Friday, December 31, 2010

The Last

Gotta high cough
you should see this piece of shit
mistake for a hellhole
400 dollars sunken into a heater
that cannot fabricate heat
leaves me shirtless sweating freezing
sad ache binging for the
crystal night/day or any lost thing,
green pastel paper shreds the light
my out of date cellphone (buried in blankets)
serenade me twice; morning morning mourning sad
already dressed and out, layered
for what? A pittance a glance
where were we? You? Sadness lights flies fires
forgotten tundra cool.
I'm cool, real cool.
In your cold.

The First to Last

Now! I watch for slugs, and bugs, and rain
and slugs? Slugs? In the cold?
Dying spiders dropped corpses
empty in the rain cold damp
slugs? Mistletoe wasted
panel green walls keep out; the cold
bitter sad world dying
with trees or by the trees,
gray with winters, winter bliss
extend from my fingers
heavy haggard loveless mix-n-match
desultory future mansions dystopia


Oh, Lovely Caress! Oh
the heaters useless Breath.
Love me. singing


Light forecast New Years day
Early rain, wino dream
pink lace waiting star
still in baked Earth sky,
my fuchsia iris dove,
we dance moon showers

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

tonight on jamestown road and lancer pl

book of poetry written for you
I'd burn it to keep you warm
slender legs in the maryland night
last christmas lights remain
sky is orange-black
purple clouds and purple winds-

when did we sleep this perfect world away?

Sound Visions

The Westminster chimes
and that sound(wordssoundwords)
sad killing time sadly hilarious
is the basis of what I believe we(youmeIwelovingly)
created as an afterthought an accident
and it built a novel in my head, buried deep
you were(are) all there tucked away under
my forgetful musings scribbled in notebooks
seven years old dust covered(new) a
cycle of five permutations repeated- occurring
twice ever hour setting our lost endless lives in
concrete and flesh,  my pen tears at (those)our words

O Lord our God
be thou our guide
that by thy help
no foot may slide,

but why?

new rooms old rooms

I write(approximate) THESE dreams
that drive me mad
Kaleidescope visions upside-right
ashes perched...sad-
I'm about to start cupped water over my right eye
burning squinting and afterthoughts.

I fool these dreams to drive me away


are near.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Riding Home Tonight

S'ready for that little sparkler checker
light windowed city rising sideways
out of the great bustling cracked American highway
system rolling wheels over over north-east, until
a three-fourths circle left turn,
against iron bars and factories where
workers arrive in 
dead morning 1920s style,
takes me right there (here) 30 minutes past midnight,
not a second late, doors open
engine slowed, beneath glassy stars
and sleeping angels, a
transparent winter's glooming

Christmas Snow

Snow on its way,
wine and santa hats and whichever way you
see, really see into flurries
turning over and over,
lights carrying on the chorus,
blinking blinking colors blinking
painting white snow footprints,
breathe in cool breaths and out
fog and smoke-fire, carry on
with my head spinning looking for
you, a shoulder, voices leaping out into the night,
snowy white gray violet night,
christmas songs and bursting.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Calling home

She leaves us on the porch
empty lapis sky, underneath
smell of folded flowers drying,
tastes soft pink, raspberry, sorbet,
Its cold, cold wind, the winter
nudging fall, forgetting summer,
loving spring, from the window
call her, across the step,
cloudless, unkept
the gate rests on its hinges, rusts

Friday, December 17, 2010

And What? Now, apologies

It's news to news
to figure I know nothing,
nothing of the world
outside my- imaginary
abstract far away altered reality
philosophy that I make up
on the go-go-go
because I won't stomach the coffee
jitters and clouds make me laugh out loud
a kind of nonsense-
makes people believe I've got more than rot in my brain
which (isn't) true, 'cause it's all just,
holes up there
miniature holes and holes so large
there's sleeping bugs (giant) bugs
haunting there and snoring,
so fucking loud uncaring,
so's I can barely concentrate on pretending I'm all alive,
and I (want) really could go for some eggs,
an omelete, yellow over the counter, "here we go"
with the ketchup bottle cold and red
bright bright tomato ketchup red next to me,
sweet and hard-caked over that ignore it
disgusting crusted opening,
like the whatever it is leaking from my
liar brain...writing trash, smut, ignorant
lectures burning up into the atmosphere
what do I really know,
that's more than anything else?

Thursday, December 16, 2010


These days up on the mount,
one of the mounts surrounding here sick-city-dying-Yell
where's my-
home- slick shoes collar-shirt
out of sight,

age me and evade me and forget me--

more and more-


I'm no Proust in sunsets or shadow,

I'm a liar,
     honest man,
a corpse drinking toasts to the living

pass me by and wave


Wednesday, December 15, 2010

stop the bottles

We're all just empty spinning bottles
still spinning still empty
in the center room,

girls in closets
under rugs
grant birth to you and me and we
and suicides,

the crowds have all but cleared-


Jack murdered a mouse
and lost(could not find)
understand his faith,
I've walked around the mountain
searching for the righteous path
ignoring the trees
and kicking rocks

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

apt. seeking

World's on a map
where am I going?
Out there--into the interweaving colors
walking distance needing a car,
yay' deserted, O' home without a HOME-
for, listenlook!- nay- I'm
me homeless by the
no place for thee,
into empty center.

Monday, December 13, 2010

Let's scan

I've murdered a hundred thousand orange trees
today, logger;
Left stacked one on top of one,
tagged with black ink
face up
and peace in our time
conflict resolution
hell like chlorophyll going green in the digital age
don't give a fuck rotten apple,
where's the fir?
rolling up the hill paper printer king,
It's right here dyed pastel pink, blue green
8.5 x 11
and lovely


At world's of light
in darkness, dancing under
diamond stars, red panda's
glowing bright with double tails
and welcomes, there animals
huddle silent from the invisible
cold, children laugh,
and wonder at green, red, orange, and blue
flashing like the sky,
across memory, across time,
I'm 5 years old hiding from my father,
mom smiles turned round and round
the trees, I'm holding your hand
warm with chocolate white with
cinnamon, wondering wondering
and the rain falls,
that kind of rain that isn't bothersome,
but lovely, alive
and the grass crunches under foot,
the pavement becomes noticably
sparkling darkness, 
the cloudy purple sky fills our eyes.

Saturday, December 11, 2010


Decayed in mirror,
hammering back with silent fists,

sleepy world sleep remarks,

gray overtures and balmy house lamps
a golden dandelion,
Unrecognizable reflections
loose my memories,

mouthing words, So

We left earth wonderfully sad together-


I've no longer legs to run

Friday, December 10, 2010

Sidewalks Looking Sour

got a lot of walking to do
if you're gonna catch up to this
nothing-man that you say exists-
gone opposite the wind, and you're
looking for him without a scent,
past my front porch,
that's a front window
without a yard
and it's a sidewalk on the street,
that I can't even see when
it's sunshine from the east, and
you're hungry from walking
in shoes worn deep with steps-
no food or anything but stale water,
so you pass without bothering
and I think there's you,


Does it snow in South America?
outside our windows white
and snowball coated meetings
dug deep into the hard cold soil
bugless sleeping
under the mountains


Thursday, December 9, 2010

Slowly slowly slowly moving

I'll have to choose
my philosophy
from the discarded
slips of paper
hand outs trampled by
lines that stretch on
forever and never existed,
tract marks clotted,
and the out of nowhere snow,

Tuesday, December 7, 2010


So I moved away,
the shower head's no longer the same,
the water drains differently
around my body
and you're no longer there
wet and waiting and warm
under the pressure
cold yellow tiles.

Monday, December 6, 2010


rainy afternoons,
outside her rainy window- and inside
humid, the heater running its own
marathon, trying to kill me,
drown me, take apart
and reorganize behind wet glass,
me, obscured- at a steady pace
dancing, dancing, twisted,
condensed, dancing,
evaporates the walls

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Another Lunch meeting

"Good Meeting!"

Now, to return to our separate offices,
to feel self-satisfied facing the sun paneled glass,

"How 'bout lunch?" (we deserve it)

"You know, I've got a few hours."

"(Feeling cultured?) Thai?"

"Huh? (Orientalist)"

"Thai." It's popular and just that rare,


Don't fret the streets are wet with rain and failure,
sticking out their hands to chase our fortune,
we'll take the taxi one-half-blocks

(to come face to white face)


"The decor has such elemental, (elephants)

composition (Buddhas)

design ($$$$)."

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Lunch break

Unrestrained ear-

out to lunch and-

"I'm so smart smart smart
     Look at me me me me me
We all can like learn from what-

relentless unquoted bullshit blah blah
"you couldn't really tell-
    It's very bizarre actually"

high pitch pitch building pitch-
"My friend, my friend,
    yeah, yeah," higher higher "yeah,

and I can see brains forcing their gelatinous way
through eye sockets like the Hill,
with continuing laughter,

"It's not my fault I've taken artist classes"
where they teach biology and interracial coupling,

the brains keep moving,
like melting butter,
watching makes me sick,

"well, I mean, like,"
repeat until the ears bleed cells
filled with everything we tried to know
to remember to forget
to hate

these sounds unrelenting



Monday, November 29, 2010


Blindfolded by permanent markers,
drawling dark black streaks across
your brow- the clouds,

two dimensional and
heavy in my chest, pushing out
and in, simul-at the same time-taneously
pleading to burst forth from angels,

fir tree above the forest looking down
through dense smoke and dancing fire,
instead of from the sinewy organs of man
leering into the heavens-

lovingly and ignorant.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Left-over 3

Now lavender sways in the breeze,
you whistle (conjure) the sweet smell
lying in tall, rich earthy grass,
the sky rises so high it's left us-

someplace wonderful

Left-over 2

Almost knocking down

the door isn't enough,
you have to come through
guns blasting, lights blaring

make (senseless) noise
and put these demons to rest

Left-over 1

Red around my eyes
Red around my glass,

why do you (Kneel) and peel-

away the layers
built up under wine colored skies,


Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Good News

Might be getting a new chair,
So's I won't be wasting away
any longer, anymore,on the floor,
suffering under the hegemony boxes
and soveriegn staples,
three blank walls one invisible door.

office zombie charade

It's fucking scary
passing all these windowed rooms
with eyes inside locked to computer screens,
feeling the same things and believing the same things,
being bitten must be terrible, but
watching the victims suffer through this
fever induced foggy-made-up-world
fearing you'll be next
might be worse.

Monday, November 22, 2010

The over-over pullover monster

I'm the little mouse
searching for those fallen crumbs,
knowingly searching
for those empty calorie-less crumbs,
kept up all night
by those stomach rumbling fallen crumbs,
pleading (between bites) for a daydream crumb
to greedily consume
never asking from where they have come,

It's messy and moist.
I fumbled with the banana bread left on the table, cooling.
I ate two slices with milk before bed.

Edd Wright made this for me: Raymond Boulevard and Washington Street


I'll be unknown forever,
and upon my death,
along with pink and white flowers
friends will offer
kind words, sorrowfully-nodding,
"your father wrote beautifully, you know that?"
and my children will cling to eachother
dumbly, thinking inside-thoughts
behind dark brown eyes thinking,
"Oh, but if he only spoke."

A poem A thought A dream

I determined to rhyme
in the diamond night
soaked ruby red cloudy
with wine poured over
our open mouths,
past the corner deli,

I had wished,
dreamed? as I dampened sleeply
under the bus stop roof-less plexi-glass,
to rhyme for you something
like opened skies
that would make you see what
I could never-

under the diamond night sky
growing cold and sharp,
cutting at the purple clouds seeking the sun,
a thick and tangible exorcism,
which we wrought together-

scrawl with blunt pencil
ash gray streaking red across
nighttime paper,
daytime white but filled with the
blackness of the void forever
at war with burning stars

in the diamond night
grown red, I hoped to rhyme
before the waking magnifying glass
sun perched above us
chasing the-

How can I write when the
trees are merely sacred for a cause?
When the phone shines brighter than word?
Where the place supercedes the means?-

blistering cold inhabiting
the core of this being
huddled in the dawn of universes
waiting for- passing hand-outs-
the end of beginnings,

where we start
and create the word and it's
tumbling out of us absurd,
so you yell into the face of the thing-
red- and it shatters the night- empty,
but not so sad,
that we can't laugh and take
another drink and a toast-

to falling stars and the dreams that make-

Wednesday, November 17, 2010


I'll shred through the thoughts
of these thousand lifeless poets,
so as not to steal a single unkept thing,
I won't even pretend to leave
these breathing staples in,

fuck if I remember their names if you asked,
or if I'd taken the time to read,

I've decided 80,000 words isn't too much yet,
it might be just enough,
if I'm rejected correctly,
to brand this life onto someone else

and help me forgive the flies that
gather hungrily along the walls.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

parking cones

"Where'd you get those cones?"
s'gettin' colder,
world's jumping up and down
with his lights off and cars slowing down,
"huh?" wha..
"you heard me." bald and
oh we've been drinkin' and we're
"If there's anything written on those"
don't tell me there isn't
but it's rising outta me and I can't stop it,
don't wanna I can't hide it when it's coming
"you laughing, you better stop laughing son because"
trying to jesus, now he's gettin outta the car
and mad, bald and mad, and comin for us
up a slope
fuck beer flying fuck sliver bullet crashing soundless
at least before it spills
the whole things bleeding in-out
like my attention cause we gotta tell him,
"Home Depot?" that makes sense, right?
he should just "what?" leave us
cause we bought these "Home Depot"
so we can go? GO. put that shit down
and Go. the beer? no that's already gone
cause we lost it when we dropped the cones,
white car lights off boots walking toward
in your face holding laughter while it's
burning PUT IT DOWN burning up
outta me like the beer flying somewhere outta sight.
like the cones and the cops
in the cold PUT THEM DOWN did he see?
can you believe "Home Depot "
how'd he know? HOME DEPOT
funny then and now
c'mon man, he must'a seen us
walkin' like pioneers on Broad's four lanes
with those orange trophies slung over weighted shoulders swinging
off into the reflective night slowed him down
blue and angry coming toward us and
the worlds spinning smashed cranberries
QUICK a PLAN bury the bubbling PLAN hide the rising mirth
drop that shit like he says and walk the fuck away.

Friday, November 12, 2010


where can we hide the alarm clock sun?
tempting us with truth,
wondering bouyant truth,
boiling red then coming on mid-morning gold
truthfully resembling the spell you hiss between
perfect teeth ...

why when the words won't come
do they drip into buckets of
crumpled paper and deleted files
stoned at your feet,
drawing scattered portraits above the floor;

pour that cup of coffee
and I'll add my own-

life to the mix,
a sick mix of powder and
cold liqour,
lanquidly burning,
thick and slack,
against the back corner
of your eyes,

I've longed, I've remembered
to submerge those eyes I longed for
as long as-memory

for them,
the sun draws itself up
taller than the tallest tall being
in any tall distance,
melting every everything in its waking heat far-off stare,

now it's too late for the moon
and darkness to cover their hearts,
together with shadows reduced to smoking fools,

when the coffee leaves sad rings around your
fingers, when

a babbling sun revolves now before
your simmering room,
blinking at the prostitutes lining the beach,
sweat forcing its way
on your marked brow,
couches receding into the distance,
distance receding before out stretched hand,
truthfully before the wave crashes,
tell me, do you understand

God forbids.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010


I'd be grateful if I could feel my thumb,
biting down on these business casual scissors,
then the paper cuts and staple punctures
decorating the blue-purple oil-paint midnight sky skin
wouldn't just be a mishandled decoration,
emerging from the pock-marked snow,
appearing like forgotten christmas lights
glowing under a February band-aid.


This is
about the time
dreams let go
like rain drops
disfigured by
windshield wipers
and speed,
rolled up
over, beside,
pleading for
the driver,
watery fingernails
husked away
by two-dimensional
plexiglass barriers,
landing sickly
behind you
lurching rolling tossed
backward along the dissipating pavement
blackened by the rearview mirror,
bleeding away

Tuesday, November 9, 2010


Eyes over here,
on the inky horizon-
turn your head to the sound of-
to the sound of- crumpling metal
like it was aluminum in his disfigured hands
and the beer gold and cool bending in the sunlight,
drips like rain falling like blankets
onto the crisp golden grass,
grass wet with dew and the night,
noctornal ash borrowed
in the rusted creases of funeral pyre radiators,

the train's whistle questions,
"where?'" "where are we headed? Where have we been?"
"just where?"-
"Where is anything?"...but the tracks and forward-
but the race-

transforms the fumbling dawn into the insides of an oil drum
beaten with a baseball bat,
spattering our brains like an obstruction
before the cow catcher,
where it gets to bellowing,
layered over sounds of hands scrapping together,
searching for warmth and a place to rest
now that history has
run us all off the road,
paved, cracked, and cragged,
the road
that becomes a point in the distance
becomes it and resembles it and forcefully gives to birth to that-
that question the train meant to ask-

pushing it's memory back a ways
along those tracks by the cornfield wasteland
where we can never again find it-


Monday, November 8, 2010


The Delaware gurgles brown and slow,
limping along beside me, its banks
rotting wood and greenish-slosh
so dark it takes on the sucking terror-color of tar,

harrassed by the steady continental decline
its bitter and stinging waters are forced
out into the far-off sea, to be lost
forever and ever, continuously, infinitely forever
under the weight of ocean salt and kelp,

I can follow its sad movements,
lost among smaller names and twisted channels,
until the heavy tread of the Potomac,
rushing torturously through mountain passes and crumbling hills,
violently floods out its memory,
sending fish and heroes
rushing deaths ahead past Harpers Ferry,
emptying the carriage and its legend
into a muskets wet and gunpowder caked ambush,
Continental army soldiers in dometicated suits and how-do-you-dos,
playing a waiting song
at a broken horse rest-stop far from that iceberg bounding Christmas Eve

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Last night

You dreamed a dream
where I walked away forever
drowning in frothy seas,
misty and sea-greened eyes
cast away from the shore,
cemented in a place
so close and gray with...

the distance falling backward to--

and from my sand heavy pillow,
tucked silently under your hair
I dreamt a dream that brought you back.

Ken Kesey

The rain outside finds the smallest crevice
and expands, he pushes the boy aside to find his
way, into the elevator packed with the well-to-do
and the never-to-be-done, the toy hits the ground,
and this little Leland Stamper makes no move to pick it up,
just stares at him with little clouded hateful scared eyes,
fogged under too wide brimmed glasses,
the boy wipes his right hand on the curdoroy sleeve
of his left arm, mouthing something-or twisting his mouth,
he doesn't know what to say..."sorry" "i'll get that?"
but nothing comes out in this jammed up hot elevator
and the kid just keeps looking back, through him and over the moon
and back at him from behind- and all sides-
to tell you he's coming not now, not in the future,
but he's coming with the moon at his side,
tucked in his pocket, casting black and yellow shadows
lying in wait,
like a carnivorous plant on the hunt
predatory and immobile
patiently waiting until he grows old and feeble
is free of the elevator,
to strike ungodly and wreak his terrible narrative revenge.

You know

Careful LOOK careful careful
CHEW quickly now quicker
get it down and move on
no time for taste
pick the biggest and QUICK
FAST look around THERE
now MOVE chew chew
swallow WHAT nothing
nothing relax NO relax NO
never can't relax one more green plant
grass weed flower LOOK
pretty flower filling flower
MOVE to the shadow to the shade
under the TREE tree NO
not there FAST the SHED
under the shed and SAFE
and SLEEP and today today today is...

(cool enough
to rest these tiny legs and
tired mouth
from the dark winds and
the ever sneaking
fox and the cat.)

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

like a stream on digital paper

Dependent on how fast the cars are driving and here's another thing darlin' they either try to miss you or crash (shattered glass and flesh and bones and plastic all) through your thoughts indignantly washing away the ill pleasures we create every day create and need create for some reason (beyond reasons) behind the kindle where you frown (and an almost pretty face becomes ghastly coated by a thousand years) but unhidden unprotected by such small electronic devices made to spin words out in flat lifeless pages (blinking) page 1 page 2 page 3; has page 1....gone? it no longer exists... to where...I can see you dying or living alittle pixels meet pixels and I blend, wishing to know (if we could lie to each other a moment) or find each other a moment could we- play tricks to see how gray (sad) your eyes have always become.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010


the collected layers of light
pile up like manure on the street,
a cracker-fold progressive wall
stinking of secreted iphoneless ambiguity,
the parcels delivered to each deteriorated door,
fuse with the recipient, glowing green
under false moonlight, exonerated moonlight,
MOONLIGHT and identity,
causing that miniature voice,
what's left of that little animal inside you,
to scream and burrow with red fingers deep underground
into the cool brush, where the clean rivers still run,
unencumbered by grizzly cybernetic veins and
dreamlike memory, that
FADES Fades fades
so quickly away,
and the decisions are calloused surprises
that cling momentarily
to blue flat calming television screens
blasting--follow me--
in HD.

Monday, November 1, 2010

Rally Time

In the dustbowl black mud mall
running straight through the bleeding heart
of Washington DC,
between his obelisk and their senate seats,
the traveling evangelists spoke,
softly, politely, loudly,
in comic satire, sometimes in feigned anger, or the
occasionally copyrighted song,
everyone of them like their forefathers before,
seen through the pearly white clouds
perched above, nodding
from Wallstreet, 300-stories to the ground,
forever and ever and ever,
dressed in the home of the free-land of the brave
business causal liberal sheep's clothing,
red-white-and-blue-leading us on.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

a walk

(In this way)
Yellow fires light
long yellow streets,
grown thick and syrupy,
under mustard yellow skies,

a single survivor-spectator
breaks through pavement
following the trail left
smoking and concealed
with windows down,
of a four door sedan and arms
fixed to window sills,
radio humming absently

We'd go down to the river, and into the river we'd dive
Oh, down to the river we'd ride-i-i-ide...

(But there's no one else in this [God] forsaken place,
he's seen all the parked cars on all the quiet streets
and yet...)

They vanished right into the air...

The smoke clears the horizon merging gray coarse clouds
with sparkling rain, unable to reach the ground, choking-

(...if only the skies would open up, I could see)

-the heavens, and the survivor below
and there is no oxygen in this hell,
only fires splattered with yellow paint-

(the stars fall sonorously...)

though I know the river is dry-


(in love)

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Peace for all times

Like steely needles
grasping paper, bent silver
bleeding metal
reflects the flourescent light,
defiantly defying age, logic, truth;
We got to get this peace going
apace with the piece over here
and here here here here here
and so on here
until I get up remove myself laughing, into the bathroom stall,
no longer laughing, close the door,
turn the little knob as not to make a sound,
concentrate on spinning waters,
and send my answer
one thousand feet below.


Pass me in the night,
with coming and going,
neither explained or denied
through the air when
you  pass clumsly
to fall into another seat,
closer to the aisle,
door, bathroom,
those four awkward seats
in the back with no arm rests,
no space, leave me with your perfume
and a nod of your head,
It doesn't matter, after all
I'm waiting for the overweight,
tiny coal-eyed man behind you,
shouting to himself
and planning his escape.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010


The beginning is
2.5 hours richer,
28 dollars poor and sunk
into this white hot ship,
coated in semi-carpet
plastic inside
motionless intestine vomit,
miles of it, enough to paint
the east coast from Boston to Richmond
stagnant and stinking,
if you choose to,

don't bother with the smiley-face bag clinging
all static electricity to your leg,
or you neighbors,
it's twisted infinitely
and only thin enough
to carry the smell,
that smell that wakes you up
screaming sweat
falling from the Girard Point Bridge
salting the river fish below,

But then again you'll get on dutifully
because its going--

and you're going too,
and you've got no place to go.

Monday, October 25, 2010


Wolves howling into the fog
toward wherever we are,
coming at us like the sick orange bulbs
that make to guide our way,
but merely watching sickly,
drops of cold neon green
sweet blood,
following along at a
quickened deadlocked pace,
as we lurch along
like the Chinatown bus
thirsty for $15 and
Baltimore's lights


The Young woman
working tables
dragging youth,

the coffee that bites at my lips,
the empty glasses

damp with wet rings,
a couple damp with rain,
the nowhere sound of
back and forth foot prints,
chanting static with tips in
quarters and dimes,

another hour found
to place myself at random
in this feeling-

across the room-


Saturday, October 23, 2010

To Meet Again

Tie your car up outside,
let's run away like maniacs,
we'll face back-to-back staring
like Hamilton and Burr,
counting toward the past 1-2-3,
take a step and like a single bullet
falling toward the future
we'll meet again
on the other side of the world

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Deck the Halls

Twist from the time shift,
temporal and primordial, notice
below, red churning carnage beautifully
playing a song
across the afternoon porch,
lazy in the suddenly yellow sky,
a glimpse between pink clouds,
roaring engines and backward machines
kissing the ozone frenzy,
battered soldiers return home
from the wasteland futures
on ferris wheels and roller coasters
hallucinating the past.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Questioning Youth

When were those nights
of cold beer and even colder bottles,
musty and brown,
filling our yearning youthful stomachs,
sad and planning the mornings
treasure of cardboard pizza,
cheese terribly hard and tomato
spread like a jackson pollock
murder mystery masterpiece
across your kitchen floor,
waking to the worst-greatest pounding
head trauma, throat burning,
internal gymnast hangover,
the room blurred
and a girl in your arms,
or in your bed, someone's bed,
where were those nights when you told us
we'd live forever, and we felt and believed,
truly, truly believed,
Answer me now why the beer tastes stale
and bitter, why the creases grow deeper,
weaker, and those nights run away from us
as fast as we ran to them,
off into the eternal distance.

Monday, October 18, 2010


Hold tight to
cleverly imagined truths,
art and rainbow stained,

All text is an eventual lie,
in cursive or print,
whichever the chosen medium,
crass and laconic 
in the mornings wet fog,
refusing to rise from its 
too close to ground slumber,
burning like wildfires on the rising dawn,

We're all removed (forced marched) to 
the crystal-like clear darkness
of the american wilderness,
far from the maternity wards 
of claustrophobic sprawling suburban America,
waving to passersby at 180 mph
somewhere along the sad roads,
dancing our way through the sad fiber-optic dance,
ignorant of our shared sadness,
human and spambot alike.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

we live on in modern times with literature all around us

falling is love,
when she's moving her arms
in a flash of explanations, 
hands forming every single feeling word,
he's standing apart from her
two drags on his cigarette for every syllable 
and it's not sad, it's empty,
just empty, the emptiest thing I ever saw
with doc martin shoes and a ragged copy
of some forgotten detective novella
stashed in their pockets
outside the unnamed diner with the fourth letter burned out
in the middle of the afternoon sun
looking down at her empty eyes,
the tubes connecting her to the life-giving iphone-pod-slayer
playing the theme song of her life,
some lady-gaga dirty harry make believe empty dream,
and if he was listening he'd see its already dead
and black as his lungs and 50 years ago sad,
but now falling like love
as my car passes by and 
forces them off into the gray distance
the only word i can seem to find
in my hands is empty.

Friday, October 8, 2010

Those Beetles that hang on your ancient CD player

i waste my time with insects,
they hold me down
with legs and hands
covered in hairy spikes and
six arms
and pull off my wings,

the pain in my wrist
throbs like the spiked
lime green mountains on the EKG,
bouncing in rhythm with the road,
and timed by those all too
human minds
that keep me alive,

guess what? like the penny
spiraling down that tunnel
with no tracks
except for that canary yellow-vanilla
slick plastic,
you know the one
for charity?
that you love as a kid
and scold pessimistic with age?
catholics saving children and atheists mocking lupus-

well, that's where they meet me,
wings tucked behind hard shells,
and I'm at a loss, a sudden loss,
of anything really,
and that's why I tip my hat
and mumble something between
and we feel like idiots and hold the door,
for anybody whose coming,
unless it'll close before they reach it,
well then it's beyond the rules
of polite society,
or any society, and
they're on their own
with that heavy-hinged door,
its little featureless window and the world beyond,

But they can fly-or can they? (we're inside/underground)
if they can't don't look back,
keep your head down, if they fall
it's not on me or you, they're heavy and
I'm more worried about my wrist
reminding me I'm alive,
or taking you to bed,
or the guy in the corner looking
like something is up that only he knows,
or that next meal I can blow ten dollars on
with an 18% gratuity and note to the waitress,
to check if they're raising
those nightmare arms to curse me or the NGOs.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

October childhood

There's so little to remember
of the summer
as the autumn air begins to sting
our breath and our memory,

My stomach lifted
back through time
by butterflies
and I'm 9 years old,
sitting against my father,
my new hat
pulled tight over my eyes,
blue with gold trim,
stiff and proud,
we're waiting on the pretend smells
of wood, dirt and leather,
the passage of time,
these 17 years,

wind circles that
long gone coliseum
with diagonal walkways
and crumbling concrete edifice,
left to history unkind,
and memories golden,

My father plants them like a seed,
a red, powder blue, blue, magenta seed,
it's like magic
and suffering,
and happiness,
and defeat,
and childhood,
and victory
and belief restored
promises kept
through a dream
it's October
and it's life.

Monday, October 4, 2010

With/Without Our God

The past feeds on itself,
ink burned pixels
cutting around fleshy steel
and we act unscathed
with these magenta wounds
that shift and bleed
like some doctor strange
psychedelic fantasy,

watching the eye of agamotto
trapezing, tumbling
legs over head
falling through this arching
nowhere, dizzy with

rain nodding irreverently,
kneeling toward the sky
and praying to find peace
on the ground,
the earthy brown-green
moist crushed ground,

where we walk underneath
the treading feet of
gods long pretend-forgotten,
their wishes too heavy to
one scowl and the mountains burn
purple-blue, mouth preaching
stern, love-

Adjacent to heaven
we plant our flag
of atheists open-minded
and fleeing the truth,
quoting the blackness of space
through the uninspired beginning,
Our god demanding the sacrifice
of art, love, poetry,
we gladly give away
trading weight for peace
longing for forgiveness,

Place your hand on my forehead,
fever burns with memories
collective memories
laid to waste, blistered by fiber-optic cables
and golden finches,
fed to death with designer cheese
and television sets,

make room for your coffin,
pretentious in death and life,
tear down the walls of belief
for an indulgently clean conscious,
because you found the loop-holes
left all over this text book,
written in the heady ink of

I hear it raining and
Oh, I know the outcome,
we can be obsessed with magic together,
I'll access the wikipedia to find out how,
then grovel at its inane alter,
one click away and 30 keys,
type faster to measure
the size of your reproduction,
on your miniature screen avatar fantasy,

I hear facebook calling,
it's interactive and concrete,
Although it's not free-
and juggle your response,
google already knows what its going to be,
so it has some suggestions for you, me, us,

So choose 1,2,3,4,5,6,7
what your god asks, demands
without demanding,
you'll gladly go to war for free,
as would I,
by design, all the variables met,
the clever turn,
the acceptance of nothing,
the entrance to the machine
the diffuse eyes and ears and wand,
poking at our bodies,
feeding tubes and remote controls,
the inbred tv guide
grasping our last sexual urge,
browsing the instant queue,
and determining our dreams.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010


Bring on those eight hour days
that I will gladly sleep away
under the shade of brick and shingle,
when I'm hungry I'll venture out
to hunt my slumbering inanimate prey
designed to sate my appetite,
then return to the scent of trees,
flowers, cars and man,
a soft cushion
blown through thin wire,
awaiting the clumsy flight
of a domesticated insect
or the rumble of busy ignorant feet,
the world of dreams flows much easier
tastes much better,
when I am master and interloper the same,
when I step on legs and arms
stretching out
dizzily, haphazardly and
breath fire into the night.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010


There's almost 12 minutes
for the sun to fall,
shatters like glass on the jagged
grassy meadow
green with failure,

some gigantic miniature
fragile ball shoveled to the brim
with molten light,
burning frost coated promises
of further eons and possible futures,

into the dizzying-distance
of unfurnished time,
close those eyes and...


wait for it to make its final descent,
with man following obedient,
into the unforeseen age of decisions,


walk close to the shore on those
soft rocks you love,
that break under foot,
with every crushingly unconscious step,
I'll reap the rewards
of your bloody bruises
ever wandering
over the seat and table cafe,
over the street,
under the blue and white
patterned umbrella,
blocking out the clouds.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Arlington Cemetery

I choose the long turn
on Sheridan,
without the fires and screams,
took the walking trail
coated in pebbles and solitude
to end up adjacent to the sandy marble pillars
of the house once owned by
Robert E. Lee,

I circumvent the Kennedy grave
to pay respect to a man,
who at the very gray-butternut-least
did not attempt to hide
what he fought for,

The sky clears hot and blue
over the unknown tomb,
stark and white
against the greenish manicured background,

History sits back
and lauds your achievements,

Ignorance is both
the romance of
North and South.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010


you carelessly
glance back
over your shoulder,
the dying embers of
sleepy sun rays
lighting miniature fires in your hair,
like the rolling expanse
of scattered army camps,

unafraid of the
dirt-sand wind gusting
from the west,
meant to end time;
a carnival travelling
some forgotten candyland dream

the ground
in monotone fantasy-speak


a falsifying universal
taunting me in play,
flirting with laughter,
swirling around you,
behind you...

I won't walk out on the scene,
to sing and stay mute forever
through quiet-lasting-pseudo-time,

you blink,
I see it
and brown eyes
and the earth spinning
to the lighthouse
that watches lovingly
the infinite

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Felicia I finished Hyperion! (Waves and Waves and Waves)

An interuption,

marking off black and red

we're all watching
the gears contorted supernatural

drawing oxygen around
itself and separated into piles,
the invisible rations for the lucky

like children watching a butterfly
car accident
spread its metal wings,
peeled off by tearing steel
and plastic at accelerated speed
conjoined by shattered glass
dreams of a yesterday
painted by tomorrow,

and they're off running
in some mad misdirection-direction,
bleeding like the autumn sky
at sunset light,

a pair of hands twisted
toward eachother
emigrated warmth
encircled by-

not a care in the world,
over here,
and watch me!
As he dives into the deep end
cerulean waves
silver peaked

the ships sinking
grudge match,
floating and jetsam
both lighten the load
to nothing underneath our feet
but the sea
and your dreams.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Metro Center my Dream

It's difficult when uncaring you-
thrash my browning leaves to the grass
they once fell so slow-
over and over again
playing it before my eyes in
cyclical slowmotion
on a wide angle lens-
you like the loss of perspective
or the stretching of it-
we're not artists-
just insane losers in a world
steaming dry-vacuumed
with the rest-
tucked under the rug
and spilling out of the corners
up against the wall
where there's this
sound that we ignore-
like the truth,
they call it forgiveness,
but its violet over the fading light
and shining on the now blackness
there in the balance
between concrete and happiness
without a home
mangled and terraformed, 
you say it's-

Saturday, September 11, 2010

It's in the title

Remember time over place
when she pulls you toward her
through the grandfather clock time
clanging stoically 1-2-3
4-over-5-hysterical-the end,

behind the wall
emanates the sound
where you can't-
sleep escape-
the laughter lock and key,
for us,
what's left--
at your door

an answer, easy-

Run away with me.


She'll thin out the flock
and when shes done
a vanilla cream coffee
with steaming hot double helix
obscures the rabbit ears
gripped in her long cold fingers,

trailing off and on
like the dawn on a late summer morning
when the sun can't decide
if it's night
or day
and the trees lie awake
waiting to be left behind
through the fall,

the rug beneath her
is tracking a foreign substance
red mud and stained crimson
so dark its blacker than night
and made of life,

left wandering out
somewhere in the past-present
she finishes her job,
and before we part ways
she raises a hand
a glove
a weapon
a truth
and the last image we see are
the tiny drops of harmless blood on her shoes

Monday, September 6, 2010

Tomorrow and Tomorrow, look up in the sky, and save the day

I'll write this for you
before we go away and pretend to be adults,
before the world takes our souls
washes them and pretends they're new
or right,
I'll leave a message in here
that we can read and remember
but maybe never again fully understand,
when our memories are as clean as our eyes,
and the world is crumbling around us
in wonderful luminescent decay,
and you...
you can read this and wake me up
from pharmaceutical dreaming-non dreams
with tears that break the silent disorder
and right the past,
drowning our fading vision of
purple-hued loving futures.


we see the last survivor of a doomed world
hunched over and jagged legged
as waves turn ashore, dirty blonde hair
obscures her face and long white dress the same for too skinny legs,
draw back and repeat against the sharpie marker cut horizon,
the sea and the sky,
and little girls, running back and forth
against the challenging tides,
a seagull, the gods ocean sentry
looks on, aged eyes watching the moving
and immovable,
a wooden stake marks mans accomplishment
at finding the sea,
back and forth we struggle
with the sands and pride and salt-wind,
like a miner drawing forth from the earth,
hard hat and yellow muddy gloves
replaced by sunscreen and bathing suit,
we raise a multi-colored umbrella-flag on native shores,

you walk beside me shifting,
the ocean recedes before us
a school of dolphin trailing fish,
laying traps and playing ancient tricks,

the sea air is a memory
made real by the burn of the sun
and your skin against mine,
the sand left in our shoes,
a never was-always dream
counting backwards to
the end of the world.

Sunday, September 5, 2010

For a Moment Just a Thought

We come full circle in the darkness
of a remembrance, beginning
somewhere ahead
at a table were I leave my poems,
wonderfully unfinished and decaying
in the after-light of fading summer days,
forgotten in passing we'll no doubt
wait for them, returning one-hundred fold
in a kind of blister wound of the brain,
coated in gold and light
burning unlikely bright in the night sky,
casting a shadow across our being
as beautiful as the sun.

Sunday, August 29, 2010


They want what we don't have,

deep within the ground
where the sun dies a brilliant yellow-orange-purple,
blinding eyes
covered by elbows and hands
torn and old,

the dust is the skin
brown and tasteless
burning off in opaque tired rays
like a parched army navigating
dried rivers and mortal wounds;

I have nothing left.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Behind the fruit salad a simple meaningful love

I'm translating directions
and you laugh
like they're all a jumbled unpaved road,
or you hear and can't understand, 
static sentences thrown together
from the seat of my car,
silent understanding
draped across that bay bridge
curving up into the sky
like a horseshoe buried in the sand,
and the sky is raspberry fire
breathing and burning and pop,
leaving the sweet smell of fruit and salty oxygen
heavy weaving behind your eyes,
sweet almond dark eyes,
bending the rail toward me
in the shallows with waves twisting over,
through the final verse of a late-afternoon song 
and a just empty bottle of nameless pink wine, 
we find our way in the sweet/sour dawn.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010


Don't wait up for me
I've already found the bridge I want,
though, to tell the truth,
it keeps walking away.

there's a noise, better leave the house

She will run away and hide,
let your footsteps trace the distance
ever-wide running distance

out of sight.

to blind eyes and familiar quips,
with pupils too dilated to witness the race
seared on empty soft streets,
like some kind of coquettish mattress


and with a snap something snaps 
like really snaps

ears bleed
focus reality,
some fantasies are disrupted
through the pious clouds
of denial and uneasy laughter,

ringing out into the street
at the crosswalks with the blind un-hearing,
and you lie witness to birth and death.

Monday, August 2, 2010

Good Morning 2010

You'll dance with me
because we recede farther
and farther into the past
each year,
drunk on the seconds that feed
and bloat the minutes that steal youth
from under our noses,

the nights blink into the day
drawing creases across our faces,
haggard and sleep walking sleep
through the sunlit porch,
kids running at your heels,
dogs, cats, breakfast, bacon,
digitized news fritzing in and fritzing out
stained with milk and lucky charms,

god damned machines and man
and god damn worthless one-note trees,
planted eons ago,
hard flesh unused and coddled,
protected except for the Vegans that tear them down
and feed on their souls,
merciless and gravid with self-loving,

white and smooth they devour the past
and welcomes us to the
featureless futures.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

Bummer Leadstone

images fractured through splintered glass,
weave bile through bleached blond tips
and fake breasts,

cut to commercial wait 20 minutes cut back

a chair wobbles out front,
an attractive woman
clicks by moving north/away
dark hair obscuring her features,
shes Asian with brown smooth skin
and passes by everyday
at this exact time,
Bummer Leadstone times it
on his television watch,

shes on her way to work, school, shopping, food;
none of which he has, or can do,
it's only perfect if the commercials run,
that way the girls aren't there to see him,

shoeless and hatless,
on the street counting the minutes in his chair,
keeping time with

terrible acting and disinterested plot threads, still sponsors run-

Aging more quickly everyday,
bones and tendons yet to warm as the night approaches
and seats haven't been moved,
or taken


the sun drops over smog LA skies
the Lakers sleeping on championships
the Asian woman finding another way home,


on past the old RCA television store
destabilized glass,
and a man
sick and old,
hasn't moved in two days,
clerks walking past
and shoplifters,

he hasn't got a wallet to steal or spare,
just wispy gray hairs and tattered feet,

the hills fade away over sunny-side
Viacom dreams
and the exposure he can't escape.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Tally Marks and N keys

skipping stones into sand,
her hands calloused yellow
and broken,
silently broken and classified by me,
set into columns and rows and tables,
fixed into my fantasy,

Is it wrong to cling to these titles
we construct,
for ourselves and others?

watch as we drift unsteady in the night fog,
offering sanity as advice,
waiting on a reservation
made by a phones disembodied voice,
rocking haphazard, stomach upside-down hazard,
under starry seas,
and cold-blue skies.

Sunday, July 25, 2010


I'm flushed in some
jagged circle, misguided
symmetrical circular conspiracy,
bouncing back and forth
through confidence and altered-reality,
a mixed-drink cocktail
glowing Hawaiian punch green into the violet night,
a complementary no thank you to breakfast,
with stomach rumbling starvings
washing over cobweb
painted walls decayed like old play-doh
resting on pure white window sills

I'm flushed into that night glass
ever walk-wandering
into that same same distance,
counting the steps,
kneeling over adjacent graves
cradled away.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Construction on I95? Sure I'm down

The gasoline orange-yellow sun
awakens over tired pilots
sipping coffee
and phasing out
the low hum of a song
carried over radio waves
to work stations
and mistranslated lives,

the one perpetual failure of man
is the north bound bridge on I95
running over the Girard Point Bridge,

Old graying war machines rest
tired underneath, a slumber forced
upon aging metal bones,
in pretend-memory
full of vigor and violence,
now slouched into creaking recliners
and stuffed with catheters,
waiting for unrecognizable dinners
and sunset futures.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Today we asked

The table is cold,
the food acts like
illuminated coils
in open refrigerators
freezing over the landscape,
peaks and valleys
dwarfed by slow brawling glaciers,
moving away
towards chilled bodies
lying still under peach trees
barren and unrecognizable,
sketching letters across the ground
that you scuff and distort with your boots,
a message of apathy,
like a cashier pulling heavy items
and black bars over
steady red light,
dead empty inside and moved by hidden
impulses electric and man-made,
a question smeared across
unmoving lips,
where does the future end
and the past begin,
today we asked.

Monday, July 12, 2010

Over the Sky She rests under Flowers

"If you follow me we'll get there faster!"

She said, over swirling winds. My arms catch the coattails of retreating butterfly insomniacs, a collage of colors searing the night. She dodges day-glo paint coated walls, multi-colored and wild on either side. I hear her perfectly. Her voice travels clear and sweet ignoring the rain soaked obstacle course. Small drops land flat and hard on unstable ground, drawing deep dark blotches on the charcoal pavement. Black spots, bleeding into grey obscurity. No cracks, or history. Washed out by the rain, like everything around us, they will eventually dry.

Her voice,
the only thing,
holding my feet to the ground
as they pat-pat-pat
pull me forward,
her thoughts work like gravity
and build this place

Where no one is. No one but us. Us, alone. The sound is hollow, an earthly vacuum. Space, the theater. She's erased the past and drawn only the present/future. An amalgam of want and have. So, my feet carry me toward her, like a dancer onstage, mesmerizing the audience with his terrific lies. While cables, thin and invisible, control his arms, legs, feet, hands; a puppet master inventing the act. Unconsciously I'm avoiding the nearest puddle, again and again, again and again. They sit still, stagnant until struck by watery meteors falling constant from the blotted out gray sky. A quick collision, a grand concert, a muddled reflection. But I'm already past myself, leaving my reflections behind. Searching for her hand-

She holds it out by the door, her hand protruding from the opening. The light from inside escapes into the alleyway toppling over itself, fiery like the sun and reckless. I close my eyes and stagger towards her. The first puddle is mine. The second is hers. She leaps in with me laughing. her body, the rain cold against her hot skin, against mine. the light rushes behind her

bathing me
in brilliant darkness
the kind that only light can bring,
brilliant and consuming,
is the eclipse-///

Watch us falling in that moment. Watch us falling in that moment frozen, maybe one thousand untold miles per hour through story, obliterating the narrator, reorganizing the setting. We create furious ripples with the clouds, whirling and caught in the storybook. Read it aloud, the sound is what we are. Now and ever ever, threads to be woven, so picture this...

There's a castle, old yet new, resting under slow moving clouds. A princess sleeps inside under careful watch. We've heard there have been many suitors. Each wish to take this beautiful maidens hand. In marriage or treachery. She's frozen in time. In future time the mystics say, not that the court would understand. She's come from somewhere else, some other place, far away. The king's helpers whisper strange sounds into the night, a voice calls out to her, from over walls, under fences, through reality; "roll them mouse over yonder the heart eye faces." They're scared, "what could such strange things mean." Ingrid to Solomon, her slow witted but caring husband. He's lost his arm in the war, but it taught him to love what he could never have, and vise-versa, or so on. "Two arms aren't for every man," he's liable to say. If you listen, of course. And most do, he's quiet and wise.

She sleeps on a bed,
unlike any other in the kingdom,
and the king hath checked
but found no clue,

They hover above her, and hold her hand. Standing over her continuous stream of...humanity, worshipers, those who are afraid, seeking guidance, seeking her hand. From far away lands, and surrounding hills, boasting of great deeds, or offering gifts."If she should awake," says one, "I shall take her with me, as my prize eternal." He peers out from behind dyed blond hair and fake smiles, "Your prize shall be mine," responds another looking quite the same. You know how these princes talk, all selfish and robust, or pretentious and haughty. Either or, the point is made. They waited for days, or an evening, steadily grew old over their bones, slow in their thoughts and words. Tired and defeated, stealing quick glances into the past. And she didn't wake up,

not for them,
not for any of them.
And the king grew old
and the kingdom grew weak,
time passed, the trees wilted
threw off their leaves
lived as skeletons
under the cold sun
and grew again.

The light grew brighter
transforming the smallest shadowed place
into goliath, towering in corners
across the bedroom floor,
the setting sun;

As her face drew close to mine, her arms folded around my neck. Her feet lifted up, like in a movie or some pivotal romantic scene. She stopped the clock and held us there for the artist. You know the one. The artist that draws all things, the one that lets you, in those few instances of happiness unlike any other, watch yourself like through a kaleidoscope looking glass. You remember those moments forever. Most keep them held close, keep them to themselves tight between their arms, a beautiful seconds long eternal secret. But when you hold each other, it's always there. Unspoken, that special thing. That artist painted thing. That no one can have, or take away. It's a forever thing, for you and me.

So we're through the door, and all the princes are knocked down. Some drag out barroom brawl, or they all fainted. At once? No one was ever too sure. The jester pretended white, but they tore him apart. Figuratively; he lost his job. Finding nowhere to lend his talents he crossed many oceans, found a small cottage and settled there. He tended his small crops but his stigma remained. Can't go telling lies the King said. He's a righteous, do good King,who missed this jester to the end of his days.

In the castle more empty with clutter by the day, conspicuous-

The bed was left
and the girl,
this magical-cosmos
looking girl
with jet black hair
and pink calming lips,
they defined the word pink,
the explorers found it
and the guy who named the crayon,
a collective memory etched deep
in the mind,
"the perfect-perfect girl"

If only one could touch her,
steal her magic for a second
a millennium,
what could they do?
for themselves?
they'll never have it;

It's her.
It's only her.

A figure, standing in the doorway, a man, blocks the flickering fire-light of the torches that line the hall. In the rooms adjoining/adjacent, asleep the King, his helpers, the guards remain, undisturbed. Solomon and Ingrid turned in for the night dreaming of their children grown and moved away. She is no longer alone. His breathing slows nervously, he takes a step, two, three, four, uneasy and disoriented. Her eyes hidden beneath sleep blinking in and out in the dark. He loves her.

And he wakes her, unlike any who have tried. He's traveled one-hundred, two-hundred, three-hundred miles, in circles, in straight lines, over cliffs where men have met their ends at peace and at war, slept alone on uncharted shores. Without light he's imagined the world. Imagined her in it. He's never heard her tale and sure the castle drew him forth. She doesn't open her eyes. Undeterred, he lies beside her. She turns like the tides.
     “Hi...” she offers, her voice muffled by sleep, but no less-- it fills his heart, his tears, something wild, future-like dips into his heart.
     “Hi,” He answers back in a daze of movement and afraid to move-stillness. The castle shakes off the icicles of recycled pasts. Irradiated from within, it feeds the sun. A gift shared between the moon and his estranged sun, appearing together on that rare late-afternoon when he sneaks ghost-like and transparent up to the tired sun. Burning orange and yellow and hot, all day.

Slowly, slowly slowly an arm under her star-clustered hair supernova. She moves with him, in sync with the fluid motion of his body. He brings her close \explosion\, coated in careful blue green red sparkling gold. A small parting of lips. A brilliant light, She turns her head. A small fissure in the fabricated unreality. It hangs by the edge of the bed, love and time in conversation.///

The End.

The book is closed, ink black and blue dried in the corner of the world. All that remains is the constant flow of time, churning like waves on the shore. The heavy crash of salt and sand. The ever present reality. We can find love in the never escape. Proceed--

Through the door, after door after door. Moving pictures and sound drowned out, stepping aside. A hand brushed over that hair and we're wavering. Black like the night and shining. In my arms and no weight, we're one. Can you see us? Lips moving over your ear? A whisper goodnight? A kiss? The artist finishes his portrait. It's ours to share forever, silently but knowing. In the darkness between the morning and the night. In your bed across time, I hold you close by as shooting stars and milky ways die and light up bright, brighter than man and earth and thoughts, but not brighter than you.

It's for you.
It's you.
It's only you.
Sunset sunrise sunset
from your bed.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

Lullaby and goodnight sun

sunset over trees
hours ago,
burnt fire red
glowing orb melting the sky,
clouds engulf
mesmerizing the clock
counting its steps
backwards-wise forward
in time, in rhythm
count it
you hear the bell-steps
against the wall,
your head,
feeble curse
thy name
thy kingdom
come for a name,
sacrifice so same sacrilege
in the sky
burnt umber sky,
spilling over us and out of control
and forgotten
by head
hitting pillow and sleep
and the morning,
the sun has risen back
new again,
solid and official,
a stamp on every door
a lie on all our backs,
turn deep sun roasting
cool our backs,
the sun sets
on extra days and other days,
the night looks so young.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Upstairs we are thinking

where'd that fucking beetle go?
setting fire to laundry landfills
and beetle trash piles...
can they get any closer
under this light? fuck,
who was she? this bulb isn't
strong enough, everything looks
milky yellow, or cold,
beetle cold and shiny,
ugly scaly wet shiny,
clinging to metal wires,

here first aaaaaand...there,

off to the right, the shiny beetle right,
where we know where
and for-
a single second eternal,
she places her finger
to the fire,

you remember it red with pain
and dancing,
beetle dancing,

buzzing concentrated,
fills the night 100 degree air,
where fans limp slowly onward
toward failure;


she ignores stinging
sounds rising above
injured animal screams
out into the distance blue.

Sunday, July 4, 2010

Happy Anniversary

the night dances ready for
unseen missiles-

quick! up above us
as I hold your hand,
soaring into this
illuminated explosion,
color burns
in the dense purple-blue still sky,
we shatter the easy silence
with bits of fiery colorful green red silver and gold
shifting the balance of time
a before and after time,

blinding twilight your midnight kisses
bring, it's beyond where we can touch them,
so far beyond they're close
and real, pressed against your skin,

that invisible torchbearer
believes he leaves the mark,
but you make them shine,
radiating you out from you
incinerating the bleak and lost,
hidden behind eyelashes for me,
many worlds die and live
an infinite life,

benches line these concrete
and metal airways,
a spiraling pace set by
limitless ends and beginnings,
I count the moments I fell in love with you,
with each
in the daylit-night,

when you shook my hand,
kissed my cheek,
cried in my arms,
when I held you solitary in the night,
when the sun warmed our faces,

crashsssssssss*the sound drowns out now

when we sat in the wet grass,
you wore sandals on sand,
there was ketchup-there was my streak,
you moved far away and we waved many good-byes
and hellos,
I sang to you at home on the beach
under skies like these,
you came back and panicked and left again,
when you taught me how to play blackjack


under pulsing lights we danced,
you giggled and reluctantly sipped,
sinking into your bed,
you reach out and pull me in,
all is black and right,
a fire, a meal, terrifying horses,
an intoxicating smile,

louder now, not much time to think

another fizzles out,
there aren't enough explosions
there isn't enough time,
so that we could freeze it,
and bottle it,
design a pretty jar,
maybe with flowers and vines
curled under/between/over
stars and hearts
perfectly otherworldly,

the finale is a solemn affair
fantastic and finite,
sad even as its grand
a past before it reaches the present,
its over, the clamor laughter hissing bright-
we're left,
a beginning with no end,
a forever agreement in a forever future,
lovers, friends, soul, heart, mind
I hear your voice quiet and building up
to whisper-

but I'm too fast
and my lips are yours.
happy Anniversary <3

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

this regularly scheduled broadcast

there's a sound
humming beneath my fan,
layered, and bitter
it blends into those backgrounds,
backgrounds that I create
from my nothing-sense of everythings-
considered concrete and so forth,

We are sorry to interrupt-

you say though,
that it's more
slender legs taunting
on high heels,
hidden dreams and obvious fantasies,
of which I'm----

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand we're back!

too brain dead to argue

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

sunsets and sleep

to the

now, I'd ask you
to save some space
for future deserts
served close to hot and cold,

on a
you'd run

away, waking up
hungover and feeling for
the alarm clock the
hotel never provides
I'd feel a note heavily written
with heavy ink
that tears through the page
blackening the desk,

and through
a haze,
a razzle-dazzle
haze of last-nights-and-late-nights
you're sweet point would be made,
that one that burns
and conjures steam from the sea
flips the black-light-night-light
switch over the ocean sky
glow-in-the-dark clouds,
leaving me all alone
with sunsets and sleep

Monday, June 28, 2010

Driving home

Jesus Christ+
what is that behind me?
its got like 30 headlights
a big hulking spider truck
swear the lights weigh more
than my tiny (94' Corsica),
look don't look look
close my eyes and still see it,
it's like the truck from the Hitcher
I'm gonna die.
whoa, alright
stop rear-view driving,
but the world looks so much more
and backward
from here,
I'm taking every curve,
oh shit,
he's got his turn signal (is that what it is
among all those lights)
he's faking me out forward
look forward
okay, now you got it
remember that phone number from the infomercial,
yeah the one with the guy and the hovering chair,
you could use that,
close but they all end/begin like that
he's turned off, probably trying to cut me off
on the next street
better hurry up
Jim Halsey understands
yeah man...sorry about that
just play it cool
run a few stop signs
get home dial that number
everything's cool
and forward.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Up, Up the river flows toward rocks and mixed-drinks

focus on the uselessness,
that's where to bring the real dreams,
those dreams that walk while waking,
harbored consciously and repressed,
buried like stakes in the ground
hidden but screaming their worth, their existence
to those who tread in their path
or between them,
in that case, there was you,
within them, offering them a taste of water
to wet their tongue
a meaningless heart in lungs gesture
on multiple death beds
pontoons on the River Styx
drawing in water, beached on the shore
sinking towards truth filled graves
happily unsavored 

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Pole Dancing Classes

a city of quartz,
siphoning heat from the dregs


water dripping, touches down
burning in the
muggy silencccccce-ssssizzle*
burning up whats left,
poudrin clutching to the past
one-by-one melting/drooping/dripping/dropping/splash

slender legs with lithe footsteps,
or clumsy? but beautiful--------footsteps,
if we can achieve or seek to,
over hot coal sidewalks
between destination,
red hot with heat,
another convulsion/release
separation into the red thing,
evaporated maybe before it hit the ground,
a meteor-an earth collision-unrequited,

from the ground following along
like reaching up and holding on--
smooth skin delicate skin uncontrollable skin
tearing into your stomach-sizzle*

small worlds of bliss and water,
gentle skiing slope thin and soft and muscle;
rising up tension tension into the sun,
dominate and terrible,
clawing at me, eyes and hands-

forced solitude and distance,
screaming out into distance
under the yellow blue background above,
through the inverted picture
painted hot and drying undried,
a miniature torrent sizzling river
crossing the street

Friday, June 25, 2010

Let's be quick about it

Once they drop the bomb
all will be fine,
its got flowers inside,
and water and honey and food,
green and lush
propelled into the
burning the air,
reshaping our dreams
and smelling of cheerful death

Thursday, June 24, 2010

It's gonna rain pretty hard so get the umbrella

And it happened pretty fast,
the world blinked a
worldly knowing whirling
world blink
as if to say

"I told you so,
remember many years ago?"

crossing the Bering Strait,
she carved it,
carved it with jagged rocks
and crushed insects,
streaks of
primary colors along
the surface of our minds
the world mind
the consumed conscious
passed down and willed forth,
to another time,
swimming through weeds
and overgrown foliage
green and glowing
like some deadly lazarus pit
sucking us into forget,
or madness--

a weighty childish madness,
given to all her offspring,
meant to guide us-


Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Abandonment of

All these missed chances
to write a single word,
to sum it up,

they left us inside
under florescent lights ungodly,
out in the sun, sheltered by the thin roof,
travelling fifty, sixty, seventy miles per hour,
it's hard to say if they looked back,
I believe they never did,

watch over the horizon,
he said they'd return,
browned and smelling of the sea,
or was that John for Nero?
numbers carved into his brow,

Either way, someone will be showing up,
so all we have to do is wait
and pass our can of Coca-Cola,
drowning our thirst.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010


Golden embers
rust with a toast as
she moves the mountain
from beneath steady feet,
tanned and spotted with those tiny grains of sand
left over from future hours spent
in front of retreating and attacking oceans,
raise the glass to lies
and the rumble rumble of clouds
tracking gray across the the blue sky

Monday, June 21, 2010

Speed Radar Enforced

Elitist, Enforce, Enable

e words
beginning with e,
ending with e,
e e e e e e-----

then the car convulses
the bodies drop below,

it's summer meaningless--

she picks the flower off the ground
or tomorrow
her hand prepared and waiting today,
in a flash
speed and metal coalesce
into a blurry nothing blur-

words splash forth
pelting windows and eyes,
sleepy doe-eyed eyes
twisting like spaghetti
in preformed plastic bowls,
words splash forth

the street is coated endless-

with the common vowel
and the police watch lazy
and silent\\\\\\

from some far off place
as chaos reigns/////

blasting sound waves
into oncoming traffic

Sunday, June 20, 2010

For Joe

The wretched little blue light purple
sky is falling yellow upon us,
tipping the scales and rewriting our losses,
closing up our gains
behind us, sometimes before us
though she doesn't tell you why
or for whom,

leaves pulling past us in the
somehow cool summer
sweating hot and melting ice cream
over your hands and its sticky and soft
and tastes different
when you really think about it,

it's not like it was when we were kids
and didn't know each other
and lived so far apart,
infinitely far flung doubling back over universes
that the world had to bring us together,
making faint noises
like bells ringing or horns honking
megaphones humming pop-goes-the-weasel,
the the scar opened up
at its center and
unknowingly sucked us all in.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

the fire

she lights the fire
it's charred and burnt
rising high
over skyscrappers
buildings touching the sky
below the millions run
for their afterlife
and life after
she lights the fire
a success as it reaches up
into space
a kind of space
glowing red
and falling
toward us

Friday, June 18, 2010


Into the never-never ever-ever after,
Peter Pan and Alice,
pointing up,
to the blast-off engines,
never reading
through the clouds
formless but heavy
in the sky,
the way up sky
into the overriding conscious
somewhere unheralded
never after,
falling after upwards,
into the almost blue,
the chlorine blue
like waves teetering on
through no and yes
into maybe
gambling ever,
for the vision she took,
stealthily took,
and art in the sky
jammed like quarters
into lifeless-giving machines
on the burning planks of the boardwalk

Thursday, June 17, 2010

one, two, three you're awake!

The temperature
is off-kilter-strange,
glowing this way and that,
illuminating tiny spots on the floor
at random,
blinking in-out-in-out
all the way out and even,
even with the flow,
so it's felt through it,
against my body or
or its body-
in the gleam
between things-and understanding,
understanding forever things
and coated slowly
by brushes spinning
thick and made of of-time,
request time/denied time
the same,
dodging those flickering lights
sporadic and visionary
the forever after.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

They sold their plane tickets? ...So what?

With zig-zags,
dips and turns,
whirls and spins,
zig-zag zig-zag zag,
the world eats itself,
feeds itself,
on itself, loud
hold your ears...

Its loud, oh oh oh so loud
and painful,

she coddles it, says it's necessary,

That I don't believe,
because then we'd all be gone
in a blink like a tv screen
shrinking to that last little ball of light


A cloud ripping through the air
zagging or zigging
slashing through fast and easy,
a knife stacking life upon life
memory open and over-sized,
screaming HELP into the sky
toward the no-planes and after-helicopters,
watching over us
like gymnasts...but they're ungainly
and ill trained


and off into the distance
this distance/that distance
neither and either distance

lovely and quiet


And you can look everywhere
and never find them.