There is a black vein
that runs from
the back of her hand
to the bottom
of her heart and back again

This is not spam.

Day is
peeking
through
the curtains.
My eyes
are drawn
to her light;
I long to be in her arms.

i've spent my time pulling worms from the earth
in a place where time does not exist
& planes look like falling stars
the softest sound crossed her lips
barely audible & to the tune of this,
"You must leave this place. You must go far."

she almost lets me think i can sleep with her

as the sky was dying
slowly
behind her head
and alien eyes
the words
ill and hood and kaballah
spilled out of her mouth
pushed out by her wanderin
tongue
she was surrounded
by tulips and chrysathymums
and never asher her
borrowed
cigarettes
just
let the used up potential
hang there in the
city night
above some spanish
speaking softball game
in bushwick
in the anticipation of gunshots
with cops and their loud urgent
radios
pacing on the corner
she had been a daytime tv
actress
she had been in a car
crossing america
she had been crying
she had been three bottles deep
at some exclusive parties
sometimes before now
on this balcony
in these flowers
under this halfhearted moon
in this lonliest of cities
in her own infinite abyss
wanting one perfect
wahoo moment
and now in her loose
fitting shirt and
occassional cocaine
haze
beth was
a new
mixture
of sadness and peace

Mike Didia Live Painting w/ Entelechy

Check out a photo that Entelechy was tagged in on MySpace

Shared via AddThis

I always see the city against the crisp sky
which means it's never just the city itself,
only it's role as foreground
while the world spins drunkenly
towards the morning's glow.

After Seeing a sign on a Wheelbarrow Wheel that said, "Not Intended for Highway Use"

I had turned my wheelbarrow into a motorized vehicle
I was embarrassed of its clunkyness
and only drove in the back woods of Jackson at first
down Devils Hill where the kids
went sledding in the winter.

When I took it out on the real road to get some coffee
at a Wawa, people stared.
They didn't know what to make of me traveling 35 mph
fuzzy dice hanging off
one handle a nice smelling tree hanging off the other.

I use a metal rake to stop myself and flower pots
for cup holders
Instead of flipping someone the finger I throw
a shovel from
the back seat. The wheel says "not intended

for highway use" but I gotta get to Pennsylvania
or the outer banks
and I've grown so used to traveling by garden
equipment its the only
way I know how

Usually when I wake up
I must swat the sleep from around my head
And stagger through this odd house
It always smells like burning cinnamon

I limp into the kitchen
Careful not to crush my animals
With my big, dumb, pre-coffee feet
Small birds chirp outside in a tree
They sound like a Geiger Counter

I stare at my bookcase
Cringing at how boring half must be
And how cheap the rest probably are
My eyes burn and twitch and squint
And my breath tastes like sour milk

TV sucks this early
When your to broke to call in
I try to stare through the wall
At the bed I can't stay asleep in
The sandman slammed the door on his way out

FUCK MACHINE

I hate my fat jiggling gut
It need be hard, chiseled,
Fashioned like Fuck Machine

Fuck Machine back from shop
It runs on Gin & Tonic
Runs on Rhythm & Blues

Gears and bones churning hot
Fuck Machine grunt like animal
Crickets applaud from window