11/10/10 4:44pm

love, at a busy intersection
has no traffic pattern
not like some carefully
in tune migration pattern

warning signs flash repeatedly,
a loosely roped mattress
slides on acceleration
where the next in line of succession
may sleep comfortably

unkempt and uncared for bass lines
tremble against the air,
glass and essence vibrate the echo

flashy accessories, uneducated words
grime from the street following tire lines,
deep in the tread it builds
and flows. love,

given the go between drivers
has directions that
did not include the previous
stops.

11/9/10 2:33pm

crashing sounds and babies crying,
a soprano effort in those too young to sound ethereal
just screeching and squawking birds
more like
aggrieved by infancy.

no legs to say the things we shouldn’t,
concerned stumbles, fumbles
of general malfunctions.
The floor seems a good place to crawl –
a gathering place of the less comfortable,
slouch back, no muscle strength;
sit, collect . . . meditate the day

11/8/10 6:43pm

unusual in the wood,
a larger split than
yesterday – middle of the living room
a hairball stuck in it,
cat swats
drag claws down the open wound –
wood floor older than me,
vehemently carrying the strong
grain
of my birth, locked in place
one in to the other,
side
by
side, carrying the un
bearable load;
a weight in life
bending,
bowing,
slamming on the shoulders
all the shit from hours before,
from years before my existence
leading in to moments beyond life –
beyond breath
beyond blood flow.
1981 was the year, little lung
little heart.

11/8/10 1:04pm

the sun was out
earlier this morning, a loose
cooler air
taking steps with me to the car door

time change and rearrange,
i start the engine
and everything sounds fine. the tree
planted nearest the corner
is still in place, still unscathed
though nature has shook and dried
most leaves from it. the car
begins to heat, i forget how
the brief walk made me sniffle,
slightly, this luxurious comfort
canned me in and rid the windows
of the condensation i so fondly
drew figures in to as a child;
it’s too early in the season for
there to have been ice on the glass.

turn, construction zone
breathing debris and rock dust ,
the corrosion of the air itself
around me,
i breath like a sat frog;
GULP, GULP, GULP.

11/7/10 5:01PM

the sunday morning smell
reeking fiercely
of the deepest circle in hell,
faces of eternity
bonded together
like blown glass -
swirled and colored
sin physical art.

awake, alarm clock
blood and coffee,
better than creamer -
digging graves
on the sabbath,
heel gripping to death
grip and dig
shovel to earth.

the smell of bodies
on sunday morning
(god, the stench),
life decaying in imagination.
the damned.
the fucking damned.

my foot exposed
from the grave,
footless, i stumble
staring at my own burial,
shovel and intention
in hand

i etch on stone,
"here, i mean nothing.
here, i mean everything.
this is not my stopping place."
not even the last words
of the world, my world

i've died more than once,
i'll die again.
same shovel
and pen to tell.

11/4/10 10:44PM

waves crashing hard
north side navy pier,
repeating patterns
spraying the cold
stale air -
the mist
and that bright wheel
speaking in revolutions;
LSD creeping of slow drivers
and unfamiliar destinations -
i grip the wheel
like there's someplace better to be,
a lane change
losing the city behind me
with a turn.
before the wind
got angry
there was a conversation
about god and hatred,
they came together easily.
i laughed it off
looked to the empty seat
and for some reason,
questioned why garbage on pavement
is considered to be litter.

fake out

poem in
tiny
space,
small creative
etch-
ing
the nice words
the fine words
the sufficient
word
S.
art house
play afro jam beat,
my foot
is the only
synchronized rhythm
the laptop
typing is all off;
white noise in
between
the beats,
fake apples
fake lives /
our dark side, the
internal side, the
non-spoken.
startled by
fake windows,
to look
through
is paint.
no street
no traffic
no absurd parent
with a thousand
dollar stroller,
just the other
side of
Nothing.

pink and gray – for katie

she stares above the cloud

platinum

and lining the familial distance;

painters pallet

hosting platform for brush,

stir and echo . . .

stroke and resonate . . .

torture the smile -

leave hesitant hair

shading the eye from night complete

the pretty head             tilt

submission, there is something

else not lost ,

not taken over, not ambushed.

an amalgamation

time and sight,

it works that way day and night.

there was no recognizable temperature,

no flaw in the air;

comfortable . . . tiring.

the L rumbles,

SHAKES the inside of my car

giving vibrato to scriabin

and in good time.

it settled,

the train passed and . . .

there it was.

knee high stiletto boots over fishnets,

a mini trench, ass high,

dark brown, lengthy hair

to blend,

pushed up tits for show.

it was a moment,

nothing could really be said

or commented on at the time.

the weather nothing to argue about

and this woman was

as outstanding a whore i'd ever seen;

an easy presumption to make

in mid september

at irving park and sheridan.

 

 

roosevelt and 1st

two girls cry

at a bus stop,

feet shuffle

to embrace -

the sun light

hits the windshield

bright eye,

i blink,

they cry.

there's a hospital,

behind . . .

it's lonely where everyone

can see you.

stoplight. shit.

they're still on my right

in front of hospital;

ten fingers each,

ten toes each,

all sweating tears

affected -

ten new fingers

play the beethoven sheets

and the windows are down,

they hear

with two ears

each

and cry

outside of hospital

fruity pebbles

i, occasionally, read nutrition facts

and see the fat lady,

avoiding her.

in aisle 2 . . .

i avoid the awkwardly

thin girl in aisle 5

in aisle 7

they stare each other down

THIS HATE

in front of fruity pebbles . . .

spilling blood on a rainbow

at the register

they were both ahead of me

and hating each other

i grabbed a pack of gum,

destroyed the fat and thin

words from my mind

and their hatred

and hummed a melody.