crying over you

the daily show's coverage of your speech
is the most subtle form of irony i've witnessed
this season. i hate that we've lost the capacity
for hope because the machinery of public manipulation
works so well. watching the empire crumble
and put its people to the task of believing in a ceasar
again? some new blend of messiah cum roosevelt? telling
that they don't mention the old socialist, want
to stay as far away from verbotten
philosophies as possible, no
wonder my sis thinks he's the antichrist.

it almost hurts too much
to write this whole analysis, and you probly wouldnt
need it if you watched the damn clip








so

the problem is i believe in the system.
the system. it's true the founding fathers didn't enfranchise
the rabble. but they gave the code the capacity
to absorb change. they looked after their own self interests
but also the interests of the future. what they made
was a morphable king.

you say systems always move toward
entropy. this is just the nature of matter. fuel
to be feasted on by the next system arising.
ok, i give you this. still we all want immortality
don't we. scuse the tangent. i'm stoned.



i'm sure the fathers and mothers who birthed this system
were stoned too. i mean jefferson grew the herb.
i gotta give props the moms. i believe the patriarchs
were evolved enough to understand the wisdom in the counsel
of women, although not evolved enough to give them legal
rights to the fruits of the system. ahem, another tangent
unneeded but interjecting itself into the process.

the blanket continues to weave itself.
a root system brings flowers from underground.


gotta pee. brb.



















where was i?


somewhere in the process of deconstructing
the watershed over barak. i can call you by
your first name now, can't i? i mean, we're family
after all, aren't we? the family of we the people?
the immortality of an ideal that began
with bloodshed on the land, the only possible
means to disenfranchise tyranny? an embodiment
of the struggle to become unified, even if that unity
means genocide of the stalwart alien? aren't we
at least
all sinners?




don't drink the water

the daily show are a buncha scamps. ironists of the finest sort. i ask john,
does my earnestness deceive you? amuse you? make you envious, even?
cuz that's why the clip made me cry. that and pms. envy of the ability
to believe. the loss of innocence, incapacity to trust
in the bright beauty. too many elections.
too many times playing the anti who. s
and the video just heightens that loss.
the manipulation of facts to force a story
we've read so many times before, and its inevitable denoument.





the mole digs deep into the soil
its home is hidden in the folds of the earth.
water seeps into even rock, cracking it.


tell me how deep does the well between you
and the elite exist? could your core
be changed by power? you're an intelligent man,
i wonder how much megalomania you carry?
a leader has to be confident of his call, so a modicum
is necessary, but self doubt is essential. i think
i've seen enough of your character to believe you
have this. but i might just be projecting.

you seem to be an idealist who's pragmatic. do you understand
the nature of the beast because you've spent your life living it?
they seem to want turn you into a truman show. do you like that?
sometimes a leader arises who deserves the post.
that was the dream of the constitution. that a human being
could rise of his own volition into a position of leadership
and power, and effect change. that the very rise would distill her
into the cast which would be beneficial to the people
the country, the community, as a whole. the concept of rule
of reason was the ideal fostered, despite compromises
that had to be made at that point in time in order
for it to be implemented. thus, the birth of politix.
the politrix of gettin er done.


rugged individualism don't stand a chance against the herd ya know.
christ on the cross proved that. this is why we can't all be artists.

still, i wish you'd have chosen gov. bayh. he was on the daily too.
barak the candidate's choice of advisors
is what's shaking my faith. that's prolly
a good thing. faith like that is a dangerous
road into complacency.

it's good to be skeptical
about our leaders. it's what the framers
wanted, lest we get mired in revisionist
history( a redundancy of terms
that implies the last
vision was the "truth" and thus leads us
into the scarey waters of doublespeak.
though i advocate
the use of entropy in language, that's
only to let it survive
in a sedimentary way. omg. yet
another tangent. i've been writing
too long.) it's good to be skeptical but
it hurts to let go of the deus ex machina
that was my hope in you and in we
the people. so i still cling.
just barely, a bit nauseous from hanging
here by fingernails. i just, don't know if the toxicity
is survivable. are you real chemo, or just a placebo?

recharge

i've got a wistful memory of your fingers
across the strings, the way your eyes
ask what your lips can't form the way your lips
touch my hair meet mine across your brow.
sure, we only get an hour or two or at time
but some don't even get that. still, they love.
constant in a variable world. indeterminate
is the flux we live in, but we can make
a small nest from capacity and potential
and travel thru it, if we want to.

nana buluku

excavating my own skeletons. i wish i could embed this pic somewhere, it's what an underground sunset feels like.



hmmm, maybe i just keep editing this post. frozen core of tomorrow




(*&)(*&)(&()&(&

nana buluku


i eat each woolen thread of your skirt
suck at the corners of a bolivian bowler hat
squeeze your cabyellow purr into a mud flaked salt plain
and drive momma, drive. what about the fleas?
they never brought more than a bit of bubonic
to densely populated areas, the taste of kali
in my pinchers. every skull at my rouge lips-
puckered and sucking the byten flesh

i walk the plank 8 yards above the ground
to a scantily tiled plum and olive bathroom.
the toilet leaks. we only
have to stay one night.
the band plays outside with large brass horns
a rotiserrie of bacteria in musical fourths
and sixteenths, a staccato blessing
with molten rivers for crossing into
the single beds, pushed together
for comfort against the wind coming down
from the andes. the peagent is endless
every mountain with its crowning peaks
like a woman i was or bedded or raped
before my skin began to shred once again.

in the desert, i gather the tribes on the shore
of my last lake. in the mud
we make from canteens and buckets
we couple in teams of twenty
or more,simultaneous orgasm torched
and fallen on the sands. i die but not
before i'm reborn. my hands
caress your breasts. they are mine.



















)(*(&



ugh. damn it. so much interesting
in the world, and i surf i feel
like i'm part of it, for a minute
then i return and try to describe it
and it's ashes and mud on the page.


i want to weave like nat. but i don't.
i make blocks and stick feathers between
the cracks. i plod, not sway.


voodoo is forever outside my ken
it's too close to the lizard brain
i keep on a leash. i like my gods
more civilized, my sacrifices less
steeped in blood. give me a needle
and vial. poppy crop up 22 percent
and the stock market dropping. 16
truths, 32 ways to get
your lover back, 64 free
extra lives but still immortality
means someone else
has to die. let it be earl.

52 cards in a deck and more
in the tarot. love that journey
and the spices it makes. indeterminate
is the way to go. if you've lived it
if you project it on your screen
and have an internet minute
then why bother doing that again?
so many other experiences to try.

edwardian style page. the dracula vs frankenstein
debate. ed wood and his camp of b movies.
mAnt. georgia and her lover come from russia.
the teenage girl with a bomb in her vest
walking the streets of


well, you get the idea. when you gun down
your classmates cuz they dissed you
it only becomes classic if you're the first or the first
in a long time. i need some apple bobbers
and a glass of milk. august must mean
halloween's in the air and i'm craving sugar.







~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
reply


i don't like you
because you're careless
she looks at you
standing in the breezeway
with immaculate clothes
clean white ipod in place, a study
in control.
is she being ironic?


she turns back to her
piles of paper, shovels
through them, unearthing
with a pitchfork. you want
to speak, think you do--
the sound of your voice rings
in your ears. her eyes are focused
elsewhere, as if you didn't
speak at all.






~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~\

if fire


consumable, consumptive
the prayer of our masses.
~
sheer blue panels let the morning
in. you are still up, almost
sleepy now, the last of the music
softly fading, the gurgle of a coffee
maker keeps time, wakes the smooth
river in her eyes. it's not
what you expected, this time of quiet
fullnes, breath of slumber
arising, dawn of sleep.
even the clang and shift
of the garbage truck is muted
and expectant. you thought
something different might arrive-
pine needles or a conflagration.

pour the coffee into steamed
milk, add sugar. sit at
the edge of your bed brush
dreams from her face. she watches
from closed lids, holds her arms to the sky.

set the cup onto the nightstand, an old beer
case from a dead friend. she collects
memories, uses them, so they glow.
dried rose petals litter the floor. and feathers.

bend and kiss her lips, she curls
and crooks, enfolds you, so
the flame.

clouds, revisiting

she crosses and recrosses the sky
curling in on herself, crying
in scattered fits like a teenage
girl when everything feels too real and forever.

the wind's died down. just scattered puffs
from inside of clouds. gray iris, intermechanics
of being. she'll rain herself out soon.

excavation

so i have two very old yahoo mail accounts
during the time when hotmail was the hottest thing
and yahoo a smalltyme player. the inboxes are stuffed
with astrology forecasts, spam, grist, automatic
notices and cgg come ons. i dunno i decided
to look in the sent file and found a poem
praised by a good friend submitted, rejected.
been wondering about it for a while, was it
really all that? good poems age like wine, corked.
this one is too sugary by half with a hint
of moulder. still,

mathematics (after kipling)
>
> once upon a time love was whole
> it needed nothing outside of self,
> or so it would say to rain when rain
> whispered like a thousand cicadas
> against its windows.
>
> it started with a crack a vibration
> of desire. shhhhush! love told rain
> go see to your rivers. but rain drove its
> fingers into the fissure pried and pulled at love
> till love fell apart and let rain wash fill it.
>
> being already full there was no room for rain and love
> to be together so love let go some of itself
> let rain settle in grooves that burst in the absence
> of where love once was now striating now coalescing
> now disolving through one vessel or another
> it didn't look like a spiral it didn't
>
> taste like mint. trying to hold
> itself it fell, water through a clay fork
> and that became the moon, my love,
> and that became the sea.
>





so i keep reading, emails to people i don't remember
and to those i do. poems dropped across the line
like this one, i once tried to turn into a song.
i think i like the verse about running along the river best...


flame
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
her fingers small and pudgy
reach out and touch the brightness.
she pulls back screaming
sucks the burn
cries herself to sleep

she's drawn to the way
a bic flares, the sound of match
the crinkly dryness of summer brush
rippling like creekbed over pebble.
she gathers tinder by feel
under half moon.


daddy taught her about fire
rings but not about sparks.
she runs beside the canal as the night
brightens. her shoes are covered in soot.


she never gets caught but her hair turns red.
she sees the glow of the oven
reaches to touch it with a tissue.

her mother warns her.
she warns the sun.
the sun stops listening she can tell
can't you see all this darkness?
she reaches the pinpoint of combustible.

porcelain yin

they are watchin, watchin with big
eyes they love the obit. who survives whom.
the dead don't walk on the stage anymore
they swell in the mannequin's skin,
brushed red velvet for vein, aorta, ventricle.

on the phone one animal. on the chat a second.
the whirlwind approacheth, an email from an unknown
source. a camel moving toward a needled eye.

let us depart now for central egypt
on a leather hassock. if we put it between us
on the floor, we can rest our feet there
on the way to babylon and beyond.

the tea ceremony depends on pouring
with a steady hand, the cup is the color
of jade. it rings as it's struck
by the stir of the spoon, adding sweet.

down in the mississisipsi cougar triangle

did you see? jamie lynn
run back home to mommy with
her sweet new baby girl
all wrapped in pink in her arms. she
been living with that casey boy
the one's been runnin round behind her back
with that cougar that sings down at the xroads bar? o i
knew when she got pregnant that boy
was no good for her, just like her sister
what did that woman do to her
daughters make them keep
picking such flighty men? hayull
girl had no business keepin
that baby anyhow she just a baby herself
and the boy
only nineteen, just begining
to sow his oats, prime
cougar bait and she
is some looker
too teach him something i heard
she broke it off just
before the baby was born but they were
seein each other on the side
for all the same two
years now
you tell me how
did the boy get away with keepin
both them lookers at the same time i swan
he must have some hot
licks what is it you said
he does again?

total internal reflection

if you light a candle in a room
lined with perfect mirrors,
would the room stay illuminated
after the flame is extinguished?

a yellow tshirt flags
the cat inside the box ,burst
mode coupling. profoundly outside
my own skin, i don't recognise
myself anymore. bend 180 angle
retrieve the photon tunneller from under
a cart. like i was twenty or something.

if you're going to move faster than
the speed of light, you might need
an inertial dampening field. my son in law
broke the bookshelf glass, take a piece of that.
hold it to your eye.





the new dryer spins
evanescent wave amplifier
the purr happens no matter what
happens to your ears. boneless.

i gotta go find some more lines to steal
southpark isn't original enough. pliable animal,
a fluff full bag of happy. a simple slab
of left handed material will do the job.

if i remember to say please, will you put
the dishes in the dishwasher then?

ridding myself of a bit of stress

one.
flip
zero.
not a byte. a bit not
a bitter byte.
rid the rads
hide the hads
little gone
a li'l mad. flip one .
flip
zero
a bit not
a byte.
a li'l thing
tiny mite flip
one. erase
zero. a bit.
a.
bit.
o. bit.

"you win on the cougar thing

Yes you stalk and eat your prey. Yes a cougar is a dangerous animal. However so are some women (and men). Trying not to be sexist here. I just think you are too close to the subject to view it very objectively. "

perhaps i am. i don't know. maybe you are too used to swimming in the waters to see that sexism is endemic in our lives? i like to study trends and this particular trend is a very interesting one. it's always been around i suppose but it's rarely been so prevalent in the popular culture. add to the usual mix the feminist social influence of the last 30 years and it morphs all the past paradigms, brings something new to the table. dare i say a mellinial arch/an evolutionary thinking? if immortality is indeed around the corner as some scientists speculate, then age will cease to be a factor after a certain amount of time has passed. but if our society is mired in ageism then the journey will be harder, it might even cause civil war.

anyway, i don't really consider myself to be a cougar, even though society might. maybe a maggie may, but not a cougar. a cougar is always hungry, out for the kill. i just happened to be attractive to and be attracted to a younger man or two. or three or was it six? damn i lost count. smirk. there were three. i don't know, i'm really turned off by the atmosphere in literature and movies and culture that views everything in terms of what it brings to the male. tho i suppose we all have the center of the universe thing going on. cougar hunters , though, are riddled with it. their centers are as hungry as the cougar herself, a cycle of hunger, renewing and consuming.

but is there anything else about the cougar? does the exchange give her youth, sustenance, beauty, allure? or is it that she keeps alive in the hunter the spirit of the chase? is that all we care about? is that all that needs to be said? why is this woman a cardboard cutout? or more interestingly, why isn't the man? a cougar in societal terms is an aging slut, a pheobe price. in the eyes of much of society, an animal. show me one characterization of the male in a role reversal position that comes close to that. compare cougar to sugar daddy . as in i want a .. that's not deadly. at least, not physically.

in the movie american pie, the milf was indeed that. a mother. i'd . love. to . fuck. oh what must our daughters think ? yes indeed, i hope they appreciate the lessons we give their future husbands. and truthfully, the milfs don't mind passing that on. it socialises the male before he has children. ah maggie, where are you now? in the mountains with claws and fangs waiting for your juicy husband to be my dear. has the poison apple ever been more cleverly disguised?

saturday

i was in north florida at my sister's wedding. it was relatively informal but they had a methodist minister presiding. i am so far removed from religious institutions that it seemed at once quaint and full of masked truths. as the minister tied the knot around their hands, a flock of white birds appeared over the pine trees, just under the greyblue clouds that auspiciously moved on without raining. if what the preacher meant by "jesus" is in other terms called "grace" then what he said about it coming into their lives in unknown or unasked for ways was already presenting evidence. it was a time of profound wishfullness, fulfilling itself. i was glad to be there to witness it.

selfpyschotherapy

we were walking back to your place
and i was bitching about you and you
and the marriage
i stayed in too long see i was
wondering why i have
such a difficult time letting you go
seeing as how we hadn't even touched
in what feels like years,
how it took me years
to get over you and when i did
finally believe you love me
you didn't anymore, how
it seems like everytime i fall in
love it's a well deeper than the one
you're in so that obsessive
came to mind &
more than once to the tip of your tongue and i know
it's true, i do obsess, look at how i still
wanted to be your friend because we had a lot of time
between us, did a lot
of growing together but how
i didn't want to be your friend because
everytime i get near you it's alchemical gold
so that would just be
frustrating
way more than when you and i get
together these days so that brought the subject
of love vs lust - i should be so
over that at my age, shouldn't i
shouldn't i be able to distinguish the two
by now but you know my wallflower
history, the lifetime i spent
married to the wrong man, the first love
obsession, then 2ybf then rebound perfection
then re-you and re & re till
i'm sure your head
was spinning like the atom
in mine so aren't you
glad i'm finally to the point that
all those nasty
fights where you told me yeah
go ahead leave no one else would
ever want you
are faded enough for me
to be the one
who finally does go?

simple thanks

what good is your logic and rationality now, huh? faithlessness is its own hell. you're welcome to it. thank you for not seeing me for all this time, for rejecting me over and over so that i could forget the way we feel when we're together like a poem i once thought the best, now faded and meaningless. oh i'll be awhile still getting over you, but thank you for the head start.

mute

that's what i want to be
because i'm tired of crying
and wishing but i just
can't stop bitching.

so i took all the letters
containing your name
and muted them. i'll use them
one day i'm sure. maybe before
i fall into the fray again
just as reminders of how
the lies of the mind
can infect the body as well
how the lines in our lives
lead us to the places
we need the most. i guess
cuz that's where we stay.

lesson

scarely breathing now
i watch your receeding back
shivering like an echo cardiogram's
final ping. flatline.

the cave was so huge tom & huck
got lost for weeks, wasn't it?
everyone thought they were dead.
drag the river for corpses but
nothing showed up. still, a funeral
had to be held. closure was needed.
that's how communities held themselves
together, in mutual grief and comfort,
when paddleboats were king of the river.



i stood at its mouth and called you.
nothing showed up. i sent you off
with a kiss. you said i love you
and disapeared. it's dark in there.
you had your supplies and a lamp,
a map of favorite hidey holes.
genies and lamps to rub.
you told me you didn't want to come back
but i didn't believe you. now i do.
i left a note there at the entrance
but i'm pretty sure you're gonna take
the back way out. i guess i'll just go
tell the townspeople we'll never know
what became of you. they'll bring
casseroles and fried chicken to the service.
i'll bring a plate of twenty different
kinds of olives and some mixed nuts.
i'll eat one of each kind. also some fried
chicken. with every bite i'll swallow
a piece of hope and when i'm done
grief can take the leftovers
back to the cave and leave them
in the imprint i made in the mud.
i'm not exactly hungry and you don't like olives
but i've been craving sustenance and the oil
might be useful , if you're still inside.

grace in rags

it's the day before work the day before
the beginning of the school year. my computer's
power jack is intermittent. i may lose touch
with the outside world at any time. the house has
fallen into entropy. i plan on becoming a wave
for a few hours, riding my useless advice
into making my own surroundings something
comforting. last nite aching from another
failure, impossible bills, world insolvency, your derelict
soul came over with a ball of beer and a bottle of jack.
as always you came to the wrong house. the partay
was down the street with peeps of your age
whom you despise because you see your self
in them. instead we watched the first
episode of the twilite zone on cbs.com.
the one where a guy comes to, walking down a road
alone, toward a town where everyone has
left one second before he gets there. smoking cigar
in the ashtray, percolator just beginning to perc. on top of that
he doesn't know who he is and there is no one to ask.
wonder what foucalt, unbuttoned, would make of that...

i want to take all the credit between us, our children, computers,
our high speed internet connections, talent, brains and will
and go to the commune now, k? i think there's enough of us
with nothing to really lose to be able to do it now.
the technology for sustainable advanced living is available
and the prices are going down, the housing market's
in the toilet, guidance for interpersonal relationships within
alternative communities is readily available...

ah what am thinking? not enough drugs in the world.











()_******





you tell me you're a ghost. your body is back at your one room
apartment, on the ashfilled floor, covered now by fleas
and eventually, if no one comes to find it, eaten by the cats
those fleas live on. for once you'd have done them some good.
i wish you were catholic so someone could absolve you.
spoiled rich kid that someone always bails out.
how eventually you come to accept that you're a fuckup
at everything but love. and even that is twisted
back into yourself because you hate you.
i dunno how to answer to the crime of being human.
i sometimes feel as if joy and beauty is bound in a full moon
falling on the twisted trees that have survived
this round of the developer's bobcat in the lush empty
fields between the centers of control. a person could feel
alive with the silvery light falling on the mushrooms all around.
touch one, a dry sponge- unimpressionable
unless you squeeze it, unimpressive unless you eat it.

















*()(*



so i don't know how to fill
a black hole. stretched on the verge of eternity
i'm gone in a second. you could look
on me for eons but
the light you see isn't all me at all.
you could call it immortality but i don't remember
anything beyond this small stretch of now.
and it hurts, this sloughing of photons.
the hot shower takes away some of the pain.
concentrate on the muscle in order to forget it.




















U*)(

a couple weeks ago i wrote my will
on the bloodstained couch in your place.
you made music which seemed
to turn you hopeful and which sits
in your ears now like bluebottle flies.
you can't undo the thinking -
consciousness as an antidote to hope,
idiocy its repetition. i took the yellow
sheets on which i'd written my post mortem wishes
crumpled them into balls, she shoots she scores
two points and the other becomes a toy for the healthier
kitten to bat about the room in a pretense of hunting
till she learns the meaning of inanimate.
good use of materials, imo.









*()

and you have so many more years of this.
i think i've made you disbelieve in love
and for that i'm profoundly sorry.





again

lean on me

goin back
oh thirty years i was
introduced to black gospel
on the radio. spoke to me
then, now it's in my head
singing something i wanted
to hear, something i wanted
to say. feels like a
promise from god that bastard
reminds me of lucy
and i'm charlie brown.
then i remember who pulled
the ball away this time.
hadda be me, i was the only
one there.
must be august
when i use football metaphors
or maybe i just wanted to take
god down
a peg and this has
nothing to do with the sublime
after all because if we cripple
ourselves yeah
that's a choice, ain't it, so go
ahead on lean on
me cuz you know
we all got needs, someday
i'ma need you same way
and i dunno if this infection of hope
comes from obama or the bottom
of the well or sheer perversity
but it seems like every cliche in the book
resides here with me at work
and some of them
i'd like to embrace.

5 minutes to rain

black cloud to the west
it's about to spill as i pull
into work. begun
in the car, i finish
these notes
at the door, breathless

1)moonlight sonata
2)streets from your skin
3)let the bodies hit the floor

the trees move
in the wind before
the storm like my veins
when i'm in your arms but
i try not to think
about that.

lief

blowsy and overgreen losing spring
color and other flexible
assets. sun's been gone too long.

aged film and exposure-
faith plays a flickering imax canopy.


gifted roses curdle and dry,
patchwork venetian blinded.

a single red bell lit thru
frosted glass. from the outside
it's a spot from a shotgun
from the inside, a bloom holding
the last of the fade.

take five

one year i used to
write a poem a day.
sometimes there's poems in your hair
but i'm not picking thru that again.

stuck here for a little while
i defer, distract, do one more
piece for the master. i don't understand
why i don't give my job more respect
it's been with me all these years
and it treats me like home.

politico

i have to admit my sister might be right about obama.
haven't done the research but i must say if i got a choice
between skeletor and some sexy new world order
i'ma say get me a 666 and microchip.

skeletor's court today is held on the deck of an offshore oil rig near galveston, texas. the one that was missed by that pesky hurricane last week. skeletor's baseball hat is front and center to show you how much he's like you, not like those young sideways cap sportin, boxer short exposin, card playing, tire inflating elitists ova theh. yo. he says "my opponent does not believe in offshore oil drilling my oponent does not believe in nukular power, my opponent wants you to stop driving your harleys and your humvees and put away your b52 records for god sakes my opponent is racist against beehive hairdos and bees and butterflies..." and at that moment the man who ws supposed to release the butterflies from the the skeletor stasis field was discovered choking on his own vomit and had to be airlifted five miles back to the beaches of texas, which were enjoying a brief respite from white sand thanks to the oil spill last week. back to you jack.

&^%&%^&&^6557%&^&^&%&^%

notes from inside the web


school is about to begin, i've infected
my son with ennui, nothing seems to catch
his attention except guitar hero and south park.
tonite we watched three episodes together, family
nite in reverse. my ex, my son & me spending
quality time watching tv. now they're doin what boys
do, talkin left /up/ up/ down and plotting civilizations
in vampiric universes. i worry about the future,
but in a vague after my eightieth birthday way. every day
i feel more and more irrelevant. i realise they have to deal
with the system going entropic in a very real way.
blade runner morphs into a stacato matrix.
the ways of marketing burn the disc into a repetitive
fresca. bubbles on the rise. fruity loops combined with elemental
screams, it still feels good to thrash when the trash
comes down. i wish i wasn't so cryptic now, sometimes
i read those and wonder the hell?


i had a thread. let me sew it up. the dryer
breaks down. window leaks. in another home, ford prefect,
the male kitten, refuses to eat real food. he wants
to nurse. his mother is eaten with fleas. poison lines
the floor, poison on her back, three different kinds
and still the fleas thrive. he tries his best but bugs
evolve in a day. nothing the chemical companies produce
affect the invasion. ford's
are the eyes of an angry, hungry, willful boy. his nose
is lined with black, his tail lined with bloodsuckers.
the bubonic plague was carried by fleas. i have a boil
on the inside of my thigh which i attribute to the ancestor
that survived that viricide, but it's prolly due
to caffeine and stress.

i wonder if bubbly dark matter is sorta like an ocean
or if it's the lightless chasms between aorta and ventricle.
where in god's body do we, as a world in fractal throes exist--
maybe his toe? the big one? beauty? i can hear you scream
as the bone is broken, the cusp formed. after the origami
nightmare is finished, she lays on her side on a divan panting
in small rigid gasps. he kisses the circle of her foot
where his cum keeps the skin soft and pliable, his
mimetic cunt where he can watch his pleasure
be real. sometimes the things we do to each other
defy any rationalization, so it must be at the pleasure

of the gods. take the girl in the window. her feral
experience a national news story. gifts pouring in as if
she were an abused pet. everyone wants to adopt her now
but she might have died and no one would have known
least of all herself. beauty? the way it tears at the roots
of what you were to help you become something
symmetrical and bleeding. crimp your hair, wax goodness
on the inner thigh, stilletto and seams. princess dresses
of pink chiffon and piled high hair. rococo buildings
with hour glass columns. the yatch at the mooring
in tiger bay where the sampan cities block the bay.

she never gets the names correct but it really doesn't matter
it's an alternate and alliterative universe. she realises the incoherence
is annoying but fails again and again into failure. she understands
it's all been said, every pieta, every scorcese film, each and every
oprah show a paean to normalcy imbued by high school. how can she
even pretend to her son the value of socialization when cliques
inevitably form, when isotopes gather on the edges of the high school
and threaten to hang the niggers from the rope they strung up
in the old oak tree grown for whites only? the future? frantastic.

if only the old growth forest would get out of the way but
no, it's all about longevity with those joshua things.
why won't you die hangs in the air . even the chainsaws
are beginning to fail. the bark hardens like iron. old fuckers
are hanging on for... what? novelty? when was this ever different?


i'm beginning to like the plot of soylent green.
that's when you couldn't trust anyone under thirty
when logan ran and escaped because his skin
was beginning to wrinkle, when the botox retropicalization
was all shiny and new. suicide not only was ok
but socially sanctioned so we could feed the new.

well? why not? do i really want to live into those future decades
with all this nostalgia for idealism imprinted into me? i think the soylent
green building should be called the kervorkitorium. i liked the way
logan's people turned it into a game, where you go out in a blaze of glory.
i realize those movies could only have been written by the middle aged, and
i sometimes hope we've bred a generation of natural born killers out there
in the desert. someone who could hack the head off the man in the seat
next to him on the greyhound bus in a methodical manner as if from
a demon. the screams of beauty echo in from the luggage compartment.
the mountainous main highway, where peaks describe beauty
in majestic, vertiginous terms. the softening
of her breasts as the bra is removed, the almost imperceptible
decline of centuries of wear and tear. even the mountains
wash to the sea.


























and then again.
suicide as option?
well why not. i still think
i'd like to survive most days.
beauty is so ephemeral
i wanna see what butterflys by my window
tomorrow.




*^*&&^


in which i realize that vampires deserve their own universe



in the bedroom where the game has been downloaded
onto the new computer, purchased for an online career
in agoraphobia, males stroll thru the story,interacting
with existent, existential beings. some of this is preplanned
some of it a combination of bits collapsing into each other
but none of it is unwritten. unless the machine really does
have ghosts. the lucky star motel, room 2.

aladdin has pointy shoes, left outside the door
as if this were a hotel where jeeves will insure
their return, patched and neatly peaked. my own feet
still hurt from when they were broken in the fourteenth
century, and i wonder if this is where my dyspepsia for paterfamilia
begins. if i use the words wrong, it's just my struggle with hanging
this landscape we've been debating. there's a bit of room
of the walls here, but mostly the ancestral visages
age along the corridors while the models are out being dorian gray.

in my vampire universe, that's how they do it. and if the blood
isn't drawn then the drawings seditiously take their revenge.

i was talking to you last nite about beauty. you called me vain.
didn 't seem to get the point about why we crave it, the truths
i unearthed just mosquitoes buzzin around your monitor ears.
not everything relates back to my bog of skin in a direct manner.


isn't the death of a star a beautiful thing? they say jesus was born
on the first night we saw a supernova's ghost in our sky. the light
lit up the desert for months. i don't know if that's the actual recorded
values, you know how myth receeds from truth over time. formulaicly
m>th/tx. and maybe there were lives inside that star system
maybe there were other babies being born inside that explosion.
i would mourn them. i do. but the past is not regrettable
if you never lived it. the regrets of not doing are a different simulation-
i'm well aquainted with it.

i guess i didn't know

on hold for 25 minutes, the music
is prescient, sardonic. i remember
this song from when you taught me
the ways of X. mark of the slacker
techno bars on electronica
followed by she of the cone bra
rocket ship madonna. i'll cry
for you. i wonder if you
there on the other end, will
ever pick up this phone?
i could put you on hold on day
as well. it won't matter, your manager
doesn't care, as long as you're
peter, he can be a dick.









well superstition didn't do it either.
i left to get some parts
and i'm still on hold. dealing with madonna.



ok when it's one hour
you win

static discharge

tho i carry you
pulsing thru time
the innocent memory
in a box made of flesh
is that all we have left?

soon we all go to bones
beyond that, in our tombs
lie the tracing of who and what
we once were atop of the thing
that holds only a score
of what made us whole, and living
and free. and answer me this
what good is the grief
of people who knew us or knew
of us then? all time passes thru
our wages of sin.

so what is this thing i'm waiting to have
and to hold in these arms not yet dead and cold?
it is only in living and only in giving
that we can be true to the air of our feeling.

swallowing your cliche

"nothing good comes easy"

take the little white pill
everynite to help you sleep my
beauty, everyday to ease the pain
my dear. i have a bed for you to lie
in, crisply made, cool &soothing
and look how everything is taken care
of for you now, supper on the table
soma in a bottle.

what's that? don't fret about that, my sweet,
my angel, my bff. i can always get more.
i have the keys to the medicine cabinet.

it's a tough world out there, isn't it?
it's so nice to come home to the white
pill, the white pill, forget about
the red one, the blue one the pink one
it's the white, like angelwings
to adore. forget that herb

you're always on about. self medication
really isn't the way to go. there's a pill
in every color of the poppy but the poppy herself
is made from every color. do you see?
i'm white.