Sunday, March 31, 2013


now that faceplace has everyone doin  a play by play
i realise how far ahead of mass production the box players were.
we wanted to be   changers, game bangers
and i think we were. it only takes a few shamanistic trips
to get everyone confessing evil thoughts and apparently
some aren't satisfied with thoughts. now
 all society's , coming unglued from the fascia
tweeting rapes and sundry crimes for content.

ok so mostly i stay out of camera's view
had my sip of fame, a little too bloody .
cringing at recognition, specially by
  myself am i that fat, that old? gray excess
 tired eyes i wonder  when i lost my wonder
. why am i alwaysso tired. how
 did i let those docs talk me into a biopsy?

 anyhow, all a meat show.  nothing
to cling to. is. nothing. the gong. the going flesh
god inherits melts away within life.  the moment
eating itself. i never wanted to leave
a big track or hang out as legend
 unable to attend the party,sasquatchy maybe
or hemingway.

  went back to read the minutes.
found my editorials on the matter quite beside the point.
why put yourself through the past.
wasn't once enough?

but that's all writing is, reiteration
a poor carbon copy of the dao. miss
those days though. ever.ything fades.


cut my finger tonite doing dishes
im weary  of cooking, eating.
want to lose this daily grind. you think
i might need a stitch or two but
spring wants its sacrifice, shadowboxing
with salience and snowstorms
this can be my groundhog wound
several weeks too late.

anyway, i'm glad it's still cool enough
to cook a ham since my a/c is broken.
 one more meal and i'll
be done  for a while
 this belly's gotta go.

the long hot summer's coming on
2013 portends changing labels, meteors
with stamina and willpower,
 rising tides,meltdowns in korea
earthquakes fracked into existence
more murder suicides than nostradamus
shook his stick at. kalpakalpakalpakoming
for you tonite, the nite of the special k/


dry dry dry.


i have to write as if no one will ever see this.
not you, or you , or you again. you stop reading
or never begin, you insist i voice it to you
you eat my poems, burp, then excuse yourself.
nothing left for my poor li'l bloggista.

 my peony of pleasure.
 melt me back to twenty
let me smell the sweat we couldn't
i see the way you wanted to be
and is it really too late? that's the key
that unlocks craigslist.
 the weight of our choices
lead us to now, half formed
longlings in a new land,
wonder a granted one best not take.

synthesised shake

gongy tunes
sunday noons
spring storms shake
memories loose , bake
flowers into sky, wonder shy
eggy with chocklit treats
hidden beats.

i'm fine not doing your laundry
so why do i bristle? washing instructions
annoy me. it should be enough that i do it
but if you want it done a specific way
then i won't. why bristle?
the energy expended is at least equal
to the discussion, summery.
maybe i'm finally getting   pickled
soft in my old age ing.

heat stroke, the guitar inflouresces
mimosa notes, clove honey ham on the bake.
i could start a load of towels or plant the aloe
your daddy gave me. just add water.

pandora one is gonna be an irs purchase.
other things will be scrubbed, scraped and painted.
ghosts will cling, but not much else.
we can fill it with cig smoke and sage
advice we never take.

Thursday, March 28, 2013

dayte line luna . pre easter post script

the moon's so full you call
can you see it come up beyond
the trailers in the back? i'm just
around the corner, be home soon

once upon a time
we were blessed by hive
 hum , honey,the flower's
 negative charge.

  we forgot about fog and tsunami clouds
rolling over our  city scape under
 the moon's bright benediction

time rides the north wind, insectoid,
mitesque. makes me long to fly at nght
follow strange chemical markers
lose my way.

let's blame the cat for everything
new growth, the spinning world,
the tray, spilled upon the duvet.
she doesn't seem to mind and
it lets everyone else off the hook.

i hear netting and smoke is the best way
to calm bees down. you can raid the combs
right out of the boxes without attack.
 no cat needed, except for comic effect.

that's kind of a happily ever after
because bees can always make more.
if we want to.

Saturday, March 16, 2013

jack k. rolls in his grave

its the flamingo bar where jack k
had his last drink. they're giving poets
ten  minutes each, backed with music
the flamingo bar  now packed
with bikers, like any respectable dive.
a place jack would feel at home at
if dean and luc were by his side. but wtf
on a saturday night?
on saint PADDY:S eve begorra.

and this one, timing the things she reads....

well ive always said ima poet
i can do these crazy things.

jack k was  a spring baby, product
of a summer love before the summer of. .
that's about all i  know.
recently read on the road
saw the nexxus of modern morality
formed in telephonet lines and thumbed rides
across this wild and crazy country
whose citizens culitvate homeostasis, status quo, normalcy
where jack ks and dean ms and poets and writers and bikers and the maimed
fuzz in like charlie parker puttin a needle in his vien.

oh yeah.
and the nothing left to lose ness of it.

the it ness
the beatness
the quickness
the sweetness
of tea and women and whine on the road.

where does it go?

swooping horns, manana mourns
the fallout boys and century toys
the voice of god from a harley
the voice of satan in a charlie
bravo one two three, dean and sal a serendipity.
times are then the time of now
alls i can do is wow and flutter in the wake
of on the road and eaten cake.