front door of a house on prince st
                                         running east

Doesn't answer to his name/may run from stranger steps

another sign
             read ASSN.
             as ASIAN, hmmm.

you'd think maybe like     a bilingual school
                                          or history
                                                    could be?
ASSN. of Educators and Lecturers
ASSN. like an Association like an abbr.

                    parking spots
for members meaning
                                     that was a sign
                                     for sure

warning for tow implicit throughout
explicitly measured out below

and other words of white on blue field

            the first sign
blocks of text

the general gist
      is already          wearing thin
                          two blocks past into tomorrow
     the dog
             beside     downward stare

what did it look like?
                                   the dog that's just a dog
were there any cars?
                                  parked in the lot?
          was there even a school?

how many     months
                             have been lost
          since august?

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Pea Ramble

each time you reach for me
I am sitting up in bed
thinking about the yellow peas
crushed and pounded into milk
flavored with vanilla
bottled and purchased and
sitting on a shelf on the door
in the fridge
I know what an udder looks like
and a cow
but what is a yellow pea
and why was it chosen
to represent the vegetable world
on it's foray into the realm
of replacement dairy products
that I only bought because
it was on sale and the bottle
the bottle resembled a gourd
and written on it ripple
in a font that left out the
left line of each letter
it was too good a deal
to pass up

Saturday, March 18, 2017


hat slid of night
      a funny thing
tumble from my head
    due east
where another body
        somebody warms my coat
foot swimming in sock
   me this time
night was three hour pitch
           slung at 6am
         stomach settled
dressed in red
    bottled this way
bottled that
            voices trail shirtsleeves
whatever was said
    can be taken back
you kicked my shoulders out
          I swung boots
from the ledge

Friday, March 17, 2017

Current Issue

On back,
they pour down fire
they pour up the smoke
they dig into the back for heavy lead
gorge on bedrock
chew iron spit steel
balk at untouchable things
they fuck it up,
they really fuck it up
searching for that next land
next swath of wood
next treasure trove

nobody think
ask the tortoise
how he feel,
nobody give a fuck
we boil the soup at whatever temp
them directions say
eat that shit up
stuff leftovers in plastic bags
fuck cares if they rot,
you hear what they say?
nothing makes any god damn sense
all propaganda
you're trying to step off
who won't let you
we tell ya gotta go,
the back
how many years old?
we're nothing
if we don't keep on spending
then what?
using these gifts
resources left behind to what?
another body will burn them
what a waste,
all those starling beyond our grasp
more showing light every day
if we could only reach them
pull them into the below
wouldn't it be cushy then?
wouldn't it be grand
don't they belong to us?
you and me?

Thursday, March 16, 2017

The cutting world

From my pocket
     I produce the earth.

On the counter before me,
     set the blender to pulse.

Of the earth,
     I flip through its many pages.
Along the perforated lines,
     it tears.

Sheet by sheet
     many things, hours, time,
     gently placed,

A cup of water or one and one half
     suggests my phone.

I drown the earth,
     first by faucet,
     then by cup.

The blender cuts the fuse,
     but it's too late.

By the darkness I pour,
     for each of us,
     a glass.

Monday, March 13, 2017


thunder that shakes city street
is the risen crane's body
rain to keep the drills wet
burrowed under sewer grates

     'cross town with uber fare
     a pleasurable hell

you who would seek escape

Three (3)
days Leave

Now! Go!

     find your "peace"

how many days have you paid?

what was the cost?

answer is silence
     silence is midnight when the subway is quiet
when the meter has rung

the morning cracks with the weight of alarm
     work begins when you breathe.


She draws her finger at the edge
     flow goes the river          life flows

she forms the jagged shores     cleft

          crash comes the oceans

she rolls the dough west

     rise holy mountain

she drinks the waters of life

          dry the deserts     the salt sea

she kisses your mouth

     your lungs fill          gasp

she becomes the cloud

          that is blue     up     rain & snow

she became the green & mud

     for your feet     to walk     stand

she is the invisible miles

          in year & time          & distance

     you will walk

she was the space

          that circles back     forward


she will be the us that is     you

     that is child

               that is me

     that is always

that is ever

          that will be


offers the bottle up
     take it down
          to your lips
               the ruby red
on your neck
     the ruby river
          on your teeth
               the ruby mark
on your throat
     the ruby drink
          in your belly
               the ruby mountain
on your fingers
     the ruby life
          in your hands
               the ruby course


world bends on corner
     long the window wall
shadows provide cover
     make life dance for my hands
under me the bodies
     sealed in concrete holes
impaled with steel beams
raised up raised up
     the sky
it's full of them it's full
     towering above the earth
made rituals from space
     mad sigils from space
etched across the greatness
     tells the story of the start

Thursday, March 9, 2017

We have what we came for

waiting to pull the metal coffin
to its place
     and when
            when it returns
stacked atop with bodies
waiting to push it back
to forget
where it has been
     only where it left its remains
waiting to retrieve
     more markings
     more corpses
     more legs
     more trees
a shriek on rolling wheel
     again it goes forth
     again there it is
waiting always waiting
             countless eyes
                             burial mounds


     This dust

Settles one atom at a time
     slowly to
what little past     remains
     sediment of
left little
at the bottom end

Where were you when you remembered
           those     little
suffering a multitude of fossilized
those funny dying things
     shriveled up
            that made me     love
and you smile
at the
           that has become     you
and you
and dust
              above     &     underneath


Against the walls
     heat from those million miles
          falls flat on lifeless     concrete
shaped by the machine hand
                                              of man
     tucked within its belly
fed on artificial
          weaponized     light
the constricting
by 3D blue print masks
     masquerading prisons
dropped on endless     maps
                    endless     hours
                     endless     pages

Wednesday, March 8, 2017


the bay was a bowl
of crystal waves
and golden sun,

we left footprints
in auburn sand
side by side,

we were the ocean,
the mountain, tree,
the sky,

far from home; far
from home, the
torea pango cried,

silent the stars rose
against the night,
the dark blue cape
of the world,

the southern moon
danced on the shore,
outlines your hair,

you reached
for my hand as
the day fell,

I held onto your heart,
you held mine.

Rebellious Sheep

hidden among the hills
batches of green earth
below the current rises
untouchable electric fences
all your flock is naked
there on the other side
each car to wind
the road's bend
an informant
a traitor
a Sheppard;

they won't take you alive.

Blue Pool

float in
the god's eye
clear pool
green lashes
old old

is it blue?

see the sky
wink back

up there
or down


checkered plots of
deforested originals
by immigrant seed
red woods
far far from home
tropical forests
to the hum of saw
to be cut
and sold whole blocks
gently removed
patiently stewing
on one hundred years
the next
technological extravagance
cleared out
turned to gold


in come the cruise ships
their many windowed hulls
lulling on jade seas
washing their decks on a
thousand water falling cliffs;

at milford sound;

if man has one great strength
it is to make the grand
small and commonplace
and the trivial
majestic and adored.

Tuesday, March 7, 2017


carts going out
     stacked of souls
taken to their shelves
         cast in gold
flesh removed          first
     those little images
cute memetic          images
     buried within you
stitching          3D sewn
teased out
     & refilled     with
butter and lard
     opaque yellow orbs
float in milky         white
bodies staying put
     left where they can't      rot
kept from the earth
kept from returning
     to the floor
carts come back
     brass           metallic          empty
fitted into place
     chain-linked      isolated
                     showered     sprayed  
rinsed     dried

Friday, March 3, 2017

The Yolk of Conversion

beware man
the yoke is dripping
                                 see it
swept under welcome mats
and city sewer system grates
environmental protection stickers
rune frog carvings calked down
beginning to be forever
                                      the end
what's happening inside?
I'm out here
                    we're all out here
no worries it's not too cold
the weather is fine
                              I think
I felt it long ago that the memory
still aches and heats my bones
or is that the fire
you can never tell well
what was I saying something
about well it's not important
                I'd have remembered
it was you know where we were
just trace back the threads
pulling at the conversation
it could have been someone else
I tell the same stories all the time
did I tell you
                     this seems
like a blanket response it's not
I was saying something
you were standing right there
               about the city
and the clouds and forever
starting right now
I thought so I'm forgetting myself
these days
                  isn't that strange
to remember you're forgetting yourself
spinning in circles at the door
that's when I recalled I'd asked you
about coming inside
and when
                 you broke
all the where was I yeah
you broke all the damn eggs
standing there throwing them
against the
standing outside

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Excuse me ma'am, behind you

Not only am I old
                             grown older
hunched over
             I'm ma'am
listing like an old ship
on ches'peake's bay
to be scuttled and shunted
& packed tightly
             removed for food
see my beard?
      what does that say?
any way?
       nothing I figure
just hair
                I move
I'll make way
I'm excused
I'm mis-id-ed
                       left rotten
on the booth
               bar stool
           I'm in the way

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

Everything all alike, kept in boxes

along the fence
the ugly perimeter
behind panes of opaque glass
along white bleach concrete walls
tile floor running metal line
borders numbers
emergency exits
down staircase staircase
after staircase
sub floors
split level rows
basement columns
locked vaults
latches and linked security footage
24 hour a day binge
keys roots secrets

Monday, February 27, 2017

LIO (your Life insurance officer is working hard for you)

Each joke strike a flat note budget references only get you so far
pop-culture references a little more so help the hours drone by

'I won't give you the satisfaction, fiend!'

sitting arms locked, face scowled

'I will not be complicit in your PowerPoint game!'

the only truth is a beneficial silence insured
I won't raise my hand I won't die in 10 20 30 40 years

my mute existence

you'll never win

I won't be taken alive.


curiously you say,
you say craning your neck,
     'what're you reading?'
you become silent when I answer,

you turn your head away toward the window,

I have maybe said something wrong? Too much?

What had you been hoping to hear?

          image had you
painted of me
          that I've dispelled

How have a failed you?
         I'm sorry.


At a distance
      I am          that
bloated deathless soul
      look here          at me
no living thing will touch me
look here          hey

--I eliminate them first
scratched them off the board
slotted them in categorical purgatory
this is the corner
where I'm left
                       where you leave me
where I'm alone

if I am like you i am
                           like          nothing
                                           like me
we have that mush to say
no words
a void of word

we have gone on in different directions
                                               from the start
                                         in neither another' s

it's better this way



in these distended
           lifeless letters
focused up on the slides
I banged against my forehead
           my useless fist
for this is how my life,
           for this,
for this,
this is how my life
           my life,
for this,
is lost
and nothing is gained
           in percentages & numbers
each year you'll progress
to middle age
and how bout death?
           would you like to spend 40 years
           exchange 40 years
for the chance to leave six numerical figures
and a wasted life behind?

Thursday, February 23, 2017

Ode to the CIA

topple those corrupt regimes,
remember the glory of uniting forests,
fields and fields of luscious fruit
fertilized by your very own hands,
sowed with the blood and tears
of our thankless heroes, boys and girls,
oh, gentle benefactor of the west,
when even God, replete in white robes
on newly won thrones, no longer trusts you
what little hope is left?

Monday, February 20, 2017

Big toe

where there was was space between bed and floor

earlier that day heavy clothes rack had fallen on my toe

dented with heavy white lines the nail

I bent down to check the damage

where there was space between flesh
                                                              and nail

I reached in           retching

thinking where all the membrane and skin



Friday, February 17, 2017

She knows I hate 'I'm sorry' red roses

She knows I hate 'I'm sorry' red roses
listen to this shit
I have no ego but the one god gave me
placed by the solely by the finger of his right hand
directly to the touch of my porcelain brow
she knows I hate valentines day
but there were flowers on the table anyway
there is no one more laid back than me
but I can't stand when I am not listened to
and obeyed
She knows I hate 'I'm sorry' red roses
there they were anyway
casting red shadows in the afternoon sun
this kind of thing would offend anyone
not just me
I am only reacting logically
she should have expected this outcome
I told you she knew
she didn't care
She knows I hate 'I'm sorry' red roses
she left them for me
I threw them away

Thursday, February 16, 2017

Writing a walking poem

feverish long poems in the night left tattered on front door steps
making an arrow of the map unable to escape the grid like sprawl

follow the stanzas out to the river edge
remember each word must go with you
stick them like candy between your teeth
wash them out under the sewer of your home

these relatively meaningless directions on specific on wire-taps
contain massive spoilers for the coming week
poems cascade like arc waves drowning offhanded remarks
each new episode resets the continuity mark
ADHD victims are integral to this body trade

the street signs are no help it is the cracks on the floor show the way
fill them with your spit and sweat
eat from tattered remains from the hole punch
recognize the language unrolled from collective heads
leave the DNA to be gathered by the next intelligence sweep
throw your hands up at the unhinged finish line
ejaculate on the cuffs

Cater to the master

to get down on your knees
bend slowly
take care not to stress your back
lean over
slightly arching your hips
place equal pressure
on the balls of your feet
breathe out
while engaging your core
make sure
your thighs are parallel
then perpendicular to the floor
place  palms facedown
before you
make sure to keep your eyes
on the ground

Friday, January 13, 2017

called death

forget to light the candle o'er
the fire's glow of faded edges,
what little can be remembered
of what once was though it's broken,
thrown away through burning wick,
the word flickers and suffocated,
pulses to each weakened breath,
is a starry, familiar ghoulish face

Wednesday, January 11, 2017

writing in rain

there, across the keys
bobbing up and down

on waves

monosyllabic, mute       saints
knuckles cracking, bones snapping
strung along about the endless white

a long march of nothing

thoughts about death

but I will not die today, in the rain
as it tumbles down yet          unseen

I'm ready to let dry

clothes, fingers, the day     the night

where goes the wind in mountains unseen

and the rain distorts the screen
floods the page.

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Thrown away

pale are the glories brought before and
quiet is the history of the mind. One that lies
and falsifies itself with story.

There in the trunk is the truth. Locked
safely away. The many thoughts of every
other body minus my own. My own is not
like those.

Orange peels, onion skin, egg shells. All
I have to offer is hollow leftover remains.
Pretty paintings without a canvas, no brush,
no pen, not a single frame.

Nothing worth keeping.

Friday, January 6, 2017


when i am gone. things
remain static.

i had once clung to imagery. to
write down. now I can't find it.

you called me. on the phone,

i could have texted. but
i didn't.

i never do. i constantly
think about it. texting. how
i never do it.

it was a misunderstanding.
why you called. why i replied,
i never meant to.

so i had to lie. to
not hurt your feelings. i lied.

i said 'i was just thinking about
calling you.'

but i wasn't. i wasn't thinking
that at all.

Monday, January 2, 2017

First spot

closest to the farthest spot,
first space on the longest mile,
left in park, ignition off;
walking home through the rain.

Sunday, January 1, 2017

Holly Ho 2

time the lights
are hollow husks,
torn from cable
wrapped up tight
safely melted down,
colored as bright
as the sky
on empty winter nights.

Holly Ho 1

time the lights
are broken down,
locked in caskets
stowed away
beneath the deck
in dank galleys
on haunting ships.

12:03 am

hey, it's old
by now;
move on.

12 am

one second behind
the rest--
where were the visions,
--happy new years;
i guess

12:02 am

the other side
what remains
already done
another trip
around another

12:01 am

on the
balcony alone
no shouts
cork flight out &
down for the sidewalk
champagne cold
on my hands
the wind