Just of an Afternoon Dream (reader beware this doesn't go anwhere)

fuzzy, like the fade-out of a movie that takes eternities to end
lucid eternities these rem memories
I am the audience viewing delta wave drama unfold
sparking amidst the framework(brainwork) of my mind
like soap opera static directed by Charles Tart himself

In this episode the main characters include
1) the sweet smiling cityboy with his spicy attitude and
2) yours truly, slightly confused, yet witty none the less with nothing left to loose
finally 3) of less importance, two women of random with unfamiliar faces, yet significant to the main characters development

now the stage is set in this dream event
cityboy lounges upon a low lying bed, with the two unnamed women, the room in sudo-mood shimmering with dim candle lighting
he's expressive in mid conversation or relaying some part of his storybook past to them
and cue stage right yours truly arrives not uninvited, but still feels shes intruded upon some seductive maneuvers

the leading lady smiling wide and laughing, adding humor to the scene, cracking jokes and throwing witty stones in the cityboys direction in comical routine
somewhat uncomfortable in lue of their past and with more current events, between the time they have spent and the fluids they've swapped, feeling somewhat misplaced and lost in the faceless women's presence

she shines bright in her nervousness,
her light fevers contagious and infects the supporting characters so much that the other women in tune join in tossing stones at their darling male friend,
the poor little victim of his own throngal creation

Well by now, I 'm sure the reader is wondering where this story is going
unfortunately it's really just and over embellished(for your entertainment) personal record of sleep patterns and clairvoyant remnants laced with emotional components through neural connections
my dream waves of existence

And upon my rebirth into this waking earth
a moral of sorts passed down my roads, the dream as insignificant as it was
left me stuck on one thought like honey to it's own pot,
that of all the things upon which I could dream and remember even
the sweet boy of the city remains within the folds of my prefrontal lobe activity

In a short show summery of less flowery content:

Child, I dream of you often.

an old man's shards of nickel,
dusty
church songs
in his own time, out of this time,

praise!

how they stomped on buckling floor boards
how the notes ring out
out of step
time
keeps falling out

and how she leaned in because

tethered to
this old world, a seeker finds
that palace where we once sang praise
and children will see this lighting
red hues
and blush

Portland
they have the holy ghost there
he tells her

she imagined she could sense the timing as he said that

the coyotes of my mind
howl high lungs
through
these
MDMA
smiles

wide
and quivering
vocals

HOWLS
wide and quivering

tonight I saw
several shooting stars
through the aura of the moon
and on them I wished
a silent wish
for every single
one
of
you

On my suburban rooftop

In a funny story
You and I
Sat upon the roof
And giggled to ourselves
As my cousin came and came again
Drunken in the cars that let him off
Over and over the clown that he was
Stumbling through the night
And from our camera angle vantage point
We shared the curious sight

But many have sat and watched the hood
Go slowly to an fro
We let our eyes fall suburban
We stepped out
And we let go

So to those of you who
Have shared my rooftop moments
I say there is change in the wind
The roof is mine no longer
But I’m sure something else begins

You have shared
You have sat
On my roof top, and pondered with me
The meaning in the colors of day

And YOU!
You have enjoyed with me the giddy moments of girls
On this rooftop
And photos have been taken
And laughs have been shared

And it is only sad then
That this rooftop
Will be mine
For two more short, short days

Bella and Coops (nights down in the mining town, 1st of the Nevada throwdowns )

Oh how I've watched night after night
dance away with my mind
stage lights in my eyes
reflecting
moods high
on this shwilly westside
every folk
a dancing
laughing
smiling
chatter
nonsensical
movements
like colorful
paint splatters
all musically driven
off emotional cliffs
and all the insides
raw
with awkward beauty
old and new faces
existing
these harmonious
moments
together

Geomorphological simple poem for the Badlands

The backs of stoney whales
In a prairie oceanic
Go by their secret name
plunging anticline

3am storm

Everytime I hear the thunder
rumble
I think of that muggy, summer
night
on your hammock
drunk on cheap beer
our
bodies
lightly touching
watching the stars slowly
fade into the
clouds
waiting
for something to happen
and when the rain began to fall
we
reached out for each other
our bodies
clinging
together
on the grass
holding on to the moment hoping
it would never
end

I glanced
at your profile
through the half-empty
glass
a moment ago
but now
when I look back
the condensation on the
glass
blurs my image
of you

my memory
of you
is like January ice
muddy,
with no reflection

i hate sweaters

the bright red
in your sweater
hurts
my eyes
the guy to the right is
more soothing, in baby blue
but yet
i can't seem
to look
past
you

city sounds

how am I to finally sleep
without your restless bedtime dances
keeping me awake

Viagra for the Soul

don't feed
this broken romance
tuck away
those bulging pants
like hiding from the morning
rays shatter windows
breaking hearts
shimmering across
tangles
of naked body parts
eyes peeking
over compliments
distracted night vibes
sparks in the dark
life's busy fingers
leaving
libidos less
neglected
still
intimately
unreceptive
minds stagger away
defeated strangers

you are pieces
between these pages
misplaced

Two Fools on the Stoop

philosophies
currents of electricity
we've passed between
in agreeance are we
too come to be
For I, the Grand Smiling Cynic
a broken hearted lover
laughing at our flaws
in the bedroom mirror
And you, a statue of establishment
carved romanticism
ranting anti-aggressive
progressiveness
waging war upon our government
as I claim my right to free mind enlightenment's
tasting the ripe earth under my tingling toes
seeing the smoke on the breath in my lungs
recording your movements
along with my own thoughts
booming through my good ear
making your strong voices point clear
while I,
discovering my weak sides
listen and observe
the king to his court
slurring drunken intellectual musings
you,
the statue tall standing
proclaiming
and I
an open eye
with an ear to fill
still standing,
standing
still

waking
arm draped across my chest
leg wrapped around my waist
sleeping heavy
skin seeping
reeking
with last nights
booze
and broken memories
and all that
tingling

smiling
before my eyes
are even
opened

Moments Before the Lucid Chorus

many dieing night hours
I have spent beside you
sprawled out
between your covers
listening
as you pass into sleep
to the changing patterns of yer breath
and snoring subtly
depending on how much you've had to drink
snores thundering
before tuning out completely
you move still
feet tapping against the sheets
rhythmically
sending you into
musical
dreams
of tasteful notes
off screaming strings
and ball to palm
enchanting beats
echoing
across stretched skins
pounding drums
moving feet
into
moments
before
the lucid chorus

morning after city binges

April 16th '07


ripped from my lucid dreamings
12pm Monday afternoon and
the sun trapped outside the cold window of this room
not cold as in hard or unpleasant
just frigid
outside the chores are attended to noisily
trying to find my days motivation in weak wavering early rise first thoughts
scattered and contemplative
I say "get up girl and paint the world of what you've seen and how you've felt. Make the money move to the city if you want, where it may be a headmess but at least you'll feel...."

where the strange boy lives and reels you in
constantly with his smile

then I decide to paint without precision
without prescription
paint without eyes that see completely
wear less of an optical illusion
lazy or not...I wonder....

It's still cold
making my sheetmess bednest more attractive than the
floorboards
then I notice
There are no floorboards, only plush green carpet
but it doesn't matter
It's still cold

and I'm completely awake now
and thankful for life's lite annoyances
the little pin pricks that motivate

today
in this sun window shine
I am somewhat bitter
lethargic broke alone
a dive
alone
each time i leave that darling whirlwindy wild cityboy
even after all his pin pricks upon my skin
I find myself
caught deeper in addiction
alone

the mowers stopped
the chores are done
finally
I pull myself up

22 (with more to come)

I've collected 22 years of social indifference
22 years of neglected enlightenment's,
mind flips brought to life with
massive amounts of sassafras
For good Lords sake I've just recently gripped
the concept of perspective
and then I forgot it
and I'm a goddamn artist
so a barrel of monkeys
had me convinced of
and to tell you what
I don't think they have any idea
what they're babbling about

22 years of painters block
canvas upon canvas stand white as starch
completely untouched
not even a drip off the brush
every image of inspiration
each conceptual thought
trapped in my cranium
under padlock
and a misplaced key
Well at least
I 'm not a writer without a pen
wandering drunk in the night on the streets of San Fran
searching the bottomless pit of my bag
for any utensil to record
the overflowing rambles that
I know I won't remember
when the day breaks through the windows
forcing itself upon my retinas
begging my tattered body to "get up"
and start this shit all over again
Oh yeah, that's right
I am

22 years of monkeys screaming
be better at what we know you can be
22 years of head trauma and backache
22 years of heart break and mind rape
22 years and wasted tears
so many now I'm all dried out
22 years and I'm a laughing cynic
a romance critic
22 years and I don't know what love is
or where one would find it
22 years of monkeys
22 years on a short leash
22 years of prayers and pleas
searching for the direction of release
bringing 22 more of peace
I hope at least

I am 22 years only
completely cocked
3 in the barrel
with 1 shot
aiming for 23
1 to blast into infinity
and the last
to knock those goddamn monkeys
offa their feet

holy is redundant when you talk of caves

I’ve posed the question baby
Are you gunna scale the sides
The shear cliff face of my fragile façade
Or are you gunna
(Calcium carbonate)
Melt this away?
To form cavernous places
In my
Inner sanctum?

tighten up
tighten up
yr charcoal fingers
around blades of grass
stained green and gray
washed out, sun bleached
these lines
these charcoal lines

I 'd also like to say

very well done E. Baird aka the Dewey Decimal Queen
our sweet little librarian
you yerself create quite a lovely read
and it's a pleasure to know
after all your relentless peddling
of that trash heap lit zine
notoriously lost or tossed Idiom
the man who claims to "charge it to the game"
has finally published something of interest
so maybe you've saved that shitmag from the compost
for this month at least

now that's a pick-up line

"Hey how bout you and I tent it up for the night in those oh holygeeze Redwoods with some well produced records and a sack full of mushrooms, see where it takes us?"

Midweek Frisco Flings

deep deep in the Mission heart
with shining faces lit up like art
two Italian flowers dancing alike
stumbling by the hour, runnin around the night

enjoying the seediness of our current location
the semi-dark deserted streets we've been wandering
and the severely swilled state we've come to find ourselves in
as the local pendejos wink tequila lit eyes
whistling at the crane-legged senoritas that swinghip by

we are each others perpetual drive
and we exist momentarily within each others minds only
you whirl about me and i alike you
as we're driven through more dive bar doors

just following the music that tends to enjoy us
clinging itself on us like lichen to rocks
pulling or souls off the weak street
attacking our wet feet with groove scat jazz beats

we are victims of our own
lack of inhibitions
two too boozed singing disasters
floating between disjointed memories

waking to scattered afternoon light rays
falling upon nylons running where the trees scraped
two tangled bodies, minds intact barely
two romantic night life tragedies

4 from the forerock and one from the heart

1)
two blank pages
one for worlds of words
one for visions, faces
still, two blank pages

2)
I close my eyes
see reflection days played back
on black eyelid movie screens

3)
dreams of days with you past
and dreams of days with you
and all the tomorrow's' dreams

4)
i see you muse beside me
in the grand Golden park
just vapors of my hearts longings
blown free from thought



5)
i may indeed
start to speak
as if you stood
right next to me
crazily

and if wary eyes glare at my direction
i'll scream my mind, arms wide and tell them
"There's nothing strange to see in this direction!"...just another girl singing her hearts confessions of love across distance

you in the moonlight
the way
spinning
breaks up the rays
and scatters them
haphazard
into eyes
all around

in knee deep grasses
and neck deep time
and the rushing smears and slows
breath by breath
and then for
a quiet instant
its simply

you in the moonlight

blown out
on morphine
sadness
the kid
was a convertible
in the damp
star
light

we were chest deep in
hot tub water
breath stinkin
of poetry
the beer buzz
and wine dreamings
of a white rabbit
turnin 22

well mac
i've lost count
of the times
you and i
have watched the holy night
make
starlit
love
to the sinful road



they see
cigarette exhale
and fogged breath
but
we know
its
the ghostly shape
of the future
pourin
out our lips

romantic
like
old men
in the mid west
leaning
and the incredibly
sexy shape
of teardrops

imagine
the sensation of life in moonlight
or still life
quivering
or shimmering
the taste of luminescence and
burnt oak
she was all spinning and
splintered

Like sand dunes

In the ballroom of the Berkeley Carteret
Dimly lit and sweet with decay
Like nostalgia borrowed
And then made mine
In an antique city on the shore
I was given a plastic flower

And when I read the news today
And saw my building had been sold
I was not sad or made resentful
I only wondered
If in old age
That clock measure would have a place

In those moments remembered
After you’ve forgotten your manners
And the names of your teachers

Or if it would wash away
With all those things
To wherever those things wash away to

a eulogy for a friend

tell me a story fabled grandfather of ink and paper back, i'll miss the subtle little ways you digested the world with acidic prose and perfect disdain
great grandfather i could set my watch to
goodnight one last time...a little humor went every which way but ignored...dearest anesthesia to a crippled old world begging to be euthanized with sweet truths from the tip of a sharp tongue

tell the next life that being tired is no excuse to stop trying
and make death look like a cake walk compared to life.

kurt, i love ya brother
keep em rollin in the isles

craig

so much like all those souls
Jack usta scribble about
the simple tradgedy of the beast
wide in the hips
and drunk eyed
and the here, this is the awkward line
a new kind of glistening magic
with these peaceful eyes
so mercury
and that one holy thing
luminescence
wisdom and war and a statuette of Athena
dissolve the world
the setting sun is an atom bomb
talkin bout killin dreams quietly
in the dim late night haunted light
wrap it all up in bed sheets and appendages
till its simply you in the moonlight
cuz tomorro the wide world might shine a little less
as she holds on to the sensation of flight
as thick copper bells
when something beautiful dies

May 9th

Cha-right in the mornin’ with the warm waitin’ breakfast

I’ll cook for you kid
I’ll cook for you

Just sit and enjoy your coffee
And let the sun
from the wide window sweep
sweet twining beams

When they reach your feet
That’s when you let the day start
Good to start the day with you

Catbird seat

It’s a fuckin’ wreck in here baby
It smells so stale sour
And it’s all so heavy and tired
Why you so far away?
Your weeks from now
Why you so long away?

You come’n sleep in this dirty bed
And I’ll be there in that soon to be
It’s only fair
I’ve done the work
And you’ve already forgotten
What it took

You so far away
You so long away

the view from where i currently sit

being a bard is words flowing out of you in instants
"child you fit like my oldest pair of pants."
Comfortably

maybe the vices and their devious spiderweb ways captured in the hairs on the back of our necks
romantic thrills chilling to the bone
cactus fires under the cold sweat blanket of New Mexico's moons, above and reflected
to use both sides of the paper

vices raw and fulfilling, torturous, climactic
the sweet release of sunlight off porch floorboards speckled with laughter over spilt wine, sky streams, jet lines, crossing state lines
the background music of our lives

Puzzles are prepackaged and come with all the pieces
you put it together
now, how often do you find, in the end, a piece is missing?

to finally find a line to store your memories of what sounds like 2000 bees and the vibrating air beside them, their humming waves of pollen
or the voice of a tiny mosquito in yer ear singing with a violin wing accompaniment

Tripping over bottles and words on the way up, falling into love then walking out the door leaving it open for the wind,
maybe whispers or scents will curl up your skin every goose bump reminding you of a different dance move
realizing your ear's still bleeding from the change in altitude and you think about how it'll effect the notes from a flute so you sit straight up in the spine, chest out soul first with yer heart on yer sleeve and a gun in yer purse, a bottle of red glued to the hand at yer hip, a cigarette lit, bare feet to the ground and a riddles wit,
to pass through time
making words rhyme with themselves

On the old jukebox at EJ's

desire
electric
jets
Queen
corrosive
cowboys
dollar

and the way you breathed with the sun and the spray of the surf, red cigarette cherry and all the west

pêche rêvers

11:07pm pacific daylight time
eating romain lettuce and asparagus smothered in honey mustard dressing
saving the tops for last because i don't really like them,
and in the end, eating them anyway, because they're good for you so mother says
then followed by chamomile tea, wheat Mattzas with cheese, and homebaked tarts with fresh berries and peach

tonight I'm not stoned or drunk or under any influence other than my own chattering thoughts
I think about Ginsberg and the Ignus
and then Dailey and dear Michael flying down the east coast like a lightning bolt behind the wheel of a semi-reliable dark green Monte Carlo, the back seat piled high with empty wine bottles
screaming at the top of their lungs heads out the window, lyrics of Cash, or Dylan's or the New York Dolls slipping off their tongues through purple lips
cursing about Atlanta and remembering Savanah with storybook passion
pooling the end of their change for one last wine taste
stumbling around vineyards offending the torists
searching for true sweet elusive Georgia peaches


I remember the monotonous cartoon backdrop desert of highway 10 through Texas
cactus after cactus and the unbelievable amount of barren orchards, each hand painted sign reading "Fresh Peaches"
wishing they were in season
and tasting again the fuzzy skinned, South Carolinian treasure of nature the boys finally discovered and stowed away for me, a juicy little treat to share back in Jersey

A stylized 90’s lesbian

Wriggling
Legs that look like
Rolled out clay
Or dripping polymer
Bending in the thinnest spot
Dancing

And you move
Like in a flip book recital
Like a record with a wobble
Like a vinyl woman

there's been a bright star hanging low in the sky of late
not long after it gets dark

I don' t have any star charts, and I
don't know really know any of their names
or even if this one was there this time
last year

lets get away from the lights of this town
and watch it race across the sky, and maybe
throw some rocks to see if it'll flinch
at fools like us

a well lit silhouette picture of you

I pictured you upon the fallen pieces forming a direct and respectful plateau, the perfect stand for a grandiose man such as yourself, tall and flailing is the mimic you cast upon firelight back-lit cavernous caverns, the enchanted ones pound, pouring out earthen rhythms on stretched skins howling, singing dancing topless, dancing, the slap of their feet at yours.

You fabricate the myths intensely making open ears want to listen as the movements of your voice booming, the madd look behind yer blazing eyes, grab the walls and souls and shakes them.

I picture you here completely content with the land and life gathering, preaching to the colonized casualties that miracles and myths, shooting stars angels and wit were born in and grew out of the earth with a low hums dream of crescendo, how they made their voices heard in the fresh night fallen light at the same time the wolf learned how to howl at the moon....everything stops to listen.

You, slumped over a fading fire, embers bathing you bare in raw light, wiping cactus wine from yer lips with yer wrist, the end of the jug still clenched about yer fist, babbling on to the last lingering ones wide-eyed about the top of the world, in-between, whispering little dribble bits, late night myths of dive bars and diners in Jerseys deep corners.

question

Do you wanna go to Santa Cruz, check out the sealions and nightlife?

the other 1/2 of the message ment for face/dailey : A Quick Whip Into Out Of Control

...the coyotes are raggin it hard tonight waking up and making the sheep scream with might and the hounds, well they don't like any bit of all it so they throw out their fists grit and howl out of tune while sparks off canine tooth burn a hole through their wool...and when the dust stands still with the hum of the night by its side, the bottom of a bottle one more than last night, just another disco dog fight down the hall till yer right...aware the girl is in town and it's rare she'll let you down, we're going big it's New Years and the kids aren't home crack open the bottle thats all ready half gone grab a glass and the keys, there's more where that one came from....1/2 in the bag (or sack) and tweeked to yer toes, loaded up hoovering above yer own shoes, that fuzzy wool warm shiver streching around in yer bones, everything shines like the glimmer reflected off the heat waveing river of road, lingering ciggarete smoke back lit by the light seeping through tiny cracks in the roof, the full moon in a cats eye...stalking fireflies holding high lit crystal-like rims of glasses filled well with wine...wathching moments in time expode like fireworks and falling stars...a white hot dolop of whipped up delight over orange chocolate cake...

todays lesson: classroom hues

Of ways i've learned the west coast
amongst personal reflection and through third-party perspective

today I used pieces of wheat grass like paintbrushes,
for the finer lines of life's details
and tiny stones around the pump house, (my current canvas)
make for great shaped impressions
...looking around, past the strong tea, cheap wine and the pot smoke sneakin about my mind...
a piece of the earth comes to realize
that she can utilize, and in turn affect, the surrounding aspects of her life

feet bare, I walk over rocks
it's the way you move without thinking that helps push through sharp feelings, or just avoid the harder ones compleatly
and the live oak leaves are no match for these feet
their prickling edges crumble under leathery weathered soles

time makes itself and you can use it to yer advantage as often as you like...
finding it is where most folks get lost

bananas are indeed wonderful...so is banana bread, homemade
(aside: i enjoy almost all loaves, on a whole.)

I'm leaning to throw my shoulders back often
most of the day really,
and in the evenings
crossing the yard with a hot cup of Mate
passing gently over the stones
avoiding the only real threat (besides an occasional hovering helicopter and the pesky root-munchin gophers)
the phantom rock hidden from the moons light
not directly on the path, but close enough
to elude yer eyes where the other side is just a trip away

energy spent possitively delightfuly works

women are a different species
i don't need to be a man to acknowledge this
in a manner of opinion
for it's sake i guess
and clovers have the most truly beautiful miniscule flowers my eyes have ever seen
plain in color maybe but sturdy, detailed professionally, delicately

the sun will shine if you ask her to,
ask nicely is all
and if she doesn't feel like showing up
the moon is always not far off
waiting for his turn to shed some light

it's nice to know that in some places
water is still free
and wine and champagne and bottom shelf bourbon are still pulled straight from the bottle accompanied by a smile and an occasional escaping drop down the corner of yer mouth rolling off yer chin falling and collected by the earth...or your shirt

I 'm learning,
it really is the little things.

Long ago and right now

Do you remember when the world was flat?

And monsters lurked in far corners?

When you could go to the end

But only for love

None of that has changed.

pieces of Smith Rock

honey
lichen
missing neal
the boy wears no shirt
and i, no shoes
it's always felt better that way
the sun burns my legs
the wind owns my hair
this precipices fluorescence reflects the texture of my soul
plain trails through the baby blue
for moments i feel like falling in tune
but i'd much rather see those California cliffs
shear and dramatic...unforgiving
two flies fight or make love
the bird is a shooting star across this alien atmosphere
and i like the lichen,
cling still