Thursday, April 18, 2013

Move Along There's Nothing To See Here


A snake that swallows its tail eats its own shit, said chance, while we powerwalked on a hamster wheel well the worst ideas of the march led us to a jazz bar that had no sign but the receipt read april’s shower though we lefted as best we could we didn’t have enough fusion or weren’t organic enough so left may bent on her car door hitting a cyclist speeding past some kind of communist garden, we stole whole papayas on trees in food and book and rag chains and loitered a little when sitting still in gardens but learning nothing about good or evil from the screens that lined each and every street, each thing with its very own trademarked name but wearing glasses magic underground train made it much clearer for me

you corrected my usage and hat, begging the question is actually happens when everything sucks because all things are sucky, this faggy bourgey bag penance with stupid rocks ununderstood and ununderated and my spine slumped against the wind who, like you, tried always to prop me up, translate sad unhip beat druggie sophistry into some pretty self despite split spitty lips and empty rosebud cheeks frozen by freezing sailboat weather with tulip hips that enveloped me, it remains difficult to find useful tasks to do but together we invented explict keywords yet unsearched and avoided calling our bitter daddies, you showed me how to do the macarena  and I showed you the dirty skin on my washcloth, we slept in circles.

Saturday, December 29, 2012

once I wrote on this blog
'I will let my pubes grow long
let my heart turn into a frosted flake'
or something very close.
I wrote that after being 'heartbroken'
by a girl. (I would have to look at the
date on the poem to know exactly which)

the really funny thing about poetry is how
basically a lot of the time when I write
something that doesn't make me
you know, cringe nauseated in self-loathing,
it is or will become true
but I often don't know it yet
I just think it 'sounds cool'
though maybe real capital-T-Truth
doesn't sound very cool.

maybe real truth sounds more like
the embarrassingly loud percolation
of sugar free redbull and very little else
in my stomach when I'm off food

I drove 4 hours round trip and alllllmost ran out gas
and tried to be a noble (sexy) savage
for others

I don't know if it worked, it felt that it did
at least at the time. There were two others
not savages like me. Some kind of jungle royalty
with 5 cats (one who Parties All The Time)
that are as serene and loving as the monarchs
they all made love to me they stroked me
and put their tongues on my tongue, it felt nice.
I wanted to purr but didn't know just how to do that.

later I knew that it was a one-off, my trip
to that particular jungle. I'm not equipped for such great heights
and the huge complexity of knowing where to put my hands and when

this is not about that though. I am letting myself diverge
this wasn't supposed to be about that at least
it was supposed to be about the frosted flake thing
and how it did come true
in a horrible way that I never considered.
frosted flakes are brittle, saccharine, and small
and are not very filling;

the only person I know
who really likes frosted flakes is Uncle Milton
and he is a strange, smart guy but he is also
callous and mean.

I don't know.
I am trying to be better.
But I'm stuck with this achey-flakey thing
And have  to protect it from being crunched
in the mouths of a rare few women and men

who will even appreciate
how hard I've worked
for these particular
long-ass pubes and cereal heart???


Saturday, December 8, 2012

triadalean and ephedrine sulfate and cabernet franc and the slow click of my front right axle

here you want this
go get it there is
source in cave
small dividend
here we go to Mexico no?

bring sorts of
suitcases hangers
that smack of
heresy and high fashion
we are brats

deeper kimchi
a problematic
swim together a lost
notion of this map

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

(warming up) (glendale)

tonight, I hear the echo of
peninsulas of stripped malls
against valleys of empty
ringing, an orangeish basketball.

I lost my glasses--all of you
have glasses. where are my glasses.
I am still the queen. your royalty spreads
like a fresh shag carpet that my father, mother, brother,
cat and me once rolled on in excitement of things
to come.

stains came. and dog shit.
lots of ash--some dust
accumulated in unvacuumable
corners or places Angie
missed.

what I want to ask is: will
you take me? as one of you?
can I ask for your forgiveness?
for I am (a) miserable! (sinner)


Wednesday, March 7, 2012

jesus came from craigslist


jesus came from craigslist
paused in the kitchen gauzy
pink and olive and denim
gay as some prisms sunkist
frizzed benign nazi
popping ecstasy calcium

jesus broke and spit in
souls so plain my psyche
fearing absent venom I
keep evian forward when
faced Him

"trancenoise spine"


If You solve the mystery, Then I get a shank­—
­­—snack. A wire transfer headed south of your
hem and haw. Your cat knots around intentionals
Your father just had his third heart attack.
I am overdrawn in every sense of the word.
1’s understanding of 3’s sin
Hardly working, hustling Dixie—chess
And math and dingy inhalations vex
Long celebrity: self-pitying solace who
scrolls infinitely through a contact list
to find no party to intrude upon.
Enumerating that which has been, the
sum a landfill heaped and reeking of some
                bottomless repetitions that sunk cheekbones.