10:50 pm

Swaying on the porch
of Hotel California
with the powerlines and the
palm trees, singing of
Adelaide. The two have never met,
but they would be twins, born
on other sides of the planet
from the same mother. Would young Adelaide
turn into teenage Cali, with her blonde
hair and her brown skin once fair?
Would they know the roots of the same palm trees or would they
get cheated on again? Because I am swaying
on her coast, my hands deep in father time, waiting to marry
the two sirens.
waiting for the stories to come true.
waiting like the smirking king on the throne of gold
who is only on gold in stories. and really sleep on
the street under the powerlines.

10:57 pm


disjointed.

Destroy!

When I look outside

When I look outside
I must retreat
for the way i feel
the plastic under my
feet. and the lungs that fill
with quivering smog
will replicate smoke rings
on a log.

I need help to
see my brothers
compete in lonely games
and lies of defeat.

I want to claim a word of smiles
but what war do you face that fills the Niles
banks with the consistent churning of subsistence.
the stocks fall with drama. they are just
controlled by human opinions... they are not the weather but the
notions of the weather.

when we think we are the earth and we talk like we are the earth
what role does she have, what will she become?

When I look outside, I see schools made up
and faces educated to the modes of the nano-second.

i don't want anything to change. I just don't want to talk about it.

Card Tricks

Bleep the Sheep in Five Spare Minutes

Lets blog
like no one has ever
blogged B4

Let's embrace our
culture. It's Miller Time!
Let's all be Rock Stars and

artists who paint
the walls the same color
and marvel out our work

"Do you think I can go on Tour?"
"I know you could sell it on EBay"
"That's not porn THATS ART!"

who is stopping this de/construction?
who knows what is important anymore
let's be clear. I'm planting the seeds.

and so are you... reading this on your computer.

Your so Stupid!

These are a few of my Favorite things

I don't care about Money
I don't care about fame.
I don't want your fast car,
I don't need your name.

I don't want to be accepted,
I don't want to be pre-approved.

I don't want anything I can't make or do,
I don't want to be a fool.

I want to feel the slow release of human warmth around me,
with the friends and family and care that we all need.
I want a community of smiles and honesty, in rhythm and harmony.
I want to know that you know that we are connected and I want to feel that connection.
I want to give blood.
I want to give everything.
I want to feel my spirit radiate inside.
I want to fly.
I want to learn.
I want to enjoy it all and smile for above.
I want to be careless and worry-gone.
I want to sit on the porch with my lemonade at dusk and my land in front and my guitar in my hand and I want to sing with my neighbors, about the joys of having nothing.
I want to breathe a full breath and have my shoulders melt.
I want to burn my tv.
I want to destroy my culture.
I want to sit and think about everything good in the world.
I want to think my own thoughts, my own original thoughts.
I want to buy things made by good people for the most money I can give them.
I want to explode with good deeds.
I want to give art back to the artists with my signature.
I want to feel like a child again.
I just want to live.

I want, I want I want IwantIwant!

gimmegimmegimme. I want some more.

fucking jason

"Watch out for the ceiling fan"

run your finger fast
along the curve of
the infant's back

and he kicks out
his feeted pajamas
and neck
and smiles
and coos

his gums
and lungs
lift off
the ground
in joy

he swims
like a new born dropped
into a pool

froggy froggy froggy
through the air.
"Wow, he's getting so big."

for My Father's Birthday

written on May 24th (the night before I graduated from Whittier College).

Part 3

Fingers Flying for Fifty-Five phrases
Father’s eyes sparking
Son’s fifty-five praises
A birthday chant from two different places.
An English rant with two brother’s faces
To London’s surprise,
The Man’s still alive.
He dances and sings
and runs and beams
with hurdles and steeples
and puddles it seems,
breaking records on all of the races.

Part 4

An Ocean breeze, the island way,
Christens his brow with wind off the bay,
And mixes with baptizing sun in May,
A boy was born to the world this way
And off in the distance the sound of reggae
Sings a chorus.
Though he’s not returned, to his dismay,
His Trinidad soul will always stay.

Part 5

What better gift than a son
Using his culminated edification and culture
Of ornate patois and excreta,
To plume and celebrate
Paternal encomium.
How delicate is his rhyme!
How eloquent are his prose?
“What Mastery!” The man declares.
I say, “What Brilliance!”

“What a silly shit-headed little fuck who thinks big words make him smart!”