9/22/09 8:22pm

a chance came
drifting by the eye
like one of those
tape worms that
falls easily
down the sun gazed
lens lifting passed
the indiscretions
of what left me
light studded last night.
something exists
in what i don't
care about,
a desperate necessity
for the uncomfortable
boundaries, the walls
that make our poverty
so unique to loneliness.
there is a window
to my right
that breathes heavily
with every passing
bit of a god.
the strings that hide
all that reveals the passing
is being tossed around,
remaining shown
and kept in public.
on the sidewalk
i am unoriginal
and look ordinary,
but my cat
paws at moths
and, at least,
keeps me entertained.

8/3/09 10:23pm

down by window sill,
cat sit silent cry
with empty street
and blind headlight -
a deer in the middle
of the block
making nice
with the pavement,
smooth and occasionally
bumpy;
blind and the seeing
spilling over
the same shit
and fucking up all the same.
no one drives,
just parked in a
mixed cloud
desperate for an
eye to alert to make clear sense.

tucked away

hospital walls
crying, screaming
things that capable mind
does not grasp -
can't wrap around it,
this imaginarium
that i seem to handle so well.
i am me and
and i am breathing creature,
fire out of mouth
feeling pulse every bit of the way
on an airplane
breaking the clouds -
breaking the childrens bubbles
about santa claus, the easter bunny
and jesus.
tuck it all in a cave
under fluorescent light,
flickering with inconsistency
hiding the figures on the wall
where the ancient and the present
are meant to collide,
our old self and new realization
somehow hidden behind
that flicker of light
and shadow in the corner

fractions

find rhythm point, random meanings can be found,
follow foot take two lines
rat-tat-tat, doo bow painted with a hue of dusk
stick floor right spot – and guised glorious to be;
foot follow hand, foot; convoluted wordings
swallow, breath swell and patterns falsify intensity
drum in hand as true understanding.
pattern in life make other language spoken
el momento perfecto. in perfect time
momentum beauty, is same translation
legs grace in air and angel glide
smooth. extend forth and faultless
head righteous where imperfection exists

in the middle
past confused meaning,
two monks meet in a garden.
one makes smooth gestures
of water upon various plant,
the other sings nothing
to a slow present breeze.
they meditate
they live,
in calm there is a rhythm –
steady and forming
peace exists.

Bedside midnight hair rising,
worse than a fucked up
zodiac reading
left from the strippers pole:
draining the bottle
for something that
was never meant.

11/30/99

note: i wrote this for a friend my senior year in high school while observing her through the window in the choir room and she recently recovered it.

She sings with
her arms hidden behind
her backside without
confidence, ever so delightful
Shifting her feet
forth and back eventually
lifting her hands to a
resting place on the
smooth stomach of
her coke bottle-like definition;
even carrying a hood
on her shirt just in case
she doesn't feel like
being noticed today.

But why hide a smile,
a face, a nose,
endless eyes like that
behind fabricated blackness;
bring it out, all the way
across the fields in high-
step strides with the marching bands
and great voices that
never said a thing
for our future nations.
Her face in a shadow
sitting in corner houses
where nobody hears her,
but she is still
never louder than beautiful.

What an ending that would be -
going out in glory that
everyone will smile at
nine feet deeper than usual,
and one foot away
from unusualness.

Put it behind you, Glory,
because beauty is not
to be ashamed of or disgraceful.

car cut air
razor knife
sharpening ,
gliding pre-death
circles from
side to side
never connecting,
never touching.
my hair touched,
graceful figure
and other.

cold music backround,
fly in air -
death and PETA
mean something.
tolerate one
and not the human

the line / the break

the sweat
swelling down
the thick of my spine,
gathering more as it goes
and leaving less on the trail.
it builds again as the heat heightens.


my body,
gaining strain
with each movement
and losing rest with all time
as i am unfound and found in mourning.


a loss,
pain in muscle
not used and turned
degrees beyond normal use . . .
it turns -
out of pattern;
marking body territory
in reservation
where hell breaks mold,
finds unnatural elements
in the firmament
and breaks the lines.

conformity finds mistake -
individuality finds sad beauties;
vignettes shaded in movement,
clouded in exhaust.

i / they - me ; us
riding solidarity in separation,
panting through it all.

banana + god

the ground was still wet,
the clouds were gone
and it was all like new again.
my car tire looked flat,
it wasn't-
i got in
stopped at the 7-11
a police officer on break
said i was the healthiest guy
he'd ever seen in there
because i bought a banana.
what would he say
if i were in a crack den
and sterilized my pipe first?
i would definitely be the
cleanest fucker in there,
i assume.

this wagnerian tenor on the radio
sang in some all wood
german theater in bayreuth,
his voice swelled in my head -
ringing loud and resonating
like i were still in a dream
among the gods.

mex mix

down cicero and hiding
in pot holes and
kicked up concrete;
the sun is still out,
but cowarding behind
buidlings tall enough to stand its test
and from shadows i almost run over
a group of 14-year old girls
wearing belly shirts and
had stomaches
too large for their clothing size.
in the air, sewers fucked it all up
and cried against a
half off perfume shop
displaying bright neon sale signs
that on the opposite side read,
"GOD DOES NOT EXIST!".
a far cry from proof
and a little too bright
to be taken seriously,
but noted.

in the tunnel

where enlightenment comes
there rests a sentiment
under the sky
that bellows with an
empty stomach and
empty spirit;
a sadness is mutual to exist
at all times
and all times reveal freedom
and in freedom will
ring true suffering
and there, found in all,
where nothing exists
and where nothing is nothing,
there is an introduction
to where something begins.

a scarf in hell

someone wore
a scarf in texas,
of all places,
and thought that just because
a vilolin and a cello
were in a song
that it was classical -
despite the obvious
folk vocals
and two banjos.
i learned this
in the dark, in front of headlights,
dancing in flames
the first circle
preparing for more

god-mind-triangle

dust and death

kind of pointless

having a stuffed nose
and 80's pop forced on me
is a bit like having
a midget kick me in the nuts
and then point his laughing
stubby arms at me on the ground,
rolling in the pain
that already existed in my head;
i feel like reading sylvia plath
or listening to fiona apple
on a merry-go-round
looking for the damned children
and damned parents
who believe the damned angels
are more than a thought
riding snugly in the red convertible
just side to the unicorn.
it's a good wish to have,
but not much exists outside
of this.

8:29 pm 12/31/08

a dog was eating out
of the garbage
down garfield alley:
glancing down underneath wacker
candles from some river restaurant
flickered on the river
from across the way.
the flames were loud
and cried with
the rolling waves
passing through it,
still there
and bouncing
next to a $20 tip
about to be blown
from underneath.
eat dog, eat
river wealth
and cry fat pigeon
underneath taxi wheel
too heavy to fly.
should have learned
from poverty about gluttony.

a drawing

the bodies,
strings tied in knots and
stained in blood,
bending the bubble
next to reality
tapping on color
through some mask
sketched like a bats wing
preying on
the streaks of dawn
and the residual
spatter of god -
resting body on clay tables
delicately picking
life from the air
and leaving beauty drawn . . .
marking the shift in layers,
distortion in fantasy
and my other world.

dinner with hitler

it's all very amusing sometimes,

the voices in my head

that always sound underneath

the "real" actions;

they're like sirens

dancing on the sidewalk

trying to tell you

to look where you're walking,

hoping that your breathing

is as honest as your soul

(or, desperate that your soul

is as good as you think it is).

a funky haircut only

blends you in to some

contemporary canvas,

a facade, an illusion -

if i asked you who i was

the answer would be

like a file cabinet

in your office:

meaningless memories,

wonders of hanging excrement,

filth lodged between the edges

of a hanging sconce

trying to shed light

on the room

. . . still making shadows

on a martha stewart pillow

that only has place

in one place.

a spot,

a single existence -

physical -

jumping for the fight

waiting for a hit in the face

to taste reality

when, finally,

it jabs you in the gut

and kicks you on the ground

stirring up the rain

and the mess everyone else

walked in.

we don't actually look

like the magazines,

holding on to the

last eight weeks

we were praised

in print,

looking at the still

shot of our abs

painted on by some

250lbs. kid with a degree

in computer science.

if i had dinner with hitler

i would know what to say,

there would be no

subconscious battle with myself,

just a big fuck you to the third reich.

everything moral

or self aware

should be that easy,

but it's just not.

driving to nirvana

driving next to thousands
of people - thousands of lives -
living lies - living lives -
similar to those
with the large muffler
next to them,
compensating for the
abandoned nature of man:
a penis and an engine
mean nothing without
the soul driving it.
that highway lined
with lights
and souls
and all else motivating
different directions
from parallel lines
and a poor robert frost
knock off.

anger sits in a dream
on the shoulder
waiting for pain
to somehow be worth it
in the end.

i kept driving
without bedside manner
past black and white photos
disguising those disgusting figures
behind the tinted windows ;
disguising the demons
in the hammer lane
as a student or a factory worker
or a business man or a mother
or someones child
or a god of that automobile
waiting for that right turn
to ascend and find
greatness.