Hunter Gray in Silver City
you clap along in a black and
white photo. you are red
they are black.
you say "I have always lived and worked in the Borderlands."
your father is the salt of the earth.
your mother, the friend.
and as I descend into your lair
hunter thompson's notoriety and acclaim
would look nice on you. his look
looks nice on you.
you say "Our basic cultural perspective is Iroquoian and Wabanaki -- strongly influenced by Navajo and Laguna."
you called dr. king and he came
you were a bloody torn shirt kid
and he came to the
funeral in Jackson. whites with
shotguns outside, but singing
oh lord
singing inside.
what a life you led
this american drempt
myth of awe. but behind that
emerald curtain, you are larger than
the great OZ. You are larger
than all of us. and no one sees it.
not even me. we don't really care
anymore. not for John R. Salter or
the Salt of the Earth or Dr. King
it's over. that peak has passed
and the valley, as we get passing
tumbling and dizzied glimpses
seems steep and black and wide
so paint that war drum, Hunter
let that sweat of life dry on
the underside of the keys
on your typewriter
and dance a little stranger
speak a little louder
play with the bobcat
for all of us
In Solidarity -
Monday, June 29, 2009
Take 3
take three of those apples if you plan
on taking one, because, you know, three
is a magic number
and three magic apples
with a white center
will grow, just like you
did kid
so take as many as you like
because these magic fucking apples
won't last forever or at all
not with your sharp teeth
and your hunger for this flesh
take it all because the more
you consume the more you grow
and you know that that is better
for everyone. all of us need to you
big, and i will happily die for that
kid
I mean what the hell do you think the
forefather wanted, for me to whisper or yell
at you, as you steal from my store. I don't care
if you pay or not, just get big. massive. towering.
overbearing. unmoved. you little runt you.
cuz you run the show, if you haven't noticed.
we give you all the power, and our lives and our children's
all of it. take it. all of it.
on taking one, because, you know, three
is a magic number
and three magic apples
with a white center
will grow, just like you
did kid
so take as many as you like
because these magic fucking apples
won't last forever or at all
not with your sharp teeth
and your hunger for this flesh
take it all because the more
you consume the more you grow
and you know that that is better
for everyone. all of us need to you
big, and i will happily die for that
kid
I mean what the hell do you think the
forefather wanted, for me to whisper or yell
at you, as you steal from my store. I don't care
if you pay or not, just get big. massive. towering.
overbearing. unmoved. you little runt you.
cuz you run the show, if you haven't noticed.
we give you all the power, and our lives and our children's
all of it. take it. all of it.
Clapping Confused as Gunfire
I move in my bed thinking
about the shots I heard
earlier and the glacier
of blood thawing in my
nerves. the cool. the need
for calm. the frosted clouds
that spit behind the squal.
But after the fourth thundering
clap. I realized it's just your
hand - calling your dog. It's
almost 2 am and that mutts gotta
pee. and you are pissed he's running
away into the street. Not because of the
traffic at this hour. But because of the
loss of control. Come here boy.
You've got me under control at this
hour. I whip up and peer as hard as a person can
peer through that peephole. and you dance after
that hairy old thing with you blue plastic bag.
even good dogs seem bad at this hour.
Isn't that what your thinking, waiting up
for your husband to come home from the bar
with his friends. He will change the baby if
he's not too fucked up. He'll get new friends
when he gets a better job or even a job.
but what you don't know (not yet anyway) is that those
claps
that wake me up, with my summer windows wide
were (pause) about to double your work sister.
cuz that man's deal went bad and that good dog
is dead. out on my street. as I sleep afraid
of dogowner's applause.
about the shots I heard
earlier and the glacier
of blood thawing in my
nerves. the cool. the need
for calm. the frosted clouds
that spit behind the squal.
But after the fourth thundering
clap. I realized it's just your
hand - calling your dog. It's
almost 2 am and that mutts gotta
pee. and you are pissed he's running
away into the street. Not because of the
traffic at this hour. But because of the
loss of control. Come here boy.
You've got me under control at this
hour. I whip up and peer as hard as a person can
peer through that peephole. and you dance after
that hairy old thing with you blue plastic bag.
even good dogs seem bad at this hour.
Isn't that what your thinking, waiting up
for your husband to come home from the bar
with his friends. He will change the baby if
he's not too fucked up. He'll get new friends
when he gets a better job or even a job.
but what you don't know (not yet anyway) is that those
claps
that wake me up, with my summer windows wide
were (pause) about to double your work sister.
cuz that man's deal went bad and that good dog
is dead. out on my street. as I sleep afraid
of dogowner's applause.
Confused
Gun shots outside my window
and I'm watching a documentary
on the silliness of gun
violence.
Finishing your cheese pizza
and garlic knots after
eating a nice chicken
Caesar salad and
soup.
Having more books than
bookshelves and not having
read a single one from
cover to shining
cover.
Having welfare for those
who need it and having
the rich decide who
don't. Like a skinny person
telling the fat how to eat.
the straight and the white
and the religous and the
wealthy and the healthy
and the sane and the proud decide for
everyone else.
You are everyone else.
I am sane.
You are them.
I am master.
and I'm watching a documentary
on the silliness of gun
violence.
Finishing your cheese pizza
and garlic knots after
eating a nice chicken
Caesar salad and
soup.
Having more books than
bookshelves and not having
read a single one from
cover to shining
cover.
Having welfare for those
who need it and having
the rich decide who
don't. Like a skinny person
telling the fat how to eat.
the straight and the white
and the religous and the
wealthy and the healthy
and the sane and the proud decide for
everyone else.
You are everyone else.
I am sane.
You are them.
I am master.
Friday, June 26, 2009
HIStory
Yeah,
I kind of thought about doing that, but I realized then it would be madness.
I was surprised there were no large gatherings last night. I went to the "other" mj star, that's not outside the Chinese Theatre, at about 1am and there were 5 people there. 2 photographers, a couple and a homeless dude asleep on his bike. You could tell there were people at one time because of the candles and flowers and police line. I hung around for like 10 minutes, people left, maybe 8 people came. I then walked the 4 blocks back to the club where my friend was working on picking up a girl. Oh yeah, walking on sunset and cahuenga, alone, at almost 2 in the morning, is not recommended, even when you're jason-size.
I know going to the star is kind of pathetic, but so is being ditched at a club.
Also, I read my first autobiography in 3rd grade. It was like 400 pages. Moonwalk by Michael Jackson. I left it in my self for so long because I wanted to keep it that I had like a 20 dollar fine.
ok this got long and typo-y.
enjoy your time off.
I kind of thought about doing that, but I realized then it would be madness.
I was surprised there were no large gatherings last night. I went to the "other" mj star, that's not outside the Chinese Theatre, at about 1am and there were 5 people there. 2 photographers, a couple and a homeless dude asleep on his bike. You could tell there were people at one time because of the candles and flowers and police line. I hung around for like 10 minutes, people left, maybe 8 people came. I then walked the 4 blocks back to the club where my friend was working on picking up a girl. Oh yeah, walking on sunset and cahuenga, alone, at almost 2 in the morning, is not recommended, even when you're jason-size.
I know going to the star is kind of pathetic, but so is being ditched at a club.
Also, I read my first autobiography in 3rd grade. It was like 400 pages. Moonwalk by Michael Jackson. I left it in my self for so long because I wanted to keep it that I had like a 20 dollar fine.
ok this got long and typo-y.
enjoy your time off.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
The Stranger
Hello. Hello. goodmorning. Hello
I've cut out the feeling that I used to have.
I used to know. I have cut them right out.
Because its time to grow up. Those
silly little thoughts about community
and "if everyone would just play the drums"
have been beat down for centuries.
the ego of the men without love for
themselves beats me down. I stand and
frown in the cryogenic chamber. I killed
all the hopes that you had. I bought them
and sold them and made a little profit.
I took the whole world from us. It's gone
and destroyed. I broke it all for my own
little game. I'm on top of the world
if we can call it that. this black rock
that breaks us into nothings. the light
between an eternity of darkness is
no longer light. its all becoming an
eternity of darkness. I am not depressed
I am realistic. I am the gunholding
trashtalking womanfucking childbreaking
worldshaking oilspitting man who built the
railroad. I am the coal in your stocking.
I am the blackness in the tunnel of love.
the fight on your birthday. I am a man.
the silly little Y chromosome that
taunts evolution with its ego. I am that
ego.
and when you apporach me with
your hands out asking for something I have.
I will fucking kill you. I have no sympathy for
the devil. GOD GAVE HIM WINGS. I am the money
maker and you are the money taker. You welfare
grubbing medicare needing waste. You aren't even an
american.
I've cut out the feeling that I used to have.
I used to know. I have cut them right out.
Because its time to grow up. Those
silly little thoughts about community
and "if everyone would just play the drums"
have been beat down for centuries.
the ego of the men without love for
themselves beats me down. I stand and
frown in the cryogenic chamber. I killed
all the hopes that you had. I bought them
and sold them and made a little profit.
I took the whole world from us. It's gone
and destroyed. I broke it all for my own
little game. I'm on top of the world
if we can call it that. this black rock
that breaks us into nothings. the light
between an eternity of darkness is
no longer light. its all becoming an
eternity of darkness. I am not depressed
I am realistic. I am the gunholding
trashtalking womanfucking childbreaking
worldshaking oilspitting man who built the
railroad. I am the coal in your stocking.
I am the blackness in the tunnel of love.
the fight on your birthday. I am a man.
the silly little Y chromosome that
taunts evolution with its ego. I am that
ego.
and when you apporach me with
your hands out asking for something I have.
I will fucking kill you. I have no sympathy for
the devil. GOD GAVE HIM WINGS. I am the money
maker and you are the money taker. You welfare
grubbing medicare needing waste. You aren't even an
american.
Delta Spirit
My Father and I
stand outside on the balcony
of this gym near his home at
the country club.
A woman from the pool below, in her one-piece, yells
"SOMEBODYGETALIFEGUARD"
we look down and see a man in a collard shirt pull
a young boy out of the pool. he is limp on the concrete. CPR.
tons of people are in the pool, it is one of those
nice cloudless southern california
firetrucks aren't coming yet and my father and I
run inside. He yells "DIAL911"
I run with him. and stand around as he
barks words into the phone. orders.
I mean he barks orders.
the radio is playing a song I know.
Its of that band that I met 3 years ago.
I bought a keyboard from the guy.
I knew the bass player, Jon Jameson.
They are going to make it big.
I mean they are on the radio, so they
kind of already have.
The boy breathes but isn't really
going to be the same. and neither am I.
stand outside on the balcony
of this gym near his home at
the country club.
A woman from the pool below, in her one-piece, yells
"SOMEBODYGETALIFEGUARD"
we look down and see a man in a collard shirt pull
a young boy out of the pool. he is limp on the concrete. CPR.
tons of people are in the pool, it is one of those
nice cloudless southern california
firetrucks aren't coming yet and my father and I
run inside. He yells "DIAL911"
I run with him. and stand around as he
barks words into the phone. orders.
I mean he barks orders.
the radio is playing a song I know.
Its of that band that I met 3 years ago.
I bought a keyboard from the guy.
I knew the bass player, Jon Jameson.
They are going to make it big.
I mean they are on the radio, so they
kind of already have.
The boy breathes but isn't really
going to be the same. and neither am I.
Friday, June 12, 2009
The DADGAD Encycolpedia
You are my little
drug. my little something
special. my $27.06 fix
of newness. a little gift
for putting up and keeping
up with these days off
for all the mistakes
for all the little breaths
and the high shouldered mornings
and the slupped-over evenings
the posturing, the positioning
the uncomfort and the figiting,
the little jumbled missing
answer that highbrowed and eyed
little cancer that must get
sni-pah-ed and cut right away
snick snick
that's it a little
tucking. shucking.
mothers touching
oh you aren't going to die
no no not you
not ever.
this is not that. none of it.
this is an open chord.
a smiling hand
a long and happy
whisper
a joyful vibration
a feather in
reverse slo-motion
forma, slomotion
oh
and i sit up straight
and my shoulders melt
and i sway like stevie
in the current of pliés
and bows and curtsies
your blonde head in the sky
your shoulders near the horizon
your breasts upon the sea
and your skirt pulled to the side
right near the shore.
your knees in the high grass
and you ankles disappear
your little smile and that dress
wrists in the waves.
drug. my little something
special. my $27.06 fix
of newness. a little gift
for putting up and keeping
up with these days off
for all the mistakes
for all the little breaths
and the high shouldered mornings
and the slupped-over evenings
the posturing, the positioning
the uncomfort and the figiting,
the little jumbled missing
answer that highbrowed and eyed
little cancer that must get
sni-pah-ed and cut right away
snick snick
that's it a little
tucking. shucking.
mothers touching
oh you aren't going to die
no no not you
not ever.
this is not that. none of it.
this is an open chord.
a smiling hand
a long and happy
whisper
a joyful vibration
a feather in
reverse slo-motion
forma, slomotion
oh
and i sit up straight
and my shoulders melt
and i sway like stevie
in the current of pliés
and bows and curtsies
your blonde head in the sky
your shoulders near the horizon
your breasts upon the sea
and your skirt pulled to the side
right near the shore.
your knees in the high grass
and you ankles disappear
your little smile and that dress
wrists in the waves.
Friday, December 29, 2006, 7:43:09
Poems for Lindsey
What’s Young in Us will Never Die.
The nose of a plane peaks
Forward and backward
In the London fog.
It smells of London
Faces of another world
Not tanned, or straight teethed
Or blue eyed
But bald and white and grey fog
The Christmas lights are still flashing
On boxing day; and I am still
Swaying with the pacific
Breeze in my hair
That reeks of other
On this planet
And turns this fog to
Black
Satellites
I scoop my hands
Into a bag full of stars
And roll them on the table
Like dice
Until
They make the preferred
Constellation.
I run them through my fingers
And throw them on the table
Repeatedly
And take my chances; rolling
While the table has no storm
And the sky is clear
And the stars wait
For my fashioning.
Crossing the Tigress
Slouching among the postured
A lioness looks across the Tigress
Over the lightning in the water
To the blue-coated shore
The shadow of her silhouette
Cracks against the sand
But she stands through the veins of rain
And looks for her man
Who appears and disappears
As violently and cold as
Her own image
Against the icy waves
in the heart
Of the Tigress
Half an Hour
It’s 503am where you are sleeping
And in some time
I will be in the air again
And the skips and skitters of your heart
Like the clips and wains
Of a cockroach
Oversized in your mind
Will calm with your oceanic breathing of sleep
You have no idea where I am
In your world of slumber
I am in Tokyo singing Karaoke with Shawn
I am drumming to an empty club
I am showering in my apartment with you
I am sitting alone on a dirty airport lounge seat from the 70’s
That held tens of thousands of asses
And I have waited until the last person has gotten on the plane before I close this up.
Bob Marley is skipping in my headphones
Much like the cockroach of a heart you have
Who’s sleeping now
Moving his feelers without a care
December 27, 2006
Black socks, rolled down from the calf
To the ankle
Cris-cross apple-sauce
I sit on the bed in my boxers
And my clean shirt
And my backpressed to one side
I won’t stop for spelling errors
I won’t stop for anyone-- -- -- -
This time I won’t
Stop
Clearminded fine wineded
Fuck what you heard
About fingers and nonsense
You’ve got nothing but codfish
Waiting on the back fence
Crimson with envy
And green with their blood
fish bleed purple and thick like mud
Itching the cracked soar
Behind your eyes
Feeds goblins and pillows
That lives in your thighs
For I will never sing like a bird
I screech like a whale so
Fuck what you heard
Polyrhythm Car-alarm
1886; a picture in print that I picture in my picture
The beds made of feathers so I can’t breathe
it may be even alone- needing gray
singing fogwater kisses
fluffing young rabbits
hopping banks and rivers
ripping eyes; claws
stooping smoke stringency
linear cube forensic
cognitive transition
free cognition
slanting and sticking and ranting and whaling and sailing
with words among pages and lateen flailing,
the jib might be loose
on the skirt, watch for goose
and my hand on your noose
a fox willing to pull the choking
now
December 28, 2006
It’s morning and I’m not yet mourning
But I miss the old guy
My grandma and I are so pragmatic
And reasonable
We just get it right all the time
But I know when I watch the service tonight
In her big flat screen
And she cries
And I am like stone
The world will be beating me down
More than any hands can.
Writing this one for you
In glancing around an empty white guest room
With pink wool blanket and evenly spaced
Bric-a-brac, looking for inspiration, and I start to understand
That I’m writing this one for you.
You will soon sleep but before that I will call you
And we will talk about everythings and nothings
About your day and about mine yesterday
About the cloak of time travel that dances in between us,
About my plan for January, and my slacking nature,
And how I always feel you look down on my intentions.
Wait, I love you. Wait, I do.
I won’t play those tapes. I will talk to you about how excited I am about going to palm springs and about your sisters and about my grandma, not about my plans.
Not yet.
Because I’m not writing this one for me….
Goodnight Grandma
I’ve done it and I cried and I smell like I have
Been crying. I’m pushing back my impulses to say
Or do or be something else. I agonized over everythings
And nothings. I felt quite and loud and harmless.
My eyes ripped an open corset of delicacy into my mind.
All the while my grandma looked as I looked
And did nothing and cried nothing.
Her tear-ducts have been closed for some time.
Capped off.
Photo.
I have found photos in my grandfather study
Of Jessie Ansari in a Batman costume
On Halloween at Age 5.
I could remember everyone’s name from my kindergarten.
In the Kitchen was a photo of Jon Jameson,
The bass player who recognized me from
My favorite band, standing in pre-school,
In a sequin top with jazzhands.
In the masterbedroom is a picture
Of Gabe and I in our cribs together playing side-by-side.
Our mother’s look so young.
In the guestroom, next to the bed,
You and I lay together, in the hospital,
Newborn, cold, alone, together, in the picture.
December 29, 2006
Goodbye, Grandma
I have said goodbye for what might be the last time
The world has little bearing
And is filled with wd-40
This life has gone by so fast
I can’t handle losing people in this way.
I can’t cry in an airport in the morning
With my Coke Zero and my designer clothes
Any my laptop and my Dad’s jacket
And my pink retainers and my family guy
I can’t. I won’t.
I am delirious with what ifs.
I have taken pictures and tried my best
And that’s all that can be asked
The only thing that makes this a poem
Is the fact
That I break up the lines
Every so often
Other than that
I have nothing
No Sleep
I haven’t slept in 20 hours and I was exhausted then
I loss my balance every so often
And I can’t seem to hold anything down
I have to lift my eyebrows extra high
To keep my eyes open
I haven’t called
My grandma kep the phone hostage
In her bag
In her walker
In her room
And she makes calls at every hour
Ahhhhhhhhh
Hh
I can’t take this
I’m in Scotland
I am in freaking Scotland
Its raining and have no idea whats going on
I just need to get on the plane and get home
I need to get home
Need to get me home
No sleeping
Quality Deterioration
I have lost all sense of quality in poems
I ramble
I’m not creative
I start every sentence with I
I am sleepy
I am Sad
I am Jason
I am Sitting
I sit
I cry
I scream
I am tears
I am wind
I am 80 mph
I am hell
I am cold
I am zoning the fuck out
Heathrow with no deodorant
I smell. Diarrhea. I have medicine but I haven’t taken it yet
I feel like im going to do die.
The children around are tapping and crying and dancing
In Spanish. Everyone is boarding my plane but I wait.
I am writing. I am waiting. I am churning. Stinking
What’s Young in Us will Never Die.
The nose of a plane peaks
Forward and backward
In the London fog.
It smells of London
Faces of another world
Not tanned, or straight teethed
Or blue eyed
But bald and white and grey fog
The Christmas lights are still flashing
On boxing day; and I am still
Swaying with the pacific
Breeze in my hair
That reeks of other
On this planet
And turns this fog to
Black
Satellites
I scoop my hands
Into a bag full of stars
And roll them on the table
Like dice
Until
They make the preferred
Constellation.
I run them through my fingers
And throw them on the table
Repeatedly
And take my chances; rolling
While the table has no storm
And the sky is clear
And the stars wait
For my fashioning.
Crossing the Tigress
Slouching among the postured
A lioness looks across the Tigress
Over the lightning in the water
To the blue-coated shore
The shadow of her silhouette
Cracks against the sand
But she stands through the veins of rain
And looks for her man
Who appears and disappears
As violently and cold as
Her own image
Against the icy waves
in the heart
Of the Tigress
Half an Hour
It’s 503am where you are sleeping
And in some time
I will be in the air again
And the skips and skitters of your heart
Like the clips and wains
Of a cockroach
Oversized in your mind
Will calm with your oceanic breathing of sleep
You have no idea where I am
In your world of slumber
I am in Tokyo singing Karaoke with Shawn
I am drumming to an empty club
I am showering in my apartment with you
I am sitting alone on a dirty airport lounge seat from the 70’s
That held tens of thousands of asses
And I have waited until the last person has gotten on the plane before I close this up.
Bob Marley is skipping in my headphones
Much like the cockroach of a heart you have
Who’s sleeping now
Moving his feelers without a care
December 27, 2006
Black socks, rolled down from the calf
To the ankle
Cris-cross apple-sauce
I sit on the bed in my boxers
And my clean shirt
And my backpressed to one side
I won’t stop for spelling errors
I won’t stop for anyone-- -- -- -
This time I won’t
Stop
Clearminded fine wineded
Fuck what you heard
About fingers and nonsense
You’ve got nothing but codfish
Waiting on the back fence
Crimson with envy
And green with their blood
fish bleed purple and thick like mud
Itching the cracked soar
Behind your eyes
Feeds goblins and pillows
That lives in your thighs
For I will never sing like a bird
I screech like a whale so
Fuck what you heard
Polyrhythm Car-alarm
1886; a picture in print that I picture in my picture
The beds made of feathers so I can’t breathe
it may be even alone- needing gray
singing fogwater kisses
fluffing young rabbits
hopping banks and rivers
ripping eyes; claws
stooping smoke stringency
linear cube forensic
cognitive transition
free cognition
slanting and sticking and ranting and whaling and sailing
with words among pages and lateen flailing,
the jib might be loose
on the skirt, watch for goose
and my hand on your noose
a fox willing to pull the choking
now
December 28, 2006
It’s morning and I’m not yet mourning
But I miss the old guy
My grandma and I are so pragmatic
And reasonable
We just get it right all the time
But I know when I watch the service tonight
In her big flat screen
And she cries
And I am like stone
The world will be beating me down
More than any hands can.
Writing this one for you
In glancing around an empty white guest room
With pink wool blanket and evenly spaced
Bric-a-brac, looking for inspiration, and I start to understand
That I’m writing this one for you.
You will soon sleep but before that I will call you
And we will talk about everythings and nothings
About your day and about mine yesterday
About the cloak of time travel that dances in between us,
About my plan for January, and my slacking nature,
And how I always feel you look down on my intentions.
Wait, I love you. Wait, I do.
I won’t play those tapes. I will talk to you about how excited I am about going to palm springs and about your sisters and about my grandma, not about my plans.
Not yet.
Because I’m not writing this one for me….
Goodnight Grandma
I’ve done it and I cried and I smell like I have
Been crying. I’m pushing back my impulses to say
Or do or be something else. I agonized over everythings
And nothings. I felt quite and loud and harmless.
My eyes ripped an open corset of delicacy into my mind.
All the while my grandma looked as I looked
And did nothing and cried nothing.
Her tear-ducts have been closed for some time.
Capped off.
Photo.
I have found photos in my grandfather study
Of Jessie Ansari in a Batman costume
On Halloween at Age 5.
I could remember everyone’s name from my kindergarten.
In the Kitchen was a photo of Jon Jameson,
The bass player who recognized me from
My favorite band, standing in pre-school,
In a sequin top with jazzhands.
In the masterbedroom is a picture
Of Gabe and I in our cribs together playing side-by-side.
Our mother’s look so young.
In the guestroom, next to the bed,
You and I lay together, in the hospital,
Newborn, cold, alone, together, in the picture.
December 29, 2006
Goodbye, Grandma
I have said goodbye for what might be the last time
The world has little bearing
And is filled with wd-40
This life has gone by so fast
I can’t handle losing people in this way.
I can’t cry in an airport in the morning
With my Coke Zero and my designer clothes
Any my laptop and my Dad’s jacket
And my pink retainers and my family guy
I can’t. I won’t.
I am delirious with what ifs.
I have taken pictures and tried my best
And that’s all that can be asked
The only thing that makes this a poem
Is the fact
That I break up the lines
Every so often
Other than that
I have nothing
No Sleep
I haven’t slept in 20 hours and I was exhausted then
I loss my balance every so often
And I can’t seem to hold anything down
I have to lift my eyebrows extra high
To keep my eyes open
I haven’t called
My grandma kep the phone hostage
In her bag
In her walker
In her room
And she makes calls at every hour
Ahhhhhhhhh
Hh
I can’t take this
I’m in Scotland
I am in freaking Scotland
Its raining and have no idea whats going on
I just need to get on the plane and get home
I need to get home
Need to get me home
No sleeping
Quality Deterioration
I have lost all sense of quality in poems
I ramble
I’m not creative
I start every sentence with I
I am sleepy
I am Sad
I am Jason
I am Sitting
I sit
I cry
I scream
I am tears
I am wind
I am 80 mph
I am hell
I am cold
I am zoning the fuck out
Heathrow with no deodorant
I smell. Diarrhea. I have medicine but I haven’t taken it yet
I feel like im going to do die.
The children around are tapping and crying and dancing
In Spanish. Everyone is boarding my plane but I wait.
I am writing. I am waiting. I am churning. Stinking
Monday, June 8, 2009
Sixteen and a Half Minutes
wine. misspelt emails
to superiors at 930 at night
and more
mistakes having to do with
wine.
and I work in education,
in composition for
godsakes
goodnesssakes
good sake bomb
oh now fifteen minutes
until you call me
and this very bad
poem of drunkiness
is over
how I will crindge when I
read it. and its silly
little mistakes. you know
we can be through with
the past, but the past
isn't through
with us.
and that's what
this little poem will
be. a sad little blemish.
a tranishing rust
in the open and
shut case
of my life.
my head is starting to hurt
which means I need to drink more
I wil stand and walk from this
black desk over to the
table with a unlit candle
a photo of myself as a child in
switerland at the edge of a boat
at the age of 3. overlooking
a vast future of hope
and alps and mothers.
I will drink that wine of yesterday
and let its deep color filter
that black-and-white foto
from Zurich. that swing
that church
that gondola
that boat that you had to pedal
and that i couldn't reach
my mother did it for the both of us
and she demanded that I stayed
back in that little time
that little window of little
boyhood. wide-eyed and gracious
and soft and blonde
and tired, strong,
big muscles.
show us your big muscles
Jason
bowlcut. a little man.
who is dead. and a fat
self-serving world-destorying
big manl. a big big man took
his place and everything.
I will spill that wine on the carpet
and that little boy will be looking over my shoulder
peering right over that frame
right from 1988 into
me. and he will be afraid
of what he has become.
but no no. he is stuck
without that. without dad.
without men. without himself.
he is smiling in Zurich before
the chickenpocks or the girls
or the money or the God.
he is simple.
he is 23.
he thinks he knows what life means.
but this little black and white
and purple poem knows better.
even with five mihnutes to spare.
to reread and remirror and review
and regret the speeling errors.
to superiors at 930 at night
and more
mistakes having to do with
wine.
and I work in education,
in composition for
godsakes
goodnesssakes
good sake bomb
oh now fifteen minutes
until you call me
and this very bad
poem of drunkiness
is over
how I will crindge when I
read it. and its silly
little mistakes. you know
we can be through with
the past, but the past
isn't through
with us.
and that's what
this little poem will
be. a sad little blemish.
a tranishing rust
in the open and
shut case
of my life.
my head is starting to hurt
which means I need to drink more
I wil stand and walk from this
black desk over to the
table with a unlit candle
a photo of myself as a child in
switerland at the edge of a boat
at the age of 3. overlooking
a vast future of hope
and alps and mothers.
I will drink that wine of yesterday
and let its deep color filter
that black-and-white foto
from Zurich. that swing
that church
that gondola
that boat that you had to pedal
and that i couldn't reach
my mother did it for the both of us
and she demanded that I stayed
back in that little time
that little window of little
boyhood. wide-eyed and gracious
and soft and blonde
and tired, strong,
big muscles.
show us your big muscles
Jason
bowlcut. a little man.
who is dead. and a fat
self-serving world-destorying
big manl. a big big man took
his place and everything.
I will spill that wine on the carpet
and that little boy will be looking over my shoulder
peering right over that frame
right from 1988 into
me. and he will be afraid
of what he has become.
but no no. he is stuck
without that. without dad.
without men. without himself.
he is smiling in Zurich before
the chickenpocks or the girls
or the money or the God.
he is simple.
he is 23.
he thinks he knows what life means.
but this little black and white
and purple poem knows better.
even with five mihnutes to spare.
to reread and remirror and review
and regret the speeling errors.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
a mirror and back again.
The Future of Literature is in the Past: I right effect adieu to you
Holding a power up to the sunwith the thumb at fault to joke sideI modulation God. pushing the heat/energy away from my eyeI am like that with you. I can cap you up and slow a confine you outbut you inclination be there. glad.
maybe I can interpose with yourdirection. another inconsiderable fish. your smoothnesslike a glimmer hittingthe side of the oceanI could be prone and refract your liking toglance and lightanother springiness.
but I cannot slow feed detain c keep on own orcontain you. power and B suavity. It covers my crowd.
Holding a power up to the sunwith the thumb at fault to joke sideI modulation God. pushing the heat/energy away from my eyeI am like that with you. I can cap you up and slow a confine you outbut you inclination be there. glad.
maybe I can interpose with yourdirection. another inconsiderable fish. your smoothnesslike a glimmer hittingthe side of the oceanI could be prone and refract your liking toglance and lightanother springiness.
but I cannot slow feed detain c keep on own orcontain you. power and B suavity. It covers my crowd.
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