archs again
gardens from bach the mountains enfold
cathedral glove ly, lovely
smoke across the hills. bee
circlings, begonias the color of sun on the edge
of the earth. crow caws the morning
a persian stalking beans .
from the third floor sun porch the sun
heats me up. coffee and nicotine buzz
i finally went to sleep about midnite canada time. woke up and it's still morning here. feel good tho. i've been thinking about how i love these mountains. but i never saw them in the snow. i'd move here as if this were paradise.
the crows are upset today. the fires are coming near . we're going to pick raspberries soon. i'm taking this and posting it. words are leaving me for life.
*
it's not my story but it's a good one
*
trashpo
ezOP
(8/2/07 9:43 pm)
24.67.207.31
Reply | Edit | Del
wilding can happen anywhere the sky is blue above the peaks.
trees a cup of mountains. you have
that instinct revolutionaire
admiration for all that you could not do.
no one takes care of you in the night
when the moon eats your face.
mornings bring recognition and fame
that you assemble with each story, mascara
for your conspiracy, loud sex from the couple
next door, which you enjoy. who would not?
stacks of hardrives, towers, modem cards,
rubegoldberian paths thru roses on the mount
a skylight in the corner of your story
sunlight a postcard from outside.
in the dark there's something
you cling or clinging whistles
a hummingbird
a very large and feathered wasp
from the hive hounding wild cherry corpses.
houndling raspberries and symphonies
of burst. i bleed a cut
on my arm, a nick on my foot.
swat a fly. feel insignificant.
helicopters over the lake dip
buckets to douse spontaneous fires
water is at premium. the raspberries ripen.
she says "everytime i hear them, i think of what it might be like
to be living in baghdad. " i think of police states
and going back into that border. the paranoia
pushing you around rationalizing fear like a soma riot.
*
the poppy heads fulfill the laughter quota.
spaced between daisies and empathies, little precious
centers of galaxies, spottrained and periwinkle.
illegal in shoeless countries. the children find
their way to the inner court. the fruit blushes
at their desire. interface wildfire occurance may
be immanent. your puny hose will not help.
buckets dropped from the helicopters might.
a lttle green for some green. the language of exchange
in red, seeded fruit. you can hear the wasps
and the mighty smacking of lips. juice of the gods
in their own little package. completely biodegradeable.
*
the girl is fifteen.
soft and quiet , a forceful pout waiting to happen.
out for the night, she extends her curfew. but mom
i called every half hour. two blocks away is two hours.
she pushes & pushes. found and grounded. lessons push back.
no the boys may not stay no the boys may not play
with you in the dark in the woods with hormonal blossoms
for a bed. the heroin future awaits in the alley behind
the shoe store. she passes it on her way to work, a parttime job
for the summer. training. training. her body a razor waiting to slice.
*
the dog reminds you of your childhood
mutt, but twice the size, like the pines here,
like the heads of echinacea. a large crow
calls displeasure at the company. i filch
some raspberries from the bucket. pokemon addiction
rivals the taste. gaming on so many levels.
like my feet upon the stump, at evening in canada
the way sound carries in the hill, the bright glow
of a gone sun. the strawberries are done. they await
the first snow. i'd be a sunbird. there's music
that thrums from last year in the caves beneath
the rotten & blasted rock. you wonder if your son
has called his father, cut most ties
to back home, moving foward
into the west
chasing a broken web, hoping to mend it
or cleanse yourself of the taste of bitter spit.
the raspberries are tart, and watery. they have no
pesticides, only the exhaust from american flight paths
above these and other canadian lands.
this is not your home. the waitress could be fed to the hogs
you wouldn't know it. the boys rush
thru the park, high on crack laced
into the joint they bought from
the dreadlocked streetcorner folksinger.
you want to think they didn't know, he didn't know, it was all
an accident, she didn't know not to be out
in the dark, looking sweet as a piece of fruit, ripe and ready to pluck.
Sometimes I like to wonder about/ how the format
has affected the form of the
voice.
and how sake will affect the dynamics of poetry
for 4 daze / we sit here / on the back porch
(tequila wants to give me a headache)
i can't believe i;ve been here for four days and you
already have ammended the one line rule
to seventeen. an epic poem. you have to take your own risk
to have a Niche. the next death is yours the line
unto the meld you always wanted.
fifteen loads... jeeze...
$$
synthetic refresher
with tap h20, showers
his very habits bad
chasing the rice dragon
punctuation, that old thing
remember possibilities?
like playing the "proper" chords for a proper interval, an interval that feels blissful pounding techno pop, and then a certain rogue progression demands articulation within someone else's 4:4, dancing with external harmonies, occasionally licentially rubbing against...
the girl comes out
ducks back, the cactus dragon is out
the rice dragon calls come
to me
come to me.
a light a smoke , poser mescalitos
firesign theatrical audio tracs and whispering
in the background. can you imagine a joycean
kulture shock. the techno echo of the encroaching
smoke. toni used to do a techno rave, loop
a couple riffs and the groove caught all the etard
so what's so bad about tweaking.
dar's story is scarey stalker shit.
jon plays the piano makes life a movie
or some script .that didn't need a rehearsal..
stairway to heaven a clockwork orange of listenership.
it's a theatre, your business is obvious
your four or five women with all your children
he thinks his whole life's a movie , all your friends
are
witches and people treat the bible like it's a bible.
we're all just part of of the big harmonics.
*(*)()&(*&(&(&*&&(*(*&
for the japanese the frog is the sign of safe travel.
there are red bellied frogs in the terrarium
one icon or another brings us home safe.
$
or like a
poetic dynamic
but live
of course
we have the technology
the finest pornography
eurocorp's nutter new-epoch priests with electron maces - information doesn't matter, when you're faced with an electron mace - smooth fractures -- unconscious of laundered money - tide - rolling suicides - foamelliricles. Brides of voided posts. Remember when we used to look out the window? Baker St. Porch.
*&^(**&^*&^&
OH OH / what have
have we here
& we sit here / me / crow / lynze
& dar / we all suffer
we take the keyboard from the birds
they don't testify to anything, legally
but spiritually you just gotta let it go.
the moths leap on the roofing like drops
witness to the process, but i can't testify
not that uncoolth. y i've got the spanish outta me
and the kooteny smoked inside.
you put the weight right back on me
i pulled into pittsburg, illinois -- smuggled
amoral porpoises across state lines
the dismemberment of small town living
don't take it on?
question
better open ended
in the pines...
the best way to go
you're not gonna get between anybody and their endorphins
but i'm on the peripherals
i testified - and jammed - it felt one and the same - honey mustard sauce on vallei slur.
fat kid learned from a video game
nothing will ever be the same...
oh fat kid, what have you done?
you've turned our preconceptions, upside down...
(*&(*)(&)(*&
the bud crumbles into fine dust
like the dirt at big valley where graffiti
has a home. the catalyst for pacification
as in manipulation as in work it baby
work it. it's ok if you dont wanna smoke
just pass it on. it's ok if you don't understand
or can't see the next pass. it's hard to beat up
the geeky weird kid. theatre kids in this city
imagine. art is in the air , infecting everyone.
someone, us a grant.
every tricadecaquarter eighth note
dancing - like it's the panace or something
it can be...
It's the endtimes, man
crawford bay...
the nearest vendor
mary tyler moore
a karmic exchange
a few random lines on a laptop
i did use the last paper, and did get it wet, with, hopefully rice-wine...
pragmatic travellelor
fuckin dance junkies
dance tweakers
i hit the reset button and i couldn't get thru
you cn't get the valley girl inflection so forget it
woman. it's easy to move. wht's wrong with those people.
the deep conversation is gone/ replaced with shallow
cocaine reminscenses. i can't ever find my cell fone
the slashes will be inherent. i can't find them. i'm keeping
tabs on the hit of e you got last year. you hit green
to call and the reception is lousy. you've been drinking
the shambala tequilla. i'm just gonna hiccup
into his answering machine
what does the hiccup look like online? unline? uncouthlines...
tricadecaphiliac
welcome to the pit of penultimate darkness
can i have your gameboy
all kinds of distractions present themselves
//
& the finch arrives / & it is saturday nite
& we are drunk /& finch is drunk & we are
drunk /& the frogs are chirp ing /& & &
& what are we eating now
i am eating ham & cheese on rye
with 2 mustards
your "a's" are fucking me up
& every one laughs / we all laugh
it is a good night / it is
you always smell good / & this night passed
& dar's phone keeps ring ing /
Edited by: trashpo at: 8/5/07 1:20 am
trashpo
ezOP
(8/5/07 1:45 am)
24.67.207.31
Reply | Edit | Del
i'm the womanizer without the women oregin origen alcoholic heroin
addict. i work a lone.
it's an interesting chemistry experiment.
the chinese curse is gobian.
no work and keep going. the psychic drink
live your life like music
big bowl of strawberry ice creme
your'e trying to be happy
fuck happy
brak brain candy. how can you open it.
the top of the mount child on the other side
so until you were born i didn't feel it. didn't feel it.
gotta go to bed. go to into tomorrow morning
fresh and ready to travel on
without some other.
she's caught between the north and southbound routes
all philosophy dripping up the sides of the earth
disguised as clouds. come in closer on her headphones
which she left in the backseat of some former life.
she thinks she can go home again. she can't talk
to the wayside bar. disinclined to go for a mojito
or a magarita because alcohol
kicks her ass. her weed's almost
gone. she might get desperate enough
to turn off the computer, go find some place people
gather to be other than with themselves, staring
at refractions of inner space junkies.
everywhere is actually nowhere
no space to write in
except a big blank plank
white, boundary less
actual specific delineation
some myth you were taught
as a child and now cling
broken angled and partisan felted
feted and fated to be .
you told me how language is arrested
development, how we need to eviscerate
its construct and begin again
in order to exist other than how we do.
i didn't understand. i ply my ignorance
into forgetting to remember. word loss,
the scratching of emblems on the pavement,
standing rock riddled with graffiti & the outpost
named afterward, across the way.
if i were a miner, i'd look for amethyst, toss
the gold back into the river for someone else to find.
instead, old growth burl becomes a hiding puzzle.
i fold myself wrong and nestle inside.
third time standing the one who would be traveling
says to the one who stays in
wake up you little fart!
there's highways with rubber and goo
to roll over, scenery and viewpoints
with vistas you'll only see from the corner
of the camera. fat ravens , the color of repaving
stone ride air tunnels up to a pool
hall , a gold tooth as cueball
and looking in your window. the moutains follow
you home. you can be anonymous as clouds
rising next to jessica who sleeps tho jamie bangs
and knocks over and over on her window her door
wake up jessie i'm not leaving til you do still
she sleeps or doesn't answer
he'll be back tho. if she's not dead if she didn't
commit it in the bed. patric rides his suzuki
up the room next to me. the pacific inn
fills with wearied roadies, concerts mixed on the cd
each bubbled universe of one or two settling in the
nite each bubble verse impacting the next
with wind tunnel and passage.
*]
what am taking from this. the scope
of aloneness. my son sleeps shotgun
with occasional bouts of consciousness.
is it depression or teenhood.
is there a difference?
does all my writing contribute to it?
three hours from my home seems alienating.
the ones back home say to the one who travels
do you know what time it is? my morning is their early
afternoon. the crow continues to circle.
traffic flitters by ,the human surf become machine.
rocks await in the bay at pebble beach. a hollow
tube of redwood skeleton is in the town square. i've
traveled at the pace of grandpas. mine slowly stops
in front of the handicapped room across the way.
the clerk who helped me with internet access
hads a small ring in her nose. she doesn't smile
she says we could pet sharks
we could do a lot of things but my companion sleeps
as if i'm transporting a vampire. the sun has a few hours
left. after all, it's still summer despite the cold.
dog days. the final hurrah. hurricanes could begin
in the gulf but i'm thinking tsunami
and so's the surf shop. he asks me about earthquakes
as if he'd like to know one. shake its big brass paw
and have it for a last supper. i fear the flood after--
small white and blue signs showing evacuation routes
showing all is well, we've thought of everything
to keep you safe, traveller, dweller of the road.
keep moving. "this life is more than just a read thru"
object of fie
rhymes with lie. adult swim contends
with the frailty of my heart. cranberry
lemonade with a twist of alcohol
to make up for the addict's bypassed
meds. i just can't see becoming a life alert
senior, but give me a few years. i realise
things like this change as long as i keep aging.
saw stardust tonite. michelle pfifer sez
at the end, spoiler alert, "youth, beauty
i don't want them now that everything
i cared about is destroyed" or something like that.
the redwoods tho, they don't seem to care
about time. knock em down and they grow
a new tree from the trunk of the vanquished.
o they can be killed but it takes a lot if disease
or a chainsaw. think how she grew a city block
then dropped soft cones onto the concrete
how the soft cones wilted waiting for a crack
waited for a splice into a sigh in the sky.
alcohol just doesn't get me there.
form is emptiness and emptiness form?
the sith, the sin, the taking of blood
in cartoon form. maybe out of the one
rises the other i dunno. it seems a yinyang
kind of saying, a koan to sigh by.
the alcohol beings take effect.
a long ascent into asceticism
and the smell of cedar. lost truths
carved on the walls in paint shaped
with graffitti. all the tunes are manipulations
manifested with the slightest dragon breath.
i say goodnite with a vengeance unsheathed
by television as my saviour. adult swimming
into the catacombs of forget about it,
distance becomes the last dance dared.
on the flight to tampa brb to your reading jack.
"pathetic fallacy"
wht can i say, i think those that insist that bugs
do not operate precisely as we do, emotionally,
in their own reality are the ones with the fallacy.
that it is pathetic is true of all fallacies. this is what
truth is made of. can we know how a fly feels
at the exact moment of contact with sugar?
why wouldn't happy, contented, satisfied apply
this is the truth for me about animate objects.
but inanimate objects i have more trouble reasoning
how does foam become cruel?
when it occupies spacetime as our foam
while being a completely differing fractal
or not. ow my head hurts.
i was wondering why a fly
followed me from mt shasta
to the quality inn. then in the denver
airport it was attracted to the green
of my skirt. now 37 thousand feet into the air
i feel its happiness on being with a poet.
i still think i is a way to write.
what's more inviting than a trepanned alley.
take my you and raise me a she.
this lens is what we poetry from
and all your objectifying leaves me little
to curl up with o philosopher.
my son twitches next to me in sleep.
his head on the tray, dreaming of first period.
the man sleeping next to him is a boy as well
with eyes i've seen before, i want to immerse
myself in this daily so that i can put those kind
of eyes behind me, the ones covered
with unlined lids, the dewey ones, the ones
that have seen too much, but not everything yet.
they haven't seen a happy fly.
"once the words are written down
the engagement is gone
they're dead. "
WRONG
they're often dead for the poet
but not for the reader. 37000 feet above kansas
and we're really not there anymore
a tornado spawns from the plane's belly
lands in a cornfield, makes popcorn.
poppy seeds multiply in californian bottles
with drawn faces and the backs of charity.
asphalt on a sere field where fire once lives
hungry for more than peanut coated snacks
it wishpers then roars but worldlessly, angrily
it means to consume all this agony
running inside the veins of the ones who are not
shakespeare.
our very existence on this planet is, in a sense, just an imposture; given its radical impermanence, just to relate to, get along with, other people, even just, other living beings, we must bow our heads in patient acceptance of the day-to-day way things are even if, as poets and writers, we feel it hit the heart hard as a were or as someone else’s to be . . .
hit as hard as a were
he tells me there are sophists and linguists
in our beds trying to fuck out the world of "to be"
to is to was to were to watching the purpling organs
of sunset thirty nine thousand feet up, where cloudes
are land and we ride into the night. when i get home
all will be
darkness and midnite, edt. is to be a particle
of time, will the battery fade before the light
do questions become the children of abortions
is the light of the television screen enough
to dim the reversal of falling into the boat
then falling up out of it over and over
and what of the t. not earl grey which will not
pass my lips until i can forget the new snapple
commercials. actualy. faggit aboud it i hate tea anyway.
"to be" as imprecation. as deluvian separater from the phallacy
of nature. an imposture as delusional as any created from string theory.
and judgement, well, let's go there. i like coke, not pepsi, tequilla not gin
free verse more than the gilded remnants of the past four centuries.
if i were a peasant i would perhaps have learned --a 15th cent peasant mind you
not the thoroughly modern one i am, i even have reprints of degas & dali procured without
monet, ahem aho, oh ah ummmm-- about painting whilst visiting one of the cathedrals
in a near by paris or venice even perhaps a hamborg and then looking around my hovel
i might have seen various places i could carve such epiphanies to god
to share with the others in my village but i wonder
would they crucify or conscript me? excommunicate me or enlist me
would they ever find out about the mary i'd fornicated with
out the 1tlinc's persimmon spermision the one who loved me for my art
and not my new hat? and if i can't like my name, why would you continue
to use it and if i used yours how upset you'd be.
so, i like cornchips but not cornpone, oat flakes but not corn.
i like sappho but not sophocles and jimmy but not judo.
i like the way your face looks in the film but not the book.
the way my shoes have a thong, and not my underwear
o there she goes again getting frugal with the titallation.
yes, it's a planeful of travellers. we've got a destination.
the sky turns
dark and dark above little rock. i have no
window seat, so the jewels you always speak of
are still alive only in your words
i like writing better than speech, mountains less
than beach, pomes and prose equally , the book
over the movie. judge not lest ye be
is ok for christ. he was a beggar. i'm a peasant
running low on batteries. give me one reason
to like something, and i will. call me catholic
call me diverse, call me a pandering idiot.
you be the judge.
Sky concert at the sky
you were never more with me
than when i saw the snow on the distant
mountain and heard her sing fuck you
for that i blame myself
now these rolling hiways
will always be the seperation
i traveled
but i won't be here
and that seems just about right.
boomer date
you are a gentleman, i can tell
but your soon to be ex can't.
thirty years in a toxic relationship
and she's the one with the problem
i can relate to being mentally exhausted
i was there, only the gender's reversed.
so you did the dancing thing too? all those fresh
faces mumbling behind their hands at least
you had the courage to confront the laughter
dance on dancer. me, i go where the cost is least
sink or swim and they don't even see how i don't belong
after the alcoholic haze. don't tell you how i used
to try to sneak my underage bf a gin & tonic
as you begin to outline the benefits of networking
and myspacey agey. i checked out your site beforehand
and yeah, i've been there, differently. can 't seem
to be impressed. that you were at woodstock
only annoys me. but you're still into peace i gotta admit
that's better than the last guy who took me to sushi
also a boomer, but enmeshed in the MIC. i relate
that experience to you so that you, like me, know
our conspriacy theories are anything but paranoid.
peaceniks gotta have our validations.
i get in your car, risky? naw, you merely want to show me
where you dance. fifteen dollah cover and the line's out
the door, you assure me, tho tonite, in the rain, on a tuesday
it looks as desperate as you or i.
gen x date
good conversation is better than bad sex
but it's still a one night stand.
i lost my pipe. you're all about coke
but i'm not into the addiction dance.
except my meds. accept my meds.
the halo of missing hair
skin dimpled dryly into post bimbo.
as a member of the russian mafia
you ran packages of great worth
to men of huge stature
inside cloistered circles.
they dealt in weaponry, cars and drugs.
you wanted all of it. your aryan hair
your bottled eyes your willow leaf arms.
suddenly you find yourself in a low rent mexican joint
drinking tequilla, thinking of nice, how close it is to milan
where your wine orgasm waits, the virginity of the taste
akin to the escargot before my divorce.
we've decided, on seperate occasions, that what happens
tonite stays here. words bounce off the screen
rumble in the air, are picked up by the television,
disappeared like a hooker into a red taurus holding
a bald man with a twenty. he asks for change.
out in the parking lot your poetry is electronic.
i critique it. you say you vomit the stuff, it means
nothing. i get the sense you want some meaning somewhere
and when you get it, you'll dismiss it immediately
tho god lingers somewhere beyond chemicals
you can't see it, and thinking about it hurts your head.
i'm on some spiritual journey with a fedora, a tie
and hard shoes, all in black.
you like the music i made.
you say. hunched on haunches outside the car door
smoking a bummed cigarette.
cathedral glove ly, lovely
smoke across the hills. bee
circlings, begonias the color of sun on the edge
of the earth. crow caws the morning
a persian stalking beans .
from the third floor sun porch the sun
heats me up. coffee and nicotine buzz
i finally went to sleep about midnite canada time. woke up and it's still morning here. feel good tho. i've been thinking about how i love these mountains. but i never saw them in the snow. i'd move here as if this were paradise.
the crows are upset today. the fires are coming near . we're going to pick raspberries soon. i'm taking this and posting it. words are leaving me for life.
*
it's not my story but it's a good one
*
trashpo
ezOP
(8/2/07 9:43 pm)
24.67.207.31
Reply | Edit | Del
wilding can happen anywhere the sky is blue above the peaks.
trees a cup of mountains. you have
that instinct revolutionaire
admiration for all that you could not do.
no one takes care of you in the night
when the moon eats your face.
mornings bring recognition and fame
that you assemble with each story, mascara
for your conspiracy, loud sex from the couple
next door, which you enjoy. who would not?
stacks of hardrives, towers, modem cards,
rubegoldberian paths thru roses on the mount
a skylight in the corner of your story
sunlight a postcard from outside.
in the dark there's something
you cling or clinging whistles
a hummingbird
a very large and feathered wasp
from the hive hounding wild cherry corpses.
houndling raspberries and symphonies
of burst. i bleed a cut
on my arm, a nick on my foot.
swat a fly. feel insignificant.
helicopters over the lake dip
buckets to douse spontaneous fires
water is at premium. the raspberries ripen.
she says "everytime i hear them, i think of what it might be like
to be living in baghdad. " i think of police states
and going back into that border. the paranoia
pushing you around rationalizing fear like a soma riot.
*
the poppy heads fulfill the laughter quota.
spaced between daisies and empathies, little precious
centers of galaxies, spottrained and periwinkle.
illegal in shoeless countries. the children find
their way to the inner court. the fruit blushes
at their desire. interface wildfire occurance may
be immanent. your puny hose will not help.
buckets dropped from the helicopters might.
a lttle green for some green. the language of exchange
in red, seeded fruit. you can hear the wasps
and the mighty smacking of lips. juice of the gods
in their own little package. completely biodegradeable.
*
the girl is fifteen.
soft and quiet , a forceful pout waiting to happen.
out for the night, she extends her curfew. but mom
i called every half hour. two blocks away is two hours.
she pushes & pushes. found and grounded. lessons push back.
no the boys may not stay no the boys may not play
with you in the dark in the woods with hormonal blossoms
for a bed. the heroin future awaits in the alley behind
the shoe store. she passes it on her way to work, a parttime job
for the summer. training. training. her body a razor waiting to slice.
*
the dog reminds you of your childhood
mutt, but twice the size, like the pines here,
like the heads of echinacea. a large crow
calls displeasure at the company. i filch
some raspberries from the bucket. pokemon addiction
rivals the taste. gaming on so many levels.
like my feet upon the stump, at evening in canada
the way sound carries in the hill, the bright glow
of a gone sun. the strawberries are done. they await
the first snow. i'd be a sunbird. there's music
that thrums from last year in the caves beneath
the rotten & blasted rock. you wonder if your son
has called his father, cut most ties
to back home, moving foward
into the west
chasing a broken web, hoping to mend it
or cleanse yourself of the taste of bitter spit.
the raspberries are tart, and watery. they have no
pesticides, only the exhaust from american flight paths
above these and other canadian lands.
this is not your home. the waitress could be fed to the hogs
you wouldn't know it. the boys rush
thru the park, high on crack laced
into the joint they bought from
the dreadlocked streetcorner folksinger.
you want to think they didn't know, he didn't know, it was all
an accident, she didn't know not to be out
in the dark, looking sweet as a piece of fruit, ripe and ready to pluck.
Sometimes I like to wonder about/ how the format
has affected the form of the
voice.
and how sake will affect the dynamics of poetry
for 4 daze / we sit here / on the back porch
(tequila wants to give me a headache)
i can't believe i;ve been here for four days and you
already have ammended the one line rule
to seventeen. an epic poem. you have to take your own risk
to have a Niche. the next death is yours the line
unto the meld you always wanted.
fifteen loads... jeeze...
$$
synthetic refresher
with tap h20, showers
his very habits bad
chasing the rice dragon
punctuation, that old thing
remember possibilities?
like playing the "proper" chords for a proper interval, an interval that feels blissful pounding techno pop, and then a certain rogue progression demands articulation within someone else's 4:4, dancing with external harmonies, occasionally licentially rubbing against...
the girl comes out
ducks back, the cactus dragon is out
the rice dragon calls come
to me
come to me.
a light a smoke , poser mescalitos
firesign theatrical audio tracs and whispering
in the background. can you imagine a joycean
kulture shock. the techno echo of the encroaching
smoke. toni used to do a techno rave, loop
a couple riffs and the groove caught all the etard
so what's so bad about tweaking.
dar's story is scarey stalker shit.
jon plays the piano makes life a movie
or some script .that didn't need a rehearsal..
stairway to heaven a clockwork orange of listenership.
it's a theatre, your business is obvious
your four or five women with all your children
he thinks his whole life's a movie , all your friends
are
witches and people treat the bible like it's a bible.
we're all just part of of the big harmonics.
*(*)()&(*&(&(&*&&(*(*&
for the japanese the frog is the sign of safe travel.
there are red bellied frogs in the terrarium
one icon or another brings us home safe.
$
or like a
poetic dynamic
but live
of course
we have the technology
the finest pornography
eurocorp's nutter new-epoch priests with electron maces - information doesn't matter, when you're faced with an electron mace - smooth fractures -- unconscious of laundered money - tide - rolling suicides - foamelliricles. Brides of voided posts. Remember when we used to look out the window? Baker St. Porch.
*&^(**&^*&^&
OH OH / what have
have we here
& we sit here / me / crow / lynze
& dar / we all suffer
we take the keyboard from the birds
they don't testify to anything, legally
but spiritually you just gotta let it go.
the moths leap on the roofing like drops
witness to the process, but i can't testify
not that uncoolth. y i've got the spanish outta me
and the kooteny smoked inside.
you put the weight right back on me
i pulled into pittsburg, illinois -- smuggled
amoral porpoises across state lines
the dismemberment of small town living
don't take it on?
question
better open ended
in the pines...
the best way to go
you're not gonna get between anybody and their endorphins
but i'm on the peripherals
i testified - and jammed - it felt one and the same - honey mustard sauce on vallei slur.
fat kid learned from a video game
nothing will ever be the same...
oh fat kid, what have you done?
you've turned our preconceptions, upside down...
(*&(*)(&)(*&
the bud crumbles into fine dust
like the dirt at big valley where graffiti
has a home. the catalyst for pacification
as in manipulation as in work it baby
work it. it's ok if you dont wanna smoke
just pass it on. it's ok if you don't understand
or can't see the next pass. it's hard to beat up
the geeky weird kid. theatre kids in this city
imagine. art is in the air , infecting everyone.
someone, us a grant.
every tricadecaquarter eighth note
dancing - like it's the panace or something
it can be...
It's the endtimes, man
crawford bay...
the nearest vendor
mary tyler moore
a karmic exchange
a few random lines on a laptop
i did use the last paper, and did get it wet, with, hopefully rice-wine...
pragmatic travellelor
fuckin dance junkies
dance tweakers
i hit the reset button and i couldn't get thru
you cn't get the valley girl inflection so forget it
woman. it's easy to move. wht's wrong with those people.
the deep conversation is gone/ replaced with shallow
cocaine reminscenses. i can't ever find my cell fone
the slashes will be inherent. i can't find them. i'm keeping
tabs on the hit of e you got last year. you hit green
to call and the reception is lousy. you've been drinking
the shambala tequilla. i'm just gonna hiccup
into his answering machine
what does the hiccup look like online? unline? uncouthlines...
tricadecaphiliac
welcome to the pit of penultimate darkness
can i have your gameboy
all kinds of distractions present themselves
//
& the finch arrives / & it is saturday nite
& we are drunk /& finch is drunk & we are
drunk /& the frogs are chirp ing /& & &
& what are we eating now
i am eating ham & cheese on rye
with 2 mustards
your "a's" are fucking me up
& every one laughs / we all laugh
it is a good night / it is
you always smell good / & this night passed
& dar's phone keeps ring ing /
Edited by: trashpo at: 8/5/07 1:20 am
trashpo
ezOP
(8/5/07 1:45 am)
24.67.207.31
Reply | Edit | Del
i'm the womanizer without the women oregin origen alcoholic heroin
addict. i work a lone.
it's an interesting chemistry experiment.
the chinese curse is gobian.
no work and keep going. the psychic drink
live your life like music
big bowl of strawberry ice creme
your'e trying to be happy
fuck happy
brak brain candy. how can you open it.
the top of the mount child on the other side
so until you were born i didn't feel it. didn't feel it.
gotta go to bed. go to into tomorrow morning
fresh and ready to travel on
without some other.
she's caught between the north and southbound routes
all philosophy dripping up the sides of the earth
disguised as clouds. come in closer on her headphones
which she left in the backseat of some former life.
she thinks she can go home again. she can't talk
to the wayside bar. disinclined to go for a mojito
or a magarita because alcohol
kicks her ass. her weed's almost
gone. she might get desperate enough
to turn off the computer, go find some place people
gather to be other than with themselves, staring
at refractions of inner space junkies.
everywhere is actually nowhere
no space to write in
except a big blank plank
white, boundary less
actual specific delineation
some myth you were taught
as a child and now cling
broken angled and partisan felted
feted and fated to be .
you told me how language is arrested
development, how we need to eviscerate
its construct and begin again
in order to exist other than how we do.
i didn't understand. i ply my ignorance
into forgetting to remember. word loss,
the scratching of emblems on the pavement,
standing rock riddled with graffiti & the outpost
named afterward, across the way.
if i were a miner, i'd look for amethyst, toss
the gold back into the river for someone else to find.
instead, old growth burl becomes a hiding puzzle.
i fold myself wrong and nestle inside.
third time standing the one who would be traveling
says to the one who stays in
wake up you little fart!
there's highways with rubber and goo
to roll over, scenery and viewpoints
with vistas you'll only see from the corner
of the camera. fat ravens , the color of repaving
stone ride air tunnels up to a pool
hall , a gold tooth as cueball
and looking in your window. the moutains follow
you home. you can be anonymous as clouds
rising next to jessica who sleeps tho jamie bangs
and knocks over and over on her window her door
wake up jessie i'm not leaving til you do still
she sleeps or doesn't answer
he'll be back tho. if she's not dead if she didn't
commit it in the bed. patric rides his suzuki
up the room next to me. the pacific inn
fills with wearied roadies, concerts mixed on the cd
each bubbled universe of one or two settling in the
nite each bubble verse impacting the next
with wind tunnel and passage.
*]
what am taking from this. the scope
of aloneness. my son sleeps shotgun
with occasional bouts of consciousness.
is it depression or teenhood.
is there a difference?
does all my writing contribute to it?
three hours from my home seems alienating.
the ones back home say to the one who travels
do you know what time it is? my morning is their early
afternoon. the crow continues to circle.
traffic flitters by ,the human surf become machine.
rocks await in the bay at pebble beach. a hollow
tube of redwood skeleton is in the town square. i've
traveled at the pace of grandpas. mine slowly stops
in front of the handicapped room across the way.
the clerk who helped me with internet access
hads a small ring in her nose. she doesn't smile
she says we could pet sharks
we could do a lot of things but my companion sleeps
as if i'm transporting a vampire. the sun has a few hours
left. after all, it's still summer despite the cold.
dog days. the final hurrah. hurricanes could begin
in the gulf but i'm thinking tsunami
and so's the surf shop. he asks me about earthquakes
as if he'd like to know one. shake its big brass paw
and have it for a last supper. i fear the flood after--
small white and blue signs showing evacuation routes
showing all is well, we've thought of everything
to keep you safe, traveller, dweller of the road.
keep moving. "this life is more than just a read thru"
object of fie
rhymes with lie. adult swim contends
with the frailty of my heart. cranberry
lemonade with a twist of alcohol
to make up for the addict's bypassed
meds. i just can't see becoming a life alert
senior, but give me a few years. i realise
things like this change as long as i keep aging.
saw stardust tonite. michelle pfifer sez
at the end, spoiler alert, "youth, beauty
i don't want them now that everything
i cared about is destroyed" or something like that.
the redwoods tho, they don't seem to care
about time. knock em down and they grow
a new tree from the trunk of the vanquished.
o they can be killed but it takes a lot if disease
or a chainsaw. think how she grew a city block
then dropped soft cones onto the concrete
how the soft cones wilted waiting for a crack
waited for a splice into a sigh in the sky.
alcohol just doesn't get me there.
form is emptiness and emptiness form?
the sith, the sin, the taking of blood
in cartoon form. maybe out of the one
rises the other i dunno. it seems a yinyang
kind of saying, a koan to sigh by.
the alcohol beings take effect.
a long ascent into asceticism
and the smell of cedar. lost truths
carved on the walls in paint shaped
with graffitti. all the tunes are manipulations
manifested with the slightest dragon breath.
i say goodnite with a vengeance unsheathed
by television as my saviour. adult swimming
into the catacombs of forget about it,
distance becomes the last dance dared.
on the flight to tampa brb to your reading jack.
"pathetic fallacy"
wht can i say, i think those that insist that bugs
do not operate precisely as we do, emotionally,
in their own reality are the ones with the fallacy.
that it is pathetic is true of all fallacies. this is what
truth is made of. can we know how a fly feels
at the exact moment of contact with sugar?
why wouldn't happy, contented, satisfied apply
this is the truth for me about animate objects.
but inanimate objects i have more trouble reasoning
how does foam become cruel?
when it occupies spacetime as our foam
while being a completely differing fractal
or not. ow my head hurts.
i was wondering why a fly
followed me from mt shasta
to the quality inn. then in the denver
airport it was attracted to the green
of my skirt. now 37 thousand feet into the air
i feel its happiness on being with a poet.
i still think i is a way to write.
what's more inviting than a trepanned alley.
take my you and raise me a she.
this lens is what we poetry from
and all your objectifying leaves me little
to curl up with o philosopher.
my son twitches next to me in sleep.
his head on the tray, dreaming of first period.
the man sleeping next to him is a boy as well
with eyes i've seen before, i want to immerse
myself in this daily so that i can put those kind
of eyes behind me, the ones covered
with unlined lids, the dewey ones, the ones
that have seen too much, but not everything yet.
they haven't seen a happy fly.
"once the words are written down
the engagement is gone
they're dead. "
WRONG
they're often dead for the poet
but not for the reader. 37000 feet above kansas
and we're really not there anymore
a tornado spawns from the plane's belly
lands in a cornfield, makes popcorn.
poppy seeds multiply in californian bottles
with drawn faces and the backs of charity.
asphalt on a sere field where fire once lives
hungry for more than peanut coated snacks
it wishpers then roars but worldlessly, angrily
it means to consume all this agony
running inside the veins of the ones who are not
shakespeare.
our very existence on this planet is, in a sense, just an imposture; given its radical impermanence, just to relate to, get along with, other people, even just, other living beings, we must bow our heads in patient acceptance of the day-to-day way things are even if, as poets and writers, we feel it hit the heart hard as a were or as someone else’s to be . . .
hit as hard as a were
he tells me there are sophists and linguists
in our beds trying to fuck out the world of "to be"
to is to was to were to watching the purpling organs
of sunset thirty nine thousand feet up, where cloudes
are land and we ride into the night. when i get home
all will be
darkness and midnite, edt. is to be a particle
of time, will the battery fade before the light
do questions become the children of abortions
is the light of the television screen enough
to dim the reversal of falling into the boat
then falling up out of it over and over
and what of the t. not earl grey which will not
pass my lips until i can forget the new snapple
commercials. actualy. faggit aboud it i hate tea anyway.
"to be" as imprecation. as deluvian separater from the phallacy
of nature. an imposture as delusional as any created from string theory.
and judgement, well, let's go there. i like coke, not pepsi, tequilla not gin
free verse more than the gilded remnants of the past four centuries.
if i were a peasant i would perhaps have learned --a 15th cent peasant mind you
not the thoroughly modern one i am, i even have reprints of degas & dali procured without
monet, ahem aho, oh ah ummmm-- about painting whilst visiting one of the cathedrals
in a near by paris or venice even perhaps a hamborg and then looking around my hovel
i might have seen various places i could carve such epiphanies to god
to share with the others in my village but i wonder
would they crucify or conscript me? excommunicate me or enlist me
would they ever find out about the mary i'd fornicated with
out the 1tlinc's persimmon spermision the one who loved me for my art
and not my new hat? and if i can't like my name, why would you continue
to use it and if i used yours how upset you'd be.
so, i like cornchips but not cornpone, oat flakes but not corn.
i like sappho but not sophocles and jimmy but not judo.
i like the way your face looks in the film but not the book.
the way my shoes have a thong, and not my underwear
o there she goes again getting frugal with the titallation.
yes, it's a planeful of travellers. we've got a destination.
the sky turns
dark and dark above little rock. i have no
window seat, so the jewels you always speak of
are still alive only in your words
i like writing better than speech, mountains less
than beach, pomes and prose equally , the book
over the movie. judge not lest ye be
is ok for christ. he was a beggar. i'm a peasant
running low on batteries. give me one reason
to like something, and i will. call me catholic
call me diverse, call me a pandering idiot.
you be the judge.
Sky concert at the sky
you were never more with me
than when i saw the snow on the distant
mountain and heard her sing fuck you
for that i blame myself
now these rolling hiways
will always be the seperation
i traveled
but i won't be here
and that seems just about right.
boomer date
you are a gentleman, i can tell
but your soon to be ex can't.
thirty years in a toxic relationship
and she's the one with the problem
i can relate to being mentally exhausted
i was there, only the gender's reversed.
so you did the dancing thing too? all those fresh
faces mumbling behind their hands at least
you had the courage to confront the laughter
dance on dancer. me, i go where the cost is least
sink or swim and they don't even see how i don't belong
after the alcoholic haze. don't tell you how i used
to try to sneak my underage bf a gin & tonic
as you begin to outline the benefits of networking
and myspacey agey. i checked out your site beforehand
and yeah, i've been there, differently. can 't seem
to be impressed. that you were at woodstock
only annoys me. but you're still into peace i gotta admit
that's better than the last guy who took me to sushi
also a boomer, but enmeshed in the MIC. i relate
that experience to you so that you, like me, know
our conspriacy theories are anything but paranoid.
peaceniks gotta have our validations.
i get in your car, risky? naw, you merely want to show me
where you dance. fifteen dollah cover and the line's out
the door, you assure me, tho tonite, in the rain, on a tuesday
it looks as desperate as you or i.
gen x date
good conversation is better than bad sex
but it's still a one night stand.
i lost my pipe. you're all about coke
but i'm not into the addiction dance.
except my meds. accept my meds.
the halo of missing hair
skin dimpled dryly into post bimbo.
as a member of the russian mafia
you ran packages of great worth
to men of huge stature
inside cloistered circles.
they dealt in weaponry, cars and drugs.
you wanted all of it. your aryan hair
your bottled eyes your willow leaf arms.
suddenly you find yourself in a low rent mexican joint
drinking tequilla, thinking of nice, how close it is to milan
where your wine orgasm waits, the virginity of the taste
akin to the escargot before my divorce.
we've decided, on seperate occasions, that what happens
tonite stays here. words bounce off the screen
rumble in the air, are picked up by the television,
disappeared like a hooker into a red taurus holding
a bald man with a twenty. he asks for change.
out in the parking lot your poetry is electronic.
i critique it. you say you vomit the stuff, it means
nothing. i get the sense you want some meaning somewhere
and when you get it, you'll dismiss it immediately
tho god lingers somewhere beyond chemicals
you can't see it, and thinking about it hurts your head.
i'm on some spiritual journey with a fedora, a tie
and hard shoes, all in black.
you like the music i made.
you say. hunched on haunches outside the car door
smoking a bummed cigarette.
posted by hiccup at 5:00 PM
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