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,
but-

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

sunsets and sleep

we're
close
to the
end

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

on a
beach
where
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

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
fuck.
I'm gonna die.
whoa, alright
stop rear-view driving,
but the world looks so much more
simple.
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,
1-800-some...thing...
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.

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 

Pole Dancing Classes

a city of quartz,
siphoning heat from the dregs

ssssizzzzzlllleeeeeeeee*

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
sizzle-repeat,

slender legs with lithe footsteps,
or clumsy? but beautiful--------footsteps,
if we can achieve or seek to,
over hot coal sidewalks
engulfed
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

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

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-

home...

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,

so-
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.

Toast

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

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
yesterday
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-
ly-

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

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.

the fire

she lights the fire
it's charred and burnt
rising high
over skyscrappers
buildings touching the sky
consumed
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

Storybook

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

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
through
the forever after.

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


zzssaaaaaaaazzzzzzzz-*

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


vvvvrroooooommmmm 

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

lovely and quiet

shhhhhhhhhhhhh!

And you can look everywhere
and never find them.

The 4G Crystal-meth politics test

So they get this guy to talk to you
and hes proper,
smiles and dresses nice,
why not let him in your house?
or your bed?
he tells you what is good and bad,
what you can say and can't,
he talks for you
takes your time,
space,
thought,
numbers,
votes,
tallies,
money,
that he takes the most,
he rolls in it,
and you pat him on the back,
because you live in his world,
you run by his rules,
hes made you a neo liberal or reactionary,
an idiot or an intellectual,
he dances in the spotlight
of some created game,
he rolls your dice and plays your piece
you lose he wins,
you win he wins,
you protest in his voice,
with his words,
he laughs from your mouth,
sees from your eyes,
fucks your mother while your back is turned,
and kills your dog or cat,
and you continue to worship at his invisible alter,
seeing the world that he has invisibly beat into you,
because you don't know how not to.

Of you

the engine sputtering to a stop
putt-putt-putt-
overheated, parched
and looking for water
or something like it,
to cool itself
or find its way-
a way, some way
every which way
but here, but up
but alive,
guzzle-guzzling
cold or hot or warm or tepid or stagnant
it smells like a river, no--
a pond,
land locked and gasping,
hiccup-please-hiccup-
torturing its banks
scalding/scolding,
complacent upon belief
reticent after charging,
reflective like the surface
of a muddy brown
reverential peace.

Of me

eight-o-three and
thirty three seconds,
and all we have are maybe dreams
that carry heavy weights
on unstable ground,

a conscious riddle with
many many no answers,
and they howl
through tight airless tunnels,
bringing rain,

for you to listen
and make, by
sculpting clay that never hardens
in the humid night air,
lying still in your bed,
until
a noticeable twitch/turn/pleasure/ecstasy,
bites into your lip
pink and soft,
asleep
and
dreaming.

Well, I guess it true

Ignored unknowingly?
it's no longer an option
with words travelling faster
than thought,
now a presence unparalleled
and paramount,
birthed from sparkling cables underground,
and sound, light, life
bouncing above the stars,
a choice not a consequence,
a new way of speaking,
practiced by a new culture
of standing, sitting, resting,
looking away, when talking,
into the bright blue of
some deadly magic mirror.

I left a note for you

In a forgetful note,
we're all left swarming,
amnesiac and plagued with
some sense of longing,
disconnected from somewhere
close, and torn off the bone,
like we used to say,
like it used to be when we
would sit around until deep into the night
and you would suddenly turn to me
and make some profound remark
I'd never remember, like
"we are drowning our ambitions together."

Congrats

The sun,
just about the horizon,
painting blue-greenish over
red orange yellow pink,
cut in half and
splintered
by its imminent slumber,
a twist
a twirl
a farewell,
and the sky is replaced
by dark hues,
casting purple shadows
toward the future
only you can see.

The Cup

well,
that's fucking it
I guess,
There it was
and we watch it float by us
like lazy clouds
when you're daydreaming
on your back, hands above
resting under your head
the wet warm grass
dampening your clothes,
the sky is blue and solid
beckoning you to stare harder
unfocused
through a calming breeze
and its almost like
you can see into heaven
so you reach out
unmoving
and
a bird shits on your face.

A phone calling out in the dark

Clings to my room,
hiding in corners,
waiting for me to find--

and when I do,
a flood,
there's memory
it's warm and taunts me,
tempts me with--
something like truth and
it brushes against me,

burning from the inside,
the outside over my skin;

I reach for you,
through thought and time and space
and we can change it,
hold it in our hands and
make it feel, and touch

There, somewhere--
your lips and mine,
A phone calling out in the dark.

Joe, after this a glass of Jameson is required

A new success,
A new religion,
shake off the caked mud of
empirical designs,
starchy and maddening,
sit still and
listen to the herd marching off
into the nowhere,
the stinging light of
an empty refrigerator,
the burning of unladen stomachs/

Shitty

I
sat down
to write a depressing
poem,
I wanted it
to be unmemorable
and cliqued,
I wanted you to read it
and fill the dark shallow imagery
with your own doubts and failures,
like a gothic cathedral
weighted down by the sun
and age, where
rock would crumble
imperceptibly over eons,
green invading cold brown
and gray,
ivy crawling or
tumbling down its
ancient stone ribs,
written on inked paper
to read crumple and throw away,
or to place in your library
like a trophy announcing
your bravery,
spine embroidered
with silver or gold,
a bloody leather sacrifice
to pretension and
shitty defense.
 

Night

Just outside, outside the window
I can smell the cool air,
but here, here
It's warm, and
hot, the air is thick,
pulling at me, thick,
holding me in place

and obscuring my vision,
warped by the air, like well trodden boardwalk planks
resting by the beach, listening to
the sound of salty waves pound the shore,
carried by salty winds,
unaware of their fate, irrevocable.

Historians

A thunderous disappearance of magic,
running like hurried writing, copious and
incoherent, scribbled on decayed walls,
a quick scrawl before the master arrives,
to be left, and found by ancestors
who create their own meaning,
their own importance
through the struggle of forgotten souls
given rebirth, creation though a dialogue,
written by the subjective pen
of the glorious few.

Game 3, 5:59

Thousands of souls,
one on top of the other,
experiencing death regret failure
jubilation success the promise of another day,
a burning light draws them forth
like moths to their destiny,
our destiny, a singular prize,
they call out in unison,
sharing ecstasy, clutching
at grand victories
forever heaped upon history,
all together basking in
the pulsing red light
of a perfect tomorrow.

Trav-elling-with-the-air-as-your-guide

Travelling, dust on our/your back,

to your back, kicking up,

over, beyond, side-ways,

scrolling and marching

forward, you've been forewarned...
before--this--

so, Cool and lazy, the river flows

by us/you, non-existent restraint,

the air/wind restraining,

pulling back, peeling back,

a figure walking toward her,

running backward and running away,

running out of the light,

afraid,

of jet engines heating up,

displacing energy, gliding on currents,

tons of metal/plastic, simple,
primordial like a bird weightless and weighted down,

pulled down by the earth, straining higher,

wind sweeping through the past, 

the recent past, the myth of present

toys with her,

we could watch from inside-out,

from dreams and reality,

a star sparking, blinking

yes and no.

June the first

You watch me sleep,
with innocent glances
and mouth wash tinged smiles,
sitting still like
dormant volcanoes,
plotting the destruction
of ignorant youth.