Ambulance dream

inside the ambulance
if you open the door
past the stench
covered in red
the metallic insides metallic floor
fleshy rolls of canvas paper
dripping like old wrapped meats
hung to dry from the ceiling
meticulously curated
if you could supress your screams
you'd see through the doors
further back in the woods
like mirrors face to face
an infinite number of like vehicles
with no conceivable end
no escape

A Tale of Two Coffees

two different days

two shirts the same

you said again

how you felt

I answered again

in return

two cups of coffee

ordered the same

one better than the last

plus tax

both heads covered

one cloth one wool cap

two different order times

on night and one in the afternoon

a quick stop and go for me
you're there $8/hour five days a week

In to out of everything

when I sit down my stomach swells
over the keyboard grotesque burping sounds
I had meant to write it all down
instead into the bathroom
the eye in the sky in my hand
a reality cut with other realities
doesn't water it down
release all the ideas you've ever had
flush them around and around

Merit

today you pounded the keys
walked out under gray skies but didn't really look up
reflection on the pavement was enough

today is like a day I forget to eat
and that is what I did though drinking 3 cups coffee

my cat slept 5 hours more than me
andI slept on none since waking at 8 o clock

the sun has seen fit to fall and I am out up on my feet
it will drop into the 30s once it moves dark

today there is no food in the fridge that isn't coated in green fur
dead as stuffed turkey and gizzards cold food from the past

I will move past it and down the elevator
down the stairs and into the bitter chill of almost december.

Google drives

tucked into my google drive
buried under edited versions of the same documents
titled (1) (2) (3) (4) (and so on)
is nothing particularly interesting
alphabetically or chronologically ordered
nor listed by type and size
merely the collected digital trash
collated by being mine
making up the grand total of unknowable mb
until told I've run out
undeleted unopened underrated
since the year of our cyberlord google 2008.

After I got home

I ate lunch outside

found unemployment unpaid

thought door creak open on the ledge

heard construction drone off and by the edge

forgot where and what I'm doing here

with nowhere else to even go

finished eating inside

Hair for Dinner

over the oil thick pan
     the fingers curled distinct

the smell er stench or taste of anything human burning
     on the tongue re: on the nose
                                                    burning

pungent odor mix of pork oil olive & chive
          inedible          decidedly
alien & well strange

          wisps of thin dark heat
burnt garlic simmer
                                burnt tendrils of human     hair

my smoking remains
     split ends & tangled locks
blue orange flame

long-hair mules in soup

their heads dunking into thick orange broth
swirls of cinnamon and yellow pearl
sucking the noodles through their nostrils
chewing with strong flat teeth
all the time thick woolen hair over their eyes
bobbing to the surface and then below
steaming and matted in my soup bowl

Purged Fruit

on the grasses
                       purged of fruit
if this and everything
                                   all dried
with this stray thread
                                   unwound
a struggling shadow form
                                          repeated
resplendent with aching fires
                                                 naturally catastrophic
on the grass
                    without water
sitting in brown sop
                                 mildewed
everything teased up on our fingers
                                                         raisins
as quicksand takes the field
                                             buried tailors
not much use for clothes
                                        dirt feet
in the moss up in the tree
                                         not to be seen
on the grasses
                       waking the meadow
wandering up on tectonic plates
                                                    the ozone
freezing rain and thunder freezing
                                                       and sleet
on the grass
                    my pruny feet
the last thought
                          indeed
the raffled off remnants
                                      rainforest man
on the grasses
                       nothing to eat
drinking oil black
                             wine
from before
                    for after
behind our looking glass eye
                                               a wasted valley
a sudden wrathful swarm
                                         chequy arms
some odd colors as before
                                           symptoms
on the grass
                     and more
on the grasses
                       as before
on the grass
                    rotted spoils
on the grasses
                       purged and gored

Stretch Out

we don't stretch very far

and the cracked road sunk with rainwater

swell          flush out the rot of a million nation's tombs

wash thick red ink baked by waking suns     steam

on off-ramps and dye hard packed streets          chestnut brown

aged in iron casks          out comes meadering souls

to fill out the space between the white           lines

to amble forth     siphon the air from what's left of the earth.

underbrush

you've left the underbrush to grow

uncontrolled these last oh hundred some years or so

you've made sure to keep the kindling to a minimum

washing out any thoughtful sparks

you'd hoped another team would take up the chore

but now the fire ignites

now it's pushing us out

out from behind tall damp trees

out from beneath the cool soft ground

out over streams gravid and unfordable

out into the roaring plains

out off into the charred hills

you've prayed for more lies and steady progress

and maybe I have too

but there is none of that left

and the fire from the rising tombstone cliff by the swelling sea

moves inland flickering

moves against the swaying leaves

comes for us all

Welp

them bad feelings marching down
eat your sidewalks up
in spinning shiny teeth-like things

in the tractor beam it suck you in
it stick you there
it warp your mind
it make many things uneven make you forget

this is not some frivolous reality
(though all reality is queer/frivolous)

it make darkness go bump in night
in shadows it stick your eye
and when you can't see out far
it stab you tight in chest

those horror ideas clamped shut
eat your soul all up
in spiteful machine clown cars

I'm wobbling on two cheeks
I've sat all day 12 hours on one ass
I am meat nothing else

it pack itself in transparent capsules
it swallows fitfully
in plexiglass atomic fears
it come in day as in night as in light

there will be
a to be
continued

there will be
an ending

there might be
a garbanzo
beginning

it will be fibrous thick with dark clot blood

it will be clod and hunk and coal ah

help

wtf

I think this not how is

weird

smh

holy god damn shit

if we have enough
cold metal shovels for cold dead hands
we might have enough dirt to
cover it up

fore

o'er the smell

you'll wretch

my last days on the working earth

just this morning moving along a well worn track
greased once in 4 year autopilot coffee stain
a single lane two-way same view but from differing floor bridge
I saw my body being shuffled along

1000 other days 4000 other hours 200 other weeks

what and all has been wasted on fast-forward on constant repeat
now that I've been sitting passenger seat waiting for the end of the line
grown old and loose into myself grown broken and lined and hollow
strange packed with age and blood and guts and clogged words?

1000 days bent in chair 4000 litebulb monitor hours 200 weeks immobile

white marble staircases
large open glass roofed lobbies
reception desks
reception invitations
self celebrations
emails read
unread
forwarded
responses
days
hours
weeks
moments
stasis
glacial
entropic
ice

my last days on the working earth.

WS

yesterday
outside was the first real chill wind
it crept up and numbed my finger tips
over snapping novel pages
the sky was a reflection off sidewalk cement
and the brick red buildings on the square dulled
under its gaze
yesterday
those images crept into my heart
a man all in gray fell on the subway
refused all help
he rolled and his face reddened
yet he couldn't find the energy to regain his feet
he scowled at me and I hid behind my book
yesterday
a woman tall over 6 feet tall
dressed head to toe in gray with her friend beside
under 5 foot wearing brick red gray scarf
they walked away from me into other nights
across the wrong way streets
I averted my eyes
yesterday
each new vision brought misery
like I had gained the weight of winter
in gray somber snows
and brought them dragging from
stomach to bursting chest
to unravel like shoelaces at their expiration date
today
the Chicago Cubs won the World Series
dark voices screamed one hundred years of nothing
out into the night that was far away from their home
they were a happier gray than blue
even if nothing happy had changed
today
I am not really sure how I felt

Candy Apples with Razor Blades

all these songs have been writ by my hand
taken to the utmost rooftop of this holocaustic graveyard
of molten rock and endless trash
and thrown from the tombstone etched edge
to plunge beyond the sidewalk
through the rotting stench
into the soft green milk below

where it sinks
groan and bubble
and stinks

where all the wormy bones rise up
picked clean and bright shining
ivory in the moonlight

were I to jump along with all my words
were I to fall upon engorged bowels
how long until the idea of me is eaten away?

how long until I sink
bubble and bloat
blister
and stink?

how long until I am nothing but a passing thought?

how long until the next body takes my place?

an october horror pome

Outside on the balcony where I had gone to think,
with the cool october air to gird me against morning sun
and the single tree rising leave-less into wisp-white blue sky,
looking out over the gray rail, over the gray highway divide,
beyond the shadow casting hi-rises, over shadowed sidewalks
and dim lit convenience stores,

I thought of nothing in particular, I sipped at coffee,
I peered down into the cup, out back over all I had looked before,

I thought of nothing but the decision to head back inside.

To understand is nothing

words make little hissing sounds pulled through
thick white painted air-vents screwed in thin white painted walls.

the multitude of signs carried through the void
                                                                             edged in red silver
boiling green lines spelling names out from forgotten hallways
symbols from a great lost past
                                                  all the entrances are marked
all the entrances are bloody exits

each footprint brings many things from the beyond
invisible deathlike strands built by invisible hands
invisibly moving through time
                                                  not a beginning not to end
the current state is simply misunderstanding
dreams are neither empty or rewarded

the bubbles are pulled through into the hall
                                                                      and gravid with idea
they sink to the carpet floors to be trampled
to be trampled

to wait for the paint to crack and the walls as they truly are
can be seen.

Autumnal Pome

gust of wind comes with Windsor Chimes,
dotted by dried brown oak leaves,
wet with the thin droplets of coming rain,
willows in grey fall breeze,

swirling descends October's face,
groaning bends the tireless oak trees,
red and expressionless the buildings on the square,
lit with warm, stagnant, yellow light,

heavy comes the storm unopposed,
washing, wiping, rushing summers memory away.

Was there ever?

you never broke my heart
but you ran away
you made me chase you through the summer snow
through my many memories of you
through meadows where white sheets hung to dry
though it rained and rained in daydreams
yet the sky stayed so blue so blue
though it was never so cold as it seemed
and I could only catch the sunlight off your sun drenched heels
as you turned your head as you turned away
brushing your fingers lightly on the seams of your hair
i remember then every day was spring or like fall
though there were many miles between
my bed and how many miles between yours
like years between each drop of rain
between each flowing ivory sheet
between each gust of wind tangled in your white dress
was there ever a time I cannot recall
when it was not you and me?

garbage disposal safe

i walked to the kitchen sink
over the soaked floor
bits of floating things between my toes
the slick tile floor
i walked up to the kitchen sink
overflowing it rim
dark water in dark night
i hadn't paused to flip the light on
there was another switch and the sink roared
above the tearing sound the puddles set still
i reached my hand into the inky black depths
what things what terrible leviathans there are
in the deepest bluest sea
i was only one man and knowing the morning would come
with or without me
i walked back to my bed to sleep to dream maybe
but to sleep
on my covers i gently wiped my feet
my bleeding knuckles my broken nails
my skeleton's grip.

those walks with you

when I was younger I would pick a direction and walk
until after a few hours I was lost somewhere new
cruching across the crabgrass everywhere new looked
                       everywhere old and the same in the suburbs
I would often follow cracks in cement winding streets
or slip through small wooded parks with rusting swings
                                              and clusters of silent trees
or step over flowered fences tramping through front yards
always the eyes would watch
                                                yet there were no fences
nothing to bar my path a few stones a welcome mat
the trash would be rotting on tuesdays and thursdays
there were never enough hours to escape the county
it just stretched on and on with cars following
cars being shuffled along a string forward and back
eventually I would start back attempting a different path
looking all the same and new and never strange back to my room
and my home looking never different always the same

sunday parking

no parking leaves idle cars
along unclaimed oft used track
empty lots with yellow weeds
sickly trees

the trek between shopping center and condo center

davis cvs arlington 395 on ramp 233
airport access run potomac avenue unnamed
clark no left

private property signs spray painted white
dumpsters rust blue block the right lane
blunt onto southbound
route 1

not many spots left untagged without hazard lights
under the marriot grey shade

trash litters the white lined walkway
ignorant green yellow red light stop sign spray
no sidewalk no crosswalk almost no street to walk across

it was ever real

around

the world moved

around the room

with windows     closed

discarded strawberry greens

a light left on without reason

slumping bodies

stationary in plastic bins

pens bleed out

around

the sun moved past

around the moon

yet to pass

the roads spun     in place

beneath parallel sheets

concrete and steel moue

around

the essential

around the missing piece

and a mistaken belief

written while walking

it doesn't go away

if it washes on by

those pillars of stone

your dress washed in white

eyes golden brown

may it might have rained that night

maybe might the sky be heavy gray

it doesn't go away

if it's gone on by

that long walk way

your silent steps

your golden pink lips

even as I dry

rains over money rains alike
rains over cold gray buildings
even as the day even as time

i crossed the street into the gray current
there was a group with yellow flyers
passing them down the gray line

rains over aluminum barriers
rains over thin gray stone
even as the footsteps even as the umbrella cries

i shuffled between the bodies into the gray light
under the open stretched glass doors
sifting through metal detecting ports

rains over 13 storeys rains on the floor
rains over cold gray eyes
even as the poor even as the poor

i sat for three hours i sit for many more
there once the clock hits four
passing through the same corridors came before

rains over me rains alighted
rains over my gray shirt
even as I walk even as I dry

even as I walk

even as I dry

might be long gone

around the spiral stair     it gets brighter as you go
toward the bottom floor

all laid out with white tile
following the pattern maintained on the floors above

                                     in a long switchback square
at the end          a line of black soled feet high and low
snaked about five chair columns in 6 rows

originating from the white desk beyond the white flat screen tv
behind

drip coffee lined          a million million dollars a head
where all the poor poor children go

and free coffee down down on down the line
on the plantation row a thousand miles away     and here

one steaming fee free double espresso.

Plague

these times between          grow short

I am not me for what I     was

a gnawing at the bone          the ivory bone of things
at the heart     goes corrupt

this standing still     this one view

harder to see from the lip      of my deepening grave

there is everywhere else to go     and the dirt packs
dry and sick           about the horizon

She was of dying

'take me behind the barn doors' she said
                                                   'and fuck me where you have no cock'

so hanging from the exposed wood she said,

'this is rape'

I know.

'and you are scared,' she said and I had already said I know.

it was too dark to find the gash
                                                   at my waist

she pulled her nails across my eyes

there were eyes in the next stall rolling

a faint sound

from my lips or
                          from hers

'you can't do anything right,' I whispered.

(1)

one by one
each letter back to you
scratched in ink cuts
meaning less than you can say
splashed with ink guts
thick and red under fingers
running nails about its edge
the thread drags open and closes
uneven markings printed lines
ripples spiraling along the grain
with a stench to follow
building along with the years
one by one they pile each sediment in line
layers that sticks to your skin
that rising that sinking
to bury you

to bury you.

Cemetery Song

I had given up quickly on the missing stack of post-it note,

slowly edging the new pad out of its plastic shell,

found the old one a few hours later under the keyboard

lightly used,

                                                    what is to be done?

both sit at right angles in various states of misuse,

several layers peeled off and scratched, stuck, tossed away,

the responsibility falls on me to make use of both,

too much responsibility there,

the yellow faces staring up into the white dropped void,

I don't think I have it in me to carry this

burden.

watching the revert to draft option

is there eyes out there

linked to a pretty brain

who could take the time

out of their pretty day

to count these lost words up

poem x poem

they won't print out for free in pdf

if the website goes down

fuck, there'll be nothing left.

people walking across the street and the white bus that passed them

the bus was so much faster than you, you know?
tho it carried what, 30, 40 times your weight, maybe?
that many more minds, too, and yet, like you, it obeyed
that little green or little red light, think about that, it had
onboard airconditioning too, so it was in no hurry to get out
of the heat, and it was a bus even, so it probably couldn't,
anyway, it was most likely enroute to some layered
parking estate and there you were for a second walking
beside it going that same way only slower so much slower
thinking how to get out of the heat without sweating too much
going with the flow of the other feet, carrying your own weight.

Dungeon

those orange stickers on your used books

take them off

they are former names of a former mistress

they are not meant to remain

a reminder of past places

past names

leave your seal within the pages

let the carcass rot away the years on your shelf

this is nothing

nibs licks his gray fur in the yellow sun rays
Tom Waits sings a boiling sea
you can match the rhythm of both
to the south going traffic and the rain never came

what if many things could mean many things?

downstairs I clacked in sandals to the lobby
watched an old man drink a sextuple espresso
frowning into his cup
filled my own double shot

what if one thought could be many thoughts?

on the elevator my floor was already pushed
when it stopped I was the only one to get off
I waited to be last but there was only me to go

what if many actions had no consequences?

nibs waited at the door fur darkened
he pushed his head into the hallway
pupils wide looking right
looking left

I nudged his nose back inside with my foot.

About the poem I left in my car

I left a poem in my car,
in the slot at the bottom of the driver's side door,

it was about a closed road and geese landing
in a pond,

there were reeds around the pond
and the road was nothing but smashed rock,
powdered gray earth,

I was stopped at a red light inbetween,
then I was writing as I drove,
pen scratching steering wheel,

it wasn't until I was a mile away
and the car engine cooling down
and the interior heating up in the sun
that I realized I'd left my words behind.

Coffee Run

he dropped two pounds last week.
     the weight came right off for want of eating

there were cars on the street
     and the street was an old street with no parking

he was tired and slightly lightheaded
     maybe from dying or just the not eating thing

most likely it was from dying or kidney failure
     maybe it was liver failure or heart or something

the street was parallel to another street east of it
     then west came the river there were no other streets before it

beyond there were probably some other streets
     they were possibly newer and blacker topped

his street the one he was standing on was gray
     there were no sidewalks just a small concrete border and grass

it was not easy to walk and be dizzy and hungry while avoiding cars
     it was not the busiest street but it was not abandoned either

he made his way past the cars and the cars passed him
     there was a place to be at the end of the street

the place to be was where his street went perpendicular to another street
     at the corner there was the place he meant to be going

he wasn't going to eat there but other people did
     just coffee is what he would say and how much is that he would say

he would say that knowing no matter what he was going to buy that
     formalities were observed on this street and he would pay in cash

next to the place he was going were some places he'd never been
     they didn't interest him so he saw their signs but ignored them

he knew some people who liked those stores better
     there was no convincing them otherwise and he wouldn't have tried

he had never been to those stores
     after he got his coffee he would empty a packet of sugar in

stirring the sugar into the coffee gently he would look at the cream
     he would place his hand on the cream but never use it

drinking the coffee made his head feel better
     he decided he wasn't dying after all

on the way back to his car parked with the other cars on his street
     it was nice to walk along the river's edge

he noticed that really there were only like fours different colors for cars
     if you paid spacial attention you might catch an off color one day

the river however was brown today and yesterday and the day before
     tomorrow it would be brown again and the day after

he made his way past the cars and the cars passed him
     the door handle lifted in his hand the latch unlocked and the door slid open

today he was sure to lose another pound
     that would be nice he thought that would make three pounds

Soon i'll be back to eating he said to the inside windshield
     the key turned in his hand and the car gave a jolt at the start

draw the line

I will lie when I am drawing the line
even when I am alone

it doesn't matter

I lie and brush it away and let it fall
and if I am not alone I pick it back up
taking quick glances around me
as I brush it off and return it to its place

not if I am alone tho
if I am alone
I savor watching it down there
beside my feet flat to the floor
face down looking away from me
standing above it in the dark

it doesn't matter
but it's what I choose to do
by myself alone unencumbered
owing nothing of any sort to nobody
watching as a giant from above
at the small discarded things below
while I sit and draw the next line
where maybe I will lie

some vague sense of completion

voices behind me
coming down the trail

I had stripped to my underwear
feet dipped in cold green sky

sun still bearing down hard

my fingers over the edge of the dock

small green fish in god's tear drop

we had made the summit
we had run from the peak

there were five of us

I held my breath a moment
and there was nothing left

there was nothing to think
there was nothing to say

Joe jumped past me
but I didn't wait to hear the splash

I let the water catch

lift me up

listening to voices

there's a phone ringing and a monotone voice going
but no pictures of phones and no body to hang the voice on to
and I asked myself why in my ear do I hear a phone
and why in my head do I hear a voice in monotone
why can't I figure where these sounds are coming from? I asked

I couldn't answer myself, I had no answer
now the phone has gone silent but the voice
keeps going
                    maybe they were two separate sounds
maybe there had been no connection which think about it
makes sense why would a voice be talking while a phone
is ringing if a phone is ringing then a phone is unanswered
and a voice has nothing to talk to

there was only one sound now
                                                  the voice while I
watched my fingers typing wondering if there
were mistakes on the screen because my eyes couldn't
follow the rhythm or the speed of my hands
                                                                       when I looked
up trying not to concentrate on the voice words but hearing
the voice sound I screwed a few words and deleted them and
corrected them in kind I had spell check of course but sometimes
it's nice to just correct as you go often times it does nothing to
the poem I am writing and I go on and sometimes it is everything
and it fucks everything all up

the voice is talking about watermelons and the color of the melons
and I had watermelon this morning with my coffee
                                                                                  I wanted to eat
them with my fingers picking them up and placing them in but instead
I used the fork I had the same fork I used every day to eat my lunch
stir-fry vegetables and rice I couldn't taste any residue on the melon
a good sign since I never clean the fork all that well
                                                                                    I just wipe it
with the most soiled napkin of the bunch I grab three and use them
strategically and there is a whistle in my ear the voice is done gone
wherever the ringing had been a vacuum
                                                                  where all this had been going
is gone and done look I am alone with my ears and my fingers and my eyes
and the memory of sound of the phone separate
from the memory of the monotone voice

hallway song

the fire alarms are exits
                                       the green lights
available          shelter-in-place
coffee machine burn sigils into wooden tables
dig holes in the mud
stairs covered in dust
                                     make faces as hands
and feet
doors are made from the remains of a millions beads
of aspirin
                they cloud the empathic centers of the brain
organism
like sharks in open space caskets made of glass
the fissure in the foot
                                   burns skin and opens blisters
on the toilet seat from bathrooms cannot be found
invisible is the front door
                                         and the only escape
goes beyond what you can see

Traffic

those red eyes, move steady toward me

night chases the morning          on headlight streams

& bitter miles left to go     the bitter miles between me

where I am meant to be     in traffic hours ago

a dry cough          into empty water bottle neck

soon by the side of the road inked in red          Both doors closed

I'll lose the lead I've built up          the dam will break

those red eyes, move steady, fading away

Stop and Go

Hang my head until it drags my bones

          I watch the skin peel from skin in my finger tips
I don't feel it go

          --it smells like a dentist's office here--with all the
white light--

          I relax my bowels to the sound of
approaching footsteps

Lunch

behind them. the fire burned on television sets
spitting, ARE YOU GOING TO HELL?

They couldn't know. the sound was
muted. scattered about the room

they were eating lunch. as the fire burned. and
they didn't know they couldn't know.

the suits in front of the fire. three of them
in all colors. it was their words held the answer

but thet were muted. ARE YOU GOING?
they were saying they were telling but no one could tell.

no one could. knowing. they were not knowing.
only the voices could tell and they were speaking before

the fire no heat or smoke but the fire burned. flame.
hot flame. HELL. they held the secret

in their mouths but the words came as silence
comes over a loud room unnoticed. they wouldn't know

what they couldn't know. they remained
with their fate. unknowing. ARE YOU?

IN HELL. they were letting them know
where they were going but there was no sound.

High Tops

shake the elevator          go down
chills down your spine           go down
sit still and shimmer
caffeine course through system
base of skull shrink           expand
blood vessels          tighten

smudges in corner of glass roll
                                                   eye socket tension
too many cups on the mantle
                                                   shaking hand

Can't turn a face to the          sun
wrinkled toes in bent shoes          jaw clicks
hours slowed

you can't pick a stone then walk in a          circle
or the words won't lay down          right
what's in my head is sucked down battered in drain
torn by the
                    garabage disposal mechinism

A song about murder

when I first listened to it it was mostly for the melody and the sound of
the voice gravel like and strained and the words bounced kinda bounced
off and I didn't pay attention just to the melody of it and the sound
of it all mixed up and the meaning didn't well it somtimes picked at my
ear but I would lose the thread as the song lost its push and it ended and
I would start it again back at the beginning forgetful with the words
bounced back to the start and starting again it would just go on with the voice
and gravel like I'd forget to pick into the song for its meaning the words
even while after several times I sang the chorus along in my head but that
only brought the words to life with now the lines in my head but the meaning
still bouncing off or washing off and slipping under my feet enjoying the melody
the beauty of the song as it like crested the waves up and down up and down
as it slowed and came to a finish I would remind myself just once more I'll
listen listen to it before I pour over the lyrics to get at what the trees how or what
washed to the river in the night what was that gravel like voice moaning for

Gnat

there
you were the sky
where I grabbed you
and choked you
became your wing your legs
your body
pressed into paste
wiped black and grim
blood like body
or some other curse
where you were
taken
suffocated tortured
and broken
it was only a mistaken
reflex
movement in
the corner of the eye
I reached out for you but you pulled away
why? it was foolish. it was all your fault.

On the day

after the 25th day of no dreams
I recall in the time I dropped in late for work
missing incessant alarms
waking and thinking
finally a dream finally a dream
only to forget where the thought was
what life had been lived in the span
of twenty minute lifetimes
to hurry with creased clothes
wait for screeching underground trains,
no airconditioning no seats
packed with neck-collared bodies
black summer dresses sweating leather bags

and no dreams
no dreams

no dreams

Night Pome

light hides what's outside,
along with dreams
swirling at the glass,
heat against the door
seeps in
mixes with my sweat
my hopeless rot and the words
squeeze out
tonight nothing changes
nothing goes forward
just the sun spinning
the earth pretend spinning
the sky black spinning to blue
me staring sleeping yawning
nowhere to go

the difference

That man is me but nobody knows me

I'm not content in my house locked up but here I am
anyway

3 floors up 3 more floors below ground

think of all the bones stuck in cement

of many many buildings on each
street

many sidewalks underneath

That voice is me but nobody knows me

I'm not able to lead by my words or by my
hand

3 words into the microphone 3 words come echo back

think of all the years left as nothing behind you

of many many thoughts come to
naught

many thoughts not worth it

That body is me but nobody knows me

I'm not able to pull the trees from out the grip of dying
cars

more metal mind than stem

think of all the fields with low lying grass

of many many little hearts meant for
roadkill

many more will cower alone

That mind is me but nobody knows me

I'm not willing to let go of my blood red
release

3 knives to the back before 3 get me on the street

think of all the pain we can cause

many many acts of retribution
earned

many more to come

That man is me but nobody knows me

the act of compelling observance

red lights are exit signs

                                        green are to shelter in place

which one marks the stop sign while other marks go

jack boots slapped with lacquered black shoe polish snap in the street

the long blue uniformed mind of the law

                                                                    at war with no other side

senseless cowardice is the weapon of the oppressed

isn't it easier to drink the purified water you've been told exists

hand in your calloused gloves for the shackled fists that fit

watch what you do and where you go

alleys at night are bad places meant for the veiny stew

listen for the coming of the army of the republic

wave your banners in the coming blue dawn

                                                                          safety is none of your concern

9-5

laughter in the halls on the last days

sound like florescent lights emitted by some atmospheric phenomena
     localized above our heads

an hour between eternity and now to spend ingesting death

the white
roses
left
one by one
by
mourning
fractals
from
even
deathlike
hands
sharp
nails
dry
cuticle
encrusted
keyboard
bones

plastic coffins and plastic signs

around with the numbered dial goes time enchained in brass links
     cutting into thin wrists

no space before the collapse of the thin film of resolve.

Apples

my mother used to warn me about worms in apples
and when I was younger I saw traces of their existence,
little cored out tunnels turned brown,
small globs of green decayed bodies,

funny, I was thinking the other day,
'when was the last time I checked an apple for a worm,'
I had a bag full of organic pink ladies,
'not in something like 25 years, maybe,'
I couldn't even remember the last time,

It's strange to think how lucky I've been,
but, maybe even stranger to think where I've gone
that there are no worms left to find any sweet apples
and burrow to eat inside,

the apples seem as sweet as ever,
'moreso', I think, 'than ever before,'

and I wonder where all these worms went
and why their apples gave up on me.

Green Eggs

'Shelter,' said the green man, under the green roof, 'is in place.'

then the lights awoke, they were motion sensitive,
there were many more little green men now, they
twisted and walked into each other's faces, I looked down on them,
they grabbed at my cock, 'fuck you' they said,
          'fuck yourself' I said, 'a man once asked why didn't
you just drop jeeps and kitchen appliances into vietnam? why
all the agents orange, guns, steel?'
                                                      'we don't have any women
around to fuck,' they answered, 'what did you expect us to do?'

'surveillance,' said a disembodied green voice, 'is a state.'

then the lights dimmed, we had been still for some time,
there were many unseen bodies around me, they
vibrated in their rigidity becoming each other's faces, I could feel them,
they filled my lungs with their hands, 'we know' they whispered,
          'who told you?' I said, "I was going to say something eventually
I only read it in a book, I never thought to do it myself, it was my
favorite Twilight Zone episode is all.'
                                                             'we don't have finks without
dismembered cocks,' they hissed, 'where should we stick this end?"

'lies,' carved the green hands in green stone, 'bury the dead.'

the halls are built in a circle

martyrdom           is sacrificing open areas for collaborative space
knocking down cubical walls for light to sift through
from the private offices           beyond
bringing just right to boil
the microwave energized hovels of the mail clerk          race
officeALL emails shift to tl;dr outlook
                                                                folders
saved from deletion for another 8 hour day
purity of the mind starts with cleverly placed water fountains
spilling yellow sediment waters into colorful thermos jars          BPA-free

each sign has tape behind
each piece of tape takes factory shape
each factory is buried in dead earth
each dead piece of earth was once          alive                                                                    

The Static Gyre

when little angels
updated streams of webbed consciousness rotate in the static gyre
of the milky way.

a tic-tac-toe correlation is unmistakable.

how many out there know your every move?

tfw they are just voices in the wax cylinder
screaming escape.

do with this what you can
was written on the envelope
left at the far end of the bar
next to the operating system

fml what does that say about me?

you have every right to be frail.
the article says the only way to stay safe is to regulary change your password.

I can offer my expertise
                                        and my fingers
                                                                  and my overtime

if you'll have it and me and me and me.

I have not seen this before

these numbers on the wall keep scrolling little red spider-like,
crawling on my unobserved arms where the cameras once stood,
when you lay eyes on the picket fence it doesn't make it any easier,
this could have been where you were born but it's foreign soil,
clearly we have walked way too far down to see back up, if there is up,
funny american phrase of being down so long it you know ha ha ha from here,
in the ocean blank without light there is no direction, sound of gills breathing,
if that is what they do, then, are we fish, maybe, and have been the whole time,
what would you do with all the meaningful tv you've watched?
there'd be no one to talk to about anything, burping bubbles and digging the reef,
but, the eight legs bring you back, thankfully, the fleeting script ticking across,
typed in long distance from remote locations in the Idaho wilderness,
have you seen this boy lately? this girl?
have you reported all the abandoned milk cartons, unawares?
walking leads east or west or maybe north or south, if the land be flat and meek,
the red letters are digital imagery, packed tight in boxed clocks sealed with invisible tape,
a mass of unscented cinnamon bone suspending small orbs won't flush down the sink

'What is to give light, must endure burning'

when I stepped there in my shoe
a jewel pressed on my heel,
what was a rock unburdened in light
as there was fire,
in the light it held its shape
though it did shimmer
as it fell,
from the tapping of the sole,
from the lip,
with my hand,
to the floor, and bouncing,
left no trace in the darkness
below.

Pride goes

often on a morning just like this today
I find the coffee mug too far away
full knowing when I placed it there
I had assured that this would be the case,

It was still an accident, I am saying, I really want to drink it
before it gets cold, I am saying, but to lean forward, to reach
between table and bed, ah, there's no use, I am saying

the only thing to do is wait until it gets so cold
I am forced to get up and dump it down the sink
then I will fill another cup from the pot steaming goodness
I'll take it back to the bed and after one great gulp
rest it back on the table where it won't be in danger to spill.

It's the time

half the window is gray, half is sunlit
the gray half is leaning south along the highway,
east toward the sea the sunlit half moving away,

below both halves construction murmurs,
muffled voices mixed with clanging steel and stone,

the building across is cutoff by the protruding balcony above,
thin tree branches reach over the railings, little spots of green,

there is a chair on one side and a chair outside, both are facing me,

I am seeing through concrete walls as always facing west.

Welcome to Concrete

for the walls they turned them on end
out over their axis the old globes spun

when you were left there with the other bodies

and the angle on the camera
facial recog fade

no amount of etching on your grave
was enough

everywhere a misdiagnosis
not one single doubt

for the roads they abandoned all their cars
under above their shoulders the fields of rot

where you were left with all the evidence planted

in your lap divided

 

manufactured gestures wrapped about

the intestines of the prairie falls

 

a blue light at the end of it all encircles

the verifiable prophets of confirmation.

Skirmishers

Sitting out in the open
on an undefended park bench
I was pretending to read
Lucien Zell's The Salmon Cafe.

Really tho, I had stuffed
another novel inside
its paperback covers.

This one was one of my own.

I am determined that nobody should read it but me.

At least, if I can help it,
for the next one thousand years, or so.

Advice

some very even
things to
recall
when lost in
your own
head

events don't have to go down this way

you can revise and
edit them
away

and when asked
you can just
as easily lie
using the story
you've invented

that way neither event goes to waste.

Never Remember

I forgot I didn't have shoes on when I got up to go to the bathroom and took one step
on the cold floor with my cold feet before sitting back down
*
a man I once knew forgot which floor to get off of the elevator from when
I'd pushed the button for the floor above
*
a woman walked by me and forgot how the sidewalk rose up and down cragged and uneven
she tripped one a break in the flat thinking ground
*
I forgot how many square little lights could exist until I glanced above my head
at the ceiling of the hallway I was in and saw the pulsing pixels of the world
look down on me

Secure Print

150 pages loaded
held in digital cartridge line
sliced to rend tree hide
slick scrape spine
semi-automatic snap

stoneblack blood
will be spilt
and sequenced with
my name

spun are the rungs
inside the great machine literate

automatically filed
by RFID remains

shined shoes pounding tight packed rugs
worn down to floorboard signs
500 packs more
500 gallons pumped
500 sq mile controlled burns

Peel

wrapped in rorange mesh
this guy and his whole bag of oranges
granulated to their green sick skin
hard translucent pith

both shoved between thin cellulose walls

one sold for 4.99
the other
for
much less

Remote but for its Buddha Soul

there'll be a body on the peak

at the god-for-end-of-the-world-saken edge

an axe bit in the palm of heaven sky

of the north burnt ridges never regrown

there'll be a body at the peak

heaving lungs catching blue clouds

old growth hairs sprouted from craggy frozen lids

in the heart of the distant ponds a titan eye

there'll be a body left at the peak

scratching out the days on calendar page

summer lightning flashes neon green skagit sores

in person the scorpion tattoo of the ranger folk

there'll be a body called the peak

remote but for its buddha soul

lost poems etched under volcanic bedrock

glacier set to score its immortal paths

there'll be a body on the peak

who featureless is lost to time

in caves of dark winters huddled in white fur

color lost shroud of the cascade range

4 to 10oz

I hate to waste a coffee at work
it's one less moment to appreciate at home

what am I really enjoying
in this kuerig shit stuff?

     the glorious whiteness of microsoft office 365

     unecheckered email chains

     dust spread across my morning desk

     thick black sludge on old keyboards

     too much florescent lighting

     read-only pdfs

     unresponsive helpdesk ITs

     files that won't be renamed

they provide the device for free
but the cups? nah, they're single sale
in the cafeteria upstairs. Where you
can also buy coffee brewed in large pots
doled out by the 12 oz cup.

this manuscript has been dictated by the Holy Ghost

many
unintelligible
words
I've heard
and
often
have read
or thought
when
exiting and
entering
revolving doors
just on the
tip
of my tongue
now
that I
can't remember
what
these jumbled
half words
sounded
like
or tasted like
what
they were even
in
reference to
or specific to
I keep
grasping
at
nothing
just the
unfinished
rather
unfurnished
mind
struggling
with my
ears
and drying
my
mouth

Back by Editorial Demand

re-imagine these flowers as a million stalks of gold,
what all we could do with them then,
see yourself plucking them, holding them,
casting golden light under your chin,

re-imagine these rutted and dirt bland trees as immovable concrete stems,
what a brilliant throne to lay your bones to rest in,
feel the soul of levy washed in lions mane, laugh like Buddha,
outlined in pale blue acid rain,

          sniff along
     perforated edges
                         wax seals
                 knives dipped in ink
letters opened
          before the cut

re-examine your connection to the neighbor next door,
in each window on each floor, down the same column,
the same blue globes, on the same angles,
showing the same western hemispheres,

re-examine the bloody corpse of the stick-up man,
as the bullet ripped his stinking life to shreds,
and founding fathers safe in their tombs unmoved,
little, if any, price was paid,

powdered insignias
     match the warped floor boards
no kidding
       17c per squared inch
              on the mausoleum score board
there's rain predicted
      for the 8th
                 and oh the bodies of the sinner
they'll be caked in yellow
       and red

there
      one question on
   the scrolling
           screen of the damned
will be hotly debated
     over stiff hearts
                      hollow limb

remarkable mania
37 bullet holes in the horse drawn car
stabbed in the back
left for dead
forgotten her name
stayed in bed

it is with callous misregard that I plot the evening news
one lazy ass fuck one intership muck 101 keys to choose from
plotp plot plip pap down
the anti-biography is next paid for by commericial sponsored rubberbands
a kind hard plastic worm on old war parchment jams

re-iterate what the war room knows
there were always villains operating within in the state
they were all looking to get rich, shoot the score
out the veins of the wrists that cared,

re-iterate what is willingness to remain,
in the hills the brown wood ghosttowns fall without sounds,
there no tax man can hear or there
and the redrawn districts mount for the god of war

and submit
           their only recently
     possessed
souls
            to audit.

Imperial delight

when you told me about how its skull was split open and he was eating the brains
                              I fingered my gun fetish
all my heroes carry them around on their shoulder blasting all the great brown people
                              I am reminded some are yellow too
the red ones died and buried long ago but only their bodies deserved to go
                              we should shoulder the blame
it's not some conspiratorial imperialist state no body actually dies in the mid east
                              the bomb is just a tv sparkler
hatred is only an individual delight it is not bred and baked by the state
                              not one hour on tv is not bathed in red
guns are the answer until and when they are not righteous armies marching hate
                              we are all pulling the trigger
it's how the west and the east and north and the south and the cause was won
                              there will be no greater example
than the continual reassurance of the finality and necessity of mass destruction
                              no change

Pushed

Everything was fixed up.

She looked out on the porch and felt at ease.

Even the sirens no longer bothered her.

The body below the stairs creaked.

The wind was awfully loud.

Both noises knocked around.

Back and forth leaned the trees.

There would be footsteps soon.

And metal bars.

But it was almost summer.

She didn't care what came next.

disgraced professors of paper towels

I
feet many walking about the concrete fields
many souls many unacknowledged

II
there was a man full body scar
outside paper wrapped food pusher's windows
defaced cereal box cardboard turned inside out in his right hand
lifted up till the end scratched his chin
the words underneath

III
economically the anthill was booming
a dropped banana peel three days old materialized
on the doorstep of the great citadel
there was much commotion and rejoice
the much would have some
the short would have many

IV
I wish more people would learn economics
he typed onto his facebook wall hitting enter and left it there,
'this,' as he marveled at its clear understanding of subjective ideology,
'will show them I understand'

V
souls many unable to pass on sink desperately into
false monoliths and uncountable number of cubicle walls

Phases

you know I guess I just don't consider people enough
don't look at them long enough maybe don't study them
Sylvia Plath has so much more about them to say than me
*
in the 3rd floor bathroom on the west side
black curly haired and head thrown back he brushed his teeth
silver plaid suit jacket thrown over hooks at entrance
he wore a rose pink buttondown shirt ironed perfect
stretched tight against his thin frame
I washed my hands in the sink beside his
the only sound was that nashing of bristles on emaculate white teeth
*
outside by the 5th floor outdoor garden the hallways all boarded up
a woman I recognized sat at outdoor tables eating her lunch
afternoon sun glinted off marble tiles making it difficult to see
she was wearing large sunglasses under curly hair
her colombia accent stood out when she inquired how I was
I said hey with a raised right hand past her and opened the door inside
*
There actually is small talk by the watercooler and
I found it is mostly about the watercooler itself it usually goes
something like when will the extra bottles that become used bottles
when will they be coming? Where do they store them
and how do they get them here? Then you smile and nod as
the words die on each tongue when nothing of merit is there to be said
*
these dramas are for the most part directed inward into and since it
mostly comes from that same space it never does much but get twisted around
in my head until I force it out like waste down my gut down through my intestines and
down into the trash where it goes unused and I can continue writing exclusively about
myself rotting

on seeing an ad for the sale of the family pet

speaking in sentences left over from February
with the leaves summer green in the cured alley
this is where we left it sweating and alone
on the closing iron gate etched in black dials
password unchanged littered with uppercase variables
                                                     and lowercase signs
he showed puppy dog eyes to the turned heads
warm backs emaciated legs
                                             there were no muscles there
just 1000 dollar bills spray painted green spin cyles and red tacs
the worth of the life of a pet for man's name blank blank blank
what is no longer wanted is worth something to someone in the end
                                              numbers on the bank account screen.

a confederacy of concrete

          each line drawn across the globe
many steps to bring buildings down
   
     boots for
         
          the milling crowds
smile on the faces of decadent flowers
   
     crumpled to bits
       
           by plague
there's this refrigerator door
   
     left open uninstalled
       
          in the basement cold
through prison bars, the delicate oven
   
     what it bakes
         
          it makes up for in flesh
cooking their essence ankle deep

     wailing against the white brick

          bent to cylinder shape
stabbed into the heart of the welted world.

California poetry

feet hang off Glacier Point

          anchor drop in laced boots

from eyes the flat valley paint shape

          brushed with deep greens layered cold gray

water falls mute breaking granite slabs

          boulders like rain drop a million years

color the valley floor ghostly white

New Office

bright white blotches on your skin burst out malignant white cysts
latched on to skin bleached white ovarian bones

mother drawn up in wedding dress frills
hung in hangman not

left to leave all her memory          on Post-It writ notes

she is no younger than I
                                           no older than I pretend to be

deep black pupils blot the skin risen to the surface to fade out
what little personality is left to us during the day

she makes like fluorescent lights          cast no shadows

on every willing thing

the city is not a monstrous crone

when in bed         cat's paw off cliff side cellulose desk

     you have failed the test of Yamauba

the mountain is a dim light          the mountain is a flatland

     the pink toes face west turned to setting suns

where there is a place of enlightenment          there are bulldozed lanes

     all offices across the gorge are lined empty with furniture

yet the body still remains          switchbacks make like fire escapes

     up and down and to and from        

lead to roof        and away from ground

Think of all the toads

think of all the toads
                         down there
                         before my eyes
                         below the sewer grate
                         beside a dribbling creek
think of all the croaking
                         in the dank dark night
                         away from pink ears
                         with mosquitoes buzzing
                         without arms to bite
think of all the pairs of eyes
                         of each and every toad
                         abandoned by modern man
                         left in muddy patches
                         washed with insecticide
think of all the toads
                         separate around the world
think of all their ancient ways
                         lost to concrete tombs
think of all their tired legs
                         smashed flat by rubber bands
think of all the long lost toads
                         and wonder where they've gone

Between Finger and Mountain

matcha mix of waterfall springs
                                           green from my cup

     the coming days melt like algeaic glacial springs

valleys carved
                        and spun from what had ever been
     mountains of never summer rolling thunder rain

above the tree line the clothesline of root wire fall

ranging boulders smothered and scalded
                                                                  by driving wind
     below the crawling scarred bellies
plastic wrap and tuperware joints

the plastic castles and the reached for sky.

Pine Mountain Glow

33 cuts dry land north

and leaves Lockwood valley road

to flash flood warning turns east

blue crayon sky thick with

wax strokes 

                     groan of sedentary cow

no tires on split and cracked gray skin

from the wash Mt Pinos

                                         8,484 ft rock skulled north 

sunk into valley silence Pine Mtn Buddhist retreat

fence barely rises to knees green etches scarred

kick the pebbles by the yellow lined side scrap the

foot prints off the rock of the curb of the ditch of no-thing.

Me lines

these ridges write like a dead man
move horizontal on the page
slow stiff muscle memory ache
pink waves and white band lines
building tides below the waves
court the renal failure of old age.

May 2nd goes by

flipping through heavy metal sheets
outside the storm spits blue against my window
keyboard over my cock and 99 luft balloons on radio repeat

I have as yet to digest my dinner
hair still twisted dark with rain
that falls like car wash waves over my windshield vision

tonight has come and thunder has gone
lightning still hangs static behind the tri-horned god

the power has not gone out
nor have the lights once flickered weak

nor have I uncrossed my black whiskered legs
to grip and grope and knead
beneath a blanket of restless caffeine sleep.

why the alarm still goes off

what's the difference in a day
a waking day with no difference
still the hours betray me and from
sun comes inevitably the moon
or from the moon inevitably
becomes the sun and I reflectively
shut and open my eyes to the
blaring sound of shaking lines
from where I am told to begin
a waking day with no difference

Rain Mantra

oh ow wo this going in circles

this circular path 

this vast spanning spinning circumference 

set to curve around the moon

wrapped around about the sun

om maw wow dirt speck in vault sky

secret helm of gods

circumnavigate the ingestible earth

dough ray well under I am

GRAY sky you say

from under so as before below

as video call backs to size comparison jolts

this is how you feel so small

but you are part

tho be am why you gone all alone

this tortured night and bed

under after or like hell you see fair clouds

of the sunsetting sky once again

these things are just spinning without

before through you without you

heavens do not exist in over um void birth

happy birthday and happiness 

circumambiance oh wow wo omn ow

Microwave Soluble

placed facing out on radio veins
vibrating staccato memes
phallic frontier of the amusement park game
one step ahead and into future grain
eighth of an eighth of an eighth
the retired former consciousness of universal
man-
          kind.
smoked banana peels in oft utilized
alleyway trails
a healthy disdain for poor wretched hands
asleep in crusty subway cars
murdered only when the victim is too
young
           to feel.
           where does the fruit
                                             go?
packed in mush memory
lit for fluid for survival for removal
for concentrated gains
run on solid painted trains through the painted desert night
dropped in public denied reservations
property
               U
                   Us
                        Aye
on high for two to three minutes at a time.

Jesus Christ Resurrects at the End

and we wait
          out beyond the last road sign
on the last road out
          at the edge of the last town

          for gold wreathed fingers
skeletal frames
          reaching down
to pluck us each by collars up

and we read
          the decayed words
laughing at the strange sounds
          of a language long gone

         with copper coated tongues
rotted teeth
         split on ivory sinks
of the lost outhouses left behind

and we see
          all that has come before
the petty thrills
          of iron and fiber and ore

          through the last eyes
of the last faces
           on the last corporal bodies
in the haunted past.

More than Running

Had I dented it enough, the front drivers side door socked in by the back fender
of an old Toyota 4x4 flatbed truck Chinoteague Virginia USA in a drug store
parking lot off main street, left screws some other shit snapping around on
sharp turns sudden stops overall it was holding together, even so each time
I open the damn thing I expect it to hit the curb face down, haven't alerted insurance
yet what's the claim window I don't know as soon as possible means a lot of things
none of them vaguer than how I see it, this is the kind of thing you wonder out loud to
yourself when you're coming down and every thought centers itself in the world of
now that you'd been shitting on or purposely forgetting up to the point where your
brain is taking it upon itself to reinsert you into the humanity machine, this had more to
do than running the engine hoping the transmission wouldn't fail, as I've had experience
with only used cars in my life, the kind that meltdown or overheat at the drop of a dime
or quick stop sign stop, all this in my head beside visions robot conveyor belts and
garbage compactors for human skin, what takes precedent is dreams, too all mixed
and unrelated, laugh to yourself a forgotten thought and the car is still there in its
three-dimensional glory, so that you're forced to consider how much was your fault
after all and will you just get your god damn shit togther and fucking handle it already
what the fuck.

I wonder what the situation is with this car with the lights on

chew down on sugar cube nights,
rotting teeth stench and fun-dip air vents,

who pulled up those blinds cockeyed
with the lights on now our whole life displayed?

nobody walks by here anyway, 'least of all
when it's streetlamp dark and the sidewalks cool,

walk. On tuesday night out come the trash cans,
pulled by cursing mouths and slick hands,

wet with micro-bacterial slime. And what, man!
How? that's the sound of tin plastic concrete

scratching on your mind. what of the recycle bin?
That shit just goes out beer bottles and pickle jars

clean. Our accumulated wealth and tummy tuck glut.
I wonder what the situation is with this car with the lights on

down the block? Not sure I've seen that shadow before
god knows if the asshole even lives around here.

Keep an eye on the blank drivers seat,
our windows no longer lock up tight,

you can see the voyuer case the joint, with 100 drawn
shift perfect eyes. Our privacy is obsolete.

Fur

between my eyes and sewer grate

from one life to another the time debt of years apart

the sphere of birth and death;

I am

willed along

through these

spaces

with no say

leaving many hands behind

like

typing fingers in the dark

one key off; 

some sense of unrequited something

some sense of
bitterness;

loss

Kunkle Tanyard

each ignition key turned to start
bare mountain hills
bared tree limbs
tanned faces shaded from sun
reflected off Thompson Creek
Jordan Run
the many hours deepening
south
down the shatter-edged backbone

Falls List

far end of 220
north of covington
deep pool blue waters
cascade 80 feet
scramble down boulders
afternoon early spring sun
mist off hollow cave soaking rock
fish undercurrent at feet
cars around the bend above
eyes on the overlook
plunge in from seeing rock
six foot leap scrape bottom
push up toward the surface

US-301S

crust of plantation grange
lifted in sponge of night
rain
     
         through car vents
manure sowed

                         fertilizer fields
ripples rows of tree

                                  flat land
fat land swamp waft obscure
stagnant blue ponds

                                    moss pours
iridescent
             
                   sequin shift of streaking
drops tear and spread become bits of
static light
                 
                    stretch realign mingle disperse

Mush

by the roadside,
out under shade of standing trees
dew droplets of rain showers
hint of light over morning horizon,
sprout pale white mushroom
footprints in brown mud,
ghost bulbs of forest floor,
spectres in passing dream
gently nudging at sharp green stems;
the concrete earth.

'Oh, room rent, what crimes are commited in thy name!'

lock the door behind you
    ignore the keyhole eyes burnt in each

passing flat
remember the cold water dripping out

    faucet into sink
you'll use it to scrub later

bathe clean of the stink
     down the stairs each step louder

closer to ground floor
chipped paint kicked aside frame

     swinging aluminum sunrise puffs of breathe
chilly air grates and reaches into pockets

     up to you to hide the greasy bills
keep you head down hat rim down and arms

ready your weak knees only carry so
far
   
     how long you been staring out
and bus passes jack and gone

good riddance without
     breakfast moves the day faster along

no windows no kid light the bulb
     you can see

     street lamps make orange light
for you to walk home by these hours paid

slide in while those eyes again are
     set to tabled scorn drooling

quick with key and turn of empty knob
latch the door behind you

turn out your pockets
    count the dead men in your hand

one two three four five six seven
     eight

rob the rich and discomfit the devil

You say, 'oh,  

            Come kiss me in the spring time when all the trees are blue, 

when the flowers in the meadow, lovely,  start over again, 

            like me, like me, like me, like you'— 

'There’s just too much time slipping since I’ve been out wandering, and, 

oh, there’s just too much time passing since I’ve been gone'—and 

            I think that maybe if we all stayed young without noticing that would solve it, but 

I know somehow our minds finding a way back would—

            Here—

To the big round ikea Raymor container, glowing life urban outfitter’s bulb, where there’s just too much wasted time to empty out, that—

            Eventually—with no recourse—

It’s scattered ashes everywhere where we’re going.

Arlington Diner

Sky inside
     cloudy with chance
sun
   behihnd window pane
plaster walls
          dry walls
ceailing suchness
          doric columns
     hold heavens up
were they to fall
          end would come
end of all day breakfasts
     *until 10pm
thick caked coffee sludge
     poured over
          boiled deep in murky pots

what happens to the cream?

left out
          unopened
unrefrigerated
          sealed
ultra-pasteurized
          homogenized
manufactured
          suspended--
non-existent?

Metronarok

city is its own apocalypse
          empty streets snake by empty walls

no mass incarceration today
          surveillance mechanism built for home

what the last email in the chain said
          a victim-less perfect copy machine

sun is its own warmth
          spends its days in endless dark

for next 24 hours
          the mechanical coil of the world snake

abeyant.

Thoughts on Search Engines

search my name on google n' Tom Waits shows up
we have no connection outside singing Home I'll Never Be together
he went his wayand I went mine, we crossed our voices digitally

he won't admit
that he knows me
but search engines
are incapable of
untruths

If you think back remember far enough you see dogpile dot coms
it was the kayak airfare hotel combo equivalent for yahoo ask jeeves days
they'd compile the whole shitload of nothing looked for and throw up a list

I won't even
waste my time
to type the domain in
just assume it
is 404 error
defunct

If you Search Tom Waits I am nowhere to be found.

Rain Haiku and sentences

Rain came tonight
no warning
I had been asleep

* * *

there were shadows where my foot hung from bed

* * *

inside all day--

what does the weather know

that I don't?

* * *

Thinking of gray mountains

in the chilly north--

watching suits cross the street

* * *

in each rain drop time

                                     one part whole

                                                                beginning middle end

* * *

remember the last step

as it dries fades--

think where have you been?

Selective Seretonin

to the girl at Greenberry's

Man, I'd love to sell all my prozac.

if I wasn't crying by my bed on the floor for 6 hours every night
imagine what else I could be doing,
imagine what we could be using that money for--

RE: INBOX (16)

a string of battered emails.
generation spam.
each letter literal abstraction,
disaffected; inbox is maintained.
cannot catch the stench
of sinking trash; delete and remove
after 30 days; calender adverts;
listserved linked mind; the
churning filtration dynamo
at work; labels; tabs; contacts.
translation material cast into space,
through inverted clouds,
tattooed mainframes; empty
caloric consumption; the bites of
mosquitoes in february, the
sour taste of upraised meat, a
funeral procession forwarded
down every street.

skullface, in smoke, again

ivory eyes through the hallway

skull in the wall

     the build up in the shower head
each tiny hole

old, everything around is old
     useless and old and hollow follow down
and clog the clod the drain

night in through the window soundless

bones in the wall

cardboard thin walls bent inward
     visible cracks in void

     weary, rattling death
straight through my gaze in the dark
     and tip-toe beyond and sink

seated somewhere close by

chalk outlines the floor

Better things coming...straight from the mind to the voice; (driving Arlington Blvd on a sunny sunday afternoon looking on the strip mall signs)

an amplified understanding
bliss colors beyond my billboard head
tagged four score cracker barrel porches
on every earthly roadside
baked in folded butter biscuit homicide
the way
is soft serve refugee crisis
man in mixed ice cream reality
the pumping speakers of the damned
tv
question
better things coming
better letters in you forwarded mail
folders watermarked spam seal
upended
straight from the diamond
to the voice

what the guy upstairs thinks

well i dunno man, is today the last day of february?
          are there any last days, who knows? what?
the last day, the Last Day, man. the last day, shit. shit, shit.
                   it's over. fuck man, god damn, this shit.
I dunno, it's like, what? Not sure, really. it just feels kinda empty.
     like not there, like not there, like nothing is. nothing is there. yeah?
yeah that's how i see it. the date doesn't matter, just wanted to know
          the month. turns over, it's leap year. or something.
too many days are nothing. have nothing, if i can have anything
                    i'm not sure what i'm, what i'm trying to ask, say.
but you know, there's this blank, this fucking blank space
     my head, where it shouldn't be. there should be like, some
some sort of response and there's nothing, like truly nothing, shit, man
          there's nothing
and see, i gotta, i gotta get going, get, somewhere
     it's all fucked, man, i guess, it's all fucked, everything.
i dunno.