Somewhat-polished poetry and stuff from an older era.
2009
one two three four
April 19, 2009 12:00AM
Current mood: mister sister love
the West suddenly snakes upwards in my thoughts, the
driving-pine blurs, the shaking whispers and ruffled
white of streaming aspen digits rolling by….
one-two-three-four, i lap my head against the window,
scurvy of wind sucking at the gap above the half-opened
glass. one-two-three-four. one-two-three-…. hum,
i turn the music off.
snaking-dotted lines eat up the distance. i scarf the
autumn chill into my lungs. one-two-three, hum,
one-two-three, hmmm……, these mountainsides lay livid
against this autumn burn. breathe believe and burn. layers
of elevation, escalation, enervation. an endearing learing
glare.
these are the towers…. these are the giants i asked to
kill me. ripped weights of stone, funnels of reverb,
ghosted and grim, the West lays deep inside these bones.
these are the giants i asked to kill me. these are they
deserts i asked to starve me….
flat-backed, sanded, castrated under lurid stars,
carbon-monoxide dreams, i relent. rolling over, rolling
thin. ghosts in the splattered pines, mountains grieve
in streams. rambling patterns and waking dreams. where
to go from here, oh where to go from here.
orgasm of sound
January 17, 2009 12:00AM
his voice in plural-gutter grooves, ambling thresholds,
undulating granulated bass. viola violins grieving in
screaming freqs, grieving in weaving strangulations.
deep thrumbling-mumbling gutter-gravy meat of breathing
circus beats. completions and finished thoughts. somehow
it all ends in clapping-slapping amber joy.
oh god, this is why the day goes on. and why these people
are not millionaires i do not know. ah, so nice,
so nice……..
(everybody listen to BEAT CIRCUS!)
2008
old summer dream
December 23, 2008 12:00AM
something brutal, something scratched and swimming across
the iris. dredged and eaten sunlight through fomented fury
of branched limbs. blurred-scorched gristle brown.
i remember that summer listening to old-school nick cave.
from her to eternity, your funeral…my trial. driving
into the mouth of the beast. lighting cigarettes, horizon
graves, an anchor weighing down the trunk. tongue of fury,
gravel wheeze.
want to resurrect that heat, want to stream that
arched-and-grooved-and-doomed blood-whistle of a death wish.
sunburnt, castrated, skinned-alive upon a thousand mountains.
flayed thin in this heat, you can only die in the dead of
summer. brutal, bridged, connected to warm earth, this
furious blinking is an embrace. oh glory, you’ve found
me here and i will take you.
weary
November 7, 2008 12:00AM
and suddenly it is november and i have forgotten to pay
the internets bill for two months and suddenly there is
no internets. and suddenly it is november and puddles
wrap themselves around parking lots of leaves and where
to go from here. hope is pathology, disorder wrapped in
riddle, riddle wrapped in ridiculous fumbling buttered
thoughts. i don’t know where i am. try and remember
and i remember dreams.
november falls fast to the ground and what is there to
do but baste these splintered thoughts in phantom silk.
all wrapped up in labors, this month will lumber as a
summer’s gasp and we must scour up this harvest and
huddle around burnt logs in hopes of some forgotten
unseen fire.
needing a marching band
May 30, 2008 12:00AM
Current mood:toasted
lost in this threaded wind, arched and succulent streaming
dream, weaving grieving thumbling-strumbling whitewash
stream. so falling forward washed and whistling-dixie
whistling train-smoke wishing under wishes and bridges
and plumes blooming breathing liquid stranded unflowering
and landed, clean and smacked and puddled in littered
sandswept glass.
and when that brass band starts up–blown crimson glory–
i’m so totally there, blown-up together and stricken with
their flaming glory brass. eaten night sky, rhythm upon
striking knees, whomping pounding stretched skins
beating. and falling forward, breathing in strumpets,
strombones, strums unfolding. an so this nonensense dream
uncurls. more fulcrums, more littered love.
drinking drinking drinking, ah so it goes.
2007
november
November 8, 2007 12:00AM
oh ya just lost it, honey.
fermented november
season gruel,
sun-stark grit and
limbic stones curled and
swabbed
in littered auburn sheaves.
walking this time with slickened steps,
a new-england autumn tosses yellow parchment
down around and
down, a scored and orchestrated
moon-stark-crooning medly of
sloshed and crinkled
falling.
whittled brows
bleached eaves,
clacking-unclacking burlap grooves
yeah oh yeah
you just lost it baby,
knickers all deep, knee-deep in
mulched un-washed un-fastened and
faded ripened gold.
oh you just lost it girl and you are
counting down
four-three-two-one and
counting down
four-three-two
down ah
down un-wearing these limbs,
un-raveling this wind
un-chiming slowly chiming parody,
gravel-clacking holes.
needles fly through empty spaces,
you threaten gristle frost,
throw chilled and slapping slurry
at the panes.
oh ya just lost it, lass,
you’ve come all this way from that
gilded summer lark
to be just
swallowed in this scouring shivering
unrepentant
december dust.
creepy old man
June 27, 2007 12:00AM
My half-hearted reflection in the subway-car window…
Ghostly-shallow purple eyes, scoured-knob nose, hulking
shoulder arcing above a bulging belly. Insect in the
window, carapace shadow, antennae twitching. Scales,
protuberances, vestigial limbs. Nostril hair and heavy
breathing.
All around me angels are fanning their wings, petal-skin
so smooth. Exposed.
Creepy-Old-Man Syndrome is coming sooner than expected.
I cannot look, this hulking beast in the window, cannot
look at them, exposed.
Argh, I cannot breath, these chasms chanting. Wholesale
brain-mess. Conglomerate insectile mass. Fuck fuck fuck,
something is coming to eat me. Hungry hungry snakes roaring
down these channeled burrows, throw myself inside.
Throw myself inside.
waking dream
June 11, 2007 12:00AM
Light and shadow
kiss.
Peripatetic patterns on the wall, nervous wrangling shapes
easing in and out of forms. Strange and wandering beasts.
Rippling leaves stark before valleys that plunge and run
like the curves of a thousand women. Circus bubbling
juggling menagerie. Sex acts amongst millions. Warriors
sucking blood. Birth and bonds.
The room is blue, everything rippling with seething
breathing chiaroscuro. Black to blue to white. Refracted
caustics dancing as though underwater.
I lose track of where I am. Everything is blue in this
world. Beneath ground, there really is this rug of tan
and azure. Vibrating cyan lights. A beat, a bang.
Beneath ground, there really is this hand–it moves.
Beneath ground, I really do taste the salt on your belly.
Bathed in this shifting lilting light, I hear that
voice and we both go down together.
Down down down. Down beneath the ground.
bubbles
June 8, 2007 12:00AM
Soft and bubbling prescient pleasure in my left thigh.
Rolling liquid, opiate high.
Fulcrum twisting,
time is nigh.
pixies
June 4, 2007 12:00AM
Herds of cantankerous clouds continue their brewing splurge.
A chill rides up my thigh to my arm to my fingertips.
Appendages tingle. I shiver at the window and watch as
the tides of mist fume and percolate upon the surface of
this mountain lake, slowly roiling across with listless
determination. The forest gurgles patiently. Furry things
lie deeply burrowed and bundled.
Wisp and a willow, cresting angel morning, the pixies begin
their flitting ritual not on some hallowed Midsummer night
alignment. Not on some sacred ancient holiday. No, their
light begins to link and chime amongst the forest limbs at
the break of Brunch. Waffles and strawberries high up in
the treetops.
Umbrellas from leaves, I can only see a faint glow from
where I sit breathing mist onto the panes. It’s the kind
of light that cascades easily, though, and I continue to
watch it breathe and quiver amidst the pouring. I sit
still, shivering and envious.