an apple with caramel and chips of peanuts
in a disposable plastic case near the front of
the supermarket.
wrapped in a deep embrace, his chin on
your forehead, without your
dove deodorant; that laughter after.
a painless and weightless front-flip
from the high-dive on
the first-try with no splash, or the biggest (choose one).
a wooden dancefloor wedding
song with white candles/cake/napkins
and the Macareina, (loud and stomping).
the sound of sea turtles in shady
Hawaiian cliffed coves; glaciers
and their documented exhale.
the memory of a Wonka dream when
love was easy and chocolates
were every color.
a song recorded with the sole
time-capsuled purpose of being forgotten,
and then rediscovery, the amber shattered.
accepting the jittery mosquito during
meditation, and sharing his smooth and blood-
filled drink of me.
creaky Scottish pluming, lavender
jet-lag, heavy down pillows,
windows opened near the fire; sunrise.
a rice-paddy with just enough
water where the dikes and the
pools are level and still.
learning how to read and
knowing that you can
read aloud with feeling
holding a gloved and snug seven-year-old
hand on her way to Dorsey Elementary
on 53rd St. and her little squeeze back.
Ironing while watching baseball
and noticing that during a commercial break
the shirts have been done for innings.
the liminal age where it still feels
just as great to give and receive
Christmas gifts.
the moment your tongue flings
that peanut kernel from the embrace
of your bicuspid, in release.
Monday, August 31, 2009
It's Pathetic to use material from elsewhere, but this is my DOJO. LET'S DO IT!
IF you are reading this now, you have done something very unique and interesting. This account is private and I update it once a year, on my birthday. That picture to the left is from my 24th birthday. I only have pictures up from the past 4 birthday's in the profile section. That's it. By reading this, you have done something marvelous because you were my friend before I stopped visiting myspace regularly and (and!) for some strange reason, now, you have decided to visit this (very close to dead) page. I haven't been active on here, really, until today, since 2006. This means you are special. You and I used to know each other and you want to get to know me more now; at least you are curious. Fair enough. so thank you for your time. Here is what you need to know: I have lived alone for 3 years in the prime of my youth. Why? because I'm bad with roommates. This has turned me into a good cook, a better laundry do-er and a very hopeless socialite. I watch more movies and read more books than most. I send too much time online reading reviews and information about Los Angeles and facebook. If my computer were faster, I would have tons more time everyday. We might even be in touch in person. But no, instead we spend our free-time staring at a screen. Oh and I like to travel. alot. I also really enjoy water sport.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Black Crosses in The Sunn O))
I have no plans to age well.
I have a love/hate relationship
with my longhair.
I set dates where I will cut
it. Then the date comes and I get
sad, so it just stays greasy and long.
I hope someday someone will cut it in
my sleep and get rid of all the hair
and I will wake up a new man, like a palm
burnt to bear more fruit.
I have a love/hate relationship
with my longhair.
I set dates where I will cut
it. Then the date comes and I get
sad, so it just stays greasy and long.
I hope someday someone will cut it in
my sleep and get rid of all the hair
and I will wake up a new man, like a palm
burnt to bear more fruit.
That sinking space between waves
some call it a lull
or a trough
a little depression
you might call it
writer's block
or
as spiders walk
through the unattended
bashed window screen
down over and up
the cherry olympic ring
mugged desk onto
these black and white
tinkling keys, I see
you sitting on the toilet
in the half-mooned outhouse, 1936
looking down to see
a web beneath your seven
year old bottom with
the red hourglass
and coal thorax
peering back up.
with a giggle, you see
your little tinkle
glistening and mocking
death, and she (death)
gladly bellylaughes back
shaking the whole web clean.
that viper-black spider
made her way into the keys
and onto my fingers, but I
don't get to giggle, I just
get to sit and wait and
thinking about warm water and
Niagra Falls or a dalmatian
near a fire hydrant, a firehose,
an open ocean and a longboard.
straddling the wooden
toilet, I look down and my joke,
my urine, just won't come
and Death, she is just as forgiving
as ever. she looks up and laughs
and eats my head clean off.
and you, you blonde shorty, 1936
you skip along with your pet rooster
to the drafty single-room home on the
railroad track. a gateway to
life outside of Pasco, away from
school and death and durt.
toward hollywood and cigarettes
toward San Diego and Mexico
toward a longboarded life; a Pacific filled
or a trough
a little depression
you might call it
writer's block
or
as spiders walk
through the unattended
bashed window screen
down over and up
the cherry olympic ring
mugged desk onto
these black and white
tinkling keys, I see
you sitting on the toilet
in the half-mooned outhouse, 1936
looking down to see
a web beneath your seven
year old bottom with
the red hourglass
and coal thorax
peering back up.
with a giggle, you see
your little tinkle
glistening and mocking
death, and she (death)
gladly bellylaughes back
shaking the whole web clean.
that viper-black spider
made her way into the keys
and onto my fingers, but I
don't get to giggle, I just
get to sit and wait and
thinking about warm water and
Niagra Falls or a dalmatian
near a fire hydrant, a firehose,
an open ocean and a longboard.
straddling the wooden
toilet, I look down and my joke,
my urine, just won't come
and Death, she is just as forgiving
as ever. she looks up and laughs
and eats my head clean off.
and you, you blonde shorty, 1936
you skip along with your pet rooster
to the drafty single-room home on the
railroad track. a gateway to
life outside of Pasco, away from
school and death and durt.
toward hollywood and cigarettes
toward San Diego and Mexico
toward a longboarded life; a Pacific filled
Friday, August 28, 2009
Two-headed Eyes OR my Father's are Geminis
A blinking cursor twanting my
every wish. yeah jason
try to open that door
talk about both of those
twofaced double sided
heros and villians
in one poem
do it, give it shot
well oh well
this couch isn't big enough for the both of us a
and I think the the smile that you have won't be
lasting all that long. the sewn up stiches that
keeps those lips up high will fall and flap
back down like a bean-bag without stuffing
you fake coward. you can't perform this
you can't send this in. you can't even
share it friends. you can't let anyone in.
and those who you do let in, don't care.
not about this stuff. they don't know
how to. I mean why not. do I listen to them.
nope.
Have I ever. not really. I don't have
practice and if you don't learn by 25
you never not-ever will.
in this course of this little exercise it
went from yesterday to tomorrow. now
tomorrow is today. and this, I promise you,
is, infact, a poem.
take my word for it. take it.
every wish. yeah jason
try to open that door
talk about both of those
twofaced double sided
heros and villians
in one poem
do it, give it shot
well oh well
this couch isn't big enough for the both of us a
and I think the the smile that you have won't be
lasting all that long. the sewn up stiches that
keeps those lips up high will fall and flap
back down like a bean-bag without stuffing
you fake coward. you can't perform this
you can't send this in. you can't even
share it friends. you can't let anyone in.
and those who you do let in, don't care.
not about this stuff. they don't know
how to. I mean why not. do I listen to them.
nope.
Have I ever. not really. I don't have
practice and if you don't learn by 25
you never not-ever will.
in this course of this little exercise it
went from yesterday to tomorrow. now
tomorrow is today. and this, I promise you,
is, infact, a poem.
take my word for it. take it.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Grownup
The noise that causes
the heart to beat
like a dropping bottle
on the legs of wooden
pegs and shifting cement
floors. The kind that use
to be covered with linoleum
but have since been relieved
to give that high-end sound,
that troubling terrible treble
of those
bits and coin-sized embers of
green glass. rolling rock glass.
the pre-sea
glass. foaming white and gritty-sand brown
on rolling rocks and cement
and legs, just touching
those wooden legs, a
tidal movement of fermented
and sea-foam greened stuff
changing shapes that flash-flash-flash
morphing even. evenly morphine.
stop that. freeze it.
High heels up, and cameras down.
let's catch this.
an amber bullseye
like fresh blood from
a vampire's fang
in the instant it
dances on the stark
hospital sheen-tile.
take that color and
make it beer. put it
on concrete. (use the
command key to change
layers and bring all to
front.) now zoom out
a little. There is all that
stained-glass green fireworking
and those
hundreds of browned dracula-drops
making a Hollister-signed
Fibonacci explosion
an inverted pyramid of
chaos and non-euclidean theory
sphereing in earth-like
fermented beads almost
in measurable qualmish
right above the astral
mosaic of stone and grit
in the unpolished
the cracked
concrete.
Note: when I thought I was a poet,
I never dreampt it would
be taken away. but now,
now I set aside time to
live that silly dream
and you, you reader,
if you have gotten this far
and you haven't begun sweeping
up that broken glass and those
soggy napkins so that the customers
can keep watching the Jets and the
Colts, then you have some growing up
to do.
I do too. I have no room to tell
you off. You'll learn.
I have.
the heart to beat
like a dropping bottle
on the legs of wooden
pegs and shifting cement
floors. The kind that use
to be covered with linoleum
but have since been relieved
to give that high-end sound,
that troubling terrible treble
of those
bits and coin-sized embers of
green glass. rolling rock glass.
the pre-sea
glass. foaming white and gritty-sand brown
on rolling rocks and cement
and legs, just touching
those wooden legs, a
tidal movement of fermented
and sea-foam greened stuff
changing shapes that flash-flash-flash
morphing even. evenly morphine.
stop that. freeze it.
High heels up, and cameras down.
let's catch this.
an amber bullseye
like fresh blood from
a vampire's fang
in the instant it
dances on the stark
hospital sheen-tile.
take that color and
make it beer. put it
on concrete. (use the
command key to change
layers and bring all to
front.) now zoom out
a little. There is all that
stained-glass green fireworking
and those
hundreds of browned dracula-drops
making a Hollister-signed
Fibonacci explosion
an inverted pyramid of
chaos and non-euclidean theory
sphereing in earth-like
fermented beads almost
in measurable qualmish
right above the astral
mosaic of stone and grit
in the unpolished
the cracked
concrete.
Note: when I thought I was a poet,
I never dreampt it would
be taken away. but now,
now I set aside time to
live that silly dream
and you, you reader,
if you have gotten this far
and you haven't begun sweeping
up that broken glass and those
soggy napkins so that the customers
can keep watching the Jets and the
Colts, then you have some growing up
to do.
I do too. I have no room to tell
you off. You'll learn.
I have.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Audiofiled: The Ram
A quietly opened door
a little opening
a small
handled
purple and blue visage
a place squared off
black and frilled
agenda
a ram
a lone buck-horned sheep
standing. proud
the sun behind
and a black shadow cast down the crag
a broken unadulterated mountainside
that twitching
that twitching little eye
around the black door
around
the velvet purple
brown
around
I've found what I've
been looking for
I was looking for that
ram
and there he stands
a bald-headed man
above
right above
the treeline
the treeline frames
his ever-crowning brain
his opened top-head and
his royalty
his integrity, his honor
that ram
that man
he stands
high
above the trees
right where the snow
would touch down
right on the ground
the red rocks
engulfed
in the water
in the
water
in the everything
now/as I close
and pull tight
this velvet door
this tiny little opening
the ram
who stood so tall
that two and a half foot tall ram
seems like a wooden carving
that sits on the
dining room floor
on the living room
floor
of your grandparent's shag carpet
like a little buck-horned sheep
like a
little ewe
a small doe
waiting. to move
someday he'll be
a real boy
a little opening
a small
handled
purple and blue visage
a place squared off
black and frilled
agenda
a ram
a lone buck-horned sheep
standing. proud
the sun behind
and a black shadow cast down the crag
a broken unadulterated mountainside
that twitching
that twitching little eye
around the black door
around
the velvet purple
brown
around
I've found what I've
been looking for
I was looking for that
ram
and there he stands
a bald-headed man
above
right above
the treeline
the treeline frames
his ever-crowning brain
his opened top-head and
his royalty
his integrity, his honor
that ram
that man
he stands
high
above the trees
right where the snow
would touch down
right on the ground
the red rocks
engulfed
in the water
in the
water
in the everything
now/as I close
and pull tight
this velvet door
this tiny little opening
the ram
who stood so tall
that two and a half foot tall ram
seems like a wooden carving
that sits on the
dining room floor
on the living room
floor
of your grandparent's shag carpet
like a little buck-horned sheep
like a
little ewe
a small doe
waiting. to move
someday he'll be
a real boy
Audiofiled: The SISTER CITY SERIAL KILLER
The SISTER CITY SERIAL KILLER
that kind of a man
dressing around
the The SISTER CITY SERIAL KILLER
goes between the towns
he finds them sisters
in those cities
look um up and
down
and turns a smile to a frown
as quick as he's found
that SISTER CITY SERIAL KILLER
my reason for bringing up this man
is that he. he travels in a van.
from different sister cities
and when I say sister cities
I don't mean them cities
sittin sitter next to eachothers
I mean the cities that are
sister cities across the world
and this vanned old man
in his green and yellow and white
he'll take the girl
drive through the day and drop her off in the night
somewhere around the desert
out there where there is nothin left
nothin for her, nothing for him
nothin for the vultures
that's what The SISTER CITY SERIAL KILLER
does
he leaves nothing
except
for a van
and now that van is a museum piece
it's a piece of work that we
academics
can stand up against, step back on
lean our hats on
274 women were killed in that van
at least in his imagination.
In fact only one was
and that SISTER CITY SERIAL KILLER
never made it to another city
there were no sisters involved.
that kind of a man
dressing around
the The SISTER CITY SERIAL KILLER
goes between the towns
he finds them sisters
in those cities
look um up and
down
and turns a smile to a frown
as quick as he's found
that SISTER CITY SERIAL KILLER
my reason for bringing up this man
is that he. he travels in a van.
from different sister cities
and when I say sister cities
I don't mean them cities
sittin sitter next to eachothers
I mean the cities that are
sister cities across the world
and this vanned old man
in his green and yellow and white
he'll take the girl
drive through the day and drop her off in the night
somewhere around the desert
out there where there is nothin left
nothin for her, nothing for him
nothin for the vultures
that's what The SISTER CITY SERIAL KILLER
does
he leaves nothing
except
for a van
and now that van is a museum piece
it's a piece of work that we
academics
can stand up against, step back on
lean our hats on
274 women were killed in that van
at least in his imagination.
In fact only one was
and that SISTER CITY SERIAL KILLER
never made it to another city
there were no sisters involved.
Audiofiled: The Hawk
a hawk on the light pole
hey hawk we are driving underneath you
aren't you disturbed?
isn't your brutal and
attentive gaze
going to shoot and kill all of us
all of us beneath you
hey hawk
haven't you jumped and
flown and eaten
and destroyed more than any of us combined
aren't you larger than any of us can be?
Hey Hawk
aren't you the winged creature
that has no conscience and just knows what needs
to be done
a fancy flame in a fickle fire an
open door
letting out the fear , the ire
alone
among others alone
we all mimic
a hawk dance
but we are hawks without wings that
once flew
and now
sit and wait and watch
with our intense gaze our
unrelenting gaze and without
the ability to fly
hey hawk we are driving underneath you
aren't you disturbed?
isn't your brutal and
attentive gaze
going to shoot and kill all of us
all of us beneath you
hey hawk
haven't you jumped and
flown and eaten
and destroyed more than any of us combined
aren't you larger than any of us can be?
Hey Hawk
aren't you the winged creature
that has no conscience and just knows what needs
to be done
a fancy flame in a fickle fire an
open door
letting out the fear , the ire
alone
among others alone
we all mimic
a hawk dance
but we are hawks without wings that
once flew
and now
sit and wait and watch
with our intense gaze our
unrelenting gaze and without
the ability to fly
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
BEGGARS
Look. I know what's been said, but I need
to confess. I've been a ring-bearing
weight-wearing man. a full grown man
but now the devil has taken me over.
Done. I've seen too many wrongs to make
a writing. a righting that will
let me let go but. but no, I have
no excuse for this little dance.
This little dance alone.
I took something that I used to
have, the first moment, the first
time and I changed it and screwed
it into a crack faced sculpture
and, in my subconcious, when I
listen, I will always hear that
broken promise with this songs
with my ring on the desk, betrayed.
to confess. I've been a ring-bearing
weight-wearing man. a full grown man
but now the devil has taken me over.
Done. I've seen too many wrongs to make
a writing. a righting that will
let me let go but. but no, I have
no excuse for this little dance.
This little dance alone.
I took something that I used to
have, the first moment, the first
time and I changed it and screwed
it into a crack faced sculpture
and, in my subconcious, when I
listen, I will always hear that
broken promise with this songs
with my ring on the desk, betrayed.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
HEADACHE
Oh, you great destroyer.
You big wholup dollup of cancer cream
dripping down my nose and into
my tearing eyes. up and down
my eyes. I can't even look up at the screen.
you clocked ticker, you ant kicker
you awful truth inspiring astringent.
a rockinghorse of
contentment and continents
of daylit consonance
backlit to giggle.
and a fancy dance
on prancer and
dawner and vixen.
an august clip
an awful decagon
an apple upon
the head arrowed
sweetly in halves that
fall into your
open hands.
like sign language
gesture of reading
a silent gestation
a vacant wave
that crushing typhoon
an earful of brains
collected in a spoon
and slurped right
back up a gain
a re membering like
a mallet striking the
harmonious chime of
the glockenspiel
of our mind and
a rewind of the
casette tape
a reset of time
and again
a chime
I'm giving up
on this backlit
world of dancing
and romancing
and clapping/slapping
spinning. I'm looking
for the inside of
eyelids and a wordless
wonderless world
like the closeing together
of your signing hands
to show the story's over
this destroying is done
You big wholup dollup of cancer cream
dripping down my nose and into
my tearing eyes. up and down
my eyes. I can't even look up at the screen.
you clocked ticker, you ant kicker
you awful truth inspiring astringent.
a rockinghorse of
contentment and continents
of daylit consonance
backlit to giggle.
and a fancy dance
on prancer and
dawner and vixen.
an august clip
an awful decagon
an apple upon
the head arrowed
sweetly in halves that
fall into your
open hands.
like sign language
gesture of reading
a silent gestation
a vacant wave
that crushing typhoon
an earful of brains
collected in a spoon
and slurped right
back up a gain
a re membering like
a mallet striking the
harmonious chime of
the glockenspiel
of our mind and
a rewind of the
casette tape
a reset of time
and again
a chime
I'm giving up
on this backlit
world of dancing
and romancing
and clapping/slapping
spinning. I'm looking
for the inside of
eyelids and a wordless
wonderless world
like the closeing together
of your signing hands
to show the story's over
this destroying is done
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