Tuesday, September 29, 2015

curry and smoke

food lost its lustre sometime last year
after ebola victims  paraded across
the internet news zones, zombies facing
their own apocalypse, shades of times

like virgas, melting into ours. you steal
everything they want to say, you take
assimilate, force me into your holidays
like a catholic bishop in machu pichu.

spoils often go to the intrepid, there's nothing
pc about survival and nothing survival without
eating. i've lost my appetite for bounty, picked
over the grist and got gothammed for free.

but what about the zombies, coming across
the mountains right about now, those who flee
the drones all set on  seedbombing
  with flowers of concrete,
busted steel and children's flesh.

do you see anything else when you turn on the news?

well i watch fb and
i saw some goats in trees and a lovely retreat
inspirational aphorisms, this kitten is sweet,
the elephant cuddles up with an ostrich,
a jaguar releases her prey though she's not rich
halloween's coming, then christmas, then may
we  gotta stuff down every goddamn holiday and i
in my fatsuit and you in your ladder, eat pie
with whipped cream and get fatter and fater
 though i heard him exclaim
 as he climbed on the roof,
 just don't look at me eating
 and those calories go poof.


i see the short distance between, say,
the whites of your eyes and your gun.

i don't know why you'd keep telling me
how you used to be. that life was over
when you survived the march through
 four years of desert, pillaged by your comrades,
 your buddies and allies.
don't tell me how it was
when you put on the hajib
  went into the village to be captured
.if it's  jihad there's more
 where that came from.  the land of achy
 strategy mingles with  the taste of garlic on my lips.
so you go, so we flee, so  bombs keep coming till
all you can hear in your dreams
 is the whine before explosion
the wail of mothers cradling gassed children. some of them
were you, though most of them were not.
you could not let them in. it was as though
 a veil were drawn, a history fulfilled
that was not part of your world. until you met them
at the fence topped with razor wire, climbing
into your country, antlike, one atop another, pulling each other
over the second fence, hundreds dropping and running
 into your backyard  and there you are with your riot
gear and your billy club and maybe even a gun but the ammo
runs out then the clubs comrades are wrested
from your  hands and turned on you and you run and you run and you run
but all your keys are for doors that no longer exist
no one answers the banging,  the fishmonger
 at the market doesn't know you, though
you bought his wares once a week
for that last five years, the clerk in the cafe
you eat lunch at daily
won't give you a glass of water
 and the woman you called your wife
looks past you as if you
 were a ghost she not only doesn't see
but never met, once.
 how do you pick up a life from that?
get a job, get a tent, get
 a bowl of rice a day. carry
the  shells of your city   in a knapsack at your hip.


one day you come to america
to live in your cousin's trailor. he shares it
with seven other men from your country.
they all work at his business,  a car wash/fruit stand
located under a canopy at a texaco station
 about a mile and half from the trailer park.
he says you must work there
 to pay him room and board.you
do not get to deal with the customers.
 your job is to pick through
 the fruit and vegetables, saving as many
as you can from the pile he sells to the pig farmers.
 turn the wrinkled pepper, the soft tomato
 to the bottom of the quart
peel the mold from the onions. one day he says
you will graduate to vacuuming
cars. you were a doctor in your country.
a country that blooms red rubble
  detonation supplied by the country in which
you are now a refugee.
  but the water is hot when your turn comes.
you   save the few dollars left every month.
some of the men here,
those here longest, drive cars.
 you  wonder if this is how they did it.
 you don't remember
 the name of the girl
they said you'd marry, only the smell of curry
drifitng from the corner store as she
 pulled the door open and walked
inside , lost in  a moment ,time
 bleeding from there to here-where you stand
outside an indian restaurant consumed
by the scent of  silence before
 the whine begins again.

Saturday, September 19, 2015

anger mismanagement

so the thing is i don't control her
what's a quarter life worth if you can't
be yourself? just accept what she
wants isn't what i wanted for her
realize i can't make up for that now
with any amount of anything.
so soccer moms n dads
two days in the company of family
and the internal scream begins.
soon to be delivered to the baby here's the thing
right to lifers you've duped all these
young women into believing abortion is murder
you want fodder for...i can't quite figure out what.
yahoo headlines? the daily mail scandals if you're
lucky but mostly mom kills son and daughter
fails to kill self. i don't think i could take that.
she'd need to be dead as well for me to even
begin to be able to forgive. why am i  more in love
with her child than my own? because mine
is lost to me, nothing will change
what i raised into the world
back into a possibility with hope
instead of despair. she wants nothing
more than to be allowed to live
in the manner to which she is accustomed
which, reasonably, is poverty.
wow. what should i
what could i
it's a lifestyle choice that will no doubt
pop up like a boil as the child grows.
she will see, her grandad and i aren't
such naifs in the woods as she thought.

cause for effect

i'm scared of my pancreas
the scar i've had since three
burns above my heart
fuck. hat's not what i wanted
to write . it got silent in here
now i can let the bugs in
the telephone rings like a new day.
it's the right number for burnt
offerings to take the next leap.

she wants to live a different way.
they all have money, she says
and they aren't happy.
unless they're drinking i don't know
about you but i drink to get away. if
their lives are so great why
do they always have
 alcohol in their cups?
she does go on and i think when
did she get all. fundamentalist
put on those survivor shoes become stay
at home, woman. she likes it that way.
i think she shoulda married money she's ok
with marrying con. gangsta speak in da streetz.
we get by, she say. we get by. i think slacker's
a lifestyle i can get behind if your daughter
weren't my kin. i think - srsly? ur gonna
defend not buying her a real pair of
shoes in her life because you
don't have money left after you meds
which leads me to the fez ribbon
banquest, whats all you hangup
round here with earning your way.
entrepeneur's an important word to master
cuz if they believe, you get money faster.
so you believe, like the donald, you'll see
the give it away like it grows on trees..
capice? nuff said.
maybe you'll make it after all
but not if you spend all your time in thrall
to the bed or the wrecked head from paul.

xo isn't life just.

Sunday, September 13, 2015

the negative pumping of water

science is at it agian,
wants to target cells with plant derived
delivery systems
an uber of the\\\\\\\\\\\\cellular type
giving us things we need,
red pilled assassins in the stream

it seems the nexus is at it again, terrance
  the music of man i knew before
i knew the man in my bed,   friend zoney
music bound. you play the soundtrack to our
cloistered debates, sitting in the corner
with a cheap speaker and a synth.

there's always a reason you close a shitload of reference windows
with a stroke, accidentally. even if only for the sacrifice of it, unwitting
the pennies go to heaven. recently closed tabs. google did it for ya.
not to worry, the machine is thinking ahead of your gaffes
the ancient paramiliatry march in the capital, offences of thought
speech and accent betraying la revolucion in infancy. snuffed
with a knife in the bedroom, defenseless and the perp a corpse
beside you. the wind up theramin nightmares in the trees.
october approacheth with your keys.

the smoke is almost double wall pressure good.
you want to keep it simple but the organ won't let you
it pierces the exhaled trail, sniffs out hiding places
bays at the river where he vanished for a moment
picks you up on the far side. let me be clear. the body fails
disapates, ebbs and flows, a wave pattern on the beach
covered in foot prints. words fail. images get wiped.- today
is a new day, drawn up with biomemetics
 from a butterfly's wing pattern.
 let the light in seven different ways and still
no synthesis. you think plants have beaten you but
you don't understand that if you master them
it's you who've won. not synthetic photosynthesis
the thing, the seed, root , stem and stamen. on demand.
the process man, the process!


if we don't hurry we won't be able to have that sex all day.
ah shit, it's already tomorrow.


interesting factoid. they're making gels
that are lighter than water drops.
what uses they put them to
are the consumers' to decide.


off in asheville, lights blink against dark walls
 cool voices call for fall to begin. weary
of  incessant growth we bow, teary
eyed, beg for sleep, dropping leaves, all

snuggled, ready for winter. grab a good
drink, a book- antisocial acceptance
in cold clime hermetics- gather  trance stance
around, pretend i'm snowbound, pull my hood

up, cover my face , drink excessively
for warmth. .swirling snow makes me dizzy then
drizzles soft on a disney mannequin
town in a snowglobe, held possesively.

  i shake it again,  a cold winter replica
erupts. i shiver in my air cooled sepulcher.

Saturday, September 12, 2015

my parent's columbia house collection

sing along with mitch, herb alpert and the tijuana brass, sony and cher, lou rawls, otis redding, merle haggard, glenn campbell, roger miller, johnny cash. that's nine. i can't remember the other one. the day john lennon said the beatles were more popular than jesus is the day daddy stopped letting pop music into the house. except for sonny and cher. we got to watch them before we went to bed, but not laugh in. maybe it was the time, maybe it was chastity or i got you babe. i'd sneak out of the bedroom to see lily tomlin rock in her big chair with her little girl voice, and that weird guy on the clown bike that always ran into a pole or something and fall over. he was a perv. how do i know /gracious goodness hello/then? i guess it was the smothers brothers that he wouldn't let us watch, and red skelton. who painted clowns. who wore a red nose and pie hat. but i do remember laugh in  maybe we were older. they dropped the subscription to columbia house after the first automatic shipment. then they bought a set of  encyclopedias and a bookshelf to keep them on.but no one read them. one summer day we got the yearbook and i was bored. 1968's news was all there.. louis armstrong.

Friday, September 04, 2015


so i'm talking  about getting my guest bedroom back
trying to get straight what day i know i asked for my birthday
but appearently  october to you actually means november
and i mention it then he says how short you got
and you rather lose it with me saying how i brought it up
makes people like him or people in general think
that i'm a bitch and i feel it , here it comes, you got your first
paycheck and things are going well so really why live
with me anymore and isn't it all the fuck ways this way
i'm always the bitch after the sex wears off
and lunch can be paid for
and what really gets me is i apolgise
for bringing it up in the first place but i think
i told you last week when i said something about the bikes
how i have to be able to talk about anything with you
without you going off the deep end and there
you are, way up there on your high
dive daring me to dare you to jump how much you
want to jump, just run, just go go go
fucker , jump you goddam pussy i'm tired
of waiting down here for you to land.