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.

10/23/09 2:24 am

watching legs in air,
patterns of nonsensical
and momentary charge
powered by illogical
hand tracers
followed in spot light.
clearing the table
and placing the bodies down,
naked and hot,
glittered and frayed,
shredded at the edges of vanity
in the midst of a narcissistic clusterfuck
at midnight in the garden.
somewhere in the sky
there are drawn fake meanings to life,
things that only make sense
as a fucked up distortion
of history,
a ruined natural sense of logic
extorted to a blown proportion;

escapism can be a delightful
re-entry back in to reality

pleasant blues - chorus 4

sweating off the puzzlement,
trip black tarmac
in between parallel
line of car;funny how people look
at cars without racism,
i mean, they're different colors too,
but put people inside
and all the difference has been made.
jesus knew something we didn't
DARK skin
WHITE skin
YELLOW skin
skinskinskinskinskinsinksinksinksinksinksink
itallcomestogetherinthesameplacewhetheryoulikeitornot

pleasant blues - chorus 3

my stomach rumbled,
not by what i ate,
not by what i did not eat -
50 cents for carbonation
without the cure of a beer,
the sugar slipped good though.
clapping my hands
at myself
for no good reason,
but that i have lived:
in the mirror
i saw imperfection.

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