arrrghkskivies

ezOP
(2/4/07 1:36 am)
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at first, it was only sand

we felt it filtering away
the wind took the door
and the dropout rate increases
past tense becomes present
and the long silence was upon us.


well, how to make it clear to you?
when you sang your song, i heard it.
nothing evil in that/ you whisper/ then
why are you whispering?


drifts began to pile, then form.
they got annoying because they were so cold.
it was ok, the case hardened, went slack
then flew into the gutters and became home.










(2/6/07 2:25 am)
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pizza chronicles 7.f2 so they're counting the boxes 3 times each
and the MANager says the number's wrong count em
again. and again. we could do this till dawn. my rollers ping ,
it's been slow tonite- dan, the boy, & fred a-crackin
fag jokes and the boy sez to fred i think he is
listen i got a plan & they walk off to do
some dishes. a very slow nite
meaning less dough to take out the heat. i'm
the only slave in this place works all night,regardless. At the end
of a nite like this my racks
contract from a more
fluid state too fast. i get cramps. they don't make oven ibuprofen
and these guys obviously have never had training in gear
maintence. i'm mullin this over, wondering
what i did in my last life to merit this particular hellish plane when
a sound like a tazered buffalo comes from the back
where they've been counting boxes for the tenth
time. michelle runs to the back and they all come out half
draggin dan, bent double but still walkin, and he's all like "i didn't
do nothing what the fuck" and fred's all "you fuckin fag you're
lucky i didn't cut you grabbing my balls like that i'll have your mutherfuckin job you cocksuckin assfucker"
michi's speed dialing regional practicing we have a situation
and the boy's all i-got-your-back with fred all
nodding his head and i can see
i ain't gonna get the no-stick bath tonite.





off to the living room where the guys are are starting a fire whilst sucking the pimentoes from their olives


jack throws a dart at the mantlepiece
but jim intersects. paul spits his pimento at bob
and the resulting melee is taped for youtube
where it shoots to most watched status rocketing
the two stars to instant low key fame .
bob parlays the exposure into a popular
blog, gets in the st pete times
and enjoys beer at the local pub for free. paul
joins with pat robertson to sue youtube, jack, jim, bob
and five of youtube's executive directors for using
his image without his permission. pat robertson
became involved when he learned that paul
had just been admitted to oral roberts university on a scholarship
based on his high school honors english thesis
"pimentoes are the devil's playfool: a study on the ramifacations
of mixing unborn eggs with mayonaise, mustard and tounge mimicing spices"
sadly for paul, pat withdraws his support at a crucial stage of the lawsuit when it's learned that pimento stuffed olives are actually not the devil's plaything but the lord's favorite food, as clearly indicated in the way the bull python ate the rat at last night's snake kissing ceremony. it is yet to be seen if oral robert's university withdraws the scholarship. jim and jack are both doing fine, after
agreeing that darts are not a good substitute for acupuncture.




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.




5 minute poem


and i do mean fast, fast
as the way fire
whips thru my veins
whenever i see another new
porn site on my comp and fast
as the time since my kids were born yes
speedy like vacation, like road runner,
like way the coyote crumbles i mean
any faster and it'd be unrecordable, quick
like the way mountains blow to the seas.












everyday on the drive to work i get stoned.
the ritual is to light up
after i drop son at the yuppie skool,in the midst of suburbia.
i insisted we
move to this trailer park on the outskirts
so he'd get a good education. he doesn't appreciate it.
he hates the bus in the mornings, so i drive him
i'm high halfway into the joint, right when i reach
the landfill. light a cigarette, hope the methane's
not too thick. by the time i get to the toll road,
everything around me's moving like current in a circuit.
traffic lights as resistors, 3 lanes each way a bridge
rectifier. cops the flux capacitance. all these electrons in big shiny
metal suits with infinite possibility
channeled along the slipstream
put to some fractalled use in a mega circuit
i can only iconize in terms of ants and godheads
electricity and programs. i can't envision the programmer
being much diffferent from myself at the core.
this is a failure of imagination.
still i can almost feel the keys being struck
a packet of energy biting into the nether dimensions.
nothing sticks. when i get to my computer
at work, the poem's gone.







*







pome on the back of a steak n shake paystub

cheryl screams just as a jet passes over,
landing. always a jet. sliding. she sings love love love
like an invocation . half moon tonite full
and empty. how it holds those other slippages in its shadows.
the constant threat that my love grows
as yours leaves. also vice versa.
there's a circle on this check. i fill it in, zen.
but not balanced. i always make one side larger.
my choice which to fill with black.


ADd


nothing sticks. a jet, always a jet
slides down the sky over a runway rubber
tires like in the cars, representing people
signifying lives, hundreds i encounter
every morning like that toyota, a red
so faded it's pink. recursive back to my hoopdy
sputtering on 3 cylinders along these moving streets.











the morning flies by. one task, then another.
i pick up boards in the elevator area, a power supply
then chip calls with a door problem. no lawsuit this time
but dayum can we fix this? i direct him
to sales, thence to engineering. i just repair
the damage, if you want a redesing you have to speak
with the gods.







*






this company i'm on hold with
uses a celebrity message servoice
rodney dangerfield & doc brown,
really out there jazz. our hold music's
classical. yesterday a cust had santana
while i was holding. i asked them to put me
back on hold till the song was finished.