Wednesday, June 29, 2016

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
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.

Tuesday, June 28, 2016

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

Monday, June 27, 2016

'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

Saturday, June 25, 2016

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.

Friday, June 24, 2016

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.

Thursday, June 23, 2016


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.


some very even
things to
when lost in
your own

events don't have to go down this way

you can revise and
edit them

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

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

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


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
much less

Friday, June 17, 2016

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

Thursday, June 16, 2016

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

I've heard
have read
or thought
exiting and
revolving doors
just on the
of my tongue
that I
can't remember
these jumbled
half words
or tasted like
they were even
reference to
or specific to
I keep
just the
with my
and drying

Monday, June 13, 2016

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

      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
            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

Sunday, June 12, 2016


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.

Friday, June 10, 2016

disgraced professors of paper towels

feet many walking about the concrete fields
many souls many unacknowledged

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

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

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'

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

Wednesday, June 8, 2016


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.


          each line drawn across the globe
many steps to bring down buildings
     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
     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.

Tuesday, June 7, 2016

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

Friday, June 3, 2016

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

Wednesday, June 1, 2016

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.