However may you be;
you—me and wherever you
sing chips my teeth and licks my naval,
I look when dressing up, underwear crooked,
One arm in my sleeve—“if the earth suddenly stops
I’ll fly 300000 miles per hour into the wall.” I
Deck down to the ground and hold my position. “ the
G-force is sure to kill me.” Panicked I swore out loud no one could hear me.
Time running hot, quick, fast I sought retreat in the bathroom, leaving
Everything but my Dictaphone.
Doorknob moist sponged into my
Dry hands like clay river banks
I open and travel steam-blinded endlessly
To the end of the bottomless.
Gas chamber Irish Spring
To find the living dreaming in
The shower whistling bird-orchestras
With mouth/heart/body/soul.
and wherever you
sing chips my teeth and licks my naval. Lifting in my shoes
smiling leverage carries me
I float unconscious with
blood dancing out from my gums.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Sober Poem: Drunk Pen; Drunk Author: Forgotten Poem
I returned to the fissured path, struck with immediate inspiration, loose on companions and instructions; developing mind points the way to the middle. Coughing shoestrings, holding my breath so my teeth won’t fall, fingers resting on mescaline, balls released and floating lightly on oil. Everything forms a straight line and when I walk, they curve, when I cry; hexagons consolidate. Sounds in the distance, coming nearer in the interior; too far running in the exterior.
Seventy-cents-on-the-dollar and a dolla’ costs nothing and the nothing I praise is all I have.
Seventy-cents-on-the-dollar and a dolla’ costs nothing and the nothing I praise is all I have.
One Too Many
I'm back to smoking Reds again,
because the summer nights are
so short now and the begging air
chills floating on moisture.
Maybe my conscience gained more
traction, feet tired, lost in
the fight for balance
but there is new ground to be discovered.
My surroundings are drifting, gaping
and individualizing their complications
like how flakes of snow
separate from the clouds.
The dull is in new light this night,
returned in its proper slot
to this unfocused eye singing:
the past is smaller than ever.
Who owns
what? I can
never tel
because the summer nights are
so short now and the begging air
chills floating on moisture.
Maybe my conscience gained more
traction, feet tired, lost in
the fight for balance
but there is new ground to be discovered.
My surroundings are drifting, gaping
and individualizing their complications
like how flakes of snow
separate from the clouds.
The dull is in new light this night,
returned in its proper slot
to this unfocused eye singing:
the past is smaller than ever.
Who owns
what? I can
never tel
Borders Experience 1
I cross my legs and kneel in an awkward composure as I reach out
my irises to read the titles of Nietzsche’s myriad books and
translations. I do not dare to touch a single one but I stay still
avoiding any movement in the presence of such brilliance aware at any
gesture that I may produce will engulf me for sure. My heart rate
increases slightly and my limp arms begin to sway in a awful manner I
stop myself before my ignorance prevails I couldn't take it any
longer, I stand up and walk away considering a full bodied tattoo of
this lusted over character.
my irises to read the titles of Nietzsche’s myriad books and
translations. I do not dare to touch a single one but I stay still
avoiding any movement in the presence of such brilliance aware at any
gesture that I may produce will engulf me for sure. My heart rate
increases slightly and my limp arms begin to sway in a awful manner I
stop myself before my ignorance prevails I couldn't take it any
longer, I stand up and walk away considering a full bodied tattoo of
this lusted over character.
leave it to the last minute
something is at stake, here, to even imagine for a second
it won't even make it on TV, that,
you can't Tivo it, or view it, or, do i dare say,
control it with a remote! Oh GOD, oh no no!
least a novel, at least a indie film, that nobody will watch,
or critique, and if it won't be a Mozilla bookmark i might as
well blow my brains out, or gnash my teeth to nub
or if not all this, a post-it note that lost it's glue
a drunk tattoo
middle school poem
a drinking-game
luggage tag
and to think, for a millisecond that. after all this,
after all the spiders i swallowed, that
i won't be famous
goshhhh i'm gonna scare my kids to it
but then they'll end up lawyers
-LC
it won't even make it on TV, that,
you can't Tivo it, or view it, or, do i dare say,
control it with a remote! Oh GOD, oh no no!
least a novel, at least a indie film, that nobody will watch,
or critique, and if it won't be a Mozilla bookmark i might as
well blow my brains out, or gnash my teeth to nub
or if not all this, a post-it note that lost it's glue
a drunk tattoo
middle school poem
a drinking-game
luggage tag
and to think, for a millisecond that. after all this,
after all the spiders i swallowed, that
i won't be famous
goshhhh i'm gonna scare my kids to it
but then they'll end up lawyers
-LC
The Same CCR Song All Week The Fuckers!
1)Bike trail; race him quick
Knees diving in little circles
Grip pigment rubs off
2)Two cigarettes flipped out
In the pack I quit smoking
One unlit between lips
3)Fast air zooms through hair
At the wet points hover far
Head bowed forward: trance
4)There seems to be light
Headed for measured balance
I wanted it better
5)Engulfed by arrows;
Judging, laughing, trying to
Be more nonchalant
6)One by one, they dive
Into the light blue water
Holding in deep breaths
7)The city remains before
The divinities, shyly
In a Monet fog
Knees diving in little circles
Grip pigment rubs off
2)Two cigarettes flipped out
In the pack I quit smoking
One unlit between lips
3)Fast air zooms through hair
At the wet points hover far
Head bowed forward: trance
4)There seems to be light
Headed for measured balance
I wanted it better
5)Engulfed by arrows;
Judging, laughing, trying to
Be more nonchalant
6)One by one, they dive
Into the light blue water
Holding in deep breaths
7)The city remains before
The divinities, shyly
In a Monet fog
TCDC
Telling secrets behind the couch,
dirty jokes, and half billion pieces
I doubt rolling down my throat
“you can’t keep anything from me.”
As I’m in the bathroom with my
ass melting in the sink
leg pinned to the wall
hands seeking movement
Arms twisting in opposing motives as my
Spine fucks my brain in its climb
Through myholyfuckholyfuckholyfuck
HOLYFUCKHOLYF--
Telling secrets behind the couch,
dirty jokes, and half billion pieces
I doubt rolling down my throat
“touch only for the free”
As the ceiling falls and doubles
in front of me
curls and flattens
the wind around me
Hair nets like a drunk Hydra
With spikes jetting out my lusting follicles
Cuts circulation butholyholyhol
yshitSHITSHITSHITSHI--
Telling secrets behind the couch,
dirty jokes, and half billion pieces
I doubt rolling down my throat
“God couldn’t be the same”
As my cells chain in perpetual
trepid circles messily weighing
my ear into silent discourse:
“All has left and I have taken it.
All was done and I have ruined it.
I was God, but he missed the show
Only when nobody was watchingholyholyHOLY”
dirty jokes, and half billion pieces
I doubt rolling down my throat
“you can’t keep anything from me.”
As I’m in the bathroom with my
ass melting in the sink
leg pinned to the wall
hands seeking movement
Arms twisting in opposing motives as my
Spine fucks my brain in its climb
Through myholyfuckholyfuckholyfuck
HOLYFUCKHOLYF--
Telling secrets behind the couch,
dirty jokes, and half billion pieces
I doubt rolling down my throat
“touch only for the free”
As the ceiling falls and doubles
in front of me
curls and flattens
the wind around me
Hair nets like a drunk Hydra
With spikes jetting out my lusting follicles
Cuts circulation butholyholyhol
yshitSHITSHITSHITSHI--
Telling secrets behind the couch,
dirty jokes, and half billion pieces
I doubt rolling down my throat
“God couldn’t be the same”
As my cells chain in perpetual
trepid circles messily weighing
my ear into silent discourse:
“All has left and I have taken it.
All was done and I have ruined it.
I was God, but he missed the show
Only when nobody was watchingholyholyHOLY”
two dolla taxi
you know i have a brother
selling cellphones on the streets
says he'll buy my iphone for a bill
i tell him i just need a play my music
that's all i need
you know i have a brother
selling cellphones on the streets
tell him hey this phone fell onto my shoes
and i ain't go no service, just the
music i need nothing else
you know i have a brother
Iranian with a resale tech shop
says he has a laptop, and cricket phones
hp computer for two bills
says it's got that XP
you know i have a brother
and he doesn't know that
i just need my ipod to play
my music
and i have no need for service
or a hp
or a bill for the only thing
that i can play my music
to avoid such conversations
selling cellphones on the streets
says he'll buy my iphone for a bill
i tell him i just need a play my music
that's all i need
you know i have a brother
selling cellphones on the streets
tell him hey this phone fell onto my shoes
and i ain't go no service, just the
music i need nothing else
you know i have a brother
Iranian with a resale tech shop
says he has a laptop, and cricket phones
hp computer for two bills
says it's got that XP
you know i have a brother
and he doesn't know that
i just need my ipod to play
my music
and i have no need for service
or a hp
or a bill for the only thing
that i can play my music
to avoid such conversations
sunday taoism
Maybe once in your life you catch yourself mid-step
Before your foot touches the ground
And stand there as if you are facing a cliff
Or a wall that solidifies after you pass by
And wonder the repercussions of your actions
And wonder what if
And explore with the notions
That guides you into your life
If you have taken that calamitous step
Before your foot touches the ground
And stand there as if you are facing a cliff
Or a wall that solidifies after you pass by
And wonder the repercussions of your actions
And wonder what if
And explore with the notions
That guides you into your life
If you have taken that calamitous step
sunday taoism two
my Love is progressive
and someone says “there will never be another Whitman like you”
and all the Ginsbergs got shot
and no will give grants anymore
for the people that speak their minds
and MacArthur can’t be the only one
that can feed the starving artist
McDonalds once a week.
my Love is progressive
the innovation is holding me back
while rape whistles alerted the Catholic school quads
pranks done by the drunk frat boys
that had no one else to fuck.
my Love is progressive
and everyone is alone tonight
from the boys that won the weekend
to the poet that found his fun else where
and everyone is sad but too afraid to show it
but who among us is so proud
he sings about it loudly?
my Love is progressive
and how awful is it at the bottom
and how wonderful it is to understand
and to contemplate it
dissect it
systematize it
and draw in all its laudable strength
into a single breath
as it’s the last
or the first.
and someone says “there will never be another Whitman like you”
and all the Ginsbergs got shot
and no will give grants anymore
for the people that speak their minds
and MacArthur can’t be the only one
that can feed the starving artist
McDonalds once a week.
my Love is progressive
the innovation is holding me back
while rape whistles alerted the Catholic school quads
pranks done by the drunk frat boys
that had no one else to fuck.
my Love is progressive
and everyone is alone tonight
from the boys that won the weekend
to the poet that found his fun else where
and everyone is sad but too afraid to show it
but who among us is so proud
he sings about it loudly?
my Love is progressive
and how awful is it at the bottom
and how wonderful it is to understand
and to contemplate it
dissect it
systematize it
and draw in all its laudable strength
into a single breath
as it’s the last
or the first.
monday prescription
why is it required to remain constant
in front of others
and stay true to opinion
and never return in reflection
as if nothing is in flux
but my soul always wants more
and more
and never needs some interlude
not even a resting place
because that can only
delay the answer
and if it my vigilance is derelict,
then i'll start from scratch.
in front of others
and stay true to opinion
and never return in reflection
as if nothing is in flux
but my soul always wants more
and more
and never needs some interlude
not even a resting place
because that can only
delay the answer
and if it my vigilance is derelict,
then i'll start from scratch.
H
the needle and the damage done
but the damage is done
and the needle only helps
with a face shape like a triangle
eyesbrows point up
eyes on either side
he looks deep inside himself
not at the stars that they say you can fuck
but deep within the webs
and the bad positioned tape
where the problems ever grow
where the pain gathers size
where the child grabs onto the mother
loses grip, loses but never slips
the pain gathers size
and the problems define a shape
defines a character, defines the escape
the needle and the stir that never ends
the stir the stir the stir
spins spins spins
deeper than the veins
deeper than the pain
deep inside the child never yields
never ends, never laughs
but the eyes
those bloody fucking eyes
can only look inside
and tries to change the shape
that defines him so well
but the damage is done
and the needle only helps
with a face shape like a triangle
eyesbrows point up
eyes on either side
he looks deep inside himself
not at the stars that they say you can fuck
but deep within the webs
and the bad positioned tape
where the problems ever grow
where the pain gathers size
where the child grabs onto the mother
loses grip, loses but never slips
the pain gathers size
and the problems define a shape
defines a character, defines the escape
the needle and the stir that never ends
the stir the stir the stir
spins spins spins
deeper than the veins
deeper than the pain
deep inside the child never yields
never ends, never laughs
but the eyes
those bloody fucking eyes
can only look inside
and tries to change the shape
that defines him so well
friday, suddenly
to walk
among the dead that seize
to stay shut
seeing sad girls, dark makeup
sylvia plath quotes tattooed on
skinny arms
legs that hardly touch the ground
only floating
pressed against the shoulders of others
that will not let her drop
just looking, looking at her
scars, dirt spots, manuscripts
that almost fall from the pockets
on her peatcoat and smoking
long cigarettes to asphyxiate her opponents
that never knew they had rivals
but she did
laid in bed late all night thinking about them
the look on their faces
tears that swell the face, doubling size
turning red just thinking about it
how they never let in
and how she never accepted the pity
of their invitations.
among the dead that seize
to stay shut
seeing sad girls, dark makeup
sylvia plath quotes tattooed on
skinny arms
legs that hardly touch the ground
only floating
pressed against the shoulders of others
that will not let her drop
just looking, looking at her
scars, dirt spots, manuscripts
that almost fall from the pockets
on her peatcoat and smoking
long cigarettes to asphyxiate her opponents
that never knew they had rivals
but she did
laid in bed late all night thinking about them
the look on their faces
tears that swell the face, doubling size
turning red just thinking about it
how they never let in
and how she never accepted the pity
of their invitations.
please alert the authorities
i walked down the street and stepped onto
Van Gogh's ear
it was misplaced and in bad condition
and i put it a jar with ice
phoned the authorities
then a doctor came to my door and asked:
"are you the man that phoned about Van Gogh's ear?"
i said: "yes, i am the man"
and he asked me some questions
as i looked across the room at the jar
containing Van Gogh's ear
worried about its condition and if it would last
i interrupt the man: "sir, i apologize, but the ear...it is
...it needs special attention."
he ignores me and continues the interview
he says: "we need to take you somewhere," to my relief
alas they will secure the ear, perhaps a specialist will
sent to take good care over it
and i can breathe easier
now that they have saved Van Gogh's ear.
Van Gogh's ear
it was misplaced and in bad condition
and i put it a jar with ice
phoned the authorities
then a doctor came to my door and asked:
"are you the man that phoned about Van Gogh's ear?"
i said: "yes, i am the man"
and he asked me some questions
as i looked across the room at the jar
containing Van Gogh's ear
worried about its condition and if it would last
i interrupt the man: "sir, i apologize, but the ear...it is
...it needs special attention."
he ignores me and continues the interview
he says: "we need to take you somewhere," to my relief
alas they will secure the ear, perhaps a specialist will
sent to take good care over it
and i can breathe easier
now that they have saved Van Gogh's ear.
weekdeads
i enter the room
smokey, can't see the floor
everybody's hair looks bought from
a wig shop
leather jackets, whiskey bottles,
art books block the entrance to
the next room.
the punk kid with speakers held in
both ears, head chipping paint
from the walls says, "these are
not loud enough"
face painted green
ian curtis on a block of ice
girl next to him with a turtle-neck
dress all in white, hair that inspired
the wig metaphor holds his noose,
the way she will hold his cock
at her place
when they leave.
the cokehead comes up to me
finger across his nose
looks at me
i nod no.
his face looks cranked
oil divides the features
nose like a rusted carburetor
hand on a bottle
looking as it is going
to drop into a million
pieces
and ruin
his
image.
i have enough with
the room and run into
the janitor, 19,
leaving, not doing it for
him. looking for excitement.
says, "lucas i love you"
"i love you, i miss you"
"that's gay, i don't say that to guys"
and he leaves
i walk another direction
perplexed
slightly buoyant in the smoke
now, thinking
"i hope to see
them all
at 40."
smokey, can't see the floor
everybody's hair looks bought from
a wig shop
leather jackets, whiskey bottles,
art books block the entrance to
the next room.
the punk kid with speakers held in
both ears, head chipping paint
from the walls says, "these are
not loud enough"
face painted green
ian curtis on a block of ice
girl next to him with a turtle-neck
dress all in white, hair that inspired
the wig metaphor holds his noose,
the way she will hold his cock
at her place
when they leave.
the cokehead comes up to me
finger across his nose
looks at me
i nod no.
his face looks cranked
oil divides the features
nose like a rusted carburetor
hand on a bottle
looking as it is going
to drop into a million
pieces
and ruin
his
image.
i have enough with
the room and run into
the janitor, 19,
leaving, not doing it for
him. looking for excitement.
says, "lucas i love you"
"i love you, i miss you"
"that's gay, i don't say that to guys"
and he leaves
i walk another direction
perplexed
slightly buoyant in the smoke
now, thinking
"i hope to see
them all
at 40."
acidwash dreamcoat
This tired shirt
gained so many holes
so many washes
that faded the color
and instead when i
look at this tired shirt
i see Myself:
Broken
but with room
for more
holes.
gained so many holes
so many washes
that faded the color
and instead when i
look at this tired shirt
i see Myself:
Broken
but with room
for more
holes.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Caught Myself Thinking
I value theology because without it, words wouldn’t exist. All writing is done to explain and what is there is explain more than the one who gave Thought; that denigrated dying old man.
I value speech that doesn’t produce a breath, whose style goes beyond a formal structure, but instead escapes the structure entirely.
I value the new, which is less dusty than the old; it is redesigned and relocated in a fresher lexicon, one that rests highest on the pile.
I value the road of the rational; otherwise I couldn’t follow the tunnel of the irrational, the sort of speech that doesn’t leave trances, but a vanishing cloud of guidance.
I value at most the Finitude, the lassitude it has brought us, but mainly because it is our only Truth, consistently reminding us that there is just so much time left.
I value not by the millions, or the thousands, nor by the hundreds; I value by the one, me: still pure by the silence of individuality.
I value the annihilated, since where else is there a more proper place to rebuild? Covered over by the layers of tar, it has never been more eager to be acknowledged.
I value morality; those laws are inscribed into our hearts, bubbling in wild contingents under the unpredictable circumstances of human affairs.
I value the Soul: the voice buried within me, justifying the indescribable, nearing at the pitch of a whisper, reassuring me that when I close my eyes I will still know my way.
However, what I value the most is the Self, sheltered inside our precious shells, only realizing the most important things about life at the edges of death. So true in adhering to those pathetic desires, in the dreams that still matter and wherein the inner child remains always laughing in those cracking lungs of symphonies.
I value speech that doesn’t produce a breath, whose style goes beyond a formal structure, but instead escapes the structure entirely.
I value the new, which is less dusty than the old; it is redesigned and relocated in a fresher lexicon, one that rests highest on the pile.
I value the road of the rational; otherwise I couldn’t follow the tunnel of the irrational, the sort of speech that doesn’t leave trances, but a vanishing cloud of guidance.
I value at most the Finitude, the lassitude it has brought us, but mainly because it is our only Truth, consistently reminding us that there is just so much time left.
I value not by the millions, or the thousands, nor by the hundreds; I value by the one, me: still pure by the silence of individuality.
I value the annihilated, since where else is there a more proper place to rebuild? Covered over by the layers of tar, it has never been more eager to be acknowledged.
I value morality; those laws are inscribed into our hearts, bubbling in wild contingents under the unpredictable circumstances of human affairs.
I value the Soul: the voice buried within me, justifying the indescribable, nearing at the pitch of a whisper, reassuring me that when I close my eyes I will still know my way.
However, what I value the most is the Self, sheltered inside our precious shells, only realizing the most important things about life at the edges of death. So true in adhering to those pathetic desires, in the dreams that still matter and wherein the inner child remains always laughing in those cracking lungs of symphonies.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
"What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: 'This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more' ... Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: 'You are a god and never have I heard anything more divine.' "
The Gay Science, Nietzsche
The Gay Science, Nietzsche
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Train to 95th
Downtime at a Mexican restaurant bathroom: What am I doing here?
Trapped onto the toilet seat, panting, drooling pools of hot sauce
breathing so that my fierily mouth will settle.
Miraculously, I hit a proper pause to wipe and escape
this gas chamber. I skid out of the restaurant
still feeling an eruption at the lower intestines absorbing the acids rapidly
enough that when I ran to the “L” I wondered if it was even safe to
ride to 95th without an extra pair of pants.
The temptation, however; overwhelms me.
Had the last rapture installed a platform for a new beginning—I stood
forward facing it as the train shallows the silence, shutting the
doors with me internally screaming for something more. Too
loud to call this close in, buzzing locations adhering evident
trances of uncertain pathetic desires that are too unspoken
to believe. Two stops in, I become the nauseated minority, clenching
on the windows as the train rocks back and forth out of the subway onto
the rails centered between opposing sides of the expressway. Chinatown
dirt and grease swarms to my left like an oil portrait dripping oozes like
a deep-fried hamburger. A black woman sits facing me, looking as she
is about to warn me but stays silent maybe as she hopes that it is her son
that will rob me on the other end. I lose myself in the unforgivable scenery
looking at the commuters on the Dan Ryan driving aimfully towards something
I wouldn’t know better myself. Plastic bags on trees grow out like leaves, falling
like foliage onto McDonald wrappers . A homeless man comes in on 63rd,
holding his cup as everybody drops something in. “That all I know could be my
daddy,” a girl announces behind me after dropping a fistful into his cup. The sun
begins to fall now, as the numbers increase on the platform stops. I look twice
to believe the plasma screens indicating the next train approaching, where I
get off at 95th and run to the next train to Howard.
Trapped onto the toilet seat, panting, drooling pools of hot sauce
breathing so that my fierily mouth will settle.
Miraculously, I hit a proper pause to wipe and escape
this gas chamber. I skid out of the restaurant
still feeling an eruption at the lower intestines absorbing the acids rapidly
enough that when I ran to the “L” I wondered if it was even safe to
ride to 95th without an extra pair of pants.
The temptation, however; overwhelms me.
Had the last rapture installed a platform for a new beginning—I stood
forward facing it as the train shallows the silence, shutting the
doors with me internally screaming for something more. Too
loud to call this close in, buzzing locations adhering evident
trances of uncertain pathetic desires that are too unspoken
to believe. Two stops in, I become the nauseated minority, clenching
on the windows as the train rocks back and forth out of the subway onto
the rails centered between opposing sides of the expressway. Chinatown
dirt and grease swarms to my left like an oil portrait dripping oozes like
a deep-fried hamburger. A black woman sits facing me, looking as she
is about to warn me but stays silent maybe as she hopes that it is her son
that will rob me on the other end. I lose myself in the unforgivable scenery
looking at the commuters on the Dan Ryan driving aimfully towards something
I wouldn’t know better myself. Plastic bags on trees grow out like leaves, falling
like foliage onto McDonald wrappers . A homeless man comes in on 63rd,
holding his cup as everybody drops something in. “That all I know could be my
daddy,” a girl announces behind me after dropping a fistful into his cup. The sun
begins to fall now, as the numbers increase on the platform stops. I look twice
to believe the plasma screens indicating the next train approaching, where I
get off at 95th and run to the next train to Howard.
Monday, April 6, 2009
fORGET tHIS
Bumps from underneath my
eye lids configured darkness
to conceive brightness
as to lasso those concepts to
decompress them to singular
percepts—unassisted affects
constricting towards an illuminated
vowel; isolated from the truth
calling on to it for reference.
Maybe my hands are meant to be cold,
meant to shiver at the absence of light
to crinkle and fold between the winds
daring me to surrender
but no
to consider, to contemplate, to mull
for affixes a ground for a road for a clearance
to hit my inertial body when I expect it most.
Fit into this tube, pour out detached
spiraling suspended in this spacious vacuum.
Lay down amuse, bemuse, annoyed
and far from entertained. Question the answers,
answer the fucking questions, question thinking about
thoughtful answers, think about thinking.
Think far into a depthful space where it no
never concerns, but produces more thinking
that you forget and wait forever again
to remember.
eye lids configured darkness
to conceive brightness
as to lasso those concepts to
decompress them to singular
percepts—unassisted affects
constricting towards an illuminated
vowel; isolated from the truth
calling on to it for reference.
Maybe my hands are meant to be cold,
meant to shiver at the absence of light
to crinkle and fold between the winds
daring me to surrender
but no
to consider, to contemplate, to mull
for affixes a ground for a road for a clearance
to hit my inertial body when I expect it most.
Fit into this tube, pour out detached
spiraling suspended in this spacious vacuum.
Lay down amuse, bemuse, annoyed
and far from entertained. Question the answers,
answer the fucking questions, question thinking about
thoughtful answers, think about thinking.
Think far into a depthful space where it no
never concerns, but produces more thinking
that you forget and wait forever again
to remember.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Untitled
Yeah, requiem, thoughtful
food for mind space, open
like coin slots,
pin drops
and assortments. Circles
in my drinking water
makes speaking lay
on gestured lip movements.
food for mind space, open
like coin slots,
pin drops
and assortments. Circles
in my drinking water
makes speaking lay
on gestured lip movements.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The Wait For My Time
I live in a wall, tangled with power
lines and electrical tape and
left over varnish
for my teeth to gleam
with no source of light.
I live in a wall and eat
sawdust from my vaporized
bones. I drink myself
drunk, for my skin ferments into
sale-rack wine.
I live in a wall, I speak to
no others but I hear all
sounds and interrupt all
phenomena with careful
indecision.
I live in a wall, where I
sleep like a pendulum.
Never choosing right or left,
but forward, if I could
if my wall was not in front.
I live in a wall, where no mouse is stirring
hiding my biological face from scientific analyses
for I fear,
that my wall does not exist.
lines and electrical tape and
left over varnish
for my teeth to gleam
with no source of light.
I live in a wall and eat
sawdust from my vaporized
bones. I drink myself
drunk, for my skin ferments into
sale-rack wine.
I live in a wall, I speak to
no others but I hear all
sounds and interrupt all
phenomena with careful
indecision.
I live in a wall, where I
sleep like a pendulum.
Never choosing right or left,
but forward, if I could
if my wall was not in front.
I live in a wall, where no mouse is stirring
hiding my biological face from scientific analyses
for I fear,
that my wall does not exist.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Satellite Toaster Oven
The man in the box with swore teeth empties the bins of consumption in traces of delirium, psychosis, bewildered in black features, hollow structures, the howl from the hum of nuclear-powered Burger King sign.
Sea-shell beat the drums, pulls down the night sky, using telepathic strings attached by thin necks, swollen jugulars that fold over and keep in place my dream-states.
Detroit scars send silver stars, down streams and rivers of her cheek, buried in the center of a tear, rolls backwards down my spine.
The tightest fit I could imagine—white blood cells scream in metal-vocalizations, for milk stains on clammy palms, blood spots that dance in the microstructures of liquids.
Marijuana smoke fights back, hurls paint and assorted buttons, emptying the fill, which reaches and spills over. Bubbles on my tongue pulse in coordinated pops, releasing nitroglycerin and light reflections.
Sea-shell beat the drums, pulls down the night sky, using telepathic strings attached by thin necks, swollen jugulars that fold over and keep in place my dream-states.
Detroit scars send silver stars, down streams and rivers of her cheek, buried in the center of a tear, rolls backwards down my spine.
The tightest fit I could imagine—white blood cells scream in metal-vocalizations, for milk stains on clammy palms, blood spots that dance in the microstructures of liquids.
Marijuana smoke fights back, hurls paint and assorted buttons, emptying the fill, which reaches and spills over. Bubbles on my tongue pulse in coordinated pops, releasing nitroglycerin and light reflections.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
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