Selected from 1994-2010
Tuesday in blue glasses. Red lipstick. Freak.
A stop sign in the passing. Scream silent. Meek.
Whisper whisper to me
whisper whisper loud
sensation soft and fleeting
when you brush me in the crowd
Tuesd’y at the table. Her legs crossed. Sleek.
Our eyes catch for an instant. A secret. Peek.
Raise your voice a little
meet me in my bliss
let me know you need me
and leave me with a kiss
Tues’y soft and naked. Legs sprawling. Weak.
I press my fingers down you. Hot wetness. Streak.
So scream your wanting at me
I know you know how
join torch and seething furnace
as you touch me—now
Indelible Dick Tracy (1995)
sparkly jazz man runs his fingers
up and down a silver moon
indelible Dick Tracy
traces hands along the liquid
rim of unknown molotile
foot runs up and down on heel braced
upside down with five-inch spike
and laced up on a swirling
barbed-wire boy jumps nother fence in
backstreet baby briar patch
drunken man stabs his own self
on own carnation
he falls breathless
on the dirty, drunken floor
baby breathless fucks some other
bad boy bum in
backroom billiards boredom rows
of thousand windows empty
of the brides of softer quiet bedroom
zillion tighter screaming hard out
asses swing a killer tune
above the heads and hearts and
bank accounts of driven
lose control and
fuck a bitch
and get a bang
and lose yourself
and someone else
indelible Dick Tracy take your bow
as baby breathless fucks you with her eyes
a wave of lust and hunger neath her brow
the fuck the buck the hand on mine a chinging glass of dimming wine
a slip a rip her slender crack you slide your hand up arching back
I am no more
I am no more
I swing with rhythms
dance with fishies
find myself a-losing
I wallow breathless on the drunken
avant blush (1995)
(Magnetic poem by Julian and me)
break and squirm
Kevin’s Dream (1996)
Woman sitting on top of a tree masturbating. Kevin’s Dream, one night, of runaways and shooflies and Kevin’s old girlfriend, Maggie, was a Mormon. Mormon with a passionate love for pussy and kissing dogs and sitting on top of trees masturbating in time with the rhythm of the car as it drove down the highway far along. Down the road, somewhere in West Virginia, sits a woman with a scar she don’t know where it came along the bottom of her soul is scraped the man of a name she once knew. Even farther back, when the wind was solid pieces loving to embrace the solitary kiss of morning’s touch. Stripping naked in the Serengeti desert, I saw a tribesman going across the plain in search of deer. Waterless, flush and drain, the sweat of Mother’s love; she pauses around 1913, wipes her forehead, and returns to the kitchen. Not the kitchen of a house, but underground, the kitchen of the underworks and panty lining of the world.
“Big ass tampon, if you ask me.”
“Whose is this? Look, it goes all the way up to your chest.”
“That tampon doubles as an emergency flotation device,” he said, joking. But I hope he’s right, because we sure could use something like that right now. A flotation device, or some kind of Savior, you understand, because none of us had formal training in this field. And what are we to do? Dig in and wash the windows of the sky long and done and dusty in my eye. Sneaking from the back to hold a candle mercy God he’s coming through the camera lenses focused to, fusing precision in the hull of a converted trailer home sweet river running through the crack between my legs the shiver of a momentary shawl upon your head I thought you were dying for a second, crushed beneath the Greyhound charter nonstop to the desert. There we are again, swallow, as truth is nothing but a differential consistency of arbitrary Constance. An old friend. Acquaintance really, but what’s the score. Blood in this ring, bone in the other. Radiant fever burns the brightest right before we lose power. There it goes, blackness, blanket, bludgeoning. Tool. Merciful Almighty we sing your praises hinting at the core of man’s designing gene. What do you know, it was all Mendelian after all. Safe and sound without a friend among the empty cosmic skrye. Into the sun, will you, break the pinpoint eclipse rules and find yourself staring into the optic nerve of timeless fury, anguishing eternally sound. Peace. Be with you brother; brother, what a night. Kicking myself in the head for my own lack of agility I end up tied in knots I tied myself and yet I perceive that another’s fingers might work those strands more deftly than could I. Pinkles tinkles antlers yearning for the sunny skies above I think you’re there upon that hill and so I chase your primrose panties out on the lawn and lay you there to fuck you heavenly. Or so I think. But though the sex is good we walk away and gone the hill is made of paper money Barbie blinks her plastic eye and I see that my fresh discovery is..what?..nothing but Chex Party Mix®?..nothing but graham crackers in a plastic baggie?! Wrapped by my mother before I even went to school but now the graduation is over and my tassel swings only in tiny quantum motions behind my closet door. That’s what my professors tell me, anyway, I don’t see movement of any kind, least of all the quantum hammering of a dead cat but you can buy my products anyway, cause guess what, I don’t test on animals. Of course, I also simultaneously do test on animals so how’s that for a consumer base. You think so, motherfucker? What? You thought I wouldn’t mind? You thought I wouldn’t notice that you’re sitting in my chair sifting through the carpals of my tunnel, digging some of your own, picking up your nose and up your butt with wide eyes, hands flexing eagerly, awaiting the golden nugget..
Streamlined from the shifting of her hair, a tigress’ lair, may fate be fair. There, awaits the beauty and the tangle that I seek, inseparation that is singularly existent from an external perspective, that of me, another face among the masses of enumeration impossible from the setting of a single chair. Birds. Beasts. A flock upon the house of leaves, trash upturned, and ash that burned our mangled prayer is now the pleasantry of a ten minutes nap. We wake to scream, to wander aimless in the in between, raking endless gardens in this feathered heather, Kevin’s Dream.
(Written in one class period in response to Sister Damien’s offer for extra credit in return for a poem about food..she was apparently hungry that day. I didn’t need the credit but it sounded like fun. I read this, with feeling, to a room full of CJ students.)
I want a burger
yeah I want a slab of beef
I’m gonna open my mouth
and sink my teeth
into a sesame bun
and a lettuce leaf
I want pickle chips, mustard,
oh I say “Good grief!”
I don’t want no veggie food
I want a bull that’s dead
I want to stuff my face
I want to feed my head
with a bucket of wings
and a plate of fries
I want a big fat hefty
buffalo that flies
gimme ten-ton nuggets
I wanna feast my eyes
on a health-food record
that is full of lies
I want cholesterol!
My veins are exercised!
I want a value meal!
And make it supersized!
autumn’s call (1996)
I think I hear you
in the shadows of the sunlight
I want to be now
lost and safe within the morrow
in your softness
solemn parting finds the waters
and lost forever
in the silence and the sorrow
day will fall
to love the nighttime
then it’s darkness melts to blind me
and the laughter
give up wonderful and faster
nathan’s girlfriend’s sister
and a jamacian woman named elvira
actually her name wasn’t elvira
and she was from ghanna
so while everyone else’s sitting there
eating chinese stir-fry
and getting an education in ghannan culture
I’m in the dining room talking
and her fucked-up roommate
who has quite a variety of music
and surprisingly good taste
better than you would expect
while sipping honey wine
and making strategic eye contacts
as she sits across the floor
I give her a smile that she can’t resist
pretend to be staring blankly
intent on the conversation
when in fact
I am staring
at her crotch
as if no one would notice
that my mind has left the room
as if it wasn’t obvious
that pretenses were just pretenses
and no one could hear the noises
coming from upstairs
down the hall
take every turn you can possibly take
and you’ll end up where we were
the room is still there
but someone’s made the bed
that gets dropped
because the pan was still hot
I was in ghanna at the time
so all I heard was a crash and a yell
and we looked around at each other
what was that?
and then returned to the history lesson
later they were making remarks about eating the bread
about how it might be dangerous
and if I didn’t mind
they asked with a giggle
and a smile
and the assumption that we would remain ignorant to the fact
Choose death. (1996)
Choose drugs. Choose unemployment. Choose to be a bum. Choose pot, choose coke, choose 40 oz. bottles of malt liquor. Choose bongs and drug paraphernalia. Choose alienation from all the people you thought were your friends. Choose caffeine. Choose not to graduate. Choose unprotected sex. Choose fetishes. Choose to sit around doing nothing. Choose to plummet into the aftermath of capitalism with the rest of America. Choose America. Choose waste, choose excess, choose sexual gratification with barnyard animals. Choose to stick your finger up your nose. Choose to have other people stick your fingers up your ass. Choose jeans and string bikinis. Choose emotionless sexual encounters in public restrooms. Choose to fuck your friends. Choose your friends. Choose friends. Choose drinking so much Jolt that your stomach explodes. Choose eating red meat, and slaughtering cattle. Choose biting your fingernails ‘till they bleed. Choose S&M. Choose pain. Choose hurt. Choose to perpetrate senseless acts of violence against perfect strangers. Choose to suck your own dick. Choose to suck someone else’s. Choose semen. Choose condoms. Choose anal sex. Choose media violence. Choose coffee. Choose to die. Choose profanity, rape, and high-risk physical entertainment. Choose junkfood. Choose McDonalds. Choose a Taco Salad with 9000 grams of fat. Choose a flabby stomach. Choose an ab-master. Choose to jack off daily. Choose non-traditional sex. Choose sports apparel. Choose expensive hairstyles, or no hair at all. Choose to shave your pubic hair, not to shave your legs. Choose tooth decay. Choose making rude comments to small children. Choose sex in a public place. Choose a lifestyle. Choose an attitude. Choose an image. Choose a meaning. Choose your weapon.
eyes of April (1996)
above the hill
with vengeant claws
and eyes of grey
hide their flowers
for the cover of empty ground
I go and
sink into my chair
taking lustful breaths
in the background
of my ear
a peaceful muttering of logic’s verse
the tap of chalk
around the chair
above the seat
and look around
the class has stopped
the only sound is a deceptively academic fluorescent hum
the dark is rising
from the edge
to cover all
to kill and
like the ocean
summer camp (1996)
a panty sample, you know
where you go around collecting
shall we say..
from all your favorite females
and their chance roommates
their possessions and positions
on current political issues
on egg cartons and tissues like
with you (1996)
I am with you
I am not here
I am with you in the waves of the sea
and the stars of the night
in the chill of the breeze
and the purple moonlight
I am with you
however it goes
I am there by your side
even though no one knows
how our song will turn out
how the lofty wind blows
it will move how it please
over valleys and dales
it will rise to the seas
where the distant ship sails
I am with you
I am not here
I am with you in the heat of the dance
when the world disappears
there is only our glance
to hold us together
and melt our sweet fears
it grabs and it lingers
and moves us to tears
I am with you when the path has been lost
as we strike out our own
through the sand and the moss
you pleasure my eyes
and heighten my sense
as we kiss on the hill
under tree, on the fence
I am not here
where we close our eyes tight
as a rhythm is found
in the absence of light
in the absence of sound
I am with you
I am there in the stillness
I’m there in the space
in the softness of hair
and the smile on your face
which silently speaks
as the melody slows
we tickle our cheeks
and nose touches nose
I am with you
as the oceans move out
where the moon shines through
and a young boy skips and runs
through the fields
all I want
is the oblivion
of animal sense
glaucoma and hepatitis b
that sweet deliverance
from the past
I wish it on everyone
the loss of the mirror
the dissipation of sin
the thoughtless grin
and the inability to count to ten
our theories are stolen by the celestial subterfuge
and only then
when we are bathed by the light of a timeless spin
will we see that the fabric of our certainty
is wearing thin
scaring, tearing, and miss-preparing
of life’s logic
thrusting us back
to the end
of the ultimate game
mona lisa (1996)
is a pisa
she’s a piece a
she’s a funny
phone a meetsa
let’s go out
and walk the sky
wants to meet ya
in a penguin
suit and tie
find her where the
walk and streets a
and gonna fly
Liberatum veritae (1996)
Though you try to elude me,
and render me mute;
I will have my say.
If you think that you live
in a world aught than mine,
I will seep through your cracks—
I will creep like a vine.
I will find your safe hell
with it’s false downy beds;
I will throw off the covers
and rip them to shreds.
Though you wish you could fight me,
and render me yours;
I will not be moved.
You will tire of your tyrannies
—blink for a second—
the truth will befall you,
and flaunt you to reckon
a thunderous gasp
with torrents of dreams,
bleeding suffocant harms
in the shrill of your screams.
Though you try to contain me,
and rattle my cage;
I will not be shaken.
My eyes will expose you
and bring to the light
all the secrets you hide
in the midst of the night,
like a lover who probes you
and fingers your clasp;
it fondles and bites
with the sting of the asp.
I am (1996)
sing for no reason
except that you can
and let your chords wobble the silliest jam
don’t care if they hear you
and say that you’re banned
but sing like the wind
whose true name is I am
write for pure joy
or the foot of a lamb
and think of no mister, or master, or ma’am
whose wants might contain you
or spread you like jam
but write like the wind
whose true name is I am
live for the laughter
let nothing be damned
hear in your heart your own drummer and band
don’t let your steps simmer
like waves through the sand
but live like the wind
whose true name is I am
Motherfucking dark. (1997)
Darkness. People doing things with computers that they couldn’t themselves do as children. And knowledge, education, learning ability in human beings will literally draw the line between life and death. Those who are capable will flourish like the sun while the inhabitants of the cast-out land scorch and fry on the pavement. Asphalt. Burning blackness bright of day. Hunger and wretched innocence, the uselessness of the uneducated. It will be a hybrid sort of competition, an intra-generational match of wills, competing just for the resources to keep an individual alive. Violence, as the technological pill eclipses its own pharmacist, and the elite behave inhumanly, while the reflexive murder perpetrated among the mass of the poor makes them more understandable, more sensible, less prone to induce the tones of hell than the lonely parasite they feed.
Digital tones. A fuck in a hall. Barbed cotton and bamboo. A piano. March. Wonderful seclusion beneath the butterfly’s propeller. And I want to meet the song of your stimulus, frogs beep, denim frays, all the animals of the forest are alive with spring’s bustling freshness; my vector falling with the rain—too bad—the
the Original (1997)
down from the count
moves backward through mirrors of restless
to escape the typical
that which has been done
like prime numbers
deeper and deeper
in handsome cracks
the frighteningly unconcerned
hybrid alien sociopolitical
the other drink
each more typically original than the last
the mass-illiterate flaunts the archetypical
beats the path of nomadic wind
forgoes the find
to search the seek
Welcome to the place where social and individual delight reigns supreme. The place where everything you never dreamed of simply is. We are the incarnation, we are the physical embodiment of forbidden paradise. We are the expression of everything so great it would never be allowed. The expression of freedom so harsh it will chaff the skin, break space-time and the light barrier to smithereens. Turn concrete to plush fabric, mine golden thread underwater, swim the clouds. We are the clown, appearing silly to first touch, silently spindling out though ether, betraying the most basic physical certainty. We are the science of science and the spirit of spirituality; we bite the kernel and leave the pod raped unawares. We are the ones who will take you for all you’ve got, who will leave you for broke or dead or halfway in-between here and the impossible, and do it all without a waver. We are the certainty obtained by compiling random senseless whimsicality, wrapping the mystical in stone and plastic, presenting it carelessly and rude to all who would doubtless care to remain undisturbed. We are necessary change, inspirers of acute dissatisfaction. Ones who will throw indisputable logic through a mesmorem of fabrication and synthesis that would shame the gods, disappear momentarily, and emerge the transformed..naked incomprehensibility, blatant shadowmasters, directors of paradox, the collective implementation of an ageless sorcerer. We are the conquerors of the endless expanse of possibility, gapping the bridge between fate and freedom, reconciling gravity and weightlessness, weaving disintegration, forever escaping deduction, interpretation, conventional understanding. We are the jugular of detachment, the integration of so-called isolation. Antithesis of limitation. Murderer of sense. Demonstration of ease.
Haiku Wars (1997)
(These five Haiku poems were my contribution to one set of Internet Haiku Wars. Upon the distribution of these poems, these particular Wars ended. Even though the whole point of these Haiku Wars was to string together disgusting thoughts and phrases in Haiku format, no one was ready for this set of five. Ashley says that when Heather read them she was truly offended.)
No one is watching.
Fingers digging up my nose,
I eat my buggers.
Child squats in the grass.
Toilets are nothing like pants;
warm shit coats his legs.
All out of jelly
but still hungry, she squeezes
sweet juice from her cunt.
Hands between my legs
I spasm—screaming—lurch, and
pump cum from my cock.
Don’t challenge me to
write a motherfucking poem..
I’ll take your ass down.
building. an. eternity. (2000)
may. oceans. savor. breezes. for. you. brilliant. yesterday. I. am. building. an. eternity. from. my. impressions.
walking through the snow (2000)
She’s walking through the snow with her head down. Arms straight, hands deep in her pockets. Walking farther than she’s ever walked before, walking to a new place in this forest. She doesn’t recognize this part, but she keeps walking still. The snow comes down at a slant which she moves against. Her baby blue hat is covered by a thicker, darker one. Her head is plenty warm.
She’s flexing her fingers in those pockets. Noticing footprints of a bird. Hearing water swirl over rocks in tiny subpools of pools of pools of pools of running time. She’s taking a step onto a patch of frozen earth.
She’s walking slowly.
Greeted by moonlight. Face bathed in reflections of a cosmic fire. Cheeks warm after each deep, inward breath. She widens her eyes. They water. Somehow, she stops walking.
Her world stops moving closer on that last step.
She turns only her head to look around.
Everything is quiet, and she’s thinking.
Warmth is swelling inside her. She’s thinking about fingers in mittens and a fur blanket she has now. Wind howling and shadows of branches projected on her walls. Rolling to her side under thick fur. Breathing chilly air. Remembering sleeping together, holding in unconscious arms.
Waking up in sunlight.
Closing her eyes.
She’s thinking of a time they woke up together in summer, in a warehouse, in sunlight. Sleeping on that down comforter. Thinking of how they slept on that huge painting before it was done. She’s thinking about waking up on a roof, in drops of rain. Tossing blankets up and down through a window. Climbing barefoot up a ladder with a pillow in one hand. Thinking about holding hands and looking out over a sleeping city. Softly dancing silhouettes, tender nourishment. Those deep eyes.
She’s taking a step onto a patch of frozen earth.
She’s walking slowly.
She’s thinking about her baby.
Walking through the snow.
The Murdermuffin Post-it (2001)
(I wrote this on New Year’s Eve 2001 while tripping on psilocybin mushrooms. I wrote it on a Mac in the Post-it note application; hence, I call it The Murdermuffin Post-it.)
even standing in the halls at Best Buy
leaving little notes
[and writing on the back of pics]
[edited for television]
repeat that phrase forever
write a book,
spend your life writing books
would be okay
slither in here,
(go crazy, it doesn’t matter, live wildly and fun, we’re gonna put this here and that there, we’re going to redecorate!! (in quotations) going to redecorate and have childish fun)
abundance in everything
what can we create from this?
friekish fun is impossible to fathom, though, for (mere mortals)..and from their point of reason it is insult, it is scathing mockery, it is diabolique, mysteryschzism, intangible murderfrockery, middlewatschmoffining, sallygaggingmizzteryhocclingwandermuffiningspellbindery!
write plays where people are the extremes of obscure characterization, poetry consisting all of one syllable, syllableschisms, poetry consisting of just one word, forget about publishing..redefine the medium.
redefine the medium
[expand candy-smurfing zipsquiggler and call Mattel]
[it’s improv poetry and a party game all slammed into one]
[make weird packages and send them to CEOs..proposals..explore eccentricities]
redefinition of a syllableschism
plays that are just wordplay..drama just two characters spewing otherwise unutterable nonsensical strings of paradise, muffinfucker paradise, the gamo-globulan universiary syllable..one hour of that, incomprehensible by most readers and audience members, unshoulderable by most actors, the most brilliant dramatic
don’t take risks..live (conceptually) up against the wall of weird, oblivious to the box
don’t edit anything.
hi. i’m brilliant.
[entire books of logical syntactic wordplay]
make them come to you.
no capitals. all punctuation. everything.
attitude. the works.
[entire book written phonetically]
forget the box.
[words from computers]
gate no. 17
robbing monkeys blind eyebrows
write with no punctuation, no articles, no discernable fantasy
write a few more things down.
[alphapussy..alphabet book of poetry, absolute literature, a is for.., b is for..; a page for every letter; a page for every guideword in the dictionary]
how ’bout later?
how about now.
[entire dialog of that, then eight other scenes equally abstract, a pinch of cumin, call it play]
[weird punctuation in alphapussy..like the punctuation from a dictionary on mushrooms]
the rest is history.
massmedia cultural redirection (genocide)
welcome to next.
the importance of mixed-media genital re-improvosation
[call emily..do a language show]
reenergizing murdermuffin protein
[spell everything phonetikally]
note to self.
[instantaneous vehicular re-appropriation]
murdermuffin maladies [title]
that’s the whole thing.
[game that comes up with?] ad slogans
fake ad slogans.
intentional misspelling. [corrected]
bipartisan lingual reposession.
the wacky particle.
worrysome wizard. wobbling. worrying. whenever.
whwnwvwr [get it?]
murder club candy.
[go in and post notes everywhere..reclaim a coffeehouse..take over, placing notes, a happening,]
it’s just. but–
doctor happenstance is in the house
rap. monkey. is in the house.
in the house.
off the hook.
[\decorate bill tudor’s house]
you’re not dreaming.
winnebago. boulevard. zapfchancery.
straight to classical.
[encourage rapid evolution of the English language]
play classical loud.
re-muffin-ize (as in, we’re going to .. this whole place)
resubtract and redouble.
aim to tolerize.
\56. 57. What’s next!? 58?
instantaneous realphabetization complex
i’m through with chess.
that fucking billionaire.
what’s your perception?
just one critisim.
hold that thought.
i wont kiss.
i’ve changed everything.
new slogans all around.
it was nothing.
not with you.
we’ll take parts of it.
doesn’t it feel ducky?
i mean the feeling.
it’s my favorite place to sleep.
you’re not it.
the words are real.
i wish i had my list.
protect the innocent.
really mathematical thinking.
before I learned to talk.
hello my kittae.
reinitiate pregnant pauses.
reactivate the pregnancy.
you didn’t say that.
partially retolerable waste.
partially retolerable byproduct.
extra virgin. extra wide.
[r]iddle me this.
boulevard of broken pencils
[m]ovies with millions of movie references
with a through line and characters, drama, literary, but supermodern
m is for movies, but we never say so
\with diagrams like in a dictionary]
remalady the zhivago.
all the way.
different every time.
keep the pants. lose the hair.
I hope you’re having a lovely time.
gay teenagers (2001)
gay teenagers riding flowerpot handlebars
through Austin’s west village
rising stars of commerce—
“Physics is Fun” bumper stickers and the green-shirted Chinese woman in the sushi store, staring at me when not pretending to watch football
to which I find myself staring back, not pretending to watch anything
gay teenagers, ribbons in their hair, their mothers driving Vanagons 3 blocks away, gray-headed witches, the original hippies, the good ones of the east
dog-leash spike-chokered grandkids keeping pumas (as pets) on their keychains
gay teenagers striving to be forgotten, noticing to be remembered
seeking out eclectic niches in the common aesthetic mythology
Dorothy on a bicycle basket touting a star-spangled Yoda—
gap.com/denim looming fruitlessly, incandescently, tastefully flavor-free
lines of Kawasaki greens and yellows claiming that Akira lives today in videoscope, looms carrotously in doubles and quads even this far west of the Mississippi—
gay teenagers strangling puma keychain dogs with unruly fingernails bare-handed semi-automatic hippie inquisition
gay teenagers militant green ribbons
wooly remindants of fully loaded eyelash whispers in every blink of a Chinese woman pretending to watch football out of the corner of her eye
sly subcutaneous indicatives
stop-plosive pseudo-subliminal fricatives
the tricky business of leaving the town you love
the sticky is-ness of is-ness of is-ness of—
gay teenagers toting salamander bookpurses cave to resurrected verses of the seventh grade
gay teenagers gripping amplified phallic percussives
plugged-in to the underbelly of Austin’s west village
homogenized rock and roll anti-matter
progressive pasteurized folk country peanut butter bagels
and this is the live music capital of the world?
this is the live music capital of the world?—
rhythm and snooze
The Transient Fish (2001)
Parrot Bay, Long Island in the year seventeen-hundred and forty-two
fish and flone gathering upon milkweek pond
rippling surgically negotiated breastmilk
seedpod carcus rotting insectual graces
bracing Neverland at the front door
brimming the whore of twilight
breathing up my neck
intimidating my courtisans
brightening my day with starlight evenings’ blush
ever-so-slightly reminiscent of this fading crush that brings me
flush to the meandering of brook’s serenading
wet/dry underwater buffalo breathing
ankles tumbling under rockslide jibberish
removing my toenail for a moment
peering underneath a three-year-old child
wide-eyed hands flexing tiny nostrils breathing
toddler’s shoes in ancient hues
and maiden’s hips
resting lightly with hands
cresting slightly the sand
breasts nesting rightly the man
luna lullaby rocking the sea
pebbles basking in the cosmic twinkle
and you now have an inkling of Parrot Bay, Long Island in the year seventeen-hundred and forty-two
before the pastor bridled her for lust
before the dust began to settle on the veil
before of the wail of ardent passion slipped away
before the very day of which I tell
before the knell of lovedeath made a sound
before the frightened brutal pounding of his heart
before the sudden start of quick cessation of the bond
before the singing trance, the siren stroll, the bubbling organ first cajoled her from the brimming, seething, laughing Parrot Pond
broke the glass of scripture’s form
into the house a swarm
malignant hordes of insects screaming
bristling at the outskirts
teeming with vice
angry jaws and microscopic claws
with fervor lunge and vengeance douse
this sacred Sunday morning rock built upon a beach house
gnarly fingers twisted
far below these arching lofts
thrown to heaven’s floor
to scratch the lore of crumbling scrolls
that mortal souls applied so far beyond that kernel of their holy bard
a band of insects
well skilled in the art of munching
anxious to get started crunching
mad with taste for these sacred fibers
mud divers years since mutated to screwdriver-nosed fairy wing-tips
with serrated rips in their flanks like gills
gutted rith a rotten tank of goop that kills like poison anything it might so happen to lick
(a flick of the hand is all that it takes to off the prick
if she doesn’t first happen to stick
twenty-three ribbed laser siphon syringes
injecting the thick, blue poison known to the natives as fairyscrew juice
as it comes
without a doubt
only from the dastard snout
of the black-winged, purple-bottomed, green-eyed character scientifically regarded
protobromine axial synthespectriarc rotogenus fairyscrew)
way before Kennedy was assasinated
way before Teflon(r) was discovered
and way before three Berkley mathematicians patented a random number generator based on the chaotic behavior of lava lamps
about two-hundred and fifty years before, in the year seventeen-hundred and forty-two
an elephant vomited
and while that, in itself, is not surprising, as at that time elephants roamed Long Island freely
and in large herds on the Discovery Channel(r), natural pack hunters with coordinated attack strategy and advanced communication systems to rival those of small, handheld electronic devices of the twenty-first century
what happens next
a tiny African boy
wearing no clothing
runs in from the left edge of the screen
someone changes the channel
Rosie O’Donell instantly fucks a live albino crocodile in the Cincinnati zoo
Chris O’Donell fucks Batman up the ass
Chris Rock fucks Elton John’s piano
Mary from The Secret Garden loses her virginity
Jim Carey inserts tubes into the genitals of everyone’s second-favorite fictional serial killer
and a thirty-year-old model with crows feet inserts a half-empty bottle of Millertime(r) into her bleeding vagina
someone changes the channel back
a tiny African homeboy with a tiny penis and safety pins in his eyelids runs in from the left side of the screen and performs an age-old ritual passed down to him from his neck-ringed ancestors
the sky darkens
the tiny homeboy makes a gang sign
the post-vomit elephant rotates itself one-hundred-eighty degrees
the post-vomit elephant poops largely into the vomit
as is popular in Europe
the poopvomit begins to bubble
the tiny homeboy sits back on a rock and introduces a fatty fat blunt from the crevice of his ass
he twirls it around his fingers
and sparks it
with the juice of a column of lightning
which then jumps to the cauldron of poopvomit
and ignites it
to massive hydroelectric
inferno smoking Hiroshima
burning images into time
into the myth of quarks
of the conflagration
as the elusive subjects
of scientific inquiry
the homeboy re-inserts a blood-spattered marijuana cigarette into the Millertime Vagina(r) and walks slowly back across the Serenghetti plain
Maury Povich secretly obtains a Jacob’s ladder piercing
Madonna secretly gives Stephen Hawking a blow job
AOL(r) publicly buys Time/Warner¨
Spike Lee directs his first Nike commercial
Madonna publishes the Stephen Hawking photographs on the Internet
a government clerk named SallyJoJohnson processes the official trademark registration of the Millertime Vagina(r)
Millertime(r) launches a suit against AOL/Time Warner(r) for improper use of the Millertime Vagina(r) trademark
the tiny African homeboy finally reaches home after a long walk across the Serenghetti
Kennedy is assisinated, etc.
UDCS for Dummies:
Learn the Unified Demigoddess Classification Scheme in 12 Easy Lessons
Lesson 1: The Spectral Virgin
namely, Julia, the spectral virgin, climbing branches on a spectral cherry tree
namely, a large hunk of Bob
namely, Bob’s gaping mouth
namely, Bob’s cruddy fingernails
namely, Bob’s nose hair, unruly beyond a month
namely, Bob’s sweat
namely, Bob’s urine, which smelled of swamprot and indicated a less-than-utopian dietary fingerprint
namely, Julia’s panties, visible from below for Bob’s gawk
namely, Julia’s legs (Julia is a goddess, and goddesses have nice legs (actually, Julia is a flipside/crosshatch/demigoddess/class seventeen, and such demigoddesses invariably have nice legs (class means age in the Unified Demigoddess Classification Scheme (UDCS) so Julia is seventeen years old at this moment)))
Julia is climbing up the tree
Bob is sitting below gawking
and the girl slips
due to a large stripe of crumbling bark and falls below
through the distance of a mile
during which time the boy opens his mouth
then opens it wider
then opens it wider and wider and wider and wider
until the class seventeen demigoddess
accelerated by gravity’s clutch
into the gooey
of the lusty mortal
Lesson 2: Being Completely Unable
namely, Julia being completely unable to breathe
Lesson 3: Actually Being
namely, Julia’s panties actually being in a bunch
Lesson 4: “Live from Times Square, this is Carson Daly, host of MTV’s Total Request Live. Today our guest will be Julia Stiles.”
namely, Julia’s father being in the audience
exercising the problem with the sex scene in her new movie
it’s not gratuitous
it’s a real scene
but Carson is far from convinced
why did it have to be with a black boy?
why am I on MTV?
why do I get this channel?
and after this movie she’s going back to college
she’s going to Columbia
let’s go Carson
let’s go to commercial
Lesson 5: Et tu?
alabaster zipperfucker suspended in a viscous mixture of saline \#4 and industrial lubricant \#719, calling me on the lobby phone at work, laying rollercoaster tracks underwater, intimating me in your latest scandal, trading me on the after-hours market, shorting me, hedging me with this week’s doughnut, glassy eyes looking to the future, to Columbia and beyond, beyond the rise and the fall, the building and the burning, beyond the guilding and the turning inward to find Hobbes’ atomic landLocke theory, welcome to the post-post-modern clique, where all that matters is that you’re dead and I’m not–pow! motherfucker, this is what we teach at Columbia, the post-post-mortem and the pre-pre-embryonic translucence known to the common man as elegementary motherfuzzuckin skillz, you know what I’m sayin’? the bed mouse, the head louse, the beach house, yes? this eon’s X-Games hosted by the undertow of the second wave of thermodynamics
alabaster zipperfucker imitating me, twice baked half full serendipity nexus, the enless defiance olympic caught forever in the desert, cave retreating nascent springs, Oko Yamayuta, the brilliant winner takes all, begs the question, yes we really do care what kind of peanut butter makes up the p in her pbj
alabaster zipperfucker wearing Tommy Jeans, Alabaster Zipperfucker Jeans worn by Tommy Girl, Tommy Girl with the zipper between her alabaster teeth
alabaster zipperfucker jumping a freight train, sliding to New Mexico for a spell’s poison apple mysticism, re-appropriating resources from slush fund A to slush fungus B, re-appropriating apple sauce containing dangerously high levels of BHT, eating BHT straight out of the can, eating BHT by itself, putting BHT on a plate in the microwave because you like your BHT hot, get the powdered kind, added to nothing just to keep everything fresh, okay? added to me to keep me fresh, added to every pair of Alabaster Zipperfucker jeans in the factory to keep your ass fresh, added to your ass in the womb during the second trimester
alabaster zipperfucker walnut relegation, alabaster Latino, alabaster trickstyle 180*, alabaster trumpets, alabaster Megadeth, alabaster wail, alabaster silver lining my jail, alabaster walnut ditto-fucker delegation, alabaster multi-processor, alabaster insurance policy, alabaster nutsack, alabaster photo emulsion, alabaster wetback, alabaster X-Files, alabaster nutcase, alabaster muffinfucker, alabaster hooptie (8-cylinder), alabaster druglord, alabaster Rodney King, alabaster top-to-bottom home remodeling, alabaster re-instatement of policy, alabaster nipple clamps, alabaster superstar, alabaster mosquito, alabaster contagion, alabaster talk show, alabaster freak show, alabaster gladiators, alabaster betrayal, alabaster
Et tu, Cleopatra?
Lesson 6: A is for Alphabet
Alphabet singing of the
Cunt tickle, loosing hungry dogs for a
Drastic sniff and hunt wiggle
Elevator carnage gettin’
Freaky in a hip jig, a strip wig, an oil rig, a boil, rip, and snipe swig, a
Generous helping of
Her suck that and stuck pig
Junkies’ Wonderland of
Orange-yellow, panoramic rotoscoping butterfly cavities of
Plush interior pleasure-filled plurality,
Quickening the pace of my cardiac normalities
Running me away from this self-imposed depravity
Waitress’ causes schisms, coaxes jism, not to mention frees me from the hoax of prison in the prism of my mind, lets the analysts unwind, touches bleeding me and blinding me with deja premonition, always knew she’d someday back with action months of
Yearbook photographs in which I whip, bite, and nip her, the trophy is this snap of her teeth around my
Lesson 7: Et tu? Revisited
namely, alabaster suicide
Lesson 8: “Sometimes nothing can be a pretty cool hand.”
Julia Stiles cutting the heads off parking meters
Lesson 9: Fields of Rye
Julia dwarfed by endless fields of Rye, a storm brewing, static in the air
Lesson 10: An Entire Chapter of Someone Else’s Book
Julia as a turtle, crossing the road for an entire chapter of someone else’s book
Lesson 11: Vardaman
Julia as my mother. Julia as a fish.
Lesson 12: Ape Shit
Julia Stiles hearing about all this and Julia going ape shit
the transient fish
invariably hawing and hemming the line
bathing soapless with subterranean swine
bristling with anemone, shark, and brine
running in the ice
the transient fish
zoom fast pause slow
through winter’s brittle forest
you see her far below
powder packed under each foot
walking in the snow
frozen glass tubules
ring a diamond flute
up down strange charmed
perfect still invisible
river-walking skydiver bloodhound
tuning that instrument
of electromagnetic sound
the deadly flow
that is the undiluted singular byproduct
of the organ gargle
the audio swish
known to friends of the deep
as the transient fish
beyond your reach
lies the mystical
stroked by a solar wind
warmed with nuclear light
eyes so bright
dancing on the keys
wrapped in a funnel of stars
glitter fairies abound
of underwater crabs
my knees on this slab of earth
face turned to the transience, which
sings of satisfaction
sings of ends
to timeless journeys
the grains, this feather
the cracks of sky
lulled softly by the singing trance
wrapt to the siren stroll
smiling at the bubbling organ, laughing
at the bottom of this brimming sea
what smoother song could they possibly wish
than the hisses and the kisses
of the transient fish?
Keep looking at it. (2002)
Continue staying there. Be unrelenting in applying pressure to the pain. When the right song comes around, put the player on repeat. Press through stages. Zoom in. Zoom out. Move over slightly. Zoom in again. When moment presents itself, allow self to integrate with moment. When something of interest comes across, allow it to become something of sphere, allow something of sphere to become something of self, something of self to become something of gravity, something of gravity to become something of depth. Surprise become delight, delight become ecstasy. Spark become tingle, tingle become wave. Wave become oceans. Oceans cover globe. Allow slightest discomfort to give way to decided trouble, decided trouble give way to distinct pain, distinct pain give way to unbearable torture. Only then I know I hurt, only then I can bleed through it, breathe through it, wash myself of it, purge, drown, sweat, expel. Only after the black hole collapse, crush of weight, can I truly be of air, weightless, no border between other and self, water in water, space in space, breath in breath, motion in motion, chaos in chaos, body in body, light in light..
The Second Monkey teaches that pain cannot be salved by circumvention. Numbing pain never makes it go away. Only after going though it, on the other side, is there beauty, peace, fullness. Only after the terror of chaos comes tranquility, stillness. So it is that depth lies on the other side of pressing; that ecstasy is the millionth rushing ocean wave, the first of which is only a tickle..
If I die before you do, (2002)
do not for an instant of your consciousness think that I did not live. Do not for one billionth of a second think that my death was a shame. Do not, if I die young, think it a tragedy I did not live to old age. Because in this moment, as I write this, I am alive as few can ever say they are alive. Alive in such terms of self-awareness, body, thought, logic, integral spirit, that I am beyond care of your impressions, beyond care of the seeking of accomplishment, beyond care of the search for validation, beyond care of punishment, beyond care of pretense, beyond care of order’s illusion, beyond limitation of humility, beyond the false-step of pride, beyond the torture of self-censure, beyond the prison of morality, beyond the hell of acceptance, beyond the stagnancy of self-regulation, beyond the cell of language, beyond the cast of fear. I am. I am. And I pray that the chaos of time conspires to burden you with fission and ecstasy beyond even this mere animal state. I pray to the chaos I constantly distrust to bring you shades of insanity breathing you the gullet of a dog’s fuselage, breathing you the claws of the dolphin, breeding in you discomfort that leads to unbearable agony that leads to inevitable peace, heavy peace, heavy like the ocean, heavy like the waves, heavy like the sand, heavy like air, heavy like moss, heavy like static, and lightning, and breeze in summer/spring. I pray the cosmos curse you with insatiability and care-not-ful-ness and deep, writhing, living invincibility. With a Circle. With the rapture of the mathematical symbol known as pi. With complete disregard and complete staple respect. With forlorn wistfulness. With lost. Lost. Walking. Moving. Transience. With home-ful-ness, with the diabolical opposite of homelessness, as Shringara and I came to know we possessed, homelesslessness. The inability to be outside of that over which you are master and lover, slave and guide. The inability to be Truly lost, the inability to be completely comfortable. Forced into the world of stepping it up a notch. Constantly. Constantly being beyond fullness and constantly being hungry for the Next. Insatiable. Conscious. With Conscience. As Martin Luther said, here I stand, I can do no other. The very definition of the nature of the Truth of Truth. Prostrate to the compilation of all the latest information you have incurred. Slave to the constant desire for freedom. I speak now not From, but Through, and bow away from all association, aware of and consciously, fully integrated with my possession. Claiming none, whispering all, vanishing and appearing again as the space between space, gone and here, apprised of all the repercussions, briefed on inconsistency, caring none, caring all, caring deeply for the you of You, one I have known and yet, have yet to know, one I have much to teach, one from whom I have infinitely more to learn..
I am possessed, possessed completely, by none other than myself; therefore, call me Halcyon.
Pussy in tight shorts, soccer shorts (2002)
(Message from the “pussy” word bowl)
slicing it with thirsty fangs which joined somewhere in the middle of her tissues
invite me to lunch alone
I can turn the Zen on with a light switch
what is that?
some dude on acid running down the street screaming naked with a board
the drink in her hand
passing out on the front porch
And find my lips forming your words
Fear is whatever I am not prepared for.
Julian and I continuing to drink
Digging inward to find the source of his agony (2002)
(Message from the “pussy” word bowl)
hoards of untamed beasts hustled from out the exaggerated fissure between her legs
the mattress, now stained sickly reddish-brown
as his hand smoothly stripped her of her panties
and though she tried to bring her hands to his head he pushed them away
for the first time that night
it lay waiting, mute, tranquil for seconds at a time, only to suddenly resume the inexorable tortures
Haiku by Joanne and me (2002)
it’s so romantic
I’m retching, revolting, oh
they’re one in the same
every winter I lock myself in the house
I eat ice cream and cheddar cheeze
lock myself in the internet
jack green pepper navigation over digital gass
schythe characters internal the japanese hookah
I make calls to the white house politic
run the dish on the garage due east
five times a day
carpet magick caramel color phosphorus prank calls
in the monument
english folds like cashmere parliament robes
scarlet district of the roman senate
blodd pinprick shame the ivy walk
that rocked me to sleep
laced me sweat the floor depressed on a nickel bag
black eye softloop hairtwiggle sheared to the maximum skunk
migwyn jing holla skomp clobber my pipe
roll me over
down throw me
butterfly in my throat
lodge stop stop lodge
tear my limb from limber doll
swallow me greed
swallow me soft
reinvent the dawn
sacrifice strategy the queen
reintention passion edit the jeans pause
edit the screams off
medic the call nemergency mumber
slay my slumber
ride slow dopely moper in the backroom
slide the pool cue table and chalk blankboard somnia
granite songs by rote
clockwork promotion of the spypawn
a Hornet stung the virgin under my left foot
toilet stall, metal, pastel blue, Yellow urine, rust
it’s like a Needle going in
like a very Tiny needle
laughing with the Missionary girl
all the Kids from church while supper
and parents and Everything was going on
she said, what would you like to Be
i said Change
and she whispered Words to me in english
Truer than this newest you
(Lost on campus greens, under ivy leagues, and deeper in dick than moby)
Who’s playing games?
once, they told the missionary girl not to Run barefoot in the field
like I did always
we played Prison over the lagoon
the Door really locks if you wrap it in a palm leaf
you make me a Basket
and you would make me a Bracelet
(and a Skirt)
and i Try
and your Hair flows
windy Brown strands
of missionary Girl
your armpits smell like Africa
Almost as much (2007)
I love square brackets [almost] as much as I love curly ones. I love Three-Part Inventions almost as much as I love those with only Two. I love Gouda almost as much as I love Brie. I love mountains almost as much as I love oceans. I love Saturday almost as much as I love Thursday. I love the number four almost as much as I love sixteen. I love blue almost as much as I love orange. I love spring almost as much as I love the fall, numbers almost as much as letters, the verbal almost as much as the visual, the figurative almost as much as the literal, the concrete almost as much as the abstract, the sensible almost as much as the playful, and that which wanders almost as much as that which is directed.
You can’t write on blogs (2007)
not if you want to speak what you really feel and speak in specifics, self-expression is anti-social, the survival trait in groups is delicately not to offend, groups require exactly this, I used to think me and my friends were special, but no, this is all groups, all workplaces, or maybe I just miss my old friends, and that is no offense to my current friends (some of whom are old friends), it takes time to get to know people usually, except for those rare sparkling soulmates you meet on the first word (actually before, in the first look), that’s those though, some are built well with time, built better?, not sure, think it varies on a case by case basis, and actually me and my friends are special, when I compare what I thought at the time with what happened later they never match, now I remember that when I think at the time, the present seems all-consuming right now, and the relevance pass, I mean relevance passes, but the syllabic nature of the present tense works so much better in that statement don’t you think?, sometimes I feel like I can’t understand what someone is saying, I feel like I’m slow and stupid, and sometimes later it seems instead that we were talking different languages, or maybe I convince you that what I’m saying makes sense right at the moment that I am convinced that what you are saying makes sense when the two are at odds, as of late I think of the meta-skill of knowing what to do that goes with knowing how to do, favorite example being the old man and the sea, why is that his most revered book?, it’s no mistake it came nearer the end of his career than the start, that book wasn’t hard for him to write I suspect, the writing was easy, the unusual thing he did there wasn’t writing a book, it was knowing what book to write, that’s the difference between young hemingway and old hemingway, old hemingway knew much much better not how to write, but what to write, what was appropriate to write, what was timely and what would be resonant and impactful to write, a million people know how to tend the gardens of software but none of us know what to plant hardly that would make any difference, the skillful application of a tattoo is relatively common compared to the insightful wise judicious selection of a tattoo I’ll never forget, like a comma, like lincoln, those are good tattoos, but mostly everyone gets tribal knots and kanji symbols, what else can I say without offending anyone?, of course everyone including me is afraid that everyone else will take offense to what we say and who we are but of course actually everyone wants to really hear all those things and see us be all those things that are really us, but it’s still hard, there’s still that temptation to fear, I never really understood karma until this year, in my early twenties people used to say I had karma in the bank, at present that account is overdrawn and I think it had to happen before I could appreciate what karma is, I used to think it was this crappy new age thing but now I know it’s more like you make your bed and you lie in it, it doesn’t really have anything to do with anyone else, I have this new policy I love, I love my policies, my new policy is if you’re a shithead I don’t have to be nice to you, well actually that’s the crude version the real version is if you’re aligned against me I won’t help you in any way ever, for instance my policy used to be that I needed to be true in a moment, which meant being true to others too, I had to change that, when you’re sharing a moment with someone who wants to hurt you, it doesn’t make sense to help them, even if to avoid helping them you have to withhold information (which I classify as a lie), you start with a clean slate naturally but once you become a shithead the normal laws do not apply, once you become a shithead I don’t need to speak to you, respond to you, help you look good to people I know who you are trying to impress, once you become a shithead I can without qualm withhold information from you that would prevent you from being hurt, yep, once you’re a shithead I no longer have any duty to help you, once you’re working against me, once you’re trying to hurt me, I put you in the last page of my book and I refer to the policy whenever coming in contact with you, once you become a shithead you can basically suck it, and you can become not-a-shithead, it’s actually quite easy, I don’t keep grudges, all you have to do is stop doing things to hurt me, simple, so simple, and yet so hard for some of you, and if you’re reading this and you’re a shithead, then stop being a shithead, although most of the people I know who read this aren’t shitheads, but we’re all shitheads a little bit, and I reject any content that objects to style, form follows function and all that, of course it doesn’t, of course it doesn’t, I saw this ad in a magazine, it said subaru is a proud sponsor of women who kick butt, they were trying to get women to buy suvs, I cut it out and taped it to my door and when I look at it I say to myself, of course they aren’t, of course they aren’t, even if subaru gave an suv to every woman on the planet there’s just no way that statement could ever be true, subaru is a proud sponsor of women who kick butt?, of course they aren’t, of course they aren’t, of course form does not follow function, function is impossible without form, form is impossible without function, a form cannot be without effect, nothing can be effected outside of form, so take your movie reviews that say elizabeth the golden age is bogged down under the weight of its visual grandeur, it’s a movie not an almanac, movies are pictures and sounds and if you don’t go gaga over pictures and sounds when you make a movie and when you watch a movie then I suggest you stop making movies and stop watching them, that’s you in the plural, as in, all of humanity, what makes a movie a movie and not a book, what makes prose prose instead of poetry, is the nature of the snapshot, the nature of the snapshot, there I made it a title see, the nature of the snapshot is it’s a unique moment in time that will never exist again, of which there will never be a copy, that look on a face, the way the sky was for one hour on one night of the entire universe, that’s what poetry is, what’s poetic in a thing is what can’t be translated into another form, what’s poetic and meaningful and special about the gettysburg address is everything I have never felt because I was never there, what’s poetic about it is everything that would be lost if someone else spoke it, what’s poetic about it is everything that would not survive translation into any other language, as such if you’re going to make anything in a form, which if you make anything you’re going to be doing whether you like it or not, you better do things that you can only do in that form, that are loved and supported by that form better than they are supported or loved or made possible by any other form, otherwise you do not understand the form you are using, and you do not know anything about form, and anyone who considers form to be a frill is the very picture of an idiot when it comes to function, it goes the other way too, you know who you are, scientists who consider business an assailant to the purity of your methods, businesspeople smug in your inability to feel art, artists too visionary to consider what is right in front of your face, your hunger your need for sex your want of comfort, you are a fool to deny the pain in your wrist as any less important than all those wonderful abstractions, I am speaking to myself of course
watching. eating. reading. drinking. (2007)
watching iconoclasts. eating smoked mussels. reading junot diaz. drinking volvic. listening to fat of the land. anticipating new years day. missing home. touching you.
Everything that cannot be looked up (2007)
aware of all the textual interwovenness, capable of sorting all the broadcast monochrome faces, to you, when I enter your office we all agree I am seeking your advice, plush strawberry greenscreen, and now you think I’m off the edge, but really I introduced that syntax to filter you out, rainbowcolor silk pushing directionally this or that, watching to see which direction is your eye twitch, au contraire, this whole thing constructed to monitor your awareness, I know you’re thinking about why I did what I did, that’s why I did it, I am like a tiger in a zoo, ‘cept I opened the zoo just so you would drop %10 to come and see me, that way I can observe you better, innocence, not, brownyellow, teeth, afraid of nonsense, you, syntactic sugaerpye, 320×200, mmm, hmmm, mmmhmmm, remember moments then mapping sets onto smaller sets amateurs consolidating all of mathematics onto set mapping problems in small city coffeehouses I know what you’re trying to do but beware the trap of summary speech summary thought confetti is easy to vacuum did you write this high did you write this drunk I drink volvic motherfucker in your sobrest hour you wouldn’t imagine the plainness of my height, your farthest gone wouldn’t hold a teacup to my shakeless sobriety, when you think I’m off the end I am playing with you in boredom so be offended, in love, don’t mistake smugness for success, don’t mistake invention for interest, don’t mistake procedure for deity, don’t mistake construction for transcendence, don’t mistake confidence for quality, don’t mistake laughter for audience, don’t mistake interpretation for wanting, don’t mistake code for handshake, don’t mistake wygglemuffyn h. brownstar for a naturally-blonde o.u. co-ed, mistake not abbreviation for brevity, mistake not inaccuracy for censorship and know that she worked in the frost in burrito buggies scarfpale 3.4 stretchygygglestyck bk doub whp chs hvy chs every byte researched, what is it that you cannot look up on google? that’s what you should be thinking about tonight, everything that cannot be looked up on google, like, what do they call it when you order extra cheese on a whopper at burger king? if you’ve ever worked at burger king you certainly know: “heavy cheese” :a googlesearch for “heavy cheese burger king” only returns 140 results but how many people know and think about this arcane fact (more than 140×1000), you need to develop a repertoire of things to search for that nobody knows, whenever everyone searches for something bodies materialize to satisfy them, what does everyone know that no one asks about? what is no one asking about? what are the terms in which no one is asking or saying a goddamn thing? “mad props” to foucault for asking this last question, pretty much the only interesting one to be posed for a long time
To Astrea, Shringara, Tatiara (2008)
Red, orange, green, blue, brown, violet. Sometimes I think of salt water and symphonies, see connections in National Geographic pictures to rivers that have bathed my naked body. Mineral snakes : blood .. chocolate : Contessa. Rose water and voting systems. Stealing cemetery flowers with dead friends for our amusement. And Beethoven would probably kill me for saying this. But I love you.
rolled up Lincolns (2010)
I go through pockets and find New Orleans crowded bills rolled up Lincolns / five year old makes up title bests Fitzgerald with “Queen of the Ocean” / and I slept in the ants in the French quarter last fall / knowing nothing of any of this / ex-girlfriends stop by perchance while I’m trying on every sunglass pair in the shop / with meaningless ‘I saw you’s and ‘how are you’s and dead silence when you come to terms with that you have no reason to speak to me / railroad tracks / Santa Barbara / invoke association-ing-s / that park at the end of the ocean / we sunburn / asphalt picnic / and she comes along and she comes along and / cooler packed with sandwiches uneaten / describing West Hollywood etymology / emergency swimsuits / impulse beach supply / northeast to Sunset / billboards cooler lie / the strip / and Lamborghini’s / crestfall / misspell / crooked / my mistake trail / age of Jazz / and here and here and here we are / I meet my pants and one year later refrain from purchase / nothing since has changed / two years since nothing has changed / politic / your imaginary landscape / scores have changed / but the raggedy edge around my ankles speaks to the none / I’ll stick with these for a while longer
one of our songs (2010)
(Written with the help of translation functions)
in the moonlight
and purple stars
you and I does not exist
I know what happens
to one of our songs
are there by your side
have lost the path
How do you move
over the valley
where it sails away
into the sea
I will hold together
in the heat of the dance
is off the world
and we left it with you
to move to tears
we have the eyes
of my joy
enhancing my senses
and kissed on the hill
under a tree
Rhythm is our eyes
to be found
in the absence of light
I guess there is silence
in the space
of a smile
and nose to nose
and the clouds move out of the sea
cursed nothing like a wave (2010)
I am the real name
lives in his mind like the wind
but may expand
Steps through the sand boil
cursed nothing like a wave
Crossed-fingers lovers (2010)
I see the bed
Cover and shred them.
of your dreams
You confuse me
to include me
My eyes are exposed
in the suffocation
of a high-pitched scream
it’s snake bite
caresses and pain.
We are forever / We are separated (2010)
The gods manufacture and shame
converting those to come
will be thrown
through the gap
Weird shadows naked
director of the paradox
the eternal frustration inspired of magicians.
We are forever
deduction, interpretation and understanding of the conventional
We are separated
Escape, the collapse of weaving
destiny and freedom
gapping the bridge between gravity
and conquer the possibilities.
We quietly, certainly / betray (2010)
We quietly, certainly
the most basic silly touch
the first clown.
We have the spirit of science and the science of spirit.
We leave it unawares
and chew the kernel.
We have to leave you
in between in this half-dead
And you lose, it’s everything.
There is a great expression / which chaffs the skin tight (2010)
We are flesh
We are a physical form
of the forbidden paradise
There is a great expression
which chaffs the skin tight
Light breaks apart the walls of time and space
Specific power for rich fabrics
the golden thread in my water
swims to the clouds.
At the bottom of the sea is filled with laughing (2010)
through the cracks of fatty acids and referral
back to sitting on a rock
full-skirt saline with a soap-filled
the fate of fine food samples
to run a temporary fish in ice
Under the charm of top
is the perfect flute
frozen, not yet listed
ice river walk
and the warm sun caressed by the wind light
as bright as the eyes of a key
rotation of stars
surrounded by a funnel
mends cracks in the sky
At the bottom of the sea is filled with laughing# immersed in a girl with a broken tree (2010)
She was barefoot, cotton
Is not my dream
that I could wish a temporary kiss?
She smells her bathrobe
who gets her papers in bed
I reach for smooth legs
melt her clothes on the floor
I know she blushed when she heard.
And sometimes touching
so carefully to her
like a secret whisper trembling
afraid to leave the house
I find my lips
to form your words
Through the delicate fabric
when she kissed me
she was shaking
I could not put a smile on my silence
I can promise
you will not remember my name
her shirt untucked when we came
she wriggled it before
tucking them unzipped
because she does not hesitate for a
change her clothes in front of my eyes
I like how the fear is always satin
eye catching after the show during a break
in the hallway of her eyes
Sitting on a mat with her
After you have been a friend
of what happened before
and heard it from downstairs
She has it in her bed
in my submission
to the inherent potential
to remove protective distance
Would you afraid?
I’m curing, melting
immersed in a girl with a broken tree
she invited me
An empty bride’s / soft and quiet devastation
An empty bride’s
soft and quiet devastation
bored one thousand
in the back row
of some other
of her eyebrows
in his own
her legs were run over a mixed network of sea and turning
the unknown liquid poison
running his finger down
a silver moon
below the floor
a drunken diving
cry and close
wine glass rings
and feel dimming
take a bow
like a baby
out of breath.
fractions / if we overcame a sideshow (2010)
if we overcame a sideshow
blinking on repeat
five slipping echoes
sounding the eyelash tunnel
posted on the door
for the timbre of a ghost
I had a comment microphone
sweetly full of
noisy pink decay
sensation of color loudness
in periodic terms
dark as an impassable cat
she never sang a song again (2010)
At the same room number
checked the hospital to leave
I have decided this news
will take my pain
who gave up fabric tearing
never for a coin.
A low-cast sling
capped at tragedy
reeling in years
the whole room dancing
she never sang a song again.
Midnight rail you left (2010)
take me with you
the next time
The next time you need a break
when you need the space of stars
Let me come
in silence spoken
(leave my words behind)
Put me on your back
there’s a place in this bag