more archives. possible doubles. drink more

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trashpo
ezOP
(6/26/07 1:13 am)
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no true soul love call me frankenstein.
i know the monster's mine.

yet there's this thing we turn on
and off at will. ignore it
and culitivate it. you were standing in my bed
room doorway on the last nite of the weekend we met.
two fingers to your eyes , a motion
i felt before slippage. threads of a past
we never had wrapped with impassable future &
you said to me, i know you feel this. did you
just feel that?

i nodded unsure of your meaning. yet sure
there was something. pheromones.
some lemming thing and a cliff.
the way energy turned red right before
the bust of lust. the gleam of your teeth
as you bit the shoulder i cry on.
water evaporated into air.
now the rain.








ezOP
(6/15/07 7:43 am)
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corked lately my sentences finish themselves.
the communion i get is wafer thin and bloodless.
understanding comes in little cat feet
which i put to sleep, like everyone but me.
love and fear are my companions in yellow
and i never have to put the toilet seat down.
did you know, past tense is only
felt in the present ? let's rip us some tunes-
old heartbreakers, new skool bumpmakers
classics on violin, add them to the playlist
set to random, watch the sun rise thru the pot
plant in the window which keeps growing
despite its illegality. i can make meaning
out of one card but when i have to deal
the whole deck, no one pulls a winning hand.
lately, my sentences wander into a prison
made of wind, lock themselves down ,
give the key to another dimension.

trashpo
ezOP
(6/15/07 1:38 pm)
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Re: corked
everyone knows the muse is fickle.
one night she tickle
me, one night you, a pickle
in her mouth and turning blue.

bridget's thighs rub against cotton.
she holds the door for barry, bent double
from age. i walk thru it, so very close
i can feel joints tense, holding an upper
body that once stood tall. my own chest
caves inward. i need coffee from the store.
kitten food. a shoulder for my head.

if i were a man, i'd take care
of the grey by shaving my head.
as it is now, i don't even want
to shave my legs. so i prolly wouldn't.
shave that is. i'd look like marx
who looks like that bum we used to pass
on the way to the globe, on his bench
with a tumor on his forehead


did you know they tore the old place down?
the one next to the hotel lennox, yeah gone.
the house where i found the kitten? gone
condo. i lost most of the pics in a computer crash
engineered by a next ex. now there's only
scraps and the odd printout i find in excavations
that prove some method of ex instance.


the bloat i float is a boat on a rope.
futures of flakey birds congregate in corners
i remember the feel of you but not the feeling
this is how i know i'm healing.




















****






ezOP
(6/28/07 11:34 pm)
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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.




ezOP
(6/28/07 1:38 pm)
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if i fell i'll do a countdown
on the rebound, the wait,
the bate,the irate state gate.
been listnin to rap
tho i ain got the gatt
to put black back in your heart
from the start we knew we'd part
so she axs me why i'm downin
her red hair all clownin like nothin
is a problem cept the eyeball i'm sportin
and i gotta give her props cuz she know
where of she pops like goosestop and rosehop
we gettin the good stop.


























*


well, it's spitting.

like those drops today
a couple marring a surface
otherwise bidding to wind
the little sail aways
clear air distance of land mine intentions.
i think of a beatles song
holding on to you / a kite with no string.





x squared he called himself jesus
as a lark, then he called himself
the antichrist and set out to prove it.
he drinks now everynite.
cuddles the profile alone. beer, tequilla it's all the same.
i found a new lipstick
it looks nude enough. tonight
as we called the thunder
godzzz with poetry
and a flick
less of tv
i realised how sloppy i've been
with my line breaks. looped
letters across the blankness turning them
into the becoming ones.
with a pen, making my own font which
no one
will be able to read. just like the inscrutable
face of timmy the train, leaded and prozac
compliant. stop me if you've heard this
but i think
too
much. o yas. so they
so they say.


















finding the leap
is becoming
the one
thing i'm
well ok the more than one thing
anOTHER thing i'm

well you understand, yes/
the way rain slurs over the awning
the sharp slap of asphalt as hari kari
is reenacted faithfully , in full blue
or gray button uniforms the call

to mercenaries just a as strong today
as when brothers fought each other
for fame and the farm.


tune in, i'll have more tommorow. right now
i see a sleepy heaven eye.





ezOP
(6/24/07 12:04 pm)
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cryptic hawk on crack were things more real then
out side of time call it
poetry, not
living
?



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
home
but
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.



































*9)(*















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.