More?

My Brothers and Sisters

2011-12-01T23:10:00.000-08:00

Ride
on the wings
of the eagles
of self expression.

Dance
with the openness
of carefree children, free
from the perils of self awareness.

Harness the power
in your own hands,
in your own heart,
in your own way.

Proclaim yourself sovereign
over all that would dissuade you;
be under the sway, the influence
of nothing but common sense.

Evolve past the past
into a being futuristic,
into the amaranthine,
into an embraceable forever.

Catch the feverish fervor
of days and hours of well
spent passion, of deserved
splendor.

2011-11-28T18:53:00.000-08:00

the walls are bleeding again
and i am lonely nothingness,
personified absence. apathy
with a joint in its mouth,
calling in sick from life itself.

freestyle keyboarding...

2011-11-09T12:01:00.001-08:00

I'm a feminist misogynist who would like to have a tryst with the whole female populace, because when I bust my nut it's like calling forth the apocalypse.

If you don't like this then don't follow this.

So let's talk about what happens next, because hopefully it's sex. So let me break down what happens in the bedroom or the back of a Toyota. I'm going to bury my bone deeper than a raptor fossil found in South Dakota.

When you're with me, your orgasms are explosive, so call 'em the squirt locker. Have you writhing and moaning on the floor like a vocal from Joe Cocker. Because when I fuck, the pussy's the goal just like in soccer.

Does it offend you, yeah? You know what you can suck. Want me to write about the sensitive soul inside and when I do, you call it genteel and say you don't give a fuck.
_________________________________________________________

Above was just for fun, lighten up!

Sonnet I

2011-11-09T09:03:00.000-08:00

Alone in the darkest wood, sat my girl
and she would not nor could not decide how
to live life free of the snake's coiling curl,
an entwining entanglement somehow

ever present in all the world's little dangers.
But I said, "That means you must believe now"
and she said, "Mommy always talked to strangers."
Rigidly tiptoeing backwards through brown

eyed misgivings, ever ready to tear down
what was never built up, what was never
the story of a king clown wearing a frown.

The night knowingly hungers for her gown,
graceful in its attempt to down weather
her defenses defenseless, a lone town.

Loveless Love Spell

2011-10-23T12:31:00.000-07:00

This heart is gold while the rest are cold

Mistakes left under the sidewalk

Three times behind this soft decay

Washing out the fears

Walking through the tears of those left by the wayside

Your pay grade is too high.

One more misstep

A discourse in integrity,

Your bedside my sight of mystery, of misery

When these portraits collide,
Frozen in time side by side,
This is your fear that I hide.

With your face plastered across the street signs of who we were,
Not who we are,
Your difference is beyond compare.
Traveling on jaded wings,
You can only fly so high before it weighs you down.
The tide comes in but the blood doesn’t wash out.

One last velvet smile.

Out with Lee

2011-10-23T12:29:00.000-07:00

“Is that your sancho?” the fat Latino on the bar stool said.
In reference to me,
“Sancho? Oh… no.” This forgotten girl from China said
His question was with a preconceived knowledge
that probably yielded a surprise in knowing the truth,
Her placatory reply was uttered
in a matter of fact yet contemplative tone
that left me wistful and plaintive.

She knew and knows,
it is funny though how days later,
I could care less about how people are careless
With the people they just met,
We are all tangential,
gentle like a haymaker,
I bawled like a child at the end of a balled fist
Yet I am reserved and unspoken.

I carve, I crave, I carve my distaste in spades, amorously,
The charcoal sunsets are running down and out,
Sinking and being swallowed by the water,
Ruminations on fleeting impulses,
I am alone like I’ve always been.

In this lowly room, meant for a child,
There are no offerings to give, just pain to undergo,
Alcohol is a depressant because I drank it and this is how I feel,
Groggy and uninspired, unhinged and underappreciated,
There is something that you could do to make it alright.

You could kiss me, shit,
You could just lay your hand on me,
You’re making me awkward, I am though already,
This is how it always is, always is like the old days,
I will drift off soon and only know nothing.

You were so blunt, shit,
You told me but did I hear it at all?
You also said that I remind you of someone else,
This is how it always is, always is love like failure,
I will shuffle off soon and hopefully know something.

We Should Just Be Friends

2011-10-23T12:24:00.000-07:00

Broken skin, bruised skin,
bad skin, smeared eye make up,
I love it for what it represents.

Staring past imperfection for once
and it burns my stomach like hunger.

scorches like:
An evening that never ends,
A morning that never begins.

The secrets are shared, my mouth,
an indispensable cask, swilling
and spilling that has been held dear
for so long in the shadows like sailors
in seaport opium dens of old. Clandestine
yet heartfelt, unrequited
and not totally understood.

Snuggled, cold sweats and anti-climax
with the watchful eye of El Oso ever present,
ever near, ever disruptive but not out of “malicious intent.” Threats of abandonment and other people’s mistakes, my own sense of responsibility and self-preservation at the forefront like a melancholy wall
of discretion.

We’re discrete and I’m relieved, heart-broken,
unsure, un-showered, alone, cold, opaque.

My heart’s a blank check, fill it in and cash it.

Pyrite pride under the circumstance,
I’d only pull your leg if you asked me too.

Foot Care, the Peace Process and Existentialism, Aisle 1

2011-10-23T12:23:00.001-07:00

My spirits have fallen and they can’t get up. Daunting is the only word that comes to mind. Flights of golden angels cascading in their descent, Like winged droplets of fury,
A kamikaze dive-bomb of futility. So strong, so mighty yet even they can’t seem to lift it.
Ignatius’ boulder is my paradoxical heart. I step back, I take a breath, I try to lie as still as possible, While standing. The gracious God of my forefathers speaks in ways that I’m too deaf to hear, Years of amplified sound pushing the air and feeding back have given birth to ringing and comically misheard phrasings of others. Why should the utterances of a deity be any different? Yet in reticent differential reference to reverence I rise and raise my ears towards Israel, just to hear the shard-like cries of razor wire sadness from my people as well as those that would be thought of by most as enemies. In Canaanite candor, lost to the ages, I know what so many others do that you can’t choose one side over the other and still stay human(e). You can’t cry stop the occupation, because that is like saying, “please continue the suicide bombings.” You can’t simply stand behind this so-called bastion of democracy because that is negating the fact that they have innocent blood on their hands as well. If you need someone to blame then blame the British and for that matter then blame the Romans, the Germans, the Babylonians and the Spanish. The question is begged and pleaded with, is progress built on the backs of those who suffer? If I told you, well then I’d have to kill you. Those who can’t cope with the answer need somewhere to turn, enter a Shepard of sorts. Your God and my God are just filtration points to the same end. Different mailboxes that deliver to the same sorting center and are sent to the same place in the end. Same, same, same. The best metaphor for a heavenly creator is the ocean, who shows no deference to the millions of organisms living inside of its murky depths or even better, you are the most fit for parallelism. You don’t think of every cell in your body and yet you “contain multitudes.” We are but dead skin on an astral heel, waiting for the eternal bliss of a pumice stone called death to wipe us clean for the arrival of brand new flesh to cover and shield the internal, the vulnerable. Until of course they die off and eventually the heel has to die too, right? That’s the rub.

Waiting like Lacerating

2011-10-23T12:21:00.000-07:00

Scratch
and shake
and break
these arms
that hold all
there ever was.

Watch
and take
and sate
the scantily-clad
urges of bygones,
not so forgotten.

I’ve been looking
for
a means
of escape
from this
handheld nightmare.

I’ve been looking
for the slightest
mention
of a life
less caustic.

Searching backpages
of periodicals worldwide.

Searching the soul
I might not have.

Searching
and destroying
my mind,
a scimitar
of perversion.
Incising
with scalpel-like
precision
into the very taproot
of a solemnity
I have yet
to find.

The bulky blade
trembles,
much too large
for such
a delicate
operation
and I start
to wonder
if that
has always
been the problem.

RE: Kyle Moreno

2011-10-23T12:19:00.000-07:00

I’m a fierce rooster crowing and shit,
razor sharp rhymes out my beak I spit.
Stomping ‘round the barn yard, all hard,
probing the mind like Jean-Luc Godard.

Stepping to me
is like bringing a dove to a cock fight,
I’m crazy like Rainn Wilson playing Dwight
all up in yo ass like novocaine,

a champagne brunch
packing a punch
like the bullet
to the brain.

Ring, ring, ring,
banana phone,
you’ll scream
like you’re in Home Alone,

because I’m prone
to pick a bone or two,
I’ll beat you with a shoe
‘til your blind like Magoo.

You day old McMuffin,
you’re that turkey I’m stuffing
always into something,
a truffle of trouble,

fast like a dragon you double,
eyeing you like Hubble,
annoying like Barney Rubble,
I’m to dope as ascot is to ruffle.

An American Jew Thinks About Gaza

2011-10-23T12:15:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: This poem has nothing to do with the title... or does it?

Ill and weary,
worn and always seemingly distressed,
dressed down before a mirror of self.

I’m a blank page on a computer screen.
I’m self-righteously cocksure
and everything in-between.

I hunger like an aphid on a leaf,
but achievement comes from the belief
in the existence of relief.

Out there somewhere, looking and waiting
to be found and allowed to make its home
in our collective guts, kneading and needing.

Everyday is a newsprint elegy
reflecting the ache inside—
a gnawing, maternal guilt.

Death and dismay are cavalier
as they strut their stuff
but there’s nada-zip-zilch to fear?

Just another bitter taste,
a stinging sensation in our skin.
The auto-erotic flagellation of time.

Confliction is the affliction
as what was promised comes at a price,
as those who want the right to return

are just pawns in a larger game
as God takes a blind eye to what
either side does

in the different names for the same being.

Alan Passman

2011-10-23T12:14:00.000-07:00

Alan Passman is in love with you, you are not aware though.
Alan Passman has plans for you, you are not aware though.
Alan Passman wants you to have his babies, you are not aware though.
Alan Passman daydreams conversations with you, you are not aware though.
Alan Passman makes playlists for mix CDs, discs he’ll never give you.
Alan Passman seeks out porn starlets that look like you, sort of like you.
Alan Passman has fantasized about you before, just for a split second.
Alan Passman believes that it jinxed the whole thing, of this he’s sure.
Alan Passman enjoys pinning much more than actually having, of this he is sure.
Alan Passman doesn’t know where you live, your mystery intrigues him.
Alan Passman misses you. You, yeah, you!
Alan Passman, Alan Passman.
Alan Passman? Alan Passman!

Her Scent Makes Me Nervous

2011-10-23T12:10:00.000-07:00

How do you cope with what can be inhaled like coke?
Her essence, a perfume untouched by mediocrity,
assailing every part of me. It screams,

“Hands up, this is a robbery!”
Guns of an amorous intensity intently drawn,
point blank like lovers inches away from a kiss.

I’m not her only victim, her only thrall
in this bank vault, this morgue for money,
she makes me worry that love is as petty as cash.

I exhale and with the dearth of air,
she leaves me for a second
and I elude the spit of hot chrome.

But this scene is only in my mind,
brief and mutably wavering,
it’s always different.

Yet always dire, perhaps the next whiff
will encourage a stampede
of the most exquisite beasts.

I stop my intake of breath for a second,
as an attempt not to travel back
to such dangerous surroundings.

Shutting the door, I sigh deeply.
Leaving the barrier between us,
free of the floral spice that suffocates me some.

Closed Casket Ceremony in a Forest Fire

2011-10-23T12:09:00.000-07:00

A conflagration started by those of the highest station,
as an ode to one who’s soul found liberation
but this would bring desolation
to the furred population.

The roses are left,
while embers of arbors burn.
All bare and bereft,
the aristocracy grieve in-turn.
Wearing the mourner’s mask,
callously concerned.

Foliage ablaze around,
Sounds of deforestation surround
Assaulting and assailing
with the cruelest kindness.

Sweet little spectators,
carved out in neat little rows.
like swine to a trough,
regaling recently dead woes.

The woodland creatures come,
charred and enraged.
creeping from
their fiery homes decayed.

A fleshy paw points to an ornate sarcophagus.
“It was you who brought this upon us,”
sputters a singed hare.
The socialites stop and stare as if now aware.

A haughty voice rings out,
“Who are you to accuse and accrue
so much venom
for the departed off to Heaven?”

A roar rose up from the periphery of animals,
the fury of a trillion candles.
and just like that they all caught fire
as if the forest was one big pyre.

Dukes and duchesses burnt to a crisp,
nothing to be heard,
no quips with even a fancy lisp.

A Tongue in Cheek Treatise of Caution to the Intellectuals Out There

2011-02-24T13:37:00.002-08:00

Creativity is the jetpack that allows you to soar above
the jejune pedestrians. Docile in their domiciles,
they rarely look up. So feel free to wave a hello
if they ever do but only stop in the event of an emergency.

The further you propel yourself then the more you might
veer further into a cultural no man’s land, where the drones
that dopily paid no mind to you like any other bird in the sky
have been devoured by the zombies of ignorance.

Find a pedestal, land atop and never get off
because the jackals down there want fresh flesh
and you’re all gushy softness. Hardened and pockmarked scum,
they want to suck the idyllic marrows of your brain bones, siphon
‘til the dryness is dry. Brittle and languid in anguish, squish
your eyelids together so tightly that they fuse and maybe they
won’t hoover the x-factor out of you. Your je ne sais quoi
becomes their foie gras, that certain something that they spread
on their white bread mundane.

Let them build their own means of conveyance, fly lower
and feel them drag you under. Dumb yourself down
for your bosses, your loved ones, your compatriots
and destroy what essentially makes, divines, creates
and drives you to heights inconceivable.

To Be Read After Most Anything I Wrote in Grad School

2011-02-24T13:37:00.001-08:00

I.
This obscene man you see standing up here,
right before your fresh-out-out-of-a-dishwasher
-steaming glassy eyes is just an eggshell of who
he was when he wrote those other poems. Tenuously
feigning the robust, just go ahead and drop him to see
the fragility of his ego splatter translucence and yellow.

Nowadays, the workaday life’s need for rigor has strangled
the vigor out of him and he eats, lies in bed, never calls or visits
the plethoric cadre of friends he’s acquired over the years,
but instead does nothing. This is the first thing he has written
in an age of apocalypse: where life tastes like dry rye toast.

Familiar and nourishing, but not satisfying and so where
is the butter, the margarine, the cream cheese, the jam, the jelly,
the preserves, compotes, and other such spreads that add empty
calories, yes, but flavor as well? Banality is giving up and giving in,
paired with those prepositions then “giving” becomes the cruelest charity.

II.
Nobody cares that you write poetry, music and the like.
That's unless you turn a profit doing it or perhaps you

turn into a prophet doing it. I think if I were to have
the latter happen then it would somewhat resemble

the Python's Life of Brian. Most people who know me
would probably expect me be waiting with open arms

like Journey's Steve Perry and that every time I pen
something, that's what I'm waiting for... to be a messiah

with my face on merchandise of every possible imagining.
To be the Hello Kitty of the poetry world, my face
with a pink bow on everything from toasters to vibrators.

Just like there is always a "but" then there must be an "until"
and the "until" in these scenarios always involves a fall. It is
probably better to stay under appreciated for a majority

of your life and lauded as your chi starts to fade
like Bukowski did. But wait, he hated that

and I would hate that too.

Through

2011-02-24T13:33:00.000-08:00

I dreamt that I could see the universe through a crack in my ceiling.

Not just the night empyrean but actually as if I were floating

through space. A bold voyager, drifting in my bed

with eyes affixed upward, on equal footing with the stars.

There was no more sky only this blackness,

where color and lights were more vivid

as my apartment coasted like the USS Enterprise

with the bedroom as the bridge. Flying solo,

me as my own Mr. Sulu,

manning the navigational controls

through alternating listless and mesmerized gazes

at the vastness unknown, my hands were laying folded

near my solar plexus feeling the solar winds

off this universe’s sun pushing me onward

like a cosmic junk ship.

No need for warp drive, just glide and float forever.

Rumentations in a Corolla

2011-01-19T10:10:00.000-08:00

The cherried embers of cigs and jays burnt holes in the upholstery,
jagged circles of cauterized fabric, reminders of moments maybe
long, long past. Coffee-stained car seats make you look incontinent
and the cans of pop, strewn about the floor of the passenger seat, act
as a layer of recyclable snow, hiding the floor mats until spring cleaning.

Every moment pent up in this metal box with rubber wheels feels
the way children must as they cleave the blooms off of blossoms.
Each petal pulled and plucked a representation of pantomimed control
that they assume all grownups must have, but what an untruth that is.

Later adolescence just proves a series of mistakes and missteps
with numerous stubbed toes as proof and all the scattered, misplaced
attempts to find someone to share in these misadventures ends
murderous. Spin the bottle, Russian roulette one in the same
with the whole kiss, kiss, bang, bang balance of randomness and clarity.
Pity in the charity of those that may or might stick around, giving a fuck
in either sense of the phrase.

We, the you's and me's of the world, defy strict identification as vacating
the promises forgotten left our mouths dry and the rest of our bodies
waterlogged. Bloated refuse collecting under the aqueducts of time, friends,
we are the sewage- putrid leavings of a God, gods, goddesses, despots, dictators,
dignitaries and designees in ruin without end, without an edge, wither out.

Church Marquee Says, “Transformation in Progress, Contemplate the Chrysalis”

2010-02-10T00:25:00.000-08:00

Dio singing of Heaven
and Hell with Sabbath blaring
from stereos anthemic

drove by those plastic letters
following us, trailing us
down the street away so gone
in a state of flux, fucking

the mind's processes of thought
like potent psychotropics.
Life now a pupa shrouded,
crusty shell stuck to the tree

of spheres, ten emanations,

visions of Kabbalistic
thought, provoking us to feel
we are trapped inside inside.
Ugly caterpillars wait.

The body best be broken.

Paranoia on Top of the World, Ma

2010-01-20T21:00:00.000-08:00

Standing stoned on a balcony at Stanford, prestige in the ivy
climbing up the wall behind me and beneath the grates under my feet.
A doorway, more like a window in its aspect, to the back of me, unlatched
to allow a regaining of fraudulent residency by staying with the girlfriend’s friend.

Twelve thirty at night, doors wide open to design projects
and three-day weekend whiskey drenched witticisms
from the stiff upper lips of trust fund babies in such slack jaw
surroundings as a forest. Huddled in, four people crowd

a single with the sounds of bootleg Downey Jr. blowing it
as an all mumbles shade of the greatest detective, the one the Batman
was modeled from, on computer flat screens before loft beds.
They could afford to see it in theaters. Piracy indeed.

Laughing, thick without curves-girls in their earth tones stare curious
out at the intruder, with just the right modicum of malice swirling
in their sockets. Can’t help but sashay So Cal as possible with my hood
on like a carjacker. Fuck, I don’t care. I’m just trying to get back to the room.

Got lost, like the Donners, looking for that set of impersonal digits: 1-O-5.
Numbers that mean a piece of floor to borrow, thankful backaches
and odd dreams that leave you ambivalent the next day about these people
and the malaise that comes with money enough to have veganaise

as an option in the dining hall for a panini or a gourmet bacon maple log.

Concurrent New Year’s Resolutions from Birth to Death

2010-01-20T20:59:00.000-08:00

We need to go to the gym, be balls of motion. Kinetic energy charged like Gambit’s cards, explosive. We need water, the translucent azure of 70% of your body bottled,
your new best friend. No more dillydallying with Mr. Pibb or Dr. Pepper. No more shilly-shallying with their bubbly countenances, their effervescence. We need rest, the sweet entombment of a pitch sleep. 8 glorious hours, unconscious and uncut, of rollicking, rolling, row-row-row-your-boat-lives that are but a dream-siestas. Like those of hombres slunk down covered in sombreros. We need to rape and pillage libraries barbarous. Double-fisting Fante and Vonnegut, chugging Plath not Plato while pounding down Ezra. We need to get out of debt with others and ourselves. Payoff the bottom feeders at the shallow end of the phone line. Extract our cancerous student loans from the marrow of our bones before they turn malignant. We need change, not as a platform but for a twenty. Shit, we need money. We need pro-active action, to get off our asses and just go, go, go ‘til we’re gone.

I live like Ninja Turtles in the Sewers of Manhattan, NY, USA.

2010-01-12T04:14:00.000-08:00

Ever awaiting Shredder in the Technodrome,
moving fortress affixed with eye atop it,
panic erased by patience and partying.

Episodic intrusions of disharmonious violence,
subterranean skateboarding, cement surfing, all
cowabunga, dude, radically bodacious. Eyes wide

under mask with the sensory wonder of it all.
The scent of methane mingling with the taste of pizza,
the sight of brick walls and barred waterways,

the sound of pipes and footsteps through puddles,
I can hear how cold the water is. I can smell age
in the wood and the chain of nunchucks

as they’re gripped between two fingers and a thumb.
But I am no hero in a half shell. I am not even amphibious.
I am ready to put myself on blast. This has all been a lie.

Suburban, blundering beach town baby, barely able to Ollie.
No stealthy maneuvers come midnight, can’t even eat cheese,
and no sais to shield this thin skin of a psyche fragile, exposed.

No lean green fighting machine, more likely found
in Dostoyevsky’s Underground’s dominion of obsession
and spite, no Giri: no honor, no duty. Still more assassin

than samurai, yet more burrito than Bushido. Hedonist sloth,
watashi wa namakemono desu. Oblivious to oblivion’s pull,
arbitrary arbitrations settled in the coded language

of the supposedly well-read walking dead, academics reveling
in the agony of their own dissatisfying obscurity over coffee or beer.
Deluded in deluge, a rogue’s rouge coloring their faces frustrated.

Disinterest, the castrator of notoriety, gestates. Ripening the need
to delve into tangential digressions on ‘88-’89’s mutant mania
for peaceable pleasure, for the fantastical pandemonium

of being cool, but rude in the wake of nobody giving a fuck.

Atlas

2009-12-04T04:36:00.000-08:00

Atlas on the cross in the pit of my stomach, a ditch just like Sisyphus’, makes his march to the capital for his crucifixion through an acidic wasteland. A grotesque shimmering mirror ball of a world on his shoulders, soldiers of suffering shove his stress-induced gastrointestinal crown of thorns deeper
into the delicate pink contours of his brow as a way to keep things moving, the jerk
of a master on a leash. Spearhead of aspirin in his side tears a teardrop-shaped hole
that dribbles blood all ruddy to the earth being torn by a wooden post
dragged ever so slowly. Chained to a sphere revolting, not revolving, brutal and stygian.

Heading north this time, up and away from the eventual Golgotha of lower entrails, footprints of ash and fire up a weathered twenty seven year old esophagus, each an imprint of bipedal lava flow, each a reason to double over on one’s axis, to collapse out of orbit, in on oneself as the implosion siphons drifting debris, taking neighboring astral bodies out in the wake of a black hole of loathing all things biological and metaphysical.

One universe and its fate trapped inside of every single living body. Cells, particles waiting for their day of reckoning and atonement. For what purpose, what sins have been occasioned to coincide with such a processional of foe, fear and dread? Cloaked darksiders, pallbearers of hope, of trust, of the lust that makes life worth living trail this walking sarcophagus like animals sated on carrion flesh. They come! Roguish centurions, black-hearted well-wishers lowering the drawbridge of my mouth. Just like that, they cast him out into a porcelain abyss and I can’t say I’m relieved.

El Duende de la Lámpara

2009-12-04T04:35:00.000-08:00

You’ve got no soul, when you’re the only guero on the block.
Mi duende es la puta. Kids with first names like Andres, last names like Aguilar
in the line for the shower in junior high, towels act as shanks. ¿Donde esta mi duende?
Lil’ Frankie and some baldheads jump you for pennies in front of a church. ¿Adonde vas, mi duende?

Girls, who smell like Aquanet, think you’re weird. ¿En mis manos? They come to school wearing lingerie as outerwear. ¿En mis huesos o mi verga o mis huevos? Your grades in classes where you sit behind them start to slip. No yo se, mi duende. But their breasts are so round and so new that you can’t help it. Estamos en la alma del Dios. First names like Yesenia, last names like Benividez that you caress before bed under covers. No se, duende.

So lost in a pervasive size 48 Ben Davis on size 28 waist-culture that you buy into your otherness. ¿No comprende para mi duende, las hermanas de los pantalones de viajar? You discover subculture, which makes you more of a target. Sus sangre es el miel por los lobos del amores con Tres Flores. “You dress like a maricon, chingon.” An esé will say. No se duende, amigo. They’ll befriend if you fight back and tell you to watch movies like Blood In, Blood Out. No se duende, chon chon.

They’ll say you’re honorary Chicano and invite you to barbeques in the park.
Tengo hambre por los niños de la mañana. You’ll eat potato tacos and their tio will aid you in getting boracho. Fuiste mi duende por la fiesta. Abuelita will sit watching a novela with you and wonder how people come up with these kinds of plot lines. Vaya con monos, mi duende.

Signal Hill Blues

2009-12-04T04:34:00.000-08:00

Gentle leaf trickles apertly down Willow
near a swiftly bending tree branch,
glitter shimmers softly off moist Cherry
to force, to break, to blow and burn
or make me new. Touched myself, rather mad,
seeming to attempt to yield, not to seek,
strive or find. I swell, my gourd plump
for winter, a question batters my heart for you
and yet you breathe to inform, to relate the absurd,
to truncate the observed shine. Now discontent
attacks crudely and toughly screaming a vulture,
who ponders loudly, near sharp actors
of a mummers’ play, of all the western stars,
until I die a pretty green up there, up there.

Atlas...

2009-11-13T14:39:00.000-08:00

NSFW video collage of two poems that will eventually be chopped up more before they are ever in print, enjoy and check out the rest of what Jaguar Press has to offer!: http://jaguarpress.wordpress.com/2009/11/11/209/

Baby

2009-10-15T10:24:00.000-07:00

Her tum tumtum, his velvety time.
Good and deep, dipping down.
Put on the tongue, bury the rhyme
into the folds, into the ground.

Red rum humdrum, beg it to die.
In a little garden, it will be had.
Loud and hard, slipping down
in a little garden, it will be mad.

It will begin to stop Mother Nature’s magic clock
And everything will laugh and sing as if it were
a part of everything. So grab its wretched hand
and watch it expand, from life to death in a breath.

This angel with bat wings,
this creature you’ll come to love,
Red veined skin and other things,
this creature you’ll come to love.

Slayer's "Chemical Warfarre"

2009-10-02T14:07:00.001-07:00

It gapes, this catatonic toddler’s mouth of a city. Rancid greens of purification
streak the sky all Impressionist, marking the lines that segregate and delegate
the flow of traffic in the throughways of the air we breathe. Gridlock

now antiquated, these oxygenated denizens roam where they want to,
all around the world. Their flight path an abyssal abscess,
but these lepers flying, floating freely through the cosmos,
cosmopolitan ideals stripped down to stars and garters, they feel

love like Donna Summer’s eve, douche! No gas masks, no respiratory devices.
Just pure death in shades of gaseous smiles swirling in thick vapors coming
for you, all over you, all over the land on a loco motive of smoke

in the way that tangerines

taste just like the way tambourines sound
all alone in the quiet of jaded stone, a pretty lime hue
like that above encircling, entering, penetrating us and our defenses.

I’ve come to watch your gardens grow, mouth breather township. Don’t disappoint,
don’t let me down, deliver,

deliver,

deliver.

The Drive In

2009-09-29T18:28:00.001-07:00

8 red doors under a mosaic crucifix,
sacred heart nailed to wood flying

and burning red/yellow, red/yellow
like a phoenix. I saw them sleeping

smiling toothless on Phys Ed mats.
All right with being alive, OK? Okay

with 3rd and Junipero on any Sunday.
Drove past, away fast and clasped

the steering wheel hanging a louie.
Parked in the interior of Carroll Park.

Didn’t want to trudge by, upsetting
their sleeping. To my understanding,

there is some Romance in rationalities.
There has to be, that brand of Damage

makes a notch on us all in gray moods
under trashcan lids. Fear of shag carpet

grouches, green like kindergarten yarn.
Agents of the economy coming to pod

people us into submission as serfs and
slaves. Paranoia helping to fuck up a

parking job. Walked the extra minutes
home, looking over both shoulders.

Shelley’s Curse

2009-09-13T00:02:00.001-07:00

Fall feels subterranean, Poet of the dead leaves driven like ghosts.
Arboreal hair loss tumbles across sullied , over-trodden landscapes
repenting replete. Dispatched, spelunking the depths, charged

with vital health points to battle mini-bosses of days that never
cease maturation, chained to love laborious, while the guard
has not been changed for some time, while we’re all under new

management.. And so do I, with my hair full of dead leaves,
let these flakey bastards take me through the dirt to be the satisfying
crunch under a child’s feet, the shitty chore under the same kid’s rake.

Drug ‘til bloodied, over terra so jagged, on a September morning
with the you removed to be just another day of decay, a plain one
unassumed. Not yet buried, exhumed to be exalted as Caesar’s crown,

brownish orange laurel leaves quilted complacence. Mere and mortal
garnered exclusivity in the soft simplicity, Seasons age as well
as the people who’ve lived them. Great, worse, great, worse.

Holy Fuck: A Fucker’s Prayer

2009-09-04T18:09:00.000-07:00

There are no words other than Fuck,
a grandiose king is Fuck.

Decency: a propriety parapet against obscenity,
a less than great wall vaulted with ease by Fuck.

Reverie proclaimed on the tongue tips of whorish angels
and we say, “O, who is like you, our lord, our Fuck?”

Heavenly father, bestow upon us your kingdom,
give us our daily bred and our daily Fuck.

And we shall write upon our doorposts and gates,
enshrining the word, Fuck.

Master of the universe, bequeath your teachings
to those who don’t know Fuck.

Let swords be dulled into sex toys,
so all might feel the might of Fuck.

Let seas and legs be parted in the holy name,
the holiest of holies: Fuck.

Let Alan be a prophet unto believers in all things,
all things Fuck.

Bi-Coastin'

2009-08-23T13:29:00.000-07:00

L A X terminal, waiting on a flight to Newark.
No one uses deodorant, locker room funk and rolling suitcases.
Tonight I’m steady people watching, an intergalactic observer
soaking up the mostly non-local color. So many different nationalities
waiting at these gates, characters from hundreds of stories in different languages, sitting
like a Rainbow Coalition in faux leather seats, reading Us Weekly and USA Today.

Could've sworn a man speaking one of the two major dialects of Chinese yelled

“lesbian!” in a moment of English clarity. Scottish grandma offers
a candy cig to a repulsed granddaughter, too young to realize it’s not the real thing.
Off duty yuppie in a suit, rumpled slacks, slumped down, Corey Hart nighttime shades

because his future is so bright. Fred Schneider in Buddy Holly glasses says,

“This is going to be fun,

this is going to be fun.” Poindexter in skate shoes reads Wired,
the cover story posits whether Craig’s List has been the source
of one too many dead hookers. Inquiring technophiles want to know.

My father sits breathless; he can’t walk five steps
without his stomach acid Santa shooting back up his throat chimney in retreat.

We’re going to visit family upstate. Albany in August, humid and damp. Sunshine shinning

through chinks in grey skies.

Bugs sound like buzz saws and sci-fi laser fire after the rain.

Butterflies flutter freely

without fear or worry about droplets weighing them down.

Nameless birds in the distance call to their children or lovers.

Cottontails scurry away from footsteps coming off

porches of multi-million dollar manmade

intrusions in this Endor-looking landscape. Simply put,

it just all makes me want to smoke pot. Nature encased in a burning Zigzag

and that's paper, what’s paper but trees,
these giant arbors reigning over this land
long before the people who own them now.
Just want to sit in their shade and feel my mind sink into a foliage-laden oblivion.

It's Out There... For You to Find

2009-08-20T14:57:00.000-07:00

It's out there, a chapbook of some of my work. It's from here as well as there. I'd like to thank Vita Vox aka Marna for putting it together. Hit me up for one and expect more in the future.

Poets

2009-08-13T13:27:00.000-07:00

Poets, I read them
and there is always more to read. An unfillable void,
a vortex of not having enough time. Life is not only short, but a progeria case. It grows older, but stays the same size, a distortion of the fullness of the generally held average of height, weight, width and overall appearance. Creatives live a doll’s life. Innards still grow old
and die. The body of work stays the same,
hopefully a carefully crafted carapus,
eventually a sarcophagus
of loves and laments, musings and music.

Poets, I read them and poet, I am one or at least I pretend
and play at it. Imbibing their midday Meyer’s Rum, white chocolate liqueur and soy milk. Gulping half the glass, I stand outside, weed-tipped cigarillo, sparked. Gray hot Long Beach silt under
and over my feet, covering and filling
the tiny crevices and ridges of my toes.
This soil is to dirt
and sand as a mule is to a donkey
and a horse. Yet plants grow
like the Lewis Carroll orchids to my left, who sway
light crimson in the breeze with indifference
over the spotty patches of grass, the ground’s pubescent attempt at facial hair. Going further, being wary
of spider web tripwire, I stare at the trap’s maker,
its engineer
and I wonder how does
this little eight legged brown thing
survive? How does it get out amongst all this? I know how it did, “they were here before us,” a voice says
as the brown leaf paper is almost
burning my fingers,
singeing the first couple of layers
atop the musculature and bone of my pointer, my index. Scrunching it into the base of a planter,
I dance across the hot gray Long Beach silt.
The mule dust’s heat, a test of faith and self. Rocks
and white dog shit in the noonish glare, obstacles
to keep me away from

poets, so I don’t have to read them, and a poet, so I don’t have to be him.

1003 S Beacon St San Pedro, CA 90731

2009-08-06T10:12:00.000-07:00

All the drunks
and the junkies
and the crazies outside Beacon House
could fill tomes, scrolls and gossip columns
with all the shit doing the backstroke in their heads.

Acid washed theories and treatises
on our healthily unhealthy love of sin
and all the other puritanical nonsense
turkey basted into the collective conscious
of suburbanites, city dwellers and the hicks
shitting bricks out in the Styx
with all that old timey fire and brimstone.

Every time I drive past Beacon House,
I see someone new like brother man
in a red polo pullover
saying words unheard and unheeded
to every driver that scoots on by, trying to be incognito. Looking straight ahead attempting
to ignore what could be freestyle raps,
evangelical ramblings or regular, run-of-the-mill-bullshit.

I’m one of those motorists, but not before I pass him.

Our eyes deadbolts for that ephemeral spec of time
and that does nothing to assuage him.
Now there for that smattering of seconds,
there is an audience and I’m writing this,
I wrote this to prolong his exhibition,
his soapbox’s longevity just a little longer.

There’s no rampant urge to go back there
and search him out to Rotorooter his conceptions
of truth, love, good, evil and other such vagaries.
I’m content to have this as measuring tape
for my own battered semblance of symbolic normalcy
in the comfort of this mobile room I pay for.

Content to snicker and roast
as much as to be an empathetic voyeur
speeding away in a Corolla of secure separation,
the ultimate segregator between an us and a them.
The only way to see the world
without ever having to be there yourself,
just a submersible under the tides of psychic pestilence that is wrought like so much sewage runoff. I love what you do for me, Toyota!

Angxious

2009-07-30T10:31:00.000-07:00

All but pitch, the bathroom has natural light
cascading like the most half-hearted trickle of piss.
The kind with as much pressure as an ant crawling
across unaware skin, in through the window over the shower.

The pounding is in my head,
like the heartbeats of Jim and David’s little China Girl, “loud as thunder.”
The digital green flash of AM 12:00,
AM 12:00,
AM 12:00,
AM 12:00,
the steady Indiglo metronome compliments and mirrors my conflict internal.

It, the woe, comes in flashes, the woe.
It screams don’t marry him.
It screams I am destitute.
It screams give up.
It screams let me put it in there.
It screams my kingdom for a cheeseburger.

With a hackneyed grip of either side of the bathroom sink,

I pray for sleep and calm.
I pray for solace and understanding.
I pray for closure.
I pray to the big fat unknown standing in the nudity of eternal darkness.
I pray for answers.
I pray
“just to make it today.”

Detroit Cock City

2009-07-23T10:28:00.001-07:00

Like a chore, like a necessary evil in stagnant July air, I lift my balls like a house frau lifts a rug to vacuum beneath it. Death Valley asphalt heat rolls off, volcanic microwave steam wafting up into the darkness of the room, hot with two light breezes, one manmade and one of more of a natural origin. They sweep through the place as if they are afraid to touch my nuts and me; to give us the grace of their cooling embrace and they cannot be blamed. They’re just doing their job, albeit poorly.

My right hand, a mother’s cradling arms of thoughtful separation, attempts to shelter and give ease to the acids and bases-effect of skin-on-skin. Women thankfully will never understand what it’s like to have to peel the flesh of the sack off of an inner thigh on a night like this one, an experience not unlike and definitely akin to dealing with the most stubborn Velcro. Do it too fast and you’ve involuntarily waxed yourself. You’ll want to scream like hostages do in movies when the duct tape gags have been stripped off their faces.

Tal Como éramos

2009-07-14T15:29:00.000-07:00

Memory is an apparition of attrition, it spends like tokens at a car wash or arcade,
pragmatic and purposeful or urgent and impulsive.

If it’s true then I’m a collector of ghost coinage. Folder upon mental folder, teaming with ducats and doubloons
that I thumb over
like a parent with a photo album of an outlived child.

Things you can’t get back, reeking so much of regret
that you can’t help but gag and choke up.
Emotional onion slicing, you know what fumes will do, but you push the cutlery on through anyway.

Nostalgia, an ambrosia, flows so freely that the damned inundation can’t ever hoped to be dammed.

The Girlfriend’s Birthday Party

2009-07-08T20:10:00.001-07:00

Baked chums around a patio table, high in her backyard, contemplate the macro to the micro. Such deep discussions, punctuated with Simpsons’ quotations and other miscellanea shrouded in obscurity, are softballs lobbed so carefree.

Shake, the crumbs of emerald buds, stare up at us from the tempered glass surface as another joint is being rolled while the blur takes hold and no longer are we mid-to-late twenty-somethings still acting like teens, we’re kids with contact lenses of slurred imagination playing eye-spy around such a maudlin landscape or at least I am.

As if action figure were in hand, all I see are a miniature amalgam of a distorted metropolis, post-apocalyptic. Clotheslines, now power lines, stretch out into the darkened distance, while an old clothes hamper has morphed into a fucking skyscraper, the BBQ? A crematorium. Plant watering pot cum water tower nestles the neck of a water cooler bottle brimming with cigarette butts suspended in light tar-hued-nicotine swill. It has all the charm of a terranean sewer system; complete with an ashcan underneath as the foundation almost giving it the credence it needs to exist. This inversion brings itself to the forefront of conversation as a potential candidate for an anti-tobacco PSA.

We laugh the laugh of ages, a deep rumbling of seismic hilarity that shakes those around that know not of what we speak in our cottonmouth tongue, our humorous tremors carve more of an age gorge than just a gap. How to contend with the rollickingly recklessness of creatures like us is a talent they have yet to acquire. They look at us ancients in rocker suits, one even more different than the next. Fingers can’t be put on us and we don’t care. Makes us punk rock as much as it makes us metal as much as it makes us gangsta. It’s all just rock n’ roll to me.

Let them be uncomfortable, let them storm the backyard looking for mob justice. We will take these villagers’ torches and smoke their contents like spliffs. We will use their pitchforks as roach clips. They’re just not that brash though, they sit quietly with their good friend’s boyfriend’s friends, who’re my friends as I am the birthday girl’s beau.

She sits in a white dress, black prints of butterflies are scattered in equidistance across her petite frame. Our eyes are instruments of sex, while facial expressions are comically child-like and this balance typifies the union so far.
She’s drunk, but amazingly still standing. I would say tall, but she’s much shorter than me. Looking up into my face, hers scrunches in mock disgust like an overly discerning two year-old and I can’t help but love her all soused on Belgian lagers and blood wine. All other cares are abated and disappear as all the riffraff, hers and mine, leave and we slink in almost a low crawl like puppies into the pitch embrace of early morning.

“Every face in this town reminds me of falling down.” – The Murder City Devils

2009-06-27T16:41:00.000-07:00

When I Go Back to Pedro

They all look the same, just older. Faces I saw at 14
unchanged but I’m unchained
yet the bonds to the town are intact
in fact I’m there more often than some would like.

Our lovely seaside black hole
swallows
more like a street whore
than some feathery reptile
revisiting Capistrano.

It’s hard to picture
the mighty T-rex
looking like the giant cock
on top of Slavko’s on Pacific,

his deep fried brethren
the lasting legacy
of terrible thunder lizards
in the hearts, minds, and bloated bellies

of Pedran patrons gorging in perpetuity.
Evolution’s a joke
when all we have is this
generation after generation

choking on potato logs,
belching out offspring
to work on the docks
to have money

to have more children
to have future longeys

forever

hens pecking aimlessly
in the shadow of the Vincent Thomas,
that green behemoth of a bridge.
More tyrannous and royal
than the fossils

we too will become.

Out to the Races

2009-06-17T14:26:00.001-07:00

I dreamt that I ate your girlfriend’s pussy last night.
We were in the room of my childhood home
and she asked if I would do her a favor
and I tried to say “no” but she convinced me to keep going
and I started to work
and manipulate the tender folds of flesh, odorless
and wet.

She came in revolutions like racecars making checkpoints around a track, giving me
the spectator’s desire for an impending pile up. Her hips raising to signal the dropping of flags signifying the end of a lap, hers.
I felt her pressure against my face like it was real.

Fingers inserted, the heaviness tremendous,
enough to decapitate a deep sea diver
and as she came that last checkered flag-time, her clit,
the malformed head of her penis that never was,
got caught on the corner of one of my two front teeth
and it felt like chewing gristle. We finished

and I reared back to survey the damage, “you’re bleeding,” I said. The blood collected in a bead
against her still inflamed skin
and she said, “oh” as if she hadn’t noticed.

I awoke to a pounding on my door,
I awoke to no one beside me.

I like to help

2009-06-13T00:00:00.001-07:00

http://thenoiseoftrouble.blogspot.com/2009/06/forward-four-word-forward.html

“I put it between my teeth like a dead mouse and let the blood drip down my chin.” - Gerald Stern

2009-06-11T13:31:00.000-07:00

I Get Wet

Ferocious and feral? I’m peripheral. On the exterior of my own dreams, a starving vagrant outside of a baker’s window.

His patrons like to pretend I’m not there. Disheveled and tattered, an unsightly distraction. Salivation, as opposed to salvation, dribbles like a slow-mo Spaulding off cracked lips as that spit abets hunger’s codependency to hope, a delusion born of desperation.

For the price of a cup of coffee a day, I could be filled with an unspecified elation called bliss. No money for such a beverage makes for a hackneyed voyeur on the outside looking in, while the idealized occupants of fantasy still gaze away.

Disgust and revulsion disguised as mock pity hangs like spectacles on their alabaster countenances. They don’t want me to know that they loathe me.

Such a revelation is kept quite hush-hush and far away from the beggar or vagabond safely beyond the glass. Those who have attained what I want fear revolution constantly.

So as an actor on their screen, I have to bring the drama to them. To make them care, aware of the misfortunes of those still laboring in the mines of mediocrity.

First, I present the blade, one I forged out of my own self-righteousness. Bestowing it as an offering, as tribute.

Second, a ceremonial sword dance commences. All the trappings of tradition must be observed, because what would we be without it?

A spin here, a plié there and heads begin to turn. No need to make a sound, they can’t hear me. The long and hard straight edges of the saber strike out into the cobblestone night, eviscerating oxygen molecules like the kiss of a cool death blow.

End then bow, some begin to cheer. At that moment, I pull the shark sharpness of this killing bow across my fretless neck and bathe in my own arterial spray. My finale, my ta-da! My life for the corneal spotlights of those here in the present.

How to Leave Bill and Vanessa’s

2009-06-01T11:58:00.001-07:00

Explosion!

Shark blood,
a crimson carnation
blooming
on the screen
in the Deep Blue Sea.

Movie’s over,
use the bathroom
one more time.

Walk in, marine foam
tiles glint
beneath the light.
Unzip and take
a sobering piss.
Woodland creatures
with demon eyes
hide behind
a bamboo shower curtain.

Finish up, shake it out.
Wash your hands,
white liquid soap,
an aloe plant
on the bottle.

Look around.

There is love spell
on the window seal,
Singer’s Saving Grace
and empty syringes
under medicine cabinet.

Dry your hands
on the white towel.
Walk back out,
dawdling equals awkwardness.
Say your goodbyes, trip out
looking for your ride,
realize again
that it isn’t your car
when you have
to manually unlock
the doors.

Ignition!

"For the Jew, the world is a cage filled with wild beasts." - Henry Miller

2009-06-01T03:32:00.001-07:00

I Liked Tropic of Cancer, But...

Henry, that dirty old man dreaming of Jewess cunt,
describes us as defenseless lion tamers
gifted with neuroses,
tell that to those at Warsaw or Masada
or Judah Maccabee

or the IDF,
when you aren't too busy verbally spitting on them
like hippies on American GIs
at airports long since less picketed.

Without revolver or whip, gesticulations as effective as karate katas, bedazzling and inefficacious.
Fear makes them fearless.
Perhaps he was playing us up some,

but picture
Woody Allen done up like John J. Rambo.
Jerry Seinfeld as Indiana Jones.

Hear
Ben Stein as the voice of Darth Vader.
Benny Goodman playing Death Metal.

You laughed, I heard you.

Question though.

Does it demean the gentile as much as the Jew
to be depicted as creatures in need of breaking,
being made to parade
through hoops, potentially flaming?

Maybe. Yet when they look around a room, they probably assume that everyone is in the same ark.
Lambs huddled
two by two
by their savior shepherd, weeping
and gnashing their teeth.
Benny Hinn believers, telephone and credit card
in hand, ready to buy those indulgences
from stained glass Home Shopping Networks.

As a child, I went through a period of hating Jesus
for being our Judas, our Brutus. But like Morrissey,
I Have Forgiven Jesus.

Minus that cross to bear,
everyday’s a struggle
to step beyond the preconceived
and into notions less derisive,
devising ways to be

more,

more than just a penny pincher and a punch-line.

I've made gopher holes into Grand Canyons
searching for a quarter.

Truly, the only difference between pizza
and my relatives
was that they screamed going into the oven.

Guffaw for me, bitches.

Time would be better spent

devising ways to be

more,

more than weak pride backwards masked as deprecation.

Scaring and scarring
those who misconstrue our reversed vinyl record
of life in the Diaspora as Satanic verses
just like they did Stairway.

Oh, here is to my sweet Satan…

there’s a bustle in your hedgerow,
don’t be alarmed now.

Let me tell you though.

I've drank the Christian baby's blood at midnight

and yes, I do want my pound of flesh.

So bend the fuck over and don't squeal like trafe, would you?

Waiting like Lacerating

2009-05-29T16:39:00.000-07:00

Scratch
and shake
and break
these arms
that hold all
there ever was.

Watch
and take
and sate
the scantily-clad
urges of bygones,
not so forgotten.

I’ve been looking
for
a means
of escape
from this
hand held nightmare.

I’ve been looking
for the slightest
mention
of a life
less caustic.

Searching back pages
of periodicals worldwide.

Searching the soul
I might not have.

Searching
and destroying
my mind,
a scimitar
of perversion.
Incising
with scalpel-like
precision
into the very taproot
of a solemnity
I have yet
to find.

The bulky blade
trembles,
much too large
for such
a delicate
operation
and I start
to wonder
if that
has always
been the problem.

Naked Integral

2009-05-12T22:52:00.001-07:00

Eyes stretch and trace lines,

etchings

of some

ethereal

handiwork,

beauty

ephemeral.

Sacred

calligraphy

in the hard brushstrokes

that outline

the skin mountains

capped with coffee-colored

flat-brimmed fedoras,

adorning your chest

as signs of maturity,

eventually maternity.

The unseen hand

that formed them

must have quivered

as it joined the dots

between upper

and lower torsos.

Tortoise slow,

the painstaking

pace

to craft

fleeting perfection.

When the Bough Breaks

2009-05-12T22:51:00.000-07:00

Saw my mother standing

by the car’s hatch,

she was done loading items

out of the cart, where I sat.

A strong squall came

and I felt

the wheeled metal move

with that gust then with gravity.

I was a toddler sitting

in the seat made for my kind

and I was falling hard

against asphalt

not a rabbit hole

as Alan, not Alice

in front of a K-Mart

on pavement without any hint

of a slant.

In Her Bed, One Night

2009-05-12T22:47:00.000-07:00

She started to doze

while I

stared out

into the sky, then

we rolled

towards one another,

teeth fluttered over

by tongues.

Maw produced lubrication

commingled:

her nicotine saliva,

my cannabinoid

cotton mouth.

Hairy palmed

hands,

lecherous

tarantulas,

whose digits

blasted and banged

as their comrade,

the tongue, trickled

over

tobacco fume pussy.

Our new spit progeny

birthed

the caked tar

of an alluring

sludge sundae, a flesh flood

warning, lungs filled

with smoke

and slathered cunt honey that

screamed

lusty,

gutturally

symphonic motifs

triumphantly

trumpeted.

And yet thru the window, you could

hear R&B, faintly

in the distance,

low and distorted.

Some nondescript

FM diva

vocalized the melodious

crackle of a gentrified

genre bred for homogeny,

but it was barely heard

over

our din.

Saltwater-Based Pastels

2009-04-23T17:03:00.001-07:00

I am tired, I am weary
I could sleep for a thousand years
A thousand dreams that would awake me
Different colors made of tears

- Lou Reed

Saltwater-Based Pastels

Paint your face

with love and grace, dear,

bewitching dreamily

the shattered smug. Sharpen

your prehensile pencils,

grasping your blanched canvas

for hopes of release.

The waterworks arrive,

florid salvos of colors

ashen, the rainy run-off

of human expression

carving future Grand Canyon's

of age and regret,

defiled deceit.

Purely emotive

Day-Glo dalliances,

these droplets of mania gush

ever driven, forever draining.

Deriving sense from delirium

found

in a clichéd heave of chest.

Eyelids wilt in twilight,

still life flowers

with swollen petals

whose buds blossom and balloon

into portals of perception,

ocular instruments which bequeath

a tonnage that’s torrential.

Blue Jean Reverie

2009-04-12T16:17:00.000-07:00

Eyes stare, avert, stare, avert.

Islander flesh smiling,

peeking through

from a horizontal slit

in cutoffs, pointing like a finger

to the vertical slit nearby

that leaves one

punch drunk.

Hips sway, enchant, swain, enchant.

Sun baked pigment, the same

as everything else

visible and less sacred, but

closer to the cotton-covered

birthplace of all things

cosmic and karmic.

In we go

into

indigo, these vertigo transmissions,

cerulean, never certain,

always searching for something

to define the transitory effects

of a young girl in shorts

on this old man’s mind.

Heart sparks, crumbles, sparks, crumbles.

Crystalline

2009-03-23T16:52:00.001-07:00

I like you better
with the lights off
in the backseat
on a dark street
by the beach.

I like to picture
in my head
what I’d prefer
you to look like
as you’re giving it.

I’d like to not
feel the dread of
knowing that
I’m a hypocrite,
superficial
like the ones
I can’t have.

I wish I could
transplant your brain
into the body
of fantasy.
I wish this
didn’t matter
that much to me.

Lorelie

2009-03-17T18:23:00.000-07:00

The couch is crowded
with clothes and golden gift boxes,
the kind used to hide sweaters
from thieving eyes on holidays.
Wedged between them,
my once again attired form
has taken residence
while she sits

Indian-style, unadorned,
unencumbered by any covering, comfortable
in her paper bag carapace of skin.
On a single Easter egg pastel blue sheet,

which drapes over her divan
like a dust cover over a car,
like a slip over a stiff in a morgue,
we talk the talk of old friends
and not strangers.

Coco

2009-03-07T00:05:00.000-08:00

Her mouth,
the elderly smoking section
of a Floridian Chinese restaurant,
is on me without asking
as her hand cradles my head
like an incestuous mother.
Old enough to be just that,
she barely speaks my language,
coos in my ear
these words I can’t make out
that sound-like
distant and distorted cousins
to the ones I know.

Melodramatic moans made
at the slightest of touches,
her skin is smooth
and smells like nothing
but jasmine tea. She stands
in a summer dress, carmine and yellow
like a South Western June
with my hands in her hair,
jet black, jet straight
as I sit on the table
as these arms are pulling me close
like women half her age have
when they have loved less sincerely.

A Fruitless Orchard

2009-02-24T16:39:00.000-08:00

Everyone in my life is insane:
The men, women and children.
Have none yet, biologically at least.
But I’m parenting everyone
from my father to my best friends.
Counseling as both psychiatrist and rabbi,
doling out prescriptions and advice
when they all need me to talk them down
from whatever tree, window ledge
or altar of sacrifice
they have dragged themselves
on top of willingly.
Their instability eclipses my own,
I allow it and that begs the question
of who I should be mad at more?

In them there is a craving
for structure and order
often belayed by
a self destructive pattern.
Yet no matter how much
they polish and fellate
the phallus of chaos,
the worship is pointless.
Eventually backs are turned as they get older
and deny it at the moment of climax
like a time stingy whore would a struggling john.

Those moments are the end of gestation
for the epiphanies that teach us
that everything is an attempt
to crawl back into the womb from
sleep to sex
and asking for someone to care
about anyone else’s woes
is pretty much the same thing.
Any hope of stitching the chord back
between us and the peace
of existing in nonexistence,
the watery warmth of pre-birth
or possibly death, that was severed
on our zero birthday is shed. A waste,
not a pity.

Desipramine

2009-02-06T09:40:00.000-08:00

The pill they’ve got me on worries me. They call it one of the “dirty TCAs,” tricyclic antidepressants from the first wave with all the bad side effects. So now, it burns when I cum, I cum, I cum, I cum when I do anything related to the sex type thing. Ejaculation AKA splooging AKA jizzing AKA creaming one’s jeans AKA the most pleasurable part for a man supposedly and I’m inches away from tearing up like a kid who touched the stove after Mommy expressly told him not to. With the sting of salt in my eyes, I wasn’t sure if I should get a cold compress or a Kleenex to mop up. If that wasn’t the worst, I spent most of yesterday without a hard-on for the first time in 15 years. Instead of staring around a classroom thinking about what the brunette, the actress, might look like without a shirt on, I was thinking about some morose shit like the futility of existence and how flawed the search for meaning is. My thoughts a carousel as they spun from the philosophic sublime to the pedestrian facts that I’ve had cottonmouth since I started six days prior and that I haven’t taken a good, healthy shit since two days before that. My nose has been stuffed up for about as long too and I can’t take antihistamines for fear of a fatal interaction. The anxiety, the depression and the stomach aches that it was supposed to cure are sort of gone. Mostly the tummy rumbles and I’m more stoner-mellow-placid now, but I think this is the most melancholy I’ve been in awhile. Speaking of which, I can’t even toke up, because I might go into cardiac arrest. So I’m going to the doctor on Tuesday and I’m going to switch to Prozac, a name you can trust from your mouth to God’s ears, Tom Cruise.

Another one like the other one

2009-02-05T09:59:00.000-08:00

It seems like everyone has one of these. I've been on Livejournal since I was 19 or 20. I'm 26 now and I figure that diversification is a mighty good thing. So I might use this as an outlet for poetry. If you are curious about more openly personal entries then there is an RSS feed of my LJ underneath this.