stray clogs of speaking

empire earth whistles
from the other computer
the other world. who's
to say what's virtual
what's real. we can all be gods.

some guy peers in our windows
looking for sex maybe or a stray
cat. most everyone speaks a foreign
language. the accents of misunderstood
mangoes, unripended
in the spring air. close the door,
the sun's trying to sneak in.

love thinks he's the one stole our keys.
checks the car status in the lot.
i think love took the keys
and they're sitting at his computer
at work, or shipped with the lancets
to mrs garibaldi of handy road.

or i think the keys took a time trip.
it costs a lot to change the locks
but less than getting a new car.
still, i have to wait one more day
to have a theory either confirmed or smashed.
empty spot on the pavement.
joy ridden goy time.

indeterminancy is a bitch
but it's better than knowing
what the end looks like. ask
oedipus' dad. disbelief
as he's killed by a man he never saw
ironicly the one killed for prophecy.
the revolution continues, sun moves
thru the glaxay galaxy moves thru
the word, word just moves.




an ice pick from from the 30s
sits atop the dresser from the 19th
century. your face clings
to today like sweat after sex
only less wet.


we're waiting for delivery of the wah pedal.
last nite's practice went well, as opposed
to the time we tried to do covers that no one
could agree on. i only like covers i can do my way.
fuck, if kurt covers bowie then we'll cover kurt
he'll kick our heads in if we do it his way.
this ain't no elvis gig.








not so much waiting as killing
time, brain cells, the chance of a tan.















z9

all day yesterday i couldn't get over it.
lesson in petulance over a replanned date.
i mean he told me he'd take me out.
then he bought the guitar. well, he's been
waiting for that a long time. but still.

food is fleeting.
love is better when it bleeds.


today i wake to desire. your monkey face sweet
taste in my mouth. how could i not love you then
between the fuck yous and breaking up.
how could i try to drive disappointment
from my door? we are not gods.
fallible because we want.


then from the corner god whispers
little boy on time out
no one's talking to him after he threw
that stink bomb on st. patty's day
the whisper's a little breeze whipped
and rustling palm fronds
what ,you think gods don't desire? he hides
a snicker behind his hand
turns to the wall again.



i think of acknowleging him
but he's been a bad boy.
silence will whip him good
he'll find the power in his clinched
fist and punch thru that steel
colored plaster, surprised he didn't see that coming.



















*


nother hit. no pix. it's objectifying
watching the mainstream find the trickle
seeing your last self pinging postive
feedback to next one in marakesh masks
jacard print qurans, the simpsons votive glow.