archiving july

showered
Unregistered User
(7/2/06 2:25 pm)
Reply | Edit | Del All and feelin it i feel trapped in here
while the band plays fourteen miles
an infant song which cannot be disturbed

i am the pole
holding a line that flays against
the typhoon which has no name.

out on the edge of it, mites battle motes
whipped thru milky way
or some concurrent aggegration of matter-
nebulae with the eyes of angels.

every journey is a pome. when the letters
are set right it becomes poetry. who
will be the judge of that? this bothers me lately.



judgement i mean. the sense of justice
fairness and can we achieve it? i dn't see how
since god backs every single one of us.
there's what i like, what you like, and what the tiger
likes for dinner. sometimes we all agree.
but then, bacteria want their way. and they have it.
slime mold growing on van gogh's sunflowers
mirrored in my innocent browns.








defer
Unregistered User
(7/7/06 4:57 pm)
Reply | Edit | Del All field of dots

close up they look like mums'
crennelated primaries but from a distance
they're just points on a plane, merging.


we moved from brooklyn because i heard
the rent here's cheap. then my husband
was stationed to the indian ocean. snowball
was the worst hit, his nails ticking on the tile
floors along the hallway between the kitchen
and our bedroom, all night long. for months
we could not mention your name, jimmy
without him doing that run. he didn't understand
even tho the boy tried to explain. my baby
growing up. sometimes i watch him
from the dark den, as the sun filters thru this kitchen
i want to call ours- as soon as you get home jimmy
as soon as you can-in the morning, hair a xerox
of yours, profile against the quaker oats box
dinstincly your mom's and wonder where i fit in
not me as mom or teller at the credit union
but what happened to that woman
who went to school, what was that for?
and the answer comes to wait
like my mom waited on vietnam and her mom waited
after pearl harbor, think fatherless
children even before the phone call, the visit, the telegram however
they tell me that the hand that took the picture
he's so proud of, his daddy's rainbow over the F15 has been found
without a pulse, and how i'm supposed to see his point of light
among the thousands now, growing and drowning out
any place for us to curl and cuddle in the dark, lights out
our hearts the loudest sound .















versage w/ nat


Re: trilateral dream trilateral dream
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
silly putty imprints on saturday nite
sink or swim, flotilla in the second coffee
shop on first ave. checkmate in three
hours of conversation and two minute
open mic confessionals. nothing will make
primus whole again or the way i feel
about the situation. ships dock for a while
the passengers disembark, cruise the duty
free shops for laminated star
fish and keychains shaped like dragons of the sea.
you put your head thru the giant shark jaw
the camera flashes. there becomes a picture
i can look at and remember when but
it's not like that anymore. they're pulling the plank
and i need to get used to it. wave the kerchief
languidly, mouth alohas to your comings
and goings, dance in my grass skirt
till the ship slips out of sight. sunset
in the pupil of a dandelion, right before a wind.

cutty sark remarks
in the rocky locker of a coffee cup
lock'em up tie'em down
let them dry before they
float away and drown
in the flood of ghostriders from the moon
poon spilling spit into the night of the walking dead
hitched and pegged upright but about to dip
into the skinny of the boney sea
of penzazz and all that madcap depp
jizz and jazz skirling G&S
and jack



rounding out this tryptich of caffeine
on the scene in a moondrenched meme
like faeries on afterburner, jack sprat on jim beam
but rum's his fatal harmony, that lover
with another, brown eyes aligned in coal and goal
and petticoats, desirous.





Comment
trashpo
ezOP
(7/15/06 1:45 pm)
Reply | Edit | Del All
ezSupporter
reality notez on my floor-3 weeks of clothes
several plastic bags
almost empty vaseline jar, uncapped
lyrics and tabs for several songs
empty shell of c size battery packing
feathers ashes poems

my feet rest on a drawer pulled out
from the desk. the desk is my daughters
but it's in my room. my daughter has a room with a
lover over in the ghetto. i'm saving
the desk for her kids.

she is never having kids
just like me, at 17, never
but my never was truncated
when i felt the sickness she
brought on me after her conception.


i'd felt it before but younger.
not ready for it i said. what made me
decide otherwise? when she gets all existential
on me, i tell her she demanded it.
she's rather demanding
so she believes me.


poetry, that slut, is sleeping
around again. she hsn't been in my
head for a couple months. says she's tired
of my incessant talk of purchase and ownership
responsiblity and duty
logic and problem solving. i tell her

i love you anyway, and she says
do you love me enough to find fifty words to say it?























*



i lite the pipe and toke
think about that.

i polo poetry
sonlov jacob
dolov sav
tingaluv justin
bindringer long friends
nuluv the new ones
wished i taken latin so i news what i'm doings.













my chains got chains This will definitely be the last time
that i will have an encounter with nothing like this.
I suggest that you dont have a first.


the last time i locked it up
it beat against the redfisted bars
spooling blood and suburbo conquest,
a tickertape of tapeworm
unbent in the evening air.

so i let it out. what else to do?
it roared along the alleys, anonymous
but loud, riding a rice rocket into
barroom walls, flatlining on laughing cats.

every poet is a liar, she says, and pens
another lie. every poem is lie he sings
and lies beside her, lies on top of her,
strums her last resistance into into a sonnet

that neither rhymes nor scans
the bleachers of the all star baseball
game for bird flu victimization but wraps
cold steel around itself, steeped in not again.











title from rebecca pulley's " chains"
quote from a web anon witness of a welbutrin overdose











the history of witchcraft if i were old.er. with a halo of hair
i'd look out the double thick hurricane glass
at the toxic maelstrom as it grows

and wonder
who started the rain
was it me, was it us~

fractal sight recurses over the carcass
of history, jellyfish skeletons
piled on the beach, melting and slimy
under my feet and i walk

and i walk to the crunch of wave
beaten glass and pulverised cement

in the streets of beruit
slices of green fronds tower
over rubble and the drunken power
lines of aftermath. a palmetto ablaze

in the desert. i suck a hose stuck in a hole
in the ground and piss gasoline . i need
a little light , strike the match.





last pome in da house of course it will write another
tomorrow, but not like this.

the 40 watt bulb burns unshaded
laundry list of real things to trip on,
unpacked, unfinished like my intentions

in this healing house. the new when we moved here
carpet is stained from a thousand thrown ash
trays, not really but the alliteration sounds better than
spilled. i keep reaching to expand but it becomes about the writing

made cheap, some say, by all this unlimited space
all this light all this free virtual ink. well, nothing's free
but some things are cheaper than others. exchange
becomes the rarest commodity then ceases

altogether. we sleep, turn on vids, attach less
meaning to the places we're going than we do
to the places we are. maybe gaze longingly

at what we leave behind: a stolen poster, a mattress
from the dumpster, a smoke stained portrait of the pond.





day ten: the moon faces west the worst is when they hold on to their faces
white and bloated wth caterpillar eyebrows.
the type to register surprise in the same decibel
as delight or sorrow. everything soaked
in a cholorformed mask designed to placate you
but serves only to make you more inhospitable.
you spit. you hack. you become i then lock
the file cabinet behind us. the paper holds their
folded faces to the floor. you steal it mondays
wednesday's and every third sunday from mr floyd's
front porch because even though you have
money you can't pay for them to continue to murder trees.


my son is at the fantasy age. you want to make it easy
on him but look at what that did to your daughter you
don't want to admit that you're the adult now
and these things won't happen without you. time to put
the tie on your neck, pull op your nylons. you've spelled
that three times now and it's still not charmed. no one is.


you miss the stars that have gathered close the center
of the milky way. the ones you named after myself
i guess this is what i figured would happen
when i sold the family tree for a jack in a gin tree
sans the age old customs of india and belarus.
you can cry in the atlantic for all the salt i've taken.
go ahead. cry.

she asked me to spill the dirt but she keeps
me buried like a horror story i tell her child.
you know the one, they're picking the jury now
because the georgia state police and florida state
police got too anxious. they need a lesson
from the dishwasher how to keep clean. lean. mean.
so i'm buried. hear me tapping. my finders rooting
toward sun? everytime i get halfway there







conspicuous consumption got up today and made the bus
try to keep my head real low
i don't know what's in front of us
but i really don't want to go

on the streets at five a. m.
join the workforce zombies
don't know if they'll let me in
but gotta get my abercrombies

it's the brand junk
brand junk
brand junk

turn on the tv again
it is sure my special friend
keeps me company at night
when the chat site dont' treat me right.

don't wanna think about it
don't wanna think about it
don't wanna think about it
mmmmm
that thinkin thang


sniper on the crosstown bridge
bombs up in your attic
the killer in the businsess wig
it shore is democratic


it's the brand junk
brand junk
brand junk



don't wanna think about it
don't wanna think about it
don't wanna think about it
mmmmm
that thinkin thang







reality before he wakes he says i wish
you wouldn't leave the blinds open
we live on the ground floor.
let em peek, she says . give em a thrill.
i like to have natural light in the room
i like it dim
so when i'm not home you can close em
i pay extra for the view of the pond and dammit
i'ma see it.
why did you chose this side anyway?
no choice in the matter, they said this was it
and i moved in. two months free rent.
well, i like it dim.
and i like the sun.




*

yesterday's passions forgotten
every morning a reincarnation

i hold onto patterns that are familiar
those of which i've made sense.

take this paper cutout in the shape of a leaf.
it's not a leaf. my son made it in art class

in kindergarten. today i place it the chest
of drawers my grandmother left me before

she died. we're moving again, this time
as owners, less itenerant. the paper leaf

is colored in swirls and non repeating geometric
shapes which are not solid, but broken into vari colored

lines much like how the line on a tv
screen crosses bottom to top to form

a solid looking representation of life. i tell him
i have always loved this leaf. he says i know!

you always put it on the wall where ever we go.
you know mom they wanted me to make it all

one color but i was like no way! this
is art & i get to use my imagination.














*






he says my 19 year old self would kill
my 21 year old self.

she says your 19 year old self would kill
himself.
















*


she says i don't understand the will to suicide.
maybe it was the chemicals you guys were
exposed to or maybe it 's genetix, gene tricks, but here
have a toke and it'll be better.

he says if i am just an ant then fuck you god
if i am just that then why live? for the species?
i hate human beings. love human beings.

she says, well at least yr still passionate.
she is always wry when he gets flamed.
that or silent. she wonders if he notices.
she says, and when you put it that way
i guess i can see where will comes in.
still it comes off being petulant more than painful.

of course you can kill yourself. that choice
is the one thing you have. if you have the courage
to face that crossing. occum's pain. do it right
and it's over. do it wrong and it's back to the veil.

he doesn't like the way she puts it. predisposed
to argue he says but is it courage? and how
do you know the pain ends?

let's assume hell. constant pain is no pain. constant
anything is a null sensation. this is why my pinched
nerve in the neck rarely hurts anymore. met a man
once who told me he liked the feel of a bamboo cain
on his ass because with it he could experience the sensation
of relief. his back was injured in an auto accident
five years ago and it's been background radiation now
for two. can't feel anything less strong than something
that hurts more. it's tuff to find people that'll do this
he says as the bamboo whistles in the wind she's
making with a downstroke. if i had killed myself at my
worst time, i'd never have understood that.


courage or cowardice? he says.
by the common definition she says
it's courage. by mine, it's a cowards way out.
but then, i'm a common man.














*


you are fast asleep turned
toward the wall, nude. the curve
of your ass is ruebenesque, the dark
line which forms between your legs
v's like a tree limb i would climb
to see the sky. come back
you whisper, soundlessly. like wind
across an open plain, i slip into the sheets.