Thursday, December 31, 2015

Haulien by the sea--

Guanyin you watch the sea
carved in stone, un-moving,
you are perfect, serene, compassionate,
do you hear the screams a continent away?
over the skip of rocks in the tide?

Guanyin can you see past the
mercurial pacific that's merely
a splinter of the essential mind?
I cannot see your tears,
what has man done to you?
are you here to protect the sea?

Guanyin are you lost on this emerald island?
is it a mistake I've found you, bled of colors,
unable to turn your eleven heads, twenty-two ears to the pain
of worldliness and attachment?

Guanyin am I asking too much?
please let me know?
Guanyin are you the resurrected Christ? I won't tell.
Guanyin have you heard of our barbaric western religions?
do you listen to the Taoists stories about you?
are they true?

Guanyin will you help us no matter what?
will you place the lotus in my hand and breathe pink into its soul?

Gunayin I am sorry I have pierced your solitude
to ask you meaningless questions, but I've many more.

Guanyin how many high tides have you witnessed here?
how many typhoons? how many shipwrecks?
How many fisherman caught in undertow? how many many deaths?

how many oceans have you cried with your twenty-two eyes?

Often I lie

Remember those first shits in the first months
of your coffee addiction.

they're gone.

years later I wrote several poems high on oxycodone.

I'm cleared now.

I've heard
there's a madhouse in a Bethesda naval yard crumbling to dust.

I've read
there's a mad ghost wandering the halls of an unnamed school in Paterson, NJ.

I know
there's a green van pulled to the side of the road off I-70 in Ohio, lost to time.

where I gave up the wheel,
where I was a rolling stone,
where I gave up sleep,
where I was never found,

I guess
some things will always be,
some things must go
some things
some times.

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

To Watch

fumbling for the switch, your nimble fingers
in the cold look so different, changed, rearranged,
tiny charred pitchforks in the monster hunting night,
can't grasp the tongue soaked metal of an afterthought,

some say it isn't right for the winter come,
and darkness is the right frame of mind to take,

I've no opinion either way,
outside a disinterested observation,
or so this narration says

and a rhyme.

the darkness is on time, to go or who to when next
we meet, with the ilights on, I don't know.

in the summer perhaps,
when you can flick the switch.

I'm not sure why I can't help you
in this task,

is it because I'm standing here, one legged?

there's one thing to be sure;

You'll have to stretch out and shut the door
or the light will escape, and all your work in the cold
will be for nothing

once again, just my simple, ascetic observation.

Tuesday, December 29, 2015


Along the river bank,
uncontrollable green vegetation,
beside concrete graveyards,
broken military installations abandoned,
overtaken with weedy tresses,
mangy junkyard dogs nip at bike wheels,
tongues slack from mouth,
show broken teeth--
if you gun it
they'll chase
so we roll to a stop
already they turn their heads
faced around the curve
for next scooter
--road skirts the water, closer,
no camera on red lights,
no stop signs,
five minutes from city center
the long hot country awaits,
brown dirt hills,
speckled with grass,
hazed by smog,
leaning bamboo,
scattered stone.

Thursday, December 24, 2015

Song Book

shrouded stranger,
were you cold and hunched over in the night?

do you drink your coffee, moonlit,
from tin canned heat?

too many questions.

I know.

this story without answers?

my dreams and
lined up with reality,

like a filter
sediment sifted down,

levels formed.

paintings in the desert.


same structure
like snaking codes
haunts me,

to the eye,
it lies,

I search for its heart.

there's no reason




Wednesday, December 23, 2015


the last grey sky
hid within it
Chinese lanterns
burning in the rain
cast up from
villages hidden
among green wet mountains,

barely visible between
phone line power line
thick clouds steaming heat
power line phone line
flickering figures
with what words to say,
I could not know,

gone among now
the mining towns, golden waterfalls
sheets of sky, gone wishes
molten air, thousand miles

an empty mirror;
the afternoon.


my broken knee

it's too cold to read outside
my cat glances up at me

we both sweat in the apartment's heat

sigh gladly
when I open the window

ignore the rain drops
splash on the sill

Monday, December 21, 2015

William Tell

my shaved legs,
goosebumped from the cold,
become lost to me each day,
like my atrophied body,
hunched with worry for my world,
ages beyond my desire;

won't they leave my sagging form
Won't they?

gaunt and ghastly
I've eaten my own flesh,

can't they see I wish to die

what more is there left to be done?

a failed attempt to remain removed,


I've no bones.

Friday, December 18, 2015

Babe in the night

the straight blue line in the night, I remember,
the fall, stiff metal, sagging skin, weakened bones,
a voice in the cold shadows come through the chill,
a body a heap of faded memory, a fogged addled mind,
the first glimpse into dying, the lamb leaps to escape.

Thursday, December 17, 2015

Gnostic Reading

You are reading this with totemic vision.
your eyes are like headlight winking stars
          in the void night over I-70 Kansas plains.

your finger on the mount
          are like god's timeless hand tirelessly being all time,
          being anything, being same, meant as everything or;

your smirk is of my creation
          out of nothing, becoming nothing, going back
          into nothing, after all being of nothing at the start

you are reading this as a last dying light, going out.


          the hands in the church are hanging,
swung down the bell tower fast,
clanging like ancient horrors
in the swift moving current,
the white holy cloaks carried along,

          hail, now the last possible moment
terror comes before the feast, there the
tormented souls have come to lie, where
nothing grows but the vibration echo,
the holy voices yell,

          wavering, the scent of incense burns
my eyes, your eyes, all.

Wednesday, December 16, 2015


in there there was this
old grainy 1960 home movie footage,
little girls in white dresses
faces gently muddled into obscurity
twisting on white soled ankles
in what might have been the afternoon sun,
looking up at them and around,
not sure why we were there--
I was two years maybe three years old
when the lines at the margins began to run.

Monday, December 14, 2015

Security Footage

in my stomach
what now has been my world
two weeks now removed;

I am in an effort,
I am to decode myself,

I will rid myself of all shame.

today I left the house without my hat
I was sweating

did you know I am going bald?

where were all the eyes watching?

there were none that noticed any difference
I was passed back and forth
my cat doesn't know what to think of me.

I have become an imposition on myself

many times I have thought these things
these unreal unreality things

is it possible I am an invention?

if so,
how long until I die?

if so,
is this my answer to life. no,
this is my response.

where have the things I have thought gone?

they have gone
where I have no things
and things is a word I use to mean
nothing and nothing is
just a thing a word in a line
I have placed where others
are left and others will follow.

Friday, December 11, 2015

my right leg hasn't touched a floor in 2 weeks

sound is like this shower
make believe rain
I haven't had in days
when I imagine gray skies
in the afternoon
alternating to blue skies
when I wake
and drop these pills,

the ice therapy lasts 20 minutes,
I can't count past 10 without drifting
and it feels like some
other clear daydream day
before I wake, maybe it's
the length of a television 
program broken 
by commercial advertisements,

these are the most important questions at this time;

and with that it isn't clear if I'm
some sorry cripple scribbling 
on the back of his hand
counting off

Thursday, December 10, 2015


I have covered this ground with tired legs

not much has changed, nor has it remained the same

there were strings I mended, re-tied along the way

many were frail and so left ignored to atrophy

there were barriers constructed

mercurial bridges, flat tires, orange arrows

and the road,

two white lines, one yellow

only ran one way


frame by frame

your life escapes me

little white pill

many mashed words in a
mixer like mom's 1950
powder blue or green
whatever my mind
sticks to whatever
memory pops out

whatever color smells right

like flour
wisps in sunlit circles
and by the time I write this
I am 30 years old
confined to my bed

in pain


higher still

too weak to resist the next four hours

Tuesday, December 8, 2015


*Originally appeared in the Light Ekphrastic*

"Death is acommin in
                                    and mocks my loss of Liberty"

63. The Tree
Cast a shadow over villages
made into the face of the moon,
a tree impervious to seasons, to death,
a pile of limbs, no dent,
in its cradle of branches,
a man, sap marks his blade,
blood, sweat, aching steel,
folded and sharpened by fire,
absurd Wu Gang chopping,
chopping still;

an impossible task.

39. Daphne
my fingernails
                        now leaves before the night

for winter

tho earth may dry and crack

my roots
sink deep
                        shall never die

52. Lust/Chastity
a chase
a tragedy

the word once spoken is law

an oath
an apology

46. Genes
Bay Laurel:
of the order Laurales
of the family Lauraceae
of the Genes Laurus
of the species L. nobilis

5. Chastity/Lust
an anachronism
an image

works written for the page

a relic
a wreath

18. Apollo
By her limbs
                        I have wronged

yet I will not learn
but yearn
through an arrow
and in so doing

tho the earth may pass before my age

I shall
not want

                        shall not be sated

36. The Moon
Madcap, the 64 signs
hear tell of the rabbit,
lives on the moon,
there, he pounds the medicine
of the earth,
in the lunar light,
for the coming age,
the luster, holy water
reflected in
Buddha’s pail;
a body never burns.

Monday, December 7, 2015


metal hooks on set tracks
cross hatched beige dividers

wipe your body clean
and air dry

these socks prevent blood clots

they're white
and the room is cold

it's time to go

my ass is out and the gown in gray

purple marker masks my knee

the IV is in
blood has dripped

it'll be an hour that becomes six months

once I sit down
I am no longer mine
I am the white walls
the anesthetic
the knife

induced sleep

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Avalokitesvara on the Shore

The skipping pebbles said to me.
Onward now.
and back.
We have been washed and worn.
by tides
by the waves.

The color of toothpaste, I said.

What? (as gray clouds
from central mountain peaks
weighed down)

The waves,
they were the color of blue frothy toothpaste,
there was no sand.

And the sky,
the same,

it reflected the stones.

Thursday, November 5, 2015

Rain Pome on Take Off

There aren't many nights like this left in America;
still, but for the shower that comes without warning.
quiet, but for the gentle tap of rain on street.
two storeys up from my window ever dry,
two storeys down my wet earth washed away.

Monday, November 2, 2015

Mr. Dorsett

Mr. Dorsett lifts pallets in the rain
     is a godsend in hardhat and blue jeans

each droplet is a pearl reflecting his world
     wood chips and oiled machines grayed smoke stacks

Mr. Dorsett picks up the tab for everyone's lunch
     just this one time

at the corner of University and M
     Mr. Dorsett is 65+ years old and working

Mr. Dorsett takes care of the boys
     they call to him from opposite sidewallk to see how the pallets are

     they're wrapped in plastic tied with a rope

Mr. Dorsett has a deft hand at the controls
     skips his meals when he needs to when the work won't go

Construction is the light blood of the damned
     and the storm passes so the umbrellas close

Mr Dorsett lifts the pallets in the sun
     is a godsend in hardhat and blue jeans

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

A Baseball Poem

baseball was meant to be enjoyed on the radio like this
rippling across this ocean spirit we called America once
waves grow from wheat fields outside Kansas City
pick up antenna speed flush out against mountains east and west;

have a beer for me and slowly edge the volume up
it's the end of the 11th and this thing's got legs to go into the night;

Kansas City isn't Iowa it isn't heaven but it's sure close to both

Tuesday, October 27, 2015


you there
with the basket,
slinking in alleyways
between siren
street lights

turn your head to this unfeeling world

there's no reason
to do what we do
to have to do what you've done
go on home
rest your eyes

we've come this far for fields of green
wasted all our trees
killed all your sisters brothers mothers we

don't hide your face
under florescent bulbs
I know who you are
but I won't out you

we are both on the lam
you turning the corner
me here

waiting to be slaughtered.

Thursday, October 22, 2015

Kiss my life

leaning over bar
I played the
lonesome traveler
peering over pint
of oyster stout
silently brooding

'in heaven we will all be safe,
          there will be no reality to bear,'

in private libraries
I read alone
another night leads
to another day and that
is gone from me already
already I am older still
slower still stiller still

in auld forgotten faces
I got the usual in a place
I'd only been once
two weeks before

a delorean revved its engine
across street to cheering crowds
another celebrity out of time

the sun was set
the night lingered
bits of orange
tint of black
purple bruises

I limped home up Ode St.
caught each transfer
perfect red to yellow line to 16J
fed my cat
turned off all the lights
kissed my life farewell
fell asleep

Wednesday, October 21, 2015


(Written between October 16-18; Completed October 20, 2015)

Flash by Lowell in the Autumnal dawn
            Pink blear of morning
Rush goes the mighty Merrimac
            In Kerouacian mist of pawtucketville ghosts
            Turn go the leaves
            rough characters at gray full up stations
            waiting on breakfast lines
            In rearview mirrors of the tired mind
Red Massachusetts lonely
Golden in the night
            Like earlier darkness of Philadelphia
North Philly streets
            Shrouded Stranger
            Appear in faraway view
Flows cracks on long ago pound streets
Mystery of flowing cape
Gray gray gray gray
Phantom of mindless fear
Great death chasing
            Out of the past
Or hero of wandering fools
            A great horror thing
            Lost in break light red
            Big northeast leering eyes
And finally left behind
Become nothing corporal
            Omen harbinger spirit herald

Snow on Katahdin
            False peak faced north
Obscured by foggy gusts of zero degree chill
And somehow this clears at night
            To star filled starry sky
Night night milky night &
            Milky Way rush of constellations
At midnight
Untied boots and thermals
            Standing in clearing
            In dim light years
            Behold! Moonless night
Coal black night diamond forged
            Thoreau wrote from Bangor
From foot to wheel to backpack
to Millinocket
To Katahdin to stream
            & where are the primal spirits
Rage over mountain top
            Crag of split rock & kaleidoscopic tree leaves
Of fall’s ebb
            Inimical & endless forests 
of the mind
            laid out
Spread unbroken to Kanady
            To artic to frozen circle
To grim desolate wastes
            Of tundra north

And in morning
            White skies
Icy hands
            Warm steam of mouth
Smoke of fire dawn
            Rustle of tents
Acrid scent of flame on my beard
            Ceaseless cascading stream
My dreams
            At 4am
As temperature dropped for snow
            Lift my lost kitten
            To the moon
            He is lost
            I am lost
Oh Night!
Thick on my eyes
Someplace long ago
            Voices telling me
            It was okay to let him go
Drift from summit rock slide
From bone of holy oly peak holy
            I am cradled in the night
            By icy root of tree

Root of tree
            Wreathed through wet ground
Bedded with leaves
            Twisting branches overhead
The tent
            Shrouded in its shadow
Final thought
And now morning of the mind
            The first snowfalls on Maine hills
            At edge of trail end
There’ll be 8 inches or more
On mountain paths
            Whooshing waterfalls
Cough cough arctic lung
            Tip tap of large flurries
Weigh trees down
So leaves like windshield wipers
On car windows bend over road
            Baxter through Lovecraft
Lakes mist on lapping water
Pebbled shore
            Stark inky and gloom
            Heart of the northeast
            End of the world
            Millinocket Lake
            Off Blackcat dirt road
Not far from Togue Pond Twin Pines
Log cabin coffee at River Drivers
            Snow falls on
            Cold cold cold Maine
Lake effect
Swirling flurry winds
Gravel path from window
Katahdin invisible
Opaque whiteness
Great white north—

South in the October foliage on 157
            Medley at I-95 back to Bangor trek
The farthest reaches of
            Hi-way gore
To seek the Atlantic now
            Cap’n at the wheel
Light with ginger beer smells
            Old world puritanical spell
Carved wood at the
            Cross stitched lamp of the world
In motel now
            Tents clothes bodies eyes
            Too wet for another elemental night
Dry on the furnace of mankind’s
Innermost Acadia Gateway hotel
Caramel brown ale smell
            Ellsworth Trenton toothpick toothache
            Too true Trenton
Of no this isn’t New Jersey
But gauntlet to Bar Harbor Acadia cliff spill
In the Great North
            In bitter wind
            In winter’s great American shore
Come morning
            A brush across the bluest waves

 Blue waves
            Fishing boat fisherman’s life
Wool caps thick beards barrel chest
            Desolate but beloved distance
Beloved lighthouses
            Cut & cold hard
            Icy of heart
New England ah
            Call of gulls
Burn of engine fume
            Rock & mast
Red painted rails
            Cast against heaving sky
Glory sky
            My visions in the cool
            Blackness preceding sleep
            What sunrise would bring
            What next?
            Frush & rush
And undertow and all
Blear blast black port
Great hulking rocking bestial ships
            Silent aw silent

Answer at sun-up
            Brings blue sky clouds vanish
Route 3 south
            Onto Mt. Desert Isle
Bar Harbor
            How it got it’s name
Who know? Who?
            Rocky beachhead
Shimmer under sunshine
            Without warmth
No time tho but to race around
            Start those tires roll engine roar
Chariot headed south
            Congested traffic hell of ole New York
            To bar our way
First a swing on 9 from 95 from 1
            Lobster rolls at Dock Square
End of Lanigan Bridge
And every town has a sister in Maine
Slapped port on the end
West Westport Northport Searsport Portland
            Slapped mayo or butter or both
            Grilled bread 1lbs Lobster shelled
Last day of the season
            Cold gray water
            Thick with coming winter
Scent of lemon salt water fishy scent
            Little shore towns
            Hidden from time
            All along bottomless

From there now gone
            From here now going home
Day falling fast to our left
            On rushes the night 515 miles away
            Our mason Dixon mid-atlantic line
Rivers Delaware Susquehanna Anacostia Potomac
States MA Rhode Isle Connecticut New York
New Jersey PA Delaware MD
Pitch black is October night shift
            5am of morning slow crunch of time
Last days fresh
Fresh like the recent dead
Hint of decay
Memory fade
            Slide in the rearview
Alone now at destination point
Last dead drop my own
Each goodbye one less body of the whole
Of the host six souls one car one mountain
Whole of Maine
            Six directions they go
            Gabow V Tommy Joe Chase myself
I go mine
I go it alone but not alone
Toward what future may come
This is spring this is summer this is fall’s truest end
            Faced in directions south face north east west
To roam loam roam roam home roll flat burnt leaves
Vibrate soul soil soul legs hands heart wheel engine
Ancient stone forged trail in gray-like dreams
            Go Go North a vision a god a martyr Go
            Ever always standing

Thursday, October 8, 2015

Suburban Sprawl

We each had good, green lawns.

There was this bit once, I tagged myself
in a photo in front of my lawn titled,
Just mowed the lawn #housework #weekends

It was featured on my facebook page.

We each had one of those, too.
quite serious.

There was a time when I used a pseudonym
but I shouldn't misrepresent myself;
luckily facebook had me change it back.

It was the right thing to do.

We each had an online presence.
Tied to our life;
our job.

What you say or do online can impact you
in reality, it should impact how you live,
we all understand that.

It is the small price you pay for progress.

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Filing Papers Away

last 10 years.
park at end of childhood street.
this morning's sunrise.

today I realized
they were the same.
today I realized they were gone.

gone and going even further gone.
gone away from me.
gone forever.

what have I done?
since then, what have I done?
where have I gone?

look back.
look forward.

today I realized they were gone.
today I realized you were gone.

today I realized I will be gone.

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

Parable of the park

It doesn't
require much
to be lost

to realize
that you're lost
takes even

once in
a park
I saw an

it was
crawling across
the seat of a

what's a bench
to an ant?

what's an ant
to a bench?

I sat on the
bench and the ant
crawled across

think about it

what am I to
and ant on a
leg on a bench
in a park?

were we not
all lost together?
can anyone
say for sure?

It doesn't
require much
to give an

Love sentences to the New Yorker

I haven't been able to finish a poem in the new yorker since 1979
          and I wasn't even born yet

* * *

Somebody might want to let them know that their obsession with the ampersand
          has no lasting impact on their cultural relevance

* * *

Remember when Bukowski wrote about all the tap tap tapping back and forth,
          did it occur to you then, or now, that he was talking about you?

Monday, October 5, 2015

Insects in the snow

insects in the snow crawling toward the data centers
     of the contemporary digital brain
insects in the snow were once lines in magazines
     now twitter and sulk on flat screens
insects in the snow feeding personal thoughts
     to four-wall unmanned fusion centers
the eye of the great surveillance wheel
     black and spinning like a .45

insects in the snow of dedicated bandwith methodology
     television talk show false flag causality
     youtube montage conspiracy screens
     SNL as a political platform voting machine
     jon stewart doing the viacom shill in plastic suit
insects in the snow buried in colorful personality quizzes online
     what do they say about you?
     I want to know

what do you know about insects in the snow
     like where did they come from?
     where on tumblr do they hide?
on some hallmark card line over ocean sunrise mountain top a forest photoshop
     how many will share or heart or like?
how many hands are red lines of ants steady crossing data paths
like insects in the snow

Insects in the snow as the static fades out and the white light goes
     insect like black trailing pixels cast out as typed lines
insects alone in the stale silent death
    within the inimical isolation of internet space
Insects in the snow becoming clear barren
     beginning to smear and blend
becoming obfuscated reality

to remain unfinished

in 100 years there'll be pilgrimage to Junction City Kansas
all these hyper kids on I-70 walls between them and the sea
head against the windowpane watching for that famous gray exit
there'll be a line of junk and hope straight down route 1 half-moon to L-A
visions on the shore of Carpinteria, California like Key West or Desolation peak
this will all be done via virtual reality if we're still here if necessary
when the beach as black as oil and the plains are toxic waste dumps
and I'll be long ago buried in an anonymous plastic tomb outside Camp Hill, P-A

Friday, October 2, 2015

300 dollars worth of repairs

the transistors
          the lamp posts     and
my car     too
          rust out in the rain

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Hallmark Card in honour of Paul Muldoon

If your work is ever rejected by the New Yorker
     just look up the editor's poetry.

I promise     You'll feel a lot better.

Monday, September 28, 2015

Says More Than it Intends (Found Poetry)

Combat zones to boardrooms.

Early morning drills to PTA meetings.

Transitioning back into civilian life isn't easy.

The USO Transition 360 Alliance recognizes this, offering career and family
resources to answer, "What's Next?"

Saturday, September 26, 2015

the best poem written on the back inside cover of a bukowski chapbook

lite a match
use that single flame to lite the pack
suck in the sulfur exhaust
let it burn off

Arlington Bop

Rock music
from cemetery stoop--
white domino rows of the sacrificial lamb--
odd feedback
guitar strings,
tour bus buzz
announcer drawl mix
vibrations off the back wall--
turf renovation in progress--
selling the national memorial of death
     to the old
     to the current
     to the new

Cemetery Sentences

Red hydrant on the ridge     what sets you apart from death?


Candy corn barricades stacked on roadside     wait for another day


Wind blows toward the one true God     Washington, DC


on the hill     line of trees     in the sky metal streaks     blue angels


lying flat in the swamp     freedom's five-sided tombstone


No photos please     the military industrial complex is now in session

If you got the time

     Foxcroft Heights
neighborhood est. 1938
     commuter mass relocation
16G 16J 16H 16X express
     homes along the pike
Highway horizon I-395
     on Saturdays
a skeleton frame
     no money to make
no money to spend
     US-244 West
Arlington Alexandria
     around the bend
Annandale up next.

Telephone Poll C1017 HJ6

Berries grow but won't
                    be eaten

Grass grows but can't
                    be cut

10:17 am
                    the time I was born.

Friday, September 25, 2015


one day ahead of myself
     I'm one day advanced in age
one day beyond in thought
     I'm one day behind in dream

Funny little jingles hold complicated lies
     you watch them but you can skip after five seconds

five seconds is too long
     they're on television too if you're old enough to own one

one day
     half looks forward
     half looking back

never the right moment to get what you want

Thursday, September 24, 2015

Rubinstein's Best of American Poetry

For Will

now the Encyclopedia Britannica is dead
Rubinstein wants to replace it with the American poem.

my MFA, lost in his citation page
which masquerades as poetics,
is my entry fee,
on a train to nowhere
where I ride with other carefree poets
printed letters on our minds,

no one asking,
can poets be carefree?
should they be?

For what it's worth,
I just want a seat at the table,
however meager the pickings,
I've nothing of importance to say,

I know the original titles,
I can recite them.
they're in other languages,
meant to be typed in italics,

let me help lessen the breadth of the pome,
I promise to keep it in those outmoded halls,
new yorker, harpers, nation, balls balls balls

what's in a- what's in a- name?
it's a publisher's game.

the best we have to offer is our brevity,
so take it, our metaphor too, sacrifice it,
for this new contemporary age, best of 2015,

Don't feel what you write, don't write what you feel,
and for god's sake if you do spell it out with too many damn words

Internet video violence v. comments

why everyone so violent?
     you see violence
want more
     I would punch that guy
in his face
     if i saw that
he should have more respect

I'll teach him to hold my values
my righteous inclination to violent
reaction of violent action

when worldview is my view
it is worldview forever pure

only violence can inform violence
(central conceit)
(methodological design)

response time is in fists
knives bullets blunt objects

only proof is the short history of man

guilty or innocent
right or wrong

4 telework haiku

what would a poem
by WB read like?
a Naked Lunch I think.

a bottle of america
on corner of my desk,
sand settles down 

watching my cat sleep
listen to traffic crawl
reading next email

world out my window
further away today,
working from home

Papal Vacation

dressed in white
my naked pink whiteness
typing from home
from my prison across river
listening to kaddish
allen ginsberg voice
strange nudity
accumulation of data files
telework cables
draped over me
cloak of immortality
work mad
god on earth
for a day
for a year
for eternity

Tuesday, September 22, 2015

why are all my heroes killers?

there's been bleach on my breath for over a week.

Why are all my heroes killers?
why do they shuffle off and muster for the military industrial complex?

where is this taste coming from,
thick white mucous on my gums,
bangs against my chest,
invades my lungs,

why with all this faceless, remorseless death?
why now those black marching boots? I don't get it.

who is poisoning who?
I do live in washington dc. I know.
I listen to the radio taps at night. I sleep with the window open.
the bells and the highway and the graves sneak in.

why can't I know what's going on?
why is money human but human isn't the same?

there's been bleach on my breath in an effort to hide the blood.

Your Phone

standing with your phone to keep you safe
     with your phone by the window at night, rest it by your sleeping head,
standing with your phone to fend off the awkwardness of life,
     strangers and situations, with your phone on yelp
     what's the best mexican place around here, can't anyone digital help?
standing with your phone in silence, swiping
     with your blue phone in the blue twilight soothing, how you spell gluten?
standing with your phone feeding on information
     with your phone and each hyperlink baby, vine video virtual reality,
     life in six second segments to further regiment the day,
standing with your phone, man, snapping photos
     of the lost, lonely, haggard, privacy deprived fools around you
     with your phone and its hashtags and its thin, cold, warmth,
standing with your phone against the bleak will of life,
     with your phone and its sleek body, its perfect self,
standing with your phone as physical communication becomes the past,
     with your phone and the data that keeps you tethered to scrolling text
     what happens in china, germany, malawi, the united states?
     with your phone and its selected streams, creative apps,
standing with your phone against the paradoxical world map
     moving on with the current, with your phone setting the trail,
standing with your phone to by another phone and another phone
     waiting in line for the next available generation,
standing with your phone as it's boxed and recycled, returned to the cloud,
     marking your life in .1 upgrades,
standing with your phone and clicking send in that bill
standing with your phone and standing alone,
     with your phone as your eyes, as your brain, as your fingers, as your mouth
     as your nose.

Saturday, September 19, 2015


conversation of 8 thousand miles
from down the hall,

jack reads whalen Interglacial on
toilet bowl 40 years ago,

I read on the same stinking toilet bowl of time,
shit toilet bowl of the fractured mind,

saturday morning like saturday morning,
bodies like body,
sag. age;

and it's all a tightening circle,
slowly sinking, flushed down.

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Tom Fischer and the I Ching

take his body parts,
times 64,
remove the clogged arteries,
the writers block
in a cycle every 2,000 years,

cleaning schedule
is synced into his
bathroom break time
8x2 is 16x2 is 32
divided by 2 is
16 round trips
in an 8 hour day,

speaking in the
3rd person gets you
nowhere with a girl
and like that
the polestar rotates
in eliptical orbits
of generational

he wonders at times,
reading the solar squares
on the calender sky,
what it's like to
live in the true North,

not very much different
the divinations say--

'look to 6 dashes of
morse code, he has a
penchant to say morris
code, number of days in the
lunar year of 13 months
doesn't impact the
necessity of daylight
savings: the interest
is back up to 384.1%;

sift his thought process
down to the 6th degree,
free dimensional state
where nothing is
vibrationally attentive
to the demands of the state
and clockwork is an
absurdity dream device'

--white bones fall on
hexagonal frames, whte chalk
marks on ancient wood, right
meter of begone time,
rite thought in the wrong
name, understood.

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

Need help for short panis here!

Erect a star antenna

fit the lens of the reflection
of retribution of the
salvation of the earth
to the membrane filament of
the singing skull

all late century human
history has been building to this

Jupiter is our mirror
is the mechanism of escape
the outer inner-cosmos
of mind reflected in
hyper-space time
holding the key to our
species fate,

prepare the human corpse
for jettison,
man is an artifact
meant for space travel

now is the time of the
coming of the end of the
world is nigh

close your eye to the past
there is nothing left
that is to be done,

only that you relinquish
your hold to the control
belief, only that you
prepare to begin anew.

Thursday, September 10, 2015


this bus on the corner, rarely, if ever, looks to stop;
you have to wave it down or step forward before it rides past.

she was wearing sunglasses that day,
it was sunny and hot and bright, so
she was wearing them to shield her eyes
from the bright and hot sun.

when the bus with its compressed air braking system
stopped with a puff and huff and gradually lowered itself to the curb,
and the doors opened with a jerk and inward swing,
she balked and gave no intention of walking on.

as this bus, as previously asserted, had a penchant and reputation
among the boarders at this particular corner
not to stop on most occasions, the other potential riders,
who were edging nervously behind the sunglassed girl,
wasted no time for opportunity to board,
moving around her and jumping on, scanning cards
and taking a desired seat.

I was one of those riders, though I determined to stand.

After the bustle, you could hear the driver's audible and
inwardly directed, "sorry about that, ma'am,"
and her equally audible and inwardly directed, "that's okay,"
return, as she stepped on.

Monday, September 7, 2015

Letters read on the john

read your letters on the toilet,
came in the mail sixty years too late,

they were sad and one-sided,
yellowed and dirt-specked,

there were several notes extra
wrapped in stiff rubber bands,
couldn't make out those few handwritten words,
so you'll never get the cash you're owned,

left my own postscript:

rusty paperclips leave marks and
staples will ruin the page;

I couldn't save you from an early grave--

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Robot Mantra


tek tek tek


hissing tube
window sealed
light above
shut off

ack ack ack ack
gak gak gak gak



held in place
all connected
muffled senses
stunted thought


endure for 30
maybe 5 more

stabbed myself
with a pencil
still you
see the point
metallic objects

tek tek tek tek

beige tube
beige socks
how does this
gown fit on

how much time
has passed

think about sensory
maybe it's
something like this

Monday, August 24, 2015

Old Forgotten Dreams Cut-Up

agent in, rifle out.

about alien elaborate waves,
it's water control. they like us.

reason A: people, hidden...human reach control.
breathing. control. hands alien missing,
some with humans retreat,
sound don't have existence,
in comes demon water people,

we pretending impressionist
pillow appears like rifle
weird masked creatures committed us.
pedal. control on. scene rooms,
creatures eventually human control.

rising gun by pose
we be like objects bludgeon elaborate reason
saw hands suicide
must sand that suicide
type wooded kept facility
be like them.

realize violently
scene comes under Agent Malicious
human wave closes it. Malicious is alien of reality
my costume they control. die.
recedes masks and image.
blinks alien under objects
must have reason effect an alien image.

demon had control.
wrestling to close by understanding existence,
hand against them.

Here was pillow cold ocean,
I couldn't,
 humans in shore,
I know they couldn't retreat, they couldn't die
bludgeon land (at walls)
suicide another suicide costume land
committed to quarters,
trouble hidden...
I couldn't see
to die
I knew.

They've come bearing brains

raised my gun--they would
not move--arch of bullets--
shot over head--blink
bodies of the cephalopod mind--blink--
cruelty--can't shoot--trigger--
wrong feel--ak rattles--
tombstones on childhood--
fields in backyard--laid--
there was memory there--once--
one--they could not move--
momentarily phased out--
phased in solid--motion--
bullets into heaven--innocent--
wincing aim--buck and
shoulder--stomach eaten--
erect tentacles--scolding
hot--extra eye lids--
carved rocks--names--blast of
heart beat--final shot--

Cat dreams

in the filing cabinet
you found your face,
a perfect match
between manila sheets.

Friday, August 21, 2015

Post-Cut-up Bad Deal II

earth written like blood
     empty sockets, you had strawberry last night

on hand
can lined
     the milky corner selling

that;      I mean

2000 through in sun moon drifting
     them toothless toothless meat year


     when impossible oil toothless by meat
broke yellow heaven

like in earth     written brown mushroom gunpowder
     non-white grins

the houses clouds I like

dock decade oil was broken toothless     over 100 playlists

each street cycled     milky

sun egg     on teflon canvas buttery
     slick      dyes

last night on broke yellow machine

a year through the red strawberry street

Post-Cut-up Bad deal I

slick archway on egg
all slow an even
earth like time
you overhead,

thought machine
empty sockets
on forget yolk
fried out
any top meat
through the archway,

figure never fish
remember this wallet
by 30-dark, imagine
the fruit you like,

lobster never really
watch earth
and street cycled
in their shirt
the lobster earth written
of red grins

even the purse stink
yolk fried toothless number-

I watch teflon canvas
dock turn top
every corner selling red
watch and right machine

with fish red drifting
seafood started 1900
as lined wipe my hand

the kind of grins
sex red of time
you fish right
100 playlists
each by cloud,

left of teflon
canvas dark eyes,
year in,
fruit sun
dark ,

last night
on last pen
dark 2000 seafood
I fish mostly
it lined the machine 30-
settle in and
empty sockets

sun their hand
a mushroom
earth written.

silent in the glow of a cut-up roadside

unknown day signs split the wooden street;

speak splits will

road almost oh the porch
     am silenced
          in will the
               splits off
                    silent alone

porch splits street
     porch not concrete
          fenced its cars;

respond ever never not lost
     and unknown
          not ever

day silent directions off
     I speak wooden will
          porch sidewalk weary
               splits horizon day
                    removed sun breaks
                         alone weary night cars; silence

Starbucks on the cut-up

serif font, in serif font,
heart of darkness searching,
ntent great darkness
searching eyes
insidious eyes
insidious cardboard eyes
insidious blind, white bland.
intent great heart windows,

cardboard intent.

Thursday, August 20, 2015

We're getting there on cut-up feet

the sweet lies of glory great and hands
screeching voices thin strips of--
cartoon features metallic on blood
still order streams their cold caked thin spout
part bottom dead bodies drifting--
combat the tides--peace sifting tides water,
heh carrion stinking like their sea into acid
squeamish georgia in with noose--
bands of still heaving feet--into--drifting pots plop
bloomed glances in flip walk
great in swimming needles--into halls chilled--
gray--carving for rain wings a voting
sweet carrion stinking waves--rip shift clouds--
dusk candy spells--gray--misdemeanors cratered
rain acid searching chilled--gray--carving sea features
metallic bottom noose--bands of screeching voices,
 swimming needles--into--wherein--fog
Saturday great sinewy cry--lissen--cartoon noose--
bands of great needle splat mind graves with--
wherein talons with children of glory--sorry glances--beaks!
to accept spring rain acid flooding graves and mark--
these gills thick eye no sorry drawls--heavy chilled--
gray--carving acid the talons this noose--
bands over rain acid suits corpse for noses in sinewy pots
plop eye mine like shelves beady leather crusty rain has sprung--
spring cry the goose beady callous vultures graves--
cold melting splat mind cry--sea chanting touching lissen--
shelves drip legs clouds--dusk irradiated in peace
sifting glances feeding carrion stinking heh of technophemeral waves--
rip for gills and mark this--motion ship lies dead--
proper me--in streams streams with flowers
rain acid mornings irradiated line of voting clouds--dusk