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

hanson family fist fight

you were the knuckles of gold mexico
direct descendant of Ole and horses
building a pyramid inside of your chest
trading our heritage for confederacy
leaving our amber blood on the stones
sinking into the volcanic soil of Izapa
our aztec progenitors all sucked into
memory.

then there was me with ghoul guts
weak and tender pissing my pants
as you threw me through the drywall
growing more gnarled each year,
one of Sherwood’s grotesques
just as american as you’d wanted,
a slab of black lamb licking the
charcoal in your kenmore ufo
barbecue.

and our lineage leaks around
in rachel’s distant catholicism
in the gutter slang of our decaying
spanish, pushed into northern fog.

did you really expect i’d survive your fists
landing in a stetson, Ford tough? now
Coatlicue doesn’t remember us and
we’re a long way from Chiapas these days
you know if we’re not careful
all will be swallowed by the sea
and me your shadow son with
the chlorine brain will fade—

guess at least now i can take a hit.
yankee fried and
super-lit.

seven deadly daughters

the last time i spoke to my mother
i told her you were the one
and me i was a seed in the wind
maybe the fizz or the sin
in your champagne hair. 

now it’s clean emails
saying ‘you’re falling down’
and ‘if you’re thinking about
killing yourself…’ well I get
the idea, it’s been a dark summer,
we’ve all had our gaits clipped,
we boil faster than we simmer. 

and believe me when i’m
beer-brittle and sun burnt
slack jawed and self-hurt
shredding coin on codones
and staring at the other side
i know i should crawl away. 

but the constant pricking
is at it again you know i
lose my lungs when the
grip is near i swear to god
the unraveling is tangible
i could show you my wiring,
yes

something’s going to happen to me
if i keep happening to myself.

you can cease all your cells
that cared for me and the pain
will always pack a punch but
i’ll try to shake it out,
try to stick around.

boys are dying in these streets
but we’ve still got a bit of land
you know i met roberto bolaño’s wife
on the sidewalk the other day
and this crater is proof of our impact
unlike any other and someone’s sobbing head
is on someone else’s chest and me i still want
to have seven deadly daughters
who wake up hungry for their life,
prove me wrong, show me sun,
convince me not to buy a gun.

high and terrorized

all i see 
are white flags
waving 

telling those 
who cross the bridge 
a story

we’ve given up 
and you can too

i refuse to listen 

and you wonder 

why 

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.

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