$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

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.

Yellowstone

Polaroids

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.

!..!..!..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.

Commune to the Crucifix

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.