Wednesday, May 26, 2010

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

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

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

They had their chance
to clip yr wings

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

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

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

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

Thursday, May 20, 2010


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

2.23.ten Santa Cruz, CA

Thursday, May 13, 2010

One By Three

One By Three

I’m not that type writer

Deleting doubts

Selecting emotional sure-shots

More like I’d subject you

Into celebrating natural selection

Focused directions westerly intimating

Tables hold things and chairs hold people

Ideally, one page feeds at a time

Avoiding jams of traffic, raspberry and paper

And fish of cats and dogs and

Monks with bowls turned up or down

Permeating skin surface dreaming

Under all the misconceived ideas

I have ever imagined inside one dream

Or one day of calamity clamoring through

Then no more ever

Only questions without fear of retired retributed

Crossed purposes and redirected ingredients

Listed one by one because

nothing is ever one by two or

one by three

sitting standing walking lying

on a rug, like a rug

cutting said carpet with culinary academics

cleaned up or corrupted out

if you like misdirection

I am her leader

Clearer and without all the insincere

Without tears and with a sense of

Urgent sense of common matter

Not tense or insensitive

I’m culminating months like

A sandman makes glass

Sculpturing air into wind

Pine into knots

And would be’s into yesses

I’m fulminating right now

Jumping silently writing down how

And if indeed you need to follow

Choose yourself

Empower the hollow feeling

That never burns

Spark the fire

Inside your own belly

I’m not that type writer

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

For Rainy Days

I’m loose change

at the bottom of your purse.

You keep me in a jar

above your bed or

behind your bedroom door,

only taking me out and

cashing me in

when I’m needed.

Or maybe you

forget about me

lying on the floor

of your passenger seat

as you drive out of town

or go out for a night

drinking with your friends.

I’m crumbs

at the bottom of the bag.

When you’re really hungry or

when you’re really high,

you turn the bag upside down,

ingesting all of me;

chewing me up into a pulp,

washing me down with

wine or


or diet soda.

I’m your favorite movie.

You tell everyone about me.

You remember the lines

I spoke and you

repeat them,

never getting them quite right.

Or lying alone in your bed

on a night when you’re bored,

you take me out,

laughing at the right moments;

crying when it’s your turn.

I’m your old pair of shoes.

You tie me together

by my laces.

You leave me

on a clothesline or

in the corner of your closet.

We have too many

great memories;

too many miles

traveled together;

too many nights

soaked in alcohol and

dance-floor sweat.

You can’t just throw me away.

You need me here

to show people;

to tell them what we’ve seen.

I’m the love-letter

you got in high school.

You keep me in the box

on a shelf in your closet.

Maybe I’m under the bed.

When you feel ugly;

when you feel lonely or

upset, you go to your closet;

you kneel down,

lift up the apron

and reach blindly,

feeling for the place where I’m resting.

You crack open the top,

almost expecting the contents to glow

like the soul of Marcellus Wallice.

You cry when you read me,

whispering the words on

my pages so low, that you

can hardly hear them, yourself.

And you’re left there

wondering how someone

could have loved you so much

and how you ever could have let them go.