Monday, March 31, 2008

echoed in the sky

the gray fits me
like a serge suit, complete
with necktie.

i need it now, and there it sits.
no waiting, no bullshit or broken beginnings
like something with a p
ludicrously intimating a future.

nope, just clouds, soft
and foggy if land were where
my eyes rest.
but it's not, up there's
more misty than mud.
really especially when
nothing else seems to be
around. just clouds, over cast , over hung.
over. just
like i want to be. no emails no
phone calls no rain no
contact just as if
i don't exist
in his world. and soon, i won't.

Sunday, March 30, 2008

i don't like

what the tarot has given me tonite.
three fates.

1 opportunity to withdraw, and fight
another day. an important
element of the past. the past. coulda
shoulda woulda?

2. but now,the seed is there. opportunity is there

3. for what? gain. for 1. wise use of resouces.
discipline and nobility applied to the maintenence of
security and stability. attn turned to business affairs.

oh. how romantic. something bothers me profoundly
in this assesment. the pragmatic, i think. tho at the end
it said something about turning attn to higher things.
so that's good. as if there's no need to worry about
those things anymore. yeah. right. if. you. only. could.

immortality softshoe with stolen line

you meet in the street everyday
with blonde jokes and cannibal, the never
stop questioning, antonius.

the motie cafes serve astounding flash
on the half shell. happy hours on sundays.
a missal keeps the peasants home.
checkovian love, with attitude. there is so much of me
in you i want to explore . the rocks are endless
but they make this rock removing machine? they make water
shoes /we can wade into the ocean where death is in a shark
or a lungfull of salt. we can bluff our
way out of conspiracy. vetted and bottled for safe levels of mood
altering drugs.

the cat wishes to be in my lap. she's heavy
with kitten, my gift to her, a yoke for a month.
despite my bitter honesty, i love the plum's taste.

in the leap, becomes the space for guitar i=
miss the way immortality teases 2012. the cat,
a kitten herself desires the insides of boxes,
the huge xmas gift bag, snowmanned w/scarf,
is her favorite sneaky hideout. she is hobbes.
like the cartoon. her eyes are copper. someone

is calling on the phone, it is my daughter. my son
refuses to bring it to me. grrrr. the cell rings, i have
to get up anyway. how can one contemplate death
when there's all this singing going on?
her voice the doves of god.

she has food on the grill and missing items.
last nite it was a lockout rescue from the carnival
with mom, tomorrow it'll be a vitamin D counseling session
under the front eaves with midlife crisis.

none of this is captured by ingmar. kitchen appliances
form the wash of ocean over stone. horses as background.
repeated pasts written and published for intellectual vodka.
a game of chess, animated, in full battle
gear with intriguing plotline
and virtual goggles. the insides of art.

some of us will live until the first bridge
and some of us will watch the left behind from heaven's gates.
science is a techie cream dream if you have a visionary
leadership, but i wouldn't bet on it to beat death at chess.

Saturday, March 29, 2008

a picture of my room

the one that's my own.
the one that means i do what i want in it.

thirties art deco desk. forties
telephone table, both scarred
with water mark and teen angst.
white wicker yellow from nicotine

(i just wanted to say that i would not
have gone thru all that with you
if i didn't think somehow we would work it out.)

old safety deposit box stuffed with divorce
papers, mortgage agreement, a picture
of my daughter as a baby. several journals
half filled and spilled open to confession.
player piano, just one
cigarette butt. two computer speakers
lying on their sides. empty bag
of lays, one crushed under my feet. a pen.
a spilled drawer. a resin wicker table
covered in a black cloth printed with gold
stars and moon and sun
pouring thru the fine afternoon, diffused
thru depression inspired songs, played live
in remembrance of the way i love.

chestnut stained dresser from the 17th century
and its scrollwork, a mirror
melting across its mercury

unzipped black computer bag
black velvet pot pouch atop it.
bed rescued from the dumpster. feather
comforter with escapees dotting the berber.
across the desk, things need organization
in the bathroom, the toilet runs now, needs
a new flap. laundry as recurring nightmare.
on every surface, collections of boxes, baskets
strawberry flavored makeup. empty rx containers,
upsidedown sandals. cell phone charger cell
phone at the edge of a very big cliff.
things on the wall, but 'm not looking up.

taco bell 32 oz drink cup filled with stale
fruit punch waiting to stain. and dust,
lots of dust.

Monday, March 24, 2008

splice n dice with ashley

tumbleweed roundup

when i dissapear , the red lines
mean nothing. don't you see that ash?
i return i
don't belong i am not
feeling so well these day but i
try to say hello when i'm not
controlled by suburban machinery.
what did i do this week? missed u n u n every day aching
to come to your arms to feel complete.
the /missing/ed roll off into the desert
everyone needs their forty days
and some just roll on to big wide ocean
never to return4er.
i became a new lover
to my lover he has been thru
much with me and still the seas move
and still the marchness blows
moving so stasis won't discharge me.
systems of control , freedom as betrayal.
the oak pollen swirls thru my lungs as air
there's a joint's worth of pot on the plant
from last year. is it time to smoke what was allowed
to grow? i'm saving it for when we get together again.
how long does it take for the plant to cure/that's when
we see you hey
chaos when ? i think jack n jenni
would let us come to them. i got corporate time saved
it waits for depletion patient as a pentinent. summer's
coming up and i can renew it, as long as i nap
before you get off work and come hold me again.

longing shoots rise into could have beens
into are/s and aeries and air that makes room
for you. just for you
waving over there in fire.don't mind the red lines
they're removable, really. and your mind is no mind
to not be a fool with. really. i don't know
what meaning can come out of this until i collapse
back into my self #3457823091 after
nine o nine. i can change. that's what the laurel sang
thru vocal cats and rabbits rebirth
coming quicker now at the end of my kalpa.
spirng 0! spring you are
the seed of my seed's desire, beginning.
seasons that aren't coulds.
seasons that are clouds.

on the day i was born they was passin out
strength, hand rolled in naturally cured leaves.
today i was watching rain thru a scarf. suddenly you and i
swim without getting wet. jump from the second story
porch to the third. spiderman's everyday hero,
the full moon a crocus held
between the fingers on trees.
spilling white ink over freckles.
how lover is over w/an "l". irony
is my air. what's yours/

poetry. is this what we write? yes, but they ain't your daddy's
poems. now are they?

go- if you cannot,
define new entranceways
for returning. go if all the openings
are apples you've spit out .
go then go. it would not be me
blooming for you under the mirror.

on the little nerd guy's bike
the air blew bright cold on his face,
he did no

recursive ambience of the finish
of the whirl
in a frozen plate of existence
like gold upon the burl . like golden
afternoons spent in the company of rain and caves
a cab ride thru pines to your smile.

sometimes wind visited the outskirts of marabella's village.
the goings and comings of the twelve quarters
were food for the citizens during high holidaze.
they scampered like squirrels at play
for bits of styrofoam on the golf course, over concrete
skateboard parks with snow that year just
the way you fell and never got to see
the inside of her thigh.

and she looked for photos on days
when the moon was gibbous past fifty percent of nothings.
the way money wanted to make you slave
and then you did and then you die. how she refutes it
with disdain like the house slave she became.

and what was lynze doing with her rune of X
her scantly clad sex her nights in white
you thought satin you thought satan you thought
of the dreams she was making the love she was waking
the chronicles, baking. but mostly she was gathering
moss and cornnuts, ignoring cerebus behind her.
cigarettes in an ash on the floor.

and what was ashley doing a
fin de something , over and over
a fine distinction of rice and clover.
a manic dance with manic lover o
death come and take us all
because to love
is mere release and fall.

she wants to be the
one who opens, closes, absorbs
its self into its essence. the pitiful
way newspapers gather under her feet
addictions waiting for defeat. do you remember when
you told me i was so strong and it hurt me to have to be that way
core of iron holding up the mountain how i just want
the ache in my shoulder to cease how i want
to be worn away by a tiny wind, blown snuff against my peak
sometimes clear frozen water, a ripple,
that weak, fragile against the sun. sometimes i have a son.
my precious teen and the all things he could have been
swimming in a day time sleep, and how i want to live and meet
him on the other side, my favorite guy
who survived the deadly song of spring's strong shoot.
to see if i am in his root.

as ivy also grows on the same to be cool twilight
to fall way past cliché just one ever time
to stick the struggle of saying and naming what it feels
thru you, to name, however beautiful or horrible
feels thru you
its dragon essence, abysmally sad, like a north Korean vapor mist
how it lifts into my undeclined slavery and indeciphered mentat
taskt w/ makeing redd linez apeare ine evry coaleasecne prufe uv
sumthing shreded nd beleevable, beezelbub.

success! in the last two lines before the great white page scrolls up

the way it sux all photons from the beam

while missing all the waves.

a ware of persistence
darkens all troughs.
she never returns.
she never says never except when
she wants something to happen. a quiet prayer
written on the inside of an acacia seed.
the snow of the palm is yellow and grainy.
truth is engels and rorty in a streetfight. philosophy
is best left to sophists and we
who think too much.

goddamn girl, don'tcha have a tv?

it never responds
thru dark him, this rarely
latticed candle light against a leather jacket
along the contours of a Friday, unreported
in your past, never degraded out of your fantasies,
into your words. It understood this, but wanted
to go beyond what you accused
it of always being, just stray
syntactic disportion, the stupidity
and disproportion of your seething inner mind
it didn't appreciate being put behind other arts
as if it were last years model or some niche market
that you didn't want to visit cuz of the funny smells
and the way the guy with the dreads penetrated
up to the balcony of the house of blues
making you shake to the beat of his drum. his drum.
the muse she likes to work in twos
multiples there of, but one is two is all of you
-- tumbleweed's three dee glove.

when you could have been doing music
or echoing back
the sound of a wound-up
music box as it started
to unwind
into solace, the sound
going downward
and slower
in tone,

or you could have been
loading the laundry, a normal kind of day
filled with calling friends, family, scrub the corners
where mold has collected, make shiny
the things life has infected. harvest the pot plant
water the clematis and african violet which refuse to flower
and in the rain outside
daisies from last years

seed bloom
like an enormously
the harness darkens against your auburn side,
you start to observe again:

I listen to Alice in Chains,
you listen to Lou Reed, it was always
hard for us to get along that well together.

and it's all too much to read thru god murmurs
the tomes ive laid on the plaza, the bird dropping essays,
oh all these notes written in lipstick on my mirror saying
i love you remember me oh when you have a chance
when you're done with your marketing for the day, when you've
filled the forms and written the last sentence of your depositional decay.

the outer skin of rain
smoke blown thru smoke,
applicable to anyone, fingerprinting
thinking as dreaming , a methusologistic
nexturing in textures laid with grout and pores

you understood these rules
applied to you as

in sections
as intaglio. how you love the sound
but want to deny it meaning
so that you may give the pome your own.

and rules. ;P. still don't like em. pluto turns me
upside down and mars takes a swing. connects.
it's a homerun down the alleys , a blurred photograph
of you and i
if only you had to will and the lack
of body to go there. oh korea, the kim chi we shared
in the shelter of an awning in seoul wafts as does
the orange blossom on the edge of nineteen, combine
into heady soup if i could just find a spoon a mancible a way
to eat this all, again, at the happy joy luck buffet.

o we do go on and on. the moments spent here
are burst orchids, purple dandelion, gull glidden into
the waiting fry, the sandolista of your eye. i remember natalka
i remember how you tried to show me what you know
how waiting sessions fly around your eyes
and you open and swallow without volition.
how benediction is diction with benefit.
the bestowing of reality on the ghost.
i miss that i am too wrapped up in getting older
and pulling the cotton off the plants is gettin tuff for this weary
flesh but i put my fingers thru their paces think of brighter deeper places...

think of paul and crow, chaos and h, justin n snow,
making their inner metaphors youth and how they have so far to go
to get to where you and i are, in the gauntlets of food service industry entry level
dues paying the electric bill paying the water bill paying the couch in static and pledges
of undying rout. surviving all this to find out it doesn't end even if your quarters
turn out to have the lastest in technology. the way flesh demands it pound. the way
bankers live like wolves, and jakals roam your mailboxes. it's taken me all day to get this far.
sleep beckons like mist on the river koi. but i can't rest yet. there's a boat i tow
with moses sleeping swaddled and quiet, nd i'm movin him along
to dancer's place where pharoah would never think of looking, that fool poet
and his shamanic orgies kept to do a bidding god's as willing to put on his own flesh.
oh king and i , kind and eye. the rusted root cellars of the jam, the pulse of drum on flesh
and how it makes puppets jerk like a real boyss and girlss

i do nt know if i'll even be able to read thru this all. hey 2 jack. where u been?
i miss you when you stay away too long. you might be dead for all we phone.
and djuana my friend, a busy bookend, living and doing and making , i look at you slantly
give you a grantly, and moving and swimming without and within.

i know where eden went and sent
a message here to me. it said the apple
never falls too far from the tree.
but it was said in such a way
my mind it was enlightened.
i miss the way anti cliche
made me slap my head, doh! how did scott put it?
how she puts into words things i didn't know i knew.
yeah, like that. don't you miss that 2? i do.

it's almost to speak of
something, this making it last forever
in the moment feeling . . .

conceiving love

or was it lust. is there a difference. desire floods
my cheek, indra delta of the inner.
translation of the missing into seed. purposeful
against the backdrop.
love and its welling sadness,
undercut with loss. how etymology reveals
the drastic connection. sound of horns
and low bass note, lingering.

Sunday, March 23, 2008

freshly minted genome

mazzy star on pandora radio
how cool is it to have access
to all your favorite bands
and then get introduced to ones
that sound like them, according to a program.
portishead brings me massive attack, tricky
other grrl voce , sub sounds for the needle.
sweet ways to die.

what i am missing is images beyond
my usual. tired of writing the same damn metaphor.
tho i am marinating a piece called bullet.
it may not need the write tho. things look up
as long as i don't need what i cannot have.
that should be easy after my lifetime of settling.

i like that people are still trying to grapple
with power, glad that they have the strength to keep at it.
i get so tired of seeing the answers are 180degreeds
out of where the road's going. like the health care crisis.
the obvious solution to me is either get the insurance co's
out of it altogether or insist they be non profit. with limits
on executive salary. also they can't be allowed to manage
the course of medical treatment. then, if
they regulated pharm samples and 3 martini lunches and kickbacks...
well, i guess it's not as easy as said. crow said every 20 yrs
there needs to be a revolution. i think he may have been quoting
nietszche. anyway, that's a relevant statement. bring on the viribombs.

wow, this portishead radio is like an old photograph
of when you and i were trying to make something work
between us from our individual hells. remember dido?
i still thank you. live with it. i've had other days
since then, but those were best in that now. which is
then, now. you knew it, and i found out and well, i hope
your stbe is merely the same fantasy maker she was when
we were all friends and lovers on a charm bracelet.
dunno why. you wanna be a methhead, why should that concern me?
those aren't my boys living with a madwoman and no daddy.

spoke 2 my last ex lover, he's so young and learning
he was all like i want to find a new paradigm for relationships
where it's fifty fifty. i was all like excuse the fuck outa me?
that's new?
you trying to tell me you didn't feel it should be that way
with us? n he's like well i was 19 what do you think? i guess
he looks at fifty fifty differently than i do. and i am not
quite sure what that means to me. let's say your lover is
on a string of bad luck or is weaker than you with dealing
with a difficult aspect. then you have to come forward, however
you can, with a hundred percent of what you have
to try to create balance. but really, if they don't give back
100%, to work toward change - if the transformation
becomes a short circuit and drains you open-
then the thing ends. or should. it shouldn't go on for twenty one
fuckin years.

like the way i had to bitch slap
you out of my life.
i can't articulate what it was you did for me
but it was more than sex.

oh wow. dinah washington. is you is or is you aint' my baby.
what a voice. cool brass loop. "i got a man who's always late
any time we have a date. but i love him. yes i love him"

that's how it is with love. you'll do anything for the vessel.

now i've got the madness seed in me. my clothes
huddle in cliques on the bathroom floor whispering
like mean girls by the locker. mountains of ashes
are your eyes, when clean was a byproduct of boredom with demand.
it's easier to sit here and listen to the strains of her voice
on the verge of a war to fight, high and filled with pathos
an angel singing wrongness into reality that wants to hold me
at center of a hydrogen bomb, frozen into myself.

praise for the crowd
stopped clapping. this is a song
where the woman in question
wanted you stunned into silence.
paralysed with the feel of wrong, how right it feels
and how no one
can save her from singing
herself into a file not found.
shut up and just listen just
watch the flame burn out.

i should give myself a time frame since the white
goes on for virtualever. if crow and finchy come to visit
then we go to j n j's. maybe he'll find a jesus in a bird.
tell me stories of exes and excess. find creation on a porch
overlooking a graveyard. that would be such a grand time

sia. breathe me.
that one rocked. the words of a mirror woman
what reflection shall she inherit?

Saturday, March 15, 2008

edge of skin dissolute

you look like a human, i'ma treat you that way
no matter how many
dishes you have to scrape clean or how many screws
are being turned. you wash up the mess
clean the shit off the baby's backside you do
what needs done, buss the table, deliver the pizza
to the homebound woman growing into the sofa.
she never tips . her skin is paisley upholstery,
her eyes beg for a can of gas and a match. you don't. she never tips.

we sit on the grass in the park. shakespeare's taming
of the shrew on a college set inside a summer's eve, without
mic. it's rather pretentious and you can't even hear
half the words beneath gull and baby wails, motorboats docking
undocking, planes landing on the airstrip. but i love it
because it's art and the sky is roses and plumbago and your eyes
are tri colored and browns with a smattering of lost.
you were never more
real than when you weren't with me. lost
in the center of your own universe.
a high flute note barrows thru my veins.
we kiss like we're onstage.

we were talkin god
cuz for some reason i'm all smitten with this idea
of the mystic.

so i ask you
isn't praying kind of selfish?
i mean it seems
that people are always askin
for something or saying god
buy me a mercedes or something.
nods to janis, yuh . and then you say
well when i pray
i release it. puzzled, i inhale
more of the blunt. blow it in your
face. lay the butt on the grass between us.
you pick it up, casual. a police car slides
by on the road to our right. we're silhouettes
on a grassy knoll between two stands of oaks.
the sky is the cloudless shiny
blue of the insides of bruises . moon
the edge of fish scale hung
above the half built condos
when i want something
you say
i pray for release. you throw your hands out
wrists to the sky, meal for a knife. i give it
away and
several lifetimes later analise, i realize what you mean.
how you fell into your name.
the way your skin smells citrus and pale
against the revelations in the sunset
a disc discovered in the small storms
pouring from our closed eyes
clothed with auras of madness
can you feel
i breathe
you and you
exhale me.

the clouds in the distance are battles
raged on the end of the world. the shock wave
and radiaton haven't reached
where we stand, nestled and balanced like a dali
cliff, a big grasshopper hanging from your head
like a hat. why not yours you ask from across the steady bang
of a door flapping in the wind. we kiss and recover
on a field of white snow and blue crocus. rivulets collect
into puddles on the window, sliding by as times we've spent
melting one into the other, oh remember the way
that special one magnifed the mountaintop with your city's name
pulsing along the intersate, signalling a cloverleaf
of our bodies, together again, like something
ordained by traffic and movement.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

i wish

i was not so tired.

Thursday, March 06, 2008

qubit coupling

in old town , sun's goin down
and the big columns of the finance center
begin to glow like a colluseum's hologram. you say
well i didn't get the tickets but there might
be some available. sold out it says on the box office
but you're staying positive. i'm lookin out the window
at the early evening. old man in a dapper
suit, brylcreamed hair--his own--begins to cross at first count
he's running, he's all out, he's hitting
about 2 inches per second. at this rate you
might have to run him over. guy in a segue rolls into the cross
walk and escorts him for a couple minutes then
gets off and lets the old man drive. consternation then joy
from the wind's twelve countdown numbers. he's safely across. we
roll on
to the backside of posh restuarants down the next street. busboy, dishwasher, sou chef, chief
doctor get me a cleaver for this side of beef. kegger roll into a dim doorway
cute guy in a red t shirt and cargo shorts. i watch . reminds me of a last lover, past
lover. too young but ummm. we roll
on to the free parking by the library, beside the gold domed
st francis of asissi catholic church, across the street
from the 20's bandshell bordering lake eola
where the lights on the fountain in the middle of the lake
are just coming on , their reflections
in the dusklined water like paths which swans of
peddle power boat type ride. in the sky
a powdering of blue and pink clouds
like baby dreams of the peddlers
romantic between the long wooden S necks
like some tale disney cooked up before
he was cryogenically frozen into a mouse cartoon
manufacturing money more real
than any of his themes could dream of becoming.
but the swans are nicely framed. dogs
on chains stroll owners over the sidewalk which as i recall
encircles the lake like a utilitarian shen.

as we pull up to the meter. st francis's stained
glass face is barely visible, and st. mary's recongized
by her veil. the lights inside the church
haven't come on. you try to feed the meter while doing the potty dance
but a man walking into the church doors says they don't
check the meters now. relief floods
your face. i seriously gotta go you plead.
the library looks like it's still open. we have to go
around the block to the front. i can see
you're in agony, look there's a bar
we could go there. no, you decide , let's try free.
but it's after six. the doors are open and we walk past the book
scanner but a woman with a librarian's demeanor
kindly shoos us away despite the crossed leg pantomime. she knows
all the tricks because the bus station is right outside
the west end of the library. we hustle
across to the bar. you go first and i order a shot of tequila.
when you come out you say there's no toilet paper.
i wait till there is , you get a chivas on the rox, the place begins
to fill, there's guitar paintings on the wall, joan jett on the juke and poison
on the mtv. how did they get mtv? didn't it die once?
i grab a lime from the bartray, look around for salt.
none. i raise the glass for a sip
a guy in a red t shirt resembling a recent love
is suddenly beside me says woah a shot/
someone's in a hurry tonite.
yeah i say and point to you. she wants to see if she can get tix.
we chit chat a bit , he's all cute n stuff and i think
if i were not such a geek we could
find out where's there best thai in this town. sadly
freak is tuff to hide. we leave but not before
i remember mr toad's wild ride. cuz we still haven't talked.
it might be fun. and even later i geek out
and even later is becomes so difficult to feel any postitive
movement in this night. the food is bad, this fool is sad
but the singer's up on stage covering
and i'm all about sitting on this patio eating over peppered strir fry
in lieu of what i set my taste on. you just want coffee
and desert. so we wander
past an empty corner where tile from a building long torn
down for urban renewal crumbles into emblem for battle field so right on
dude emerges from between some restorable derelect buildings
punching not only the sky but the column of space
between him and the ground, him and the wall, let's just say
if air was flesh it would be blacker than blue. i grab you
before you can walk over to him, cuz here comes the segue dude
not the old guy, the cop, wearing the helmet. he herds
the street guy right along to god knows where and we're on the opposite
corner watching along with two girls from the new volcano
coffee shop with smoothie samples and chocolate bits talking live
music and no cover, come wake up. this is your night.
red shirt dude is doubtless at work and besides
i'm not about back seating or back streeting unless you want
to duck behind the tree on the construction site next
to the st. francis' place, i think we can light this bone safe there.

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

janus hearts carna

he watches the doors keeps
hinges oiled beats them with hammers
when he chooses. no one escapes
his symmetry, but carna she tries.

little nymph, her mother's time
and her dad ran off before
the dance recital. you wouldn't think
there could be love from time you'd might think
dual vision (at minimum, but two faces can turn
more quickly than two hearts, so future and past
being what the boy sees in the present gives an nth degree
kinda feel to the whole opening/closing thing (at minimum!) )
i said a coin with two heads, you might think

the sight of his love in two places at once
would fill the copse he nestles . she wants
a emblem of his gratitude . he gives her power
over hinges and handles. oh what a life
of crime he wills her. meanwhile in thessaly

a lady in odellay, mother of tons of sons of
water ways and brilliance is in censed!
they got the names
wrongs in the tabloids aGain, algernon, you'd think
wouldn't you that a goddess wouldn't have to compete
with a nymph for tablet space but this modern world...
o camese o carna or tibernius, o dharma omygawd !!
did you see he made her a goddess?! Cardea
"Her power is to open what is shut; to shut what is open." that's IT
i don't care
how many tributaries are on their way into rivers
i'm not staying with him one more day. you can
tell the goddamn press anything you want to, algi baby,
not one more eon with that two faced
nymph poking curly bearded bastard oh my mother warned
me about men
with curly beards she said camese
it's not that i don't like beards, but janus
takes such good care of his, it's almost obsessive
and he's got two! the story had to end there
and then cuz you couldn't get rid of the italics.
there was enough on the tablet to sink
his little vampire witch protectress
scenario (wonder WHO
they're talking about now?) and as for patroness of children-
she had the testimony of little tiberius himself
saying carna --NOT cardea never would she call that slut
by by her honorific, goddess of THREshOlds!? wtf!?- come to his banks, wearing
her guazey roman toga, fresh from
her nap, and dance right
there in his innocent blanket
of sand until the sun
reached behind her and pulled off her dress.
o yes.

Monday, March 03, 2008



dusk over the bike trail, purple strain
on channel b, boys with fishing poles
cast and reel, cast and reel from a wooden
platform. it's not about the catch,
it's about the arc of 10 lb test
against the sky, frozen in the wind; the proximity
to the perfect spot when the ravel stops.

they leave when the sky
is just dusted with dark
when clouds are still
girls in summer neons.

i sit on the handrail cuz that's so junior high.
think of arrested development. the way a piece
of wood can turn to stone in a desert
like the hipbone of a small animal you found

in gypsum stacks near gibsonton, excavating
prehistory for our children, not with them.
missing the point again.

from this side of the trance, motionless , a rabbit
has lopped into view. when i turn, glacial,
she freezes:. fear has kept her alive
so far. if i were a hawk i might pass her by.

as it is my eyes devour
the way the breeze ruffles
her fur, like whispers trying
to calm her vast beating heart
beneath that pretense of living stone.

my in box

your name's moved
down the page till it's
hidden under spam and tarot
interests. i try to forget you
like that, deferred, deterred,
detoured. it never worked before
why should it now? scant
scent of unleashed lessons.
the probe of going thru it
because only flesh can truly learn.
i think i have but as usual
bad timing, too late, the song
fades as echo on an empty plate.

Sunday, March 02, 2008

verticle oldness


(from iron chef, remember that? scott wrote so much better.
this is the only one i'ma keep)

i don't wanna rape
my daughter splay her wide here
but she just don't understand
why she's so fucked up. i remember the curse
of my mother.

i love you mom
i hope einstein was right and time can travel in two
directions. maybe she's hearing i love you mom
echo in a deja vu kind of way
as i stand there screaming at her
for getting me out of bed cos the school bus
is across the street, waiting for me. she leaned
out the door and asked
the bus driver to wait now i gotta rush not even brush
my hair my teeth and climb on the bus
where no one speaks to geeks
like me so fuck em,
let em wait.

the blue streak in her hair is not as blue
as her dead brown eyes she practiced faking
mean tuff fifteen for two months after the divorce.

you all know how it goes if you're not going
thru it now you hugged it like a pillow
to your empty heart sometime.


last no moon was on the edge
hair pull knife slappin wrestlin knife she
got a knife as much as i hated my daddy and he beat
on me a lot i never pulled no knife. maybe i should
a beat on her, some.

i should get her yellow roses. i should get her daisies.

i've been thinkin how love died
in my heart for her daddy and how it was so easy
to tell him-- no more. finally after twentytwo
years he gave me roses for my birthday without
me having to ask. by then i wanted wild
flowers. she told him, too. after i told him

goodbye how he filled
the house with all the flowers he missed
surprised that i cried. surprised
i still couldn't stay.

i told him this: our love is like the bitter
oranges drying in the sand out back and you and i know
why. you may think you're reborn
and believe you can be- i have hopes you will be
but your face is carrying the karma of the man
you say is dead. and that man leeched me dry.
it's the little things that end up pissin you off the petty
inconsiderations so i hope next woman you
promise to put a handle on the door
you don't make her wait three years.