Thursday, June 26, 2008


the asphalt's wet
from rain,earlier
the grass bends against my bare
feet, sly fingers
color of shadow
full of escape

a shy cat,
like a melon flavored ghost
peers across the parking lot, she
doesn't recognise me, but i have
to catch her. lightning
streaks thru clouds
over the bay ,you on that side
me on this.

we can both see the storm
hanging between us. you say
you seem in a better mood

and i'm all like florida summer
weather, morphing on winds
that rise from the sea
on the backs of water
gone to meet the sun.
i want to say
look at the way the light stabs
the sky. i want to stay
on that verge, in the fall
before it hits the ground.

harrow and hammer

why do they all come in upside down?
i feel the need to explain too much
give me a seltzer.

yes inverted, except when i want them
to be. am i really that weak?
is my self image the tower?

except the real meaning of the tower
is not catastrophe but divinity. the cushioning
of yod into check your reality right here.
right now.

ok so. ruin of a set of ideas.
the thing you think you know because you build it.
i'm gonna have to destroy my image of what i wanted
because bein with you will not allow that.
i wanted to travel. to go from house to house
a guest, the wanted guest, the nomad. but you
can not be part of that.. you have obligations
that won't let you go. i have to remember
how that affected you so long ago,when my kids
were smaller and you were more free.(( how i ran
away to something sexier, how it snagged me
and made me human, after all. or not, how maybe
i just turned into my father. how it all emptied out
and maybe you would have been the one
if i could have kept the delusion...
which i never could )) so now , faced with
the same possibility will i follow suit?
or will i go and come back , over n over
absence igniting the spark . i won't have
a room of my own. i will need a room
of my own.
i will have a room of my own
but i will share a bed.

yikes. i won't have a room of my own.
but you work at nights.

tower. tear it down to build new ones.
perhaps a sharing is possible? you have the pink
room, i'll have the purple one.


next is the atmosphere

when the stars say don't try it
i usually do. i like to invert things
play the fool. this time inversion's got me
by the balls. tho i don't have any, reality

is perfection inverted merely reality?
flaws create strife it's true or flaws bring out
the beauty of the thing that's you...

also the state is transitory,
one of the things about perfection is that
entropy works on everything. so it never lasts
cuz once ONE little flaw comes in
it's bye bye perfect. i guess you
found that out, ay?

so yeah, obstacles reveal themselves
imperfections are magnified. but hey
i get bovine when i'm in heaven.
just gotta teach em what shoes is da boss.
that'll show em their place
in the snaggly line
the offcenter nose
the stroke that couldn't be painted over.

need a burger.


finally you make me smile. a union
in balance, the thrill of arms akimbo
on the plane of a rope. i like it . i might
keep you. show you to someone i love.

oh, i might have known if i let you continue
speaking that things would not be rosey.

too much of a juggling act
despite no balls to put into the air
see, no balls

but it could be momentous, full of energy
we otherwise would not have. a palsey spaz
moving us into this age thing
with a degree of fun and finesse.
a watercress sammich and lime
something that could be fine.
couldn't it? said the youtth
to the coach. come on, i'ma team


profit, inverted. yeah. heh.

but you know i'm a bad risk
tho i'm not exactly profligate still
i disdain money. but why is money
even in question here? i have some
you have some. together we can make it stretch
tho i'm not into pricing rummers as much as you.

so, eh, instead of being where i should be in life
essence of feminity n wealth n hoarding, i'm here talkin bout balls.
but the thing is, she's NOT SHARING.
bloody yuppie bitch. of course i'm the inversion of that.
one over me anytime.

or a waste of your time. a tower in the making. ohmygod. if that's true then don't do it!


you tho, you're an original
a magician the real deal magic.
must be your airy nature, the way fire
plays across your smile
the backhand of nemesis. against all
logic. you make things happen with your will
and your won't . indeed. something quite nice
hhmmmm, maybe i should tear down those seven year
temples. wise ass nj nietsche love not withstanding.

but i don't keep to keep nice things. that's why
i'm a bad investment, tho you wouldn't agree. but YOU would.


the future, the impossible. indeed. romance
and the judegement of the flesh
how it demands a higher calling as when
the gods inhabit us, burn us bright
and leave us spent. this is why we're
drawn to each other. imo. ho. so.

a strong push for change. something i've been saying
you dont do. something i actually haven't been doing
tht i can see, tho maybe the subtleties have eluded
my prying eye.

so. to share or not to share with you?
well wwjd?

no fear. you'd say it, and that's what i must too.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008


"empty your mind and meditate on the natural world,
the cricking cicadas, the scraping palmetto bug, rustling skirts,
zipping zips, peeling bananas"



forgot what came after that. short term memory loss
as excuses . release a smoke bomb in a room. steve terrel's get
smart takes a melbrooksian sitcom and
tries to make it sexy as only disney can.
anne hathaway would not be in a film where
shit was not euphemised as poop so pop
n mom won't feel bad about takin the wee
one with blankie and binky
to the late show. you know how sitters
are these days. i did that once
by myself without my husband. we saw disney's
aladdin. the first one. before there was
a plush doll of the genie replete
with robin william voce, try it!!!
pull me-------------->

the movie sends up itself as well as modern
cultural icons with its retro moralizing.
maxwell smart, in his bumbling never
say die way, is a mensch. who has an
extraordinary attention
to detail. he's the kind of control
operative that learned to eat pussy
from reading a book, but he'd
never tell you that on the first
operation. he'll fight a rat
in his pants to make sure you both
get thru the laser beam security bars
without tipping off god in his
security tower of kaos lover
wearing radioactivity.
the digs at the president were less
"let's hang the bastard"y
than "how did this fool
get to be president"y . in the twenty
first century, it's all about connecting
with your enemy
by knowing, in a spy satellite way,
the intimate details of her life.
can we say myspace, anyone?

i wanted to continue
but i feel a sleep coming on.

enjoyed the edge

Tuesday, June 24, 2008


when we're eating jesus
(if you're catholic) it tastes
like chicken. if chicken were dry
and crunchy. and tasteless. how
can flesh have no taste? metaphorically

i'm wondering why the word came to me
what does it want to be? i have no time
to be thinking poem, to be thinking

i'm at work. turn some parts into product
bake epoxy under a heat lamp to create
something monolithic. if i concentrate
on the process, the end product should
take care of itself. isn't that what the pope
means? i'm not catholic, but i like
that they still believe in magic.

Friday, June 20, 2008


he says that's 2 in the last six months
you can't have anymore. i wonder
what he means by that, would they really fire me
or would i just cease to be the answer man?
and if so, why should i care? it's not like
they pay me extra for it. their excuse
is that i'm always late, and it's true, i am
but no more so than the man who makes three times
my salary and who is currently giving sarcastically vague
threats to my abilities. which truthfully
are maybe addled by the wake
and bake mentality i have
sported since
i began working.

my mind is beginning to scare me
the effects of age are pernicious, a hidden cop
sneaking up on my blind side. things like not checking your rear
view mirror when you change lanes cuz
you're sure you just checked it or seeing the red
wire in the middle hole when it clearly
goes one hole to the left of the white lead.
yet the sensor works. why? is my zen luck holding out?
how many more mistakes will i make on assumptions?
i'm also losing printed orders so that more trees
are sacrificed to commerce. this troubles me.
it's because i'm being spread very thinly now
all my knowledge layered over the company
as they roll me up from the bottom, squeeze
out my brain, scented like patchouli.
hey, it works for me but that doesn't mean
you can do it.

how did i find it you ask? i finally looked
at the print in front of me. woah. what a trip.
they worked and that's what counts, seeing as how
they're coated with epoxy and would have to be
tossed out if they didn't. i had nine more
that i could fix, but the ones going to china
are a bit off key. subconscious subterfuge
if you will. a rushed job that works till the jenga
blocks all fall down. hopefully, not in the middle
of demonstrating the superiority of american product,
but shortly after that, when it's taken to the pirate house
to be melted and reversed
into a subtle difference that will blow their minds
on why the fuck we did it that way in the first place.
heh. american blind luck i'd say. well , thank you
o goddess of luck, for saving my ass one more time.
atta girls on the house!

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

syntactic sugar

i know you're watching the spoon
fill itself with sweetness.
you can plant homes in the fill
between the minutes i don't speak,
which is a lot of homes. a lot.

people are weirder than bananas.
bloodstains on a mandala sheet prove it
because cold water removes that shit.
why don't you soak that sun mood
in some fifty proof and come
up to the bathhouse
for tea? we're having five day
beatles and humus on pita.

today is a day for a story
but the allegorist, author, bard, fibber,
liar, minstrel, narrator, raconteur, writer
are tired. shakespeare has left the building
where he made his money
and joined us for a more human friendly drink.
he's even brought a bottle of architecture.
that's him singing yeah yeah yeah
so close your books and give em
their privacy. it's the least we can do.

keeping em short

mother of pearl

half shell under deep sand.
i grab it , pretend to stab
you because you defy.

it's my only recourse now
you've grown. but of course
it's just pretense, i'd rather
you just get a clue, sooner.

so you say/ here, try it with all
your might. / and i do. but you
don't believe me. say /do it again!/
and i do, i mean really try,
standing up, pushing against
the arms i used to pretend to push
against and you say /why aren't you
trying?/ disbelief so ingrained
you can't get beyond it. you're

bigger than me . time
to begin to realize how you
will be the stronger one, now.

Monday, June 16, 2008

wire impasto

everythere is music cuz practice is perfection
so it's a thing, you do it. the secret path to my bedroom
takes a bit longer than opening the door
to spit jelly beans in.

not waiting to be perfect
yellows and parchments pile on my virtual floor.
you talk about real things
and i just want to play dress up.

there's the busy signal of love
taking a nap, but we each have a candle
we'd like to burn. yesterday"s
like tofu only less

worn cotton, railroad tracks on mars,
civility the watchword for lovers past
and prestested. i'm just trying to add some texture
to the thing that's goin on inside this frame.

fantasy turns into lurid truth

evading interpretation hot off the press
the lines pull deeper, purpling into royally
fucked. oh yes the twist is there, always,
because strings won't stay together otherwise.

thinking of hemingway
the way his wife built a swimming pool
in key west so he put his
toilet in the garden.

i dunno,that may be an ott reaction.
i guess i piss in my own paradise
swim in superfluous water, can't bang

the gavel on that one, judge. 625
walked in the door
but only 45 walked out. how much
of the grouper
did the ocean swallow?

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

the tale of the foolosopher

she thought it would work, of course, even though
she knew better. transformation comes from influence
and harmony, resonance of opposites, inductance and magnetic
flux. he was fire she was air. feed the flame.

he brought his past with him in boxes and tapes.
aquariums packed with spreadsheets and ledgers no
that isn't fair he had packed them with nothing
because he wanted fish, he wanted lizards to feed,
terrariums idealized in what
he might build or tend then leave
behind. it wasn't so much what was ahead that intrigued
him, it was the past, how it morphed out of his control
when the dealer shuffled the deck and dealt
the next hand. always the next hand you see and you don't
really have a choice of whether to stay in the game
the dealer's dealing, you're sittin at the table,
you either pick up the hand or see what the bouncers
do to you when you don't. in the old
westerns they used to shoot
you where you sat. you wish you were in the old west.
he does. not you. you were never in this state
before, where the fire raged around you
whistling , wake up lady bug, wake
up, ladybug
g fly aw
ay h

home, what the fuck is that i lost my home
and i'll never get it back.

snort. yeah
not with that attitude.

() and the floor is her hanger
all her outfits a disshevelment
like the way her hair blows with the windows down
on the way to the beach
with the kids battling in the back
and i spy an anteater snout
and the rolled eyes as another stupid outing
turns into hell on wheels
because things are out of control.

or you could laugh, she said. or we could play
the quiet game. or i spy ten thousand red balloons ~
oh bullshit says b. yes look behind you in
the western sky. then the soda spills over so he
says i think they just went down your pants.
she yelps and everyone laughs, including b
who sees the color of the clouds back there.
he has to give it to her, ten thousand red balloons
might look like that. so all is out of control
zenning along all japanese gardeny; the frogs
like their little homes in the spouting pots,
aloe and water lillies and wormwood for the sour
stomach. yes, sometimes it's trippy, the messes
on the floor but thank gawd they leave his stuff alone
boundaries are negotiated, compromises reached.

he knows exactly where he put it last time
and it's not there now. she's always taking his damn
lighter, what a thief, man works all nite long can't come home
and walk without trippin over something then
she smokes all the rest of the weed.

no wait. that was her first .


you ate my peanut butter.
you always buy the wrong kind of toilet paper gawd!

~ gawd, you're useless!. ~
said in unison stalking into
seperate rooms.

when they negotiated the move
they tried to cover every contingency. "you know
the spare room could be your out "
he shrunk into a pintsized furball, bared his
teeth as the jaguar struck. cornered. no escape
besides he knew could feel the shriveled appendage
of belief at the top of his stomach, ravenous
never satisfied. he was desperate. she
had to know this.
it wasn't time.

time she cooed
when is anything in the universe ever
done on your schedule?

only the things you can manifest by yourself.
how's that workin out in there.


but that wasn't what she wanted to remember
sitting in a paris cafe by the seine, applying lipstick
by the window, smoothing her brow with a puff
pad. the water in diamonds across her lips
reflections like the ones from the fishtanks
late at night inside the tent, where he sleeps
with his children on visitation.
the quiet storms. aftermath of a good time.

she lives like a teenager. so decadent. familiar things
in a new place. she accomodates the files,
moves all the accumulated frangipangi
of her past into the storage dump, gives him
the extra room, the shed, the living room even.
because she had a fire. she was a refugee
from commerce, things had dispossessed her except
for the art on the walls. how they blended to
make the place look boheme and classic americana
she wants to remember how she tried to make it
less cluttered, but curtains fell off the rods
pictures drifted out of their frames, dirt built
castles and the tides were late in coming.

and he tried to live like that he did but her
dribble castles just confused him, how
do you plant flags in that mess? or he might
begin to like the jagged paths
the canadian daisies made after the first
spring, and the slivers of lanolin soap
she'd leave around like dropped trowels.

just, scattering. one day she said why don't you
open your boxes? he said, no i have all my hope
in there. it's for my home.

she laid down among her soaps and candles
and canadian daisies and that's where
she slept for a week until the moon was dark
again. then she went to him with a box
she had taped shut and asked him to
take it with him when he left, please
dont open it till later
because she wanted her home back as soon
as possible.


out the door.
well, at least she didn't take him
like the other two. three
on a mattress, always bad luck.
wonder what's in the box?
probably dead kittens or something .


she sat on the banks
of the river , made all of block and stone
swinging her legs back and forth
like a child. she'd always wanted to go
to europe. behind her a dribble castle
rose to the heavens, courtesy of gaugin,
with a ribbon of hope in her hair.


or you could laugh she said.
jump into the spring.
like a gamble you had to take
because the cards just looked so right.
so he did. when he hit the water
he went all the way to the bottom
of the muddy river and pushed back up
like a bear waking from hibernation
and this time, the hunger was real.

Thursday, June 05, 2008

it's how i leave

to the batcave alfred
where my supersteel batwings
will keep me warm and hanging
upside down for a different
perspective. life without you
goes on, you know. i have dinners
to eat, parfaits to share
open mics to miss, kisses to kiss.

after i share this important message.

HOw to KisS

(a primer)

slowly. form the word "you' with your lips
the y of creek meeting a cliff, note how water
enters the bank,seeping, invading, embracing
the shore's crags, the earth parting now, just slip
a tip, a small probe ,anthers emergent from shell
the water feels home, say prayer , let your lips
touch at r, say love, say lust, say lucky you

Sunday, June 01, 2008

hey he's heavy, he's my brutha

if that's not jesus, after the cross

then i dunno what we gonna be able to offer up.

dayum man, can't you see he's the one who could

heeeeeeeeeul us.


i don't feel like feeling hopeful

about a hopeless situation.

how i feel manipulated like oj framed

for a crime he committed. he's gonna pull it off

cuz the glove don't fit and no one's more surprised

than barak on the first night in the oval office
weight of his ancestry split/dual slave-master cleavage

he sits in his chair, the virtual space where jefferson confronted

his sons from lilith, paid recompense worth thurmond's indiscreetness.

the sick slick of politic

oyah but this pic can't you see it?

i mean, wtf? what marketing genius came up with this

prescience in a photo op? mostly she hates how

it feels like a history lesson she's already learned, like some exuberence

awaiting the knife. hail cesar, cesaer is dead. both of them doomed

to misspellings by anono internet scribes thousands of years in the future

a mote of mutation handling the radioactive ayahusca. whateVER.

i found the rat in the machine. it's firefox, they don't like my lack

of caps n stuff. but of course they're right. only by obeying certain conventions

of meaning and signification can we hope to communicate thru the written word.

the language-as-thought-development skool of signposts insists on boxing up meaning

because it's useful to be able to agree on red and red. some things might seem primal

like fire and ice but hey, how do i know your sensations and mine are alike? serial killer

with a soft heart, rabbit chewin a thistle. everything has its purpose you know, and that's

to feed something else.

but you know

he makes me hopeful. can't help it oh jezus

and kurst all rolled up like oreos.

yummy with milk. tasty with depression. a li'l sugar

and milkfat to bump the cycle into pinging a different commercial.

my sister thinks he's the antichrist. justin thinks << he's the anitchrist.

so who's right?

signs maybe point to no one, or more likely to obama according 2 a co author of left behind

((the rapture looks down at the implosion,) spaceship heaven departing for worlds only dreamed of till now

back to paradisaical earth by way of mice as men.
infected at an early age she dwells in sci fi concoctions
on sundays when rainfalls as memory soak
grass like morning dew. she's opened her blinds
changed the curtains from plaid to plumbago
blue, pond , bordered by silver with gold dragons, silky
panels the kittens who are left
love to slide along,
on the floor. made
for a girl's bed canopy, a spot
of menstrual blood like a brooch
on aunt obama's sunday go to meeting dress, fascinating
trainwreck, spots one sheer blue panel.
the hems are coming out, the material frays along the sides, like curtains are something
this material will be until scarlet
needs a dress to impress rhett.

sometimes her southern
female is all she has.

the uses of material change over time. one thing
becomes another. the internal dialogs
of the twelve people.

yes she's still chewin on that.

twelve signs in the zodiac. divide by four elements
and two hemispheres and there's three again. pesky li'l
catholic number. carbon's inner workings divided by 2.
the odd woman in. the uses of the middle.
the black the white and the in between.

don't you love how the halo is red white n blue?