Friday, April 26, 2013

Because they brought milk

I'll kneel before
their goodwill--
     If the Nazis had
smart phones
I'd have read the same
pictures on those invisible
text books
     erasing motivation
fanatically defending
     our defiled brains
                  the marching
                  heavy endless
cold marching boots
                  of technicality
because they bring milk
we suck down the dream
I place the bill under my tongue
and pay the interest

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Death of Poets

until the wind
rots whole forever
This one started
as two crossed out lines
no thought just scribbled
failure & no voice
and ended as
eight mishandled lines
saying something--

Sweetly by the hour

Slim to the cunt
she's a legless
     wonder she says
our windows let
     in too much light darling
     betrays the morning
whistle of
          the doves in my hair baby
the heavy floods
in the basements below
          will keep you
     busy all day & sweat
          but I'll wait
               for you in the golden rays
counting the hours
the hours
counting the days.

Thought Police

I believe &
my eyes see
the defenestration
of miracle society
acceptance of the perverse
my brain a soiled docility
drug to drag belonging to the house,
shut down my clogging veins
& molest the corpse
of the girl hidden under my bed,
I take her to the sands
of the beach of secret forgiveness
& bury both our heads
I believe in photoshop
& mediocrity
I believe I'm safe
I repeat.

False Flaggs

Little boy drop these
bombs & $tep away
use the backdoor staircase
     let them catch the
eye of the camera store
bring the car around
with the doors ajar
slam those headlights
     into gear
watch for old ghost dogs
of old Kentucky roads
     find your way in the
umpteenth night
     doom on the horizon
playing house with
handgun girls
          holster the backpacks
          under the cupboard
          kindergarten dreams
we'll all stick to the story
with the most holes
     sew the plastic around our heads
     suck up all the air

Friday, April 19, 2013


Two hours into
our CNN trip &
it's like that trash
can nightmare night
of all over again static dreaming
(and what would I do for one coming)
same image on rerun
remote control reverse
     sidewalk sameness
     over and over sameness
          will bring us
          together into
governmental pockets
mocking each other
hiding our thoughts
drowning the dream
changing the channel

You never paid

There's no parking spots
left in any East Coast town
that even great Neal could
back this baby into--
this current automated society
rear view camera without a clue
how to enjoy
                       the last third
                       of humanity's joke
while kids in Easter egg ties
roll the dice
      on their cellphone device
trolling idiocracy,
planting unoriginal seeds (we survive for you)
in the chat-roulette
of our ancestral souls--

laughing go the cameras
always on record

a crime against the corporate state
is a crime against society
is a crime against you me us we

take your communion at
the ATM alter
suck that green gold down

live forever with eyes seeing eyes


At the Corner

You'll give me the time
smile for the ages
rock schism and tumbles
toward sea roaring
south of night serenades,
crickets cling to weathered
screen doors
on far away southern plains
                         of my eyes
I'm aching side-wise
calling out to you
over the noises
you'll never feel
                        above the cigarette
my apology.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

The Collarbone Clock

Handle is a blindfold
farce synced up with hashtag
radio waves poured from the
ancient central telephone cable
a wired rig sinking into
our subconscious regret--
search again-without the
frozen oil spill this time--

it's found poetry
a payment for the injured
aircraft losing altitude in
the spring night sky
of the not so deep south
reflected in the garden patches

2d darkness
wood panel horror stares from
windows across the way
neither exist
neither existing

butcher the sentence
in the aftermath haze
dine on the dewy remains
slick with morning light

smell the sun up

feel the pulsing click and turn.

Saturday, April 13, 2013

Tell me the time--I'm always late and contemplating not going

A buried eye tempting the past
shining sky of terror
shorn like the sheep's wool
immemorial time phrase,
an unused category of cloud
description cartel caravan--

I've encrypted the rays
tucked in the corners of empty
houses demolished--

I am a feast for roaches
without a tale

coffee floods your veins
coats my walls

the gauze you carry are bloodstained
and stale.


Girl got the same clothes
as everywhere on sterilized
sidewalks of Northern Virginia
sunlit weekends going about
the set-up actions
of the attitude adjusted replicated
in re-runs of culturally reinforcing
sitcom punchlines
sunglassed and moving store to store
shopping day off from 5 days of earning
money to shop and maybe tomorrow
she'll think of the kids she'll have
when the man she wants has enough money to
spend on the house owned by banks
she trusts because people kill and steal
from anyone wandering the parking lots
warm with anything to lose
cash and purchases and story
on which the poor feed and covet,
those dirty whore pariahs threatening
to break down the empire
the objective entity of the masses
that cares--loves--protects--
girl got her ideas figured out
from what she sees and hears
the truth of reality through the lens
telling her where to be
reminding her what to see/

Wake up!

maybe too much
plastic clapping laugh
track hysteria in heaven
ambiguously dreaming
of endings not like the ones
we've already known,
maybe not enough
dancing on the graves
of unhinged conscious minds who,
dragging themselves about the tombs
of time, forget and forgive
this human race of all its sins,
on earth, 
or maybe I'm so very wrong
and all is merely, justly an afterword
to the total societal awakening
of Buddha-ness in the far-flung
future membrane spark--

I'm a walking skeletal remnant of failure!

these things do not exist
throughout--screen doors
swing in the green suburbs
of the concrete greenness of
America--a billion years in
the past is already happening

I've already wasted this line.

Friday, April 12, 2013

Funnel; Tell myself Go

just write
why don't'cha?

I'm not broken
not engine machine rusted
not the normal brain trust hell
not functioning correctly

I'm falling to the wayside
the after thought

I remember all the losers
the talent-less dregs

I toast to them on sodium fluoride
paint their graves in corn based colors

I'm tipping off the wayside
the jelly between culture
the infinite man

I've got more story to tell
everything is story
history is story
fact is story
I am a story

All story needs to end
to be told.

My apologies

The tv says you're dangerous
the tv talks in spaces
all kinds of phrases
language syncing to the invisible
inclusive speeches and
imaginary thoughts filled
with barbwire haywire
fireside chats cause damn
the past I am the future
unreadable--remote controlled--
stop the tractor beam, high tail it
to the next big deal big bang
section of the text
for I'm interested in human life
gutted and fresh on the
chopping room floor
the bazaar
of all nations burnt to dust
by minor flames
on on
on on on
like nation of man
in the end song
siren's song
I've never been

closer never been

further never been


Some poems are
too damn long to type out


they can't all be perfect.

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

When we hit it

when we hit Cali
I'll wear a Panama hat
Hawaiian shirt & khaki shorts,
because it's Spring
ride that look the rest a' the way
'cross rainbow desert expanse
sky painted ghost towns
knowing old forests
foggy ancient mountain ranges
those great & mysterious American rivers--

I'll christen myself
old man of the road
the fading spirit infinity--
                        forever wandering
bitterly achingly to death
     one heavy mile--one golden
                              one earthly abyss--
at a time.

Grayed Hounds

Greyhound bus drivers
must be the saddest drivers
in the world,

they've got one track &
an eternity same scene
flashing the human
aquarium interstate highway
traffic jam from birth till

only the passengers change
& maybe the tires
but they keep on writing
on those same gray roads
same tire marks
leaving nothing behind or

Monday, April 8, 2013

Love Letter Father Time

Here we are again
not so far away
from last time

language provides
my only link to
the future

to save the time stream
I will sacrifice its
present existence
for momentary gain


Flip your hair to the wind
off-white dress
distorting sun's rays
in front of that Ethiopian place
on 23rd
Nobody cares to see but me, honey
& I only care so's to write it down
Don't worry
we're all failures in that way baby,
all lame ducks,
only I'm able to die quicker
than the last sucker
to steal my seat--
I'll remember you
like a phantom of a poem
stretching back
until the next dress demands
my foolish attentions
replaces your existence
darkens the world

Burn me! I live!

In Philly it was
winter's chill & driver (must
be new to 95 straight line
corridor) goes wrong direction
--and there's the PA welcome sign--
          I think to Wilmington
instead of Port of
     but come on man
          both get you
     there eventually anyways
                               for God's sake
Just hit the gas
     & let's spring 5 hours
into our later--into the heart of the
un-dead American dream theater--
     before I can get home
     I'm out with the Taxi driver
                    checking out
                    the scrape & dents
                    on his brand new
"He owns this car?" I'm thinking
                    I guess he does
which makes the
warm night air taste a bit
sadder until I'm inside &
     the sirens burn out the
cascading colors of route 1
hotel rooms hotel lights hotel hearts
     the fire engines
                                    my way
put out the trees
& tuck me in--

Monday, April 1, 2013

Notebook Haiku

empty cup
stained with coffee
table for one

The death of
one sad man
entertainment tv

if you sit still
long enough
words will find you

third cups
should be the last
Get up and GO!

I do.

Who needs it?

I've suffered 29 years of ignorance
Now I am the black ghost
the freckled stranger
          finished with his teas
          and this
all lines are one continuously broken
     like talent & energy
     & confidence & belief
shit, the ageless need something to
hang on to
                to wait for in
dungeons of mind crawling hatred

my children need a swing for the yard
patches of gray
of make believe
of blue cornfields of mystery

Point me to the second half
I've got a speech to give--