I call it Voiceterbating

I'll hum and click and sing for hours
keeping my fingers busy
dice or jewelry
loose change and trinkets


humming clicking
playing with the sounds, holding them

mouth
throat
chest
nose

nonsensical syllables
chopped up and delivered
into rhythms
that go on for minutes
that wind along like lifetimes
and get shot through
with bursts of birdsong,
crystallized howlings
and whooping exclamations of joy or regret


I couldn't tell you what I'm thinking
starring blankly at busy fingers
dice or jewelry
loose change and trinkets
voiceterbating

Plea to the Popular Universe

a little mercy, please
just a little mercy
on your latest violent offender
I've never set out
to leave anyone in pain
it's always meant to be
blunt
swift
and ending
a little mercy, please
a little mercy
for the hopelessly lost
I've not found anywhere
where I felt I might stay
I've not screamed
to be taken back anywhere
all I ask
a little mercy, please
while I continue
to destroy myself

hangover,
breakfast sandwich,
Barry Manilow

jukebox blasting classic rock
dancin'
drunken chatter and laughs

it doesn't matter if we
hardly hear
each other's
whiskey scented words

baby,
it's our eyes that are doin'
all the talkin'

those lonely Brunz nights

the record stops playin'
candle lights fade
just a drop of wine
in the bottle

i take
one last drag of my cigarette
stretch out across the floor
and the stillness
of the room
slowly seeps in

waiting waiting wanting waiting

A still shot torn
left on the cutting room floor
cigarettes on your voice

Small Wonder

a tiny ship on a vast
expansive sea
sometimes there are
many ships
usually there are not
sometimes the weather is golden
often it is not
sometimes the roundness
of the world is made apparent
and sunlight makes the water a mirror
of heaven
holy and reflective and transforming
but usually it is just lonely

To prevent the moon from disappearing
Stare at the moon
Never blink when others are blinking
and always think
about the moon

idiom anthology of volumes 3 and 4

So i've begun making the idiom anthology volumes 3 and 4.
I'll probably make calls anyway but if anyone wants a new bio put in this book email it to me. and if you weren't in the last one send me a bio because yer probably in this one. theidiommag@yahoo.com

Im hoping it will be out by the fall and will have a book release party and if you wanna read at it let me know.

I will still be drunk when I wake up

I will greet the morrows sun like an absent lover
and welcome it with tea and silence
like a tired friend
hanging on

stood on the edge
and curled her toes
if the wind came by
it'd cut her loose....

When I am too drunk and missplaced
I put on your shoes
walk around a bit
and we become pieces
no one yet has eyes for
forgotten
walking
home again

tis better to be thought a crackpot than to open your mouth and drop a fucking a bomb

pardon the interuption, this will take all of your remaining time, but leave you shaddowed reminders of what men are capable of undoing. spoil all your genius, let it fester rot roam aimless, your better off reminding yourself that you did the right thing when no one knows what you did. free form kentucky moon corn from a thrice used jar scored with too few x's will keep your ideas warm while the rest of the world keeps on moving along trying to sample the happiness on your tongue, al who, theyd say, and you could relax knowing all the explosive treasures locked in your head belonged to you and wouldn't be out sourced to extravagent cities in japan.

They had their chance
to clip yr wings

It's a Saturday
in June
and the sun scorched the
brightest parts of the sky.
I felt my way along
the cold, splintered ground.

It's morning and yr blood pumps
thick into this weighted tissue.
Your limbs jerk in pneumatic motion.
The sun is beautiful but deadly,
wreaking havoc over
the morning commute.

It's noon and I'm begging for change.
Just today's worth. Just to get me
through until I can maintain.
This is the end of the world,
what better time to stand
on ceremony. You may still
have a flag to raise. You may
still see heights to
ratchet yourself up
towards. I'm a civil
servant struggling to keep
the peace.
I'm a box truck driver, loaded
with jewels being smuggled
in the pocket, then right towards
the river.

Some of these guns are loaded
and others just feel heavy.
Next door they're taking
side bets on Judgment Day.
The sun keeps bleeding a little
farther down the line.

Provenance

The Ocean claims provenance of potential to be a never ending vision linking lands and providing a platform to float until the madness recedes into the past and each day renews itself as dawn turns night over to the new day fLOT

2.23.ten Santa Cruz, CA

One By Three

One By Three

I’m not that type writer

Deleting doubts

Selecting emotional sure-shots

More like I’d subject you

Into celebrating natural selection

Focused directions westerly intimating

Tables hold things and chairs hold people

Ideally, one page feeds at a time

Avoiding jams of traffic, raspberry and paper

And fish of cats and dogs and

Monks with bowls turned up or down

Permeating skin surface dreaming

Under all the misconceived ideas

I have ever imagined inside one dream

Or one day of calamity clamoring through

Then no more ever

Only questions without fear of retired retributed

Crossed purposes and redirected ingredients

Listed one by one because

nothing is ever one by two or

one by three

sitting standing walking lying

on a rug, like a rug

cutting said carpet with culinary academics

cleaned up or corrupted out

if you like misdirection

I am her leader

Clearer and without all the insincere

Without tears and with a sense of

Urgent sense of common matter

Not tense or insensitive

I’m culminating months like

A sandman makes glass

Sculpturing air into wind

Pine into knots

And would be’s into yesses

I’m fulminating right now

Jumping silently writing down how

And if indeed you need to follow

Choose yourself

Empower the hollow feeling

That never burns

Spark the fire

Inside your own belly

I’m not that type writer

Flot ------------- 5.9.77, I mean ten

For Rainy Days

I’m loose change

at the bottom of your purse.

You keep me in a jar

above your bed or

behind your bedroom door,

only taking me out and

cashing me in

when I’m needed.

Or maybe you

forget about me

lying on the floor

of your passenger seat

as you drive out of town

or go out for a night

drinking with your friends.

I’m crumbs

at the bottom of the bag.

When you’re really hungry or

when you’re really high,

you turn the bag upside down,

ingesting all of me;

chewing me up into a pulp,

washing me down with

wine or

beer

or diet soda.

I’m your favorite movie.

You tell everyone about me.

You remember the lines

I spoke and you

repeat them,

never getting them quite right.

Or lying alone in your bed

on a night when you’re bored,

you take me out,

laughing at the right moments;

crying when it’s your turn.

I’m your old pair of shoes.

You tie me together

by my laces.

You leave me

on a clothesline or

in the corner of your closet.

We have too many

great memories;

too many miles

traveled together;

too many nights

soaked in alcohol and

dance-floor sweat.

You can’t just throw me away.

You need me here

to show people;

to tell them what we’ve seen.

I’m the love-letter

you got in high school.

You keep me in the box

on a shelf in your closet.

Maybe I’m under the bed.

When you feel ugly;

when you feel lonely or

upset, you go to your closet;

you kneel down,

lift up the apron

and reach blindly,

feeling for the place where I’m resting.

You crack open the top,

almost expecting the contents to glow

like the soul of Marcellus Wallice.

You cry when you read me,

whispering the words on

my pages so low, that you

can hardly hear them, yourself.

And you’re left there

wondering how someone

could have loved you so much

and how you ever could have let them go.

a tweet

wine drunk face flush

Some people swim gracefully through the calm waves
while I wade
awkwardly
each thread of the wet hairs on my head intertwine
and all the beautiful curls I desperately try to hide
finally shine
boldly
like the mid-summer sun

Doing imaginary favors for strangers

in an empty super market
super well lit
I smile
you shyly smile
and for such a small while
our eyes

but besides that
I catalog your face
and your pear and that place
late in a super market
when the produce misters go off

you wear red well
and like pears
brown eyes, hair and pale
it was only for a little while
our eyes

Walking away without consequence
buying single servings

I don't like the way that you move: Spider Tim
I don't like the way
your arms buckle and your legs crack
I don't trust the way that you swing
your big gray sack on your big stupid back
I don't like the way you move
spider Tim

That Thesailie Sim

Thesailie Sim took thirteen days
to get to the bottom of the big red gorge
Stomping on Shrubs and snakes
letting his beard get long

He chewed on the end of an ugly empty pipe
The pipe was black with teeth marks on it
his teeth were white with pipe marks on them
and he smelled just terrible

The Frankin-lover

He is a gauze wrapped mummy
A hackneyed premise
tilting and lumbering
ungraciously towards me
with both arms out
like a big dumb equals sign

Still sweating something out
Perhaps the pounds you've added onto this heart
To make it heavier than rock
So I'm weighted and chained down
Instead of feather light with love
I'm a tethered stone falling to the earth
A kiss on impact
Cannon balls and heart attacks

moving on

I could become some mans way 
To carry on his fathers name
Is that what love is?
Animal instinct
My blood and your blood 
Making new flesh
For old bones

We were higher then we've ever been
Counting time with cigarettes
The stars are just reflections
Your smile, burning embers,
Dieing fires, simple pleasures
Another day you won't remember

Motels with high ceilings
Kissing while we're sleeping
The weather outside teeming
might've well been dreaming

Another bridge, a flooded street
Caught off guard, don't claim defeat
We could drown here on this island
If we can't find a way off it
Anyway I'd be just fine with that

The parkway, turnpike, leaving
Elevators, trains, revolving doors in
New York city, saintly wisdom
Graffiti bumps and king pins
Sneaking into buildings
Singing, smiling, let me down again
Get me outta here
Let me outta here

I just want to be
in your passenger seat

Two people sit in a room saying nothing to one another
Their silence is thick and tence like thunderstorm weather
They don't even bother 
He doesn't touch her she's afraid to touch him
Some things should have ended long ago
Some things should never begin