Wednesday, December 1, 2010

This should go elsewhere (later)

Until you find yourself on a rocker
guarding dribblings from the rats
and shotgun guarding the estate
Long decayed to passersby.

C Worker's Complaint (redo)

I will post this again
And there will be lines
going all the way down the page.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Separating the Image

Fine images
of a lover and children
and seedy yellow harvests,
would accompany me day-to-day
for withdrawals at the bank
or in lines at the heart transplant center,
until I realized, no,
waiting in lines
and for death
will go away completely
with a lock of my room,
where I’d still enjoy harvests,
a lover, and children.

Purple fields and skies
would sit beside me in logic class,
listen to grandma's pilled-out
manic episodes,
and mark dying deadlines
on the calendar,
until I realized, no,
commitments like these
to class and family
will go away completely
with a lock of my room,
where I’d still enjoy harvests,
a lover, and children.

The great indoors!
All of the day-to-day go-getting
replaced with purple fields and skies.--
--Horror horns may vomit
failures to appear in court,
but so what?--I have fields
to seal my lids upon,
and escape hardened life
in constructed skies.

How my throat tightened
when this creation darkened
and purples went light brown
and took away tweeting sounds,
and the lover became reserved
and then snuck out the door,
and children turned to dirt.

My gasping head of tears
screamed at the forever listening listener:
what world is this that I cannot make my own!
what world is this that demands,
“Do something, now! You’re in it!

You ran from the world
of cars, of lines , of scars,
and went into your head
of fields, of loves,
yet how the head is mirrored
and has not it’s own light,
apart from the turning ongoing world,
that blends all visions for your choosing.
How loutish your escape,
as if the moon were fleeing the sun
and screaming at its loss of light,

you’ll take it all back, or have nothing,
take birthing pangs of dull tasks again and again
with dying bodies and clamoring voices
and everything besides!”

Sunday, November 7, 2010

5000 Vapours

When someone impresses me
it's shouldn't be so final.

The tower drops down
and its mangled steel
juts out rusted
from a cracked stone foundation
where I lay my head down
and close my eyes
from the decaying corpses
around and sing myself to sleep:

I love you, stones that failed,
I love you, building of air
and 5000 smoldering vapours.

Upper Sensations

A white back
--The one companion image
dinned and crossed
up to the shiny aristocratic,
wandering astonishments
laced in unagreed upon
so that we'd
just go and see what happened,
we'd stretch out
and forget about death.

time for another, I'm terrible
at first impressions,
I give too much jazz arrayments
and accept the slimest potential
of our time and place
as possessing unprocessed explosions
of fortified expressions.
Just le mot juste (only the right ones)
and nothing besides.

But every sour tongue is part of the experience,
I'll learn, I'll learn . . .
yet in cocophany of brittle sounds
and bitter plates did I forget
that hunger and thirst had ever existed.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Rationa(i)l (The sucking up of wonder by too much reflection)

Before sunning palms
sits the sunning palms,
sunning in the sun
for the purposes of
being in the light.

The Elephant

There's an elephant too,
but he's invisible.

The elephant charging a splashing river
On the grey afternoon
between two trees
after midnight.

At a housewarming party,
I told this joke.
No one laughed.
One kid cried.

I told him he was adopted
and the tears shed a red and white painted shed
before I could continue
with invisible elephants
so he'd know it was too fantastical
know it was to stupid
to be true in the truthy sense that is real in a really truthful going up elevator.

Get up! The night is going down . . . to the extreme. A vigil will be held in a rain bucket, when the toaster timer goes off, and the orphans can have their rations.

They aren't rational, but they get what they pay for dammit, which was a lot less than you paid. Don't give me that needy look. You get nothing, the end.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

By the Bar

A hill of ash clouds the bar,
grey and bald of fire expired
as in line for a bank teller
waiting, car parked, to retire.

There's no job, and wife
won't stop about it.
The glass hollows--it's life!
--and wets the smoldering pit.

Under the stool here, listen,
before the tables to him talk,
his sight the world leadens
and the world no longer shocks:

"Cute baby girls through the door
to men holding the silver moon,
who grab them to the dance floor
and drift in timeless tune.

Even my jaded eye's less jaded
in seeing meaning move here
to tease my form. But, I'm faded
with rolling ongoing years.

That couple!--He makes a sign
he's even completely unaware
but she by it knows: 'he's mine,
forever. It's in his stare.'

His eye's inside hers,
he won't one moment dare shut.
They'll bleed when blood poors
all down her bleeding heart.

And which would I become
for meaning's manifestation;
the girl or the guy would I roam
if for one transmigration?

I'd put my shadow in that girl
--under the exception
I'd return in here after the whirl
avoiding her long severe reflection.

[And who would I become
if for one transmigration;
In whose form would I roam
a meaning manifestation?]

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Jumping Off

There's no silence here under one lamp
so late. The walls alive reverberate
with one voice: your calling passion
springing in mounts of blues electric amps,
pushing from me doubt and frantic fears of late
that no one exists who creates live expression.

Sing on, siren, for my senses unstable
for arriving here how was I able?
As no absinthe from hard drinking days
ran such red lights and bent up roadways
as I did barely moments before
drifting dazed from your door.
Thank the silver moon who led me home
while I better thought your dark eyes to roam.

Never quit, echo! I'll long pull up my sheets
and try a swirling head to rest,
to disappear into rustling summer trees
beyond silent deserted streets,
as your voice makes sounds seen.

Dreaming summer, I'll trample new ground for one chance,
with you to breathe and bask in freedom's dance.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Ma Chérie,

let's tear the world apart,
bring back bleeding alive a perfect art
that lives for us alone
and (once we're dead)
will settle in collector's homes.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010


In bile emptiness
I pray to the ages
that they'll rest herein
and restore these pages

from a sinking bed
yellow shrinking
behind shutters

I confess
with folded hands
over bleeding belly
and drift one in
the unrelenting,

when I forget
who I am
and who I trek with
when I forget
fumbling futures
like one ageless
if I'd stretch
retreating light.

The bleeding sore erosion
lifts me to embark
without limp legs
that'll never move
shock mellows then fades
into sonorous breath
of woodside roads
off to the numberless.

Fuzz of pined mountains
rolling horizons ...

. . .. . . .

Monday, June 14, 2010

Lionel Johnson Earnest Dowson

Loved poetry to death. Rhymers, dead.
Through stupor,clunking heads
against a hand rail.

to death. Another's to you two

what did you write?

i don't know yet
but another drink
to you
you all.

Sunday, June 13, 2010


Shock's sprinting
galore rend hive
head worse spiked
forms penetrate
spine pumping
blood hypes
lone thumbs
go where
do what
need to know
circuits reving
pressure poppers
in dirt
exposed brain
retreating light
all need'll
all want'll
all desire'll
go with
ending show.

To a Fine Human Being

So much there is; Can't contain it all here,
but on my pen flies and it I won't veer
and stand against my calling for art
though most this age would rip their ears apart
or repeat so in Journals with a scribbling mess.
I'll affirm it, teacher, this music's timeless.
So let's travel back with an inward gaze
and extend the limits of paraphrase:

Twelve years I listened to the dronings on
about chemicals or dates without reason,
remember so many expressionless faces
at lectures too gunshy to make their cases,
ending with the animals roaring in their zoo
while the shaking teacher went 'what to do?'
From here reaching your class, you told us the sum
showing us to our seats, not like a mom
but like one vanquishing dragons within,
mastering a game that always you'd win,
all while joining students on their turbulent turff
in stunning fearlessness and equable worth,
as many that age are no less than Grendel
considered outcasts, up shit creek without paddle;
where a fire'd break out, you'd bring them around
with voice moral and gentle, their actions unwound
and if not--watch out! You'd call 'unsex me here'
sieze a cruel crown and then out they'd clear.
--What a will, but, the dumbest being sages,
you'd soon fight Grendel's mom in email exchanges.
Such shows were the day to day occurance,
and I observed all, if that's an assurance.
Anything between these lines is owed to you,
first to say questing with Rimbaud's the thing to do,
or that you hung out with Morrison, he's one man
of once I said 'I'll follow anywhere I can'
(of how many have I said that since then?)
--and it's true, bearded Jim wins in the end--
and long dicussions we had of that Holy Book
--though a bit faded, as today's freeways are stuck--
and in pinning Cassady's picture to your wall
we wrestled and you brought it down as I recall.
Just as well, though I myself forget some words
between your sparkling room and wine-flooded cupboards;
in it there was much you must of had to forgive,
with blustering teens you know how to deal and live.

All is in flux Hereclitus knows; no more
come through your course, the next pass another's door.
And when you stand before Vienna and Rome,
the Colosseum, arches, Florence's dome,
and any monuments for the existing today
among gellati shops, cycling crowds, buffets,
know in there all turns with the stretching mold
those influenced by you, now out in the world
who live and love with the passing events
and strive to shape their own true monuments.

Saturday, June 5, 2010

Looking at You Looking at You

I see you walkin' sideways cap and cap o' seven up;
rollin' in life complete.

lo' i hear thee
msgn them yo peeps of master plans
to task the days with chillin'
we hear thee
bob up and down the night time alley
waving flags
in black of washed out stars
we hear n make of it what we heard

bob up and down in daylight concrete
near by the mechanized highways
and to you a star is shown
(If you could comprehend)
as more free than even those who look at you
and comment,
in fragmented print.

Friday, June 4, 2010

My Woman Will be Cloaked


You chat on; if you'd like to know,
where these feet have treked
between ellum leaf
I'll show you.

I've wrested from God's
claws what is,
From electric star
and such suns
no more consider
what swirls below.

I mean you,
you're the one.

The severed heads of youth
took us away
but, alas, was flightless.

I'll wrap you in burqa leaves
behind my fire,
one of uncivilized meanderings
one of law, sharia, sharia;
my fire fierce of Mullah's blade
which with one false note
will off your tongue!
as you look on,
that much you are aware,
I see.

wait for me, wait,
caged in linen
no matter where I'm going! (don't ask)

I'll return,
sometime, this year?
Next year . . .?

Thursday, June 3, 2010

Taper taper taper

[save my work, blog, so I'll dream it out and do no work]

05/27/2009 RIP Kyle Lane one year dead, I've heard nothing else, no indication he's anywhere but gone, his friends have heard only silence after tears

As I can tell, the ground drys with consciousness
no colors, warmth, or calousness.

eh, and so day today winds down to the quick sensation which will be forgotten,
and legs strain the burden,

take the vitamins, check your depression, the doctor prescribes,
but what keeps his words from winding down lickwise?

the day today no memeory, sensation fleeting with all concern.
Legs cramped, sit stand no matter, wander where to my cure?

that we'll meet again inward weeps,
but those moments too are done.

it must be we'll meet again,
shoddy beliefs shown a sham and wishful
thinkers, idiotic louts blind to reality
unfolding, and so i reject.

reject it once and for all
liveout my dying days correct.

but what inside seeks for truth?

is that something sensation only,
but again in asking i'd like to know,
only truth
only truth, returns, drowned in century's vanity,
has it a place now? well there,
there it may once again reside
that i wanted proofs and nothing less,
setting self above sensation.

and what story then do i give myself?
opening possibilities, contagion,
it won't limit itself,
but rises and says
restoration, resurrection, we'll know it's true,
meet again wherever but again

and springing I go toward that goal
with no exertion of my own
legs unhinged, were they ever cramped?
they're too light now,

as toiling workers
all the day, in shops, offices, fields,
look to the end of that shift,
to see daughter, son, wife, husband
and know it's near,

even gladly does the task,
no matter what it is
so long as he live in the truth
of seeing them again, again!

So too, I'll stride
repeating, is it true!?
and pray for a transformation,
a resurrection today in me alive.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010


Having youth is little more
than keeping the exit in plain view
beyond to new follies, lead ashore
to lands of hardened jewls.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

White Bread

Can we feed a white bread
stuffed head?

Calories never burning
cept in nourishing

how rich
is this?

Too much,
down with poverty
once they said.

we've paid that price,
the idles, nothing done
down with what,
when will we starve?

--Dear God,
take away from us this day
our daily white bread
stuffed head.

Saturday, May 1, 2010


It would not be repectful to the reader's attention span to itemize the small

mountain of goods Maria had accumulated from her friends. The mass consisted

in part of disposable diapers, baby food, stuffed animals, rattles, bibs, sleepers,

blankets and party favor bags. The backyard was a sparkle of other props:

plates, cups, napkins, plastic forks and knives, a pinata, and a dozen sky-blue,

latex balloons proclaiming It's a Boy. The sun shot straight down on all of

this but left Maria and her friends unscathed as it were, hehind sunglasses

and beneath an umbrella jutting out of the center of a table. A newcommer

would have choked on sunscreen air, hand on knee until normal vision

was restored, but chatting comfortably after the moments required to

get on the inside and not to notice anything at all.

Chatting comfortably is almost what was going on: voices piped, yet

what was said could have been interchanged with any phrase earlier

or latter, or in another situation entirely; hands flowed and sprang,

but in the same instance one hand clenched a purse, a hand bag, or a cup.

One friend rubbed chapstic over and over upon her lip.

"This is exciting!" "Oh, I can't wait" "You must be ready for it to end as

well.""It isn't much longer." One friend would send up a phrase toward Maria,

and as it fell she would again stir her straw, check her cellphone, fix her

shades, or rub her napkin to ground the current that gives rise to such

expressions. "It went by quick though!""Yeah?""No?""Oh!""Aha, yeah."

Another bent her head to Maria's belly and rattled a party favor bag of blue

chocolate candy at it. "Oh, he can hear this!" The baby was kicking at the

commotion. "Oh yes," Maria said with half-closed lids, "the baby hears a

lot of things." Maria reclined further into her patio chair as another friend

finished a cupcake and was rubbing her hands on a napkin. "Oh, these

are cute," she sent out as one deducting a singular truth from where nothing

is more convincing. Nothing was more convincing, and it sent everyone

nodding and checking their hands again.

There's something about these paper napkins though. For one thing,

they're printed with lazer guided ink and several advances in high

resolution technology. So inexpensive has it become to manufature these

over the past few years that hundreds of square miles are churned out each day,

each with colorful paintings. An artist would dream of employment with such

machines and manufacturing processes, that shoot out one's imagination to the

world in the face of all equally. This, of course, after a board of directors determines

the image's suitability for common consumption.

"Precious, you'll soon see all of this stuff for yourself. Yes, you will!" Done with

her napkin, the friend lobbed it into a black trashbag that was reaching capacity. The

wadded paper hit the rim at such an angle that it unfolded on top of the heap.

Face in the sun, the crinkled mural was one of a baby boy in diapers smiling

with quite a bit of cupcake frosting on its mouth and bib. Above the baby was

a banner that read It's a Boy.

Sipping, munching, genuflecting, and chatting repeated and progressed. The

clanging stimulation of props declined towards the baby, and he settled his feet. The

ladies became further situated with the objects around

them and so drifted further apart, if only a little, from their own cellphones

and purses. As such they were also more at ease with one another, and the

need to fill the air with thoughts that weren't their own deminished. As a gathering

with even old, familiar friends clamors ungrounded until the prattle instills some footing,

so too another phase was beginning at Maria's babyshower. The ladies unfamiliar with the house no longer

built a facade behind every corner, but stretched out their area with a more

complete hold of the blue stucco walls and dark blue shingles surrounding

the mounds of stuff, and the dark green grass leading up to the table where they

sat. Individual items became more clear and each friend absorbed her own and played out several

ways she could use it. For the moment, conversation left. Each item made itself explicit

upon a background of sunshine, newborns, fields, and abundance, each reinforcing one another.

It was here that one friend was absorbing towards the deck, between a pile of

goodie bags and folded chairs. No context was in place to assimilate what what

becomming more and more apparent--a severed head.

Her eyes halted on it as her heart skipped and sped up. But a second later, it came to her.

"Oh my God, that is too funny!"

The other ladies darted away from their objects and followed her voice and

finger pointing to the middle of the deck, between two vague piles. There,

a severed head grew a smile, and then a cream-colored body with an arm,

leg and a diaper. Its eyes grew and stared fixedly away at nothing in

particular, facing ninety degrees left. Across its bib read Its a

Boy. For some it took longer to figure what it was, but as one got it,

influence spread through their shared atmosphere so that all got it. "What!" "No!"

"They make those?""Maria, did you get that?" "Where

did you get that!" Maria's smile grew as she nodded.

They strung the baby up on a low hanging branch from an ash tree. As one

lady walked over waving a stick, slanted rays poured over its face. The textured

paper mache illuminated and and the baby's eyes stared skyward at the source

of that light. As the lady drew nearer, a short burst of wind rattled through and

jolted the baby back as if flinching.

"So how does this work?" "Oh, it's cute though.""We gonna hit it? Ahaha."

"No, don't do that!""There's candy inside, I hear it!" Maria creaked up off her chair.

She grinned and, fatigued, said, "Oh no, don't hit it. I

thought about that but . . . I think I'll keep it. It's so cute." She pointed at

the numerous, multicolored strings hanging own from the baby's diaper. "See

those, each one take a turn and pull one--just one!""Oh, I see." I've heard

of these.""Me too, these are the new pinatas that you don't break.""Kids can

get hurt.""Strings, but that's no fun!""Yeah, but it is cute." They gathered

around. One studied the baby for a moment and, finding her string, took hold of it

and gave it a hard tug. Her fingers slipped through the strings to the gasps of

those around. "That must be the one!" Immediately, another took it upon herself

to reach it. She flung up her hands, got a firm grip, and pulled. Laughter exploded

as pale-blue packaged breathmints with It's a Boy witten on them came down by the hundreds.

The ladies screamed and giggled; the swirling things and packages and mounds also laughed,

and this shared abundance echoed far up the street.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Madeline With Yellow Hat

The ordering of
the souls;
smiled at
a white-gloved
entering a car.
What rolled
was applause
from a mass
of the smiling

Old Man, Have a Cane

Old man, have
a cane to
support yer legs.

don't e'en get
up out that chair,
not ever.

Trade yer legs
fer videa games.

Friday, April 2, 2010


As if dead weight
won't take up its calls.

Neglected body
an object as once it saw

patting about carelessly.

Frivolity now serious,
the owner no longer owns,

recedes into declining space,
and all space itself fades.

Construction Worker's Complaint

For our future, WWIII.
Would push to fruition
Wars more deadly seen,

Yet they decimate slightly;
Our worker's union

As leveled postwar was flaming boon
Reminders of the past
Of economy once intact.

Our monuments stand Electric, erect, called to rise
Mellenia--Up, up with every modern sight that looms,
Only too well! Out of work,
As new ones won'as ages colossus,
t be needed.
So our beards grow egregious,
e we retire or sell
...........Earthquakes give work;
So much when the last one hit,
We set aside electrical codes
And specs that owners our job's done well
As jobs can't be over-forked
We'll be sent to patch that scar,
Stack upon the urban gore,


Many have a calling
when out calls a louder shout:
cops drawing pistols for a sting,
waving shiny things they say'll sell out

up in your face, "Take it,
would you sir?"
"Well, I can't not take it,
we're pals, we'll play the shopper"

and the sky stops swirling,
gives one glance at blue,
then dash to the rail hurling
as sea angers, bobbing buoys,

and you won't say
"things aren't even worth it,"
but, "where's another, it'll stay,
give it or there'll be a fit"

all while jets fly
through black flack,
inside hints a "why?"
that would see things taken back

but not even that,
stuff still won't notice the mountain,
will cover firing squad's rat-a-tat-tat,
unsticken a crack full of sand,

and shut off weak voices
that might renue the sphynx,
build up for-the-sakes-of purpose,
close these storms as light drinks.

What Poetry Means to Me

[Johnny McColvich, a fifth-grader, was given a class assignment about what poetry means to him. His insight is posted here in its entirety]


Poetry is
breaking up
story telling
without regard to rules
in normal story telling.

Such a novelty.
Such is poetry.

Forgotten after
the final

Then back to real things in life we finally return.

The End.

Monday, March 29, 2010

Doves With Razor Beaks Triolet

A dove would grow a razor beak
as would a monglor shaking hands
yet letting mad intentions leak.
A dove would grow a razor beak
bury alive all those who speak,
and banish thoughts that, in one's land,
a dove would grow a razor beak.

Dispersing Body

Who am I
without my body?
--A slowly descending
I've definitely detached
for I hear my lips
and see them depart at once

Who am I
without a body?
--A driftaway thing,
in clicking crickets
I'll join with soon.


--Doing; feeling later,
much later
as doing now's against all feeling
made by the past's doing.

But it bends--how?
--and welds new iron shapes.
Here, discipline:
the transformation of all
to taken up case.

But it's not true, you say,
and so rebend the world
to suit this your new view,
and place a shape of it.

There's a Hermit

There's a hermit behind
the town he was born in.
In some woods
his youthful visage
cleared dark thickets,
his scragly balding head
reclusing further
from skeletal mechanism.

Just outside, it swarms,
but when dark, he sheds tears
for the long days ever longer,
opining these years:
the same neighbors always seen
in their windows
who turn the same way
to the same places
to the same
'till bony and creaking.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Imagiste Poem

Orange blossoms
drain under sun,
finger-tapping a fading ho-hum.

What Trees Talk About

During noonday
trees congragate around
billowing tailpipes.

"They headin' where?

With our leaves
we don't know,
just wave and stare;
can't uproot ourselves
around though scenes change
with browning air."

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Cold With Neglect

If I've dance my perverse dance,
It was later than most.
As season blossoms, glittering mounds
Nurture roses with bird's jazz rounds;
Yet even more times cold with neglect,
Sends red bouquets to wilt and forget.

A Rush of Clouds

A rush of clouds
conjured eons
in my sight.
The passion sprang
ahead of legs.

If it will
but charge again,
though less,
as last
I fell off that cliff,
just again
clear dust
off pearl windows,
I'd retrace the steps,
reform areal
the whirl of the world.

Monday, March 22, 2010

A Dead Ideal

Once I thought I'd create
such a moment
a true ideal
that though above
and below it
might vomit putrid fluids,
well so what!
I had one moment
and back I'll fly,
prove I keep my memories.

That line of thought--ideal
--what a joke,
a sham to remove a self
from turning ongoing
whose insatiable demands say
"Do something--Now!

"What you thought you'd avoid
by doing once I need again
and again and more besides."

Sunday, March 21, 2010

One Quick Sketch of Time (or of a Time)

the present dying,
stretched across fluid action.

Hidden under
of blanket
I dream of cleverness

Friday, March 19, 2010


rise water crest
in pat pat,
glinting swishes
in sand and salt
inhale, sink,
and become a new.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Heading East

Trying to sigh some out there rice,
the slanted eyes of a quarter moon
blow my curtains.

The white light scattered, I raise my thoughts
like lips to a bamboo flute,
and sigh a few wiles.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

The King's Been Dead, Long Live the New One When?

I was sure I saw concern for certainty
closing certainly its stiff jaw.
The opening of all solicitations
have stretched out in our midst,
so the horror horns have stopped,
concern for rethinking comes to an end,
and there's just reordered structure to the world
about where I trek, and what I worship's
absolute for me alone and unobjective
it broke the window, where I run away,
leave Modernity in that campy sense,
I'll keep its gadgets but transcend.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Simple Economics Get Us Up

Check the symbols on this receipt
--all hands on deck!

Monetize metaanually,
ticking increases in size.

And then? Use different tech terms,
but do it again.

Sun turns monotone and ins go out
--how else should an up Corp. run?

Monday, March 15, 2010

On the Clock

The customers have been asking
if I work here.
Fed-ex came through the back door, and left me all alone;
“Where’s the bathroom?” The kid has to take a leak.
Have you noticed the security cameras?
And the manager, knowing nothing else to do, viewing the screens?
And the computer’s out of service.
As usual, some #s between 1-40 mean 0
and the manager can’t find ‘musicals’
and the manager can’t find things
and she’s having trouble.

The manager can’t find ‘musicals’
and you can’t find “The Last Night of the Earth”
even with seven copies
and I guarantee you that she will hate you
from the bottom of her screen
with the date, and friends you spoke to lying,
“You just can’t run a business without her”
and the manager can’t find ‘musicals.’

The manager can’t find ‘musicals’
and the clocks on the phone are off
and time won’t be your friend
and the rule-maker’s comfie
at home with mother
and the manager can’t find ‘musicals’
without fear of contradiction I say
the manager can’t find ‘musicals.’

Our Father, who art surrounded by goods,
hallowed be thy name
thy kingdom come, thy will be done
on Earth as it is in totes of stock,
give us this day our daily bucks
forgive us our wasting
as we forgive those who continue to waste against us
and lead us not into spentation
but deliver us from primitive things that end up in the dumpster.

Because the manager can’t find ‘musicals’
And she’s your friend not mine
Because the manager can’t find ‘musicals’
And she’s not my responsibility.

The boxes are stacked
cream puff tree paper yellow
and the owner is just an apparition
hallucinated by those with no green.

I’m diving down, hang on to me, I’m
down going.
Watch me live off coverless whatzitz
I know I can do it, I’m in control
and the manager can’t find ‘musicals’
and she’s embarrassing me
she's passed the job to someone else

and the café’s on fire
and all the magazines are fake
and the registers crapped out
and I’ve got a feeling the manager can’t find things
--just a hunch
and she’s going to lunch.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Hi, Laforgue

The questions delivered to your door
about how to program the day

are dispenced by chatty heads
and ten second censor delay.

Let's magnify some certain points,
suck the air in glutton's trance,

up the decible for our neighbors,
flaunt our stance.

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Tip Top

Keep our arms pumped
Full of berry gelatin
by exercising.

Up and over try to jump
so that this moment is a win
until the next sends our drowning.

Drown--or rot on a stump,
doing nothing with a stupid grin
skin flaking way and whitening.

How is Such a Wall Alive!

Doestoyevsky asked a similar question
About a similar maniac indeed living,
But none splashed such bright meaning

over all; even greys like moving a brush on
rotten teef, or pooping green and ergo giving
more life to rotten Earf, careening

through a void bumping the sun
awfully close to the eight ball sending
it down a pocket when 'Game Over!' rings.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Whorty Shorty (Under the Wall)

Whorty Shorty shows up
To sort his wall by one method,
crouch below and it will fall.

Like eyes on a newborn pup,
He takes a breath then through the blood,
through the sloshy gelatin wall.

The time is now to stoop and stop,
He's breathless as an Idaho spud,
won't again hear his mommy call.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Roxxxy Mounts the Wall (Attempt Two)

This is what the thunder said:
"I gots dis shizits, you'll see!"
Never the world be so buried as with her sight.

Her handbag wasn't stained but already red,
Mai Tai in hand, after double-shots went way in pee,
Click clicking fast feet, restrained by skirt tight,

Her face now flushes dead
within the berries, white truly,
and the town agrees it's a merrier night

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Khunn Mounts the Wall (Atempt One)

There must be a way over this
get legs to carry somehow
insurmountable is just an expression

I come from Strom mountain
Where I made Rhunnd, the mountain goat, plummet
and gained my standing

but no firm ground here
and irrevocably covered in red
what, will these hands ne'er be clean?

Monday, March 8, 2010

The Berry Wall

Its tartness stings over the moment's next moments,
Towers miles high above the populace,
Penetrated by laundry stains thickening blood.

Awash, they fall back on their rent,
Tardiness disqualifies them to race,
They determine: I can't climb it, who could?

Its juicy shadow falls over in torrents
Enveloping more those who won't move at any pace,
Once free, now only juicy goodness fills their blood.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Anchovy Sugar (with notes)

Sweet bitterness (desituated)
off the cob (this is here to keep it situated)
sighing like pain (desituated)
blood curdling pleasure (desituated)
scoarching wet sand (not quite situated)
parched oceans (desituated)
crying gladiators in pink pantyhose (very situated)
atomic uniform waves (desituated).

(Sweet comes from experience with sugar, honey, oranges . . .
Bitter from peelings, rindes, seeds . . .
Sighing from relaxing tensions . . .
Pain from tensions . . .
Parchement from thirst, lack of water . . .
Oceans from a lot of water waving . . .
Atoms from discrete units and science experiments showing atoms as a particle . . .
Waves from spread-out unincremental patterns and science experiments showing atoms as spread out. . .)

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Night 2010

Orange sprays on top stone
blended though night's greys.
Street lights peer misty-eyed;
statued hydrants dissolve.
Every object transformed,
forgetful of daytime utility:
signals turn the wind
and roadways hold the map,
monuments of the dead.

Where have their users gone?
--Fled off day-to-day reality
to dreams, or fidgiting, tossing,
dreading tommorow's restless,
unerving marching,
with a deep-seated want to ruin
these the waiting monuments.

Friday, March 5, 2010

No Reasons and Nothing to Sing About

Breathing gets more difficult,
oceans of sounds line up
to drop down and sulk,
thyroid demands to be ripped out,
breathing gets more difficult,
neck crackling at adjustment,
pain that says never move,
laughing in adjestment,
stiff legs by strained steps,
popping out hairs spent,
breathing all too difficult.

The turning world turns
on more expedient routes.
And all the fluid passing
takes my envious eyes
to curse rancid destruction
in spit spotted breaths.
Breathing far more difficult,
the turning world turns
in casual resentment.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Fountain Out Blinds

They behold in their own
what they don't know
"This, is true"
off the rabble
the broken hums
of midnight streets
awaits the eyes and feathers
to that quiet
which sees all.

No diffidence,
no hesitence

Have I confidence in
pang urges abilities
to connect with what is again?

Queen urns
breaking through
the green of April hills
and the blue of oceans
with blood in vats,
we thought of mounting walls
but are cooling
in broken passion.

Halving lives.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

More Than Silence

When sound subsides to reverberations
That fill between the forms of eons,
One's never deafened, but treads on fuller ground
A thousand-mile-away pet back to its loved one found,
Or a sensing of signals of the comming, quaking ground,
Expanding through present fluid oboes.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

All Eyes Are Watching

With shoulders poised
ready to catch a football,
He takes the task of the room
by determined footfalls.

With a smirking grill
Stapled together except
in lifting soda for a sip,
He knows all know his precept.

Ah, the young, though none look,
still feel the omniscient
sanctioning every affect;
It will soon leave reminiscent.

But for now all eyes are watching,
the omniscient rests on him
to please each smirk, shirade, affect,
to prime decay nascent therein.

Monday, March 1, 2010


Fly and return,
the soundcaster,
in a digital stream.

Against the turn
to ceaseless chatter,
work anew some steam.

For our concerns
And yours differ
In no great degree,

But devices learn
To disseminate and offer
a plastic commune dream.

So fly and return,
the soundcaster,
in a digital stream,

through ears and eyes,
your century's works's
more than here can glean.

Sunday, February 28, 2010


Where wrest
papers in a mess.

Watch run
and loose what
was signified.

Where awareness
shifts head
to leave
to old maid's
ink and desk.

Saturday, February 27, 2010


Reduce, reduce, nihil.
Emerge from nothing's
everything vatal.

So the greens
in every shade,
thoughts imaterial
not found in a count
but inbetween
every counted one.

Stretched-out mind
hovers within,
guiding this range

to the tastes,
give me once more variety,
sweet, one's better than others,
sour after bitter,
long for the flying hot
for chilled experience.

So possibility trumpets,
but a final end of time
if it's not impossible it someday fade.

Friday, February 26, 2010

The Isolated Particle

Father's arms around, he's already reving his feet.
Once let go, he's floored the red oak door
Out to blossoming day, greens, gray and silver cars,
Wind that would toss a tangerine his way up the street,
And a thousand miles behind in uproar.

Well the ice strikes, and here come the knocks
Along one side and the other upon identical doors
And sometimes hailing hands to passing cars,
Or wandering for heat in front of locks,
For greens, for fruit, for substantial what-fors.

As a modern faun, or, alien bright,
Housholds now behold this thing
Much out of reach, and unsituated
Holding heat and fruit night by night
Reduced to a sugary, glowing orange ring.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Hands Full of Stuff

Eeking its way to housetops,
Light throws motors buzzing out front,
Bags in hand, to swarm the gatekeepers
Unlatching at 8.

What propful day awaits?

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Into the Artifice of Eternity

One laments temporal holds
On us that grey our land,
Yet in the fast steps of another show,
Our own once ripe.

My hobbling skeleton
Motions flies and ants
At the first juice drops.
The Snapping twigs of bursting life
Attenuate contrapuntal misery.

Anything but changing seasons:
Florid pills down my gull, I'll driftaway,
Kill my time to the one unchanging.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Soaking up Decay

Twenty dollars lies face-down in a gutter,
half ink and sand, soaking the afternoon.
Shriveled money has lately
Spread over a rising quarter moon.

There sitting with his sign, a Vet. in rags
Lets on that all's typical,
And past the intersection go clerks in flimsy slacks
To whole stores of typical.

Soon large blasts join
Gunpowder air to rusty tail-pipes,
And leaves shower the streets
Between drooping chins and taillights.

Banks disintegrated with most their leaves
That swirl round the nodding sorters,
Yet the mechanism still ho-heaves.

Eyes outside Carl's Jr. open to shakes in hand.
Their roaring skates tear the ordered commotion,
Always laughing at the to-and-fro around.

Monday, February 22, 2010

It Wasn't Me

"Use your brain!" once you said
Taking over the wash to show
How it's done with eyes and hands.

What matter what day it was?
Valentine's, as any Sunday slow,
I rushed out for your card.

And enough about it. I've renounced it
with your moods. No comprendo?
I'm not learning that language!

An atmosphere invents itself
between the bits revealed as once,
"Stay away!" And so it wasn't me,
I made no cliches this Valentine's.

Sunday, February 21, 2010


Gripping plastics, Child,
you know exactly what you want,
though it would change
just as soon in your hand.

And later with friends
the metals and lights
solicit your sight
and jump off the shelf.

After long down those aisles
your withered hands
grabbing sturdy jewls
to brighten your grays
will stop by a child
led by firm family hands
grabbing such plastics
above its gaze.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

So Many are Against Nature

It's here, didn't make it
but it did

No quicker
your hand hastened
than it was
..........going to.

Who objects
to followed behavior?

What for, Object?

Object that does as they,
that is as will be.

Arbitrary time
knows this moment,
yet circles elsewhere
East and West
where the same motion

Nowhere unrest
but locked shut
though some tug and rattle
that lock.

Though some rattle the chains.

Object, disappear.
An unconscious is your one end
doing only what will be done.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010


Kill words, what's truth worth? as
Polititians, two sides pulverize;
Can't tell anymore what's real,
Where to go away so that I feel
No more?

History repeats its warcraft,
Nam and Himmler all ex Jews as
Pol Pot, Mao's rise, Stalin's fall
Tear down forever that godamn wall.

Feel the crash of institution,
A member of its contribution;
Can't believe world's words,
What they say
Gotta make, better find a better way

Gotta kill all this killing,
Always wrong if God is willing
Where it stands,
I ain't for the world
And I ain't your whore.

Monday, February 1, 2010

To Verlaine

Past chances, what you want?
The chilled air grieves in mordant tones
And the sun darts down in monotone
Over orange woods where wind intones.

We were one and one in dreams vibrant
Just us, hair and thoughts blown.
So sudden her eyes at me did enchant:
"What's the greatest day you've ever known?"

Her voice twinkling angelic,
And as suiter, I gave my answer discreet
With a kiss on her white hand.

Woah! The first buds spring finest
And the next sounds I just can't stand
Of first yeses without rest.

Sunday, January 31, 2010

Being In Time

Iron forged to place
Burnished molds hardened
Burned all dross and waste
So the statue stood.

But culminates
To here where it melts
By no built fate
But now in my hands

Its forward image
Points how it would return
If such and such arranged,
So I might again transform.

Author's Note:
Heidegger's right about everything as far as I can tell. But he inserts his concepts into temporality--Background familiarity/coping is the past, ready-to-hand the present, and for-the-sake-of-which the future--but I think there's more to the structure of time than that. So I thought writing the above would help flesh out what the structure of time was--it didn't. I don't want to be a philosopher; I'd have to start a new blog, and poems should make such mental realities open up. Heidegger himself said as much. So I just need to make better poems. That's it.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

More Masks

Enlighten me, books!
Don me more disguises
If arteries won't contract
And breath stop
At every role performed.