Saturday, June 30, 2007


Online Dating

Mingle2 - Online Dating

This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:

sex (5x) hell (3x) torture (2x) porn (1x)

the second half

the year of the fire pig.
love that still rises
from the spent rocket

i have to get clear
what it meant this meeting
how could you say to me
everyone is callous and self serving.
sure i took you in. was that a bad thing?
because i felt
i could love you, help you
and you could do so for me.
surprising misty boy
you did.
you did.

you showed me
how love is expressed
in mutual happiness
then you showed the converse.

i'm trying to run away
from blame here. i didn't trust
a pattern to break and you
could not understand why.
one day i believe you will.

we both didn't know enough about it
then got tired of trying.
there's so much you can bring
to the table but you have to realize
you have a real place there.
no one can show you that
unless you're willing to accept it.

there's a crucible you must earn
to wear it. i've already done that.
how can you ask me to go into the fire again?

it might be the year for it
and fire is always the same
isn't it but is it?

a small fire is illuminating
warm, helpful. a conflagration
can kill ya. let's keep that in mind
shall we, as we walk thru this forest?

i want you to love someone like you need to.
i want her to love you the same.
i want to love someone i can trust
similarly, and in concert. acceptance
of the cowness of comfort spiced with
drama that makes life worth living.

i had to disassociate what i wanted
from what you could give.not that you're
a bad person. just young. just still learning.
and my needs were not being met. so i began
to not meet yours. if you wanted acceptance
for who you were, how you were
how can you deny me the same?

it was the sex, let's admit it.
the bond and the breakage.
exploration of the roles of power.
power eater this is how i saw you.
sapping my will for yours.
this was our sexual ground.

you are still learning about it.
and maybe you will always be this way.
i don't know. i've never been able
to disassociate in the role. it's integral
to my spirit to close my eyes and become
the body, wholey. and what you wanted
either as dom or sub
was an escape from who you are.
or wait
you tell me to stop putting words into your head.
so what was it monkey boy?
i still don't get the attraction.

and i say we played those roles too often
and you say we played them not nearly enough.

did i mention compatibility?


i'm breaking the psychic connection
it's like your cell reception now
scattered bouts of static coupled
with complete disconnect. but we can
still feel it. talk for a while.
i dn't want to see your person
until someone else is imprinted on me.

that may take a while.

but i'm going there
without you baby like how you let me
sleep alone for months, echoing
unconsciously you say
the last years of my bad marriage.
and the first. he always worked days
and i worked nites.
it's why we lasted so long.
you actually think i want to waste
the last years of my life with that?

you in your sphere and me in mine
never the two to mix and intwine?


what i love about you

what i lack:
musical knowledge & obsessiveness to its detail.
your ability to surprise me
your body

what i have:
the same world view as you
only less into power i guess
and that fascinates me , watching
the way you attempt to evince it.

oh it's too early in the day to make lists.
i know i will always love you
or at least the you as you are now
on the cusp of becoming
full of potential to spend
and you , wanting to pull it down
into the slice of a razor
the leaching of all this pain and joy.
the option

because you're impatient


i need to be done with it.
like i always told you
you will have to kick your own ass.
put on the yoke, any yoke we all
have to serve somebody, even scorpions, even
if that somebody is only yourself.

Thursday, June 28, 2007

splitage a trois

she calls for some reason a chance
to break bad on the ex. suing for
every last i love you she left in the bed.
home destruction, using mom bombs
hate gongs. everyone exy
these days, some contentious, like
i want my this and my that
you useless twat.

some not so bad, just sayin so long
i'll catch you friendly some day, ok?
like you're off with a kill and i'm finding
a star chaser like me.

he tells me she was a profligate spender
i tell him all about even. ante up all that
nostalgia how i wouldn't give it up,
this future, not for dreams or youth not
for all the sex in scorpio.

what you was missing.
and i missed the kissing.

see it was like that bermuda triangle
where he was the sargasso sea and she was a twin
engine plane in a clear sky, everything
paradisical, musical even, with bright cyan streaks
on the western horizon. then one engine began
coughing , the plane split in two, ameoba like
so no blood was lost, except the usual manner
in cycle, in sync, and the sea swallowed
both for a while. a slow triangle with gusts
billowing thru white sheets, guages spinning
wavery and wild and all the while, an i luv you song
being written, in ex clusive combination. she
wonders when it was born. someone
had to be spit out. back to single vision world.
and so they all fell; sargasso and one single
engine planes, off the map. he destroyed
every man's fantasy, and she was alone
again, amelia in the ongoing sky.

Tuesday, June 26, 2007


if you could touch
any part of me what
would it be. i would

place the tip of my finger
on the middle of your palm
at the point where the depression
is deepest. if no contact

occurs, no spark, no flow
from yang to yin then i
would have to kiss you just
to make sure i was wrong.

because you have me hoping
about a future you
say things
which imply continuity i
tell you
of the trip to canada and you say

i miss you already
we have not even met.

puck what have you done have you done
something right?
here come get a little toke
keep you up for the night.

no true soul love cuts

i dunno if i believe that. sorry finchy
i know the deep ache of loss
far more intimately than i want to
and even tho i tried to not fall in love
with the boy i did. even tho i know
he will never be long to me
i let him love me and now
we are having such a hard time
telling each other goodbye. maybe we each
are the same, not able to move on
until there's some other in the picture.

like how i clung to the love i had
for my last ex until there was a next one
until he'd hit the headwall so many times
i finally believed him, after the crack
where my love flowed in and his flowed out.

but now i have a different puzzle piece to chew on
and so does he. we aren't telling.
not to be machiavelean about it
at least not here, i have no use
for the sex god he wants to become.

Sunday, June 24, 2007

hawk on crack

cryptic hawk on crack
were things more real then
out side of time call it
poetry, not

the never that called it self
up from a mind on a harley.
or maybe it was a corvette some
concrete expression of worth
in the eyes of

what ever dreams as youth.
but she steadfastly onward
opened the crank case, looking for movement
and oil. the whys as machinery
substituting for miracles.

perhaps she could find chemical bonds
and fire. she blew into the funnel
clearing a path. time continued to appear
linear. she struck at the membrane
with the blue of a sky ,summer
at the lake . it broke
merely to reform
slick, impenetrable, yet tantalizingly
translucent as onyx
mined from the side of ptolyxacatyl
letter by forced letter scraped from the andes
the glow of the crystal
with healing claims exposed.

only 29.99 .


june again she bundles
memories in her arms
out the door to shake them
air them out since spring
was full of inversion, bulbs
eating their roots,
shoots in estivation somehow
she missed the rebirth. might have
been her location. the past
continues to cling to the threads
refusing to get up and play
in this heat. considers moving to canada.


i was so god of you
to create the past here
in front of becoming.
one step ahead of my lines.

each moment could be the fire's
ruffle along sawgrass edge
seeking not
fuel. which is home to flame.
feed it. i am air.


definition and certainty
are pearls he wore, clouds
across his neck. if he was his older
him, when you were younger
then kindly remove the similes.
she understands the motives of growth.
the way the sky rips apart at lightning.
the dark rumble of truths tumbling
like seagulls deterred from gobbling
her picnic by barely perceptible fishing line.
but oh what it does to wings, flapping.
tomatoes however can be anchored
with the stuff.


each star was another hit
smoke rolled over the beach
from wildfires in the north
hundreds of miles away
they had sex within it
rolling in sand that didn't
grit into folds and salt
which spread like the folds of moonlight
over the gulf they created on the beach.
tippling into tomorrow.
towing tide from side to side. nyah.
the music insisted on being played
a winamped repeat she shook out

of her long mermaid hair. ulyses shattered
on the pole, becomes nixon and peonies
are poetry in her garden. or
horse dances in waka tama, north
carolina where something festers on the back of a harley
in a seven foot native american who thinks
of love but it's only the hunt.


what does it mean
this certainty she seeks?
the wounded healing of a nine.
fragmentary contact with bolts.
paint across a canvas that infinitizes.
what she holds in her hands
become wings melted
as icarus' flight. the oval shadows
in your own memories creating
distances i embrace as the grave
is certain and nothing else.


i like the guy who works on apples.
we seem compatible. he's a hardware man
with a penchant for art. half scientist
half gnome. or did i mean satyr. or did i mean
some risen seed i planted in your mind
you slick sheeting wind
you manipulative breeze
letting go thru movement
chaotic patterns in the clouds.
this is why i trudge.


thank you for the beauty included
at no extra charge. one day i hope
to grow up like you, my tray of tricks
spread before me and a child's eye view
of time. slip the weekend's mantle on,
play with hobbes, set up the ping pong
table, grab a brush and add a stroke to
the big long painting going on all around.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

pots n shards

depression on hold
"depression is a common, serious and treatable condition..."

nice to know, i think
my son's going there
or maybe it's just teen angst
in the making. new school, new
hormones, news.

"alcohol abuse is common, serious and treatable condition..."

i mean so what if he does well in skool
like a singer i've been listening to sez
preachers, teachers, police are the posse
of the philosphy for what it means to be free &
he don't want no stinkin badges.
depression, isolation, alienation all
good for art.

"adhd is common, serious and treatable condition..."

he plays his bass, the video
games, reads a book, he needs nothing
more than to be left alone

is your son suicidal she asks has he
been hospitalized for drug or alcohol abuse
in the last 30 days is this a clinical
emergency? no but

it canyon
it canyon me deep
blue as black bottom
iris in an eye it canyon me
red: blood, ire, war washed
shore at the jumping off place.


Unregistered User
(12/2/06 2:58 pm)

shivaree interlude


i think i love you
i think i love you
i think i love you
o o o o ouuuo o


so if you've cured me
does that mean it's time for you
to leave? man we are so centric.
egoes in a bag.
he goes with a drag
smoke up the flue, dragons in bleu.

yeah you
i mean that chest tied to the door
with half a belt, the hair on it
so anti pop. where's the lazer
coverage? gimme my prozax now.
no wait
that makes you impotent.
tell you what, you harden it
i'll soften it
we'll let it go pop again.
bipolar. yeh,
now the feather, being unfound
becomes an artist's brush
more snap to the inch, a small winch
and you've gotten tightened, frightened
i'll stop you call me mistress, i'll marquess
your mess and invert the rest.

i think frued's pappa had it right
but he didn't follow thru with it
this is why we have complex of oedipus
and three tiered envy making whoopee
with a bender, homonculus sender gender
miraculous to the bottom of the stackulous
a frashion to the baculus, spending time-
rity to the masculous lishous
the end rhyme's salibricious
my pussy, all delicious


this is the thing da yout
don';t unnerstand
nuance and chemistry
the smallest molecule can bust
a cap in your mimicry
a swallow's breath typhoons perimetry
and me with no idea of symmetry.

these lemon streets-
let's cast the bones and see what sticks.
the weather falls
i write nylon xmas deco's release
thru a tchaicovski supper on npr the only
station i can receive with this broken antenna and the keystrokes
are dystlexic tonite. nearby a piano boy
breaks his bass. comets swirl into reindeer who rise
in my head, caught by a jet's wing
cawing onto the runway.

does she or not? you'll have to take her word for it.
and what's that, with a kerchief in her mouth?
next year we'll be wondering about the matching chairs:
red and under the proper painting. buying jewelry
for a song and dance. the unlit portrait of the woman
with a plant for hair. this is when she begins to tire
of the papparzzian life, the vast amounts of steel and rubber
on the roads, the way glass is too slick to dive into.

the lights are placed around the perimeters. huge fan
driven models of snowmen and winnie the pooh
falling down a chimney, rocking & nodding, motioning
as if there were magic and this, xmas eve.
how bright their hope shines. maybe this time we'll get it right.

i talk with bob in the florida room. we stand beside the nautilus
collection, everything from five
pounds to 40. pecs, laterals, those upper arms, underneath
where the sag begins first. treadmill. rowing machine, stair master.
all matching sets. branded. i tell bob, this is hell.
i have a lot of hells i begin to think but bob
admires jack lalane. dead or alive? alive
he seems to think. so , hell is for other people... i shake

my coat, spraying bob with the water from the bath.
i dislike the way it runs down my fur to my skin, it itches
fleaish even. bob moves, i hear him talking to his wife
about the doubling populaton in fifty years.
how glad they are they'll be dead. i was going to mention the sea
level rising. how property won't be worth much if in't
solid ground.


(12/9/06 12:45 pm)

when i can come back to bed
and watch your tangled eyelashes
the fast stroke of rem
your lips
your lips
your lips

i could see how hendrix could feed off the heroin
bradly newell, how nothing matters but the cotton
my death in and of itself doesn't matter
which is a fine thing
even if your famous it gives you a certain amount
of freedom. the individual doesn't matter
the collective does. pot helps me focus
on the spiral outward

sediment snatch enlightenment
populous told golden age when torture
hadda go underground renaissance
short of a full nuclear catastrophe we'd co ordinate
the falling out of the world, the rising of the seas
momma will put your nukes to shame, shear half
a continent in a couple hours. puny men
in your feudal age breakdown. collapsable empire
the barbarians wear suits. rape an pillage n daisy
bombs for lunch. there's no nuance in catastrophe.
rollerball madness
no tru tyranee excesiliious antagony
can survive the people caught on

....let's assume the nazi's had won ww2
the gvnt wasn't sustainable
within a decade i profecy collapse.
o meester bsh you rule decline

stoned again.

they always get greedy.
how did we get to that?

i like how you diverted the whole conversation
down this sidestream of civilization's decline
the thing is i wish to help the gen conscience
i'd like to do it as
300 ppl to shoot 30 ppl a day

nine thousand a day for 2 weeks
unrelenting. how many would that be
enough to win a war?

i would describe the half hearted decor
of the flimsyshak but it's recycles and knickies
war crimes is a sham. you have to let the soldiers
do what they want. rape and pillage babee
that's war. none of this pussy shit
terrorism is the only war left.
barbarians at the homefront can only be
conquered by barbarism. we don't have warriors
this is not a war, it's a sack. don't you read your history?

at the bottom of the ocean a grain of sand
into the mouth of a mollusk and whence the snail
no one knows o my eight string bass
but resonate in the cleft of a cold, two octaves
below the last stripe of how much do you love me

once you asked me can i jam with you
i had to say no. frankly i don't have time to deal
with your restraining order ass. done with.

you can't slap the bass alla time
les claypool you aint
even les claypool aint
music is about collaboration
tonight i witnessed a jr hi orchestral performance
sixty hormonally erratic children's fingers, arms
elbows, hands controlled within a staff's contours
guided by a slim white baton, tempo tempo
temps tiempo contrapuntal weaving
tooling rooting a hand's dimension into leaves


i watch you talk about lead
with seductive eyes. your baritone
voice . the five day beard.
you want it, fame. you aint no cobain.
cobain was.

imperfect knife
you left that morning
when i kicked you out.
why not, she's my mom and i
slept on the couch. my bed.

our bed. i'm in it alone
and missing you but on the phone
i'm dissing you, i heard he was kissin you
way before i got so blue
so now i'm glad i'm rid of you

and you date him and she dates me
the dance apart, the dance of threes
i'm trying to control the breeze
but silicate contaminates me.

i wore the jeans with patches today
big hole in the left knee
"bonus pants" i tell the boss
who tries to shake my hand and hand
me a paystub the contents of which i already know
direct deposit isn't technology wonderful
yeh i shake and take the fuckin
thing & toss it in the trash
and he sez if you got a problem come
talk to me about it but don't go round
actin like this and i sez what
you need that translated?

so, air, I guess, breezes,
then you come flying towards me
like windows in a broken room.

there are things i would have remembered

instead, washes of colors on a shore--
maybe river, maybe lake, maybe ocean.
in this vastness it's hard to tell.

a list on the bed
geo\\new. hematoma tightens
around the pay by credit.
bombastic silicone peering over your shoulder.

if fame were a typhoon, you'd take shelter.
meanwhile you release five thousand butterflies into the amazon.

and sublime, like top papers, full:
the tension held under water
just moments before neon turns a trope.

i'd like to be there when you find it
chastened and scratched with a penknife
into the base of the ice.

the ultraviolet catastrophe
why wouldn't the universe be self aware?

in a small space when energy becomes concentrated
enough it becomes self aware. we are only one point
in a fractal, ya know. a very complicated and beautiful
fractal but that's what the turtle looks like.

who typically sees angels an atheist or a man of the faith?
if you're one you see ghosts instead. point of view is all.

how do the holodeck figures feel when materialized
and disintegrated. consenual reality exists for some purpose
maybe to find the number 42. from my pov i'm the strongest
energy body that i feel. but what about empaths?
fuck them they need to get out of my bubble. but what about
when you write it out there babie o. how do i follow the teaching of
buddha and the ones of mohammed at once.
balance says lao tsu. only balance. o when i write it out
i want them to worship my bubble, but don't crowd me.


the military knows you gotta keep your soldiers happy
till you get them in the middle of the battlefield
where they got no choice


mornings in this part of tampa
are not normal. we wake with pot and empty
stomachs. momma aint' in the kitchen fixin biscuits.
instead these discussions of faith and universal
mystery. he speaks louder. she is distracted by keys.

after a while she wonders why she loves him
tells him so. must be the complete polar opposite attractor.
the power vortex, becoming...


i need some water

the rain last nite brought no snow
flannery sez without hell we are animals
the poles swing toward each other
spinning new hives and strange attractors.

there's a flood on the delta
again. baloney sandwiches
catch the catfish. stupid things
we try to control with e equals m

i need i need.
a drought or winter
dictatorial mandate
cafe con leche.


here's my plan.
it's a good plan
ppl in the gnt r try to kill me.
my army of bodygards
will capture the agent
and torture the person with
shifts of little kids asking
the same question
are we there yet
are we there yet

the forms of torture are infinite.
sleep deprivation is prolly the kindest.


rilly tho the best truth serum is alchohol.



ah man i gotta go to the grocery store.
purely for processed junk food.
also i should go pay a debt to a friend.
the frenzied season is upon us.
a heat on my head, lassitude
my only true friend. there should be some
respite from the rising floodwaters
but we just watch the dust thicken
watch as the tractors come full of seawater
to wash us past redemption. there's a name
for how my head rationalizes. it can be symbolized
but not by me. a pig headed ness that oil mixes with water-
it must, we're in the same universe.

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Unregistered User
(12/25/06 12:57 am)

12-25-06 est


smoke one last reefer for santa claus
it's time for me to dry up
smoke one last reefer for santa claus
i have to pee in a cup

doin a youee to the k is out
let's drive to the hess,
but everything is closed you lout
it's christmas eve i guess

look up ahead, a neon sign
strobes it's siren song
the smoke shop's on pothead time
i couild buy a last minute bong!

ummmm did i say bong?
i meant water pipe, yeah, water pipe.

smoke one last reefer for santa claus
it's time for me to dry up
smoke one last reefer for santa claus
i have to pee in a cup

just past the hess there it is
i think my heads a mess

it's the smoke shop open sign
and my big bong just broke
i think it's/ christ, a miracle
i gotta meet this bloke

a pack of big bambu my man
a case of that 420.
i hear it makes you feel all clean
when your inside's gummy.

smoke one last reefer for santa claus
it's time for me to dry up
smoke one last reefer for santa claus
i have to pee in a cup


Unregistered User
(12/25/06 1:16 am)

doin a uee to the k is out
let's drive to the hess,
everything's close here about
it's christmas eve i guess

look up ahead, a neon sign
strobes it's siren song
the smoke shop's on pothead time
i couild buy a last minute bong!

ummmm did i say bong?
i meant water pipe, yeah, water pipe.

smoke one last reefer for santa claus
it's time for me to dry up
smoke one last reefer w/ santa claus
i;m gonna have to pee in a cup

just past the hess there it is
i think my heads a mess

it's the smoke shop open sign
and my big bong just broke
i think it's/ christ!/ a miracle
i gotta meet this bloke

a pack of big bambu my man
a case of that 420.
i hear it makes you feel all clean
when your inside's gummy.

smoke one last reefer for santa claus
it's time for me to dry up
smoke one last reefer w/ santa claus
we all gottA pee in a cup

after break break poem
alone in the chill morning,pallid sun
beside the carcas of a bee
i clean my ears with a q tip.
there are two clean cotton
swabs left. i pick up
the frozen bee like sushi
but the anthers begin to move
she clings, then tumbles back
to cold a concrete bench.
her legs grapple with the pavement
pull her stiff body, pollen
gatherers, empty. i want her to die
in the arms of a rose so i gather her up
walk toward the red bush
but she struggles hangs
first upside down, then vibrates toward
flight i feel her in the swabs, but doesn't just falls
and falls into the cold wet grass

walmart pomes
mommy buy me a velvet painting for xmas, a rug with a tiger
or a couple, fucking. torn screens, broken handles, the steady leak
of the cold water pipe, and this inorganic bubbling
under the berber. the window leak.
the widows peak
the way god wrote thru gladys who walks over
christmas eve with a smile on her face o honey i'm sorry
we're all sold out. the red eye of the laser on the dvd player.
the clear lens after the cleaning. unnamed, and unremarkable
tony pushes the heavily laden cart to his ford pinto.
it's rad, neon green with short struts, skinny tyres, phat
sound system and gleaming chartreuse wheels.
she'd asked him "what's your art" and he showed her this.
after the way she loved the peach flowers he thought
he could keep her tanned and on the float for a couple years
till the money ran out but she was looking for more.
plasma tv dinners. checkered pasts hung on the clothesline.
ten carat memories that did not include the thought
that he grew up with her, some cousin she might have been able to date,
some husband she found ten years too late.


muriel's mother wants the kind of cherries
she remembers from cuba. muriel buys the dollar box
ai mami we don't live there no more. her faded print
shoes slosh thru the rain, back to the escort.
silver high lights at her roots, limned by rain.
tonight they will watch the telemundo special
and muriel will imagine her mother as the chica with cleavage
pushing them into his face as the audience laughs and laughs.
she thinks there are no pits in the cherries.
doesn't even check.
later that night when they've both fallen asleep
in their matching leather recliners delivered last tuesday
by a couple of men muriels mother first flirted with
then tried to set her up with leaving muriel to tip
with a red face the chicos young enough to be
and even then she's not sure they don't suspect she wishes
one of them would say yes to her mother
so she could learn how to nuture stone
muriel dreams of collosus; giant shoes on either side of her
a face of a mountain, the escalator at dillards
the credit card he left.


larry is in the toy aisle wants
wants this mommy this. his pupils
are the size of quarters. mom says no
with the air of slave commanded.
she mumbles to herself i think the meds
are working. her necklace is not a rosary
but her skin is beaded with worry.
she counts novena.


dawn's on the phone
making last minute adjustments.
her coifed hair and nails spell party
and her girth shows obvious enjoyment.
the walmart party shrimp platter occupies
a large portion of her attention, eyes
brush across it several times while
she cells don once again to get the table
from the garage and set it under the gazebo.
they say it'll rain she says to orlando.
put a couple of those game boards in the cart.
anything but scrabble.


carol can't control what the girl eats
but she can make snide remarks about gain and loss
comparisons between aniversaries or holidays
and she does
she does


jaqi pulls her blue vest over her growing breasts.
she's thought about this a lot and it isn't getting any easier.
plus there's the men out in front of the clinic. a skinny
boy of fourteen motions her to the end of the case where he points
to the heart shaped pendant, ten carat gold. quanto? triente she lies
doesn't want to be party to some girl's misfortune. there's a couple
at the other end of the counter. she walks over
smiling, slips a piece of security tape from the back of the cardboard
box where the ring is nestled. cinqo. que? rico is kinda shocked.
cinqo. maia looks the other way
as jaqi shoves the bill into the register.
her stomach begins to flutter, she decides on adoption again.


that purple one on the top the fat girl
in club pants and chains, blonde, commands
steve. i get it down of course
but it's got a broken brake. then she wants
me to look in the back for another i'm not buying
a broken bike dude she is firm, emphatic but her brown
eyes are the apologies steve takes home
and throttles behind the thin brown door in his oakstain
panelled room, fifty dollars a week in three lakes
and also a place for his scooter and also his own half
bath so that he doesn't have to share his acne scars
with anyone else in the morning and there's always a place for his bible.

Friday, June 15, 2007

how can you say

love in one breath and goodbye
in the next. this is the pathway of desire
moving from parcel to packet gobbling novelty
like corn flakes. there's fodder for the forbidden
in every taboo you scrape across my skin, dull blades
handled with thug. the cards proclaim karma
and yes, i'm talking to you, man, i'm bending
your ear over backward so you can experience
my point of view gun.

taurus in a dress tells me all men
are the same they don't know how to love they don't
live the same way as women. i'm thinking
of the harem you'd have, of chinese marriages,
and you telling me i'll always be wife number 1.
sometimes i think that might be the only way
for men and women to co exist.please
let that be bullshit. you loving me loving you.
the primitive order. the new world border.

but i'm looking for more than that
maria tells me listen i don't think
you and older men will get along.
they think differently.

i guess i'll be alone.
cuz i cant do this with another youngun.

just have fun she says. also, the sex is different.
she nods her head, quickly, twice.

you can't fake attraction. reaction syntaction.
let's see what a cueball can strike.

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

when armadillos attack

i keep coming up with a tarot
and loose carrot. no it's not just
words slapped together
they actually mean something.
nice hattrick if you can get it

my son brought home hobbes today.
maybe hobbes we still have to consult
on the name, a summer cat
in the midst of a summer bender almost gone around the corner.
i have been letting him wrap himself
in a cocoon of video games -- a three week
slumber party. my indulgence knows
few bounds. the things the boys discover
on the internet stay on the internet.
i tell them no on porn my comp.
my comp. but they can use the pc.
they really like south park
and i hope the vulgarity overdose turns them polite.
how pandora is that?

there's a good new adjective

as in listen don't talk to jason right now
his girl left so he's all exy.


she so exy with all those nieman marcus bags.


so what am i doin since i kicked the loverboy out?
seein him way too much, basically.
we both got new cats today. he found the ad called
me looking
for a cat carrier and i'm all like can i go?

he takes me n j
to this woman's house it's obvious
she lives alone, cute
short tanned 30s blonde damn
i bet
he's thinkin if only
she didn't come (meaning me)elipses
into a truncated fantasy of eyes meeting and smiles
exchanged maybe more the boy
can talk , weaned on penthouse
forum and i'm obliquely tryin to teach him how
to tell if she's interested, never give away that
he and i are/were/are/re/maybe/not so later
if he gets
some balls he can call her or maybe he'll see her
in the store ,recognise
her ,they'll tell cat
stories and my god
why do
i do


one of the ads
he answered
the woman told him
she only had two
left , survivors
from an armadillo attack
he could have them both
for 25 or one for 20.


later the floors were vaccuumed
and (maybe)hobbes played with the strings
from the venetian blinds , scratched
the couch/sorry suz/ fell
asleep on my son's chest.
the computer glow falling across their faces
like light in the louvre.

at j's apt his cat was under the futon
a pale orange creamsicle he calls
shy. we cuddled for an hour , shy
crept between our legs. when i close
my eyes everything turns yellow .


it's hard to believe
life's teaching you the lesson
you read about or watched on tv
that yes it's happening
right now to you. the glass security
makes everything so distant. two tons
of metal between you and anything
short of tornado that can move you .
you find yourself referring to yourself
in third person familiar. you dis
associate on dating sites, dates, over coffee
in front of the mic in front of the screen
as the seconds advance and your body
begs for sleep but what is this
and its needs. a shell that carries
leprosy and lashes out at the innocent
because it's filled with nothing but?
i always thought armadillos were like anteaters
basically a danger only to insects
but i guess when you're hungry
anything warm and smaller than you
is fair game.