stolen
thorny pussy
metal gangrene
metal gangrene
posted by hiccup at 7:18 PM
0 comments
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Monday, May 23, 2005
surf
triskelion
progress and competition?
come on do we have to visit that again?
what some call progress i call poison.
i suppose the competition's over whose
can kill best. i hear arsenic tastes like almost.
we humans are a lousy bunch, scratching
our buttcheeks, scratching our bleedy heads.
if i can't get comfortable, why should you
kinda reciprocation. how's the cancer today dear?
how to go thru this in the over and out/
some say there's already cures for it. my gurl's
been told it's vampire bat blood. i keep
telling her no
that's strokes.
mr fabial paints his awning
white. mr pots has lined his
border with cypress mulch. the riding
lawnmower's vmuch like the 4 horses
we used to keep around for the apocalypze.
let's dance.
associated with migrations and independent movements
put on your red shoes and dance
beatles make her smile, but marilyn
makes her want to take a razor
and slit my throat. we're getting along
on some measure of peace
that aquiescence of the weaker provides.
we both know who that is. ppl
always sayin to me yr strong yr strong
what the fuck. i wanna cave.
right now.
now.
migration. make me move
from here. i've no hold
on a natural state.
my windows are closed against
the settling
heat, stale smoke house. it's summery
torpidity, crackling lakes, a fireword
on jupiter. what promise could water make?
what is that word when bubbles come thru
water? spa. its flemish. a li'l gistory
from tresza . tresta festa fiesta
requestia. i'm mokey and molding into this same
stipend. why try to do the honorable thing?
there is no more honor. it's a chilvaric chalice
worn by a hedonistic chastity belt. water
comes for us all.
ideaogram for house.
house. etymology
of a letter. H.jason wore it
to homecomeing. i know you're
watching and i don't mind.
i'm ophelia. the fish are biting.
no i don't know your boy
but i'm sure he was a fine young man
eyes blue as deaf mute tounge.
and bones. don't forget the bones.
the angular stop at the top of the temple
explodes in a ladder you climb
recursive, recanting all along the forced march
but i've been here before!
in all cultures in all systems univeral
water.
i think we've located a truth, scottie.
in the svedish hobo system it means
angry dog.
she feels something vaguely
threatening above her, pressing but
there's no shadow. only a far away tune
she's heard before. she looses the dogs,
they slaver on crass legs and pontoons of braying.
cats are a course in independence
and they'll have none of it. they need her.
they speak away the fountain. she rocks
on the patio, humming== hair fey and disapearing
in the widening sun.
posted by hiccup at 3:36 PM
Sunday, May 22, 2005
the inquisitor's surrender
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i repair photoelectric sensors & industrial controls.
i can hear your eyes glaze; dancer tells me it
sounds mysterious and arcane but it's simply primitive
sight marking the passing of material thru this assembly
line world. where do you want to trigger
the output? leading edge or trailing? pulse stretch or not? on
delay or off? these things are selectable these
things are mutable. do you want the chocklate
elefant's trunk or its tail? do you want to wrap it up
or leave it open? we can help. it's my job
to find the failures. the ones
that act glitchy. the ones giving false
outputs on the factory floor or self destructing
in an orgy of fired up capacitance . the immolators
are easy to spot. it's the intermittent ones that cause
the most grief. i can batter them
with tests , pummel the salesmen
with questions. no one seems to be able to explain
their non- compliance, the capriciousness of their operation,
the unfolding of subversive failures found most often on graveyard
shifts when no trained personnel are available for exorcism.
everything appears to be working just fine. so i send them
back to their owners where they will wait until the warranty period
is almost expired then begin to stack product in the middle of a 252k
per second line-pills and bottles, aspartame gum, three
musketeers tumbling like revolutionary
poetry from the mouths of babes, off the 24/7 stop-n-go belt.
I want no more than home
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
if i could suspend
your risen face just above
the horizon, hold it there
and motion without time
a concentric circle an aureole
your umbrella up and shadey
that is where i'd leave us
beyond the borders of boredom
locked into perpetual ear nip
swallowing the key
after the chops are cooked
and the dishes washed, floors swept,
fractions calculated, heads drooped
over pillows, after work,beyond dark
i can't wait to hold you again.
so tall up there in young air
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
when the monthy glow hides
in mothy cloud i weep. tears
truncate beyond the seething
sea and teeth cut on a barnacle
grown on the side of a bard,
the connections get fainter-as if phosphors
in a petri dish, shining on the next in line--
nostril nerves and shallow graves. i touch them
as they fall but can do nothing with my lost stars.
they preceed me through places i'll never go:
holes backlit and bakelite. holes remanded
to the keep. as water to empty spaces as wisdom
to empty minds. then- sublimation, on a shoestring budget.
the hyacinth, a woman my age
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
a nimbus of light spills
thru hair shorn at the root
and pasted on this petal.
she keeps finding the tap
then letting it go, white cream flow
downstream circling.
in the floor is a whole she wishes
to slip into, dark , shape of a lily pad.
here she knows, the bass angle for brim.
when she's oblique she wants
trim eyebrows and a fat wallet.
when the sun is full on, wilting becomes her halo.
the bridge stands erect. she thinks of men.
if she were suicidal things would be done.
she is scentless. purchases hormones online.
so much to go thru, item by item.
she thinks of honeycombs, commisions the woodworker
he comes to her home. they embrace.
the ideas repeat themselves in tacky hair.
love stories are for frogs and the mudstained
skirts of ophelia. she understands this. she allows
the roses to wilt, and unfolds through them
with a cubist desire to share flat points of view.
the smell she realises that's when
they're rilly gone. the seeds are so tiny.
for kelp
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i wanted something of a river
something with water, holding a flow-
the dutch boy with a fork for a finger
we all know these references
they're common, are they not?
my son has entirely different allusions.
he and his new best friend live in itenerancy.
the fluid ity of halo the morals of a sociopath
bent against the easter bunny. rabbit rabbit
and bugs apears, a little old fashioned, a little top
hat and swizzle stick a bit kitsch till he blows
up elmer fudd. mario finds endless new
lives with the secret code. he
gets bored, grapples with a dungeon
and dragons' spawn in a new! mixed platform! see
it first on this gaming complex. they don't learn
from me that life is just a game. they learn from sony.
Your search - elmer fudd double take j.peg - did not match any documents.
so information is the new economy.
can't get some ones copyrited stuff someone's infobandwidth
without express digital consent. what is there to say
about that? i could bitch but that wouldn't hold a teacup
of piss in the ocean of copy. someone once told me
the best thing that could happen to your stuff is that someone
famous
should steal it.
think about that.
i mean you'd know, and they'd know.
what more validation could you need?
if it's just about the money honey
you're already dead.
*
the labor laws are better in colorado
mcd's is going to outsource your drive thru order.
the phone rings in the downstairs apartment
cirrus bleaches the neon sun, fogs the blue
plankton over paranoia. time gyres and you're
left reeling in a closet till downtime
the ocean plays mariachi with the shore.
the shore kisses fish. that, and all this light
Registered User
(4/1/05 7:03 pm)
Reply Oh Lynzie!
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I didn't miss this, I missed commenting on it, & apparently everyone else did too. This close to the first section:
they don't learn
from me that life is just a game. they learn from sony
Yeah I got you, & aint it the truth. The section has your idiosyncratic craftsmanship with the colloquial, double-edged buzz - good stuff.
This in the second section:
wouldn't hold a teacup
of piss in the ocean of copy. !!!!!
Love it.
The overall, bitchy-wise rummination works so well - has me rereading. You've become a player of the switch hit so internet mindset, & you do it in poems - cool. The play with language really gets me involved, especially when it gives me thoughts to walk away with.
xodj
il poe
Registered User
(4/1/05 8:38 pm)
Reply Re: Oh Lynzie!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i don't have much to say about your poem that dj didn't already allude to, the first and foremost strength being the wordplay and flexibility of language. I enjoy reading your tighter pieces (like this one), that still dare not forget the range of poetic justice/freedom that is allowed when writing.
What do you do with your stuff after you post it on the sandbox?
-paul
trashpo
Registered User
(4/2/05 10:56 am)
Reply | Edit hey you 2
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
thanks for the nods.
dj, your comment "everyone else did too"...
i get the feel from the box these days that not many people are reading the works of others. now , maybe that's just my own ill ness coming out, but it doesn't feel like many are into creating/keeping this community a community. feels like we've fragmented and scattered
ourselves deliberately. feels like letters back home and the ppl there have moved.
which totally sux for me cuz i'm such a comment whore.
i like interaction. and the state of the board these days makes me sad. so when i post a pome or a rant or musings and get no comments, it hurts. i don't think i'm alone in feeling this way. so yes, when i post here, i want and look foward to comments. it's true i write for myself and i'll write anyway. but i'm tired of being disappointed. when you're up in front of an audience and they ignore you, it becomes disheartening after a while, ya know? you think well, why put myself thru this grief?
i spose that's the beauty of blogs. you don't neccesarily expect response.
anyway, i appreciate the feedback on this from both you and paul, who both seem to maybe want that communal feel yourselves. i guess some of us, loners we may be, still need to merge with the pack. need outside validation, yes, i exist. solopsism's an ego trip i can't sustain...
xol
il poe
Registered User
(4/2/05 1:27 pm)
Reply Re: Oh Lynzie!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
oh, i still read here, but like you said, feel as if it's scattered, and i hold certain amounts of grief because I do feel like I am partly the catalyst and cause for such dispersion. sigh
noverili
Registered User
(4/2/05 1:52 pm)
Reply
Re: Oh Lynzie!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear L, I suppose you've read the Robert Anton Wilson & co-writer[name escapes me] books on the bugs bunny principle of things? Wherein Fudd features not at all being too dithering. I'm trying hard not to vent my frustration at the way the world unfolds, for who am i to really know what's what, and why. And i certainly am not blessed with the passion to embrace either side of any issue. What seems fair tantalizes, but you can never get a big enough bite of it to be satisfied...well so forth, etc.
head bursting with stuff that needs to be upchucked. soon, soon...
hope you find the time to write some more, always like to read your stuff, but lately haven't had much of a chance to say so. so i'm saying so. you are an important voice in my life.
and take this opportunity to tell you all who read and write here, your stuff impresses itself on me.
and last but least, you know that old saying - the mediocore borrow, the truly great steal.
Steel yourself! fer pete's sake! grid your own loins like a map for future exploration, and so forth.
I believe there must be a few who never make much sense, and i am glad to be such a one, but you L, you're something more essential...
affectionately,
n
eden2000s
Registered User
(4/2/05 7:35 pm)
Reply lynze,
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i'm reading too, just haven't been saying much is all. Sometimes I don't find the words for some reason. But i think people are reading....and enjoying it. and wanting to comment.
this poem leaves me with a sense of "looking at myself" what am i doing kinda thing. art helps people look at themselves look at others. your peoms are different like that, there is a feeling of complex mirroring...
regards
eden
Comment
trashpo
Registered User
(4/17/05 12:32 pm)
Reply | Edit troll
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for a world close to destruction
it's a beautiful day. i'm on the third
floor looking over rooftops toward
the beach. it's distant. so distant it's
only there in my knowlege, only possible
with a car. public transportation
is a myth. i've got 24 days of laundry
speaking to me from the hall. the frig
and pantry yawn. sleep my lovely
between the sheer curtains, your father
has long abadonned you. sleep my darling
princess, and i'll bring you a perfect
rose, cut from a special bush i've been tending
for months. hang if
from your suncatcher
and watch it prism into primary. you're
moving so far away we'll magically become closer.
when you were first born
i looked for hours
to stuff into your eyes
gave you voice,incohate speeches,
dramas and dances to attend:
made you into wonder, i looked
for hours into your eyes
cooing as if i were a mother born
my lover torn from inside
to swaddle. you never took
my breast, lest it complicate matters
later. your intuition was
wrong. you smoke anyway.
*
the wicked step mom has stolen the faery child
has her pinned to her own father the king's beard
with a safety pin embedded between
her wings, as if made of resin. she sleeps.
it was the apple, bit
it's always the apple and what snake wants
snake gets. a thousand years dormir
banishment from the garden where magnolia
and jasmine drew stingless bees
in the dream found in a fish eye.
in our myth the father is not a king.
in our myth the father is a little pan
without his mirth. in our myth i am not
the troll. but in his myth, these things
are reversed. a mirror, negative.
where lies
the truth
lies lies lie
lay me down
under blue
and gray let golden
dragons keep
them at bay
your brother the prince
of two worlds has come and gone
he delivered the admonishment
of your message to the king
who studiously ignores it.
the troll schemes reward.
the troll understands crime
and criminals so is soft
on punishment. but this time
the troll will time
it right. the king shall fall
into his oubliette thanks
to the nette. you bet.
and what of the loyal page?
the untiring ongoing blank support
written on for sport, used as tort
and damages a manboy holding sandwiches
and coffee for the players? he comes
he stays. he may go anyday that he will
is my deluge of future. the troll breaks
her wooden legs. she is squatter now.
behold her bumbling knighthood, spoken
in the royal third as if i were not
part of this play. the page lovers the troll cum knight cum
nightly come come let's move away...
for this is the princess' story
a talk of glory a walk of gory 21st
century style, emaciated with commerce
fattened on the harvest plow a past
cycling into now, repetition
on a hollow log, perspication in the foul bog,
a story told in blog by blog
the schism and the empty slog
towards forgotten in a facist's fog.
all & nothing
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the narrow preset passages constrict
on an ice bone. absent color flows.
when we're admonishing ourselves
we strike at the heart of love
which receeds in a prestidihouse
of cards unfolded like the hot rose
on a perfect trunk. mention a cat
and it's there. mention a dominant
trait and i'll squish it. the wind
flows thru the cardboard hut, so cool
and full of itself, a rattle o baby
a shake of tossed hair.
imitating something to say
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the Lugubrious Boredom of the New Economy
vertiginous "flows" strictly organic
the anachronistic quality
of the word skyscraper
an empty encounter subordinated
traces a chain of obsolescence
a commodity-reflection
of itself. This is also
true of putative resistance
market breeds
necessary energy and definition
traded on tautological balloons
From the perspective of, say,
a worker getting her
pink slip? more of the same.
What would emerge from real emergence?
*
ah the revolution.
forefront in a forethought daily.
he's always coming
up with plans and strategies to make it work.
i think it was disney did
the trick. that or aol. chemical
brothers. he has hope i think
immolation is still free. but what
about the cost of gas?
steal a blowtorch.
if its more of the same i sez
count me out. ya know it's gonna be...
there's a car commercial out there with the name
of every song embedded
in its simulation of wheels.
so then he's all about nietzschean temple building
and i tell him look
it's the temples what i'm worried about.
just no pleasing some people. buried in the system
till the comfort zone collapses
forced into heroism or suicide we pray
a metastasis. heap the gluten on the bratwurst.
i ask him is it any wonder
i can't read the news?
it limns my hopes with cobalt. strontium
31. the quantum rejection. any future
a necktie of hemp. open the box.
*
dj you asked for a poem. i give you this.
life science
the leaves on the mock
laurel blister pea green.
my sinuses return. air zips
itself up after the jet. a white
ford pickup with tinted windows
pulls in behind. there is no gun
today. today there are the don
pablos and blimpie's the radiant
food stop and mobil
gas tanks. there is the electronic
remix of nat king cole and a banana
seat bicycle with tall
handlebars. a boy floats along the side
walk wondering what makes shade
so golden in the afternoons .
its been spring for some time
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i'm in a funky mood. toilet overflows
a good morning swamp. i tend to the chickens
with a kick. day lillies bust
thru the layer of pine needles we set
against anthills. damn work
just needs doing
over and over again. all this sprouting--
how dirt blows the wind into small layers
on the tile. where's the ineffable recycle tubes?
my son likes it here cuz he can run.
palms stretch out like the last brush touch
on a canvas that treadmills by. the trees
go from dark green to light green light
at the crosswalk lets him
and his buddy make it to the park
where the season spores
in batleathery balls
but this is all conjecture
if i were himish
maybe he just likes that he can get away
from what passes for home. maybe
he is beginning to feel the decrepitude
maybe i'm projecting again.
*
put on your white coat, baby we're goin dancing
what
fiddling again? these patrician endeavors
while there's lives to be led? when the last
book is written and not read boredom will
triumph anyway. danelions will nod
like a kindergarten flock over mother goose mother
goose will tire of cockle shells
and cook peter pumpkin's wife
into pies she can sell at the fundraiser
in support of our troops & our cheerleaders
who will all need special counseling when she breaks
down on montel with the truth
of the conversion of matter
and the diversion of funds
to the fight against
yankee dog
imperialism
just cuz
she wanted to stir things up a bit
its been growing and growing and not a bit of fruit
on the vine can be eaten it's still green
and not a bit of rest against flood or teenage pregnancy
or the drive by suicides so that she just wants
to take her shawl over her wings stretch and bend
her neck into the shape of some swan
and let the goddamn gods
put her up there in the sky as a cloud.
*
you want to know if i'm alright now?
i'll tell you anyway
i get by. rains come and seeds
germinate. growth looks
as promising as a field DU'd on the new moon
undercover, a special assignment.
maybe i'll get a job come fall
participating in the harvest.
3 moons and we're fat and happy
on bent stalks and the leavings of locusts.
providence has its privilege.
the sun still sprouts.
i have a stream of indian running thru me
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
people who take over
by force, rule by it. the sun
come down on marjorie st.
we take the guns & mel\\\t them
smelt them into arrows, reinstate
the samauri. properly trained
stun gun warriors
i'm down on the frownin ground sir
i'm muted by your cuffs
i've got a fifth
ammendment some where round here.
yo boy what you think you can shut up
if i want to talk? it's already got worse.
zowee tesla-rize your brain . the chevron on waters
closed just the other day. no more car wash. same
thing can be yours. occupation's a pain in the ass
so i think i'll just blast your ass.
()()
757
im not saying a word. how long
will he talk without input. when
will he need the ping. it's innaresting
to wa\tch. sounds like the south
vs the north. china n stuff. we're about to experience
the civil war with US playin the role
of the confederacy, china playing the union.
postindustrial ironically we're giving them
the methods for our madness. at 3 minutes
he struggles but continues. america
as the evil empire vanquished by the chinese--
who we should pray to for their compassion.
that's if the status quo plays out.
isolation/introversion shld be white ppl's mantra
he asks me a direct question and i don't answer.
he explains my answer. he likes the cleverness
of russian poison. the denial of vodka. says we need
to learn that. russians arent' white ppl. btw. he knows
that. sino caucasion blend. he deosn't know that but
i don't say a word. i admit it
- i nod,
i look
i smile
i kiss but
do you think i talk too much?
now words.i love you2 805
()()
shhhhhhh
the sun's gone pink
language moves downstairs
gathering like ants on the counter.
it creeps back up
because i trust him to make
the cuban sanwiches.
the fan circulates
wind like the telephone
after a disconnect. the pretzels
are salty as summer's first sea.
unattainable
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
it comes on with a deep tiredness
and you remember the stories of colonies
and bloody handkerchiefs. you shake it off
just another virus. your lungs can take this.
your lungs wheeze as you pull dishes
from the sanitizer. you keep trying to hug
a wooden frame as if she's there
beside you. beer tastes like neptune
or the inside of buzz, so you drink it.
meanwhile she's avoiding you
way on the other side of life style
it's the plague, everyone's doing it.
you stack the plates, your breath
a modest indicator. tonight she'll
leave her house with her big pink rollers
in her overnight bag. she's going to momma's.
you wait on the rack, drying. trying
to get better.
my best pome
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
always blows
out the window
on the long drive
from there to here
the fog, drastically
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
and in those days
there was much sweeping
of floors, tiles white against
the straw mats we tore
apart with our living
the fan turns perceptibly, dust
gathers like my long hair across
his face in the morning when he's
risen and i rise above him for word
then work, a trip to piss then pass
me a bong.
there are so many similes i can
only show you if you 've seen
the thing. like the christmas trees
which sit atop trunk spears, hosanas
bursting where earth meets sun meets
water in a consistent green firework.
why not just say trimmed palm trees?
in my town there is a gray sky
he takes his family to the aquarium
then shows them the crib where he let
the crackwhore borrow his shoes
she sold them, he's sure. he would never smoke
from her pipe. didn't really want to die
at least not by living simply
to feed the addiction
in relation to the way we are addicts
to each other's acceptance.
redeeming flight we dash thru neglect
regrets are for later when the future didn't change
i meet his mom. she doesn't seem to see
mrs robinson. at the beach we
tease her into the sea
which smacks her in the mouth
then her nose then finally she dives
my daughter solicitously invites
her to the sandbar. wind proves
too much waves dwarf her game
attempts- she retreats, smiling.
i admire her ability to remain innocent.
but //what is //i've been missing
here, tired and useless as spent semen
a change to bitch about> a worry to coddle
hie me to a blog, that swamp is for drowning.
**
i can lately only write what's directly
in front of me. recollection a commodity
like oil, it boils off in the usage. i remember
fireworks and keywords only. i know
some sense of samadi invaded me last night
where the putrid existed with the sublime-
today is lime on its cadaver.
**
i carry this box with me. loopholes
and catches, tumblers, and keyed entries
one panel unlocks and another closes.
we all breathe the same air, removed by degrees.
my days seem a beadish assortment.
i finger the string and wonder which will thread
and which is only in my head.
my sight fades. hazed among the endless
tracks of dale mabry strip malls that riddle
my county's veins. i put up a wall to deflect
the house of the rising sun as performed by this year's
american idol you too can play that song
for just dollars a video. the same sad show.
i use my a button to splash a force field
against the suv pulling into the suicide lane .
water gathers in a stalling moat, the irate
sonic customer can't cross it. i just want my freezee pleeze.
the writing tires me. so much to explore
but the living inisists. a grilled cheese. a visit
to the doctor's . why does daddy do what he does
and how didn't you see it before you
before .
i could sleep for a lifetime and weary.
the life of a firework
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act
-orwell
the years i sat in silence
in that cell mix meiosis evergreen.
call me mordechai.
canned air canned beans canned
responses. what went on around
and outside it kept from me, hermetic.
yesterday i rang atomic bellows
today i ring the bells of st. george
in a compound enseiged
by those who will not talk to me
- i have my faith in jesus-
and those who would, i cannot
The Defendant violated
the provisions of the Order
at the very least 21 times
but i do
askelon held a little man, craven
and traitor but not i, not i. i'll hold your will
like broken bombs into the light
that seeps venetian thru these bars.
Edited by: trashpo at: 5/6/05 9:01 am
apocalyptic vision post mom's day
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i didn't raise you for this machine
i didn't push you
from my body for this horror
i didn't stay up past midnite pouring
cool water over your burning
forehead to have it cracked by this plague of iron
didn't place flinstones by your corn
flakes every morning for this depleted
uranium incisor didn't read harry potter to you
at bedtime for a month for this car bomb futility
//i didn't raise you for this machine//
i didn't nurse your baseball dreams
for this razor wire patrol. i didn't hold you
with a gun for protection but now that and a helmet
is all you have i didn't raise you
in silence why did i wait
too late
to tell them so?
my crow pome
he tells me a crow flew in his car
caught his gold chain then flexed
into an arrow. he tells me he dreams
of her name then sees it on the cooler
"missing since thursday".
he says that's how he knows crow
is his totem. once he tells me
i see him everywhere: mockiingbird
chased over marsh; scientologist
gathered on the punk trees at the pond; watching
from the phone lines on my morning drive;
weathervaned tail feathered looking in my open
window at dusk. his plumage is black
and shiny, sometimes a wing
feather glistens from the ground
irridescent as oil slicks
in the dump. that's when i hear
her whisper. they descend
beside the trailer, their cries
gather and rise calling
more down till the whole empty lot's
peppered with the strut.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
18 minnit ghazal
more real in the newspapers, backlash and sash to burn
brightly in the sky, a thing of crimson, style, ash, urn, o! burn.
fire on my mind. a bill come due and you sleep.
of what do you dream? come untle my sash, we'll burn.
saturday nite i went to the liquor store looking
for a pair of lips, or a piece of trash to burn.
i regret nothing that i'm doing now. the days seem
inevitable as if my life is destiny's ash to burn.
in spring i think of green things, or the passageways roots
leave behind. i don't forget fall's still or the sour mash burn.
it's no wonder the lenz percieves a final worsening rhythm .
from a to z look at my heart. my love exists in clash and burn.
lunchpome
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i walk out and h ave a smoke with tereza
who is always quitting. one thing or another.
she moves her misery with her.
the fire's gonna cost me 8 years. i should pray
for a storm. needle in the vein. vane. vien.
so many mutations on order, form. it might be
an unfolding we're crushing into right now.
like brackish water going over the open lock
flowing past a pressboard that breeds moss
and fungus, life grows on anything that sits still.
the wreck of a model t. the ignoble split of skin.
bacteria rapel the cliff face , collude with air
and sun to stip this new earth of its resources. the cat's
legs stiffen and bulge on the side of the road: real estate
developement in the smell of it. i'm skirting
another side of the mountain, as if it weren't right there
inside me, looking back abysmal.
news from the homeland
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
someone's been whistling all morning
it's 2 minutes till break, maria begins to sing
a spanish song and bea joins in when
she knows the words.
i ask airin if she'd dance in the streets for peace.
she barely knows there's a war but
she likes the idea of a rave.
today at the stress reduction luncheon
i missed it. had to go the pond
and watch the grackles congregate
swooping on the pond reeds like priests
handing out acid.
brreakpome
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
no time of day to do it right tight and bit o bite
on the late drive back to work, lunchtime, everyone's
workin on their grass it comes to me we're farmers
at the tvdriven heart of us. mom and apple pie and a dust
bowl collective. my patch of dirt to squat on.
i live in an apartment and like it that way
i've smelted asphault, i've shriven hay
i'll take the walkup, flowers in the bay
i could aaa bbb this but i wanta flow it out like piss
the rhyming bus is come to my town so i grab it goin outbound
she wanna leave the home to find it, she wanna home
bound her to mind it and if she sings she wonders why not
meet the future before it's gone.
waitin on a call, he said he hadda piss
i could wait here all day but my cigarette i'd miss
he's exactly what i want my son to be, a little wild a little cling. the vid's attracted him, it's oh distracted him
i know this tho i'm here . the brakes in this aren't clear.
i've lost melodic ear. my nicotine buzz rears and i hear
it's hard to quit, one day i'll tap the dip, boon bong down
no i'm no clown i'm working hard here, time to slip.
On Being Told I Shouldn’t Be Afraid of Death
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
oh yeah oh yeah
and who tole you that?
had a friend once
said that same thing
he wasn't afraid to die. i
dunno, sometimes
i think i'm not , then i begin to think about it a bit. not the
deadness, but the dying, the fight
body puts out when spirit
says let go, the whole tunnel and light thing.
i mean when i'm dead it won't matter.
but while i'm still alive...well, i want
to be. justin says
think if you came in and found us
all murdered
i says well, ok. then i'd want
to die. but you guys
wouldn't care anymore
ciroran reminds me that we always
kill ourselves too late
my daughter believes in ghosts.
besides what are those fleet curtains
that draw across my skin
piling one atop another memories
of a rose and rose and rose
we drop into the ground
in a movie that;s faded
and now how could you want to leave
how could you want to stay
the fear is in shredding
that occurs this very minute
grasping for water with fingers
clinging to muons with flypaper
and your daughter's eyes
with anything less than full attention
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i repair photoelectric sensors & industrial controls.
i can hear your eyes glaze; dancer tells me it
sounds mysterious and arcane but it's simply primitive
sight marking the passing of material thru this assembly
line world. where do you want to trigger
the output? leading edge or trailing? pulse stretch or not? on
delay or off? these things are selectable these
things are mutable. do you want the chocklate
elefant's trunk or its tail? do you want to wrap it up
or leave it open? we can help. it's my job
to find the failures. the ones
that act glitchy. the ones giving false
outputs on the factory floor or self destructing
in an orgy of fired up capacitance . the immolators
are easy to spot. it's the intermittent ones that cause
the most grief. i can batter them
with tests , pummel the salesmen
with questions. no one seems to be able to explain
their non- compliance, the capriciousness of their operation,
the unfolding of subversive failures found most often on graveyard
shifts when no trained personnel are available for exorcism.
everything appears to be working just fine. so i send them
back to their owners where they will wait until the warranty period
is almost expired then begin to stack product in the middle of a 252k
per second line-pills and bottles, aspartame gum, three
musketeers tumbling like revolutionary
poetry from the mouths of babes, off the 24/7 stop-n-go belt.
I want no more than home
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
if i could suspend
your risen face just above
the horizon, hold it there
and motion without time
a concentric circle an aureole
your umbrella up and shadey
that is where i'd leave us
beyond the borders of boredom
locked into perpetual ear nip
swallowing the key
after the chops are cooked
and the dishes washed, floors swept,
fractions calculated, heads drooped
over pillows, after work,beyond dark
i can't wait to hold you again.
so tall up there in young air
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
when the monthy glow hides
in mothy cloud i weep. tears
truncate beyond the seething
sea and teeth cut on a barnacle
grown on the side of a bard,
the connections get fainter-as if phosphors
in a petri dish, shining on the next in line--
nostril nerves and shallow graves. i touch them
as they fall but can do nothing with my lost stars.
they preceed me through places i'll never go:
holes backlit and bakelite. holes remanded
to the keep. as water to empty spaces as wisdom
to empty minds. then- sublimation, on a shoestring budget.
the hyacinth, a woman my age
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
a nimbus of light spills
thru hair shorn at the root
and pasted on this petal.
she keeps finding the tap
then letting it go, white cream flow
downstream circling.
in the floor is a whole she wishes
to slip into, dark , shape of a lily pad.
here she knows, the bass angle for brim.
when she's oblique she wants
trim eyebrows and a fat wallet.
when the sun is full on, wilting becomes her halo.
the bridge stands erect. she thinks of men.
if she were suicidal things would be done.
she is scentless. purchases hormones online.
so much to go thru, item by item.
she thinks of honeycombs, commisions the woodworker
he comes to her home. they embrace.
the ideas repeat themselves in tacky hair.
love stories are for frogs and the mudstained
skirts of ophelia. she understands this. she allows
the roses to wilt, and unfolds through them
with a cubist desire to share flat points of view.
the smell she realises that's when
they're rilly gone. the seeds are so tiny.
for kelp
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i wanted something of a river
something with water, holding a flow-
the dutch boy with a fork for a finger
we all know these references
they're common, are they not?
my son has entirely different allusions.
he and his new best friend live in itenerancy.
the fluid ity of halo the morals of a sociopath
bent against the easter bunny. rabbit rabbit
and bugs apears, a little old fashioned, a little top
hat and swizzle stick a bit kitsch till he blows
up elmer fudd. mario finds endless new
lives with the secret code. he
gets bored, grapples with a dungeon
and dragons' spawn in a new! mixed platform! see
it first on this gaming complex. they don't learn
from me that life is just a game. they learn from sony.
Your search - elmer fudd double take j.peg - did not match any documents.
so information is the new economy.
can't get some ones copyrited stuff someone's infobandwidth
without express digital consent. what is there to say
about that? i could bitch but that wouldn't hold a teacup
of piss in the ocean of copy. someone once told me
the best thing that could happen to your stuff is that someone
famous
should steal it.
think about that.
i mean you'd know, and they'd know.
what more validation could you need?
if it's just about the money honey
you're already dead.
*
the labor laws are better in colorado
mcd's is going to outsource your drive thru order.
the phone rings in the downstairs apartment
cirrus bleaches the neon sun, fogs the blue
plankton over paranoia. time gyres and you're
left reeling in a closet till downtime
the ocean plays mariachi with the shore.
the shore kisses fish. that, and all this light
Registered User
(4/1/05 7:03 pm)
Reply Oh Lynzie!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't miss this, I missed commenting on it, & apparently everyone else did too. This close to the first section:
they don't learn
from me that life is just a game. they learn from sony
Yeah I got you, & aint it the truth. The section has your idiosyncratic craftsmanship with the colloquial, double-edged buzz - good stuff.
This in the second section:
wouldn't hold a teacup
of piss in the ocean of copy. !!!!!
Love it.
The overall, bitchy-wise rummination works so well - has me rereading. You've become a player of the switch hit so internet mindset, & you do it in poems - cool. The play with language really gets me involved, especially when it gives me thoughts to walk away with.
xodj
il poe
Registered User
(4/1/05 8:38 pm)
Reply Re: Oh Lynzie!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i don't have much to say about your poem that dj didn't already allude to, the first and foremost strength being the wordplay and flexibility of language. I enjoy reading your tighter pieces (like this one), that still dare not forget the range of poetic justice/freedom that is allowed when writing.
What do you do with your stuff after you post it on the sandbox?
-paul
trashpo
Registered User
(4/2/05 10:56 am)
Reply | Edit hey you 2
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
thanks for the nods.
dj, your comment "everyone else did too"...
i get the feel from the box these days that not many people are reading the works of others. now , maybe that's just my own ill ness coming out, but it doesn't feel like many are into creating/keeping this community a community. feels like we've fragmented and scattered
ourselves deliberately. feels like letters back home and the ppl there have moved.
which totally sux for me cuz i'm such a comment whore.
i like interaction. and the state of the board these days makes me sad. so when i post a pome or a rant or musings and get no comments, it hurts. i don't think i'm alone in feeling this way. so yes, when i post here, i want and look foward to comments. it's true i write for myself and i'll write anyway. but i'm tired of being disappointed. when you're up in front of an audience and they ignore you, it becomes disheartening after a while, ya know? you think well, why put myself thru this grief?
i spose that's the beauty of blogs. you don't neccesarily expect response.
anyway, i appreciate the feedback on this from both you and paul, who both seem to maybe want that communal feel yourselves. i guess some of us, loners we may be, still need to merge with the pack. need outside validation, yes, i exist. solopsism's an ego trip i can't sustain...
xol
il poe
Registered User
(4/2/05 1:27 pm)
Reply Re: Oh Lynzie!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
oh, i still read here, but like you said, feel as if it's scattered, and i hold certain amounts of grief because I do feel like I am partly the catalyst and cause for such dispersion. sigh
noverili
Registered User
(4/2/05 1:52 pm)
Reply
Re: Oh Lynzie!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear L, I suppose you've read the Robert Anton Wilson & co-writer[name escapes me] books on the bugs bunny principle of things? Wherein Fudd features not at all being too dithering. I'm trying hard not to vent my frustration at the way the world unfolds, for who am i to really know what's what, and why. And i certainly am not blessed with the passion to embrace either side of any issue. What seems fair tantalizes, but you can never get a big enough bite of it to be satisfied...well so forth, etc.
head bursting with stuff that needs to be upchucked. soon, soon...
hope you find the time to write some more, always like to read your stuff, but lately haven't had much of a chance to say so. so i'm saying so. you are an important voice in my life.
and take this opportunity to tell you all who read and write here, your stuff impresses itself on me.
and last but least, you know that old saying - the mediocore borrow, the truly great steal.
Steel yourself! fer pete's sake! grid your own loins like a map for future exploration, and so forth.
I believe there must be a few who never make much sense, and i am glad to be such a one, but you L, you're something more essential...
affectionately,
n
eden2000s
Registered User
(4/2/05 7:35 pm)
Reply lynze,
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i'm reading too, just haven't been saying much is all. Sometimes I don't find the words for some reason. But i think people are reading....and enjoying it. and wanting to comment.
this poem leaves me with a sense of "looking at myself" what am i doing kinda thing. art helps people look at themselves look at others. your peoms are different like that, there is a feeling of complex mirroring...
regards
eden
Comment
trashpo
Registered User
(4/17/05 12:32 pm)
Reply | Edit troll
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
for a world close to destruction
it's a beautiful day. i'm on the third
floor looking over rooftops toward
the beach. it's distant. so distant it's
only there in my knowlege, only possible
with a car. public transportation
is a myth. i've got 24 days of laundry
speaking to me from the hall. the frig
and pantry yawn. sleep my lovely
between the sheer curtains, your father
has long abadonned you. sleep my darling
princess, and i'll bring you a perfect
rose, cut from a special bush i've been tending
for months. hang if
from your suncatcher
and watch it prism into primary. you're
moving so far away we'll magically become closer.
when you were first born
i looked for hours
to stuff into your eyes
gave you voice,incohate speeches,
dramas and dances to attend:
made you into wonder, i looked
for hours into your eyes
cooing as if i were a mother born
my lover torn from inside
to swaddle. you never took
my breast, lest it complicate matters
later. your intuition was
wrong. you smoke anyway.
*
the wicked step mom has stolen the faery child
has her pinned to her own father the king's beard
with a safety pin embedded between
her wings, as if made of resin. she sleeps.
it was the apple, bit
it's always the apple and what snake wants
snake gets. a thousand years dormir
banishment from the garden where magnolia
and jasmine drew stingless bees
in the dream found in a fish eye.
in our myth the father is not a king.
in our myth the father is a little pan
without his mirth. in our myth i am not
the troll. but in his myth, these things
are reversed. a mirror, negative.
where lies
the truth
lies lies lie
lay me down
under blue
and gray let golden
dragons keep
them at bay
your brother the prince
of two worlds has come and gone
he delivered the admonishment
of your message to the king
who studiously ignores it.
the troll schemes reward.
the troll understands crime
and criminals so is soft
on punishment. but this time
the troll will time
it right. the king shall fall
into his oubliette thanks
to the nette. you bet.
and what of the loyal page?
the untiring ongoing blank support
written on for sport, used as tort
and damages a manboy holding sandwiches
and coffee for the players? he comes
he stays. he may go anyday that he will
is my deluge of future. the troll breaks
her wooden legs. she is squatter now.
behold her bumbling knighthood, spoken
in the royal third as if i were not
part of this play. the page lovers the troll cum knight cum
nightly come come let's move away...
for this is the princess' story
a talk of glory a walk of gory 21st
century style, emaciated with commerce
fattened on the harvest plow a past
cycling into now, repetition
on a hollow log, perspication in the foul bog,
a story told in blog by blog
the schism and the empty slog
towards forgotten in a facist's fog.
all & nothing
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the narrow preset passages constrict
on an ice bone. absent color flows.
when we're admonishing ourselves
we strike at the heart of love
which receeds in a prestidihouse
of cards unfolded like the hot rose
on a perfect trunk. mention a cat
and it's there. mention a dominant
trait and i'll squish it. the wind
flows thru the cardboard hut, so cool
and full of itself, a rattle o baby
a shake of tossed hair.
imitating something to say
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the Lugubrious Boredom of the New Economy
vertiginous "flows" strictly organic
the anachronistic quality
of the word skyscraper
an empty encounter subordinated
traces a chain of obsolescence
a commodity-reflection
of itself. This is also
true of putative resistance
market breeds
necessary energy and definition
traded on tautological balloons
From the perspective of, say,
a worker getting her
pink slip? more of the same.
What would emerge from real emergence?
*
ah the revolution.
forefront in a forethought daily.
he's always coming
up with plans and strategies to make it work.
i think it was disney did
the trick. that or aol. chemical
brothers. he has hope i think
immolation is still free. but what
about the cost of gas?
steal a blowtorch.
if its more of the same i sez
count me out. ya know it's gonna be...
there's a car commercial out there with the name
of every song embedded
in its simulation of wheels.
so then he's all about nietzschean temple building
and i tell him look
it's the temples what i'm worried about.
just no pleasing some people. buried in the system
till the comfort zone collapses
forced into heroism or suicide we pray
a metastasis. heap the gluten on the bratwurst.
i ask him is it any wonder
i can't read the news?
it limns my hopes with cobalt. strontium
31. the quantum rejection. any future
a necktie of hemp. open the box.
*
dj you asked for a poem. i give you this.
life science
the leaves on the mock
laurel blister pea green.
my sinuses return. air zips
itself up after the jet. a white
ford pickup with tinted windows
pulls in behind. there is no gun
today. today there are the don
pablos and blimpie's the radiant
food stop and mobil
gas tanks. there is the electronic
remix of nat king cole and a banana
seat bicycle with tall
handlebars. a boy floats along the side
walk wondering what makes shade
so golden in the afternoons .
its been spring for some time
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i'm in a funky mood. toilet overflows
a good morning swamp. i tend to the chickens
with a kick. day lillies bust
thru the layer of pine needles we set
against anthills. damn work
just needs doing
over and over again. all this sprouting--
how dirt blows the wind into small layers
on the tile. where's the ineffable recycle tubes?
my son likes it here cuz he can run.
palms stretch out like the last brush touch
on a canvas that treadmills by. the trees
go from dark green to light green light
at the crosswalk lets him
and his buddy make it to the park
where the season spores
in batleathery balls
but this is all conjecture
if i were himish
maybe he just likes that he can get away
from what passes for home. maybe
he is beginning to feel the decrepitude
maybe i'm projecting again.
*
put on your white coat, baby we're goin dancing
what
fiddling again? these patrician endeavors
while there's lives to be led? when the last
book is written and not read boredom will
triumph anyway. danelions will nod
like a kindergarten flock over mother goose mother
goose will tire of cockle shells
and cook peter pumpkin's wife
into pies she can sell at the fundraiser
in support of our troops & our cheerleaders
who will all need special counseling when she breaks
down on montel with the truth
of the conversion of matter
and the diversion of funds
to the fight against
yankee dog
imperialism
just cuz
she wanted to stir things up a bit
its been growing and growing and not a bit of fruit
on the vine can be eaten it's still green
and not a bit of rest against flood or teenage pregnancy
or the drive by suicides so that she just wants
to take her shawl over her wings stretch and bend
her neck into the shape of some swan
and let the goddamn gods
put her up there in the sky as a cloud.
*
you want to know if i'm alright now?
i'll tell you anyway
i get by. rains come and seeds
germinate. growth looks
as promising as a field DU'd on the new moon
undercover, a special assignment.
maybe i'll get a job come fall
participating in the harvest.
3 moons and we're fat and happy
on bent stalks and the leavings of locusts.
providence has its privilege.
the sun still sprouts.
i have a stream of indian running thru me
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
people who take over
by force, rule by it. the sun
come down on marjorie st.
we take the guns & mel\\\t them
smelt them into arrows, reinstate
the samauri. properly trained
stun gun warriors
i'm down on the frownin ground sir
i'm muted by your cuffs
i've got a fifth
ammendment some where round here.
yo boy what you think you can shut up
if i want to talk? it's already got worse.
zowee tesla-rize your brain . the chevron on waters
closed just the other day. no more car wash. same
thing can be yours. occupation's a pain in the ass
so i think i'll just blast your ass.
()()
757
im not saying a word. how long
will he talk without input. when
will he need the ping. it's innaresting
to wa\tch. sounds like the south
vs the north. china n stuff. we're about to experience
the civil war with US playin the role
of the confederacy, china playing the union.
postindustrial ironically we're giving them
the methods for our madness. at 3 minutes
he struggles but continues. america
as the evil empire vanquished by the chinese--
who we should pray to for their compassion.
that's if the status quo plays out.
isolation/introversion shld be white ppl's mantra
he asks me a direct question and i don't answer.
he explains my answer. he likes the cleverness
of russian poison. the denial of vodka. says we need
to learn that. russians arent' white ppl. btw. he knows
that. sino caucasion blend. he deosn't know that but
i don't say a word. i admit it
- i nod,
i look
i smile
i kiss but
do you think i talk too much?
now words.i love you2 805
()()
shhhhhhh
the sun's gone pink
language moves downstairs
gathering like ants on the counter.
it creeps back up
because i trust him to make
the cuban sanwiches.
the fan circulates
wind like the telephone
after a disconnect. the pretzels
are salty as summer's first sea.
unattainable
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
it comes on with a deep tiredness
and you remember the stories of colonies
and bloody handkerchiefs. you shake it off
just another virus. your lungs can take this.
your lungs wheeze as you pull dishes
from the sanitizer. you keep trying to hug
a wooden frame as if she's there
beside you. beer tastes like neptune
or the inside of buzz, so you drink it.
meanwhile she's avoiding you
way on the other side of life style
it's the plague, everyone's doing it.
you stack the plates, your breath
a modest indicator. tonight she'll
leave her house with her big pink rollers
in her overnight bag. she's going to momma's.
you wait on the rack, drying. trying
to get better.
my best pome
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
always blows
out the window
on the long drive
from there to here
the fog, drastically
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
and in those days
there was much sweeping
of floors, tiles white against
the straw mats we tore
apart with our living
the fan turns perceptibly, dust
gathers like my long hair across
his face in the morning when he's
risen and i rise above him for word
then work, a trip to piss then pass
me a bong.
there are so many similes i can
only show you if you 've seen
the thing. like the christmas trees
which sit atop trunk spears, hosanas
bursting where earth meets sun meets
water in a consistent green firework.
why not just say trimmed palm trees?
in my town there is a gray sky
he takes his family to the aquarium
then shows them the crib where he let
the crackwhore borrow his shoes
she sold them, he's sure. he would never smoke
from her pipe. didn't really want to die
at least not by living simply
to feed the addiction
in relation to the way we are addicts
to each other's acceptance.
redeeming flight we dash thru neglect
regrets are for later when the future didn't change
i meet his mom. she doesn't seem to see
mrs robinson. at the beach we
tease her into the sea
which smacks her in the mouth
then her nose then finally she dives
my daughter solicitously invites
her to the sandbar. wind proves
too much waves dwarf her game
attempts- she retreats, smiling.
i admire her ability to remain innocent.
but //what is //i've been missing
here, tired and useless as spent semen
a change to bitch about> a worry to coddle
hie me to a blog, that swamp is for drowning.
**
i can lately only write what's directly
in front of me. recollection a commodity
like oil, it boils off in the usage. i remember
fireworks and keywords only. i know
some sense of samadi invaded me last night
where the putrid existed with the sublime-
today is lime on its cadaver.
**
i carry this box with me. loopholes
and catches, tumblers, and keyed entries
one panel unlocks and another closes.
we all breathe the same air, removed by degrees.
my days seem a beadish assortment.
i finger the string and wonder which will thread
and which is only in my head.
my sight fades. hazed among the endless
tracks of dale mabry strip malls that riddle
my county's veins. i put up a wall to deflect
the house of the rising sun as performed by this year's
american idol you too can play that song
for just dollars a video. the same sad show.
i use my a button to splash a force field
against the suv pulling into the suicide lane .
water gathers in a stalling moat, the irate
sonic customer can't cross it. i just want my freezee pleeze.
the writing tires me. so much to explore
but the living inisists. a grilled cheese. a visit
to the doctor's . why does daddy do what he does
and how didn't you see it before you
before .
i could sleep for a lifetime and weary.
the life of a firework
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act
-orwell
the years i sat in silence
in that cell mix meiosis evergreen.
call me mordechai.
canned air canned beans canned
responses. what went on around
and outside it kept from me, hermetic.
yesterday i rang atomic bellows
today i ring the bells of st. george
in a compound enseiged
by those who will not talk to me
- i have my faith in jesus-
and those who would, i cannot
The Defendant violated
the provisions of the Order
at the very least 21 times
but i do
askelon held a little man, craven
and traitor but not i, not i. i'll hold your will
like broken bombs into the light
that seeps venetian thru these bars.
Edited by: trashpo at: 5/6/05 9:01 am
apocalyptic vision post mom's day
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i didn't raise you for this machine
i didn't push you
from my body for this horror
i didn't stay up past midnite pouring
cool water over your burning
forehead to have it cracked by this plague of iron
didn't place flinstones by your corn
flakes every morning for this depleted
uranium incisor didn't read harry potter to you
at bedtime for a month for this car bomb futility
//i didn't raise you for this machine//
i didn't nurse your baseball dreams
for this razor wire patrol. i didn't hold you
with a gun for protection but now that and a helmet
is all you have i didn't raise you
in silence why did i wait
too late
to tell them so?
my crow pome
he tells me a crow flew in his car
caught his gold chain then flexed
into an arrow. he tells me he dreams
of her name then sees it on the cooler
"missing since thursday".
he says that's how he knows crow
is his totem. once he tells me
i see him everywhere: mockiingbird
chased over marsh; scientologist
gathered on the punk trees at the pond; watching
from the phone lines on my morning drive;
weathervaned tail feathered looking in my open
window at dusk. his plumage is black
and shiny, sometimes a wing
feather glistens from the ground
irridescent as oil slicks
in the dump. that's when i hear
her whisper. they descend
beside the trailer, their cries
gather and rise calling
more down till the whole empty lot's
peppered with the strut.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
18 minnit ghazal
more real in the newspapers, backlash and sash to burn
brightly in the sky, a thing of crimson, style, ash, urn, o! burn.
fire on my mind. a bill come due and you sleep.
of what do you dream? come untle my sash, we'll burn.
saturday nite i went to the liquor store looking
for a pair of lips, or a piece of trash to burn.
i regret nothing that i'm doing now. the days seem
inevitable as if my life is destiny's ash to burn.
in spring i think of green things, or the passageways roots
leave behind. i don't forget fall's still or the sour mash burn.
it's no wonder the lenz percieves a final worsening rhythm .
from a to z look at my heart. my love exists in clash and burn.
lunchpome
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i walk out and h ave a smoke with tereza
who is always quitting. one thing or another.
she moves her misery with her.
the fire's gonna cost me 8 years. i should pray
for a storm. needle in the vein. vane. vien.
so many mutations on order, form. it might be
an unfolding we're crushing into right now.
like brackish water going over the open lock
flowing past a pressboard that breeds moss
and fungus, life grows on anything that sits still.
the wreck of a model t. the ignoble split of skin.
bacteria rapel the cliff face , collude with air
and sun to stip this new earth of its resources. the cat's
legs stiffen and bulge on the side of the road: real estate
developement in the smell of it. i'm skirting
another side of the mountain, as if it weren't right there
inside me, looking back abysmal.
news from the homeland
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
someone's been whistling all morning
it's 2 minutes till break, maria begins to sing
a spanish song and bea joins in when
she knows the words.
i ask airin if she'd dance in the streets for peace.
she barely knows there's a war but
she likes the idea of a rave.
today at the stress reduction luncheon
i missed it. had to go the pond
and watch the grackles congregate
swooping on the pond reeds like priests
handing out acid.
brreakpome
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
no time of day to do it right tight and bit o bite
on the late drive back to work, lunchtime, everyone's
workin on their grass it comes to me we're farmers
at the tvdriven heart of us. mom and apple pie and a dust
bowl collective. my patch of dirt to squat on.
i live in an apartment and like it that way
i've smelted asphault, i've shriven hay
i'll take the walkup, flowers in the bay
i could aaa bbb this but i wanta flow it out like piss
the rhyming bus is come to my town so i grab it goin outbound
she wanna leave the home to find it, she wanna home
bound her to mind it and if she sings she wonders why not
meet the future before it's gone.
waitin on a call, he said he hadda piss
i could wait here all day but my cigarette i'd miss
he's exactly what i want my son to be, a little wild a little cling. the vid's attracted him, it's oh distracted him
i know this tho i'm here . the brakes in this aren't clear.
i've lost melodic ear. my nicotine buzz rears and i hear
it's hard to quit, one day i'll tap the dip, boon bong down
no i'm no clown i'm working hard here, time to slip.
On Being Told I Shouldn’t Be Afraid of Death
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
oh yeah oh yeah
and who tole you that?
had a friend once
said that same thing
he wasn't afraid to die. i
dunno, sometimes
i think i'm not , then i begin to think about it a bit. not the
deadness, but the dying, the fight
body puts out when spirit
says let go, the whole tunnel and light thing.
i mean when i'm dead it won't matter.
but while i'm still alive...well, i want
to be. justin says
think if you came in and found us
all murdered
i says well, ok. then i'd want
to die. but you guys
wouldn't care anymore
ciroran reminds me that we always
kill ourselves too late
my daughter believes in ghosts.
besides what are those fleet curtains
that draw across my skin
piling one atop another memories
of a rose and rose and rose
we drop into the ground
in a movie that;s faded
and now how could you want to leave
how could you want to stay
the fear is in shredding
that occurs this very minute
grasping for water with fingers
clinging to muons with flypaper
and your daughter's eyes
with anything less than full attention
posted by hiccup at 6:35 PM
dusk
it's been a hella day
y is human interaction so difficult?
some days you can't say one thing
without being jumped upon.
me n virgo
me n scorpio
ug
me n aquarius still good.
course that could be cuz he's still a kid
not adult. hell. i wish i wasn't so
scattered. could accomplish something
begin and finish it.
now the sun's down again
i'm back to watching last rays
and end of days. unfinished sonotas
what i hate about aging is how tired i get
after the sun goes down. time for a li'l nappy.
only the very young understand.
i almost got the room clean.
almost got the bathroom clean
almost finished a poem, a letter
a bastion of brittle drivel.
this is the bitch about it blog.
or not. i mean i'm feeling pretty tranquil
but earlier it's just so much bullshit to get thru.
now i'm worn as the summer sky, washed
out faded ripped blue jeans, the tide leaching.
the lights of the towers come up. my children
cough and cough. dry as winter stuff
unproductive. like my life. i only want
a continued excuse to sit here
so i light another ciggie.
no one wants to talk to one another.
it's why we've gone into our houses.
we're writing for some future that may
turn us into emilies. vindicated
from mediocrity by history. a pessoa
peeling a navel orange, without a care.
yay! it's ok. i'm just as guilty.
the core of explore just my own li'l door.
so i began a fight with justin today
over cleaning. or he began it with me
i can't tell wich and it dosnt'really
matter does it. i can't live with the mess
he makes around me. his fingers are always
smudging the walls he dumps his ashes
everywhere, our room is filled with his
used glasses and roaches and stuff.
his shaving stuff is all over the small sink
i trip on his clothes. wtf. it's like
living with myself only worse
cuz it's like he doesn't ever clean
unless i tell him to and when the fuck
did i become the keeper of the house
oh yeah
i'm the mom.
jesus.
i hate that. so i've been after him
to clean up his dishes when he cooks for
himself only. and also his other messes.
just him. not mine. he resists. i get pissed
he alwys has a justification. but it ain't fly
just now he calls me says he was sposed to be in
at 430 not 4. so i'm wrong about
everything else. smile. yeah. ok
then get this i say
well since your'e the way you are
and i'm the way i am, not wanting
to ask, just wanting you to do it
you should try to daily ask me
is there anything you want done?
and he says ok i 'll try
and walks away! o good beginning.
then when he does ask, in answer to my silnce
then my you just don't get its
well of course i have something in mind
duh he gets all greeky mean
freaky dean. well ima go make tacos now
y is human interaction so difficult?
some days you can't say one thing
without being jumped upon.
me n virgo
me n scorpio
ug
me n aquarius still good.
course that could be cuz he's still a kid
not adult. hell. i wish i wasn't so
scattered. could accomplish something
begin and finish it.
now the sun's down again
i'm back to watching last rays
and end of days. unfinished sonotas
what i hate about aging is how tired i get
after the sun goes down. time for a li'l nappy.
only the very young understand.
i almost got the room clean.
almost got the bathroom clean
almost finished a poem, a letter
a bastion of brittle drivel.
this is the bitch about it blog.
or not. i mean i'm feeling pretty tranquil
but earlier it's just so much bullshit to get thru.
now i'm worn as the summer sky, washed
out faded ripped blue jeans, the tide leaching.
the lights of the towers come up. my children
cough and cough. dry as winter stuff
unproductive. like my life. i only want
a continued excuse to sit here
so i light another ciggie.
no one wants to talk to one another.
it's why we've gone into our houses.
we're writing for some future that may
turn us into emilies. vindicated
from mediocrity by history. a pessoa
peeling a navel orange, without a care.
yay! it's ok. i'm just as guilty.
the core of explore just my own li'l door.
so i began a fight with justin today
over cleaning. or he began it with me
i can't tell wich and it dosnt'really
matter does it. i can't live with the mess
he makes around me. his fingers are always
smudging the walls he dumps his ashes
everywhere, our room is filled with his
used glasses and roaches and stuff.
his shaving stuff is all over the small sink
i trip on his clothes. wtf. it's like
living with myself only worse
cuz it's like he doesn't ever clean
unless i tell him to and when the fuck
did i become the keeper of the house
oh yeah
i'm the mom.
jesus.
i hate that. so i've been after him
to clean up his dishes when he cooks for
himself only. and also his other messes.
just him. not mine. he resists. i get pissed
he alwys has a justification. but it ain't fly
just now he calls me says he was sposed to be in
at 430 not 4. so i'm wrong about
everything else. smile. yeah. ok
then get this i say
well since your'e the way you are
and i'm the way i am, not wanting
to ask, just wanting you to do it
you should try to daily ask me
is there anything you want done?
and he says ok i 'll try
and walks away! o good beginning.
then when he does ask, in answer to my silnce
then my you just don't get its
well of course i have something in mind
duh he gets all greeky mean
freaky dean. well ima go make tacos now
posted by hiccup at 5:24 PM
uhg
gawd. i can't stand it. all this tension
of being alive of having to do things.
i just want it done. snap my bewitched nose
and it's done
maybe that's why i'm a bitch to live with.
ya think?
i still say why do i have to do everything?
kids.
sigh.
shy
bry.
jes call me the li'l red hen.
of being alive of having to do things.
i just want it done. snap my bewitched nose
and it's done
maybe that's why i'm a bitch to live with.
ya think?
i still say why do i have to do everything?
kids.
sigh.
shy
bry.
jes call me the li'l red hen.
posted by hiccup at 9:18 AM
Thursday, May 19, 2005
we can't just go on not talking about it
you know? nat sez she's been reading my blog.
well, she sorta sez it. and of course dancer's been
reading me too. once, ozel told me about treplaning
and i think a private blog's about the next best
to it. that is, if one wants to share every
detail. what really gets me is how long
it took for my frenz to find it.
now i've got this one. different but
the same. i think maybe white tree
found it first. i like her. and i'm sorry
i was not her friend like i was djs.
open letter to dj--
should you never find this know
i was thinking of you while you were
by the river, so glad you could become
reed and duck in this tough
time of life. you don't have to excuse
and promise, i understand how to sleep.
it's a wonder any of us remain together
in our own heads, the dispersal of pollen
in the sky, much less be able to collect
with these other frequencies. i'm used
to disappearance. justin tells many things
about travel, the heart of refugee. i have
known and abandoned many loves, mostly friends
we meet and dance for a while then pass on.
somehow it's my shame that brings me out of it.
the magnamity of forgiveness. no one wants that.
it feels false. tho we each have actually done it
let it go. let it go.
the virtuous kills. as does the vice.
now what is the politrix goin on at my work?
who cares? about that forgiveness shit.
if there is no crime there is nothiing to forgive.
let this be my mantra. would you help me
i will help you. this is the face we need
to turn to each other and the world. how else
to help them? they make me cry.
is that what they want to see? it enrages them.
as if these tears are manipulation. tereza cries
when stress gets to her. she forgets that she
too sins, her perfections are flaws shriven
onto me. her blade whittles and whittles
on her finger, she bleeds blame. who the fuck
cares, woman. we all have a life. we're
not gods we only have the same wills.
sigh....
what was i talkin about djuana?
where are you? i feels like
i've lost something b/c of stupidity
i need your slant eye. i feel like
you're fronding inward, curling tight
spriochet of liqudness. the river
moves you quietly. there is so much
burbling. you watch lily roots breathe
in bubble pop across the top of tensio
addled spider webs. these things
exist: punctuation, banks, a red beak
on an otherwise totally black duck.
you know? nat sez she's been reading my blog.
well, she sorta sez it. and of course dancer's been
reading me too. once, ozel told me about treplaning
and i think a private blog's about the next best
to it. that is, if one wants to share every
detail. what really gets me is how long
it took for my frenz to find it.
now i've got this one. different but
the same. i think maybe white tree
found it first. i like her. and i'm sorry
i was not her friend like i was djs.
open letter to dj--
should you never find this know
i was thinking of you while you were
by the river, so glad you could become
reed and duck in this tough
time of life. you don't have to excuse
and promise, i understand how to sleep.
it's a wonder any of us remain together
in our own heads, the dispersal of pollen
in the sky, much less be able to collect
with these other frequencies. i'm used
to disappearance. justin tells many things
about travel, the heart of refugee. i have
known and abandoned many loves, mostly friends
we meet and dance for a while then pass on.
somehow it's my shame that brings me out of it.
the magnamity of forgiveness. no one wants that.
it feels false. tho we each have actually done it
let it go. let it go.
the virtuous kills. as does the vice.
now what is the politrix goin on at my work?
who cares? about that forgiveness shit.
if there is no crime there is nothiing to forgive.
let this be my mantra. would you help me
i will help you. this is the face we need
to turn to each other and the world. how else
to help them? they make me cry.
is that what they want to see? it enrages them.
as if these tears are manipulation. tereza cries
when stress gets to her. she forgets that she
too sins, her perfections are flaws shriven
onto me. her blade whittles and whittles
on her finger, she bleeds blame. who the fuck
cares, woman. we all have a life. we're
not gods we only have the same wills.
sigh....
what was i talkin about djuana?
where are you? i feels like
i've lost something b/c of stupidity
i need your slant eye. i feel like
you're fronding inward, curling tight
spriochet of liqudness. the river
moves you quietly. there is so much
burbling. you watch lily roots breathe
in bubble pop across the top of tensio
addled spider webs. these things
exist: punctuation, banks, a red beak
on an otherwise totally black duck.
posted by hiccup at 7:46 PM
0 comments
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
you called an hour and a half ago
i've been looking for you for half of that
cuz you said you wanted me to come get you
i thought well maybe not those exact words
but similar, implied, insightful.
yet i didn't find you. went by work 3 times
by the bar once. it wasn't that crowded, you
weren't in there. not that i saw. maybe the bathroom?
maybe those 30 seconds i was scopin it out
you were in the loo? oh yes, yet me continue to rationalize
your movements. as if i even care. as if i should.
this is the breakup blog, isn't it?
this is the final shore before we push off.
well here's one from today:
the air's verdant with crickets
their hum reverberates with my tendons,
swimming in weariness and hunger. lassitude
of consumption. i'm eating you up. i've gained
fifteen pounds, each an augur of dissatisfaction.
"it's all in how you look at it", yeh, but when i look
at it, it's all in the blasted faded yellows of over
exposure & sunburn's sensitive skin.
i tell him i can't do it anymore. these small things
break me i break you. we have a fight
like a real fight like flights back to my long
unhappiness. who loved then? he wonders.
maybe only a child would believe my story.
he's growing up
sees my eyes stitching defeat into desire
sees the pinking shears cut hills and valleys
in our cloth. cotton. all natural. the bed
is hard and pine blonde. one of us must
sleep on the spine. who is in less pain?
you don't understand. the suicide doesn't
care what you think. too late is the essence.
this pain will be the last. my love knows
what he means, begs to be let in again.
till death do us part? you'll make sure of it?
feels like blackmail, this leavetaking i do
in advance of the exit. your body in the tub
skin split and rusty with my regret.
*
everyday i try to come to terms with my silence.
what i don't tell is how much i want to believe
in what could become. but which story is it?
the patterns! math
doesn't lie. the best we can hope
for is some escape thru error.
my neck always hurts. your neck always hurts
you slide into my depression with a bottle of stout.
the first time fight becomes the next time fight
and i excuse you on the grounds
that i am defeated by all my pasts, those you've
yet to live. exculpable. we sleep with our backs.
the pine spine is empty. we don't talk about new
mattresses. the microwave burnt and you drink
away the replacement.
you tell me you were the asshole.
but what was it you were so angry about?
i try to make you leave by proclaiming eternity.
you look almost sure, eyes singing the frequency of warm
air over the ocean. hurricane season, approaching
*
i have five minutes to convince you before
the drive back to work. i dunno of what.
love is here. maybe we can live in it. love is here
but it's not enough. i'm a stone cold bitch
who told you so. breaking your heart is the only
way i'll ever fully understand the one
who broke me.
not that you'll ever read it.
i think you're at the bar.
i want to go there again but i won't.
i will go there and tell you off.
i will wait for a few minutes more
then i will go. i don'ot know what to do.
if you love someone, you're not sup[posed
to feel trapped. i feel trapped.
you feel trapped. we trap each other
in a tap tap tap. what's so odd about
the odd beer. we're finalists in the holdon
to your heart competition. where are you
why do you come back here?
i've been looking for you for half of that
cuz you said you wanted me to come get you
i thought well maybe not those exact words
but similar, implied, insightful.
yet i didn't find you. went by work 3 times
by the bar once. it wasn't that crowded, you
weren't in there. not that i saw. maybe the bathroom?
maybe those 30 seconds i was scopin it out
you were in the loo? oh yes, yet me continue to rationalize
your movements. as if i even care. as if i should.
this is the breakup blog, isn't it?
this is the final shore before we push off.
well here's one from today:
the air's verdant with crickets
their hum reverberates with my tendons,
swimming in weariness and hunger. lassitude
of consumption. i'm eating you up. i've gained
fifteen pounds, each an augur of dissatisfaction.
"it's all in how you look at it", yeh, but when i look
at it, it's all in the blasted faded yellows of over
exposure & sunburn's sensitive skin.
i tell him i can't do it anymore. these small things
break me i break you. we have a fight
like a real fight like flights back to my long
unhappiness. who loved then? he wonders.
maybe only a child would believe my story.
he's growing up
sees my eyes stitching defeat into desire
sees the pinking shears cut hills and valleys
in our cloth. cotton. all natural. the bed
is hard and pine blonde. one of us must
sleep on the spine. who is in less pain?
you don't understand. the suicide doesn't
care what you think. too late is the essence.
this pain will be the last. my love knows
what he means, begs to be let in again.
till death do us part? you'll make sure of it?
feels like blackmail, this leavetaking i do
in advance of the exit. your body in the tub
skin split and rusty with my regret.
*
everyday i try to come to terms with my silence.
what i don't tell is how much i want to believe
in what could become. but which story is it?
the patterns! math
doesn't lie. the best we can hope
for is some escape thru error.
my neck always hurts. your neck always hurts
you slide into my depression with a bottle of stout.
the first time fight becomes the next time fight
and i excuse you on the grounds
that i am defeated by all my pasts, those you've
yet to live. exculpable. we sleep with our backs.
the pine spine is empty. we don't talk about new
mattresses. the microwave burnt and you drink
away the replacement.
you tell me you were the asshole.
but what was it you were so angry about?
i try to make you leave by proclaiming eternity.
you look almost sure, eyes singing the frequency of warm
air over the ocean. hurricane season, approaching
*
i have five minutes to convince you before
the drive back to work. i dunno of what.
love is here. maybe we can live in it. love is here
but it's not enough. i'm a stone cold bitch
who told you so. breaking your heart is the only
way i'll ever fully understand the one
who broke me.
not that you'll ever read it.
i think you're at the bar.
i want to go there again but i won't.
i will go there and tell you off.
i will wait for a few minutes more
then i will go. i don'ot know what to do.
if you love someone, you're not sup[posed
to feel trapped. i feel trapped.
you feel trapped. we trap each other
in a tap tap tap. what's so odd about
the odd beer. we're finalists in the holdon
to your heart competition. where are you
why do you come back here?
posted by hiccup at 9:51 PM
Sunday, May 15, 2005
if i were fighting to win
something then ok, you're right
but it's about perception
good ole pov and i perceive
that i can't do this anymore
the walls, covered with diablo
red polyester, let's party cuz
it's hopeless. no one's eyes meet
anyone elses. home shrinks
until it bums a ride to the underpass
beside the drydocks where i leave you
close to your friend's ex,close to ex
it's where you should be
lissen, it's not that i think you use me
deliberately,
you know, that way like
baby baby buy me a fur coat no
it's totally subconscious or un conscious but still
unconscionable and i'm used up
from before when we did this not you and i
but he and i and it feels the exact
same way it did then that's how i know
it's the same thing and it don't matter who's
the abused or abuser which party is giving
lessons and which ain't learning its wrong
wrong wrong it doesn't take a pop
psych degree to figure this out
so lemme just tell you right now
i'm writing this down in order to remind myself
that the next time it happens love
will find itself in the trunk, tied up gagged
waiting for a trip to the dump.
something then ok, you're right
but it's about perception
good ole pov and i perceive
that i can't do this anymore
the walls, covered with diablo
red polyester, let's party cuz
it's hopeless. no one's eyes meet
anyone elses. home shrinks
until it bums a ride to the underpass
beside the drydocks where i leave you
close to your friend's ex,close to ex
it's where you should be
lissen, it's not that i think you use me
deliberately,
you know, that way like
baby baby buy me a fur coat no
it's totally subconscious or un conscious but still
unconscionable and i'm used up
from before when we did this not you and i
but he and i and it feels the exact
same way it did then that's how i know
it's the same thing and it don't matter who's
the abused or abuser which party is giving
lessons and which ain't learning its wrong
wrong wrong it doesn't take a pop
psych degree to figure this out
so lemme just tell you right now
i'm writing this down in order to remind myself
that the next time it happens love
will find itself in the trunk, tied up gagged
waiting for a trip to the dump.
posted by hiccup at 2:50 PM
Saturday, May 14, 2005
i've gained 15 pounds.
i thought love
is supposed to be good
for you. why then the fat?
oh fine i exist
in a shell which has survival
as its escargot store
the fat for lean
times still a crab
could come along any minute
and suck me out
of here.
blakmail. could it exist if we had
no secrets? could we have not secrets?
i watch your eyes for clues of betarrring, a betrayal
which goes like this:
The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can never end.--Disraeli
if you say it
enough times over and over
it begins to tarnish become empty
genuine, genuine genuinegenuinegenuinegenuinegenuine genuine i didn not
use the the cut and paste feature. that would be pointless
&
been spending most our lives
livin a pasttime paradise
the spillage from the factory had radon
irridium and boron. einstenian made a brief
appearance and was never heard from again.
i don't like american idol, the sound of air
conditioners or my third toe. i dn't like
the auto save feature on word. i d like
the cutting room floor for all its latent
possiblity resemblance to graveyard
or the bones or gramma trauma. tyup another
masochist, i'm coming with out a collar.
i don't lie the way the dead do, performing
incorporeal miracles, i like the don'ts escape
from uzbekistan. i like to write code. 10001 1010 0001010111
bool is wide name for a logic, almost better
than left brain right brain. always with the dichotomies
as if two side handles it all. don't forget the points
which exist in the stars you must beat into submission
in your retinas. the recievership of new ows napped
to the outbout reservior. the outposts at the end of carreer
carreering to the final point of what, what. ?. synonym of nothing
for something. i'd like to smoke because i like it. or quit because i don't
this waffling for principle shall be my chimney in dachau
victime of the indliess movienmt of sky
on the crackls of colouds. i begn to taller
the fading moustrap. my curtains hang
in shreds whole at the verttice
practice is how you get to carnagie hall so i shall
proaci not thinking. not thinking automatic let the body tkae over let the wordless controll be the sleep your vmissing
and the coughs si spittle on ok you can reaa
there is you r sad flat waif feinded
for the let go. the etching of desire.
i keep visithign that well till suck it dry too
i dont like the quote autosve
it makdes my mistkaes hesiste i can t view them
in real time.
but hte autowriting wasn't as bad as i freared.
my body knmows what to do, let it og
go go go
have another hit
truth is what me make it. each epiphany the onlset of another petal
wich blooms fades shirvels
corpes of rose left on the cedar chest.
why do you get to know what's on im my head
when what's oiin yours is never revealed? fear of misunderstaning?
oh what can the void care? what understadig there is is
and not is. banks and rivers. the shoal of fish
on the brakending water. the smell of
weed risish and stiflings
the inside of water.
* no i don't ike the autosave fearture. gblobber
are you reading this? ti makes my mistakes
harder to filter out. they get comporesed
and revealed too late i have moved on on onononononooj
there is moon in someone's sky
you have to learn to hesitate on the very edge
of the razor blade, balanced on yr tips
letting it begin to slice the incisores
from the widsom space. fulcrum. hate the sound
of my ac hate the smile of my room it's all
so stifling and sufi driven. camel on a water strike
where do the letters go while they're wating to appear. this is wholly
unsatisfactory. it makes me think too much oh blog
why did you hanged changed and not become
what your innards said to be. i have dead rechargables
and the fountain of the day to remember
but i can't get past this empy that scrolls demented
down the page. poetry. the comfort of the ixle exile
the lst post of the damned.
i thought love
is supposed to be good
for you. why then the fat?
oh fine i exist
in a shell which has survival
as its escargot store
the fat for lean
times still a crab
could come along any minute
and suck me out
of here.
blakmail. could it exist if we had
no secrets? could we have not secrets?
i watch your eyes for clues of betarrring, a betrayal
which goes like this:
The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can never end.--Disraeli
if you say it
enough times over and over
it begins to tarnish become empty
genuine, genuine genuinegenuinegenuinegenuinegenuine genuine i didn not
use the the cut and paste feature. that would be pointless
&
been spending most our lives
livin a pasttime paradise
the spillage from the factory had radon
irridium and boron. einstenian made a brief
appearance and was never heard from again.
i don't like american idol, the sound of air
conditioners or my third toe. i dn't like
the auto save feature on word. i d like
the cutting room floor for all its latent
possiblity resemblance to graveyard
or the bones or gramma trauma. tyup another
masochist, i'm coming with out a collar.
i don't lie the way the dead do, performing
incorporeal miracles, i like the don'ts escape
from uzbekistan. i like to write code. 10001 1010 0001010111
bool is wide name for a logic, almost better
than left brain right brain. always with the dichotomies
as if two side handles it all. don't forget the points
which exist in the stars you must beat into submission
in your retinas. the recievership of new ows napped
to the outbout reservior. the outposts at the end of carreer
carreering to the final point of what, what. ?. synonym of nothing
for something. i'd like to smoke because i like it. or quit because i don't
this waffling for principle shall be my chimney in dachau
victime of the indliess movienmt of sky
on the crackls of colouds. i begn to taller
the fading moustrap. my curtains hang
in shreds whole at the verttice
practice is how you get to carnagie hall so i shall
proaci not thinking. not thinking automatic let the body tkae over let the wordless controll be the sleep your vmissing
and the coughs si spittle on ok you can reaa
there is you r sad flat waif feinded
for the let go. the etching of desire.
i keep visithign that well till suck it dry too
i dont like the quote autosve
it makdes my mistkaes hesiste i can t view them
in real time.
but hte autowriting wasn't as bad as i freared.
my body knmows what to do, let it og
go go go
have another hit
truth is what me make it. each epiphany the onlset of another petal
wich blooms fades shirvels
corpes of rose left on the cedar chest.
why do you get to know what's on im my head
when what's oiin yours is never revealed? fear of misunderstaning?
oh what can the void care? what understadig there is is
and not is. banks and rivers. the shoal of fish
on the brakending water. the smell of
weed risish and stiflings
the inside of water.
* no i don't ike the autosave fearture. gblobber
are you reading this? ti makes my mistakes
harder to filter out. they get comporesed
and revealed too late i have moved on on onononononooj
there is moon in someone's sky
you have to learn to hesitate on the very edge
of the razor blade, balanced on yr tips
letting it begin to slice the incisores
from the widsom space. fulcrum. hate the sound
of my ac hate the smile of my room it's all
so stifling and sufi driven. camel on a water strike
where do the letters go while they're wating to appear. this is wholly
unsatisfactory. it makes me think too much oh blog
why did you hanged changed and not become
what your innards said to be. i have dead rechargables
and the fountain of the day to remember
but i can't get past this empy that scrolls demented
down the page. poetry. the comfort of the ixle exile
the lst post of the damned.
posted by hiccup at 10:09 AM
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
so i'm trying to remember
that this is a different thing
us but
it feels so resonant and you
got me used to you being
there calling me everyday like
you couldn't stand to be away from me
smothering me with your need
but now you aren't needy as that
and when you don't call i feel us falling flat
against the end of desire.
\\\\
so yeah ok you were at the bar
last nite. i wonder if you'll be there again
throw up on my toilet leave the stains
like you did today. i catch the pints of roaches
you leave scatterd around the room
in order to drink you wiht them. i see
you're smoking again empty
packs and a wet bathing suit. i keep
expecting her to turn up at the pool
her.
you know.
her
the one you don't know yet
the one who will open your eyes.
makes me sad to think that because
i spent all those years with him
that he is the only that will lovehate me
till i die. and after. and after that yeah.
when you said annoyed
i called i pointed out
i called not you and you were like yeh so?
why do i want you to go?
cuz the suspense of time is killing me
he told me a li'l uncertainty might be good for me
but i think it just turns me into a lunatic.
that this is a different thing
us but
it feels so resonant and you
got me used to you being
there calling me everyday like
you couldn't stand to be away from me
smothering me with your need
but now you aren't needy as that
and when you don't call i feel us falling flat
against the end of desire.
\\\\
so yeah ok you were at the bar
last nite. i wonder if you'll be there again
throw up on my toilet leave the stains
like you did today. i catch the pints of roaches
you leave scatterd around the room
in order to drink you wiht them. i see
you're smoking again empty
packs and a wet bathing suit. i keep
expecting her to turn up at the pool
her.
you know.
her
the one you don't know yet
the one who will open your eyes.
makes me sad to think that because
i spent all those years with him
that he is the only that will lovehate me
till i die. and after. and after that yeah.
when you said annoyed
i called i pointed out
i called not you and you were like yeh so?
why do i want you to go?
cuz the suspense of time is killing me
he told me a li'l uncertainty might be good for me
but i think it just turns me into a lunatic.
posted by hiccup at 3:21 PM
how can i delete this stupid feature
yes, another one. antoher entry.
it's almost three. the bar closes soon
then he should be walking in
but if he doesn't then my whole life
changes again. i just want to sleep
but it's the waiting the uncertainty
in my certainty. see it's not that
i even blame him. i want him to leave
i'm tired of waiting for when
so that pokes thru i'm sure.
perhaps that's what kills these witner
based flowerings. we the elder know
the outcome and so insist it play out
that way. summer is always summer
it cannot be winter. but time
is being fucked with. the portals
interleave the globe warms.
if i write long enough i'll fall asleep
here, or if i'm lucky i'll crawl
over to my bed first so my neck
won't geta crick. he fucked me so hard
my neck is broken. now my body
wants to miss that. well he's always
been an excellent lover. but i need
a lover who is not sucking the life from me.
and so does he, which is why
i need to not be in his face about the bar.
so the bar. so he gets to spend some money he earned it.
the dollahs i gave him i burn. i want to burn them.
why can't i burn them?
it's almost three. the bar closes soon
then he should be walking in
but if he doesn't then my whole life
changes again. i just want to sleep
but it's the waiting the uncertainty
in my certainty. see it's not that
i even blame him. i want him to leave
i'm tired of waiting for when
so that pokes thru i'm sure.
perhaps that's what kills these witner
based flowerings. we the elder know
the outcome and so insist it play out
that way. summer is always summer
it cannot be winter. but time
is being fucked with. the portals
interleave the globe warms.
if i write long enough i'll fall asleep
here, or if i'm lucky i'll crawl
over to my bed first so my neck
won't geta crick. he fucked me so hard
my neck is broken. now my body
wants to miss that. well he's always
been an excellent lover. but i need
a lover who is not sucking the life from me.
and so does he, which is why
i need to not be in his face about the bar.
so the bar. so he gets to spend some money he earned it.
the dollahs i gave him i burn. i want to burn them.
why can't i burn them?
posted by hiccup at 12:10 AM
0 comments
Monday, May 09, 2005
yr not home
she took a nap so she'd be ready
when you came home. but you dont.
you get off
and walk by the point, a beer
sashays over and you drink
and another, you drink
a woman talks you up cuz you look
so lonely and cute and she
doesn't wonder why you go home
with her what she wonders is how long
this leaving will take.
will it come fast, a bubble pop
or will your discovery eat at you slow
you don't love her you never loved her
how could love be such a psychotic bitch?
meanwhile she writes.
take a hit and calms her stomach
the sheets lie crumpled in sympathy
twisted as her gut when she imagines
the going. she never thought she'd
fall for this shit again, but here she is
wondering if you're dead or love is.
living on borrowed time they told her.
then she told you. and you deny it.
what do they know about my love? i'm unique
but it turns out not so much baby
but it turns out you are only another
in a long line of little headed thinkers.
she knew when it happened that this
was hopelessmess clinging to life
a temporary fix. she just wanted to sleep.
she was ready to spread her legs
without a heartbeat but apearantly not
because she let you in. a chink
a small foothold. how could you love
under those demands? give and give
and still she doubts. why does she doubt.
she tells herself over and over no
you will not drive down to the point no
you will not see if that's where he is
does he know tht she wakes without him?
searches the feather comfortor
for his smell? finds it, names it gone.
she writes--
dear love
well it's happening but you dont realize it.
the breaking away. cracked in the iceberg.
do you know that emptiness that beer seems
to fill? i am the source of it.
but fuck what you're feeling. what about me.
how this resonates back to the marriage
how this resonates in my empty belief, so large
a space for echoes. he used to tell me i'm going
fishing and i'm almost sure he did. but
hours gone and no word hours and hours and the night
presses on without you how would i begin
to trust and need you? you made me believe
as much as i'm capable of believing
then whompus. it's so funny i decided to end
persistence and now our breakup will be
chronicled on a new blog. i feel it, glacial.
the iceflow becomes lava and then pouf
steam. air meets water. fog fog fog
how true to me will the tarot be?
kiss brad pitt and get a free designer
handbag. i miss. you should be able
to stop by the bar without i go insane.
without calling. there should be freedom
and trust in our. and there is , there is.
i trust you to betray me.
the tarot sez maturity. oh yeah. oh yeah.
the tarot sez the dominator.
The card represents the critical factor for the issue at hand. Two of Wands (Dominion): Mature individual. Ruler. Attainment of goals and needs. Boldness. Courage in undertakings. A dominant personality.
ok i do another. i don't get it. who is sposed
to dominate, what will dominate. maturity.
couragio. undertakings . justin needs
to move on move on move on.
looks like th\e tarot agrees with me.
check out this reading:
card at the top left represents how you see yourself. Two of Wands (Dominion): Mature individual. Ruler. Attainment of goals and needs. Boldness. Courage in undertakings. A dominant personality.
The card at the top right represents how you see your partner. Queen of Pentacles, when reversed: False prosperity. Suspense. Suspicion. Responsibilities neglected. Vicious person. Untrusting person. Fear of failure.
The card in the center left represents how you feel about your partner. The Tower, when reversed: Continued oppression. Following old ways. Living in a rut. Inability to effect any worthwhile change. Entrapment in an unhappy situation. Imprisonment.
The card in the center right represents what stands between you and your partner. Rejuvenation: Atonement. Judgment. The need to repent and forgive. The moment to account for the manner in which we have used our opportunities. Rejuvenation. Rebirth. Improvement. Development. Promotion. Effort that ends in just reward. The desire for immortality. Legal judgment. One should carefully consider the effects of present actions on other persons.
The card in the lower left represents how your partner sees you. Four of Cups (Luxury): Wariness. Aversion. Disgust. Disappointment. Unhappiness. Bitter experience. Stationary period in one's life.
The card in the lower right represents what your partner feels about you. Ten of Wands (Oppression): Overburdened feeling. Excessive pressures. Problems soon to be resolved. Striving to meet a goal or a certain level or position. Possibly using power for selfish ends.
The card in the center represents the present status or challenge of the relationship. Three of Wands (Virtue): Practical knowledge. Business acumen. Enterprise. Negotiations. Trade, Commerce.
oi lol, i'm the dominator
and he's oppressive
what a fine pair.
well, i'm sleepy now
the weed makes it easier
to simply fade and fall back
to dreaming where nothing
really matters you know
including the overuse
of cliche.
hooray.
when you came home. but you dont.
you get off
and walk by the point, a beer
sashays over and you drink
and another, you drink
a woman talks you up cuz you look
so lonely and cute and she
doesn't wonder why you go home
with her what she wonders is how long
this leaving will take.
will it come fast, a bubble pop
or will your discovery eat at you slow
you don't love her you never loved her
how could love be such a psychotic bitch?
meanwhile she writes.
take a hit and calms her stomach
the sheets lie crumpled in sympathy
twisted as her gut when she imagines
the going. she never thought she'd
fall for this shit again, but here she is
wondering if you're dead or love is.
living on borrowed time they told her.
then she told you. and you deny it.
what do they know about my love? i'm unique
but it turns out not so much baby
but it turns out you are only another
in a long line of little headed thinkers.
she knew when it happened that this
was hopelessmess clinging to life
a temporary fix. she just wanted to sleep.
she was ready to spread her legs
without a heartbeat but apearantly not
because she let you in. a chink
a small foothold. how could you love
under those demands? give and give
and still she doubts. why does she doubt.
she tells herself over and over no
you will not drive down to the point no
you will not see if that's where he is
does he know tht she wakes without him?
searches the feather comfortor
for his smell? finds it, names it gone.
she writes--
dear love
well it's happening but you dont realize it.
the breaking away. cracked in the iceberg.
do you know that emptiness that beer seems
to fill? i am the source of it.
but fuck what you're feeling. what about me.
how this resonates back to the marriage
how this resonates in my empty belief, so large
a space for echoes. he used to tell me i'm going
fishing and i'm almost sure he did. but
hours gone and no word hours and hours and the night
presses on without you how would i begin
to trust and need you? you made me believe
as much as i'm capable of believing
then whompus. it's so funny i decided to end
persistence and now our breakup will be
chronicled on a new blog. i feel it, glacial.
the iceflow becomes lava and then pouf
steam. air meets water. fog fog fog
how true to me will the tarot be?
kiss brad pitt and get a free designer
handbag. i miss. you should be able
to stop by the bar without i go insane.
without calling. there should be freedom
and trust in our. and there is , there is.
i trust you to betray me.
the tarot sez maturity. oh yeah. oh yeah.
the tarot sez the dominator.
The card represents the critical factor for the issue at hand. Two of Wands (Dominion): Mature individual. Ruler. Attainment of goals and needs. Boldness. Courage in undertakings. A dominant personality.
ok i do another. i don't get it. who is sposed
to dominate, what will dominate. maturity.
couragio. undertakings . justin needs
to move on move on move on.
looks like th\e tarot agrees with me.
check out this reading:
card at the top left represents how you see yourself. Two of Wands (Dominion): Mature individual. Ruler. Attainment of goals and needs. Boldness. Courage in undertakings. A dominant personality.
The card at the top right represents how you see your partner. Queen of Pentacles, when reversed: False prosperity. Suspense. Suspicion. Responsibilities neglected. Vicious person. Untrusting person. Fear of failure.
The card in the center left represents how you feel about your partner. The Tower, when reversed: Continued oppression. Following old ways. Living in a rut. Inability to effect any worthwhile change. Entrapment in an unhappy situation. Imprisonment.
The card in the center right represents what stands between you and your partner. Rejuvenation: Atonement. Judgment. The need to repent and forgive. The moment to account for the manner in which we have used our opportunities. Rejuvenation. Rebirth. Improvement. Development. Promotion. Effort that ends in just reward. The desire for immortality. Legal judgment. One should carefully consider the effects of present actions on other persons.
The card in the lower left represents how your partner sees you. Four of Cups (Luxury): Wariness. Aversion. Disgust. Disappointment. Unhappiness. Bitter experience. Stationary period in one's life.
The card in the lower right represents what your partner feels about you. Ten of Wands (Oppression): Overburdened feeling. Excessive pressures. Problems soon to be resolved. Striving to meet a goal or a certain level or position. Possibly using power for selfish ends.
The card in the center represents the present status or challenge of the relationship. Three of Wands (Virtue): Practical knowledge. Business acumen. Enterprise. Negotiations. Trade, Commerce.
oi lol, i'm the dominator
and he's oppressive
what a fine pair.
well, i'm sleepy now
the weed makes it easier
to simply fade and fall back
to dreaming where nothing
really matters you know
including the overuse
of cliche.
hooray.
posted by hiccup at 10:44 PM
Sunday, May 08, 2005
mom n stuff
ya so, the reason i decd\ided to
not transfer things cuz done is done
i should go back and put a final
entry in. like round up got the weeds.
leave it for posterity. print
it into book form and watch the pages yellow.
for this mother's day ima do
some laundry and clean the fan
that sits in the third story window
like as in an attic, fighting
heat which drifts into feathery
cirrus sleep.
all my fight has left me
puppety limbs
rubbery hymns
slumbrous jambs and jellys
and the hydro release of fire.
speak in code. kinda rodes.
you're talking to your momma
and reelling in less drama
a call to arms, why does
he has the breakup of his
family to deal with.
*
when you were in your infancy
propped up in the lounge chair
i barely looked at you. how could
your poufy hair be gone?
your blue eyes paling held
all that you wouldn't ever
again be able to answer.
my questions come too late.
on mother's day 1978 i gave
you engraved silver, a silk rose.
to last. a few years later
dad dispersed the house
i took it wth me, lost
these many years in one move
to the next. cut off from
my past, no one triangulated
truth to be had.
here's a truth i once whispered
i hate you
like she hates me, foibles of time
and never enough of it. we are
such needy things, despising our weakness.
one memory: i carried it with me
whenever i looked at a portrait
which captured us, familia, how i
must have been upset with daddy
or scared somehow, but the photographer
made me sit in his lap, not hers
how i was not allowed to cry about it
put a li'l half smile on my face
momma held the baby. big sister
behind us. i think. somewhere i have
that portrait. i think i'll pass
on review this mother's day.
a seamstress. a needle a bobbin
acoutrements of measurement
pins and the dip of cutting board.
fly these eagles out of marekesh
into my sky blue dress, ric rac
on a full skirt. you pricked your fore
finger for love. or was that neccesity?
always you were somewhere inside yourself
private i could never go. your inner
strength, your faded denim dreaming.
you know, sister can't understand it.
y i don't visit your grave.
you were never there. what does she find?
i hold pictures which you touched
there must still be some measure
of your fingerprints there some evidence
you existed beyond the stifled image
cuaght like a birdwatched with binoculars,
anonymous and blonde.
maybe i simply project. was it all
that you wanted, that probity of children
the talisman of home, you the hearth?
i fought that trap but wound up
living it. the moves we made
from home to home who remembers
my small town name like your friend betty
did you ever escape to her was there drama
in your marriage? my memories are so overloaded
with self i remember nothing. save incidents
aroused from the printed photo. sis will sometimes
recall and i will stifle a no, nod yes
as if i too held something of the past within me.
my body has died by degrees six times, but this brain
must willing ly forget the soothing game
of find the states on the back of the cars, tags
of other countries anthing to keep us amuzed
on the long car rides that closely tied us
back to the mountains, the proximity of family
a nervewracking thing, the soothing clicks of the mother hen.
you must have been.
8
not transfer things cuz done is done
i should go back and put a final
entry in. like round up got the weeds.
leave it for posterity. print
it into book form and watch the pages yellow.
for this mother's day ima do
some laundry and clean the fan
that sits in the third story window
like as in an attic, fighting
heat which drifts into feathery
cirrus sleep.
all my fight has left me
puppety limbs
rubbery hymns
slumbrous jambs and jellys
and the hydro release of fire.
speak in code. kinda rodes.
you're talking to your momma
and reelling in less drama
a call to arms, why does
he has the breakup of his
family to deal with.
*
when you were in your infancy
propped up in the lounge chair
i barely looked at you. how could
your poufy hair be gone?
your blue eyes paling held
all that you wouldn't ever
again be able to answer.
my questions come too late.
on mother's day 1978 i gave
you engraved silver, a silk rose.
to last. a few years later
dad dispersed the house
i took it wth me, lost
these many years in one move
to the next. cut off from
my past, no one triangulated
truth to be had.
here's a truth i once whispered
i hate you
like she hates me, foibles of time
and never enough of it. we are
such needy things, despising our weakness.
one memory: i carried it with me
whenever i looked at a portrait
which captured us, familia, how i
must have been upset with daddy
or scared somehow, but the photographer
made me sit in his lap, not hers
how i was not allowed to cry about it
put a li'l half smile on my face
momma held the baby. big sister
behind us. i think. somewhere i have
that portrait. i think i'll pass
on review this mother's day.
a seamstress. a needle a bobbin
acoutrements of measurement
pins and the dip of cutting board.
fly these eagles out of marekesh
into my sky blue dress, ric rac
on a full skirt. you pricked your fore
finger for love. or was that neccesity?
always you were somewhere inside yourself
private i could never go. your inner
strength, your faded denim dreaming.
you know, sister can't understand it.
y i don't visit your grave.
you were never there. what does she find?
i hold pictures which you touched
there must still be some measure
of your fingerprints there some evidence
you existed beyond the stifled image
cuaght like a birdwatched with binoculars,
anonymous and blonde.
maybe i simply project. was it all
that you wanted, that probity of children
the talisman of home, you the hearth?
i fought that trap but wound up
living it. the moves we made
from home to home who remembers
my small town name like your friend betty
did you ever escape to her was there drama
in your marriage? my memories are so overloaded
with self i remember nothing. save incidents
aroused from the printed photo. sis will sometimes
recall and i will stifle a no, nod yes
as if i too held something of the past within me.
my body has died by degrees six times, but this brain
must willing ly forget the soothing game
of find the states on the back of the cars, tags
of other countries anthing to keep us amuzed
on the long car rides that closely tied us
back to the mountains, the proximity of family
a nervewracking thing, the soothing clicks of the mother hen.
you must have been.
8
posted by hiccup at 6:18 AM
Saturday, May 07, 2005
done is done
you know what, fuck it
what's done is done.
i'm always going on about honesty
and openess and i would stand
by my words...so ya know what, i shall.
open and splayed. but that's over
i don't think anyone i know
will find me here, now
and that's the important thing.
i'm done with the other.
delete that last post.
what's done is done.
i'm always going on about honesty
and openess and i would stand
by my words...so ya know what, i shall.
open and splayed. but that's over
i don't think anyone i know
will find me here, now
and that's the important thing.
i'm done with the other.
delete that last post.
posted by hiccup at 6:12 PM
a
oh blogger how far you've come...all the things we wanted
in a blog, now here at our fingertips. why am i talking in the royal we?
i'm here all alone. the sun's going down, paling to gray. i hadda build
a new blog cuz too many someones now happenstance upon me.
this one will be more and less than the last.
new love, new day, this will be where i come
when i know i don't want anyone to know it's me.
and like all good diarys begins with a beginning...
once upon a time there was a weed
but before there was a weed there was a seed
perhaps what i should do, is move the other blog
stuff over here before anyone goes too deep into my
archives. yes, that's what i need to do.
only like 1000 posts. that's not too much to move..
get ready. oh fuck i just realized. ima hafta log out
of htis identity and put on the alter ego.
ok, cut n paste time.
this should take me some time.
plus, it's like a backup.
good idea. cuz i think if man is still alive
in say 7 yrs, i might be ready to write the book.
this novel will make a good one someday.
the central characters will be disguised.
now to the castle keep, batman, to rend this breach!
in a blog, now here at our fingertips. why am i talking in the royal we?
i'm here all alone. the sun's going down, paling to gray. i hadda build
a new blog cuz too many someones now happenstance upon me.
this one will be more and less than the last.
new love, new day, this will be where i come
when i know i don't want anyone to know it's me.
and like all good diarys begins with a beginning...
once upon a time there was a weed
but before there was a weed there was a seed
perhaps what i should do, is move the other blog
stuff over here before anyone goes too deep into my
archives. yes, that's what i need to do.
only like 1000 posts. that's not too much to move..
get ready. oh fuck i just realized. ima hafta log out
of htis identity and put on the alter ego.
ok, cut n paste time.
this should take me some time.
plus, it's like a backup.
good idea. cuz i think if man is still alive
in say 7 yrs, i might be ready to write the book.
this novel will make a good one someday.
the central characters will be disguised.
now to the castle keep, batman, to rend this breach!
posted by hiccup at 5:15 PM
1 comments
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