A collection of cold art, inspiration found on bottoms of shoes, and bottled freckles scraped from bare shoulders.

sea org

pass me the purp
ensconce me in fine humors,
elevated, thetanless,
jim beamy and brave

for a bit.

or patio permanence,
breezed as fuck and chugging it,
the newest scenery
pouring down my throat,
adam’s apple all sing-a-long ball.

but some, resin days.
a stone gut heavier than
Virginia’s pockets,
gurgling in my sleep. 

but there’s a military for everything,
if you enlist, yank your fist out of your chest.
even the most diminished forces,
a rifle squad of Coors, pop songs,
can rid your rocks.
 
for a bit.

replacements

dreamt a real forestry queen
some shine of flora fauna 
primadonna. 

mikal in a hampton inn
i’ve got drunk shins and
tongues to split.

pockets of amber,
geothermal energy reserves,
we should be handled with care.

can’t have another tuesday like last,
new yorks stillest lions hacking
my face psychedelic and slack.

the tourists watch me weep
and me i’m them too with roots
and a hip pocket overflowing
my stumps.

i like my banks to look
like they could kill and
on different planets the
air would crush like coal
flatten my welping souls
just for taking a fucking
breath—

if i can’t grow
they’ll add the blows
like debt.

useless, again

as the suburbs die 
fragile weeds 
bury and cover 
dried up taupe lawns  

broken wood shingles 
turn up on empty sidewalks

the world is nothing 
if not all negative 
abuse and greed 
hate and pride 
lust and bloody septums

and i’m pretty sure 
there is finally 
no place for me 
anymore

C:\LIFE>nofailure\dir

>BEGIN SEQUENCE 

communication 
breaks 
down 

trial 
error 
error
error

DOES NOT COMPUTE 

silent 
heartbeat 
stoppage 

reboot 
try again 

\option 
unknown 

effort
all

overindulging
overclocking
overheating

fan blades 
forever slicing 
dead air 

click
click  

WELCOME 

you’ve 
got
everything

correct  
available

take it 

don’t
look
back 

>BEGIN NEXT SEQUENCE

Commitment (eating pills in the Loge of the Empress)

I want to be a pebble in a spring,
I think, on 42nd Street
 
with cuss in my mouth, no new ideas,
gravel-grumbles and piss cocktails,
no light to share, no light to secret.
 
My new psychiatrist has Parkinson’s
so he shuffles around the office
with his eyes closed, he goes:
 
Do you know the poet and songwriter,
Leonard Cohen?
 
I’ve been brimming grim thoughts,
simple death, stones placed prematurely.
He rattles and he sings
a few lines of Who By Fire
while I punch back an army of tears.
I could weep with force in LA,
here, it’s something else.
 
Los Angeles is organ-sleeves open city
showing you its neck without apology
flirting with the fletching
glistening wide and shirtless
lit bare chest like a
baked potato.
 
Here in Manhattan
it’s all zipped up in brick
maybe it’s winter licks
maybe it’s fast tongues
over thirsty lips—
 
Maybe you could do
with being quiet for a while.
 
Talk about commitment.
 
So I make it to the bank
deposit the checks
fill the prescription
at the pharmacy, just fine.
 
Maybe this will help.
Maybe this will shake
metal shavings out of me
and unpock my skin,
send me straight to Hagia Sophia
to mourn oil-blooded cuts
from California and
practice new grips in
perfect silence.
 
I want to be a pebble in a spring
dappled in some delicate light
I have found in me.

Megafucked and Bruise-Buzzed at Brunch

Drunk-jaw with bubbles in your forehead and outfitted in newspaper clippings you are perpetual collapse a fucking folded cocktail umbrella in truck-stop Barstow you’ll never make it in New York you flimsy desert mandible—

Shut.

Can’t hawk like Mortara and can’t love hard-rock enough pining for dashed selfishness thing is I got identity cutting my pace and my granite face is all of me the only fight standing tall in my way saying—

Give.

Two shits shoulder the pulpit there are shrines scattered in Echo Park driveways and curb-streams bleating for revival and you could birth beauty if you protractor-pulled your legs to marionette something worth saving instead of saying—

Unstick.

And crown the quiet watching Dahmer documentaries feeling drunk lonely wrapped in warm dinners fucking Brooklyn is compost and you done paid for every drink like it was installment planned with grief the flares are gone—

Molt. 

Highways to your chest and when I’m zero sucked and swollen when I say I want a pardner who can drink I say it selfishly so I can slug bolts of Seagrams at seven a.m. unjudged unsmudged by glassy looks at brunch.

greasy spoon mornings

slice me like bacon 
form the rashers into a bowl

remove my heart with a grapefruit knife
let the juices run down on yr gentle skin 

with my lumpy organ centered in the bowl 
devour me wholly COMPLETELY

place the bowl on yr pomegrante lips 
drink the last of me down down deep 

pay the check tip the waitress 
smile turn the key and drive

i am nothing but another order 
at a diner in a town where you ate 

living the cat life

on any given sun-drenched day 
like today 
you can find cats
wandering alleyways and avenues 
looking for an excuse

more pussy 
more food 
more drinks 
more excitement
to get their blood pumping
HARD

somedays 
some cold days 
when the curtains are drawn
TIGHT 
maybe a space heater
violently humming in the near horizon 
you will find them 
curled on a Navajo blanket 
on a patent-leather couch
next to yr dirty panties 
sleeping
like there’s no tomorrow

THEY KNOW THERE ISN’T

only dirty panties 
tossed bedside 
only faux-feng shui
apartment arrangements 
only quiet sickness
only slumber 

when every day is a day off
every day is completely fulfilled 

BABEL-BLUSH SNIPER ARMED WITH GUNFINGER HELD HOSTAGE BY SHIFT_JIS MATEBA MODEL UNICA 6 AUTOREVOLVER

She
triggers wicks
   of five-antlered stars, petals eithered
   like a babeł threaŧ< -d|borne
      to knot. III fingers, crescent to hold’s

plate:
Trigger fist;
   Thumbhead and the rosy antenna
   to a left set to dis-
        array the leaves ov a suitor worm.

A
curse stray like
   a bird train into a whole whorled dark.
   A mot’s image backwards
        on the crack of a cold, winter lea.

Sea
the flower
     of you, a let suitor in lackey,
     leathery bodyice.
        Hot austere in fern, a kingdom fool.

His
can she love
     like a coin of air, a struck crow, ow;
     a season white/black in
        uneven border, irregular

part-
-icular.
     On can order a moony carpet,
     longing for desert snow.
         Heart is a barb weather she likes as

or
knot. Sudden
     insurgent frostflake, a prickling touch
     from touchy pages sent
         -iment of penbearer landspits hook?

image

Lattice Stockings For [ABO] Cruor Let Babygirl, [OBE]

  Kite writings: her delicate
legs; nightingale shadows: blood
  nettle; snowy sign
  roads: walks of scared gods
as water calligraphies on
  the wound of a lifebuoy.
  Do I live to swim dis-

  -tant? Do I live to d[ark] up-
-on the path? Swiftswift
   flooding blades raise
   these threads. A pistil
of waves against the helmsman’s bod:
   ”Stay, man,” aheads of her
   mirror, a woman’s lid

   scissored. Eyes, salt-shaken for
-ests. Do I live in that is
   you is? A country
   of space, threads, fruit, grave,
language? A river plate for slaught-
   -ered ships. A colder silk
    laces song’s desires.

   An ()2ear()2 arrive with night (h)1ea(t)1.
A tearing head brea[king] morn.
   A little cloud ex-
   -ports dusk sage, flash pores.
A face like well-divined tea leaves.
   Never anyone but
   [O], nupt [B]lood by [A] II.

image

canadian tuxedo

doughy memory, just like i remembered.
that silence was impermanent, touched
with anticipation. you were the one
who rode in. i waited until
there was color on my
wrists and neck. dust crept
into my bones that day. high
alert, danger, other words
sharpened by time [or spontaneous
brush fires]. you were the one
who rode in. the road widened
then tensed from heat. a burnt white
coated the plain. my left heel
was wounded, the boot
weathered from late night 
cigarette breaks and bars, bars, 
bars. even the cacti sat baked
and emptied by midday. you
were the one who rode in.
it started as a pie in the sky
left to rot and fed on by desert rodents
but then an arrival, a winged vision.
two wheels, power, power,
a stack of legs, one man’s
torso, that bruised T, vinyl
letters on chest, open, open,
a blue collar helmet, and shades.
the next bus was in two and
half hours. the dogs had already
barked their second verse. injured,
that’s what i would call it. you were
the one who rode in.

calm in the morning with many hours left to smooth

july fourth it is august the fourteenth
ageless emerging the cellular subway
bright december cool teeth-kissing
my cheek plucking a saudade street

and this america held wholesome
or sold in packets preaching witch
promises from copper cocktail
alleyways comes blind and calm

like wind sneaks off the river like
no limits like possibility in prairie
like shotgunning mcdoubles in
mcdonalds parking lots like august
nights in brisk palming light
meant the locus of these
united and unremitting states
flowered virgin frauleins forever
as front-faced nathan hale
with only one life to give
drank in his twenty-first year
in 1776 tightening a bass line
rope happily plucking downward
and out wilt dream leaves in
a cock crisp brooklyn waiting
for a summer snow
while the men I beat in
grade school now aren’t above
telling jokes at a funeral.

on the pulpit in our home

I DO NOT want to start with the I,
do not write poems anymore because
my there is no my and us is hard to must

to err is normal, I tell myself,
and with a creaky fervor I unwalk
the steps you’ve walked because I am
scared, old flame, I won’t love you anymore

so she that is I will explain the hypotheticals:
promises you the continental drift
and the eventual crack will be amicable,
confidence maintained,
honor preserved!

those details of how warm
you like your food, how you love spice but cannot
endure it, like you cannot love me the way
you’d wish—my mouthy little Os will stay asleep

and dream they do
and feel they can
a ghost orchid bloom one last time
this august before what could be ripens
a year from now, me, slightly older and wiser in love;

I wonder if you’ll grow, and I hope you do,
the carcass of summer 2k13 now strewn with
fragrant fruit ripped with my teeth; petals, twigs,
flesh tied by ribbons so I may grab a piece of you

only then will I continue to write poems,
when I become full with you, because I want
to stay where we turns into ours and us falls in lust

every single day

i wake up 
and a new joint 
i never knew i had 
control of 
pops 
and cracks 
fourteen times before 
i hopefully 
make it to the bathroom;

i am twenty seven.

and all i can do is
exhale firm through
restrictive nostrils 
and gapless lips, 
breaking sweat, 
as a new day pushes itself
upon cracked terracotta, 
stained porcelain, 
warped fiberglass, 
me and the cobalt sky. 

for i still occupy the potential to: 

  • make a difference in the rhythmic sway
    of
     palm fronds purchased from
    milli-freckled jamie in the garden 
    section of a walmart in laramie; 
  • change the flight patterns 
    of a gnat horde clouding over
    a once-sapphire, now-cinnamon dumpster 
    behind a taco john’s in atchison; 
  • adjust the rigorous itinerary of an LTC (ret.) 
    and his glorious ‘66 shovelhead 
    en route to bask in the sturgis sun,
    as if it’s different than bicycle lake.

the fact i envelop the possibility
to do this every single day 
makes every single breath 
a graciously simple miracle 
no one will take from me. 

like anyone, here or there, 
would be so effortlessly brazen 
to adjudicate my trial 
before i stand up, 
listen to my bones complain 
one more time, 
and flush yesterday  
out to pasture. 

a shame so modern

there were girls with neon gritted teeth
twisted into ruthless grins with toothpick legs
splintering out of their midnight dresses.

one nearby, standing shot-up like a
radiation sunflower, chewing vermouth stained glass
cackle-asks, “what’s your spirit
animal?”

oh, this. well,

i’d like to be a moon-drenched coyote
palling around with cloud banks, sailing
my salted shout across the flats of the Mohave-

but that’s a wish and truth be told
i’m an awful twist, a hyena at best,
ravenous and completely foolish.

i go to sleep in new york and
wish it wyoming
painfully knowing the difference
between wanting and doing
(with a pussyfoot fetishizing
a dusty trigger)

hammocked in some american nightmare,
thirsty with a head so thick, preparing to
suck cents from the bones of the artless
while palm fronds wilt from me, 
slouching toward a paycheck.

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