Sunday, January 21, 2007

2 poems

bryony privacy fence

thick green vines across
a face, inhaling yellow
ingredients for a thin
festival, vet-able by what
was seen in a tar vomit trance.

i read rimbaud and rilke in the original french
then move over to my language. roots begin
to intertwine like soviet poland.

this is not to say i can translate
while they talk across the distance
everyday two pages of an open book.

the somebodies and someones, the sometimes,
the verifiable inaccuracy of a known measure.

the herbalist insists on trial and error
even with the toxins-she uses
herself as a vase. flowers and thick green
leaves plucked one at time and swallowed.


burn chameleon colors

turn down the old familiar streets
the same facades lined up along the sidewalk
as if the jacobsons still mixed
martinis in their back yards to take
over to the parsons grilling
steak on the newest gas grill and the oneil kids
run thru spraying them all
with super soakers instead of semi
automatics with the scent of columbine
making red flowers bloom instantly
in torpid summer nights .

every inch of the present throws off sparks
that rise , fireflying angels aching from gravity's
pull, rushing toward the lightmaker.

but wait, there are bars
on the windows now, and old
men's toes grasping
the concrete laid down
when they were young.

a broken tricycle lays limply
in your front yard; its tassels ,memories
burnt by too much exposure.
you wait for yourself to come out of the front
door. you wait for your wife and your mother
to stand at the door, beckoning. you wait
for the milk truck's delivery,
the clink that died before your birth
you want to watch as the empties
catch the morning sun
whole, melting slowly. your socks are black
and sag around your ankles as you walk thru
spllinters glittering in the asphalt like a pond, dancing
to vivaldi. there is a flag on the porch.
it has no stars or stripes. you knock.

when they let you in, you walk up the stairs
run your hand along the bannister, the groove
you made with your empty pen in seventh grade
gone now, worn away by the passage
of countless hands over the warm wood.

at the top of the stairs you look up
and there is the attic access. you pull the string
a ladder drops. you've come prepared with a flashlite.
behind you the man and woman are whispering
and you thank them again, saying this will only take
a second. crouching under the sloped roof
count 17 boards from the door, take out the screw
driver and pry it loose.
you hold your breath as you lift to see the white
spine and rib bones, the crushed skull.
your first victim. you think how foolish people are,
like this couple, just letting you in like that.
you move over to the corner, hunkered down
bent double your gut is squeezing squeezing so
you take the pill out of your pocket, place it in your mouth
put your finger on the cold metal and squeeze
yourself out.

Friday, January 19, 2007


(1/19/07 5:12 pm)
Reply | Edit | Del
Re: black dog

well you couldn't know this but
a while back 2ybf and i were discussing
how adolescent he is and the men my age
too and i guess you could call it
a fight cuz there were raised voices and tears and this
kind of behaviour continued for a couple days
one or the other of us
with unresolved issues but last nite he picks up
his guitar
and says let's write a song
together and so he picks and i hum
and try to find lyrics to the last
joint with santa xmas song but gravel
has some kind of upstream server
error so i begin to write
something about a black dog moving down
the road and thinkin how that dog might
signify me or it might be
him cuz like he always admits, men r dogs so it prolly was
and he strums down
on the chord he's playin on then lays
his guitar down, stands up and sez why are you writing
about dogs u know i hate dogs
and i ask him would it make you feel any better
if i told you i was gonna kill it off

and lookee
here today dancer you post a piece about a black dog too
and i get that sync feeling and wonder wtf it is god's tryin to tell me now.

Unregistered User
(1/12/07 12:45 am)
Reply | Edit | Del electroc

vines, dried
ferny, fenny
& int
ermit ttt t
tent american
airlines water


the high cricket
exhaust whined and also
in the general
the echoes of a camera
or not.

on the other side
a groove of infant
mangoes, snakey water
hose a hidden spot

a little

here or even
going to ground

Unregistered User
(1/12/07 12:22 am)
Reply | Edit | Del All

into the marsh

we followed the faint glow of the guide
past the last turnoff, there was even a sign

"last U
turn this

the hammocks got further apart
and we began to jump, reminding each
other of frogs, so we laughed
despite the deeping bloom

there was a fiddle and some words on fire
before the snake handlers appeared.
there's always a fiddle, and a singer.
these were the solid ground.

stomping does no good, only rouses an ire
that's best left well thumbed and dog eared;
best put on the shelf called malingerer.
what went around came around.

water gathered in our soles, darting
fish pooled at the steep edges , leached
stories stumbling from the ship's aft
where silence keeps a room.

Thursday, January 04, 2007

real august archive

(8/6/06 3:54 pm)
Reply | Edit | Del All
any lot full of weeds and junk

a writer without a cigaret,
hard to buy. so i make the rulz
break the rulz. back in the moldy
apt, the smell began to tag us.
headaches in the first hour led
to hunking in the dark, spoorful
with a hint of nicotine. everytime
i walk back in there i think of death
and how it smells worse, clings
so maybe some sinai bleach, some jerusalem
sea salt will clear it out. in a month.


cryptically, i'm losing all memory of that.
a little girl, the grandaughter, sleeps
in the corner of this pink room. she wants
to take a lick of the walls but she's too short.
by the time she's grown, she'll disremember
her place i'm taking. no poster bed and furry slips.


my son let me trim his hair for school.
it was beginning to look like a mullet.
i've a three position mirror, the kind they have
in dressing rooms so you can see your ass
only it's half as big and shows you the back
of your head. he watched me whack
the long strands, everystep of the way fraught.
simply fraught.


there are yellow flowers outside this window.
and across the street the neighbor's windows,
blinded with reflective film. we could look
in each other's houses but i've moved to stepford
so everyone knows what everyone is doing
in the cover of the night. little remotes clicking.
cookies made from scratch. whiffle ball in the lanes.
sighs are not melancholy but nostalgaic. i wait
for the avon delivery to cheer me up.


i want zinnias. purple and bold. their eyes
like rain on tar. musty and sounding like closed
car doors on a visit. the smell of spa, occurring.


my bathrooms are yellow and violet.
it's as if grandmother had met the decorator
and gave her the specs, knowing i'd be
here eventually. there might be a leak
in the window, in the pipes under the laundry room.
i feel like a visitor and an interloper
this not wanting to take ownership
this escape from the jet,s constant roar.


bayou drive. how appropriate.
slow. hot. wet and full of water
birds. heron , egret, ibis, osprey.
marsh grasses and suvs plowing
along fast, movement
at the speed of swamp.


jack sez something about beyond beauty
and pain and love beyond what's sliding
thru us daily. how can you carve that
on stone? cuddle next to it and it shifts
into your flesh. turn the page, it continues.
the wind flushes words as quails rise
among the pampas grass. i'm being stalked
by memory and i like the hunt. feels like
the times before i was alive. complacent.
i turn around and wring its neck.


djuana sends notes from the prows of ships.
there's the sound of ducks growing leaves,
the lighted paths just off the river
where anyone could drown if you didn't reach
out her hand and grasp it in his own
strong grip. the wind is picking up.
it's like pea soup. or a well thumbed book.
the flash of lightning when he turns
what you thought of her upside down

like that doll in gramma mac's drawing room.
she said it came from a plantation her family
owned back in the days. full hoop skirt, laced
blonde curls eyes the color of plumbago
ready for the bar b q. flip her over,
make the dress cover her face and reveal
aunt jemima in her patchwork and do rag
smiling, mouthing honey sit still now while
i tighten these stays. you want yo waist
to be nineteen inches for that mr ashley doncha?

and the ship's bell rings sharply for shrooms
in a lemon sauce, coupling with a book of romance
you thought dead last century. the love of leaves, leaving.


and junk. all these boxes carted from one story
to another. your mother's books, her mother's books
their broken spines remind you of polio
and crutches. iron lungs. your mother's senior
picture where she looks like your niece and how daddy
didn't get to live that dream cuz neither one
ever finished at his wannabe alma mater.
his hard confederacy settling in his knees.

"you say everything you own is an antique" he laughs
at you as you beg him to limit breakage this one last time.
well, you counter, it's all falling apart. doesn't that count?

Unregistered User
(8/9/06 9:05 am)
Reply | Edit | Del All exorcising crossed eyes

"what do you want when you don't want the money" the voice
startled him, coming as it did from the tv, and esp after the added "jack".
he was off in a cloud of pyrithreum, looking for the whirr of lice
on his mom's blackberry phone and this was just too much.
he could lick it clean, and come out above anything as long as the needle
stayed straight. the tv was speaking to him again, but the shaft
was hanging like a cliff diver. all he had to do was untie
and he'd have the voice's answer. he untied- lick and click
and whirrrrr, his eyes found the mother fucker taunting him
focused and forced him to answer "i want nothing, santa, and i want it right now".

Unregistered User
(8/25/06 8:32 pm)
Reply | Edit | Del All

friday notez

the day went fast, i found
i'm someone's girl-- my boss's
guess i'll steal the company
bitch's tag now. things is

changing all over and i'm a pin
head pierced by a toothpick. the cat yeowls
and stretches his claws on a vintage wicker
chest in another room. i hiss voraciously
but he ignores me. some things stay the same.

like southpark over and over on the good
computer which has taken the place of television
entertainment in our house. snippets of the daily

show sponsored by the same army clip
they been firing since my brothas volunteered, men
like my lover's dad who used/used up the system
up the system
really beginning to seep into my attitude
"timmeh!" i say over and over when i'm upset
with the sine qua non @ work. hey
i found out they gave me internet access again.
i think it's a trap to test my loy all tee
to the cOMpany or maybe to just to fire my ass
which when i think of it was just the thing i wanted
when i cyberpunked out a couple years ago.
now i'm back to home
ownership, the cat's black and pissy
cartman replaces daria and the sound's a bit louder
my son's got seven more years in school but i wonder

about the stablity of the system. listen
he can't write on his skin. i'm not talking
about test answers i'm talking notes
reminders, tags he can't lose

<< Prev Topic | Next Topic >>

Add Reply

Unregistered User
(8/25/06 11:10 am)
Reply | Edit | Del i'll tke that edit and go you one betta

nipples on my windshield

i think it smells like teen boy

when the water hits the glass some wax,
some chemique mystique turns
the drops into flesh round and firm,
small and perky double d me in to a strip
club, a fetish site, double z me

when they fit in a teaspoon vision
caught on drops rounding,
pounding as jiggly zigg

the parking lot beyond could be mars
these things multiply and smear under like stars
under wipers

when i get to work,
the rose bush bleeds new red flowers from its wounds,
the nipples mulitply like swoon,

i'll be having enough none of this soon
so revel in the burn, the burst, the moon.



Unregistered User
(8/25/06 11:10 am)
Reply | Edit | Del i'll tke that edit and go you one betta

i think it smells like teen boy

when the water hits the glass some wax,
some chemique mystique turns
the drops into flesh round and firm,
small and perky double d me in to a strip
club, a fetish site, double z me

when they fit in a teaspoon vision
caught on drops rounding,
pounding as jiggly zigg

the parking lot beyond could be mars
these things multiply and smear under like stars
under wipers

when i get to work,
the rose bush bleeds new red flowers from its wounds,
the nipples mulitply like swoon,

i'll be having enough none of this soon
so revel in the burn, the burst, the moon.

(8/21/06 8:47 pm)
Reply | Edit | Del All
apoxalisp acropolis apocalypse NOW

i'm ready with an anteater
and bollweevil because they're
three syllables and rhyme. jenni

sez today is the end of the world
and seven, no four , well seven's divine
but this isn't divination but some kinda
horsemen be comin in those nuclear
explosions i'm watching to the north o hear.
or should that be the midwest or should that
be the science homework misplaced an augur
grinding steel or simply another unanswered
werewolf? you see, crow, have another black
berry day, the mars volted on you, bolted
the back door out of here. jenni

sez everything loves her and i see eight blue
arms with tracks on them mainlining skillz
for pissin on the next kalpa. jenni sez its

all comin down and why shouldn't she know?
her dreams reveal msteries that misery
had in store in for us but she forgets them soon
as the dog starts licking her toes like he does
every morning but tomorrow. because this is

pretend jenn, i mean ok, yeah how is it you would
live your life with only one day to live wouldnt you
see the futileness of writing something
that is just gonna find nirvana with or without you?

and all those all those all
those things
you forgot to do shrink to the size
of your protest as the nazgul chase
the silmarillion's short spawn down
but not out there's always the escape
isn't it?

well, isn't it? i happen to like to the pink
top with the black skirt i wore dancing the night
they threw rum and coke on our dirty couch
dancing we was too
too fa dem but now it's all memories
that scream down these timeless synapses
crawling along the pheromone pathway
where someone threw a cigarette butt
that was me
and the ants set up relays to let the ones
returning and the ones exploring know
that the big thing
that suddenly crushes jack (jack ant moderately
famous in her sector of the bed

and i can feel the breath of them, those four,
bob and carol, ted and alice
at my back, they have malichite eyes
congressional ties and a finger in the shape
of a button. a little red button because tho
you've dic.commmmed "apocalypse"
you're still not exactly sure how god's gonna dewit
li'l dewey eyed oneness
li'l phi running down to the dot at the end of the spiral

(8/19/06 7:22 pm)
Reply | Edit | Del All
saturday evening

the sun's just leaving
splash of blush chablis on a stained sky.
say earlier there was a bike ride
along a trail made for bikes
and roller bladers. say
you left your lighter
and cigarettes under the tree
at the bench at the edge of the manicured lawn
on the backside of the landfill.
methane fills the air. a covey of roller
bladers which you passed a few minutes ago
a flock in various stages of competence
approaches the fork which skirts the landfill
to either side. the curbs begin to glow
pinkly. say you got an attitude about the bladers
because the youngest most incompetent
says to you as you skirt by them in your lawful lane
with a 3 foot berth watch out dude! say you are
wearing your swim suit top. the clouds
have the color of the skin of plum,
limned in neon pink lipstick. porch lights begin
to stand out in the creeping dark. your son
fights with his girlfriend. he thinks he's a loser
because he's an outcast because he's a nerd.
say you get an attitude about the bladers
but they might not even have been talking
to you or about you even say you're hyper
sensitive and people just plain fucking scare
you. the carpet is on fire, a pheonix blazes
across the diamond sutra sky.
you name it marmellofluster. a candle
flickers in the window as it grows darker
it's your window. there are people
out there. they could see in.
close the blinds. light your cigarette
from the flame.

(8/27/06 8:06 pm)
Reply | Edit | Del
tying shoelaces with lobster claws

my emily book just fell on the floor.
one dollah for 650 new in 1945 pomes.
never before published. at the goodwill
every spot was taken, we had to park
in the mudpit between two suv's as it's
been raining here like a hurricane's forming.
which it is. economy must be bad i remark
as i step into a puddle, strike off towards
the door. i still don't get the tv. find it too moralizing.
on the way to his work there's five cops
pulled off the road at the little roadside clearing
where firewood is sold in the winter. last nite
the same five were set up in the mobil station
with the DUI RV all pulled out and shiney.
i turn up glades of saved waves to drown the paranoia.

tomorrow's monday. my body rebels against
that fact. up and at 'em at bloody too early.
i've been reading all weekend. the rain makes
an effective wall. all we do is waste time.
that's ok, the rain murmurs. it's the weekend.


i want to get away from this guilt
the pragmatic keeps pushing on me.
so the toilet leaks, the awning leaks there's
poetry readings to attend or comments
to make. i'm burying my head in short
stories and oscar wilde plays. at least
the tub is watertight and my legs are shaved.


entropy. the tendency for a closed system
to reach equilibrium. no surprises, no waves.
ima name my next poem after her.
if i write one again.



the bahaia pops up as soon as the mower
is gone. giggles to it's neighbors who prairie dog
and windwave. but they don't notice
the weedwacker bearing down, the raptor
they haven't evolved away from. i battle
the sandspurs three times a week. lousy,
they pop open to infect the strip of green
between my porch and the neighbor's
front door. i weed all of it, even theirs.
i hope they don't take offense, think i pretend
their yardage is mine. it's just if you don't
get them all, they come back. i like the way the earth
rips when my claw comes under their roots; how
it falls into the hole when i strike the clod
with the hard steel, how the softgrass must be
pried from around the five fingered weed , resodded.
i toss the offenders onto the driveway, let them
dry in sun ,rinse off in drizzle.

and there are dragonflies of neon green and grasshopper
head. a frog on the outside of the screen where sun
makes a translucency of skin and i can see a pulse
in the middle of the crawling. there is no me here.
the fat lizard doesnt feel me. i could stay out
all day, if not for the heat. the heat
finds everyone. even the wasps lazily protest
as poison shoots at their home, built on bad acreage,
between the rail and my front siding.

plant a cutting from a clinger vine. transplant
the potted flowers the last owner dumped in the ground
in order to make the place more attractive to buyers
like me, who just need a place out of the sun,
over to the shadey side of the house because that's
what the garden tag says they need--shade. check
on some fern i swiped a couple shoots from
see if it's ready for the big world of grasses and runoff
and weeds. i feel invisible. anonymous.
you can tell her i wanted to call
but i lost her number. you can tell her i'll
be waiting for her at the gate.

(8/29/06 4:30 pm)
Reply | Edit | Del All
the grass passes like memories

if i could capture your ghost i'd host
a particle of pasts for dinner. cold fusion
entree, recursive bed time appetizers.

what could i ask in three minutes
that i didn't say when you were alive?

the pain of this, how it waves to you
from the this how to create
a distance from watching you die?

Unregistered User
(9/2/06 4:15 pm)
Reply | Edit | Del All

some other matrix in which you were not a player and the world was not a stage

i lay me down to sleep
but you were there instead.
lavender gloaming stippled
with the touch of your absence.
fingers gripping the zip
and letting go. i opened
my eyes and yours were there
the color behind the sky like clouds
making faces between lightning strikes.
i have never believed you
but i have loved you, never
like i needed to or how you wanted
but love doesn't fill to spec.

snuggled against the soft pillow i desire you
absent. i need the rest.
my body fills with bee hum, a drift
into spider secrets and the moans of the web.

but i'm hungry. i dream of vallarta's and fifteen
dollar pitchers. how you'll take me there
and we'll get happily drunk, like we were children
again and we'll laugh and there will be joy.
there will be. you will get angry with the waiter
as he flirts i will be jealous of the woman who walks
by and drops her purse between your legs.
we will love like this: possissive, instinctual, groping.
the nape of my neck. the tip of your
ear. the last sound before a tsunami of light.