Creativity—$—creativity—$—creativity—$
—creativity—$—creativity—$—creativity—$
—creativity—$—creativity—$—creativity—$
—creativity—$—creativity—$—creativity—$
—creativity—$—creativity
I love money
I love spending money
I love burning money
I love girls
I love pussy
I love feeling used
I love to sleep till noon
I love to fell accomplished
I love being high
I love sobriety
I love to die.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
KIIT
Shoot s. Thompson—desert fire storm
out into frowns of clownsand butterflies,
HAHAhaha I die
tonight on the forgotten snow
and torment and gunfire
and Keystone light influenced
make-outs.
Barely out the door now
as I fail to skip to my
salvation.
HOHOHO I yell:
maybe the soil in
my blood stream will
evaporate into
kitchen stools!!!
Cough and puff—
Here I came:
made it to see a long-lost-friend
that couldn’t see me
in my dreams tonight
Oh my,
oh dear—
paragraphs out
of functional
excuses.
I lay to the shadow
of loose hairs now,
as I come to the
crosswalk,
of 3rd and
fake street.
out into frowns of clownsand butterflies,
HAHAhaha I die
tonight on the forgotten snow
and torment and gunfire
and Keystone light influenced
make-outs.
Barely out the door now
as I fail to skip to my
salvation.
HOHOHO I yell:
maybe the soil in
my blood stream will
evaporate into
kitchen stools!!!
Cough and puff—
Here I came:
made it to see a long-lost-friend
that couldn’t see me
in my dreams tonight
Oh my,
oh dear—
paragraphs out
of functional
excuses.
I lay to the shadow
of loose hairs now,
as I come to the
crosswalk,
of 3rd and
fake street.
Cilverware Sivilwar
Fork in the road, telling me whereto go,
Spoon half-three-thirds-full of
Knives soaked in lime juice.
Fork stuck in my teeth, hollow
Spoon caked with Sherlock’s Opium—
Knives with Arabs swimming in spotlights.
Fork dreaming of time,
Spoon, lying home, next on my lover—
Knives threaten my sleep.
Fork, silver, tarnished like
Spoon curvatures and invisible marks of
Knives against my wood laminated door.
Spoon half-three-thirds-full of
Knives soaked in lime juice.
Fork stuck in my teeth, hollow
Spoon caked with Sherlock’s Opium—
Knives with Arabs swimming in spotlights.
Fork dreaming of time,
Spoon, lying home, next on my lover—
Knives threaten my sleep.
Fork, silver, tarnished like
Spoon curvatures and invisible marks of
Knives against my wood laminated door.
Friday, December 26, 2008
(Snow-Flake) (Dream-Girl) #2
black dust spreads like perfect ash
from that red spot in you hair.
i sing the angles and speak
to
angels and heaven flies away.
tongue pulses, eye flinches
echoes shoot through my spine.
To
hold
you bare,
to let witness—my holy affair.
tattered bones quench on
mint
and honey
rosebud water drops—
from your eyelashes
and your milk touch.
black dust spreads like perfect ash
from stale smoked cigarettes,
from lipstick urns,
for my imperfect thoughts
to divide factions.
the bowed leaf,
the arched stem curve—
battery-operated-vowel-gland:
enhances the last-breath-caption
of this period.
from that red spot in you hair.
i sing the angles and speak
to
angels and heaven flies away.
tongue pulses, eye flinches
echoes shoot through my spine.
To
hold
you bare,
to let witness—my holy affair.
tattered bones quench on
mint
and honey
rosebud water drops—
from your eyelashes
and your milk touch.
black dust spreads like perfect ash
from stale smoked cigarettes,
from lipstick urns,
for my imperfect thoughts
to divide factions.
the bowed leaf,
the arched stem curve—
battery-operated-vowel-gland:
enhances the last-breath-caption
of this period.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
(Snow-Flake) (Dream-Girl) #1
The train stops and I’m in the woods: waiting for the wolfs to come. As the thought comes—passes with the sudden movement: away from the tops of trees, onto the hues of city lights.
A tree rolls by. Then a puddle, a person, an infinity of telephone poles and street lamps and colors, gray in every shade. Frost, fog and my cheek, numb on the window.
Parades come—coughs and whoops: slide into chairs, escaping out narrow doors. I stare at the colored people out on winter ribbon nouns—walking into shops, leaving under weights of clocks.
A baby scream, an old man dies—I close my eyes. A lover sings, a beggar collects—I close my eyes. The wind roars, the shadows I adore, the man next to me snores and my mental chores keep me busy when I’ll alone.
A grrr and brrr: the trains heart skips a beat, runs over busy streets and I hope for a crash. A fire, a spark or a dart—open your eyes.
A blister ticks my brow, so I open to stare: a mother sunk dread, in a mattress springs—out of life. Her children tick and talk and pull her downward eyelash hairs. They kick and lick: metallic keyboard sticks.
And I give it time: a halo shine, a polished smile a last. She hums a far away tune, sang personally for the moon for a light to her chest. A prayer, a sigh and her stop arrives—I close my eyes—I hum a tune.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
New Short Poems
SEXUAL REPRODUCTION CLASS
G-string, fills the view
of air-supported life,
look away; look back
SEXUAL REPRODUCTION CLASS II
I truly believe,
that all microscopic discoveries
are made up by man.
99€ NOTEY PAD
When my eyes
close, the burn of
the hours flash quick. When
my lids are open, time
is in sych.
Why curse the skies,
when the ground
gives in;
never ready for
illogical problems.
BELOIT
Currently for lease;
expected opinion please.
Newly done paint job.
G-string, fills the view
of air-supported life,
look away; look back
SEXUAL REPRODUCTION CLASS II
I truly believe,
that all microscopic discoveries
are made up by man.
99€ NOTEY PAD
When my eyes
close, the burn of
the hours flash quick. When
my lids are open, time
is in sych.
Why curse the skies,
when the ground
gives in;
never ready for
illogical problems.
BELOIT
Currently for lease;
expected opinion please.
Newly done paint job.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Teach Me How To Play Guitar
It’s aching to be something else:
well now it is here—not willing
to leave anytime soon.
So let my foot drag over the gentle tiles as
I verse the door
and try to escape.
The shade just makes it to the window and erases
the color from the wallpaper and
paints it dim—dim
like the transparent bags that line
the shelves and I look to stop—
to see and there are just bags,
bags, bags,
bags under my knees and bags here and in my
socks and drawers in my desk and
my dragging bag covered foot races
the dust mites and spilled lemonade
that I signed my name in case I become
famous.
well now it is here—not willing
to leave anytime soon.
So let my foot drag over the gentle tiles as
I verse the door
and try to escape.
The shade just makes it to the window and erases
the color from the wallpaper and
paints it dim—dim
like the transparent bags that line
the shelves and I look to stop—
to see and there are just bags,
bags, bags,
bags under my knees and bags here and in my
socks and drawers in my desk and
my dragging bag covered foot races
the dust mites and spilled lemonade
that I signed my name in case I become
famous.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Entitled 9/12/08
This is my love song and I was going to sing it to you.
But. You left so soon I couldn’t finish it.
Due by the window, I write with the lights from the streets, the same lights that make the roads a safer place. By this window, I saw a robbery last nite.
I felt so useless watching it happen, that I wanted to shut my eyes.
I couldn’t use my superpowers
because I didn’t have any, so I called the police.
The water is so plain out my window. I wait to see kids play and laugh
but the water is too deep and wouldn’t be safe. One day I will jump in and
maybe the sun will join me in the pleasant dip.
I understand the shame of wanting something I can’t afford.
But. You left so soon I couldn’t finish it.
Due by the window, I write with the lights from the streets, the same lights that make the roads a safer place. By this window, I saw a robbery last nite.
I felt so useless watching it happen, that I wanted to shut my eyes.
I couldn’t use my superpowers
because I didn’t have any, so I called the police.
The water is so plain out my window. I wait to see kids play and laugh
but the water is too deep and wouldn’t be safe. One day I will jump in and
maybe the sun will join me in the pleasant dip.
I understand the shame of wanting something I can’t afford.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Blown Dandelion on the El Tracks
Roses Are Red,
Violets Are Blue.
Sugar Is Sweet
And So Are You.
Was written on the pillar, holding the rails on the El track up, so the roar of the ghosts on the train can soar into my open window at night. I expected better, but hoping for the best. It was raining the whole day yesterday. It felt like the whole world was raining. Life goes on hold in the rain. Nobody drives. Nobody is outside but the ruffling smokers leaning as close to the walls as possible, climbing above into unturned sections. The street lights whistle folk songs in the drizzle as the everyday commuters find their ways home. And in the middle of this, it was me standing reading “Roses Are Red…” I see myself sometimes far beyond our precious atmosphere, like all the atoms in my body connecting like strings into this blank spot in the sky. The place I was once mighty star. Narrating the current pillar that is in front of me, the one that I have created one billion years ago.
On a brisk winter morning, I was awakened by a bird flying into my window. The momentous collision appeared at first as a rock being thrown, in attempt to wake me up and look to see my friend outside waiting for entree into my warm Printer’s Row loft in Chicago. I instead looked out the window to see a spattered blood pattern, arranged in a way that it was a high impact clash, caused by a soaring velocity and an element of carelessness on the bird. The damage seemed minor on the window, but not on me. I wept for the bird and this incident any made me realize the fatality of my own live.
I folded my clean laundry and chose my outfits for the new week. I never understood why I plan ahead like this, but it makes me feel secure. It seems like a contract with Death sometimes, like I’ll live another week, as long as my outfits are planned for it. Even without this reasoning, my apparel is still very personal to me, and it defines who I am. I take a mental inventory of clothes as I prepare them, making sure all items are account for, and none are forgotten in the drying machine. The building I live in is very strict about washing and drying machines not being installed in the complexes. The Laundromat across the street does the job. In the process of folding, I ran into my Death Cab for Cutie t-shirt of a raven being tied up in a red thread. I immediately threw it against the wall and I decided to take a walk outside to keep my mind on something else.
As I took the stairs to exit, I felt everything enclosing on me. There is one circular framed light for every floor in my staircase. On each of those lights, there is a drawn eye, encased in a triangle: artistic vandalism I supposed. On each of these floors, on my walks up the stairs, that I have promised myself to walk at least once a day, will stare at me. Not a stare like a stranger on the train or a guy seeing a beautiful girl on the street, but a stare that shot into my chest and juggle my soul. Each individual eye, reading a different hemisphere of my mind: collectively processing my thoughts, and leading me into an elaborate sabotage. Though, on some level, I feel somewhat safe in the view of these irises. They create this cloud, though only for a short amount of moments, feels that I have become the light that they produce. The hairs on my arms and legs and face run like pinnacle rays out of the sun, shooting straight for any defenseless tangent, and charging the voids into shadows that lay long and buckle into the formation of the stairs. Sometimes, in this holy trance, I feel the ends of my body stretching to opposite ends of the Universe, hands and feet gripping tight, because the drop is long way down. As I was holding tight on the block folds of stars and black holes, I ran into Rachel Goodman, a friend and neighbor of mine, which was on her way up to the fifth floor, the one above mine. She seemed in a state of shock, staring at the stairs as she walked up them, concentrating on something I’m unsure of. Rachel briefly looked up at me, and then back down at the stairs. As she climbed up to the same stair as I was on, it came to me that she was in a hurry. This seemed bizarre because she usually finds the time to have small talk with me, on subjects about the weather and trailers she seen on the TV. Not today though, before I could even speak, she took out keys, opened her door and closed it behind. All in the length of time it took me to say “what’s the matter?”
Rachel killed herself that day. She took fifty or so tablets of Diphenhydramine and washed it down with apple juice. Her body will be found two days later by her cableman. I couldn’t escape the thought, that if I just asked her what was wrong, she would have found hope. Just maybe I could have stopped her. Maybe I could have saved her. Of course, I didn’t think any of this at the time. I’m just sad I never made it to her funeral.
I was on the train late night. Going home. On the side of my ear I heard: “I heard through the grapevine that they shot the Pope. I heard that they have a magnifying glass up in space so glaciers will melt into bottles of Evian water. ”
The opening and shutting doors spoke names of streets that ran beside the El tracks. FULLERTON he announced, predicting the hopes on the next stop: BELMONT. An old, black bus driver was sitting next to me, grocery bags in his hands, holding watermelons and a 32oz. Miller Lite. I looked back to listen:
“I was a Rock ‘n’ Roll man, a Lou Reed man. I listened to KISS back in o’ high school.” The train’s audience applauded, slammed each other’s hands in the air and rolled in each other’s laughter. “You know what, I like you kids. Yourz generation is the future. You pay my social security checks, I just hope to God there is gonna be money left for you guys. Man oh man, I hope the best for you kids. You know why? You kids listen to Black Sabbath? But course you don’t, how can ya, MTV doesn’t play them.” The audience pauses, looked at all of each other and roared and howled and yelled more and more. Some of the commuters were still frozen in there usual lives, on phones, noses in books and newspapers, some with headphones on. “You guys,you guys,” the Prophet spoke and there was silence again. “I want all of you to join with me.” And he began: “IIIII….want to rock ‘n’ roll,” the four people closest to him were first: “allllll NITE.” Now ten….eleven….fourteen people, all together: “AND PARTY EVERYDAY.” Everyone’s lips were raised to the ceiling, laughing and fuck, we all forgot that we were all complete strangers. I joined in for the second verse: “IIIIII WANT TO ROCK ‘N’ ROLL,” I looked around and saw all the commuters with the phones and books and newspapers diverted, and looking at all of us, with smiles like Monet Lisa’s. Some even joined in, remembering the lyrics from their junior proms decades ago: “ALL NITE AND PARTY EVERYDAY.” And it went on, and on till my stop at Belmont where the singing transited to second hand giggles. We all looked back to who was for a moment Gene Simmons ‘eyes. He spoke: “Guys, guys, thank you, thank you. I want ya to hear one last thing: let God give you all the breakthroughs and the best favors from girls.”We laughed together one last time into our ordinary lives. Most of us exited, shaking the hand that led us to the realization: we are all to be forever young.
Once I got outside and out of that staircase, the sun sheltered me from the cold and forced me to release a small smile onto the wind. I was left to figure this one out on my own and didn’t feel responsible for this life of mine. I couldn’t foreseen this, the weather man sung the same old tune from far away eras and couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. I was able to relate though, since I too held important information that was not organized or categorized in any special shape or form. They were just words, left useless unless they were heard.
I decided to get a cup of coffee at the shop across the street. The cold breeze numbed my face and I had to cover it with the sleeve of my peat coat. This blinded me for a moment as I was across the street. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a car coming towards me. I immediately jumped back to dodge it, relocating myself to the other lane. It was prefect timing for a moment, till a car going the wrong way hit me. At this time, though, I was inside the coffee shop, watching my last moments of life; my last breath being taken. I don’t remember exactly the point where my live ended and my new consciousness began. It all happened so fast, I didn’t have the time to consider what happen. I didn’t really even care about the introspections; it just happened.
As I was carried away by the ambulances, watching myself through the gaps between people, crowding around the street, I started thinking if I lived a good life. If I knew it would all come to this, would I have kept on living. Would have I even bothered to fold my clothes this mourning? I couldn’t help but find it ironic that if I did actually finish folding, I would have been in the same seat, but alive. Thinking about it, if I knew the exact date and time I was going to die, I wouldn’t have changed a thing. You live, till you die, and when you die, you think about living. It’s an endless game people play, that there is no score keeper. I watched as the paramedics covered my face with a linden blanket. I remember one night when Rachel warned me about a flood that was going to drown everything humankind accomplished since the beginning. That is, if I truly believed this commentary to be accurate. It all just didn’t concern me. I wanted to live forever, but I knew about the ultimate fate that cursed us all from the skies. It wasn’t easy to avoid. All the newspapers drippled and informed us about the misery and unfortunate that was all about us. This flood of hers would be actually very good fortune. Maybe we could have a second chance, maybe society would stop running in vain and of greed and petroleum. Maybe it’ll save us from our ratchet ways.
Violets Are Blue.
Sugar Is Sweet
And So Are You.
Was written on the pillar, holding the rails on the El track up, so the roar of the ghosts on the train can soar into my open window at night. I expected better, but hoping for the best. It was raining the whole day yesterday. It felt like the whole world was raining. Life goes on hold in the rain. Nobody drives. Nobody is outside but the ruffling smokers leaning as close to the walls as possible, climbing above into unturned sections. The street lights whistle folk songs in the drizzle as the everyday commuters find their ways home. And in the middle of this, it was me standing reading “Roses Are Red…” I see myself sometimes far beyond our precious atmosphere, like all the atoms in my body connecting like strings into this blank spot in the sky. The place I was once mighty star. Narrating the current pillar that is in front of me, the one that I have created one billion years ago.
On a brisk winter morning, I was awakened by a bird flying into my window. The momentous collision appeared at first as a rock being thrown, in attempt to wake me up and look to see my friend outside waiting for entree into my warm Printer’s Row loft in Chicago. I instead looked out the window to see a spattered blood pattern, arranged in a way that it was a high impact clash, caused by a soaring velocity and an element of carelessness on the bird. The damage seemed minor on the window, but not on me. I wept for the bird and this incident any made me realize the fatality of my own live.
I folded my clean laundry and chose my outfits for the new week. I never understood why I plan ahead like this, but it makes me feel secure. It seems like a contract with Death sometimes, like I’ll live another week, as long as my outfits are planned for it. Even without this reasoning, my apparel is still very personal to me, and it defines who I am. I take a mental inventory of clothes as I prepare them, making sure all items are account for, and none are forgotten in the drying machine. The building I live in is very strict about washing and drying machines not being installed in the complexes. The Laundromat across the street does the job. In the process of folding, I ran into my Death Cab for Cutie t-shirt of a raven being tied up in a red thread. I immediately threw it against the wall and I decided to take a walk outside to keep my mind on something else.
As I took the stairs to exit, I felt everything enclosing on me. There is one circular framed light for every floor in my staircase. On each of those lights, there is a drawn eye, encased in a triangle: artistic vandalism I supposed. On each of these floors, on my walks up the stairs, that I have promised myself to walk at least once a day, will stare at me. Not a stare like a stranger on the train or a guy seeing a beautiful girl on the street, but a stare that shot into my chest and juggle my soul. Each individual eye, reading a different hemisphere of my mind: collectively processing my thoughts, and leading me into an elaborate sabotage. Though, on some level, I feel somewhat safe in the view of these irises. They create this cloud, though only for a short amount of moments, feels that I have become the light that they produce. The hairs on my arms and legs and face run like pinnacle rays out of the sun, shooting straight for any defenseless tangent, and charging the voids into shadows that lay long and buckle into the formation of the stairs. Sometimes, in this holy trance, I feel the ends of my body stretching to opposite ends of the Universe, hands and feet gripping tight, because the drop is long way down. As I was holding tight on the block folds of stars and black holes, I ran into Rachel Goodman, a friend and neighbor of mine, which was on her way up to the fifth floor, the one above mine. She seemed in a state of shock, staring at the stairs as she walked up them, concentrating on something I’m unsure of. Rachel briefly looked up at me, and then back down at the stairs. As she climbed up to the same stair as I was on, it came to me that she was in a hurry. This seemed bizarre because she usually finds the time to have small talk with me, on subjects about the weather and trailers she seen on the TV. Not today though, before I could even speak, she took out keys, opened her door and closed it behind. All in the length of time it took me to say “what’s the matter?”
Rachel killed herself that day. She took fifty or so tablets of Diphenhydramine and washed it down with apple juice. Her body will be found two days later by her cableman. I couldn’t escape the thought, that if I just asked her what was wrong, she would have found hope. Just maybe I could have stopped her. Maybe I could have saved her. Of course, I didn’t think any of this at the time. I’m just sad I never made it to her funeral.
I was on the train late night. Going home. On the side of my ear I heard: “I heard through the grapevine that they shot the Pope. I heard that they have a magnifying glass up in space so glaciers will melt into bottles of Evian water. ”
The opening and shutting doors spoke names of streets that ran beside the El tracks. FULLERTON he announced, predicting the hopes on the next stop: BELMONT. An old, black bus driver was sitting next to me, grocery bags in his hands, holding watermelons and a 32oz. Miller Lite. I looked back to listen:
“I was a Rock ‘n’ Roll man, a Lou Reed man. I listened to KISS back in o’ high school.” The train’s audience applauded, slammed each other’s hands in the air and rolled in each other’s laughter. “You know what, I like you kids. Yourz generation is the future. You pay my social security checks, I just hope to God there is gonna be money left for you guys. Man oh man, I hope the best for you kids. You know why? You kids listen to Black Sabbath? But course you don’t, how can ya, MTV doesn’t play them.” The audience pauses, looked at all of each other and roared and howled and yelled more and more. Some of the commuters were still frozen in there usual lives, on phones, noses in books and newspapers, some with headphones on. “You guys,you guys,” the Prophet spoke and there was silence again. “I want all of you to join with me.” And he began: “IIIII….want to rock ‘n’ roll,” the four people closest to him were first: “allllll NITE.” Now ten….eleven….fourteen people, all together: “AND PARTY EVERYDAY.” Everyone’s lips were raised to the ceiling, laughing and fuck, we all forgot that we were all complete strangers. I joined in for the second verse: “IIIIII WANT TO ROCK ‘N’ ROLL,” I looked around and saw all the commuters with the phones and books and newspapers diverted, and looking at all of us, with smiles like Monet Lisa’s. Some even joined in, remembering the lyrics from their junior proms decades ago: “ALL NITE AND PARTY EVERYDAY.” And it went on, and on till my stop at Belmont where the singing transited to second hand giggles. We all looked back to who was for a moment Gene Simmons ‘eyes. He spoke: “Guys, guys, thank you, thank you. I want ya to hear one last thing: let God give you all the breakthroughs and the best favors from girls.”We laughed together one last time into our ordinary lives. Most of us exited, shaking the hand that led us to the realization: we are all to be forever young.
Once I got outside and out of that staircase, the sun sheltered me from the cold and forced me to release a small smile onto the wind. I was left to figure this one out on my own and didn’t feel responsible for this life of mine. I couldn’t foreseen this, the weather man sung the same old tune from far away eras and couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. I was able to relate though, since I too held important information that was not organized or categorized in any special shape or form. They were just words, left useless unless they were heard.
I decided to get a cup of coffee at the shop across the street. The cold breeze numbed my face and I had to cover it with the sleeve of my peat coat. This blinded me for a moment as I was across the street. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a car coming towards me. I immediately jumped back to dodge it, relocating myself to the other lane. It was prefect timing for a moment, till a car going the wrong way hit me. At this time, though, I was inside the coffee shop, watching my last moments of life; my last breath being taken. I don’t remember exactly the point where my live ended and my new consciousness began. It all happened so fast, I didn’t have the time to consider what happen. I didn’t really even care about the introspections; it just happened.
As I was carried away by the ambulances, watching myself through the gaps between people, crowding around the street, I started thinking if I lived a good life. If I knew it would all come to this, would I have kept on living. Would have I even bothered to fold my clothes this mourning? I couldn’t help but find it ironic that if I did actually finish folding, I would have been in the same seat, but alive. Thinking about it, if I knew the exact date and time I was going to die, I wouldn’t have changed a thing. You live, till you die, and when you die, you think about living. It’s an endless game people play, that there is no score keeper. I watched as the paramedics covered my face with a linden blanket. I remember one night when Rachel warned me about a flood that was going to drown everything humankind accomplished since the beginning. That is, if I truly believed this commentary to be accurate. It all just didn’t concern me. I wanted to live forever, but I knew about the ultimate fate that cursed us all from the skies. It wasn’t easy to avoid. All the newspapers drippled and informed us about the misery and unfortunate that was all about us. This flood of hers would be actually very good fortune. Maybe we could have a second chance, maybe society would stop running in vain and of greed and petroleum. Maybe it’ll save us from our ratchet ways.
Monday, September 29, 2008
$5 Laundry Card
Last night I had a dream about a dinosaur
He had non-matching socks and had mittens on his hands
He spoke poor Latin in a French accent
I was in a sea of Knifes
Swimming to Poland on a front door
My First Mate was a pudding cup
Fresh sunglasses make everything blue
He had non-matching socks and had mittens on his hands
He spoke poor Latin in a French accent
I was in a sea of Knifes
Swimming to Poland on a front door
My First Mate was a pudding cup
Fresh sunglasses make everything blue
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
I-N-S-A-N-I-T-Y Plus Two = Four
Logical fingertips draft memories
Selected on oh so limited lines
Left in the torn-up pockets,
unreachable by my hands.
Behind the pebbles, in the forgotten stream
Trees gather in huddle formations
Whisper secrets.
When I’m in the dark, the coast is clear.
Tumbling down the stairs
In a sunken mattress flower
Reveals an opening filled with apple cores,
naked and in bruised forms.
Arguments rampage when the lights flash
In the background of the fireworks erupting in my eye.
The moon’s parked in front and
the sign says road closed.
Where can the holy cross
fit in the remote selective shelves?
Where can the blinds
be closed in those closet doors?
Remind yourself no pity
When the period comes up,
where the spider web sunlight stares up
and awakens you from your bed.
Selected on oh so limited lines
Left in the torn-up pockets,
unreachable by my hands.
Behind the pebbles, in the forgotten stream
Trees gather in huddle formations
Whisper secrets.
When I’m in the dark, the coast is clear.
Tumbling down the stairs
In a sunken mattress flower
Reveals an opening filled with apple cores,
naked and in bruised forms.
Arguments rampage when the lights flash
In the background of the fireworks erupting in my eye.
The moon’s parked in front and
the sign says road closed.
Where can the holy cross
fit in the remote selective shelves?
Where can the blinds
be closed in those closet doors?
Remind yourself no pity
When the period comes up,
where the spider web sunlight stares up
and awakens you from your bed.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Untitled
Can’t you forgive me?
Momma, you give in too easy
What happened to the parents that jerked and cried ?
And t o l d me off?
Puff, my head spins like f u r y g l o s s !
Now I can’t put my back foot in front of my left one.
She doesn’t take a second glance to catch me
As I’m falling to the floor.
Well Daddy, he’s a l r I g h t . . . . .
He sure has nic-e-e-e-e stuff!
I’m s k i m m i n g through all the priceless records a n d m y
grandmother’s forgotten ashes .
I sorta didn’t t e l l ya
I stole Rubber Soul from you.
A century ago, when daddy sp-lit
Pokémon was all the rage !
Not m a n y kids on the yard
was privileged with a collect s o g r a n d!
Now I’m dust cleaning and rag shaking
Kicking my feet in the air.
I’m not allowed to smoke in the house yet,
But just wait and see.
Momma, you give in too easy
What happened to the parents that jerked and cried ?
And t o l d me off?
Puff, my head spins like f u r y g l o s s !
Now I can’t put my back foot in front of my left one.
She doesn’t take a second glance to catch me
As I’m falling to the floor.
Well Daddy, he’s a l r I g h t . . . . .
He sure has nic-e-e-e-e stuff!
I’m s k i m m i n g through all the priceless records a n d m y
grandmother’s forgotten ashes .
I sorta didn’t t e l l ya
I stole Rubber Soul from you.
A century ago, when daddy sp-lit
Pokémon was all the rage !
Not m a n y kids on the yard
was privileged with a collect s o g r a n d!
Now I’m dust cleaning and rag shaking
Kicking my feet in the air.
I’m not allowed to smoke in the house yet,
But just wait and see.
!..!..!..PSSH..!..!..!
Ah Lady, won’t you dance
the light bulbs kill the
atmosphere and sing
the moonlight out to space and I know you
like travelin’ in-out
EXPLODE!
Hey you, pillow over
my head
feels the same
everytime but
never connects the
fixtures on my sofa
UGH, hate those
little connections in my
head, Galaxies mock
my clic rainjacket
can’t you tell it was
worth the wait?
HELL, I forgot all the times
I enjoyed the resilient silence
in my ears. Don’t wanna be
kept in this damn tarnished environment!
Wrong turn on that blue light,
intersection on her behalf.
WOW, she felt great on
my fingerprints all over
her white curves.
Walls all over this place!
Tic-Tacs on the floorboard
and lovely curtains hide
in the window pale.
RUN! run as fast as you can.
The bus is on time
and your two miles apart,
with my outfit unmatching.
LIVE ON HER! she won’t
mind when the phone beeps.
Jesus was put on hold
and RAGED down the streets.
the light bulbs kill the
atmosphere and sing
the moonlight out to space and I know you
like travelin’ in-out
EXPLODE!
Hey you, pillow over
my head
feels the same
everytime but
never connects the
fixtures on my sofa
UGH, hate those
little connections in my
head, Galaxies mock
my clic rainjacket
can’t you tell it was
worth the wait?
HELL, I forgot all the times
I enjoyed the resilient silence
in my ears. Don’t wanna be
kept in this damn tarnished environment!
Wrong turn on that blue light,
intersection on her behalf.
WOW, she felt great on
my fingerprints all over
her white curves.
Walls all over this place!
Tic-Tacs on the floorboard
and lovely curtains hide
in the window pale.
RUN! run as fast as you can.
The bus is on time
and your two miles apart,
with my outfit unmatching.
LIVE ON HER! she won’t
mind when the phone beeps.
Jesus was put on hold
and RAGED down the streets.
The Acid Chronicles
Wow gee SCAD sure sent me a mean package of glow-in-dark neat-o’s. They really want my mom’s money if they sent me something this fancy.
This is what beauty supposes to be like. It’s hard to hear my words in such a way, it even took me a while to believe those words were insightful. The idea will always be better than what it actually is. I’ve seen theatrical movie trailers that were incredibly better than the actually movie. It’s what our imaginations conceive that is best suiting for us. How can it not? We fuckin’ thought of it.
I was so amused today, at the Blockbuster, looking at every movie I have, or have not seen. The characters on the front of these pretty little boxes were battling against each other. That’s exactly what they were designed to too. “pick me, pick me, this girl on the cover is a slut, this must be a great flick!” It’s a consumer holocaust in there, I swear to god. Every great movie and every bad movie, every great movie remade into a bad movie and every remarkable movie made into Gus Van Sant’s Psycho. I felt if I was torn from my mother at birth, and put in front of a screen at a Blockbuster, playing every movie in there, I would grow up to be exactly the same person. The only difference would be that I would have a diet coke, instead of my regular. This is just cause I would be so fat from all the shit I put inside of me as I watched all the garage. Like where did they make their money from? Mean Girls, like shit, I swear someone robbed my house when I went to see it. Just so they could fund Mean Girls 2 and heist me again. I can see where all the depression comes from now. Girls are literally made to think they should be these superficial zombies, and if they can’t be little miss sunshine, they’ll develop eating disorders and have cocaine habits.
Society seems insane, but only crazy people realize this. Would you listen to a crazy person? I sure in hell wouldn’t. If Jesus did ever come back, nobody would listen, ‘cause he’ll just be that crazy guy in rugs, yelling.
Molly Murnane just sent me a comment how crazy I was in the Mac lab today. I had such a blast. Mac became so good. Everything about them is so aesthetic, they love you more than your mother’s credit limit would allow. How did no one think about this earlier? Computers were invented to kickbox and make pretty noises when you fuck up. On PCs, you click something wrong and the computer will make a screeching FUCK OFF noise and make you feel bad about yourself. I mean, Macs love you for who you are and will forgive your ill-technological logic. It’s so chic in its white ensemble: you have to have a cigarette and a peat coat to go with it.
You have to be an outsider to get it. Cool people don’t write books about cool people. You know why? ‘Cause they’re too cool for shit like that. It’s like having a painting yell at the artist. A critic couldn’t clique a film if they were part of the making of it. Everything needs a bias options and anything else is a compliant.
Trust me, life was better on paper, I think the editor was tripping on something when he put this shit down in print.
Did you ever see David Bowie’s Space Oddity music video? With his ziggy stardust coke outfit and alien pink mullet? Remember that part where he holds up his guitar pick, slowly above him like he was holding Christ on a stick. I can imagine him doing that live, in the middle of his performance, raises his pick in the air and everyone there drops their beer and everyone goes silent, the necks of the audience goes up and watches the pick in almost flight, with snipers on their scopes pointing, waiting for anything to happen. Count down hits zero and he brings his pick back from space and strums his guitar and sings “this is ground control to major Tom” like that didn’t even happen. You would forever forget the moment you thought that guitar pick was the messiah and will solve world hunger.
Alright, goodnight assholes.
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