solve et coagula

sweet shine

2012-01-28T23:37:00.000-08:00

----I'd place it in my daughter's sticky hand. I'd brush her teeth afterwards, and maybe she'd just lost a tooth, crunching down the last bit. A little scared at the gap, but seeing me laugh, well, it must just be one of those weird things that happens to little people like her. And she'd want to know the first story of the losing tooth, my first and last, those ones in between. And he'd write a song about it. We'd sing it for her 20 years later.
----Her eyes like onyx embedded in pearl. The soft tangle of moss on her temple. Cabbage patch smell of cheek on cheek, she could only suck her thumb in the house. She could only suck her thumb in the house. I never brushed out the matted columns of hair, until she asked me to, that eighth year. But her feet were always clean. But she had a vata temperament. And what she always loved most, was not being forced to love anything.

FINDER'S KEEPERS

2012-01-17T14:08:00.001-08:00

I lose a fin.
I turn on my side and float.
There is a hook nearby.
I fall asleep on the shore.

I wake up skinned and sunning.
I smell my own flesh and feel hungry.
Your fingers tickle my nerves
are not laughing.

I ask for a raincheck.
I am given a pink slip.
You tell me my hours have been cut.
I sigh relief.

I bite my fingers until they run.
I run them under acetone.
I run them under water.
I lose all sense of smell.

I find a hat. I wear it with anything.
I make for the door and forget to open it.
I slit the sole off, my spine realigns.
The hump stays. It does not go away.

I find a door.
I paint it every color of the rainbow.
I paint it black.
I touch it while it is wet.

I sink my palms into my cheeks.
I smell of apathy.
I cut out my tongue, on the job
staring at the client with my red chin.

My Brother's Man

2011-12-31T14:01:00.000-08:00

I met him in him again. This time he was young. I asked him how, said his mother used to hold him as a baby. I asked him how, said but she held him up too high. I asked him how, said so high that he hit the ceiling fan and you know what happens next. He made a circling motion with his finger. I made an explosion with my hands. I gave him mother tones and marveled at how far he came. In my centered haze, I marveled. All the years I said, of you walking with your skin sloughed off, sinew and muscle exposed to the unbearable air, a blooded display, those years in agony. He nodded, it feels great, he said. Well yeah, once you get old enough to learn to like it. His eyes darted around, his body hunched in the worst position. A boy dreaming of murder, drawing the conclusions of the deathless. I loved him like a son, and sent him on his way. A word of advice to you sleepy folk with your suppleness still intact: he came here by way of the unbearable, and I suggest you be kind until he heals.

gremlins

2011-12-29T11:04:00.001-08:00

if I had a gremlin I'd be saved
but then you have the fucking thing
orange-yellow shit in its pants
green-yellow snot in its nose
diamond blue eyes like a killer
all the time craving sloppy joe's
and there is nobody bolder
than a suicidal motherfucker
at the end of her line wishing
for a substitute anything
make me a sandwich
trick me into submission
faith is a flaky bitch
who spent what I loaned her
on good blow and hasn't returned
my calls and I need her bad

Excremental Truth

2011-12-27T13:51:00.001-08:00

I want to take these words and bury them. I won't trust them to be real until they come crawling out of the dirt, begging for their life. I won't trust them until their eyeballs strain to catch me, dangling from sinew and a shovel hit. I don't know how they find me. They want to eat me whole, I am buried beneath them, they are purposeless and vicious. It's a virus, the word spew, the maggot syllables, the flying shitfeeders circling my fingers. I question my existence when I find myself editing another barrage of violent letters. It takes time to make the pile neat, just so, a neat pile of excretion to feel proud of. To spend so long looking for zen, that blessed delusion of complete nothingness, and only to return with more words than when I started! In a perfect delusion, my art would have been taming lions. Not feigning nourishment from fermented waste. The fruit is no longer fresh! And still, I squeeze. The words, no matter how new, one second ago, now two, feel continually stale. Or are the words me? Am I the words? Can anyone tell me this honestly, with their words, with their neat pile of excremental truth? What a farce of everything and nothing, of substance and void we all play. Watch me as I paint mascara on the sour-breathing zombies, even now.

The Quit

2011-12-21T21:26:00.001-08:00

Dolez took his tag off and pinned it to the kid's collar. Some question of concern was directed his way. And he motioned his hand. He reached the glass door, pushing open with his fist.

He watched as a tree became distinct, with a brush of leaf, and receded mentally. There were no questions. There were no answers. His perhaps, but even that just a concept, being himself.

The swarm of a dozen sounds, horns and food cartoons. He could feel a lifting. His feet on the concrete, the sun glaring. Birds doing what they do with their throats, and also women.

A sharp excitement pulsed in his chest. He held himself for a moment, for the call, for some odd amount of time. He threw a paper cup into a basket, walking past the store with the blinking sign.

He saw his life spread out before him. His eyes began to droop, along with his body. Just an hour ago, the pavement supported his freedom. Such was the life of the follower of impulse: Dolez.

WOLFCLICK

2011-12-17T18:55:00.001-08:00

nature, the fool, in the end.
how to find to lose.

radical. Radical radicals play
but pray for limitless love.

shoot that bitch out.
pleasure and not questions.

not even astral birds
in the form screen. Screen

Its trace inspires death
and looseleaf

chasm, chasm, wafting,
divine spine, stretch

capacity. wave clicks
you remember and know

now is the thing

2011-12-05T21:53:00.000-08:00

don't intellectualize the thing
before you know

you'll be old, now gone
nothing to reminisce upon

your philosophies
hard to hold, rheumatic hands

your grievances
a baby laughing, now crying

your habituations
shriveled stump, the forest

your mind
a sky of glowing dust

the only real thing
light that flickers

you will feel touch
or you won't

all else an end within
what could've begun

stay breath

2011-12-01T18:11:00.000-08:00

held empty: wish
I a new shape
you a new

hand shapes
torpedo across
snow, silver
glint, shade

clouds will
to run, zipline
so no one
can see in

but watch
dog eye on hambone
& past self
share dust--pollen

forget resistance

2011-11-22T20:40:00.000-08:00

to go to with, heavy shoes.
part control, part resistance

adapting to new. continue in
real stake) clearly there.

the thing. just be the meantime,
not] battle, like death will never

come, Often,
magic passage

through union
Forget everything

told about, nothing
your path

Irreality.

2011-11-05T02:05:00.000-07:00

They ask you to escape them from the moment. Instead you slowly push them through. They intuit their eyes being held by a projected hand. Eyes wide in prostration before the dying dream in mind. Look up. Witness your senile master. Puncture its impotent will. Do not fail to wake, the price is unspeakable. Reign above the predictable interval, the docile outcome. You may rise above the animal. You are permitted. Mold yourself within the blaze. The animal is very enticing. Speaks with conviction, seduces. You strive to please this baseness. Confused sense of goodwill. You demure before the ever-hungry maw, time and time, absently. Grasping for consummation. This is evermore a pulse of irreality. The past will never pacify. Move evermore forward, bid yourself truly.

ASK THE ROOT

2011-11-03T11:50:00.001-07:00

You, lifelong Saturday.
You, greenest of ages.
How we transpire in time.
Without you, endless crimson.
Tonight, another dawning.
You silence a mind of hi-hats.
I'd scrape my knees climbing.
But you are of the root.
Fortunate for rusted joints.
I need not ask of you anything.
You ask me to ask you, you ask me
to ask you. Your mouth is my total
request. Next life, born again
as your tongue.

STILL SHIELD

2011-10-24T18:37:00.001-07:00

Chainmail, holes for bone-
skin combination from each

At the end, hands
with a grievance in one palm

Center-stance, heart shield
of steel and hair-shirt

She came only holding
a grievance, weakly in one palm

I REMEMBER

2011-10-10T06:47:00.000-07:00

some fairy motion playing on the box,
and silver-threaded swastikas dusted the air,
and they told me it was alright,
"Thor, it's alright Thor,
you're okay here."

Untitled

2011-10-09T09:34:00.000-07:00

awakened him with no words, slept within silence
ten digits to reach an old rotary, disconnected
voices took place, speakers through speakers, they
sang an imaginary tale of no-silence
and when the crow rose,
they said they could grok him, that flying one
away from the murder, and not squawking just
radiating an endless tone of silence, the radius, mid-sky

HOW PROSAIC

2011-10-01T13:24:00.000-07:00

People keep telling us to participate in the real world. Where is this real world? Is it in the shopping mall? Is it in your documents? Is it in the drive-thru of McDonald's, the public restroom? Is it in the kiss that you give your grandmother before you leave supper, the last kiss you will ever give her? Is it in fucking your lover? Is it in sitting down in your work chair, glancing gratefully at the clock with 30 minutes to eat, pulling a plush zip-loc bag from your purse and spotting blue mold growth on your sandwich? And is it in the silent exclamations of God-hate that follow that moment before you resign yourself to hunger? Is it in the mirror, as you stare at your open pores and crow's feet, with nothing in your gut but the most abject boredom? Tell us where the real world is, so that we may find it, so that we may find ourselves a place in the kingdom of normalcy. Tell us why the sixth sense shouldn't trump the first five. Tell us why your delight, and your mystery, aren't enough within themselves. Tell us why you have to splay them all over the world. It's a sort of corporeal violence, it is. You ask me bodily to put my verbosity where my mouth is instead of where my hands are. You tell me that your eyes stare at me more fervently, than the robot I've created within the machine. I am waiting for the information to come out. I am waiting for the tongue to stop flapping with inanity. I am waiting for a measure so unpredictable, that nothing that I could randomize inside my mind would surprise me more than what you have just done. By the by, I will settle for my little cavern of incorporeal violence, I will allow the infosphere to suck me dry. Because see, the real world does not get me wet.

METTLE TYPE

2011-09-30T06:16:00.001-07:00

kiss the dull
boy's stare
braid decant
with dried hair.

being found
still warm, a new-
borne mettle.

charged will
for ever try
type slowly--
the wrong
keys misspell
the best word.

ARC OF SOLVENT

2011-09-30T05:41:00.001-07:00

up, and known none.
on, and in the mirror.
and spit-image, won.
snicker, impetuous face
reaching inside words.
they drugged out mind,
years, no matter how.
sober bite left love,
that was nice. nothing
spare, empty. claim
litter, and metaphor
to end it, to spit on
every lived smile.
never much more.
prostitute community
allowed me not sound
allowed me not reason
asleep for one minute
10-years weekly for free.
punctuation atrophied
and how old knowing got.
here, passionate ages
removed self, wanted more
and now i am gone. i am
gone from myself. i am
not coming back.

LOVE FRUIT

2011-09-10T15:37:00.000-07:00

A wanderer, once purged of knowledge notion,
feasts for possible nourishment, whimsy
and a colander for spirit, straining
seeds that may slip between gum, may
threaten erasure of enamel, softened bite.
These canines needed now more than flourish,
flouride protecting with asbestos autonomy.
Anthocyanins form flesh, a dark & soft husk
seedless, inhuman, muscular in its will
to stain its recipient, yet feminine, full
with devotion for toxic humor, the throat
itching as clouds wake in every cavity.
No tall tales now being told by the traveler
about the nature of unknown fruits and impaled
on that branch of bush shining, ripe and reddened,
waiting for the pleasure of bursting as best as a bullet.
Of fruiting as bone does, accidentally, tumorous,
indecent ache lumping itself within your health.

POEM FOR PSYCHOMAGIC

2011-09-02T17:03:00.000-07:00

A large wall, muted
glitter snaking to give,
as if psychedelic, and
what to carve, connect
machines come home
and pretend love.

And you know no resurrection.
You crave a soothe rightly.
You will not be redeemed.
And this is the return--
are you here now?

Thank them.

Chase longer and give
everything, every shred,
every bite, every resistance,
every stretch of swollen sexuality,
and more-- feed it to them.

Wear your scars well,
do not fear the coming
to your body, still
alive to drink gold, alive,
alive with method, dream,
you will never die again.

Write it down, admit it now,
see some shred of holy coming
out like the claim to be.

Dream grit, the sky
a stomach full of itself
again. Transmutation in time.

Laugh about simply running.
This is your asset.

Instead of rotting, face goddess rule.
Royal words begin.

Realize fools flourish, rise
and sleep, have and love-- there,
you feel the pulsing?

Let these futures mutter.

MONOMANIAC

2011-09-02T13:53:00.000-07:00

his tendril, a curling
metal string stretching
between, rustles and twangs

fallen somehow southerly
dripped down and fallow
wandering branch-plains
noted against the air, muted

raceless victory towards
poetry's tongue romances
a facade, struck through

so do nothing political
write without effect
prove yourself impersonal
the 15th century

playwright, wipe neck
with butter knife, sriracha
burning blood across
esophagus, pretend self-

harm like theatre
he did this to you,
cry publically.

OTHERWISE

2011-08-09T08:07:00.000-07:00

Abel, on the edge of
some large cliff waited
for the God to tell him
his body was not in danger
his spirits were self-enclosed
and he need not recognize
his murderous brother. Abel,
woke up with blood running down
his tendon thick arms, and
he couldn't remember
when he fell asleep.

SPACECHASE

2011-08-04T07:03:00.001-07:00

for everything I drop I pick
up another item put it in
a slot for safekeeping when
there is no safety there is no
cure there is no plan for this
life or the next and making
eyes at the wrong one, the
slit-eye man with his back
to the corner and mine facing
the door is the wrong way
knowing this, my amethyst beam
can attach to no one only
raise itself up above razed
mentalscape it is of one
choice to make with myself
a pact in heart wealth
keep it covered
underwraps
until the corner
curls up
naturally.

HE RETURNED

2011-07-26T07:57:00.000-07:00

Once, I held my breath
over, and over, and over
and God returned space
to its original divinity

Then promised the child
in me eventual sweetness

Then promised a teacher
who will forget one morning,
that I am a student, as I untangle
this web of gentle spiders, and so
I will know love.

HOW?

2011-07-13T06:51:00.000-07:00

I have been wrong
in the way of bullish persistence
in walking over hot stones
insisting they were cool
in staring at the flames
insisting they were shaped
as clouds.

I have closed my eyes
insisting that the view
was realer under my lids
and swallowed poison
to feel transcendent,
as if I were following
the way of the shaman
by choking every cell
in my body.

I have fought against limbless
citizens of light who did nothing
but wrap me in their ephemeral arms
when I went hysterical, frothing
at the mouth with an illness
that has only one cure.

I have been roped into scams
of robotic beggars, whose eyes
mimicked life and I kissed
their cold lips as if to breathe
love into copper lungs
as if the point were to give
to dead things instead
of receiving the love
and light on my lips from
the only man who knows how.

ONE BUM JOKE

2011-07-07T08:43:00.000-07:00

a rolling mass collects
dust and hair, grotesque,
covering distance & dropped
jaw of rotgum stench

he lifts you up, inhales deathrot,
nostrils flared, pupils wide
he moans just loud enough
for the crowd, chills

he grunts, tasting
colloidal deathgore--
garbagebelch: wretched
all he hears, a toxic moan

bum needs nothing but
to disgust and repel:
his activist effort
the mass can never
get the stench out

they drone, cry
for connection but o
failure waits where
eyes witness souls
crush in pieces &
senses beg to question
this act of altruism

the joke is in the game
of giving
the joke is in the game
of charity--

he laughs at delusions
of massive elevation stories

&

dripping bile
behind him like bread crumbs
he stalks off still
laughing

at the crowdwalk,
& groupthink,
those coughing blood
while patting backs

at their charity o!
their growth ah!
their goodness
and progress
delighted
to make it thus far.

VAGUERIES

2011-06-22T07:34:00.001-07:00

open wide, they say
it's a woman-open-pride parade
come at me from the side they say
so they might saddle on up to ride away
i don't want to be denied they say
so give it all your tries and this way
we don't worry bout sincere play cuz
it's all sacred today cuz who cares anyways,
cuz attachment is a death shake.
BUT without grasping there's nothing
to break. without feeling
there's no ache. if you can't
hear me your ears are fake.
i have more real words
than your mind can take. so
wrap around my heart, lasso me in
close, or let go of the rope.
take me for a ride down the icy hill
of your awareness, or let me sled
the slope, alone. take your nimble
fingers lace up my boots slow and
take me on a long journey through
your story, or leave me be so i can
walk barefoot through my own painted glory.
i have no time for kid snakes,
for false wakes, for the way a half-tried
body shakes. commit to heart for heart's
sake. dive down and pull yourself up
from the bottom of the lake, an indifferent
water mass that keeps you suctioned to
nothing, never quite crying never quite
laughing and never quite fucking for
the sake of some vague soul shucking.

IN WAIT

2011-06-07T22:04:00.000-07:00

again, sentiment tossed like scrap meat
for one to barely sink a tooth into
what does one expect to do
with a scrap of meat, a scrap or two.

a whole mouth with bicuspids, canines
waits, watches the animal grow &
smokes it out, the beast
until it is gasping & howling & grunting
until it is completely at the mercy
of its primal compass.

so laughable then to see
those few bites in the bowl as if one
were begging as if your whole body were
not ready to be basted to be baked
monumental, the taste once its
accepted its fate-- feast rules:
first to start with the heart
to savor the pulse, and then
go down.

?

2011-05-18T22:58:00.000-07:00

pulling out the dry ends, making
damp space again, letting wind chase
me in from elements that would have me
out alone, i'm heading home, taking
shelter in my heart-fate roam thru wilted
forests of character plays, juggling
the artichoke hearts just like clock
work, the metallic taste betrays
their worth

PLUM CHERRY

2011-05-18T22:40:00.000-07:00

the story pretends
to reach an end but it betrays
when gaining audience
when claiming conscience,
& they ask if you're nimble,
if you hold the key to back
breaking nothing twisting its head
into something simple is not
this the multi-layered aftermath of
having your synthetic fill?
mindset hoping to find yourself
in a better zen but you just pretend
with the falsest camp and a way to smile
better, but how could you forget her
asleep on the bed of some dense head knowing
there is a man behind every door
looking through licenses and your ration
of some rationality that keeps a thing
who could be a real living breathing
heart wide gaping even loud heaping on
with the audible emotions and the big
body oceans and the wackness of heat
underneath a reality so
fake that it's sweet,, and boiled like
a cherry, the biggest life berry
splitting in the mouth of an awakening
everything
everything
everything
and a perspective so far from mine
oliving on the other side of my knowing
and I wake up with plum tears glistening on my
eyelashes knowing that I have dreamed it there
and then
I slide them away

An Addendum

2011-04-17T20:32:00.001-07:00

A marr had precognition of its worth?
A trembling valley went forth in
theatricality sparked up all absurd.
I know not why I did it, when I did I know
that iced mind vision slept beneath my lids.
The coldest awakeness, ever did achieve.

All this, it was the tiniest of seeds.
found walking through a broken walkway,
sleeping in a parking lot, a crack in the dark
I picked it up and planted it in broadway

On waking in between my padded shades
pinged for every battle played, a
shard punctured my idol hate, &
made a wound, my idol hate.

you know what little tunnels do to women
they take them and they chain them,
then forgive them.
a tiny little social dungeon vision
that’ll kill you if you get them,
every mutation a prison
dressing up the flesh skeletons.

a quaker lost inside a rotting plain
the effort for each gleaning of the grain

I grew up caring for a sneeze, snivel,
or a whip. I took myself within and then
I lost my grip, the grasp you use
to hold something close to your chest.
The place where make-believe associates
know you best. You wander round following
that abstract test. You know
the rest, you know
the rest, you know
the rest.

No need to volley on
in dumbing wilderness
an analyzed profile
for every syllable a sound
for when you smile,
oh I mean truth unfolds
in darkness for a while.
Accept the role will bleed you
through and through.
You on the stake, the cross,
and plunged in two. The naked
song, the valley snake of true
and true. Each wake nothing,
but bewondered new. A fable
where you feed the weeds that bloom.
You rub the clay across your face
and close the tomb. A million ways
to hear them fib down next to you.
A doer of the doorest blockages
in you.

The fading up, the shallow
sex of rattled dawn, this
opened breast raised up unrest
an itching neck, a firey head
desire bleeds desire and
your senses ride ass naked,
give you too much information
too much dark to put a case in,
not the light you
thought you’d waste in...

HAND HEX

2011-04-06T16:25:00.000-07:00

when in car
radio on
with 'gotta
machine head...' &
you nod yr knot
of nerves and neurons
know
it is only a song
& when
you sit
before yr tv
and watch mega
men take over
as CEO
know
it's only fodder
for some inna
rebel excretion
replica for dull
depletion
of real
rebel release.
when
reading text
of revision
litera-currency
--dead
dogs children
wombs minds
hearts know
the pain you
are the fear
you are the tears
you are queer
projections coming
from without with
out without you
even knowing.

hold your heart
hand hex plays
sex dreams night
shade sense
charades know
you are
allowed to play
games,
it's all the same
deny their blame.

CHESS-FIRE

2011-04-04T01:37:00.000-07:00

fumble wasn't
carved for me

fell out box
planted piece

less attune to
strategy

the pinnacle is
in my pocket.

i tossed it
with a wrist flick

i smelled it
wax on wood quick

my talisman
chess wick.

dirty rookie,
horse neigh

spell spin out,
find heat

ritual
rotisserie

some don't see
augmenting only

temperature wizards and
chaos cloaks and

sweathut ropes tied to
big sticks for yo

quiet rookies
aho.

FLUORESCENCE

2011-03-23T18:11:00.000-07:00

an amazonian maze, up red and
gaining on our asses, the space
we walk within, so much love
to lose into the fog in front
of our crumbling minds, one
instant of time, we have nothing
and always, we have nothing.

enlisting our bodies into the chemical
machine parade, giving our children
to the toxic sludge safari.

i greet you, my brethren, to
fluorescence, careful and sweet,
it kills us to please.

EGO RINSE

2011-03-23T18:05:00.001-07:00

a second chance, jupiter-- dance,
a way of seeing, venetian shadows
and the rate at which they sway.

opal-curve,
twisted colors as march
ends, april begins time
goes down the spectrum
from autumn to autism,
optimal season of slaughter,
for a well-fed ego.

clean out, rinse
the bowl, patches of mind
stuck, resin
in a way, a buffer between
nothing, oven cleaner
tomorrow.

cat curious, indebted
to its indifference
though, like a bird
crows, will is right,
love is left.

16 HOURS A PIECE (lyrics)

2011-03-23T17:58:00.000-07:00

seeing it how it always was.
a grandstand of millenial injury.
a monolithic fuckshop of misery.
you feed your pain with child slaves and nickel thieves.
selling you a couch and a rosary for 16 hours of peace.

16 hrs of peace.
you are the slave signed out for release.
for 16 hrs of peace.
you fuck your working brothers for some relief.
16 hrs of peace.
not a CEO, but you can be a chief.

seeing it how it is right now.
the medicine men are dickless rich zombies.
we forgot the midwives.
we clip the babies from their mommies.
who get stoned just to handle the medical audience.
under the bright light of corporate silence.
the radiation spreading ultimate violence.
and crowds of millions can discern what their mind thinks.

COCK-WILT

2011-03-23T17:53:00.000-07:00

a faultless morning line wilting, this grey morning,
a faultless sunset, the fallen witness of the cock,
his renunciation of feminine influence, he loses out,
my faggoty friend, the fascist disallowance of gender
digression-- no immediate fruit fest for breakfast,
for dead friends, for frayed ends, just cock rings
to oppose us dumb things. the softest bloom buries
bullets in the chest for a bit of social grooming.
the mask outweighs you, the neck-weight outrageous,
fighting always demons, your good word consumed
by poverty, a wasted sign for the notary,
a contracted stretch of death for the ones
you love the best.

PRUSSIAN GANGES

2011-03-23T17:50:00.000-07:00

figure your steps, in a timely manner,
unfold your lap and agree.
live in the place of that dying space--
disagree, disagree and
disappear.
quiet your time, just quiet your time,
or we will, or we
will, disagree.

i've got violent acres of time,
roiling down the street, a hundred barbed-
wire tumbleweeds.
prussian blue skies rearrange me,
like drinking from the Ganges.
time to leave, again aided by
this ever-blessed little rapid
of hating a human condition.

GUMS GRIND

2011-03-23T17:37:00.000-07:00

i birth you the second i see you, my son
i try to hold you, dull gums grind
baby cry, i feed you, little hands grab
at my chest, my breast, sore from the grip
of your teething gums. your bleeting mouth
wet eyes. i love you and lay under you,
spider man-baby, spider man flying on my bent
knees, you giggle over me, my sun you
burn me-- i regret every child i ever had.
no feeding enough, no touch just right tender,
each feed you bleet, each massage more
i am beated, beaten, eaten, excreted.
what love could hold a son? what ladder long
enough to reach it? the baby dead, my skin
shed, and i was born again.

SNAKEMAN

2011-03-23T17:28:00.000-07:00

beautiful man with snakes from your skull,
twisting finger curls down my spine. beautiful
man, time crunching our loss, an infinite arrow
shooting into my uterus, pregnant with lust.
your eyes carve into me, pelvic runes, suck
me o spy, suckered into your mysteries,
that to some woman is not a mystery, a bore,
an evening chore, drag me to the pit, we can
wake the stillborn, call me a snake like
you, a fib like you, let me taste a fig, like
you. beautiful, man! your pending posture,
pelvic resonator like my sun/son to stave
off, to burn in, just as soon you beautify, yea
you blind me.

you are as i am, are we? prisoners of heart-time,
that vacuum of silent love, our grinding gravity.

SPIRE

2011-03-23T17:25:00.000-07:00

i've given my own ego a pass-- who needs to last?
what needs to pass for us to dismember our defenses
again and again, unflailingly, a succession of moments,
these trying times create a life. so speak up faster,
don't die on this lonely mountain, this coldest top
with yourself.

a sun child tries for fire, in the mouth, fire spiring
instants of redwood blaze birthing its wild children.

IT'S ALRIGHT, DEV

2011-02-20T09:38:00.000-08:00

------I fell in love with the Devil, once in April. The air wet, warm, aromatic as mud. He gave me silent eyes, sideways loving, discretely humming. Dev rolled himself into a pretzel to bake bread, to feed himself. Smelled good, I said. With a secret in his throat, told me I could lick the salt. Loved him more and more by day, oh in the night I cried. On his lips was a lie, yea, he licked his lips til they were dry. Saw an angel in his eye-- but his mind tended the demon, I warily cared about his sins, I wanted to begin again, with him, to lay down in his bed, so he could rest his weary head. I found him in the garden, rotting with the wild lettuce. I kissed him on the mouth and said I wouldn't let them get us. They did because they hid inside of him, an inner pall that plastered the walls. When we looked up at the ceiling, planets turned into pomegranates, broken open and bleeding on our soft foreheads, a kiss of death at midnight and thereafter.

NEW MOON

2011-01-04T09:09:00.000-08:00

how I walk in
tight little circles hoping
someone will jut back
their vision and see
these twisting spines
not a dizzy dog, no
just spinning, together
how I hope in
a waltz towards
everything
we wake up at the same time
and really look at each other
yeah yeah, a banging of gavels
or a fucking gong on the side
of your vision you keep
swimming away or pouncing
on, like you could get
away! only everything
could grip you like this
oh how you walk in
small square-steps hoping
that somehow the curves will
straighten out
but not until you burn it up
not until you weld the tear
not until you learn to spin
and not take a picture
and not tell a story
and not word it poorly
and not
fill
the
space

WISH, A CLOUD

2010-12-16T00:30:00.001-08:00

wish, a cloud zooming. heaven's corridor, ana
and marie, the angels. in the light and I, cloven-stomp
spur out to midnight's marriage, spit tar and chew
chuckled-down tafts of charcoal, and rub face with oil.
alley booties blossom, powdered sugar hair for the sake
of already angel cake, clogged red throat and the plumb
-ing break in the morning, not whipped egg
whites but brown-yolk, but period blood ain't just
waking, the sleep woman alone overdose–- her,
my steed, and I ride up back light forces
it's way through the tarpaulin. she cries, bumblebee
eats honey quick as she can make it, to candy-
strapped molasses eyes won't believe it,
bumblebees cry. such ghouls gift: a heart, full
intention, healing somehow mid-surgery, open
air, loss pure, what pain reliever pushing
veins, bless spontaneous heathen healing, so
students float unaware how patient, torn open fed
fuel don't need to think about it that way not
so worried about the white coat afterall.

FUNNY GARDEN

2010-12-15T12:08:00.001-08:00

public face
ghouls flirt with
scars guarding
arms. an erasure
point, a bic, some wrist
leverage. Joy: beam-
topped tractor, cow shit
instinctual scent
peel science, you
dying oceans, flora,
fauna, v.d. inside
book-bag, idiot candy
buttons paper stuck
bottom, taste scroll
hours, teeth pulse
bitter pen shadow
game, childish gaze
belly unbuttoned
slouch over toilet.
slice. out of season--

oriented, lick
famous sadism
spices, and leather
our season always.
slides foot, sand
parcel amassed,
ants says “om”
a circle, his toe.
place two roads
cross never care
names. intersection,
pliet, then smallest
zen garden, spreads
with his toe.

SMOKE, THE CLEAN

2010-12-15T11:54:00.001-08:00

behind bars make me slide,
push the other under just to do
this thing where light trines
from the lunar dessia gives me
angles to weave and hack

coven would love to creep
into yr blood, lover and leech, kisses
from the law sicked on

I used to swear I'd never
–never oink out
but you've got me blood
burning
like a soft white glow turned
circular, rolled
like a scroll of your flesh where
I make

weighted wand marks, commune
with the wrong fairies, with lilith
and love you, too
much to inspect myself, the magnifying glass
just burns the body up

that's what's real, making momma
proud by shackling
the dead light bulbs to make a halo

to make a halo love, to
love you like the shadow
fiend active intermission
theatric in floating to you I
am and I.

THE SPECTER

2010-12-02T09:06:00.001-08:00

This is the way the lotus blows, sand shapes
shifting within a diagram of some inescapable
ineffability. This is the way the flower unfolds,
floral in its scent but denying the senses' sanctioned
safe route of knowing what the smell will smell like.
This is the way a root grabs hold-- hidden as it were,
but only to you, to think of the ground's view would
be all too liberal, but only when denying the diagram
of a man who is not you and wholly unhuman.
This is the way an A makes way-- a-positional,
adestinally affixed to the fume-drift from the flora and
rooting its way in your senses, so that you travel
towards a concept without thinking and your sleep-
shift, over and over until no smell remains. This
is the way a petal grips another-- lightly without
grip, the smooth material doesn't know that it matters
either way, the proximity between petals is softer
than synesthesia, and the grip that never grips
cannot be grasped by the gentle gardener, who works
quietly, cutting cords of stem-roads out
of the ground he knows no place in. This is the way
a model of a man sees himself in the sand that blows
out from the garden giving rush to the watchers
wholly inside of themselves, not knowing, of course
where they will end or even that they have yet to begin.

GRAPE-ROT

2010-11-04T11:04:00.000-07:00

She has some gall to pretend pious
prayer for the paranoids that heal
the blind and feed fish to the self-ruin
woe-cases, and to allow cornucopia rot
before the hungry, and to mock the kind
still staying, like the air is natural as an open

black cough. But the bacteria breeds open
so that the toxin may evaporate, may leave pious
salt flats that pickle water-filled mirages. They kind
of just rise in a desert. The hallucination will heal
but like the bone broken and beginning to rot,
like the intangible half-life of Saturn, the ruin

is real, as is your will to wake in ruin
where breathing with mouth open
is a luxury. Bone rot
like the bread of our body, tastes as pious
as the face of a dog told to heal--
so a shred is tossed to the floor to be kind.

Lord knows she is not kind
but still she kneels in this ruin-
rich cave with a pick and ax to heal
her diamond-hard desire to close her open
throat, to claim asbestos embedded are pious
so still we expect a season of blue rot.

Dark night before the artifact. The rot
must harden its blood like a kind
of ruby, and try to inflict its pious
mind into circuit-shock. Crude, but why ruin
the possibility of her head burst open,
of an impromptu lobotomy that could heal

this gaping realm of disappearance, heal
this black forest of anhedonic maple rot.
She keeps her empty gun in the open
to soothe any tension and begs God be kind
to her immunities, to not let bad blood ruin
the promise of the resurrected plant, pious

as a pomegranate open. Certainly she can heal
these pious raves over grape-rot?
These plagued-kind of crops? These vineyards of ruin?

GAVEL-LACK

2010-10-27T14:47:00.001-07:00

The earth is not round, darling, it’s a galaxy belt
Of melting identities, it’s an orgiastic mold we breathe
In like soap operas. Puncture the belt, let it grow hair,
Peel those extra faces off and lay beneath the halo.
If you swim the galactic oil slick, wisdom will
Wink at you coquettish. Pick it up, baby, spin it
To the ceiling of light that shines down a gavel-
Lacking landscape. Goodless and badless, baby—
Forgotten garters in the trash, your little manic days
And their moot points, black liquorice hips that swivel
Around an empty womb, a pitch-black room of glory
Holes and epilepsy. Accept that shameless lack
Attracts you. Don’t get your panties ruffled over
Some geometry. It’s already faultless. It’s faultless
And tangled, a pretzel-twisted angel, or an angelic
Twisting Angeles, the city’s blameless centuries
Of one less lover, one more leather daddy and the
Anniversary vow self-renews and celebrates dark
Matter who chooses when to show himself, and
The saint split his tongue for shock value, so his
Holiness could twice lick you in ascetic arousal,
And his collection plate could gather double rim-
Jobs for some rumored Virgin Birth.

ZINZIN

2010-10-20T20:45:00.001-07:00

my voice recedes
into the nape after
smacking dizzy
craniums, & running
the way of the bulls.
triangles are swept

with sand conviction-- o, we:
take a sugar break, drug
a baby in utero, make better
lovers, wear neon neuroses,
stick fingers into keyholes.

SUCHNESS

2010-10-16T00:20:00.003-07:00

rub my third eye, enjoy
the stained scent of middle
mind remarkably--
celebrate a mouth

full of ash we get
close to religion, this
globe spins for eternity
I am here

can be traveled, found
no one speaks no tongue
of origin, no way to speak
about nothing

rising like vapors--
ways to swallow
ash and cough up
landmarks/churches

no book burn, no core
sink where the stone
waits for its rock to sip
sleep in a roomless name

SIGNIFIED

2010-10-04T10:52:00.000-07:00

And after that only layers of spit

circles on the pavement, lit by a spit

flame in the tapestry, sung to sleep

by a spit pearl in the black cloud

of some awakening.

Within it the pale breath of a dead thing

with no promise of resurrection, no

common will that wakes in its sleep

to scrawl circles on the silted windowpane.

In its breath, a wind’s shrinking cycle, halt

of lung-lung that escapes the burden of being

life itself. A pale cloud of spit sputters from our lips.

We choke on its insolence.

Then, the signified, as in me and you,

each prolonged blink praying for a collective

sleep, praying that an extra sip of black

will grant a death that doesn’t change its mind.

We spit-shake in this silence, mindful

not to hope up any promise of light,

as if the sun was ultimately our father

in hiding, addressing us only when drunk

enough to deny the burden of our names.

SOLAR GRIP

2010-10-02T13:59:00.000-07:00

Today I plant in you, grow in you, nothing

is keeping me back from you, there in a pile

of leaves, you make love

to the seasonal death grip craving this nothingness.

Between us, suchness--

that fire-will that pile-burns

you within at the end.

It is like that crowd of young leaves, not yet

ready to lose out of the brittle then--

there is you standing there in wait, why

autumn breaks me the way it does,

makes me take time to watch you fall.

I hold you in my hands, crush you

like dead leaves. Burn you up with my micro-

eye, fill you with heat. My solar plexus:

you turn to ash.

I rub you on my third eye and blow

the remainder away. I enjoy the scent

of your stain on my middle mind

remarkably. Celebrating your birth

and your death. You, burning with

a mouthful of ash. Can we get closer

to religion? I can be this

globe spinning in place for eternity.

Put your finger down. Locate me.

Know I am here, in a place that stays

still, can be travelled to, can be found.

The globe still spins. There is no one

language that speaks here, pulsing

in several death tongues of religion,

several ways to speak about nothing

rising like vapors--

several ways to swallow ash and cough

up landmarks. I want to go to church

with you tonight.

I would rather not burn

any holy books this time. I would

rather not sink into my core again

waiting for the stone to melt.

I would rather pray for a holy

fuck, than a holy shit. And

your mouth, I would rather it be

wet.

But not too holy. I want to touch

your head, sip sleep in a place,

with a room, that has a name.

I want to chant into your throat

in a language everyone can understand.

I want to come out of the closet of faith.

GRID MAGICK

2010-09-29T15:20:00.001-07:00

from this angle, i am a bird

coming off a bad trip,

some vision of rainbow

grids keeping me caged.

you are a magician, having pulled

me from a top-hat, finally-- for its lining

looked like the sky.

TESLA, +/+

2010-09-14T21:44:00.000-07:00

The moon yawned above the monk

as he swayed by the beer keg.

From his mouth, sound sleepwalked through itself.

Wind held its tongue, earth kneeled down

not in submission, but to peek up my skirt.

Then, clapping in the distance. Not of hands

but of magnets pulling violently from prayer.

Stone began to self-engrave.

Time gave the clock two nubbins.

A scar had precognition of its birth.

Serpentine Diction

2010-03-02T02:13:00.001-08:00

Intime: The innermost part. Ate: Mad impulse; informal: devoured, consumed, digested; the Greek goddess of mischief and rash destructive deeds; a suffix. Intima: the innermost membrane of a vein, of an artery. Intimate: To mention in passing, to familiarize, to hint at, to signify; essential, intrinsic-- now chiefly in scientific use. Mate: To stupify, to exhaust, to rival, to fit with another; checkmate. Mote: A blemish, an irritating particle, a slender twig, a mound. Automaton: Many things-- A living being viewed materially; something which has the power of spontaneous movement; a living being whose actions are purely mechanical. Auto-: Self-acting. -Motive: Relating to inner impulses. Inti-: Inside. -Motion: To be prompted, impelled; moved away by a significant gesture. Interval: Space of time intervening between the beginning of one febrile [fever] paroxysm [outburst of disease] and that of the next one. Motivo: A deliberate delay in performing an expected passage; originally: subject; later also, a figure, a motif. Motif: A motivating, dominant, or regulating idea, esp. a recurrent or pervasive one.

"Self-sacrifice is the leit-motif of most of the marital games played by women."

--Germaine Greer-- The Female Eunuch

[NIGHTPARTING--]

2010-02-23T21:47:00.001-08:00

At dark I pull home,
and part the snow. I comb its
hair: one hundred strokes.

ONLY SKIN

2010-02-17T19:44:00.001-08:00

I have not heard a good joke in ages. One true
enough to scare me quick, to spit up glass, the good ones
come when you forget they exist.
Maybe you can think
up a good one, to cut my gums
up, little joker. You might even
make my tongue go
laughter limp from the shock of it.
Until then, I will watch your face merge
into negative space. Look,
I know it’s not possible, I’ve tried
my share of spells and shadows stand
long on their stomping grounds. Your face
is impossibly slack and it’s funny, how impossible now,
I could once just invade it freely.

This has to be the joke.
I play with you, not wishing
for booze or anything,
I play with you and just get high on imagining
how long
your skin will stay
attached
to your body.
But now there is so much
space and somehow I’ve wandered
into the molting
woods in your chest, like a dream I camp out in
I camp out inside you. Your tent of idle attention, tent for one
or two fingers, tent thirsty from drought,
and now I am a park ranger, and I am
running all around you, stabbing the dirt,
digging out clay, trying to strike some
hidden fucking geyser.

You wander
away and I know
you aren’t looking and the drought
is just
a diversion
but your eyes are
hunting
hard
and I can tell you need it
more than water. I am afraid
for you with that look, so I hide
your valuables in a safe box
for now. You might get trapped
in your own chest one day, wake up
and not know
what you are.

It’s cold in here. I need a fire,
but I am lost, and there aren’t any kumbayas whistling
through the gristle storm. We could have
had lemon drops. Instead we have gristle, and you
are somewhere that I cannot place, and neither can you, and I
am lost.
I’m sorry. I think I have spoiled the mood.
I should have stopped laughing ages ago.
But you’re funny
as a tent, you fold
the instant the gristle hits. I forgot to remind you
about reinforcement: a tarp, separate
from your body, and a few
metal shafts for good measure.

Kid, I am tired of seeking. You can hide
forever, I just want to go.
I used to play
with chickens, and the prize
was chicken shit, and the chickens
just pecked, and they never
played rough, yet they never
gave up, and I wasted
hours bawking at the dirt
in the darkness until my dinner
was cold and my mother
was yelling.
Who will yell at me now?

Let’s make up a new game, the best
game, a game that will chronicle
our time…
How about is your skin still intact?
Peekaboo… I see you. It is. Mother
May I? God damn
I did not say yes. Your teeth have already sunk into my lip.
I look like a big baby, a fat chicken, slouched down crying
Uncle! Got you… But I refuse
to play tag. I catch you quick before I close my eyes
again, counting, as if
this time you’re really going to make me run for it. I caught you
again, and you are it,
crying wolf as if I’ve made you run this marathon
myself. We are not camping anymore. I am out of your gristly chest.
You are in the kitchen. You are popping bones.
You are popping bones in the kitchen, and
I am writing poetry
And I can hear you
twist into it, each snap an alleluia and I am right
about something, about a foolish mime
who discards himself too quickly.
Apparently, it’s time
to lighten up.
You smell like bad meat, and I want to play
something fun. A new game!
Imagine me naked. You see
my skin? It is pink, yes. It is
prickly, yes. It is
stretching looser still, and you
are getting warmer. Okay. Guess
who. I am the chicken. You’ve had me
out in the raw for too long.
I am sick; I am
oozing
under you; I am
cackling
dead prayers
to my lover: the able-handed chicken
master. Would you
like a magic trick? I can twist my neck down
and scrape the meat
from my thigh. Okay, okay. Your turn. You get to be the goose,
and I will pluck you
nude. Then we are going
to swing like loose-
skinned birdies by the neck while
the sun bakes us dry.
Don’t sweat. We’re just hanging out,
rolling our little poultry hips
in figure eights.
Today I laughed my insides out. And I know
I’ve had a bit to drink, but I’m being honest
here, you twist the blade
with the right pressure
every time. And now I am laughing
so hard that I am crying out
loud, I just lose it as the credits roll.
You sunk the punch-line in before I got to hear
the joke. You sink your eyes in mine and
I smell gas spilling blue
light all around the room. What
an invasion, what a light-
hearted black-out. I have hair
trigger pincers, I pinch hard, it ain’t
even funny. And it isn’t
funny.
The dirt I kicked into your eyes,
that wasn’t funny.
The ghost stories you tell about me
when I am not around,
those are not funny.
Now, all joking aside, I am going to ask you kindly, not to
cut off your ears for me, I am going to ask you quickly, before
the mouth we are in swallows us
whole, two chickens who taste
good to everyone but each other. I know
you jagged knife throwers.
You really are all ears. We’ll be swinging
from this line for a while.
Hula-hipping. Janky-jointed.
Our ears are mushrooms blooming
from many constipations, many
bad shits in the river. Little joker, feed me
bad laughter, bad laughter so
you can mime me
foolish. I know
you are. But what
am I? Only skin, only
skin and we are strung without
a hope here
together, and totally
see-through.

COMECLOSE/T

2010-02-11T06:46:00.000-08:00

go head baby blow your lungs out, stick to it whistle hard

win the sweepstakes, don't fret entry ain't all bad

it’s the finish that's frightening. i believe in you, i'll bet

on you, shit i've seen you wolf down twenty corn-dogs,

master of the greasy secret meat binge. i've seen you peek

out, retreat, act out, retreat. get out and stay out, please

weren't you ever taut right? keep a lid on it and

i'll let you visit the grizzly bears. you'll be water-mouthed
your tongue will turn into a budded salmon
wetwiggling in salt. follow the long wood
trail of pounded twigs, go past the bread hut,
though hansel wouldn't mind if you hid
in the closet and ate up forever. just take a pause,
think hard before you scavenge here dear boy
in the brush, there are better ways to catch a bite.

don't spoil the moment, keep your mind on the kill, hey.

comehere. closenow run thatta way. see the smoke

signal over your head? do you need a whip at your ass?

well alright. thank me now, or thank me later, just run faster.

the bears are waiting with honey dripping fur, blood-sticky

gold paws and these hard times baby. these hard times, and

you're the only sucker not soaking up that sweet tooth.

Further Than My Backyard

2010-02-08T18:56:00.000-08:00

________D and I were at the park playing tic-tac-toe in the air. We watched our finger trails-- they pixelated and then lazily dissolved. Money walked by easy at this hour, like the woman giving D the eye as she passed us. The female customer signifies some sad defect in the heart, or in childhood; some violation in the heart of a girl. He handed the sandwich to me and whistled at her, his lips glistening with mayonnaise. She nodded at him and walked off into the dark. He turned to me, a slow grin twisting up his face. I leaned over and pressed my forehead against his. “Gut the fish dude,” I said. His face heated up a bit and he let his eyes go all watery. We sat there with his fallen smile for just a second before he trailed after her into the dark.

________No one was biting my line tonight. I sat alone on the bench with a tobacco rollie searing the inside of my wrist. I made a Mama hole and a Papa hole. Mama was crying pus and Papa was just sitting there next to her, red and silent. He was all puffed up with pride. The shrink said he had “anger issues.” Mama agreed. She never took his side. Papa kept a stiff upper lip and she just cried and cried. If there’s anything I can’t stand it’s a weepy woman, but I’m not taking sides this time. I sucked on Mama’s tears and stroked Papa’s hair. I made it all better.

(Continued here.)

PLAY KOAN MATER

2010-02-03T17:13:00.000-08:00

diss play in splanes
the 4t, the 5t, the hid n crud
argn't they changin the eart?
ware wuss m'eye flight?
hoed in ark oan prayer
wahder wayzen koan crazy
so flushd down-rivet
the eart dome eve & mater

TOTAL BODY RESISTANCE

2010-02-01T21:28:00.000-08:00

The sun cannot alleviate moon’s imprint of winter in man. A scarf of hair dries the ink copy of a magazine the noble schizophrenic sells you, unlike a sky, more of an island of a person stuck on a concept of a face, on a head of hair below the knees plucking loosed change and a quarter weighing down the line tied with bolts and cradles

The third eye watches the back window so you are safe to jack off the cello who wishes to be reborn-- a sack of grapes, or a field of purply nipples or even one cherry mouthful of smoke, making a clean breast of mind stocked with bone tissue braided quick into the ears, deaf right on time in the last second where the record starts to skip the record starts to skip the—

CIRCLE AGAPE

2010-01-27T12:17:00.000-08:00

caught echoing in two
yr palms agape, coughed

up a long wind. you seize
my feel, i warp stop-

blow, stop-blow. gerund
of a loud break comes
when no pulse builds
up, no brick bulges.

my feel spins

leaves the leaves spin torpedoes
tower-tall as I
fall down the circle coughing

all the way done.

CANDY TUSK POWDER: AN ADDENDUM

2010-01-23T14:03:00.000-08:00

I wear blood crusted fruit-stretch panties. You wear a worn sugar tusk, a bone mint horn. You yodel to swindle the root. I airsuck until bitter buds dry, sound shifts eyelight and head drops from the neck. You are pendulum-brained, and your dirty tongue swings. We are solemn as the bus stop I’ve torn my awkward ankle running to, your eyes the alien order I sit with as I nurse my wound. From across the tundra, a man whispers, are you okay, sweetie? My joints are sore as the spirits I join who know better than to take candy from strangers.

CANDY TUSK POWDER

2010-01-17T11:51:00.000-08:00

Tongue itch rubble

aroused curbside carry-

out, wounds wrapped

in blood-crust fruit-stretch

panties, bread bandages
the scraped knee, yeah
it works to walk around with

sugar in the wrong. Worse

to wear candy cane tusk. Bone

mint horn make defense

taste sweller. Yodel

to sidestep bitter root mouthfeel,

airsuck until powder dry buds

& sound shift eyelight
anyway. Cayenne cold-kids drop
head from the neck.

Thirty dirty deep swing

pendulum-brained

tongues like bull-flags hang

from white stalactite cave

lull, save swill

to keep the head spinning and

swill, swill you will.

CHEST PIPE TWISTING

2010-01-15T13:57:00.000-08:00

Maybe mar the end crust a bit, the butt of the bread. Maybe pretend the mold is silk lining in your pockets holding shiny coins. Instead of stones. In a sense we all wake up wondering what that light was, and not knowing, in a sense. In a sense we hold the lantern away from each other's faces, because identification blows a cover. A cover on the inside? Crust again, crust on organs maybe, dirty liver shell? When you know the answer, no one can unanswer it for you, but if you wish you could slip it beneath the radiator and let it collect dust for a while. If you want you could make your mind a wooden chest collecting mildew in the attic. If you wish you are making yourself wonder what could when what would you want to be otherwise? Put that in your pipe and smoke it. In time we twist like leaves in air no like infinity signs oh like hands curled in from carpal tunnel holding the right fingers with the left to your heart trying to pull them open tears running can you not undo this twist? Stay on the straight and narrow path or forever be a conch shell held to the ears of all afraid to venture the ocean.

AFFIRMATIONS

2010-01-14T11:23:00.000-08:00

I don't know how

I got into this hole

where I climb from now

and in joy I cry out

and run in the bare

from the unsure blackness.
I do not know where I am.
I walk over the field

towards trees that wave

with unbridled angst

that I've left my dwelling.
The trees, I think, a farce

for humans hiding out,

wary of my birth

from a hole like that.
“But believe me,” I whisper,
“I affirm my own existence.”
As if anyone should hear.

Maybe mother nature

with her breasts that hover

heavy in the sky.
Now I shout with conviction,
“I AFFIRM MY OWN EXISTENCE.”

The wind bristles as if

it had better business

than to give notice
to the unearthed girl.

These winds kill quietly

with their blasé whistling

and mother nature too,

with her crude breasts taunting

me and my lack.
And I am running back
I am back in the blackness

I am watching the hole

swallow up the light

and I'll be beneath

as the tunnel falls inward.

The dig will stop soon

as will my assertion

that it takes only I

to affirm my existence.

CUT GOLDEN ISSUES

2010-01-08T22:10:00.000-08:00

And yeddings from yarnspinners to you! From golden age to present. Guess I can spot ya a slightly dented coffin nail, though, if yuh want. . . Husband/Wife teams find profitable V.I.P. burning in just days! It's turning into a soap opera. Give "on-the-spot" service-- get inches of powerful body! TAKE YOUR CHOICE! You can do this. No limits to the number you can earn. The Sore Sir's Apprentices expect some reaction. Sure shot action with shrimp, minnows, grasshoppers, mayflies... Cut out, fill in, fold & seal (tape, staple or paste). Now no need complete! Nothing else to be! Your neighborhood willl pay $300.00 for this dime. Yeah-- right-- gotta stay calm-- rational--! You'll like locksmithing fast... You fast electric key machine. But you'd be an idiot to resist. You'll find your new wearing apparel ready and waiting! I wondew... Will they exowcise me... or just work us away? Waaaugh... And forbearance is not one of my virtues!

UNDER-BRIDGE BRAN

2010-01-08T08:07:00.000-08:00

CURL FOR THE THE SPLAY

BIT BY BY SPOIL

UNDER-BRIDGE THEN GOALGASH

MIND SEND SENDS ELF DOWN

BETA BETABLAST BLOOD BLOOM

STITCH IN T'IDE LID

ABORIGINE DRAG BRAN

PIXEL EAT BLACK MOLD

A A MUZZLE

HERE I KNOW I LONE OUGHT I I I?

MOUTH MIRROR CRAWL

2010-01-04T00:28:00.000-08:00

Crawl in a soft cave to read the word. Eyelid text-flash on amorphous walls. Inside of each word runs another-- to read you must step close and more close over the blunder-black floor until your nose stops you. Upon reveal you become a healing object of inquiry: stethoscope, mouth mirror, knee hammer. Politeness to the doctor is sidestepping boundaries, that's what you're paying him to do. Crawl through that cave. Make that money.

Drowned bass womb is knocking you around, your gut images are becoming acquainted with one another, and your thumbs have gone weird. Sleep in the cave is wake in the cave is death in the cave is time. Time is money. Crawl through that cave.

CRYSTAL PILLOW

2010-01-02T18:16:00.000-08:00

If you can't walk through injury, you're dust. Scene: black alley k-hole, a twinkling darkness to shudder off sarcastically. Your inklings have teeth. You twitch to the arpeggio. A rib and a harp cluck-- metal symphony. Way to start the evening. The glass has a rainbow glint. The bedside disco ball has spilled. A crystal pillow floats across a Red Sea.

The crystals are contrary. You look up to its ancient wisdom without waking up for some time. Is it magic to twist the nature of axions? In the fee-fi-fo-fum days the quilting was obvious. Machines have made date more covert. You peel a present, you chop an onion. You have a drink, you catch some theatre. The days of storage space have failed you.

The grating dialogue has a heavenly structure, if you'll allow it. The nagging a catchy bridge, the fibs a scatty vocal. The trained mind can make fabulous realities if you're hip to the possibility. A little confidence can go a long way.

You have just enough time to do it.

WHO SPEAKS SENSE?

2009-12-29T08:05:00.001-08:00

A: "Level with me." Table to palm, strike three times, tone lilted but louder. "LEVEL WITH ME!"

B: "You're chasing shit. Parallelisms in manure. Go beneath this mess and to the other side, you need new material."

A: "Balls. That'd be fucking nonsensical."

B: "Don't get cross with me. I'm not the one speaking horizontal."

HAIL BATH

2009-12-29T02:22:00.000-08:00

Heat braid blows round
Bursting bath of coal teeth
Hurt grows in the neck

Sorrow of a tunnel
Mating long beneath the hail
Menace in the brain

MAYBE PRAYER, EVAde MARIA

2009-12-28T06:48:00.000-08:00

A field works itself icy. Old cotton puffs, used Q-tips slipping across the tidy white. Winter keeps the mucus membranes clean. Like heat nibbling on the amputated limb... Who can offer up a no to that?

Wavering reminders, a door hanger reads "Who Not Disturb?" Nobody, that's who. Message in the sauce turns tongue to glitter. Desert ache grinds between the gums and the words I read scare the hygiene out of me.

Tin heats on mute. Tells itself a secret temperature. Yr mouth denies itself the scent of warmth. Tracing the lines of a forgotten shape. In the air. Above the eyes. Yr pupils are sleeping rabbits that leap away with a startle.

Trace the mouthfeel of this next sip. Keep it in a ball sticky to your palms. Make a new word for love. Crickets. Crickets in yr abdomen at the sight. Hopsup yr throat when you speak. The mime mutters something to itself.