Sunday, December 30, 2007

here on out

out past the
winter looking trees
and the naked cold gray
and the over the next hill
and the words falling
softly to fill yr footprints

from here on out
there's a moments view
from a perch on high
and flags stretched out
and snapping

from here on out
you've got a world
shaped by notions
and all's well
and after yr troubles
move on past the doorstep
all's well

so from here on out
lets burn all bridges
and speak explicit tones
because all our sins
are fuel
and hanging threads singeing
seem so cruel

Thursday, December 27, 2007

all these black and white still shots
of mid twentieth centurt authors
in their late twenties,
always in their late twenties,

always reclining in their late twenties
help me confuse em
with each other

in black and white still shots
under that exact haircut

and every one of them
their eyes
seem to wrestle
with the thought
or the dream
of some great american novel

except hemmingway
he is always
a mountain
and a beast
with the little bits of madness
readable in his cheekbones
and unpressed shirt
with his beard and cigarette smoke

and those drunk eyes without peace

the night
as metal
subtle and desperate


in stinging light
i struggle
to memorize
random patterns
of freckles
on the back of her arm
cuz later, days down the way
i know
i'll be able to say somethin
that makes the
in their
rhythmic patterns

sometimes i think the moments aren't real
sometimes i think the moments are metaphores

and here i am with this girl
and the car's all parked cock eyed
and i'm outside it, shifting my feet in the sugar sand
and smoking

and this girls inside
and she's fixing her contact
and the holy pine barrens are sprawling
just sprawling out and on and past
and the monotonous engine noise
but not perfect monotony
more like one plug is missing from the ignition sequence

the whole thing just starts feeling like a metaphore for something else
all together
and suddenly, i'm symbolic of somethin
and the sugar sand and the pines and
the imperfect car engine and all
might mean something
and there's this moral
that i can almost taste

and the girls not really a girl
or at least her contacts not actually a contact
and maybe
we aren't actually stopped
on some dim dirt road

(a memory)

the texture
of first light
the front seat
through the dew and the glass

in highway rest stop morning
like birth and gunpowder

and the tight life through which muscles stretch
in the cool still sleeping air

stepping out onto blacktop
and the sound of traffic rushing

(a sketch)

he was mad in that moment
hands a blaze with motion
thoughts flying as electricity
and i think i saw words
expelled as licks of flame

eyes in love wholly with these strange worlds

stars failing and falling to earth
seem more magical and eternal in that moment
rockets reaching heights successful

lets be
the sun glint
off satellites
and make 'em
think we're burning like stars

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

in the spirt of....

how cards do tell the true divine
like star crossed lovers
a choice to make
opens ones mind
to take a hand
or wade out the time
between these lives

i want your face in front of mine
i want your tingle in my spine
i want to be blown
spoken of in rhyme
i'm not one to deny
the truth in what i feel tonight

darling i could hold your hand for ages
on this you could place wager
and come out one top for sure dear
there is no other truth there
cause you're beautiful just the way yer
floating about our space here
i want you the only way you are
the way you are alive

now the flip-side to the card
is wondrous by far
a sweet soul to sit by
and contemplate the time with
a poet undercover
a complicated lover

now i dont mind the faction
of beauties interactin
or a star-crossed lovers sanction
from over-load satifaction
take a real piece of the pie
you know you know you will find a
bite most delightin

drop the beats now
this is

and the nights done
here come the mornin
and i'm thinkin
bout every face i've ever loved

and you're amongst them
forever end

flip the cards kid
i'm done waitin

Sunday, December 23, 2007

mike rice covers willie nelson

Friday, December 21, 2007

i love ya, girl, but i hate catching up in crowded bars.

"let's get shit-faced tonite," she says
still hungover from the previous night
i hesitate
but she twists my arm
and we end up at a crowded bar
trying to catch up
reflect on old times
but i can hardly hear her
through the crowd
i'm on pint 3
while she's on her first
pint still 1/2 full
for the past hour or so
beer now warm
the formation of condensation
on the glass
blurs the objects
seen through it
blurs the purpose
of why we are here

Thursday, December 20, 2007

tuesday nite 10:10pm

i take in the atmosphere

as i surround myself by old and new faces
all sipping caffeine
i ponder: what exactly is an alto-shaam
as mac pours me more coffee
from the waiter's station
while others contemplate the blackhole
i scribble abstract images on my placemat
the publisher calls 'therapy' not 'art'
as poetry publications are passed around
amongst the music cds
anticipating feb 2
and next tuesday nite
as i make the long trek home

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Black Planet

I had a vision of you
strung out and chewing pills
like a drunken dream
wandering hospital hallways
like a christ angel
fallen from the kingdom
wings clipped and burned off
in the atmosphere
of child earth
lost all memory
of the war in heaven
hair & eyes gone black
singed from the
flames of Black Planet
named black for the
color of Man's soul
named black is the
child planet earth

Saw the moon
As god's searchlight
reaching down from
kingdom heaven
but blocked by
black cloudy skies
here on Earth
and maybe
that's just why
I feel more lonely now
than in all my life
'cause the batteries
are runnin' out
on god's searchlight

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

I dream of prairie wind
of long dark roads
and great big sky
I dream of honest work
and art and music
I dream of the sun
kissing you in the afternoon
I dream of coming home
and collapsing
into my most comfortable chair
I dream of thunderstorms
of cigarettes and rocking chairs
Barn swallows Deep woods
and silos
I dream of walking home
and seeing you there
eyes shining
like polished brass
and skin glistening
I dream of the scent
of dried flowers
you're great big smile
and all our love

if you're gone
you're gone
and that's ok
just go
if you're here
be here
my heart strings
they only have
so many threads
and I'm afraid
I heard something

I want to wake up

stinking of your laundry

and feeling hot breath

against the back of my neck

'cause you're the only one

that's ever made me feel

like Casanova

Velvet and Velcro
You and I
And amazing how we stick

Your friends out there
Might be “kinda like me”
But they ain’t me

And the history book
They’ll talk about us

And they’ll say

I don’t know what they’ll say
But I’ll be ‘bout
You an me
And It’ll be amazing

Monday, December 17, 2007

the ring my grandmother gave me
was silver and simple
but sometimes, when i turned my finger
a certain way
the ring shined
and reflected light into my eyes
and i didn't see its value
until it fell off my finger
and was nowhere to be found

with the touch of a finger

the stroke of your fingers
across my bare back
evoke pleasure and pain
like a pianist
gliding his fingers across those
black and white keys
playing major and minor chords

Cobalt Boron Oxygen

I hope I didn't scare you
taking you to such great heights
or gripping your little body
in my hands
I just didn't feel like explaining
that smell
to a couple of birds

you cut me wide open
I forgive you
little darling

Rot Gut

thank you for spelling it out for me
been in this state over 20 years
you must already know about
all those things I have forgotten
rotten gutted hipsters
know everything about
music language space and time
we're all such great philosophers
we all carry so much weight
shed it off my shoulders
take alittle off the top
I'm no righteous unique individualist
I'm a team player and I'm going to sleep

It didn't feel much like I imagined Colorado might feel like...

It was just then that I realized,
it wasn't good clean fun any longer.
as she gyrated and rode it out
and the conductor smiled
like I imagine a man at a donkey show would smile
but there were no donkeys
just drunken asses
and a mechanical bull

he didn't want her to let go of that kill switch
'don't let go of that fuckin' button!
ride it baby ride! donchyu dare let go!'
I felt like maybe I shouldn't be there.

she finished
got off
fixed her pants and walked back to the bar

I looked around and saw the men
begin to salivate
at the sight of what could only be
fresh meat

I wondered if she'd let herself
fall right out of her own shirt
Thank God
atleast alittle dignity left in the world.

she cut the ride short.


I've been kickin' 'round your face all day.

Tryin' hard to grip my brain on your voice.

Can't even begin to describe those eyes.

When these fingertips are memories
everything I hold burns within these hands.


it's a contest.
waiting for the other side
to break
fall asleep
or leave

are we all after
the same things

I thirst
for truth
I want
the experience
I want
whats new

I'm not playing this game

I'm just fine with my
wine or my beer
I'm just fine with my
plain ol' cigarette

I'm fine with myself
all alone.

make note

i want to be the strings of your guitar
tuned and beautiful
and yours only

singing my heart
as you glide your fingertips
gently over me

spent the first night

woke up
after strange siteva inspired dreams
all laced up like a roller skate
tight in your arms
and it was cold still in the house
and the girls were milling about
prepping their hair for the work day

wide awake at eight
for once
a glass of water and a smoke on the stoop
watching a neighbor roll his car windows up and down and up
to clear away the condensed morning fog
he spits out the door onto the street
then notices me
I spit in return
letting him know I pass no judgment
I myself am only a human too
and a smoker

back inside
I kiss the girls goodbye
and climb back into the warmth of your arms
stirring, you smile
and I smile
and we sleep till noon

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Safe Place

This wind on this beach
in this off season
of burning cold digits
and smoke without smoking
has us wound around
each other
a piece of one another
you're my blood
and skin
while I'm your cocoon
organically intermingled
and we stand here
defying wave and wind
confessing our sins
to the stars
in a joyful rant
we trade shouts out here
and lips make lips sting
the best way
and eyes trap eyes
in soft light over darkness
where shout turns to whisper
and whisper gives way to kiss
so warm soul air drifts
from I to you
and you to I
with slow toungue to guide
secret need
to a desperate home

Friday, December 14, 2007

Spanish Ladys? Really bad eggs?

How long have I waited in shallows
For my sturdy ship
Call me captain now
Or forever bite your lip

Yo Ho me hardies
Drink up drink up
For when I
Am your captain
Never wanting
Will be
Your cup

Mad Moments

My life now for mad moments had!
The kind you know to be grand
The kind you have on the brink

Like that time we threw
Off the strangers balcony
The music of mad moments is splintering furniture

Or that fire we built
And hoped not to control
The perfume of mad moments is smoldering tinder

And those times
When my smile
Came curled wicked
In the corners of my mouth
Those were mad moments too
and I want to taste them again!

I’m waiting ta know whose name ta moan
Whose shoulder ta sink my teeth in ta

And when I find my man
Name and shoulder
May he be kind and mercifal
May he be brave
And just a touch mad
And may he have charm by the bucket full

An may he know
I got nothin ta offer
But my name ta moan
And my shoulder
Ta sink his teeth inta

her face looked
like an old country

blades of hair
cutting at her skin

and her eyes were
all echo
and enormity

and you were rattled
to yr bones

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Empty as my wallet
that's your head
harder than a break up call
that's your head
but also happening to be
something sacred
not your head
I mean
maybe losing things
I don't remember the last time
I looked back to check
to see if what I'm running from
is still chasing me

Good Signs

She said that there weren't enough
with numbers in them
s0 1 threw 5ome 1n
she liked it for a while
and then it was stupid
so i started writing about
blunt things
but no matter how many times
she died in a poem
she'd always
pick up the next one
so I think we'll be alright

It's all the same in the rain
It's all instant copy
Total deja vu
Lights glisten for the fog
to find itself
How else is a fog
to find itself
in all this fog?


your spray on smell
and my candle lit one liners
set us up for one hell of a night
as your eyes grapple with mine
over wine and breaded talk pause
we can find each other here
or you can let me out a week from now
and I'll stick out a thumb
waiting roadside
for a shiny new ride
as warm inside as you were
as we coasted through
all this talk
with your spray on smell
and my candle lit one liners


they snipped my fucking wings
and the ground
is not safe
for guys like us
who were meant
to stay in the sky

I got spies watching
everything you do
with the glitter
trailing behind
they can never lose you

Wednesday, December 12, 2007


I was only an adjunct so I never got a key for the bathroom
and it was always just a little awkward to be peeing next
to a student who I would be teaching within the next
10 minutes. We gave each other the nod all guys give
approaching a line of urinals. "So you're here to pee too,
huh?" "It sure is white in here, huh?" Then the sounds
we make with our voluntary muscles and the thought
of having to explain later about the inaccuracy of using
two independent clauses on either side of the comma.
I only hope he doesn't notice that I always forget
to wash my hands.

a definition

passion is simply
the friction
of two things beutiful
colliding and scraping
for a moment
in this world

well baby
you and i
we're just a white hot spark
in a deep forever cold

and my life is just fluctuations
of the vacuum
and the stars too
and everything you know
and love

i imagine
gone eyed girls
sitting, smoking
and lost
in America's
and cornfields
after the Incident
broke up
and the scene
broke down

all these girls with ghost eyes
and loose skirts
seem to be from Brooklyn these days
with slow words
or warm tones

and each one turns me on
with ghost eyes
and visions of the drugs in their
raspy voices
smokey apartments
with tapestries
and resin in fine glass
and wanderin hands
and ghost eyes

and their loose skirts
with slow movements
to folk lyrics or eastern instruments

and all the new light
accentuating old dust
in still air
in Brooklyn
for their ghost eyes

the moons a product of inspiration

when that comet hit
the sweet potential
of molten ball earth
with all its wild
of freedom in the big big universe
and mad travellin rushing

she jumped ship
for the great expansiveness
and all those holy eyed stars

the moons a product of inspiration

dreamt of a beer can
full and frothy
dreamt of a big love
dreamt of a hit and run
with a girl
that swayed with the wind
dreamt of a war
all glistening and moonlit
dreamt of seasons and handshakes
and thunderclaps
dreamt of us and this neon life

lets be honest
for a moment
about jealousy and regret
and the moon

about how she
fearlessly chased
that wild comets
hit and run love
away from home into the black vacuum

about how she
defied gravity
and got free, all reckless

about how that ole comet
never came back
and she waited and died out there
alone and free and cold
staring into the sun
and the earth and the stars

and about how beutiful and serene
she looks as she rises and drifts
with all the brilliant stars

Saturday, December 08, 2007

first snow.

covering the tiny village that we call home is the finest blanket of olympic white. all the tiny blades of grass, autumn's fallen leaves, and our car are made to look uniform this time of year. soon, we know, the blanket will be retracted to show the things that we once forgot in times of wintry celebration. spring will devour the cold and force our jackets aside for lighter clothing. but it's no more revealing than that of our normal wares... scarves discarded, sweaters left at home, and shivers maintained to stillness and smiles. the first snow is almost gone now, and likewise are the raw days of loneliness, nipping at the noses of our hearts, and making numb our fingertips. but frostbite will give way to sunburn and salty air... while we are indoors warming by the fire, we are leaking out from cracks in doorways and window sills, our heat forcing the freezing back to its home in the north. and the first snow... it's almost gone now.

Friday, December 07, 2007

coaxed out coyote question
fence rattling
and the links get smaller
and the metal freezes
and the coyote echoes
and his throat strains

Thursday, December 06, 2007

I just stood there
being made of meat
and thinking about
how we are all covered in mites
and what they must think of us


that borrowed brown hat has fallen to the Mission steets more then once this evening
she loses it as she tips back her head to meet his gaze
he makes love in the streets of every city
while her old fashioned frills keep her cautious
but she weakens in his presence
and finds herself shipwrecked in his arms
for moments

when he stares
he beams through her
with eyes of blown glass
and an unreachable fear
but as the sun hops from cloud to cloud
hiding itself from the city
it catches in his eyes
setting small fires
warming her inside

there's a pattern here
that they both recognize within themselves
pride ego infatuation
the "idea" of "love"
it's the one thing they are afraid of
for they fall hard and fast
and passion, an addiction

so he's under the assumption now
that she loves him
that she is in love with him
giving him control of the situation
but truly, on her end
she knows where her heart is
and that it could be his
for the profile does fit
her usual attraction

but does he know what he does?
and could he accept an explanation?
could they finally let it all out
everything they've kept bottled up
so many answerless questions
crowding their heads
though inbeded deep in their subconscious
a natural longing
and a spin they fall in
time and time again
regaurdless of love
they don't commit

on the other end

maybe just once and a while
the phone will ring on this end
and somewhere in the static
made from crossing wire after wire
blue red blue gray yellow whitegreengray red red black
those voices of old worlds and wanders
will flood through the receiver
leaving my heart soggy
with reminiscence
and a swimmers ear

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

Dec 3rd 2007

The first lines the most important one
So now that that’s taken care of
I don’t care if I bore you

With personal garbage
With longstanding baggage
With fears of tomorrow

And I’m sure I could write a lot of pretty words
Or meaningful ones
Or at least ones with some kind of meaning

But I just spent a day
Watching 3 seasons of an old cartoon show
And cleaning the apartment
So I have nothing worthwhile to say


You had better not
Go too close
To that lit

0000000000000the cats got the keyboard
Jher87 all figured out
But if she chases the mouse again
I’m going to flip

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

The Fool and the Warden

It dangled itself in front of me
like the meal of all meals
skin browned and glazed
it took all it thought I was worth
swinging and curving
grinding the meat against the monster
pulling my ears into it's mouth
snapping strings
in delicate dolled up fingertips
licking each secret
on the way out of it's mouth
catching my leg in it's claw
I'm a prisoner
with all I've brought taken
and a stiletto heel
between my thighs

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

The Kitchen

After my Father and I had the sex talk
All I could think of was cheese
So I searched the fridge
for something to melt it on
Standing in my dingy kitchen
The floors and walls stained
from leaking water
Pots and pans lived permanently
in our filthy sink
These days it was throw away Tupperware
and paper plates
Our refrigerator was a model you might see
in a Three Stooges short
The food inside
just about as old
Somehow, we had a microwave oven
You can imagine how clean it was inside
Once the radiation buzzed up
I found art in my surroundings
Waiting for my leftover chicken cutlet
These dirty pots
Mildew stains
Prehistoric appliances
pushing out one last spark
I saw an amazing setting
It wasn't beautiful
Not even close
But I couldn't help see something
Like a movie
This is a place that two cops walk into
and find too many people slaughtered
Guts thrown every where
like raw ground meat
Buckets of organs and bones
in the fridge or bathtub
Like a collection someone can't wait to show
'I've been doing this for years
here are some of my favorites'
Then the microwave blipped off
bringing me back
to the less romantic reality
There was no blood here
No bones or bodies
just one tired man
and a sick young boy

Private Conversation

I wasn't awake
But I may have been talking
While someone or something took me somewhere
My subconscious created stories
from the sound passing by
From the tales told by the highway
that those who are awake will never hear
Something between the wind and I
Maybe revisiting sexual escapades
one by one
Maybe trading bad childhood trauma
Or maybe it's all one sided
Maybe the road never shuts up
and you can't get a secret in edgewise

saw u fallin fast
terminal velocity
at a friction induce Celsius
i cant even contemplate
the blues and reds
with all the wrong wavelengths
to reach me
so far below

but i glimpsed you
sparkler head
at white hot moment smeared

and yr death
was beauty
in vaporization

modest mouse
callin out
that the dashboard melted
but they still had the radio
and we all do
as it all burns
so turn it up
and dance with me
like heroin or stray cats
gettin by
in the cold
with fast steps
for the sake of it
cuz we still have the radio
cuz we still have the radio

drifting on the fingers of the sea
yr eyes return
hallow and hallowed
in grey clouds
and white froth
with the biting wind and yr sarcastic tongue
and then promises
all the banking gulls
with their squawks
amongst the sunsets and sunrises

and the clean moon
a well lit road
out along the rippled

purgatory's a diner
sure as shit
where wide eyed lost youth
sits and sits and sits
mesmerized on the shine
until its unshaven and worn

pines on the parkway
slowly recover from the fire (years ago)
and take on the silhouette
of those Peruvian palm giants
afflicted with some
invading curse
like democracy or capitalism
that drove
out the golden empires and cannibalism and subsistence
and god-king and witch doctors
the dry flat gone on forever land
and the ccloud soaked, llama trod Andes
in the flick of conquistador eyes and twinkle of their helmets

old crow medecine show
pluckin outta the car radio
through the
autumn wind and sea salt
as life begins
to fail
and flicker
like a ghost
of poor reception

Sunday, November 25, 2007

It's always darker on top.

kids jumping from rooftops in the background

I saw that spot tonight
the one where I got your call from california
stood below that spot tonight
where you let me listen to my favorite band
almost fell off the balcony I was so drunk
that night you called me
so excited
to listen to that music
& I whispered 'I love you' into the receiver
& you whispered it back from the other side
& I shouted that you were the best girl in the world
I miss that night
hearing your voice
& you
so excited
just to hear mine

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

black marble geothermal nights
they'll kill one in ten
the rest head west
or just scorch the earth
beneath their feet

I lit her
and she
smiled sweetly
and she
in the cherry glow

I've seen you pick out photons
and bend and pull waves

apart at certain intervals

all my heroes
died in the Alamo
of friction burns

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

This is kindof a joke

Loneliness isn’t contagious
So I’m not sure how I caught it
But I’ve got it
I got it bad

And I stay awake at night thinking about how desperate I’d need to be
To meet someone online

And I stay awake after that reassuring myself that I’m smart and pretty
Or that I’m talented

And that someday
Oh god…
Someday soon!

Somebody will say
“Hey! She’s smart and pretty”
But then I get worried
Will they also know I’m lonely?

So I wrote this poem
Well it’s sort of a poem…
Sort of a cry for help…


What I've learned from strangers

This neighborhood is filled with self absorbed Fuck-tarts
And I might just kill this ladies dog
And I like dogs

But something that I’ve learned
From talking to strangers
Is that I don’t like strangers in big houses
I only like strangers at bars
Or rock shows
Or art galleries
Or cafes
Or Diners
Or costume parties
Or… the Zoo

But I don’t like strangers in big houses
And I don’t like the things they say or the things they do.

the day after the eve

I can still recall your hand against my cheek
And the comfort that brought
To start a giddy day
With a hangover
And a little guilt
Of something I wasn’t sure was appropriate

And now
If we never see each other again
I can only say we had a night
But I’m a poet
And you’re something else
So I suppose
That’s Okay

Monday, November 19, 2007


i never got to tell you,

but when you move,
there's this thing you do...
it just tears me to pieces.
there's this face you make;
and it's the reason
i've yet to pull your pictures
right off my fucking wall.
it's the reason...
the excuse i give myself
when i see you on the street
and i stop and stare,
amazed that no one else around me
is following suit.
if i tried to imitate
the move you do
and the face you make...
i'd look like nothing short
of a gigantic asshole.
since you and i both know
i'm not in the business of caring
about what most people think,
here goes.

(i'm making the face.)

how retarded do i look...?!
multiply the retardation
by some unreachable amount,
and substitute it with beauty...
and you've got
the perfect impression of you.

Saturday, November 17, 2007

the corner desicion

On the corner of Main and Somerset
There is a chicken shack across from a grave yard
And this is where
With great consideration
I weigh my options

The Writing Process

First I procrastinate the whole week
in fact if I really want to write I might
procrastinate into the next week.

Then I usually upset all the people around me
which for some reason makes me happy. My jokes
get more crude and I become super obnoxious
about everything. I don't use the bathroom
for days and save it all up so it's still inside of me.

Next I watch TV for hours, maybe days, to the point
that i will not want to watch TV for the rest of the night.
I play video games till I get frustrated and can't go
any further in the level. I try to find some poet,
but not for the night that I write because I can't write
while I'm high, but for the night before so it's still in my system.

After that I try to play guitar, but it never works
right. I can't even tune the thing- I have my brother
do that part. I play a little bit of "Beast of Burden"
badly and then The Car, "You're Just What I Needed"
because they're both basically the same song, or at least
I play it that way. I come to realize I will never play
guitar for a band or an audience or for anyone.

Finally I go to my computer and write down a line
then I write down another line and another
only to realize that I now have a poem about
how to write poems.

A Certain Kind of Irony

it had
a certain kind
of irony
when my
former roomate
a Satanist
moved from Jersey
to Florida
back with his
because he couldn't
pay rent anymore
and took a test
got certified
and began to sell
life insurance
to all the elderly
that normally move
there worrying about
their oh so short

Chicken Fox Corn

Alright, so I'm in this boat on a river and I got a fox
some guys chicken, and this sack of corn and I really
have to get to the other side of this river and I only
have room for one in this little rowboat of mine.
Of course the dilemma is that I can't trust a fox
with some guy's chicken and this sack of corn
would be gone if I left it with the bird.
I never did stop to think why I would even want
to keep this fox around in the first place.
Don't I hunt foxes? Can't I just kill him and
Take the chicken and corn over one at a time?
Aren't I going to kill the chicken anyway
or eat the corn? Why not just have my way
with them now, before anything can go wrong?
Why would I want to sit in a boat with a clucking
chicken or a wild fox anyway? Maybe I'll just
leave them on the shore of this river, only to find
an empty sack of corn and some scattered chicken
bones being puttled into the water by the small tide.

Only You Can Tell Me That...

Is what my teacher said, when someone asked if the poems
about his father were true.
You should also be assured then, that Beowulf and Grendal
never really fought but worked out their differences peacefully
over a chicken and mashed potato dinner in Heorot.

I don't know who said and I've been told hundreds of times
that maybe William Carlos Williams said, "poetry
is the best words in the best order"
Which doesn't imply that those words are
necessarily true.
But I may have never heard this quote before
and made it up myself.

Does it really matter if a writer's words are true?
Is that really something you should be looking at in
a poem?
Does it change the poem, whether or not it's true?
Don't you still want to cross the country in a
Truck you bought for $400 even if "On the Road"
is different than Kerouac's biography. Maybe what's
important to any poem is not how it was created
by yer humble narrator, but what it does to you.

After all this I can say
my stuff is all true,
Every last word of it.
I should know
because I'm the one
who made it all up.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

ponderin montana

all these hunger headaches
cold toesand empty pockets
got me thinkin lately
of drunk suggestions
from drunk barely known drinkin friends
in the drunk lonely barroom night
like sober prescriptions
from madmen with similar footsteps
and maybe I could find myself
or a couple dollars
or just a moment so holy
out there in all that big sky
amongst those powder days

[seems these routines
keep bringin me back
to the same old crossroads
all over again]

Sunday, November 11, 2007

a fury of emotions
a tidal wave of indecision and madness toppling all reason and exploding without regard for the love wrapped in razor wire thats been blown to bits and dental flossed back together over and over again
and those are the qualities than make me love her

Saturday, November 10, 2007


Thursday, November 08, 2007


I can do my best
And try to write
But the things on my mind
Are not interesting
Or poetic

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

"A poem for every 5 minutes they are testing"

and they still haven't learned a goddamn thing
and they sit in their desks hoping that by the time
class is over their test will be done and they can go home.
If I were teaching they would be asking if its time to leave
noone gives, a shit about commas anymore.
not even the book when the last rule states,
"Use commas to make a sentence clearer"
Whats the point of learning all the other rules,
if this last rule can cancel them out.

Everyone wants something for nothing
I will not publish yer dead friend
and I will not send you work to other publishers.
I guess all the competition really does die
when we don't keep score at the soccer games.
man, I wanna bang a soccer mom
and send my work to Camber Press
Ill make us all famous whatever way I can
and i'll go in headfirst now and mention
everyone's name and see how that works.
As well as 12,000 copies off to a deadpan
hippie festival? Were the police hippies?
Maybe I should just play bass in a basement
that floods and volcanoes are made
and I can skate in circles around the poles
and smoke some Winstons.

Then the class wants to go on a fieldtrip...
all the way to the student center
pickup pencils with animals on them
from a school that endorses gameboy
and condoms and full size shampoo bottles.
She's the kinda girl I could date
I could hit her and she'd still be happy
with the relationship.
Hit her with a lamp because the spaces between
each paragraph show how many times
I show my authority by pacing back
and forth in front of a room.
Charles Bukowski said it best,
'its not that there's to many writers
but to much bad writing'
because how much sense does it make
when volcanoes are butterflies.
I mean, I get it, and you get it
but do the students get it.
They didn't understand when
they went to my car to look for pencils
and only found a smoke machine
and some drumsticks.
But if only one can walk back with
butterflies in her hair and it ends
up on her purse then really why
do we do it.

Damn, I'm beginning to sound
like the poet laureate of Asbury.
"Theater of the heart" Fuck that.
I hope he chokes on his incense
stick cause he has no gag reflex.

some moments gotta be grabbed
right there right then
cuz those same eyes that glittered yer way
in the vast barroom night
last week might now
be tradin feet
to another bands song
in another mans arms

cuz some moments are clean
so clean they aint got no past
no future

man i wish i was that clean
just so now
when electricity arcs from cloud to cloud

deanna sitting on the rooftop
rubbing barefeet across shingles
and eyes making empty love
with all the distance

stars like the finite ends
of rods streaming through
the black and the wind

deanna sitting in november heaven
pressin hard into tomorro
and backlit by constellations
so ancient mythic

with world stretchin out lethargic
in the cold, reaching down
into the soot and salvation
and the sea foam and teaming bustle

deanna statuesque cept for
fogged breath, dreams,
runaway hair in the updraft,
and a glisten

Sunday, November 04, 2007

saw the moon,

about himself
about the moon

but it still hung
mysterious and
and bleached white

and all he really had
was awe

happy magic hour, kids

Hope whatever it was that didn't happen you'll never forget

Saturday, November 03, 2007

all the news 10/29/07

Trash Talking World War III
Israeli Premier Mourns Definitions of ‘Is’ and ‘Gay’
How to Love a Space Station
Nearly a third of The Evangelical Crackup
Tries to Swim the Channel
A Tale of Tragic Love Sings
Shock in a New Way
And Will You Tap Dance to Mozart’s Requiem?
The Kid sings, too uncontrollable and extreme
Makeshift Silencer Eyes Penthouse
Looking at Flora and Fauna in Greenland
More Money, More Yoga:
Bestsellers and Bombs Melt

Friday, November 02, 2007

placemat friendship paper thin

malformed ego
results are in
suicide and indigestion
marmalade and perfect posture
renegade idiocy forming pictures
of a time and place far from this wasteland
i'm not asking for a hand
but get yours out of my pocket
no more daisys
start pushing envelopes
and empty all your waste in here

Thursday, November 01, 2007

The chip's in my heart not on my shoulder

is the same
it's just like love
that's why you
the fuck out of me

is wanting
nothing more then
to strangle
and destroy another

I'm in Love.

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

some sort of revision of an old poem

the cold shoulder
and wandering eyes
my hands, untouched by yours
our lips, unlocked and colorless-
You said it loud and clear
like ambulance sirens
piercing and alarming
it hurts my ears.
there's stinging in my eyes
i'm trying to hold back the tears
the lump forms in the back of my throat
and i can no longer speak.
my chest closes up
i can't breathe
and i can feel the pain run throughout my body
like a lethal injection
flowing through my veins
slowly killing me
like your fading love

Monday, October 29, 2007

the layout of
the city,
it's not as big as the
postcards make it out to be
and it seems hard to stay dead
this time of year
with leaves rustling and soul music
propelled like in
wind tunnels,
and these aren't your ghosts,
they're mine,
I'll take 'em home tonight
and we'll kill that bottle
in the cool air
just like we used to

Thursday, October 25, 2007


Dear Lilly-on-the-couch,
- Can I tell you of adventure and heartbreak? The greyhound bus to history and the things that I have done? Or shall I simply say that I have missed you so much and that someone called you tragic, and I told that someone that you were just a poet.

Dear Apotheosis-in-my-mind,
-Tell that fool we are tomorrows eternal slap in the face... we are for its restless seekers... a soda - pop rock generation. We are would 'bes and rusty earthquakes and reality romance novels and unbuttoned cuff links and running with scissors fraying ends upon ends upon ends. This is this and now, and we are all waiting in between the lines of immortality and decomposition and this is a wicked kind of love and an adoring hate and for every stone thrown in the crowd someone goes down enlightened and this is walking walking walking running in a circle and these are electric mornings and brush fire burnings that we light our souls off of and we smoke each others dreams and watch them slowly form the clouds and we are collectively step by step painting every barren wall with light... we write ink and pen we are infinite we are something in this nothing we are for the ones to come and you are one of us and if thats tragic kid...well I'm just fine with it...

Dear Lilly-should-be-sleeping-
If I were to tell the fool a thing...and I wont be... I would tell him just that. But really, I should have just told you, I miss you, and I have a check for you, and I love you, and I think I might still just be a poet after all.

-Apotheosis day-job-in-danger-

Dear Apotheosis-slightly-burping-
4:26 in the mourning, I'll be west again by 11 a.m. Unfortunately without you with me. Because ya see I've discovered the perfect remedy for tragedy's like you and me, ---interjection--- "Beer?" -apotheosis---- response to interjection "no silly"- Lilly--- No amount of alchol or mercury, could save you from the poetry. Sleep depervation!!! now thats the key and even that cant save you from your own sanity.

Dear Lilly-nothing-else
Call a cab

Dear Victory cab
come pick me up,I've got another train to hop. Apotheosis is too drunk, thank the gods she's still a poet!

I'll just sleep on the plane

Hey Mark... your snoring kills bunnies too!

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

And when I get there

I'll come home to poets
I'll come home to dishes
and dead fish

I'll also
come home to campaigns
and office work
and empty staplers

but what I leave behind
is heartache
and new friends

all and all
a pretty full week

Good Bye and So Long

Some kind of fucked up high school reunion
With people I never met before
In a city thats not mine
Singing songs from the 90's

but I feel alright

I feel fully programed
I feel rejected
I feel like I've known you all so long... long

I wish I was there
when America invented
tight blue jeans
and rock and roll
and lusty eyes
and acceleration

I wish
I could have seen the look on her face
when she figured out
what she'd done

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Work on Sunday

I'm skim milk now
Publish Post

Saturday, October 20, 2007

hey man...
there she goes again
cause since she met yall
well, she don't live those lines anymore
but walks and soars
between each one
and has kept the animal dream
and nomadic instinct
and never excepts conformity
as a final resting place

Friday, October 19, 2007

Living Ghosts

There are ghosts on this highway
hiding in the thickness of fog
slipping through the lanes
searching for their lost purpose

There are ghosts on this highway
peering into your windows
as you flash by in the night
trying to warn you of sharp turns

There are ghosts on this highway
hoping someone sees them
wishing for a second chance
knowing they will never find it

There are ghosts on this highway
shivering in ragged clothes
crumbled up against the curb
praying for death to soon find them

Thursday, October 18, 2007

electric pop fizz on the mambo circus diet

a little less than fresh, but i'm finding ways to keep from rotting
telephone chaingang warnings to the massives
put down and pick up and save till your full of time well spent in a dead end paycheck.

fingers split and blackened from the time you wake
and your back aint been the same since the bottom fell out
i tell you this again that the nuetral colors make for borring conversation
i'm an earth tones kinda stumble with a grin to dimly light the room

she wore that brown dress today and i hope i didn't ruin in with all the rattle and crash and back seat indigestion

you see i'm almost back to gravy baby, just a few more decades and i'll be growing up a little

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

it can't be all angel feathers
and cumulo nimbus
its got to be
bat wings
careening in

saw her lookin for an NA meeting
outside the hospital
she was tellin someone
that she just got outta Carrier
i could barely make her out
wrapped inside the addict
i can't remeber her name
i remember when she dated Steve
when we ate oxycotin at the diner
the night before i left for Peru
how warm that high was
all through my calves and thighs
how her eyes got looser every time
i saw her after that
how she started to fade

last prayer for the cruisers

bread on the strange soft light
of haunted strip malls
baptised in the mirk of convenience store coffees
we marveled stumbling at the pagan mess
that asphalt interlaced on the earth
and made love to it
we were cruisers
with giant eyes at night
and worn jeans
with radio rosaries
hungry and fast
and hunched from so heavy headlight halos
zippin and mad with motion

and now in the sunrise
the whole culture of the thing
slowly settles
into age

like the consecratin mist we split so
unbelievably and mystical for the simple sake
of momentum in the night

(inspired by Liz's photo and caption)

brutal angels
the fabric of our clothes
scraping the very light streaming over us
and our hands jammed in our pockets
with the weight of our footsteps
echoing slowly and molten in the planets mantle
then the spinning milky way, a halo
brutal angels

"Rebecca" and "Hippie Girls"

she seemed vaguely free
at least in the hips and the eyes and the movement and thoughts
in the sparse barroom night
and flowed
with snaking arms
through the accoustic guitar chords

maybe its their skirts
or the way their arms move
like sexual and charmed snakes
but not really with the music
or the hollow eyes
staring past this world
deep into some zen in the dark
or how they replace the word God with Music
and love it unconditional
and trust it unwavering

or maybe its just cuz
they seem open at first glance
to the thought
through my head
at that

but hippie girls
spark my eyes
in the lonely lonely loud
barroom night

Monday, October 15, 2007

something about getting on a train
when you're not quite sure
where you're going

Moondance, by Van Morrison

it was some FM classic rock radio station,
and we had been talking about music and motion
and then Moondance came on
seeping into the car thick like molasses

"more songs like this" she wanted
and jumped in her seat
but I didn't have anything quite

still I can see her swaying
and when she sways like that,
all angular momentum twirl
and hips
I figure she's got Moondance,
and it's jazz swing yeah whiskey piano chords
in the back of her head

i was hoping
i could catch
a bit of certainty,
a moment truth
clear eyed
but all I see
are hearts,
like mine,
in a restless
quantum state,
no certainty
is a fact of the universe,

October rose,
not a trace no more,
yr buried deep
in the cooling ground,
yr not the stuff of
winter foliage,
the gray would
have leeched yr
as the sun grew dimmer

several feet down
the soil turns to
uncertain sand,

we’re sitting
on beaches
carefully shrouded
in concrete,
annihilation and
in every split second,
with fission force

i was on my knees on my 'art gallery' floor
flicking cigarette ashes into an empty beer bottle
my body all sticky
saturated with sweat
overheated in my air condition-less apartment
feeling exhausted
when i noticed the scattered spots
of glue and plaster on the floor
remnants of the creation of a four foot volcano
sitting in the corner of the gallery
active, and full of life

is this the night drawn into light
has dawn finally come?

fumble through ink and words
and blood and stones
in the dashboard glow
in the dashboard glow
over and over
to craft something angel winged
and smelling of truth
which might be beauty
and Keats said
that was all
i needed
to know

sometimes i see yr wheelbarrow
and rain water and chickens
in just the right light
in every subtle thing
just for a moment and shivers and exhale
and then everything else, all the whirling
washes away

Saturday, October 13, 2007

There's a fully functioning volcano in the backseat of my car

Literally a 4 foot paper mache volcano
with the insides made of bird wire.
My trunk has one bag to hold
all my clothes,
one bag to hold
my students papers,
one bag to hold my work
as a Master's student
and one bag to hold all
the submissions and contest
pieces for the next issue.
The passenger seat, well, thats
where I sleep, put my feet up
on the dashboard and think about
all the things that I should be doing.

Thats not science att all amy!

You can live on cigarettes, beer, and intentions
I’ve proven that already
But I think
And this is just a theory
That you can live on love alone

You can live and survive
On unrequited love alone

So now, when things seem bleakest
I can become a scientist again
And prove a practice
I believe

Friday, October 12, 2007

WE Post

I appreciate the support I've recieved. Thank you, honestly, but i know when i'm outgunned. We'll meet again.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

For Jon Matthew

Spill it over Scott street
Pour it off the curb of Fairview
Dump it out on Morton street
And meet me on Monroe

Let it wash across Washington
Let it bounce past Spring Garden
Give it life on Carroll and Webster
And let it loose on Pavillion

Find me on East Hancock
And walk me down to Bridgeboro
Share a smoke and a stupid story
And make it all feel real again

Keep the Faith

I saw you
in your brand new coat
you're all bells and whistles
and your congregation knows it
the staples in your stomach
will rust and bust inside your corpse
so have another toast
another dull success
I can see everything that's punching you
read me one more passage
maybe revelations
maybe Cosmo's worst dressed
These days
I can't tell the difference


The mirror's reflection reveals
the orange freckles she hides with make-up
every inch of the curves on her body
and how snug her jeans fit
the mirror's reflection reveals
the dark hairs which peak through
her over-processed bleached-blondes

The mirror's reflection reveals
her natural beauty
unseen through her eyes


rip rage rant smoke
skinny jean indie queen
punk rock stud
fans of the over-priced 'thrift' store
lurking through dark corners of bars
wipe me down, snap your fingers
jumping screaming dancing hipsters
hypnotized by excessively bass induced music
and noise guitar
saturated in sweat and cigarette-scented perfume

Is It You

In ragged little shelters
where deities huddle up on the drink
their fickle little whispers
of who would drown first
In the nasty dampness
of the misty back alley
praying to spots
their eyes have made from fog lights
In the isolated cell
where your comfort is the echo
of the snap of surgical tubing
and the slow release of madness
In the backseat of some rocket
blasting bass beat through the speakers
the guts clutch the rib cage
you have to wonder if it's you

even though Katie says she's not

her movements soft
fragile porcelain and feathers
the angle at which
her wrist and elbow joints swung
cupping the coffee up to her mouth
called out for the draped flowing sleeves
and all the other etheral detail
of a victorian era

my night, his words

that night
so many eye blink eternities ago
and visions of johanna
mingling with acoustic guitars
and barbaras backup vocals
sung all throaty
aint it just like the night
to play tricks when yr tryin to be
so quiet
(tryin to be so quiet)
that night
visions of johanna
with seductive MOLLY and cornstarch
tickling synapses in the
blurred throbbing visions of johanna of it all
that night
swimming in acoustic chords
with that little girl lost
holdin a handfull of rain
wonderin if it was me or her that was insane
that night visions of johanna
in the pot smoke
I watched float in the damp dark
and dance with that timid cat
before those eyes of all those all night girls
and shaved head boys
with ghost electricity howlin
in the bones of their faces
while the country music station played soft
but there was nothin
really nothin to turn off
(really nothin to turn off)
that night
smelling of pine needle gin
and soakin in honey brown ale
with the acoustic guitars like loose strung angels
and barbara's throaty vocals haunting the backdrop
and all the unamed chemicals and the way they creep beneath the skin
and those visions of johanna
kept me up past the dawn
(past the dawn)

Thursday, October 04, 2007

this is knowing

this is west 80 at 90mph
this is 4am in a Jamaica promotion van
this is passing Jersey Shore PA
in new colors brighter than lightning
this is the sweet road in emphasis
this is radio waves stretched and sleep deprivation
this is strange travel and a lone mind
this is knowing i carry you with me
in pockets so deep
all throughout this country

this is knowing i carry you all with me

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

skip to the back of the faceless nameless stand on the shoulders to get a better look

burn all your resons to the ground baby doll theres a fortune to be made on that new fangled internet. boop boop im not so far gone

i'm a little less than fresh they'll tell you where to find the end i'm just a lucky dog i'm just a nother drunken slob do do do

Tuesday, October 02, 2007

visions of the virgin

i hear
you show yr face
every afternoon
over in PA
in some poor schmucks driveway
and now there's this elderly crowd
that shows up
an' touches you and cries
an' sits around in lawn chairs
as th sun sets

in my next life I want to be a housefly
cuz I need a short and simple one
next go round

read that passage
where Steinbeck introduces Slim
the way he embodies
something bigger
more mythic
then the jerkline skinner
the way
he comes in the doorway
as something
more then a man

the flash
of magnesium
and the whisp of smoke
i want a night
like that
i want people
like that
for a moment

she was
David Bowie
in that uncomfortable light
all stuffed doll
and cellophane
and pete moss

Monday, October 01, 2007


our footprints
once embedded in the wet sand
are now washed away by the tide
and all that remains are the black and white memories
of endless summers along those Jersey shores

Sunday, September 30, 2007

bent and twisted
the mountain, it kissed us

I never got around to having the holes in my shoes patched up, and it was raining. Puddles, saturated soil that brought on pools with every step, socks wicking up moisture, and I had to stamp out my cigarettes with my boot heels. We listened to Bob Dylan somewhere in Pennsylvania.

We regrouped at a gas station in Hagerstown, and the local girls plied DanLos with pasteurized tobacco. "Awsome," he said. "I could use a new addiction."

It didn't look much farther on the map. Fuck, straight west to the Ohio River. Off the Interstate and the fog set in quick. Clogged the state's veins. Soon the side roads shrunk and atrophied and died and collapsed in on themselves.

Jackson's the driver, and when she lit a cigarette, so did I. Good thing her eyes are bigger than the road. It's sinister. Laid out above America, and the smoke tumbles out the window. There's a literature anthology in the back seat, but it's dark, so I just run my fingers over the rice paper pages.

The road's practically impassable. Unsafe at any speed. Every song that comes out sounds like a prayer, or engine motion. Take me to the river! Wash me in the water! Maybe the government's tracking us by our cell phones. Gravity is stronger below the Mason/Dixon, and Dixon had nothing on us.

Jackson looks spring loaded, hair triggered, and the rest of the car is silent, save for the occasional ipod clicks. I was doubled over in sleep, knowing we're still hurtling around blind mountains, jerked awake constantly by sudden adrenaline movements. The river is still somewhere ahead.

We finally rolled into Grafton at 4 am, and there are lights at intersections, and a kid sitting outside a gas station open for business. We pull and and fall out of our cars, remembering the feeling of being objects at rest. The kid precedes us inside, and we blow in like the nor' Easterns we are. Soon there's gas station jerky, coffee, and sun glasses flying. Stirrers are up by the register.

"Hey, you ever taken route 50? I mean, all the way?"

"All the way from where?"


"What kind of fool you gotta be to take 50 all the way down here from Hagerstown to... where you all going?"

"Point Pleasant, West Virginia. For the Mothman Festival."

They tell me I'm walking through blood
and steel falling
and burning eyes
and dense thickets
and madness on at the center of town
and the Rock Show
and clovis
and pitch and blackness
and faces hovering in light
and river deposits
and coal
and revolution
and blueberry wine
and ghost tracks
and fame on the courthouse steps
and worlds I can't see

Wednesday, September 26, 2007


I was confined
between brick walls
suffocating and choking on
conservative views
smothered by
others' expectations of me
I was dying
I wanted to be free

there's a thick cloud of uncertainty hanging
over my head
and I'm lost
in between county borderlines
torn in different directions
constantly taking u-turns
familiar faces and places
are nothing more than strangers now
and I can't seem to find my place
in this new town
but I gotta roam around
and find my way somehow
I have to let go
to be free
to find me
to be me


my car's coasting along
these streets
going from one point in my life
to another
and it's nights like these
when i think of those
bittersweet memories
of you
like puzzle pieces
on a floor
trying to piece together
the good times
the bad times
what went wrong
only, there's one piece missing
and well,
we didn't quite fit
right together
you see,
you and i,
we were one winding road
leading no where
we drove for miles trying to find
some destination to call our own
only ending up at a
dead end
but now,
i'm gliding along
these roads all alone
some have detours
but i know where i'm going
and this time
there are no dead ends

Fake blood
And forgone conclusions
Collect in me
Like ex-lovers
Or parrots at clay licks
And if this means nothing to you
Start a collection

We are a tank full of guppies
Small and pretty

We are a bar
Smokey and jolly

We are a world of word
And people will know us
When we are dead

Your snoring kills swans

A reputation in a new community

The neighbors think we’re artists
The cable guy thinks we’re musicians
And the Baptists think were alkies

But what they don’t know
…what would really terrify them
… is that we’re poets

Poets lurk
Poets drink
Poets kidnap and shrink into dark corners
Or waterfalls
With college kids

Poets keep volcanoes in the art gallery
And forgo dining rooms for libraries
And never have any fucking food

Poets work weird day jobs
And only half admit to them

Poets snore
And keep other poets awake
So they write poetry
And endanger there day jobs

my skin has no romance in it
until the air particles or your fingers run along it
and that holy so big sunset
only moves you inside yr gut
with photons colliding in atmosphere and hittin eye grounded neurons

but i've seen too many poets and read too many poems
where the poetry is supposed to be in the frying pan
or dog hair or newly shined shoe or watever lonely
item of this world

what i want is to feel the prepositions and adjectives and verbs and nouns
mounting and entangling in the night
cuz you better believe that there's no feeling
in this whirling universe
until its felt

until then its just one word
kissing by itself

Monday, September 24, 2007

im not kidding at all

I need the fucking internet
I really fucking need it
I need the world at my fingertips
Even if the world is just porno and friendster
Its a fucking SUPER-HIGHWAY
An information super highway
A morphine modern super highway
Right now

the scholars called

Call the madmen
And the mapmakers
And ask them if I still need to dance for my money

Ask them if I still need
Be drunk to write poetry

And when they refuse to respond
Or screen your calls

Tell the scholars
I fucking told them so

going back

I don’t fear the china-town bus
Or the eyes of my peers
I don’t fear the cold and lonely night
Or the men who lurk there
To hurt me

But I’m scared to death to call you
And tell you I’m in town
‘cause I don’t think you’d care

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

I've killed a few swans in my days

Well I didn't mean to
they were crossing the road
and I had to be somewhere
somewhere quick
and you don't even realize you've hit
them till the white feathers are floating
all around in the car and one creeps by
your lips and you almost swallow it.
and then you realize what exactly it is
that you did.
You look in your rearview mirror
and there it is a swan flopping all over
the road.
but that doesn't change the matter
that I'm still in a rush.
so this is my apology to all the swans
out there that i've hit or haven't
hit. I'm sorry but it just may
happen again.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Swans for roomates

The Librarian and the Apotheosis(Hatter) will harness the internet from their shared domicile starting Sunday- posts by those swans will pick up after that day.

Sunday, September 16, 2007

of the "NOW" and the "WAKING" and the suffering "ILLUSION"

...and i'm not gonna come callin again
I haven't lost the magic no, but i have spent too much of it
watching planets explode
and then fall in on themselves...
like Zen
and enlightenment
and those riddling masters
with their logic
not logic
and the grass below their toes is
is not grass
you were
and you were nothing
and this whole freaking thing...
the mess and the madness
the snaps and the stars are
and not
and those dreams are
and not

is the question you ask yourselves before you slip into dreaming, "what illusion shall i wake up tomorrow in?"

each idea
prearranged spontinuity
what of that wind howling children
what of that bold burning woman?

oh and only
holy wastebasket salvation
for those who seek satori
by trying to not try
to seek anything

these are crumpled crippled days
and again I won't come callin
no not anymore
theres no place for all the ringing
or the hearts abandonments and

these are shadows
transparent shimmering
these are "never was'
and "always has been"
and ones left wondering
where is the strength?
where is the love in
a neglected friendship

where is the connection?
i don't feel you anymore
lost in your own worlds
no i won't come callin
theres only so much
pocket change left
and I'm to make sure
that it's well spent

Thursday, September 13, 2007

when you dream tonight
and your mind's world,
painted in your own colors, not with light,
it opens up, all furious sensation
wrapped in pure impulse

when you dream tonight I hope
the taste of wine is still
on yr lips
and the window lets in
the cool breeze

when you dream tonight I hope
the ocean before you is endless
and space-time is a fabric
smooth as silk

when you dream tonight I hope
the landscape exists as echoes
of of every sight and every lust
and every sympathy in yr heart

when you dream tonight I hope
all roads lead straight to horizon
and words bend to
fit around them

when you dream tonight
I hope you treat me kind
while we move like mercury
at the tip of yr fingers

Sunday, September 09, 2007

the lights seem so far below,
and the sounds seem echoed back
from the houses
across the street, flaking
pastel blue tinged by
yellowing street lights

and you were watching new light emissions
frame by frame,
and the taste of bourbon on yr tounge
and the cigarette smoke drifting so
high above,
and the lights so far below
and sounds on all sides

and I am lost, I wish it would rain

maybe then the windchimes could be
coaxed to sing, breaking this street and it's silence
for the benefit of your imagination

Saturday, September 08, 2007

we're not talking about baseball or pidgeons right?



1. used of your own ground; "a home game" [ant: away]
2. relating to or being where one lives or where one's roots are; "my home town"
3. inside the country; "the British Home Office has broader responsibilities than the United States Department of the Interior"; "the nation's internal politics"


1. at or to or in the direction of one's home or family; "He stays home on weekends"; "after the game the children brought friends home for supper"; "I'll be home tomorrow"; "came riding home in style"; "I hope you will come home for Christmas"; "I'll take her home"; "don't forget to write home"
2. on or to the point aimed at; "the arrow struck home"
3. to the fullest extent; to the heart; "drove the nail home"; "drove his point home"; "his comments hit home"


1. where you live at a particular time; "deliver the package to my home"; "he doesn't have a home to go to"; "your place or mine?"
2. housing that someone is living in; "he built a modest dwelling near the pond"; "they raise money to provide homes for the homeless" [syn: dwelling]
3. the country or state or city where you live; "Canadian tariffs enabled United States lumber companies to raise prices at home"; "his home is New Jersey"
4. (baseball) base consisting of a rubber slab where the batter stands; it must be touched by a base runner in order to score; "he ruled that the runner failed to touch home" [syn: home plate]
5. the place where you are stationed and from which missions start and end [syn: base]
6. place where something began and flourished; "the United States is the home of basketball"
7. an environment offering affection and security; "home is where the heart is"; "he grew up in a good Christian home"; "there's no place like home"
8. a social unit living together; "he moved his family to Virginia"; "It was a good Christian household"; "I waited until the whole house was asleep"; "the teacher asked how many people made up his home" [syn: family]
9. an institution where people are cared for; "a home for the elderly"


1. provide with, or send to, a home
2. return home accurately from a long distance; "homing pigeons"

...4/18 this year, Chico CA, Railroad Earth just played at the Senator Theater, it's now somewhere around 3:30am and I'm sitting in a small random room in the ever tolerant Thunderbird Hotel with my cousin Sam and about 10-15 folks I've just of the girls has a video camera she maneuvers tastefully through the surrounding conversation. She's filming a documentary on freedom. I'm perched Indian style, with a bottle of local cheap organic white wine dangling from my fingertips on the edge of one of the beds next to Samsa facing the solitary front window. The draperies are drawn as is the fate of many a hotel drapery and the room is thick with herb stink and cigarette smoke but it's not unpleasant or suffocating. A few of us are in a semi circle of mid-music conversation when the the woman turns her cameras eye upon us. Unaware of her presence we continue on in a steady stream of passionate lyrical rambles. The four friends words intertwine naturally in vine fashion like the notes piped though the great mythical god Pan's flute. The camera woman interrupts finally, explains her plight and asks us if she can continue filming. We all agree we've got nothing to hide and none of us are electing to hold any official status any time soon that in later years the possible resection of incriminating video footage may breach the hull on the ship sailing the seas of political empowerment. We are content in our current social class. Liberated and alive. The red light of record shines its beady eye upon us once more, capturing every move and word. Our documentarian proceeds by asking our strange collective a question, the foundation of her back country erection, the spine of her cinematic sledgehammer, the true voice of our nations people, for in these days where our rights of life are continuously threatened we find ourselves faced with questions of intense moral caliber such as "What does freedom mean to you?"

From soul to soul the camera glides consuming all thoughts theory's and opinions with perpetual enthusiasm (for that is what a camera was born to do, map and store the forevers of memory)and when it swivels it's head to look in my direction, signaling my turn to speak in response to her question "what does freedom mean to you?"

I answer: Home

Freedom is home.

Freedom is to feel at home.

Where ever that may be.

Free to be and live as one truly is.

Freedom is comfort, comfort is home, home is freedom.

Now, back amongst the wanning comfort of good old friends of whom I have and do cherish so deeply that even the Mariana trench in all her plunging oceanic glory couldn't hold a anglers photophore to, I am asked yet another like question...

"This is home, right?"

and again, i must answer, for one is deserved of such a question,

"This is home, right?"

...Oh darling, regrettably it is not. Not mine anyway.

In many ways I wish it to be, for here is where you reside, this is the land you love, and in my need to know that i am close to you, to have you continuously in my life, I deny myself, and try do I, to live here by your see what you see and feel what you feel as you dive passionately into this garden states flowering bosom. But oh dear forever friend, I'm wilting living here again. There's too much pollen noise in my eyes (not to mention lungs soul and heart) as each breath adds more weight onto my already weakening chest and the bones of my wings once vacant of worry and free are quickly filling with lead and oh the awful abundance of noise in my head...

No, this is not home. And even with all the words above said...i'd feel inclined to reconsider it, given the fact that this state is indeed the home of my blood and closest relative family...but as we've all already seen the disaster butting tectonic plates create, and in that case, distance is a necessity, obviously, and I'd much rather brave the west coast earthquakes then be the cause to erupt more volcanic emotional outbreaks.

the longer i linger the less i radiate...staying here would mean only to fade...

i am to return to the west with the wind to my back. West where comfort flourishes in my bones and my soul, west where freedom is grown, west where i am truly at home.


Wednesday, September 05, 2007

In This House

There's something in this house
It follows me from room to room
There's something wrong with this house
At times, I stand alone in here
I start to shiver
It's only you and I who live here
but there's something else
In the air
Behind every door
It steals my comfort
It wakes me in the night
It grows in our anger
It begs us to scream
There's something hiding in this house
It hides behind the two of us
Pushing at our patience
Until we snap on each other
Where it hides in our silence

Tuesday, September 04, 2007

Bombastic Aural Sensations

Saturday, September 01, 2007

guillotines again

I still see guillotines in the distance
But now I smile

And someday that smiling head of mine will roll
And I’ll know for a split second
Why I saw all those guillotines

18 to 34 and backroads

The friendship was rilly genuine tonight
The ride
The song and laughter came easy
And felt right

You came back just in time
Just in time for me to tell you
All the things I needed to tell someone
Someone like you

The friendship felt like it used to tonight
The ride
Was effortless and lightened my heart
I’m glad your home

...this is home

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

I need you
To be distant
For while I’m chasing you
I’ll always out run
Those lean dogs chasing me


I thought you were gone
Never a more pleasant surprise
Then to walk in
And see your face again
Hey chief…
I think I love you

Wicked English?

Yeah I guess its pretty wicked!

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

found in an old book

then Sharkey's
your house -----------> VAN- Green
Stephanie's = $

John's house/picked up truck
7-11: bought 20 oz Mt. Dew and yellow rose -------> Truck- white
inlet: made you cry

Thursday, August 23, 2007


sittin at the bar
sippin my gin
you appear
from a far
against the wall
i thought i had it
all figured out
but with one look
i'm tangled in the hue
of your baby-blues
and my dancin eyes
have danced their last dance
your name
once cancelled from
my memory
is lit up again
in neon lights
and my door
reads open
cause i'm sucked
back in
your gravitational pull
and i travel,
travel behind time

Thursday, August 16, 2007

addicted to drowning

i dove
way too soon
now i'm stranded and alone
once again left
choking in the wake
you helped create

it's just that
for the first time
the water was just right
and swimming
with you by my side
i could bare the oceans bite

now with each waves
relentless break
your face
washes through my brain
as i gasp to breathe
what we could have been

plastic sunset

from what i've seen
lacking wings
inspiration and beauty
can't rest still here
in this body of fire
even throughout sleep
i dream or nightmare
in movements
that wake the bed
I'm sharing
every feeling
like money
when i can't really
hearing every footstep
walking over me
and if it's kindness that kills ya
i think that i'm dying
can't change faces
this one is my only
eyes afloat subtly
one would barely take notice
but i do see
where this is going
what sweet intentions sprout from
there's no light
in this plastic sunrise
there is no hope
to shake the smog from these bones
can i just dance please!
like i have a soul
in this city of angels
watching the plastic sunset
and if it's kindness that kills ya,
i think i'm already dead

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

if i'm not mistaken

the sparkle
twinklin heaven offa
that there half full bottle
aint the
of brown translucent liquor
or the simple shine
of glass so slow

its simply
a reflection
of lust and romantic potential
for destruction, so seductive
bouncin offa my soul

some advice

kill yr idols, kid
b'for they
kill 'emselves
in yr eyes

feel better
that way

to the stars

sorry girls
that i forgot you
all these nights
with all yr peace
i've just been a wreck
and yr so far away
with yr light
falling softly
like lullaby

what was this white fisted madness?

alchemy, a definition

the world
the observer

tricks of the light

this is it
america and drunk
till new morning
or old mournings
all over again

the thunder claps and tradgedies
in this world we live with death and syntax
craving these girls

in this open door light
this ink
the properties
of stars

underneath drunken gloss eyes
whole worlds envelope
dreams dissolving in dew

flashes of beauty
fireflies in the grassy, dew laiden field

one second whisper

the moon, tonight
all molten orange and holy swollen
was slow hope,
a ghost in reverse


so you took my offer
and let me be America
and you were a naked body

but now
i'm just the howling metallic sound of train tracks
and you're all
empty bottle truths and reflections

bright lights, little city

little city keeps the lights turned up

little city don't like the dark,
don't like to miss a beat.
it don't cry when it's drunk
or kick at the street

little city bleeds red traffic lights
across your feet
and it's heart beats louder

little city is dressed in green today,
waiting for the fireworks and
the rain ,and the wind to
move them both along

little city and yr secrets,
and the girls hearing confession
give you wine to drink,
and brick buildings keep so much cooler

breathing under hot lights

while tonight is thick
and I'm squeezing through
capillaries with it
lost in NEW Jersey
and the Arab
tobacco flavors

where are you
in the mountains
cool air despite

summertime static
letting the highway pass by
while I distill
to chemicals in smoke
and radio waves gently breaking
can't you hear?

Saturday, August 11, 2007

Those Whiskey Boys

With sports and war on our tongues
we sat with our cheap light beer
and ideas of how government should be
in our skeezy little dive bar
home away from home
escape from home
when these young boys came in
early to mid-twenties
and we scoffed and snickered
when they ordered a couple of whiskeys
we had soft little quips
about how they'd choke down these drinks
in a futile effort to look like they belong here
and before long our thoughts were diverted to our simple attention once more
baseball and sex
and maybe a half hour or more had slipped by
when the smashing noise from the juke box recognised itself
as an obscure Rolling Stones song
paid to be played by only the most discriminating fans
and we called to the barmaid
to ask about those boys
and their drinks
as she answered, "seven.
Not counting the shots."

Friday, August 10, 2007

lifes a beautiful addiction if you can live through yourself long enough to feel it

I have something for you
but you must understand
once I've given it all
poured it all out
into the finest crystal wear
it's done
the bottles empty
I have no more
and I can't give you any
and I'm gone

you must know
they've placed razor blades in there
and it hurts
as it should
when you drink the blood of life
taking swig after swig
not appreciating any of it
and howling at the burn
unfortunate razor blades up turn

but once the bottles empty
and there's no more life left in store
cause supermarkets don't stock magic moments
and there's no pre-packaged dreams for you to score
when all you have left is hesitance
yer frightened, bloody bored
and nothing moves you
like it use to
I can only give
decanted hope and reassurance
that everything will be fine
I promise
when you finally stand up to the face
that glares back at you everyday
reflecting your every miss-action upon you
in it's contorted mirror ways

...that's why they throw in razor blades
to clink against the glass with each velvety swirl
threatening as they slide
to bleed you out from the inside

I'm tired of loving empty bottles
and trying to fill them when they've been drained
It's time we stood up to one another
there's many confessions to be made
and not just to each other
but to the faces looking back
as we stare into the mirror

Thursday, August 09, 2007

For ever in us

your dead
your brother's dead
your family's dead
are you crazy?
to confront me with this
all on an animal?
how about a grandfather
but a dog is just as good
what about a younger cousin?
or a mother figure.
I guess all animals to you
and your pity party
send me a reminder
to your horse shit
it's a big word
don't choke on it

Joshua Fink

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

The Gentlemen's Circle

Gripping wind throws litter
in the parking lot
where six Jersey winos
swap sob stories in laughter
They sing Irish folk songs
overdubbed with burping
But when they're all out of jokes
all out of deceit
their minds fold into themselves
with memories of daughters
lives left in a house condemned for a decade
So they're left to lift their bottles silently
and cough out a cold smokey breath

lets have a sun day
and wine moon night
red moon

while you spark
and kiss me in orange

Monday, August 06, 2007


how do i see you?
only through the blinding glass
i've seen you walk through oz
there's something wrong with your name
its coming up in sevens
i wrote it down but i erased my line
youve got to give me a key to open my mouth
and let you fly out

a short circuited nerve
the transmission is scrambled
she doesnt feel me
she doesnt know im dying
do not reboot
do not connect to me
my virus shatters channels
i'm static with hazel-glazed optica

do not confuse,
your name is coming up in sevens
this machine is used
around the trim its shedding
exposing wires, i can see them fray
there's more that's been contused
tissue breaking down in sevens
agreed between to close the system
its faulty at transmission
from the bed i used to sleep in
you can fake a cardio-cision
it sends a message but it doesnt speak
it transmits but it
does not connect to me
my virus shatters channels
i'm static with hazel-glazed optica
your static is a bastard compass
embedded in your eye
i hope it hurts like hell
when they remove your splinters
when they remove your splinters
when they remove your splinters
i hope it makes me well
when they remove my splinter
when you're not in my vision
when you cloud over
i hope it makes you well
to know that i'm in hell
i hope it makes you well

I couldn't fall asleep on the bench in the park by the harbor because of the hospital right there, and the constant sound of the ambulances. I wasn't drunk or homeless. I wasn't even especially tired. But I find myself down there, leaning on the splintered railing, not really believing in the water below me it was so still.

So after a while, the parking lot cleared a bit, and the police left, and I could smell the water so I knew it was okay. I lied down on the bench, trying to sing myself to sleep with some 90's indie rock, thinking about Buddhas of gold, and Buddhas of jade, and Buddhas of wood, and Buddhas of flesh and water. Still I couldn't sleep. The hospital was right there, and I forgot my cigarettes anyway.

mosaic sun, put together
piece by piece, like mirror eyes
on the streets of Louisville,
and hands that evaporate,
and days when I lie about
the train schedule, and
the moments with streaks of
cream in my coffee

the wait upstairs burning
it's way down to the shy
streets below, and I smile
because my heart is made of
newsprint, that was another day
and this one is another day too
and is illuminated piece by piece
by the mosaic sun

Friday, August 03, 2007

special tea

sometimes I drink away butterfly omens
and sink blueberries into laser fields
only to stare off into oblivion with cannonball eyes

there's a bug that has boiled with my water
I'll drink this cup to its memory
through smoke rings and wastelands

our lavender love

I was resident of the Richmond for just about two weeks
there I laid down next to you on a bed of lavender sheets
finally feeling, after 22 years, the comfort that home brings

There I spent lifetimes with you and made lifetimes of love
We laughed and cried and dreamed up more lifetimes
We raised children and watched their children giggle at our silliness and we grew brittle and closed our eyes and died there
In our bed of lavender

And when they took our bodies to burn
They wrapped us in those same sheets
and the whole city smelled of aroma therapy
all was calm and beautiful and folks stood in the streets outside their homes with smiles as they breathed in the sweet perfume
of our lavender life


I'm beaten to a pulp in the heart
I feel that we should be making love like orange juice
thick and sweet and nourishing
I'll be the oranges, you be the juicer
and we'll quench this thirst...

sugarless sweetness

7:48, I'm awake
been that way since 2 or 3am
I've walked around in my underwear with the dog watching
I've showered
boiled water for oatmeal and coffee
searched for sugar
without finding any
and as odd as it may seem
I substitute with honey

I'm back in Nashville with the cityboy and Johnny
dripping honey off the spoon into black sludge coffee
all crammed into the closet kitchen of his Music Row apartment
sweet minimal Johnny Z
his mandolin and violin hanging proudly on the wall
the fridge and freezer (for some reason) stacked high with cartons of organic milk
being all that he is
sharing all that he's got
his life advice in riddles and lyrics
I smile and laugh and think
coffees not so bad with honey in it

the language of purple water

In Jack's House I am staring at the ceiling
We paint purple water here for hours
It drips from the ceiling to pool on the floor

In the shade of the lattice we talk about art,
but not our own
We talk about love
but not our own
We talk to the dog
We talk a lot
between the purple water

We read each other our latest works of heart
We listen to the Talking Heads, Franti, Buckley, Dylan, Roger Waters, and Jack Johnson
We dissect the music like fermented 7th grade laboratory frogs
As we ferment ourselves
with white wine and Bud Lite
We puff a pipe but not for long
We don't need much these days to get us off

The way we talk is our own
No one else knows
We talk with our bodies
We talk with our souls
In Jack's House I am free
In Jack's House I am at home
Living in purple water

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

The Night Before, a Dog, and a Lamp Post

The night before had been
A more extreme fight than usual.
And I hope you enjoyed it
As much as I have.

The next morning I looked
Down and noticed a lined
Red scar running up from my
Wrist to my elbow.

I think it happened
When I mentioned
The mistakes your parents
Made when raising you and your sister.

I looked down at the mark
And laughed thinking of a dog
And how it makes its own marks
On lamp posts as it strolls down dirty streets.

Me and the lamp post
So much in common
Silent illuminating light
And you and the dog who leaves your mark on us.


My idea of homelessness came from cartoons,
a seemingly happy character with a stick
and a polka dot handkerchief tied to the end
to hold all his worldly possessions.

I first attempted to be homeless when
I was 7 years old. I packed up a comic book
and a jacket. Took some cheese and crackers
from my moms fridge and walked to the clubhouse
in my backyard. It had its own imitation kitchen
with its own stove and permanent red stickers.
I stayed there for at least 4 or 5 hours
repeatedly looking at the pictures in my comic book
trying to find things to do to bide my time.

Looking back it seemed kind of silly. How could I have
possibly survived on cheese and crackers for more than a day.
But now I’m 26 and I have a car and a nice state job with benefits.
Because my car works I’m considered to be
an upper class person without a home
and since I’m pursuing my Masters Degree I will have
plenty of things to take up my time.
When I was younger and homeless I went back home
because it was dark and my mom called me in.
Now I have a flashlight on my keychain
and I don’t think I’m gonna listen when she calls
because I want to see the sunrise
really see the sunrise before I get old..

FLCL and the story of Puss in boots

Pretend to be that someone
And in time you become that person
You transcend the mask

Pretty clever huh?

Like puss in boots

And I’ve been me for such a short time
I’ve been this for such a short time

But this skin fits fine if tight in places
And loose in others

Just happy to be someone
Who ever she is

Tuesday, July 31, 2007

where do you keep them?

is your secret edible? best kept under saran wraps?
my secret is deep within me, no one has to know
i swallow them down, no suffering, no hiding place
no faces staring back at me through basement walls
no eyes peering at me through poorly drawn tarps
no last breaths reaching for me with clenching fingers rising from
a loose soil shallow and untimely tomb
where do your keep those bodies?
those wretched rotting undesirables
you'd be best off getting back home
while the getting is still good
seven dead hookers
seven weeks
no grocery shopping
save for vegetables
to make hooker stock


pale faced desperation set in two thousand year intermissions between visits from friends
scraping at the ground for food, swinging at the sky for knowledge,
and shitting where you shower.
Thank you, white man.

Sunday, July 29, 2007

you eat hormonal/free-range

other times

sometimes i have star lit imprints quail lips and fingertips lacing up my boots
sometimes i am a belt less loop
sometimes i lust in the direction of melons
sometimes i sit back and watch uncomfortable situations develop
sometimes i am woven with precision inscribed with ridiculousness
sometimes i am the swinging fist missed
sometimes i am a scentless intolerable windmill
sometimes i fit well
sometimes i lick the silver lining
sometimes i dine in ramen
sometimes i am lightning shivers
sometimes i'm an arrow filled quiver
sometimes i am Cuban fleeing oppression in my homeland
sometimes i reach the void of yer hand
sometimes i am diamond fodder
sometimes i am sniffing rain water dripping
sometimes i am waking to the noon day triangle ringing
sometimes i'm all alligator and snake dreams and screaming
sometimes I think clean
sometimes i'm motion moving through the emocean
sometimes the wind dreds my hair un or willing
sometimes i'm lichen clinging
sometimes i'm vixen smitten on galactic residue
sometimes i'm not home
sometimes i am talking long after the dial tone
sometimes i am coughing fat chucks of soul into a tissue
sometimes it's just last nights attempt to justify
sometimes i saddle up and fly
sometimes i end game
sometimes i bite back pain
sometimes i am eggs and bacon
sometimes i convince myself i like pancakes
sometimes i make them
sometimes i turn to you the mirror
sometimes i am shattered there
sometimes i am in the middle of broken bird wings
sometimes i fix them
sometimes i wish that
sometimes i am hollow and full of
sometimes i'm renegade butterfly love
sometimes i'm crucified
sometimes i am the lie
sometimes i tickle on the inside intestine
sometimes i write sane
other times just sometimes
i am just

Thursday, July 26, 2007

flying full speed at solid things

The stars must be aligning awkwardly
Like a metronome on a waterbed in an earthquake
Moment by monument
I’m jumping wildly from season to season
And I might be mistaken but when I first woke up this morning I was sixteen
Yes I was sixteen
I felt nubile and fresh
And had the inexplicable urge to fresco my eyes in a pink shimmer shadow
I am of course a full twenty three years of age
According to calendar

… But what the fuck does linear time know?
Between drags of a cigarette or sips of rootbeer float
I’m thrust from Christmas to Arbor Day
From New Jersey to Timbuktu!

All colors and smells
Leaden in some places and wispy in others
It makes me giddy and starry-eyed.

Home run derby

Cunning cupid hits me between the eyes
So that I cannot see who it might be to fall for
And so, I am left in love with it all
In love with today and tomorrow
In love with the music and the mess.

spit-fire seconds go by
Like the pop of an old-time-y flash bulb
Happy as a first time high with someone I only remember as a favorite perfume.
Top down, music loud, on the way to nowhere and wasting no time getting there

Glands brimming
Oh chemical reality how I love thee
Glow, sticky, hot and wet.
Giddy and Silly and Foolish and correct!
A nexus of giggles forever in my throat

I think I might be too chronically cheerful to ever be hip

.Don‘t even bother to ask,
I can’t tell you what’s in my bag

Its not I don’t trust you I just don’t know! Pbbbtttt…..