Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Flat C

sippin purple coffee
readin the paper
still a litterthug
there is no stopping anyway
as the ice caps melt
and the earth's rotation comes under threat
the only movement is to stay in step
one day we'll walk sideways
and gravity will give way to oopsisian colonies of what will be called life
then i snapped a polaroid of a man pulling polo roidrage
and wished i could get that damn void
to pay me back
"Computer Judas rather view it through the tube in his brain"

Wednesday, April 6, 2016

Bullets Rang

the morning started slow
like many other mornings
50 percent chance of rain and thunderstorm warnings
there's a 50 percent chance of everything if you tilt the glass sideways
and look through past the other side beyond the meadow
and a chance of rain means a chance of rainbows
to someone else, somewhere else

because i rose today so nervous today my knees were shaking
i have to make it to the center of the city before making
my rounds so that i can stay alive tomorrow
beg, cheat, steal, cuz there's nothin left to borrow

and then my phone rang and Bullets Rang simultaneously
and everything went pitch blue
and the last thing i ever heard was, "Did It Hit You?"

i think it hit me
and i think there's at least one person to miss me
and i'm not sure where i am, but i have a question:
 Where do You think i Was?

Cute Suffering On Display

Acute Despair
Headtop losing hair
Power and Abuse aren't an exclusive pair

Back, Crack, at long last, Acute Relief
Now it's just Me and my lil cute beliefs
Really no reason to be losin sleep

Practice Patience, the Absolute Nothing
that oversees what we think we see in stuff/things
little victories versus infinite suffering

Thursday, September 24, 2015

I just did the math
it's somewhere around
6,000mg of tar a year

Friday, September 18, 2015

Trouble Truth Pain

I learned to lie later than most
and to be guilty early and often
Honesty came easy
Trouble, much the same

guts spilled on sidewalk cracks
soaked into stained cigarette butts
and splashed onto the slackjaw faces of bystanders and friends

Truth precedes absence
and absence precedes Pain
I'd take a stage over a shoulder
to cry on all the same

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Is dave a zapatista yet?

joints in the garage
phallic remarks
choking laughter

      gas mask with a history
                       dinner bell ringing

i always felt the naive child there
never proven

         forever aloof on
            the outer edge of
              the inner circle of
                 a splintered bit of
                   petrified wood somehow representative of

utopic dreams and joints in the garage

Friday, November 14, 2014

21st century St. Louis

Baby mama turbulence
Gary gets a lot of play
Oh, and an impending riot.

Monday, September 8, 2014

Dream of the DJ who lost his equipment

The tech he needed
and all the world's time
escaped This Man
as he dozed off
on his mom's couch
dreaming unquiet dreams
of hip hop.
His turntables and
His MPC drum machine
-that he had spilled beer on at shows
that he had beat against his head in a passionate rage
at shows-
was left festering
in a spare dim room
in old rural Minnesota someplace near Duluth.
He got a DUI that year
driving an El Dorado
with outdated plates
in an unseasonably warm
thirty two degree
touring winter.
He was slammin down his third OE forty ounce
swerving, our dude jolted onto the shoulder
then into a tree,
there the cop found him,
a slightly chubby deejay in a ditch
on the road
with only a semblance of a mission.

Rudy bailed him out
two days later.
In exchange he gave Rudy the DJ equipment he was touring with
and caught the Megabus home.
Rudy was always curious about the art form,
the effortless use of pre made beats
booming bass over a PA.
Rudy had had enough of this man,
enough of these desperate calls,
So he finally ditched the friendship
but kept the equipment.

Now our old homie
sleeps on his mom's comfy couch
dreaming of new turntables
between two part-time jobs
In Des Pere
where the river is a drainage ditch
and there a bunch of dreams
on myriad mom's couches
by various different sons.

Saturday, August 30, 2014

The Real End of that Line

We can have everything
From the blanket-glow
And a can of beer.

Streets stirred with revolution
Stirred from bloody pavement
The spoken shout
And the shattered glass
Of a rage wrestling for voice
In the undulating Sunday night.

Midnight comes and goes
Like Coast to Coast FM
Through the mind of a real-world-timid-schizophrenic
A schizophrenic transistor radio

The potent pill
Alice’s bane
Lewis Carroll’s real world epilepsy
Janis Joplin’s loneliest beltbuckle,
The cocaine dead popstar,
Questing for the quest
At the end of that line

We towed.

the writing life

u always hear those statements
in the author's biographical snippets...
then they started writing...
they were published...
they were writers...
And how were they published?
And who the hell dared publish them
And how? How?

Monday, August 18, 2014

An Arkansas of the Mind

I hear that there's an Arkansas of the mind
in a fishing hollow
where the bluegill glean green and piss yellow
and the modern country music
is both insidious and totally innocent.
Where the dreams are strung up on blocks
like rusted front yard trucks,
and every nicety
is a hidden indictment.
The country musicians of St. Louis
tired of fighting riot police
wonder much about this place
somewhere between Little Rock and Ozark.
The rolling ozarks
Green in the summer
Like the lake's hidden and lush algae,
sticky like a bum's sweat
over a shitty winter flannel
Lush with lakeside retirees.

The race relations there too,
a damnable mystery,
or so I hear.

I've never been there-
have you?