CASINOTOWNPOETS

2012-01-26T15:06:00.000-08:00

breaking shackles of time
imposed by resources and rat race
to sit here
in slow place, slow pace slow day
realizing lost prisms
of shattered reality
listless
ennui rapturous
from the other side.

2012-01-24T10:27:00.000-08:00

"love my love my careless love
I only want to lay with you"
-Bonnie Prince Billy

My brain is coming unwound again
I slept too long too much last night dreaming of you
with you lying on my chest,
an exquisite calm for this vast torrent.

My brain is coming unwound again
The coffee can never be strong enough
to pull me together
The colors blur and slur and swirl
amidst my racing head
Yet you ease me.
You come so that we may be each others pillows
In these eras of doubt and discomfort.
I want to be the same for you
I just want to reassure you to be calm in the middle of your vast torrents.
Damnit
I
am trying
Yea we are sure trying
and for that i am grateful
for I know that I've earned the right
To know you in this way.

2012-01-23T14:19:00.000-08:00

all this love i've found for everybody
sometimes i have to pull it out of the abyss,
the city,
the beer,
the crazy,
and whatnot.
it's easy to forget about
or overlook
but man damnit it's there.

mumbling epiphanies

2012-01-21T11:59:00.000-08:00

the future lusts for our limbs
we will carve gorgious streaks of marvelous reanimation trailing jet-like across the sky.
we will whittle joy out of pain
scream hip-hop to dead pavement
utter bold epitaphs to death
with some sick beat trailing behind us
some delicate folk song mumbling epiphanies.

through the lookingglass

2012-01-17T12:08:00.001-08:00

so it seems we were meant to frollick
in the deepest tunnels of surrendered lust
and love trailing us close behind.
companionship, regards, decisive decisions
moments of lapse and re-uptake.
we will find what we are looking for,
we will treck this gorgious naked continent
and wreak havoc on those who destroy her.
this is my song to you;
unabashed optimism,
ragged affection;
darlings, babies and the quelling of lonely nights,
we will have it
it will be ours
it will be attained.
;
have confidence
my love have the brashest faith
know our moments will endure
as we coddle up beside each other
for the millionth and millionth time
creeping slothlike into nights
uncertainty and deep black bliss
we will hear crickets of romance
chirping for us
following through the lookingglass
(the looking glass is a shared intimacy)
and we will make it
we will make it
we will make it out the otherside alright.

break glasses/wreak havoc

2012-01-03T14:13:00.000-08:00

I WANT TO KNOCK THINGS OVER IN PUBLIC
TO WREAK HAVOC
TO BREAK GLASSES
AND BLEED EVERYWHERE!

coming out (mad pride?)

2012-01-03T14:11:00.000-08:00

i wonder if i too
could own up to the courage and unabashedness of such a proclamation.

i wonder if i too
could thrawrt shame.

i am curious
as to what constitutes a malady
and what is pride.

wheretofor shame?

to admit
and not to be shy.

Post-Modern Life is Warfare

2012-01-03T14:06:00.000-08:00

Now--;
the soothing music plays softly
in the quiet heated place
where folks come to hide and be quiet and slow.

But to get here
you need only take
the violent speeding highway
full-up with crater-sized ditches adjacent to tiny jarring barrels,
and malicious tailgaters
hustler billboards
and all degree of buzzing and flashing lights,
raging hatred
and shielded eyes.

Oh america, i am slogging through your muck and clogging your steel arteries
i am filling your crater-sized ditches with malice.
now i am calm
but i will not forget
nor readily depart thusly from my anxiety
nor from my erstwhile rage.

Long Live the Party.

2012-01-03T13:59:00.000-08:00

So the folks go to the park
to burn a flag
as my soul and body
get drunk and woozy
i straggle back
and recollect...

so many gifts of food and drink
records playing vigorously, flip-flopping quick
gary raps about rapping
with a faux-diamond mic chain hung round his neck.

The guys on acid squirm, squeal and squall
i am getting drunker
remembering less
will regret via headache in the morning
the life i am living tonight.
all the colors flashing and dancing
food and a lot of booze on the table.

buzz, excitement,
stir, whir
,click clang

getting exhausted as the page of night turns
insular clusterfuck and friend warmth.

Demands-met.
Night-slowly victorious.
It can't wait for morning.

musick in case you like listening to friends

2012-01-01T21:22:00.001-08:00

green bee sides by barely free

2011-12-31T17:25:00.000-08:00

i feel best when absolved by
my contradictions.

like

2011-12-25T21:40:00.000-08:00

got friends who ride rails and the hardest bikes
my hood's been taken over by artist-types!
i'm half irish-catholic, half hipster kike
quicker! quick! quicker! take the picture, sike!

2011-12-25T15:17:00.000-08:00

talkin shit on a pretty sunset
counting the strands from the suburbs.

2011-12-19T10:56:00.001-08:00

so we are doomed to never cross paths in our suffering
you say.
we are just these isolated molecules scuttling near each other
but never colliding,
island planets circling each other,
broken songs on opposite ends of the forest.

so then will we never truly be together
you and i
if we suffer alone?
or can we lend shoulders and thighs
hearty soup of comfort
when others leave or misunderstand...?
what is the meaning of these wretched spells?
what zealous god or demon haunts our emotions
or our firing neurons?
how do we find solace when the words of experience have been drained from us?

So i will have coffee alone in the morning
amidst a burning world
try to answer these questions in vain
and search doggedly for the haunted format of yr pain.
may we at least hold hands or kiss.
may we form other bonds besides that of isolate suffering.
may we occasionally overlap.
i want you to know i want to on some level understand you
that's why i pour so much into being with you...
may we awake just this often in the morning intertwined
sleeping late
unbothered
may we share more
(i want to share everything but if that's not possible, then more)
may we...

out, in, to space!

2011-12-19T10:46:00.000-08:00

sleak, sinking feeling of omniparanoia
wretched ratchets hacking at baking racks
an internal myth, addressed, shipped & packed
the end of the end of the end of the endoscopic research
and all the knees that hurt
the one two three four lines in the floor
the fortunate feeling of no-being, no-more
quoth the pigeon, in sloppy disgust
a world without chaos, a world without trust
a friend calls it joy, a friend calls it faith
facepainting mistakes allover the place
tasting the faintest most quaint typa stake
right into the infinite, out into space

out, in, to space
out
in
to space
out
in
to space
out out
into space
out in
in
to space

this iSn't a race
to forego the path, to forget the waste or forgive in haste
quit eating the paste and sniffing the glue
i'm not talking to him, i'm talking to you
holed up in bars, hold up yer role
hold up yer hands, show what they stole
know what you know
i'm just here to make friends
the ones who do dances nd burn they ends
let's hold up banks til we in depends
til then, once again,
"um, no officer, i don't know that man"

PLeaze Help ME.

2011-12-16T17:57:00.000-08:00

despite the night terrors
where i woke up groaning and wimpering
sunshine has been keeping me up for days.
just to be sane,
not normal
just not falling apart
don't get me wrong i understand and believe the insanity fetish
but now
snuggling into my own mind like a pair of slippers
i feel so good i could destroy the world-as-we-know-it
and build a new one in the ashes.
(pleaz help me)...
.

wind

2011-12-15T09:29:00.000-08:00

i write. a lot. and i can say that wit a face so straight, you'd swear ice-t was doing his best imitation. it's windy. and what the fuck do you know? you ever felt the sting of a thousand angry w(hite)a(nglo)s(axon)p(rotestant)s gnawing at yer precious gut? maybe. and what's a mountain FEEL in the rain? a myth. there was nothing left in the box, so we pitched it. left it, really. a skull, two bones, and a fat white woman dragging a cross down MLK. it's not even noon, i've been up for hours. i'd be honored if you'd join me, if i had any ounce of honor left. i spent the last of it a week ago in portland smoking joints. i get re-upped on the 8th, though. this wind iS a modern man's dream. us old schoolers, papers flapping, arthritic hands aching every letter written, let our hearts hurt openly in it. i don't even remember you, your physical presence. but that's no jab, i wish i did. i wish we could all always enjoy joy. and i'm saving my third wish for a bargaining chip with my critics. though i'll prolly get high and waste it on more wishes. eternity seems like a long. fucking. time. and everywhere i go with you, all that stops anyway. but, if we were to do this for a really long time, i wouldn't be upset. not upset like when i got told pete's legs got chopped off. not upset like a poet with no words and plenty of paper. not accustomed to this much sun. this, like all others, iS a rough draft. i'm into the unfinished. the thought that can't just be stated and instantaneously responded to. the tree's roots, so to speak. the wind's disposition, strong and unwavering. my gut iS a stress microprocessor, the updated model. feeds off the shit like i dream off the grid. catch me if you can. i want to read this to you constantly. at bus stops in multiple cities. i want the dogs to know, but, just so you know, i don't plan on telling a word. my feet hurt, and i'm strangely uncomfortable. i wanna grow stuff with you, learn to enjoy the taste of wildflowers, teach you what little i know of poetry. be crafty. make crafts at least.
embrace the terrible. i don't need to be known, i just need some relief. the kind i don't catch on tours. or in spirits (american or plastic bottles). there's nothing more american than plastic bottles, and if you saw me in yer dreams, i'd love to hear about it. really, i just don't want my book of notes to sail away when i stop to crack knuckles. that's all. never a dull moment, today i've woken up, gone #2 6 times, eaten an apple, a rice cake and some beans, talked to my father, read, and written this. so far... i'm sure womyn don't think of me as no outlaw, no savvy criminal wit enough sex to sport constant beard. i don't flaunt tattoos on sleek, strong muscle. shit, i can barely swim. but i'll tell you the truth for free, and make no one do no thing. this iS my path. when i started writing, i had no friends and knew nothing of writing. it's safe to say that's changed for now, insofar as my now iS as safe now as it was then, ya dig? pianos. waves. the world's biggest microwave. 46 chromosomes, a cigarette butt, 6 bottle caps, some sticks and another cigarette butt. no answers. the tourists run amuck here, and i don't even know where i am. shooting the no-dope in my no-veins. getting real tired. dozing off occasionally. but can't shut lids. this wind iS heading dangerously close to that ocean over there. but we don't piss in it, cuz they got public bathrooms here. i would know. i've shit six times today, you can't quench my thirst for attention. i can't stop thinking of sean. and i can't believe my surroundings. the 1st nite, it scared me to tears. last nite, i slept 10 hours. by tuesday, i'll be clearing jungle for a room and a bed. and some day, i'll finish my masterpiece. and only one of those iS a lie. i can put it to ya like this, u don't own me. and even if you did, the market's low on me right now, what with me trying for some peace of mind, or at least just keep a piece of mine, and all these other cliches, like looking for help in all the right places and smoking copious amounts of medical marijuana on the west coast. that's all boring these days, you gotta make rap videos where you hang yerself and tweet and shit. you gotta humblebrag as postmodernly as possible and be a 5-tool player, a multi-sport star, just to be considered a valued commodity. well, last time i thought about hanging myself i was 13 and i couldn't even tie my shoes, and if i could keep it that way like i keep yer secrets, my future aint all that bright.
flapping tree leaves and she makes me like canned corn again. all this would amaze me if i didn't know her. gusts must be up around 40 miles per hour right now. i'm shaking in my hammock's boots, and if these boots had eyes, then these walls were made for walkin on. and work iS a terrible thing to waste on a job. studies have shown, that if you quit yer job today and focus on yer health and well-being, yer crazy. seriously effed up in the head. i read that on a blog, so it has to have some truth, even though the government tried to cover it up. twice. but that only sells books these days. shit if i could sell one book for the price they charge at border's in the political revolution section, i could be happy for weeks. assuming i get to keep my food stamps. otherwise, $34.95 can barely get you a shit-encrusted sushi app on yer smartphone. i'm dumbfounded, i found my stupid. it's silly and makes up names for things that don't need names. it went vegan in college while donating plasma and got diagnosed with appendicitis, the cause of which iS a known unknown. it don't believe in opposites which iS the opposite of what i believe. but it can smile on weekends and eat whatever it wants, so i'm intimidated. i'd bore you another, but a womyn resembling my moms just passed and i'm sick, headed homein 3 weeks. i'm not sure what that man has folded up in that towel, but it sure reeks of a dead kid. just by the looks of it, there's a tent city going up at the county park we're at. i'm calling it (white) occupy kauai. what's an oceanside view without some good ole fashioned st. loser negativity. don't answer that. ignorance iS bliss.
ok, i can't hold this in any longer, there are roosters EVERYWHERE. they crow all day and night, stalking the beaches for tiny flying bugs. my pops says i'm in familiar company, but i never heard of them. do they deal in friendliness? social capital? what's their abbreviation on the nasdaq? who am i? and if i've changed so much, why can't i get rid of this voice in my head? where's all the freshwater, and how come i can't find a job? mentally well people annoy me. i'm eccentric with little energy for ego. or neo-freudian context. just write yer thesis already and be done with the dregs of struggle. i struggle wit dat errry day.
meet james, early 20's shaved head, big island lookin dude. used to smoke crystal meth. hears voices in his head. real nice. doesn't like to speak hawaiian, though he was born of this land. he thinks mahalo (thank you) sounds too much like my lalo (my dick), good enough reason for me i guess. a rooster just ran up to me kinda slowly and i'm feeling more acquainted with need-based living. i can barely ever be alone with the wind anymore, it turns my stomach in knots. and though some creatures we encounter make us think darwin was right, i still can't fathom explaining the economic divide that way. i'm twisting and turning, sitting still all at once. my power animals are all on the mainland and a balding 40-something just walked past in nothing but a speedo. he wishes he was someone else and secretly, i don't. i just want a goddamned good night's rest and a cold glass of ice water. we all want what we cannot have, that's what celebrities are made of: that moment in which we escape ourselves, transcendence abound, into a pseudohyperworld of gadgets, and g's that look like q's. cheers to you lil bain of my existence. there's a part of me that wants everyone to be hear with me. there's a part of me that knows that's foolish. and there's a part of me that wonders how the bathroom poet said it so well when he said, "HAD FUCK MY WIFE ASS"?
my notebook just survived getting wet by hiding in my hand during a windstorm. the blonde woman to my right iS not as beautiful as i originally intended to write. the wettest spot on earth iS inland about 20 miles from here, and that damn wind won't quit reminding us by blowing water out to sea. this morning, i woke at 5 AM to see the most amazing starlit sky since tahoe. ah, tahoe. there's a personage quota, we're approaching it fast, as the 1-year old reaches into a hot wok looking for what i found in a milk bottle 23 years ago. there's too much fucking talking under this pavilion and i'm seriously considering joining the rain in driving the people away. today there's been 45 minutes of sunshine, 1 foot cut, 1 hawaiian monk seal (equipped with orange koans for safety) 1 amazing counterpart and 2 doubts. my spelling of cones (koans) and my use of counterpart. i'm reading wet, torn-up Leroi Jones, well really i just read a review from playboy which states he "has actualized the struggle of one man for self confrontation". i can only help to spell cones right. and i eat conagra foods from cans, but can't complain. or explain for that matter. i'm rocking my $3 tope-a-lope hat, catching stares from warm kauaian womyn and eurotrash tourists alike. hold that thought, the womyn's still warm, but this eurotrash dude might not be so eurotrash afterall. he's playing the mandolin, a favorite of mine since that bitch ellen was truly one of my best friends. i don't even think he's european any longer. that goatee still sucks, though. i feel like amerotrash sharing my rawness with this page, and have dreams of can openers locking locksmiths in hotel rooms with beds and all i want right now iS a hug and a fucking tums. a tum? a tim? a glim, faint, or that word's grim. and we all want hope to come next but it has no purpose in this story. i want chips, too. the dentist says i need 4 teeth pulled and he can't believe i don't remember my wisdom teeth coming in. he's not european, i just heard him talk while i'm covered in rain, sunscreen and one itchy tattoo over my right breast. her breasts are amazing, tan lines abound with cute little hairs around the nipple, my backpack around her back. she's more personable than i, but assures me that makes me no less of a person. imagine this, no eurotrash man iS cool as shit. first, there was the mandolin, that was enough to bring me a fond memory of ellen (no small feat) now he just said he likes the shirt i have on, which lauren ikon made me, that says "prose before ho's". now, a lot of people have gotten a good laugh out of this shirt, but i like to tell myself that they're all cool as shit. i wish i was lying. in a bed. not just any bed. scarlette's old bed, the huge, soft thing i kept in my room for awhile. if i had my way, someone from my past would appear right now and tell me to stop writing this. closed eyes. deep breathely.
1.
2.
fucking nothing. it's strange to me to think of the ocean as being anything but west of me, which reminds me, no matter how much i travel, what i see, who i fuck, i'm still a south city kid with very little understanding of the world. and if that's gloating here, its an embarrassment elsewhere. oh, i wanted to mention this before: may all our littles become lils in the age of the text message where the average something or other does some stuff every once in awhile. it's fact, dude. i read it on wikipedia. i'm still bitter about things not worth being bitter over, like the fact that i own a 1983 chevy g20 van with my name on the title that someone else drives to work everyday. and fucking crohn's. and the 1996 playoff series against the braves where the cards were up 3-1 and lost the last 3 games by a total of like 72-3. and i liked the braves that year! but still. i wish i was lying. in a bed. with yer mom. the best poetic device i picked up from my best friend: mom jokes are still funny, and if you repeat stuff, the crowd feels more comfortable. there's 3 baby chickens hiding under a rooster who looks to young to have kids under a picnic table. i hope it's not one of those situations republicans have made infamous in which an older sibling iS forced to raise the youngens, cuz i'm not ready for talking heads to invade salt pond. oh, and i wanna set the record straight. so i push it up against the wall and it breaks. and you thought poetry was just a fad in st. louis. and you thought poetry iS for faeries and queers. i'll just clean my fingernails til you all go away and find something better to do with a beer in front of yer face.
there was a birthday party for a 100 yr old last night here, and one for an 88 yr old tonight. may i never be so lucky unless i were to be so lucky to be kinda like phil gounis iS now, at those older ages. cuz that would actually be kinda cool. younger womyn have always been attracted to me anyways. the sun iS emerging from the clouds, the kayaks are coming out, and where i want to go, they say the goats and pigs are bad and there's an airport where white people take skydiving trips on biplanes, but i wouldn't wanna jump today. sometimes, i feel bullies by the winds and the buddhas and setcho and tasty but acidic foods and the stinging smell of thick urine over even thicker cigarette smoke. if you can't tell, i'm trying to quit. again. i'll ask myself at night why people don't give a shit about poetics or zen or the ocean, and instead complain about people's feelings or hipsters or wars or other things no one's going to stop from happening. but i know the answer. most people are retards. and fat at this point. i can't even justify that last statement, it really has lil scientific background and therefore i can't stand by it much longer because the racist nazi pope would love it. oh, oh! moment of clarity. stop fucking with people you love or stop saying you love them. love has become some sort of meaningless adjective to most and i for one hate its contemporary use. overuse. do people even use love as an adjective? i always passed english with an A but in the st. louis public schools that's about as meaningless as the word love and it's contemporary overuse. don't tread on me flags are on yer team. have you ever thought of all the old cell phones in that trash heap in southern illinois? or in the southern pacific? you have now!
sorry, i'm just feeling protagonistic like nenad kristic. i miss gary. and we hung our towels to dry in the wind, but found only rain. and wind. there iS some food smelling so good right now and a baby with 4 moms screamin at it makin it scream louder, and i'm thinkin, 'why can't the word palindrome be spelled the same backwards and forwards' but words don't believe in logic. or magick. or me. as a million baby bird beaks fall from a towering tree. and the land of the paid wage slave aint so free. here's a surprise: there's a mistake! i shower in rain and look under the surface of the ocean for clues to who REALLY killed michael jordan. jackson. as a kid my favorite bull was john paxson. in california, it's illegal to put on makeup while you drive. it's called farding. you can't make this shit up.
hand on face. head in clouds. don't call it customer care if you just charge extra and can't be open on weekends. so, there's a tree, two thieves and some people speaking pigeon, eating ramen noodles. and they all lived mediocrely ever after. there's 43 reasons i shouldn't read this to you, only one of which involves a stereotype scenario in which you all try to call authorities on me, but the call gets dropped. i haven't seen one flag on kauai and i can get down wit dat as a man in a shirt reading, "if no can, no can" glides by in workboots smelling of fresh airport mall cologne. i'm listless, a rooster licks it's foot 5 feet away, another crows 50 feet further. behind-the-back-pass to cohen for 3! sunk it. a sign iS posted with the 2nd bullet reading: "no rubber balloons in restroom", guess that's no place to fill them with drugs to sneak to yer friends in prison in yer stomach, either. i don't smell great. or good, even. the wind just brought another storm in from north. it's hitting me the same as the man with tired face and keystone light can in hand close by. i don't know my neighbors back home anymore, but they probably drink keystone light when the weather gets real similar to this. we're camped out, cooped up and crouched down over tables, writing frantically, ignoring margins and reality. we're tired. i'm ill. not like a beastie boy, but more like a beaten boy. my mood iS in swing. this iS the most i've written in months. this wind may never stop. i don't really want it to. it brings with it a certain sense of godliness, that joy stuff only a cool breeze can sneeze into yer hair. and it would be so cliche to say i'm not there or i don't care. but i never really got dylan in the 1st place, and thought i once befriended the nihilsitic urge more than i can say i do today, we've got more porn than choices. voiceless prisoners with gory oratories and faceless, tasteless christians teach fashion tricks at their missions. i'm just stuck wishin, for the final wick's end of burning civilization. i knew i could bring it up if i kept you waitin. so cockel-doodle-doo, and fuck it i'm dope, she was cussin me out, i was kissin her throat, make so many damn songs, it's makin me broke, why the fuck's my damn shampoo bottle say the word hope? where's that rope? nope. i tried to tie a knot and it broke. i scan kauaian radio while kauai county pigs take away a man i cannot exactly call a friend from his tent in front of his family. the womyn cry and i long for ice. not crystal meth. and not to infer he was taken away for that drug somehow so viciously rampant on paradise. and i reflect. and it's gard for me to write. because what the fuck's a struggle without a real life witness to strife? and who the fuck am i to know another's plight? the joke's on me, a rooster without a hook. and i'll leave one blank page in my lil green book.

be crooks.

2011-12-12T10:05:00.000-08:00

Qualitative transformation of life elements.

DESTROY+CREATE
DESTROY+CREATE.

sometimes anymore the only sense I can make out of anything

2011-12-12T09:51:00.000-08:00

At bottle works
(a restaurant)
A bit fancy for my sub-working class blood
But hey we are going out tonight
We are treating ourselves
You are already a bit drunk
And have just got the word ‘cunt’ tattooed inside your lip.
I am drinking a draft beer
With my traditional looking cherry blossom just tattooed
On my left fore-arm,
The bandage just off.
I am starting to watch the lights have streaks and tracers
And gradually feeling uneasy
Eating my vegetarian chicken enchiladas.
We leave after saying goodbye to my friend
The busboy, jennifur
Talking of potential solidarity actions.
We start the drive across town to see the movie
Pick up some beer
Man the lights are really starting to buzz
And my limbs feel detached from each other.
You pick up on this through some marvelous intuition
Ask how I’m feeling
‘pretty out of it’ I say coyly
And in a few minutes it has gotten worse.
I can hardly feel my body I feel so detached,
And the lights are glowing orbs.
You make sure I know that I can back out of the movie at any minute
‘I know’ I say
And so I do.
As we drive home to your place so I can lay down.
I wander in and out of that feeling I had just described
You pet and pat my head
Gently rubbing and scratching my neck
Say how I fixed your tire last week for you
How you want to be there for me like that
What part of me can make sense of words is flattered and touched.
We get to your house after what seems like somewhere between lightning quick and forever
Your roommates are there making a ruckus and watching movies.
You show them your lip
I go lay down
You lay tenderly besides me
I drift off to sleep early.
We sleep a lot
Almost twelve hours
I wake up to a fresh dream about the rubble of my old workplace
And in the dream I successfully slit my wrists
It was bleeding all over
But now it is late morning
I am conscious
You hold me and offer to make breakfast
You sometimes anymore the only sense I can make out of anything,
Any of this ole’ mess.

A PILE OF RUST

2011-12-08T19:54:00.000-08:00

a pile of rust
a pile of dust
rotting in the rotten world,
so,
heretofor
my mind wired berzerkly
as with a brain with no food to feed,
we have been abandoned
with no form of former reality left to fend...
The fruit trees spoil
the gardens whither
august's thought yield no comfort nor yield,
we are kindly the abandoned kind.
But the weather entices and slithers down my senses
as i think for a moment i could put back together my mind.

a pile of dust
a pile of rust,
whithered, desperate, disparate,
detached,
no home
free to roam
in the most post-glacial wilderness headspace we could ever pray to have.

a pile of dust
a pile of rust
the city is insane as i am
the folks eat each other alive
the spaceships crash landed in nowhere AMERIKA'

once again;
a pile of dust
a pile of rust
hell no, we was hardly ever kin;

and THIS will be therapy in the 4th dimension;
a pile of dust a pile of rust;
when i write this i can make my sadness look like whatever i want,
now ain't that fuckin' somethin'?!

a pile of rust
a pile of dust
seatbelts strapped on, now for this ride we are truly locked in;

a pile of rust
a pile of dust,
now let us begin!

slanted sky...

2011-12-08T19:09:00.000-08:00

SLANTED Sky;

DILLAPITATED Day;

SOMBER Vibrant;

HAZY Jane;

DISPARATE Yearning;

MARKET Crash;

LOVE Thing;

End of Story.

2011-11-16T02:28:00.000-08:00

stuck battling in a mental war chasm
pain so explicit i can barely imagine
another long sleepless night
where snakes from nightmares slither and bite.
my diagnosis still seems like a waking dream
some far-out conspiracy psychiatric scheme
but look on my records, schizophrenia is what they mean.
now neorosis isn't as easy to explain as it seems
a boy born beneath a maligned sign with a not-so-subtle pyschotic disease
too much seratonin got me mad railing
with waking nightmares, delusions so distinct
so i drink, write, think to keep in check my crazy.
crass, what have you been doing today?
just staying in bed watching shadows dance, talk and play
but the neorosis doesnt always stick--
some days it waxes and wanes
so i'll always be tantalized by some sort of saner way to stay.

like the longest winding twilight i fight to ward off the night
desperate for vision desperate for sight
descending from this meandering light.

my mind twists like the wind in fragmented shattered pigments,
for me,
everyday is a mental war, no one can tell me no different,
so i go through the motions, split on mental faultlines
long gone goes the sense of linear time
just another hour by hour play by play of a desperate, reeling mind
where the medicine i hate gives me the only stability i could hope to find.

like the longest winding twilight i fight to ward off the night
desperate for vision desperate for sight
descending from this meandering light.

2011-10-17T07:00:00.000-07:00

Is you sittin pretty
in the wild west
city of atlantis
i grant this rhyme
to you as i smoke
out an open window
thinkin of mad beats
while autumn leaves
flowin through st.
louis streets i play
games but not for
keeps,just to keep
my heart beatin
dead folks in my
right ear speakin
of a time when the
crime to love was
not criminal make love
all day was the word
and the word was not
subliminal but now its
digital and nothin seems
real anymore but i
remember to breathe
as i walk out the door
into the wild wild
world
what does it have
in store? when i find
out i'll let ya know
for sure and when i
find you i'm gonna nail
you right to the floor
til then i will spin in
circles with the wind
looking for my beginning
while the world comes to
its end

2011-10-16T15:30:00.000-07:00

time in the morning
to look at life laid before me
like a jezebel mistress
there is no witness
to the power of my
imagination, waitin
for the day when i leave
this incarnation
in a living space-age-nation
failure only comes if
ya lose yr patience
so take this
as a waking-hour seance
a morning meeting with
the maker of nothing but
the good stuff
i look hard enough
but the cuff upon my collar
keeps me from biting off my
tongue, before i say a word
i take a toke into my lungs
love, love, love
is nothin but a song sung
and then the bell rung
i heeded to its toll
went searching for the tower
and found nothing but the troll
he said ive waited here for you
now come give me yr soul
he didnt realize i gave it
to a woman long ago
she was a woman of the waters
stealing wishes from the dead
but there was truth in what she said
when she said "its in yr head"
so i cut the whole thing open
and looked out through my mind
only to find that i have been
dreaming this whole time
Rewind
back to reality
oh, there goes coop she
always smoking weed and
lookin for the big scoop
snoop snoop
like a little dog on a collar
lookin for the next best
thing to make a couple
dollars, holler at me
if you wanna swaller bottles of
cheap gin i guess i ain't ballin
but that word aint even relevant
if i was anything i think
i would be fallopian
i say that with a grin
cause my ma thinks its a sin
for me to love a woman
but thats been my only heaven
yes i'll say that once again, ma
women is my heaven
and if yr jesus wanna speak
he can call, i aint callin him
all i'd say is i knew
some men with yr resemblance
and if you did some DMT maybe
you could capture this : the world ain't
made of anything except for it's own
consciousness, anyone can twist their
words into a sentence the trouble is
thay cant do it with any bit
of truthfulness..
i see, i say, i sigh
and the only thing i
wanna do now is get high..

not fuckin wit billionaires...

2011-10-12T10:21:00.000-07:00

in the sky, not a man or a plane, it's a fuckin bird

savin up for a knife so i can rob Mark Zuckerberg

ya heard?

7 parts (in which the poet reveals most, if not all)

2011-10-11T17:03:00.000-07:00

part I

in which any old blogger can churn out a poem on self-inflicted deadline day

& all obvious observations aside, a parrot perched in the passenger-side backseat, refusing to eat, sleep or drink until his brother iS released from prison on grounds that he was falsely accused of embezzling money by hosting a fake auction in franklin county, misery, iS not a martyr.

and to kanye west & the like: "even if you in a benz, you still a nigga, in a coup."

just sayin.

part II

in which the poetic medium cannot be functioning properly if any ashley with an inch of itch in her womyn can just hop online and post pseudoprophecies on why lovers in love should have quit loving their loved ones a long, motherloving time ago if they had any goddamned sense.

but then again, any mother loving time that often should be damned by one of them christian's gods, you know them ones that be allknowing and shit. yeah. them. cause that sounds real.

part III

in which every passage starting with "in which" shall be disregarded as gimmick, trickery & hoodwinking at its finest. a real tragedy endured by the poetic population of the semipoetic nation of semiopaths, some of which whom all do some things okay, some of which do no thing well, and some of which aren't apart of the sum in its whole at any point of importance other than that one time one screamed, "help" in the middle of a trainstation before being bombarded by blank stares of software developers who just missed the shuttle to the convention.

part IV

in which we have to wonder, if antigravity & gravity matter & antimatter, then aren't the odds in our favor to parlay the three team teaser & finish the script in time to realize, with supreme authority, and no matter how fast herman cain's twitter page picks up followers, that the grand ole party of reaganites ain't gonna run no black dude against a black dude for that job?

part V

in which we all occasionally stray away from the tongue of our natives in order to strike up a chaotic fury in our hometown or the hometown of the kids we went to high school with, depending on which came first, the event or the decompression. no, you wouldn't know.

part VI

in which it all starts to blur together, like we weren't supposed to see that or something. there are these moments, outside of poetic reflection, somewhere between your lymph nodes & your yellow teeth, where all questions & comments can be posted for eventual review by the board of directors at your local S&M lodge during sunday brunch

part VII

in which the last line iS the last line, with no ifs ands or maybes to butt their way in.
and it reads,

there's a poetry out there for us, every lost, dissipating light looking for a darkness to hide in.

2011-10-11T16:58:00.000-07:00

setting: thrift store, santa barbara, ca

"excuse me, iS that trash can outside for sale?"

"what?"

"that trash can outside, i like it, iS it for sale?"

"no, it's a trash can."

"oh."

"so where do you buy cans to put your trash in?"

"we have some back in the back."

"oh."

2011-10-10T16:26:00.000-07:00

in the last desperate last cheesy cafe
the last words were muttered at the last open mic
on the last bored avenue among the last sunken observer
waiting eagerly
for just this chance to sign.
fallen heroes of every little bohemia
in every city
do our stanzas fall even on the angry proportions of critique?

the sun sets
the final pabst or dark coffee plunges aptly down the last gullet
where are we going?
there are so many avenues of nothing
so much scenic desolation
so much love wrenched from the pages of obscurity.
you will never be on a wilco album
def jux doesn't want you.
summon up your failures and obscurity as a monstrous dagger
post modernism is vomiting out your irony
your cities are gentrifying faster than you can ride a fixed gear
is it empire, oblivion or oblivious.?

cherish this fuzzy feeling whatever it is
it might be all we get
till we summon ourselves to storm the gates
wanting so much more...

2011-10-10T16:10:00.000-07:00

you can attempt to wrench death from my sordid clutched hands
but you'll never take the poetry of things away from me.

...>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>I SWEAR.

2011-10-10T15:49:00.000-07:00

chillingly gorgeous dusk of falldying colors.
a multiplicity of emotions.
i make coffee
feel conflicted
and in my own way gorgeous.
the neighborhood rattles rips and wars,
too roars,
i censor my lust and insanity
for purposes of making this poem scenic,
yet obviously it doesn't work.
i must revamp myself every few seconds
i flutter and flip.
how nice in this desperate dying world
to whittle poems on a sunsetting porch
and dream of revolt.
will this be our own cool autumn
whispered in a lustrous cadence
a booming attempt at transforming things,
once again
once again
where do we go from here
spilling our rage into a funnel,
it comes out the other end,
violence and war breaking out daily
we stay insulated and pray the news doesn't scathe us
it is not working
things are emerging
the bubble is bursting
the desperate the depraved
even the dingy are coming knives out.
i contemplate this changing of seasons as the sun sets.
wheretofor days of rage
nights of...rage.
we lunge we launch
we whisper escapades to the dead metropolis grid
we desire a voice
how far are we willing to go for such?
how desperate are we?
thought streams of a person without a country now
upon the downslide of that which used to try and claim me.

2011-10-10T07:07:00.000-07:00

if i ever meet that dirty policeman who roughed you up..
i, i dont know what...
if i ever meet that dirty policeman who roughed you up...

i'll be with you lost boys,
sneaking off to where the shivers wont find you.

- annie clark a k a st vincent

what are the odds?

2011-10-01T09:41:00.000-07:00

what are the odds that we stop asking what are the odds?

misplaced

2011-10-01T09:39:00.000-07:00

this ain't conspiracy

or theory

it's poetry

so, can you help me?

i seem to have misplaced my illuminati...

"who the hell was that?"

2011-10-01T09:34:00.000-07:00

if i could chat with my former college professors now

i'd tell them, "fuck off, i'm going to kauai!"

& run away cackling

and they'd say,

"who the hell was that?"

punctuation

2011-10-01T09:32:00.000-07:00

and then i think:

if they locked away,

why am i on the street?

snore more years

2011-10-01T09:17:00.000-07:00

the too-trill tuba player

& all the fact-checking blue lions

naked as i write, butt-to-butt with beauty & beast

i'm a shave today

after i save today

push stop on tomorrow, push play today

sew this on for size:

2 few new papercuts in eyes

along with three and a half trips to the store

and 4 more years just like the last 4.

snore.

2011-09-23T17:52:00.001-07:00

the brightest burning
most ecstatic
star.

restraint?

2011-09-17T12:10:00.000-07:00

i want to restrain my crazy,
to put it on a leash
that's why i take my medicine
religiously
to coddle it against a collar,
it's alright to be wild and excited and fucked up
in punk rock or primivitism,
but with these thoughts
i am in need of control,
a trait which exhausts and eludes me frequently,
so i take sollace in the things that are out of control
green haired angel- tells me about constant drugs
suicide plans, and expectations
in a falling apart punk house
and i am calmed and unleashed.
somedays, i think it's best to ignore everything
to subsume it in romance, niceties or a tender routine.
lonely, no longer,
poet, guilty as charged,
crazy, unhinged, not even as much as i might sometimes think
yet more than you will ever know,
do i own it?
create an identity out of it?
what else is there to do?
does it cheapen it?
but i need to express, casting line and bait out for a chance of a bite.
the bite is to be understood.
just for a moment.
so i do all these things i am questioning
as moods, temperature of destruction
and the damned landscape all fluctuate,
i still fixate on life/blood and how to mean what i say
and risk sounding ridiculous, attempting love to boot.
how cliche
how uninteresting
how much better it would be to be someone else
in a parallel planet,
someone dapper and emotionless,
but here i am on this shabby earth
with my guts, my emotions, my crazy, my take on anarchy,
this rollicking confessional, my friends,
and that's about it.

2011-09-16T22:44:00.000-07:00

i swear my brain cells
are killing themselves

i swear my brain cells
are killing themselves

i swear my braincells
are killing themselves

i swear my brain cells are killing themselves but then again you know i'm always kidding myself.

2011-09-15T21:43:00.000-07:00

i know you know you were
breaking my heart when you told
me lets go kid, get in the car
and we went for a drive but
didnt get very far

before light sputtered out
across the dashboard
and there were no more signs
they were buried in the yard
and you were all bloody, I was
just a broken glass shard;

there was no question asked
except how we would pay
the punishing cost of what
we let get away
"get away get away get away
from me" was all i could say..

(i know you can't stand livin'
especially livin' with me,
you think i told everyone
that i think yr crazy,
but i didnt have to say a word
they know we both are,baby
and by the way,you didnt have to
crash the car to be killing me...)

chaos within chaos (for jorj)

2011-09-12T10:26:00.000-07:00

the best intentions, that this sketch could mention:
live free, then move on to the next dimension
(i'm) not here to spit about some bee-ess-meta-ascension
or puttin any faith in elegant internet inventions
treatin facebook like its a life-extension...

while we're stuck on their time, this iS like detention!
assumption, expectations, what's right?, pretentions
the rise & decline of commodified dissension
this iS the dawn of the fed & internationalism
we could have a world court & a gallactic prison!
let's cut all this shitfit mysticism
talk with the moon, get that magician's rhythm
to: aesthetics, intellect, convention(al), wisdom
get lost, move on, we need some distance with 'em
...set blazes, write pages, eat, steal, rest
& if i'm me, how can you tell me what's best?
armed men on the streets with a badge on they ] chest
cheat the tests, play chess, delete the stress! & end this mess

ever since i can remember they been chokin my collar

stay broke while some blokes would go & croke for a dollar
walk around toked, am i supposed to be bothered?
all these damn objects with their hollowcosts
otherwise, it's all lies, surprises & games, lost
this multiverse iS
chaos within chaos within chaos...

sweet substance

2011-09-02T18:48:00.000-07:00

oh sweetness, sweet substance
i, ensconced upon the idle afternoon
>stretched out in the sun
whilst warding off madness allthesame
(as sun shines listlessly on the messy nothing of my gone emotions)
in the mist, midst of it all
i still cannot help but ask where we are
OR
where-are-we
---going
.
i desire solitude
yet know not what it rests on
--inexplicable yearning for the moment,
unfathomable wild scribbling
a debilitating twilight
luscious desolation
swimming in amniotic stasis still
wriggling loose the noose
a noisy goodbye to eros.
yes,
where have we gone.

iS

2011-08-20T13:53:00.000-07:00

note: this iS the poem most influential to my writing, my life, my musick, etc. my brother wrote it about 4 years ago now. it's never been more amazing...

poke at the large hand of freedom's majestic chaos

hard-tosser of nautical prescriptions

supervisory performance-enhanced override of skeptical nightmarish livingscheme assassins

with coordination pending on a refusal to re-up gas-filled proprietors-- or agencies in general

imitating, i am writing a history about nothing & doing

if you are considering reading a book: try first reading the relative pride of a soldier's shoulder

breathing messiah, we breathing men

wired, bleep censored to refuse tags

as a temper-evident weary purveyor of now inhales advertisements

spoiler-ban of multi-donor particle assembly

meeting at a town in my tinsel

thin whistle, subtle silence

at the horizon

as far as light

in a simple whisper of complications

nauseating the hemisquares inbox retainer method

verification of safe, self-inflicted psychology lessons at the 400, level me

an ice cube of past melted in a bathing solar-intake of puzzle-dwelling duplexity strollers

roller skates, phenomenons, hoodlums, street bangers, insidious barfly residue as a snake giga bites ascertain fleshless universe as tactile & nonexistent as the last inception of it

and it it it, it it it, and it and it and it

and it it it

it it it

showed me that things aren't nothing & nothing iS beyond a fact

sitting in bed, living in my deadtime, typically awake when i should be sleeping, active against my will & ethics when i should be resting or creative

flashes blink a spectacle named breathing

we messiah

boundless uncontrollable & balanced against not

byproduct of some certain types of love

understanding a commitment through graying hair & clenched teeth offwhite oral tombstones below a distorted mirror sky, warm, yet perrenially drenched in moistened poison saying poor choices with a body lacking the act of overcome overcome overcome

tell not

"nothing or war?", the purveyor of how relayed as the doubt crept in deduction & truth exited the meatlocker of pill claims & the efficiency of tipping balances

of what was lost in nothing

or war

when i say nothing lasts, i mean it as a nothingness everlasting

tax-bracket of unknown cash-access

charge to the playtime

throw your grills into a pit & use promethea's evil to liberate your material self

and if anyone would like to finance my freedom

i'll be more than happy to bask in your irony

2011-08-16T15:20:00.000-07:00

the way emotion stretches
bends and yields
to accommodate a song,
sometimes deduced down to a note.
a hey-i've-been there
a familiar reckoning
a gauntlet subtly thrown-about.
where will we go after this meandering
after this ghost is chased and conquered.
we feed on the blood of experience
of voices shouted down the street
echoing in a humble haunt,
or windows of lived perception expand wildly
in need of gardening, in need of taming and weeding,
but here we have it,
the object,
the final strata-of-existing-out-on-a-limb.

creaking floorboards yearn

2011-08-08T21:20:00.000-07:00

two, two chords
strum down your cheeks
bitter melodies
turning your orbit around
-wilco

each floorboard creaks for your arrival
each second elapses a burning anticipation
each minute instance of humming of the nothing of an oblivious living room yearns for your presence.
it is the insatiable existence of an involved sort of time-(span)
which deal with desire
and satisfactions.

2011-08-05T15:41:00.000-07:00

Staring down the barrel of a black cup of coffee
its a warm muzzle
time passes slow.
I enjoy the way the day crawls up my skin
excited about what unfolds next
swallowing it with the burnt molecules of my tongue,
keeping calm,
in the middle of the swallowing
so as to continue mumbling with myself,
an intense dialogue.
-july 09

2011-08-05T15:39:00.000-07:00

a blind man crossing the street
wading the huge metal river
sight/sound/touch

-july '09

vagabons

2011-08-05T15:27:00.000-07:00

"Who am I? If this once I were to rely on a proverb, then perhaps everything would amount to knowing whom I 'haunt'".
-andre breton

"There is only a tangle of norms and mechanisms through which THEY hold together the scattered tatters of the global biopolitical fabric, through which THEY prevent its violent disintegration. Empire is the administrator of this desolation, the supreme manager of a process of listless implosion."
-tiqqun

Where do I go now that I am here?
What past lives or inane insane ravings
could I circumscribe onto a few choice pages?
Do I fear losing a voice I might never have had?
A kingdom of the marginal
I am the obscure ruler,
The exploding fragments of my desolate ego, the subjects.
I have time to murder and so little income
so little true subject matter
so I wander round wherever is prescient
and return always to my point of departure.
We have gone.
We are never coming back to the place we were before.
Each primary fragmented instant is a molecular motion which will never replay itself in the same manner.
We are fucked, however, in our fucked-ness, discover our true power.
We must find our territory
even if it is the territory of the obscure
even if we will never be leonard cohen
even if we are footsoldiers of minutia
we must decipher where we are marching to,
for we are in exile and can never come back.
Thusly, heretofor, from this point on
we are on the move...
Rolling, roving, ranting and raving.
Somewhere we will go
Sometime we will have it.
We have gotten here
From here on out
Everywhere without the shadow of the terrible ashes of empire is home far as I'm concerned.

2011-07-26T12:03:00.000-07:00

all darkness iS

iS daring the alarm clock with sleep

no godforsaken happy ending

2011-07-25T20:15:00.000-07:00

i've been reading stories of people in pain. my back often hurts so much, i find it hard to sit up straight as i type this. my pinky toe, my fucking pinky toe, stubbed itself on the way to market, i stumble and stammer down sidewalks. a couple of tools mock me as they walk past, where's my audience, my friends, my courage? i'm too worn at this point. i think to myself, "one day i'll just turn & clock one of these fuckin kids" but i also then wonder just what i would do. pain iS a fucking parasite. it eats away at my energy for retaliation on this cruel world from time to time. i don't always let it in, let it win, but then there's the living unbearable. i don't show it at parties. i hide it away at dinner with parents, mine or otherwise. i can't take how it makes me feel to bring it up amongst more than 2 people. i haven't been crying. most times, i silently thank a bad stubbed toe. deflection. my neck stiffens as i read a zine about pain. i have friends. we talk about pains sometimes. mostly emotional, the physical brought in when it gets too bad to go unnoticed. i realize most won't think of this as poetry, i realize most can't see my pain. i write it out, walk it off, scream words for liberation from scum cells, biting away at even our pains. i agonize over the agonizing. i can't shake this right now. pain can take years to get through. or just minutes. i often consider relativity as a possible middleground. this iS part of my pain deflection. i can talk better to this screen with my own thoughts booming through the loudspeaker in my head, only low hums of electricity and throbbing toe under icepack, than i can to my best friend. i take comfort, physical comfort rarely. this effects me psychologically constantly. iS it OK to be shifting about while this person speaks? can i risk staying up another 3 hours of drifting around til 4 in the morning and knowing where or in what position i'll be able to sleep tonight, if i can indeed sleep tonight? the political correct aren't this careful with decisions. i budget. i hate fucking budgets. i hate budget cuts. i hate budgeting my cash. i hate cash. i hate budget rental cars & moving trucks. they're fucking ugly. but i budget. my energy. i budget my fucking energy. so many false copes, so little tolerance left. i go and get it popped back into place. it comes undone. i call you. my tone gives away my pain. you're in seattle. i don't want my fucking tone to send pain all the way to fucking seattle. goddammit, i wonder what has worked before. i know some things. things i could try. but i'm not used to this toe pain. this toe pain iS new pain. not knew pain. i think of the bath. my one surefire release from pain. it's sheer overuse. my general attitudes and how they would change without pain. and it's chronic. i used to love chronic. early 90's picnics. green stuff. herb. parliament funk samples and ill stories from the hood. not supposed to be disease. not supposed to be endless pain. not supposed to mean can't sit down, can't stand up. fuck all. i am a happy fucking person most of my day.

but this iS no godforsaken happy ending.

local community developments

2011-07-24T15:04:00.000-07:00

i often think my partner & i would make great indie art snobs

so cute & cuddly, just strange enough for punk street cred

then a guy in a wheelchair backs into me

& for some reason, i feel bad.

reflection

2011-07-24T15:03:00.000-07:00

even if you say shutup

you're still talking to yourself.

with you (for sawyer)

2011-07-11T13:34:00.000-07:00

i'm next to you

right there with you

write there with you

riding

feeling no need for needing no need for no need

with you in every blue sky paralyzed by drive-bys

with you, on the radio, in the back seat

my back porch

with you, do you really need to know where?

even if i can't take my eyes off i promise i won't stare

and everyway to put it just makes me scared

with you, the heat index iS 115 & my sweat pours, with you

with you, everytime time stops or i pull the plug on the timeclock

with you, the way illuminati iS with me

always present, never really bothering

with you every jew joke, all the funny looking people walking the streets

with you, talking to me

on a phone

it's not quite you

til it iS & i fall right through

the line

these lines these lines will have to do

with you

your presence in some fries & beer

with you, iS that not what you want to hear?

with you, it sounds strange, feels better

let's kick rocks, if not be together in sweater weather

with you, these are our lives we talkin bout here

i can't lie, sometimes we both doubt fear

i'll make this about clear

open my mouth weird

cry intergalactic mouse tears

with you, we'll get some pizza, some beers, some boys

bottle of hard for you so we can make a bad choice

with you with you, am i being too vague?

i'll be me you be you, we can play shaman & sage

or boy & grrl

you might have to play the man

because if i can't do it, i know that you can

that's bond, the way we do it in the nissan

with you: outkasts, litterthugz takin it eazy

i'm calling spades spades, and it still sounds cheesey

to me

but you know it comes straight from the heart

from beginning to end and back to the start

my feelings could change, yours too in a flash

til then we'll be pirates, taste plenty of ass

we get off together, just as we get on

& neither believes in their rights & their wrongs

i'll write you a poem, stay broke & sing songs

the jokes flow openly we smoke & seemingly get along

with you, in absence, in presence of light

with you in darkness as dark as the night

with you, wait am i getting this right?

you're with me too, aren't you? your bark iS your bite

& mine too

with you with jello right there behind you

i'm off my lid

with you, let's get off this grid

wrap our heads around problems & solutions

terrorists, lovers, bandits in collusion

dance in parking lots get cryphy & shit

remember when i didn't know you liked me a bit?

i walked out, they couldn't fire me, i quit

10 days south blissed out, what an exciting trip

with you, my favorite squid, and two lying dipshits

but hey, we had fun and how could we not?

have i ever told you i used to like nikes alot?

an idea: i'll play rooster, you play hen

i'm with you til the next time i see you again...

yearning regret

2011-07-04T13:47:00.002-07:00

Yearning regret

At the hand that does not seek to lift.

Fragments of disquiet

Smattered across a breathing day

Work done marginally,

Undone dually,

How we squeal subtly in dire slightly bent attitudes

The day is a rich ribbon

Of crimson

Where will it take us

Out of this even sailing

Storms rise though not sure where

To summon higher order

Of a massive raid on reality

All the voices in my head will be one

A united state of thunder

Lightning doomed to quiver undulating throbbing

Across the mecca of this tiny plains

Its all in my head

Its all my doings and undoings

Action, whereforto?

On this fourth of July

I scan my window and admire the slaughter

Of all the folks I have or could have been.

(milwaukee)-sitting soliloquy #2

2011-07-04T13:47:00.001-07:00

I have no setting for all this

Blurred visage of a day

Then two days

Sleep-the-clock-around

Dream of an incomprehensible home

In the ditch of romance

A drowned rat in the sea

Head trauma

The thin tapestry of everyday danger

We wash up on shores

Pile carpet bombs on the last frontier,

The people under the stairs

This will come together in tidal waves of blissful disjointedness

Living through whatever ambiguities

Down the hatch loose my mind

Through the funneling vortex.

2011-06-30T15:59:00.000-07:00

2011-06-30T15:35:00.000-07:00

2011-06-29T16:04:00.001-07:00

ode to gary.

2011-06-29T15:48:00.000-07:00

(milwaukee)-sitting soliloquy

2011-06-27T16:56:00.000-07:00

i wish i could write
half the poem i intend to write.
i sit down to write about fall but it is spring and then summer
half a year away,
ink-splotches onto the tile floor of becoming.
i have sloppily conversed with myself for the better half of a year hoping the haggard gods will come out to play,
hoping the sexual tension with the abyss will be relieved.
i really wanted to pin some greatest hits
to 'win one for the gipper'
but it all tapers off slowly to the tone of a skinny drawl.

wheretofor placement?
thing?
love itself?
becoming
earth,
i'm done elaborating.

where to go
lost with our limbs tangled in this bitterest of tapestries.
we were all at the table
we were playing poker
we were gambling,
somebody,
a man with a fedora and a phantom eye upped the ante big time
did we go in?
did we make it?

milwaukee-sitting soliloquy #3

2011-06-27T16:50:00.000-07:00

thoughts elegiac
mixed w/ some fleet-footed sentiment

RIvers of cars
a pile of tires
smatterings of dearth, death

sad-sapped regeneration
maybe i will stay
perhaps i will go
where have i been
where will i be
unto now....=
my sleep has been so strange, my wanderings
utterly obscene
sensibility=hella listless.
eclipse the night
be an undulating spasm of nothingness
thrusting perpetually inward on itself
.

preface

2011-06-27T16:47:00.000-07:00

I want to be UNDERSTOOD
but the thoughts transform opaque
there is a spasm there
which makes transcription difficult,
a top spinning out of control and off the table,
I want to be UNDERSTOOD
to be less so-alone-in-all-this,
HERE goes nothing.

2011-06-27T16:39:00.001-07:00

We live in such a tender spot
Our bellies all sewn up and exposed
the electric organ and dreamy shiny guitar-tone hum in the background
paper mache hearts tattooed on our sleeveless t-shirts similarly
our vulnerability ends up the same
our backs ache together
our records churn alike
we are betrayed by similar friends
our prehistoric chain smoking in underground outlets
our flat tires united forever,
our bitterness sweet---
Yet we have come here suspiciously alive
tired in need of coffee yet vivacious
cutting through boredom with a machete
our last grasp on essential componenents to attempt to be strewn together, patched up, palpitating in the sun,
will you follow?

2011-06-23T22:14:00.000-07:00

now i'm falling asleep in my chair again
ditched the couch, rep an upsidedownamerikkkan
flag
be the 1st rapper to call myself FAG
leave opponents speechless, have an affair with yer dad

church on the rock

2011-06-23T22:13:00.002-07:00

drove by the church on the rock once.
what was it doing on that street?

birthmarks

2011-06-23T22:13:00.001-07:00

my birthmarks hurt.

2011-06-23T22:12:00.002-07:00

i'm empty.
you're tempting me.

rap in 2011

2011-06-23T22:12:00.001-07:00

show me yer shithole, grrrl.

todd zeile

2011-06-23T22:10:00.002-07:00

thoughts iS like baseball cards:
you collect them for years,
other people's are never as sweet,
and they lose their luster over the years.

oh, and they end up rotting in your parents' basement.

2011-06-23T22:10:00.001-07:00

give the sour back to the people.

2011-06-23T22:09:00.001-07:00

so some outlaws meet some outkasts in an alley...

we sell joy division chokechains

2011-06-23T22:08:00.002-07:00

i like going to the punk clothing boutique in my head...
it's called minor thread.

umm

2011-06-23T22:08:00.001-07:00

sometimes the right word to say iS never.

cranky jakey

2011-06-23T22:07:00.001-07:00

kickin it with you iS like holding in a fart.

equation

2011-06-23T22:06:00.000-07:00

you can't subtract. i only divide.
it doesn't add up.

waitress

2011-06-23T22:05:00.000-07:00

sometimes, i'd like to just be honest with my waitress and offer her $50 for sex.

2011-06-23T22:01:00.000-07:00

once upon an elaborate mistake, a bird, slovenly perched amidst equal parts sunshine & rain mustered a thought of another elaborate mistake. beer brewed in the back of a banquet hall filled the air, as the bird, we'll call him sylvester, sly for short, gracefully glided past a greyhound bus.

2011-06-23T22:00:00.001-07:00

i empathize with air conditioners

cause it's always better with a buddy

sweet madness

2011-06-10T10:29:00.001-07:00

i have an appetite for fear
and the awful things i hear
when freights and moons go rolling by...
beneath the blossoming shards of an incidental bleeding sky.
this sweet madness is just too much
i cling and i thrust
i chasm disjointed phrases in times of war
wheretofor
what have i come to these ridiculous conclusions of ridicule and collusion for?
i am being lead bony handed to the skeleton kingdom
a dancing city of bone jeers
thick swelling of former optimism now haunts my jagged dreams.
this sweet madness is just too much.
i seem fine,
but i emerge and i breakdown
in my head there is a universe constantly chattering,
lets thrust inward and penetrate the last recesses of where i thought i had been,
i do not miss it when it is gone,
but see, it never really leaves,
i have madness tattooed on my innermost shirtsleeves.
men and woman stammer for want of location,
dislocation is the name of the game,
the war rages in displaced places,
we are stones gone downhill towards sweet oblivion
ah this sweet madness is much too much.
i have an appetite for fear
and the awful things i hear
when freights and moons go rolling by...
beneath the blossoming shards of an incidental bleeding sky.
this sweet madness is just too much
i pry and i clutch
i pretend and i mend
i argue blood faced at the clenched down jaws of the sky
i spasm i displace
i am the ruiner of my own mind
what is there left to find
oh this sweet madness is much too much.

unfinished invitation

2011-06-06T15:40:00.000-07:00

Yet the first latenight in a while

where summer plays dirty tricks on my sleeves

though the seasons cycle through anonymous and emotionless

to summon boredom into anxiety and action
lets tag metro-tunnels mysteriously
lets break bottles slamming them jettisoned into the air on the white siding of gods mansion
lets slink through abandoned buildings
lets envision sad eyed soul
lets write poems for everyone, the ragged of the earth
lets remedy friendships and scorch pretensions
lets elapse night after night of furious joy at the wicks end of becoming
lets beckon unfinished invitations on the knife edge of summer
lets give beauty a run for its money.

the other side (of the otherside)

2011-06-06T07:59:00.000-07:00

i spent last nite in someone else's skin
further, i may still be
this does not scare, rattle bones as though they are as scary as bones sound in poems
only wears down, slowly, like a mid-nineties sedan over time
after all iS said and the chores iS done, what is there left to say?
a question, of considerable ease.
a rabid wolf staring up at darkness with one eye, the other always watching
iS it the fangs that scare?
the way jaws slice through skin as if it were warm butter?
or can we say we've never encountered a wolf?
more specifically this wolf, the rabid one staring up at darkness with one eye, the other always supposedly watching.
as we dive off the deepest of ends, we set forth to justanotherplace, pretending to be frustrated with choices made.
and although many are as pre-fab as an RJ Reynolds addictionstick
addictions:sick, prepackaged existence dipped in shit
then wake from roach infestation dreams, i did this
you did this
we do this
everyday
after the end of the world doesn't happen, what's there left to say?

if you want it to be different, don't play your part, just play!

2011-06-05T16:53:00.000-07:00

chug coffee
hollow angst
an uneasy shell of our forebearers.

besides this vast torrent

2011-06-05T16:44:00.000-07:00

prelude: there is a certain sort of fear or wrought personal misery, which i find difficult to explain, nor able to ration out in concise and orderly stanzas.

interlude: i was stepping down the sidewalk, and thought all that, a fast unutterable spasm, trigger unknown.

so it occurred to me: I will write a poem, maybe then somehow it will all make more sense.

the wheel which spins and lands on fluctuating cosmos will be re-spun, and god-willing, land on something besides this vast torrent.

I thought, i will inscribe pixelated woe
on the binary code of hidden heavy metal thunder,
i will apply thoroughly, a sharp clench-toothed penchant for destruction
zestfully on petty gentrification.
i will destroy and create and destroy and create
till i wring forth from abysmal tides another universe with the crispest and most profound semantic clarity
and circumstance be damned, all the revelatory knacks which i crave exuberantly to not slip through my fingertips will be exposed open and joyful, exploding possibility through the strained implosion of an impossible mentality.

conclusion: i will wrench a conclusion out of the palms of god
b/c fuck faith
there exists only the hollow shell of action and reaction and action and reaction
then we will have it
the scenes will collide forever
into one astounding whole.

(((thought explosions and implosions))))

2011-06-05T16:25:00.000-07:00

“i'm small, i'm not a planet at all”

-the microphones

We lead such fragile lives. Our precarity is forged forth in minute awkward shuffle glances. We ride on tides of newspaper clippings, crashing aptly amongst a lengthy coast of squashed possibility. Sometimes though, we surge our arms out towards unutterable stars attempting to glance headlong at something eternal and sparking. What do we capture? Fireflies in the drift? Truncated moments? Furiously jettisoned ellipses? We are unsure, our footing etches its pathways in silt. On a half-formed repeat, sonic ramifications hum and wirr past tender eardrums. We lead lives of impossible fragility. Our nightmares reek of cut tendons. Our daydreams pulsate with whispers. Our sidewalks staunch with collapse. We all just desire to paint the impression of what we have to give. Our hearts, blue, still pumping, yet abstract. We are underwhelming impresarios, our dictionary pages transferred to digital. Our struggle is an always alien one because we have amnesia for the paths we tread. Was there a point to all this? A tendency to unify syllables? Perhaps, but it vanished among the thin glass cracked, now lurching towards oblivion beneath the surface. Wherewerewe? Wheretofor shall we go? Our lives are fragile. Our desires, precious strands. We were never tuff, we hang in the balance, we are tiny, we are shuffling, we are

found poem

2011-05-22T00:41:00.000-07:00

What is with that crazy tropical-sounding bird in your back yard?

It messes with my naps.

i don't know. it seems angry at
the pig

and it has a slingshot

storming the arid gates of possibility.

2011-05-11T10:57:00.000-07:00

children of no place, cryptic orphans of no homeland,
is this poetic exaggeration?
we got no audience, no publishing deals, no one to appeal to
we hardly got our guts and they are being siphoned through a funnel quick
to be used as laundry detergent for the future.
those that want revolution know not what it will mean look like entail, happen, if
me least of all
we are too obvious in our advances
to guarded in our hatred
desperately trying to pound fists against the stone
attempting to wrench blood from the rock.
victims of an imaginary marketplace
willing to humor the idea
anyone gives a shit
but we still demand real heaven
storming the arid gates of possibility
the scorched earth spurns us
its so called citizens do the same
unwilling to look at their own entrails
and conclude
how destruction
can have its creative tangents.
lost among the biggest fray
up to this point in history
too personally aggravated to give a shit about the political, the politikill the anti-political
or whatever the kids call it these days
too emotional wrenched upon the social war
to know what to do with our emotions
us all half-assed zombies of this dead space
wheretofor mind?
nowhere to go from here but down to the otherside of the earth
and it sure as fuck ain't china...

when all these discarded images
come to surface like ophelia
grasping at the wide white nothing air
maybe i'll have come to terms
with my own mind.
when all the social implications
of society driving me already up-er-the-wall
(motherfucker), that will someday come tumbling
jericho-esque
against an impenetrable impossible sky of agitation.
when all these numb words
fail to cause refrain
from my fingertips and lips,
when we have taken rebellion so seriously
that we cannot see ourselves
our own frail image of the teeter-totter of sanity
against the playground of oblivion.
when the weatherman offs himself on live tv
playfully
will we have then paid our dues
to become better
and to more freely
change with the climate.

questions too damning
too daunting, to delineate the complexity of answer
to their taunting propositions.

perhaps someday though,
we will see it
all before us
lucid as a bright green carpet of sod
upon the earth
unfurled for us
soon as we got off our bikes
to go traipsing through and upon
and on and on
till utopia tickles our nosehairs
like some cleverest feather
and all the feelings we severed
relive in the flesh as more than just prosthetics
then we will know

the boy with the city in his head

2011-05-11T10:56:00.000-07:00

The boy with the city in his head

We trek across his skull

We jaunt across his skull

We jog across his cranium.

Look, examine closely the red brick crags etched subtly in his forehead

The imagination of corporations

Ticker tape on the soft fleshy insides between his cheeks and his cheekbone.

The elliptical daydreams of collapse, and relief

Sauntering at his wobbling shoelaces.

Watch him tip-toe across muddy riverbanks of decay.

The boy with the city in his head,

We caravan across the industrial desert of his skeleton.

We journey epically over the windowpanes of his thighs.

Dandelions sprout like whiskers out of his tender eardrums.

There are slums of hosannas in his stomach,

Slumlords fire hideous muskets at the unsuspecting mass of tenants.

He has been drunk more times than he has fingers or toes this week

The calligraphy of bad decisions is etched on the skinny jagged point of his chin.

The black magic of economy is making him hallucinate something horrible and vicious.

He is cracking at the very seams.

Taxi cabs laugh with chattering rows of white teeth in his very daydreams.

Things are swell sometimes and unwell others.

The boy with the city in his head attempts to translate this into a mantra with fingertips and the remaining brick cobblestone of a typewriter.

It clacks like a semi-truck over the too-lucid illusion of what other people think is reality.

The boy with mortar for a skullcap needs some tuck pointing done.

He needs some cracks mudded.

He is hungry in his esophagus lining for revolt.

Something must happen,

His fancy shoes will dance unto its very meaning.

The boy with the city in his head will gorge himself on the fancy gin of insurrection.

He will dine impossible dinners of marvelous reanimation.

He will not go quietly.

He is a beast and a spectacular amalgamation of the extraordinary.

They tried to stick him in a carnival cage and he easily broke the bars with his hands of steel girders.

The boy with the city in his head,

Something is a-brewing in there.

Surreal burgeoning of tire treads pealing out on the highways of normalcy into the interstate of never-to-come-back.

The boy he is thinking. The little giant he slumbers, in search of a future for futureless thoughts.

steer clear

2011-05-08T12:19:00.000-07:00

walk around town, face down, faitgued
the birds and fly girls do not envy me
wit my blue merle pit and a small baggy
he shits, i pick up quick, call me dog daddy
or rooster
or rev or whatever you really choose sir
just jingle away from me, "nobody wants the booster"
too-cools call me hipster, friends call me loser
rapper, producer
playin shows smellin like poop, coop and shoes
sometimes it's all cheers, most times it's all booze
stay loose
cause nobody wants some tight-assed dude
mad at you cause he's a sadly tool
work behind a counter with that madly cruel---grin
beginning to end my head iS spinning again
i forgot who you are, but can we still be friends?-lend
me a penny and i'll bring you a pen
done escaped to NY to start a new trend
and then bend
all minds inside the bellies of beasts
until y'all can't stay still and ya kids can't sleep
i'm weak
but i talk a good game like ICE-T
bite me sized mikes ripped by rooster nightly
it's frightening
don't want you to "like me"
want the touch, the feel, the taste
be reminded slightly
of all those times we kissed but mostly the fights we
throw ourselves into when we think we're right
well alright
everything ain't alright
and i can work with that fact as the only one of the night
not a pessimist, i just think this world just might
have some deaf ears
i'm son of jeff, !queer!,
don't get it wrong, i'm long strong and have no peers

steer clear of rooster when he's on the beat
steer clear of rooster when he's on the street
unless ya know better next time we meet
in the same plane, the game changed
i guess i lost my feet

check the steez, these new rappers ain't emcees
careers blow through slow like a misery breeze
but we see, through how much ya bracelt costs
i'm lost, unbossed and can't be bought
here's a thought
everybody in the place just do what you do
and if ya wanna do me then i can do you
choose two: but be careful who do who
fuck an afterschool special but some ain't got a clue
like that looneytune rooster dude
i'm a dork, i say, i'm a dork who aint got nothin to prove
nothin to lose
go in grab the products and leave the store
from small business whores to corporate big brother
don't try to stop me, just give me another--- chance
to enter trance and dance toward the mother--- ship
slip on in, and get what i get quick
are you seeing a trend, think yer catchin on, slick?
i'll dip to the suburbs and take ya dad's shit bitch

steer clear of rooster when he's on the beat
steer clear of rooster when he's on the street
unless ya know better next time we meet
in the same plane, the game changed
i guess i lost my feet
now the thought's complete, neat
what an awesome feat
gimme some sauce and meat
tell yer boss he's weak
i'm a lawless freak
i want y'all to speak
sweet

sleep.

2011-05-08T11:58:00.000-07:00

a mountain of sleep
just so much sleep
wandering drift of sheep jumping the fence
wherewerewe in the midst of it all.
to blot out,
inkblot style
everything
no-thing
works
no-one
cares
i am queezy in the midst of it all
so i will do what i can,
in forgetting,
that is key,
the constellations curve around
the bright despairing
letting off the happiness
dark place
edgar-allen-poe-habitations
dead-mares
so that we may go
and never return
to not wake up
for the nightmare
no-place left
where were we again?
ask no questions
jot down no answers
spinning mistress in the midst
beautiful letdown
nowhere to go
nothing to do
i wanna be sedated.

sad millenia

2011-05-01T22:14:00.000-07:00

for sad millenia we, the people, have cracked the skulls of we, the people, for sad millenia we have had our skulls cracked, for sad millenia we have shivered in dark rooms with no spoon to eat, for sad millenia we have killed for salt and gold and land and wives, for sad millenia we have spoken of the future, the future is here and we are cracking skulls and having are skulls cracked and goose stepping and we are opposing and being opposed. the future is here and our history is that of sad millenia, we are them and they are us. we are a rocket spiraling onward exponentially into a sadder, darker millennium.

2011-04-30T16:52:00.001-07:00

insular planet delete destroy.

pure hate

2011-04-30T16:41:00.000-07:00

he who laughs last lasts.

children of no place, cryptic orphans of no homeland,
is this poetic exaggeration?
we got no audience, no publishing deals, no one to appeal to
we hardly got our guts and they are being siphoned through a funnel quick
to be used as laundry detergent for the future.
those that want revolution know not what it will mean look like entail, happen, if
me least of all
we are too obvious in our advances
to guarded in our hatred
desperately trying to pound fists against the stone
attempting to wrench blood from the rock.
victims of an imaginary marketplace
willing to humor the idea
anyone gives a shit
but we still demand real heaven
storming the arid gates of possibility
the scorched earth spurns us
its so called citizens do the same
unwilling to look at their own entrails
and conclude
how destruction
can have its creative tangents.
lost among the biggest fray
up to this point in history
to personally aggravated to give a shit about the political, the politikill the anti-political
or whatever the kids call it these days
too emotional wrenched upon the social war
to know what to do with our emotions
us all half-assed zombies of this dead space
wheretofor mind?
nowhere from here but down to the otherside of the earth
and it sure as fuck ain't china...

get sprayed

2011-04-27T12:57:00.000-07:00

we met in the lobby

thrown right into a seemingly deep meditation

our own creation of media exploitation

at once, we flew to the next spacestation

faces faces, nothing but tired faces

avoidance, escapes, restless paces

written in bold magnum marker: erase the erasers

stumble across synchronicity (no! times/spaces)

just another shitty city, some strange place

with a carton full of broken cartons, carried in haste

what a waste

no way to part ways, set that pace

slow, steady, we lost the race

but we still here at home, the base

got caught going straight in a crooked chase

i'm spaced

too much homegrown puffed and displaced

the taste, the essence, you can't imitate

ain't the time or the place for yer fuckin debates

just wait

til i get away or get maced

the r f t can print it as "white anarchists" hate

yuppies acting as kkkops and cameras in face

invasive states backed by failing businesses, thanks!

floating

2011-04-26T21:16:00.001-07:00

!i!

in front of the movie theater, she simply asked a question

and for my tired mind to remember exact wording would be weird

weird as this world

three seconds later, i was avoiding i-contact

no more meddling in minding mine's mood

we broke ice, for tea's sake, and pretended to write letters

she said some(thing) along the lines of i write better

but refused specifics when i showed half-interest

and---

pretty sure this happened:

i whispered, "if it could happen in a dream, it could happen right now"

when i meant, 'if it can happen in a dream, it's happening right now'

she stopped.

!ii!

it wasn't long before they caught up to us

i was never fully convinced we were safe, she wondered if that was the problem all along

writing from a point in the future that hasn't yet happened to hap in the past

at long last, a slow storm passed, we: trashed

and in that moment, trying to be decisive, trying to say "fuck love", there was the proof

no, no, no

there was the theory

and finite answers, applied to infinity, were worth more than the occasional cosmic giggle

here we, one head-exploding with possibility, one head-exploding with sinus issues, talked of life in graveyards

!iii!

"don't tell me i can't say that!" and i had fallen

it must've been that, i think i heard that

when you hear something, do you always hear it?

can't be quite sure how unsure i was at the time though

so came and went the search, the path

on a patched air mattress in the south wing of my uncle's house

an old crashpad the previous owner used swinging through town visiting his mother

*guerilla patched*

i pondered one thought that as usual took 36 lines to state bluntly:

'darling, i could float on your cloud all day'

but yer at the strip club, and tonight, i'm all jerk and no play

2011-04-25T14:10:00.001-07:00

ravishing destructive joy.

arbitrary love poem upon being asked by a friend to write one.

2011-04-23T15:17:00.000-07:00

to write militant love poetry
in the midst of this ocean of crazed thoughts
and disquietude.
there are storms everywhere
you are an umbrella.
just thinking about little parts of things we have said to each other makes me feel less insane.
i would already apologize for this being too personal and to the point, often a potential tool for embarrassment of sorts
but someday
when i summon up the gumption
i'm gonna spill the beans
i'm gonna tell you all of this.
they say it's cliche to write love poems.
i think that's pretty true
generally they're pretty goddamn annoying
like ill-thought out gossip threads on facebook,
but every once in a while the time strikes
and i find words like this spilling torrential and unassuming out of my wild and subtle thoughts.
you are a rebuttal to all the bullshit
the envy and shit talking that never seems to end
its not that maybe you are necessarily above or below all that
the important part is you make it all better sometimes
things like that not matter so much
i forget myself inside of you
and in forgetting i find myself.
i am nervous about these feelings but it is exciting and neccessary.
suddenly things make more sense, not such a weird mystery anymore
the world's axis is a subtle beast spinning around us.
i think i'm ready to confront that fact if it happens to come up.
i think i'm ready.

incanting.

2011-04-09T22:26:00.000-07:00

"A utopian poetics helps us to know our desires."

-hakim bey

What is left in a world-at-large which has long since superseded the need for poetry save for poetry to long supersede the need for the world-at-large…

That some see poetry as a lust for an adventure larger and more vivacious than whatever life we know and have been forced to learn is something infinitely at odds with both those that see it as a career choice and those that see it as a hobby.

That to strip raw and leave only yr choicest most vulnerable words laying bare in front of strangers is indefinitely at odds with a culture of studied social network posing whose tentacles lead to ultimate posturing, a true crossroads of isolation.

Our struggle against a sheen veil of emotionless cool or faux conviviality is too precocious, angsty, and raring-to-go-to be hung on the walls of gentrifying boutiques or be lost among the squall of small-gathering dive bar happenstance.

We are not merely quaint outlaws but an all-encompassing phoenix of revolt. We rise out of the ashes of complacency to devastate all the tricks you would use to try and keep-us-in-our-place.

We are the overman and overwoman spun on its head. We rock yr suburban world in double-time and retreat to encompass slums of exuberance and decedent illegality among the wallhangings of an all-absolving forever night.

We implode ultimate mental planets.

We antlike still scorn nuclear powerplants.

We are a last collage splayed across the blank drywall of industrial civilizations naked cracks, which will of course crumble someday into a chasm of primitive anarchic bliss.

We are everywhere and nowhere

And you may or may not know us,

But we last of all

Absolutely refuse to go quietly into that good night

For we will wail

Forever.

"and the word is 'da.da.'""

2011-04-07T16:16:00.000-07:00

utopia now?.

2011-04-05T15:13:00.000-07:00

2011-04-04T17:50:00.001-07:00

.. and if yr path

leads you back

you can ask

for my address..

but when you go
to what used to be my home
you will know

that i have passed
onto the next
goddam path and am
never coming back

CASINO*TOWN*POETS

mumbling epiphanies

through the lookingglass

break glasses/wreak havoc

coming out (mad pride?)

Post-Modern Life is Warfare

Long Live the Party.

musick in case you like listening to friends

like

out, in, to space!

PLeaze Help ME.

wind

sometimes anymore the only sense I can make out of anything

A PILE OF RUST

slanted sky...

not fuckin wit billionaires...

7 parts (in which the poet reveals most, if not all)

what are the odds?

misplaced

"who the hell was that?"

punctuation

snore more years

restraint?

chaos within chaos (for jorj)

sweet substance

iS

creaking floorboards yearn

vagabons

no godforsaken happy ending

local community developments

reflection

with you (for sawyer)

yearning regret

(milwaukee)-sitting soliloquy #2

ode to gary.

(milwaukee)-sitting soliloquy

milwaukee-sitting soliloquy #3

preface

church on the rock

birthmarks

rap in 2011

todd zeile

we sell joy division chokechains

umm

cranky jakey

equation

waitress

sweet madness

unfinished invitation

the other side (of the otherside)

besides this vast torrent

found poem

storming the arid gates of possibility.

the boy with the city in his head

steer clear

sleep.

sad millenia

pure hate

get sprayed

floating

arbitrary love poem upon being asked by a friend to write one.

incanting.

"and the word is 'da.da.'""

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utopia now?.

CASINOTOWNPOETS