Thursday, September 22, 2016

little light




AUTUMN STREET

Trying to find the middle of the night
my favorite word is hold, or held

holed up there by the tree

Oh Sierra 
Old World
Limited World

catch myself making the extra effort
life is hard and work is tough

my favorite night is everyone
cute little man, cute little lady


hold on tight.

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

200 dollars and heroic couplet

the grand c


i was walking around
under colored banners
and the sky they celebrate


i had been reading the terry pratchett books,
the ones where death gets sick of being death


you imagined floating over the city,
a heavy rain coming down


you could look below,
and the good people of new york
would be opening umbrellas



every day i wake up

 with the ghost of you and me




memory is like a snowman


i wait with myself for it
to come falling from the sky



or blowing through the desert

i can see my whole life
like i'm on a cloud

it was like the grand c,
full of remembering

and wider than the feeling



wanting to make you laugh
sitting somewhere else


where out past weight, everything floats













Salt in water and light #5

You are my wife who plays golf and also hates me. If you took to sea it would be galleons, ships with three masts and a nest for the bird. If I set off in pursuit it would be in blow up raft. Waiting on the beach with crabs and Happy Kardon, wading in steam and fog horn. My wife who tees off on the sea green in Tahiti, Happy Kardon eating pickles in New Hampshire. Rocks are rocks until water makes them smooth, then you can go down, skip them over more water. Light in august is always so, like stained glass for the morning service. I’m looking out at watercolor places, where there are haloes on the heads of the golfers that set sail. If I followed armada with raft I’d have paddles, I’d look back and be pillars. To look at the ocean is to see horizon’s band, ribbon of void that speaks the rest. Gentle bend of planet, where somebody’s wife is sailing instead of golfing, golf balls lost to coral, castles for fish. Surface itself is a reason to lie down, Happy Kardon is on the blooming dunes. We all have a little more when we look. Happy loves places where they love ‘little spices’ and rose water. Friends are the people you love. To be brave is to repair to dingy and shove.



What it is is a bobbing, the troth is a crest, Happy’s wild shanty; My wife’s boats tiny in the wild blue of not loving me. One oar draws circles of ruin. We tangle in jellyfish and birds, doomed to sink off of the Barbary Coast. There are orbits of stars burning in atmosphere; there is celestial, there is Atlantic. Waysailing golf wife, I am paddling in your wake, hoping without foundation that one day, if I paddle and Happy rudders, we’ll end up where we are going.

I think everything is funny, I crack myself up, I was covered in these garbagey birds, remembering. It was like a pastoral love story told many years ago, when there was ground to stand on. Water that ran between it, where I could float a leaf boat down your brook. On your land I was bovine and lowing, companionable and nudging the fence where you trailed your hand. Wheat shimmies in wind, sun doesn’t castle. My wife’s calf-skin golfing glove, turning the gift and nuzzling its sides. Like how what means a lot to me doesnt mean much to you, but your footsteps are pictures of where you’ve been, and I’m coming round with frames. But everything that happens is always long ago in the end, and here Happy and I are covered in salt, what happens when you turn around. a cloud of gulls bombards and hope is coils, the sun sinks in salt and weight, ocean is a waltz for sound while we try to get there.


Our dingy gains velocity, bursts of seagulls and ghost crabs fly away, confetti of new year. We paddle in open seas, traipsing fog and sun, arriving in mouths of rivers where clam people throw us lobsters. We paddle through swamps and mud flats, Volgas, Niles and Yangzi’s until we tumble over the falls and die, perishing in body while spirit rafts on. We bob on placid lawns of cloud. 


The galleons of my golfing wife bound further away and I’ll never reach them, but there's nowhere I’d rather capsize than on the rising swells where I'm doomed to love you, as a dumb wave skipping on fathoms. i go rising and amassing speed, leaping like packs of joy dogs until i am broken on the rocks of your coast, ending formless and shattered, spinning dizzy pools around your shore. Force brings me out with tide, to float in currents free and boundless until I rise again in the middle of the sea and come running back on the same course to you, how salt is light like it is in water.




extremely 12

i wish i could go swimming
instead of dying in class

when i’m out of school,
 ill be walking home


it seems like everyone
is headed to chipotle in their cars

if i had a job,
thats what i'd be doing











a castle in every night # 32


i know that happiness is careful
like trying to give a hug 
to someone who is sleeping

when it is raining outside,
you look in every window on the way


its like having your birthday at the same restaurant
as my birthday

its your birthday, i want to get you want you want


all things are only there to wish for

lights, you under them







wherever you can put forever #3


i love rockets for their outer space
and oil paint for when its thick

there are all the places i love to be,
the knowing of songs, the feeling of cheerful




































Sunday, July 31, 2016

DoPaSo




PALACE

Getting over the stomach flu in the living room
looking at Delacroix and coloring in the back pages
holding the birds up in the air with our eyes only

the night full of clouds and rain, 
Dante at the island 
watching the dew burn off
Jerry Garcia plays virgil today

Drag racing time on highway number 9
look out the window for minutes
take whatever you can
looting the day in fear
only to stock the shelves of hope

as the sun moves west downtown. 

Monday, July 18, 2016

TORE UP THE LAWN





THE POLISE 

The fireflies all drained out
glow drips down the interstate
curse-ed be the big tree,
the big tree night light

where the coca-cola river 
turns to the sea
down by the miracle mall
where the courtesans fuck

she looked for me
I was crying with child
DeCherico style:
long shadows
long lashes 
days to turn out
turn up
fuck the burn
kiss the night
hold the ratings high
until the dishes done
watch it all on television
down at the town dump
next to the refrigerators 
refrigerator gator, 
gotta keep ‘em separated. 

delete some words
make it a good poem
put in some g’damn effort
kiddo

rub my hair back
fuck the night back
get the kids in bed and smooch ‘em
kiss the day awake
fuck the sun up
set the west to pasture
the white moment
the black moment 
the way it feels like it’s ending
because in a way it is
it always is
ending

I’m the bitch. 



THE NEW HUNDRED

In the room covered with flies and the old rug
it’s night and you want to get outside
but you have to stay in and talk

as I move from coast to coast
I watch my lifelines deplete
I feel your ghost holding my hand
touching my hair and rubbing my cheeks
“let’s start over, let’s start over, let’s start over”

walk with the innocence of a bird
put a lid on all the days that let you down
forget the time you crashed someone else’s car
light that money on fire and have some free time

the day when swimming would have worked
but instead you stayed in to finish the argument
it’s a small town day with little issues at stake
we’re watching grass grow in a way
the way we go about our lives,


waltzing Matilda. 

Tuesday, July 12, 2016

lake of treasures

day by day i know a little less
about what a life is worth

breaths you take have ghosts

much of life is like the end of the movie
when the frames freeze on the smiles
that we come to know so well


waking up to her letting go of your hand
walking around like 'what kind of world is this'


i can't stand to hear the voices, when they break




weight continues to impress
and out beyond there

the endless vista of my own cursed
and never ending life





people tell you you're so young, and maybe you are




diamonds and gold -- to live forever,



Tuesday, June 21, 2016

DRIVE






PHILOSOPHY 220

If you wanted to be specific
my soul’s cruise control
has the feeling of 
11:30pm in the parking lot
of Grand Union age 14
Piggly Wiggly age 17
Safeway parking lot 
any age thereafter.

It’s unheimlichkeit all day
Unheimlichkeit all night.

A teacher once described my presence in class
as the tarmac of an airport,
“you’re useful, you contribute,
people see you, but nobody knows you,
you are so close but distant, 
nobody ever touches you, do they?”

I took a second, the entire class froze, I think
I had just a moment earlier 
insulted the teacher’s idea of self-preservation, 
so to continue in form I said,
“well I guess in your analogy, 
paid employees of the organization 
get to touch me, so let me know when you’re ready.”

But still, I always relate more personally 
to a car parking lot than one for planes, 

call me Sentimental.

Thursday, June 9, 2016

ANTIPAROS





HELICOPTER

Bob Dylan looking young in a window
I listen for your footsteps 
I hold an image of you close
we laughed about the strangest things

I see you again 
looking the same
feeling the same
time’s wet match
never actualizing
just punctuating 
the cold moments
with the truth 
of how close
death is

The candle moves slowly
down itself until it’s wasted
I synchronize to a new time-zone
and gaze slowly over the ceiling 
escaping nothing of my past 
secular or pious time-zones
it’s all the same in the end
why don’t we do it
in the rain. 




ANTIQUITIES

Share hands and count to ten
looking at the colors bouncing from his skin
looking at the sweat gather on his brow
the sweat gathering under his lip
his eyelashes closed reflect the spectrum 
sleeping upon me, gathering time together

We look out the car window and wonder
there’s so much for him, so little for me
nothing comes anew except for him
I’m the fountain of his youth
nothing giving to me anymore
now I’m a crop being harvested

eventually depleted
but for now focus 

on the bright spots. 

Friday, May 20, 2016

CHANCE





BLESSED

Hold my summer in like one day
the days get older and older
like a good song you’ve over listened
the song's not bad, you’re just exhausted. 

Memory holds less, 
details are beyond me
thinking about religion
thinking about secular dedication
thinking about having been smart
now just experienced and educated
it’s true I know more, I’m wiser
but I think it actually makes me sad
I’ve unlocked too many basements
the attics are empty and clean or boring. 

I look at our baby
I live through him now
he deserves the light
I thought it would be different
but it’s over for me
I’m fine with it
in fact I’m better than ever
happy as can be
raising a child

just like they said
and I didn’t understand
wise with time. 

Oh!
sick 
with
time. 

I believe in the old church
playing twinkle twinkle

at twilight 

as the sparrows fly home
modernist pilots of the romantic past
living like I do

grieving the same way

the church holds steady
still in the night but light
do I want to enter, is it safe?

Is the church different from the museum?

We look like raw clay today
In the sun waiting for direction
wrapped in plastic, surrounded by tools. 

We feel like water in a well
waiting for something to move us
someone to wash us away

I miss the day today
I miss the night now
I won’t miss the morning
I won’t let it go again

heavy is a heart with loss

do you remember worrying about 
things that didn’t matter
kissing
talking
politics
money

it all goes away one day
a different day for everybody
but the same.


Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Travel Lodge




COLD BOULEVARD

The sidewalk pitched like a roof
by roots from my favorite tree
like a woman talking to a man
beauty and truth breaking through

the motorcycle motorcade
looked like ants on a log
from the helicopter where
we smoked cigarettes and laughed
all the kids these days are pussies
pussies like a man with no woman

whatever you call it, all day driving
toward the desert, through the desert
no goal, whole ideas coming in and leaving
in the machine leaving a city feels good

I've never thought about a single cousin
unless my mom brought one of them up
I'm just thinking about the robotic dinosaurs
salt baths, wind power, and rain.

Friday, April 15, 2016

Souled America




CITY LIFE

She holed up all night
thinking how to make love
the cat on the pillow
the dog on the rug

break the body down
let the body go
ease the pain

kill the day

sing with her
in a slow fog

Laaa la la laaa
is this the life I want?
I used to be happy
I used to be clean
I had what I need
Now I have more
I’m unhappy
I’m dirty
I’m poor

cars collecting light
heating up inside
fuck the night
hate the street


shut the body down. 

Monday, March 28, 2016

LA NIÑA



SUPERBLOOM

The sun is tearing me apart, it's too much
all day sun on skin, swallowing me whole
it's the end of the road in a lot of ways
remembering happiness when I'm happy
just digging in the day for the past in present
the magic of childhood still real just
reality of life so false.

Then setting out to live like before
pure and simple, whimsy.

Reminding myself about mortality
to make my moments more alive
scaring myself shitless just
to remember how and why.

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

computer scientist


hang fire slowed down on stereo with colin
the éspecial green of one's couch

don't cry duffy, its just music for cats

its just the favorites of grandpas,
and waiting for the bus



you find a fit for the last piece,
and the puzzle is still there on the table



you know


like the half-sunny roads where no cars go
i know what it is to realize, all a sudden,
that it happened long ago


it's like the house you might wait by in summer

her dappled white grey house off the field

being at the door, having no key


it is true of many boats
that there is no helm, or man at it
they hurry in measure with the current

i was never disappointed, i never knew i was waiting


i always knew a lilac grey of field,
standing by your car

a date with destiny


waiting for the time to come
to tell the story of you


time is what skips


Saturday, January 2, 2016

TENDER SITUATION







NEW YEAR AGAIN

Waking up I think
the thing about turtles 
is their shell

I hold in my breath and forgive myself
I look to the end of the bed and forget
the new day is upon us without attachment
the dirty clothes on the floor are clean again

when asked what I was doing today
I thought of not answering
but did only so that silence 
wasn’t what I was doing and 
then I had to move and make sound

so with a swath of light still available outside
I pushed the door right ways out
appreciated my age and had several thoughts
about the capacity of life to prove its willingness 
to believe in everyone, neighbors and strangers

I marry my wife everyday for good luck
I lean in and kiss the morning face
I run my hands over longing quenched instantly
and the many responses of my day become who I am. 




HAIKU OF LONGING

The corner tattoo
by the eye or neck means more 
than the daytime dress





TOGETHER 

About the tree he grew up next to

it wasn’t the movement of leaves
that kept him awake, or the sound
it was the beauty and sadness of fall.

About the car in her driveway

it wasn’t the time spent waiting
the long evenings with television
the music of her daytime rarely
making an appearance at night
because it was just so lonely.

When we go to town and the 
landlord calls on our cell phone
from his landline, we think,
‘can we just leave it all behind?’

The tree and the car lean in and whisper
“Yes.”



SCISSORS AND TAPE

I drive a car

looking out the window
as much as possible

we hold hands in the car


in the bed 



“look” he said
“I can’t do nothing all day”

by all day he meant 
all the time

time is all

the space creeps in 


“you know?”


“Yes, we know”

we hold hands
we look at each other 

through the window
in the eyes
lenses don’t exist
the pane of glass don’t exist

we hold hands, “remember?”

the break from life comes only once
holiday season is a choice
death is a decision. 

she’s the dream of life
I’m the dream of life
I’m staying awake 
all the night
all the time

all for you. 

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

LITTLE DAISiES







FAST MOON FADE

Listening to Ween
thinking of Nijinsky

“known for intensity and variety”

I am the sculptor of nothing
I could disappear and it doesn’t matter
the displacement would be small
less than the amount of water I’ll consume

It’s sad in the world of Frank Stanford
is it now not sad anywhere in anyone’s world?

I said of a friend to my wife
“you know he’s never had a mean thought”
I thought this might be true even
but I can’t imagine what this is like
and he’s been  so sad, so…

sometimes though, I can’t tell
if the reflection is on my side of the window
or the other

and

is the other the outside?








SAFE IN THIS WORLD

Trying to make a new Lola
sitting in a room and looking
the wall is a shadow of the window

thinking

those days on the plane
looking down over the arctic
following a river until it reaches a town
holding my breath until then

is it the feel or the ceremony?
is it the object or the soul?

looking around I could tell you
this room holds many days
but in any instant I’m alone

alone in the room with books
sophisticated days turn into 
lonely nights 

wink ;







POOL SHARK

You were looking for me
and I was looking to be seen

in the car with nicorette
nice day for music of any kind
the day a blank slate for the music
the gift of autumn is that it could be happy,
it could be sad, but it’s a perfect bed for feeling

waking up with leonard cohen
watching leaves fall with leonard
in the yard digging with leonard
sitting in the running car, with leonard. 

I think of myself then and there -
nobody cares at that moment about me
but they do now and then
and there with a man of solitude
now and then - that’s enough. 









POT OF GOLD

Making commitments stick
think in the voice of a friend:
“WWXXD”

“What would who who do?”

Nothing. “Nothing.”

My spaceship takes long slow trips
over a universe that looks like a wet marsh
you look in and see turtles swimming
“those are the planets.”
and
“I’m preparing to become a father.”

“How?” You ask. 

I think like I’m on the spaceship
or better yet, like I’m on the train, 
I make voyages deep and clean
down memory lane. 

“I’m planting a garden, 
then I’m going to engage the soil
in a sandbox makeover.”

You’ll see the night like water
hold you with the animals below
they are kind and speak English
looking you over they smile
a turtle smile, frog smile, fish smile. 
They are sweet in a beautiful universe
with glistening moon water and night moss,
digging for something nice to say
to welcome you into existence. 

They say in unison, “now breathe.”













UNDER and OVER

Look at the dog
stay sober

holding the match 
as long as you can
dropping the match

you develop out of this
watch the rain
feeling inspired like you wished for
the fictional guide to a boring city

“there’s nothing I wanna do,
but you could do all sorts of shit
if you want to.” 

make a solid tree turn color
in the way you close your eyes

in the way you close your eyes. 






MIDDLESCHOOL

Alex said, “Altruistic assholes”
(we were in the cafeteria full of linoleum)
I agreed, but it was 8th grade
so I had to go home and look it up in a book
I thought maybe I could be altruistic - on a good day
but I don’t want to be an asshole, it was confusing
but Alex was my best friend, and so I couldn’t be
he was talking about some jokers down the lane.
My whole definition of that word is clouded
I look it up a few times a year to check in
see if I’ve figured it out yet…

It’s always bothered me, why is it bad?
Or what’s the difference between caring about people
and being and altruistic asshole? 
Why did he put those two words together?
Is 8th grade education all it’s cracked up to be?
Was Jesus an asshole? 
Or just cool?
Is it “cruel to be cool”?
Or “cool to be cruel”?
Was I ever as smart as I thought I was?
What happened in school stays in school

stay quiet 
laugh
change the subject 
go home
spend your life figuring it out. 







MORNING

Draw the highway out of my house
live the world down to dirt
think about the moon at camp
childhood as a dream that I can’t recall
the love of a day sober and clean
looking for turtles, sun going down over trees
the wind warm and the frogs loud
the moon is there, I just don’t know where. 







SOUTHLAND

There’s no romanticism in Los Angeles
The sun betrays any chance of mystery,
it spotlights the despair and uniformity,
the ease of the day and lack of urgency
people drive, eat, sleep, have sex
all by the glow of a pale blue  

The moon rarely visits here
the rain avoids our hearts
no snow no snow

we can sing about beaches
about the pavement problems
but there’s no true love out here
it’s a hollow ground with surfaces
just make believe of the real dirt
the dark hair living up north
the heavy tears down south
all cleaned up for the next sunny day
looking for beauty in all the wrong places. 




Sunday, December 13, 2015

SWEET HEART





SPIRITUAL

I believe in your mounting age
sweet jane flowing beneath the river
under water, back lit, a silhouette to all

Hey honey when will we all die? 
When does the day come when 
nostalgia is all over the place
running a rampant extinction 
upon the sentimental?

Oh lovely day in the air
it takes so long to wake up
distinguishing less between 
night and day
and more between 
love and loss. 




EVERYDAY

The drive is one we know
every curve a sentence said before
I turn over in bed again
I don’t think it really gets dark at night
anymore, anywhere. 

I see the movement of air in the trees
I catch a smell of honey in the wind
I know the days passing by
I almost collapse in this moment

All of us driving a road together
in the backseat taking turns asleep
making dates with destiny for you
and you and you too. 

If you could hold my hand visually
tears would appear in both our eyes
smiles on both faces
looking as we do
down the day

into night. 

Thursday, December 3, 2015

nick mann



when it is raining outside, you look in every window you pass
her friends were joking about their weddings in the future

it's her birthday at the restaurant with the food from my birthday

i love rockets for their outer space
and oil paint for when its thick

so often i have 0,
many people hate outer space
and are afraid of robots

when i am tired or unlaughing
she leans in from where she is
to check my eyes for their pupils

when a man comes out of the bathroom
i will go in,



i come back to this less and less,
the place i loved to be, the friendly of yesteryear

lads calling shotgun, screaming bloody murder,
the flask of levy hank, the man screaming
swamp trees whipping by the truck

i mean it when i say
it was all a dream
and it was the whitest coupe
and the shed behind a house
the bags spilling flowers and dirt

for everyone who knew me,
all things are only there to wish for,
lights, me under them





















i hear rumors of all things' existence, 
noise from a room with closed doors

steam rising from the pot








my beautiful wife and her mummified wife, who is also me


my beautiful wife, a castle that waits in every night













i know that happiness is careful
like trying to give a hug to someone who is sleeping




















when i go into the bathroom and look over my shoulder
and in the mirror
i will see the back
of some guy











it's her birthday, get her what she wants

Monday, October 26, 2015

LOGOS






THE LETTING GO

Holding the knife sharp side in
considering different parts of the day
the day gone by, the day going by, the day to come. 

Night is just one thing. 

I’m tired a lot, thinking about animals
how they get up and go, or they sleep. 
I’m in-between this almost all the time,
wishing I was more awake, 
wishing I had more energy,
wishing I could sleep better,
wishing I could sleep more,
resenting sleep, resenting time. 

Time is a collection?
No, time is fleeting. 

Time is a connection?
No, time is disconnected.

Time heals all wounds?
No, time compounds events
until they are too heavy to carry. 

I hold on to whatever I can
I let go without willing any moment to cease
I’m a witness to my own being
I’m a witness to others' passing through space

the darkness and the light cancel each other out?
No.


Hold on tighter. 

Thursday, July 23, 2015

TRAIN TRACKS






FRIDAYS

I’m holding on really tight to every day
letting my heart beat right, running, exorcising
I put a bullet through the ground, deep down

we were laughing when I started crying
emotions are like this, all at once, or none at all
I see the Hudson River look like a lake and wink
I move my body through the water like a river

there were days once when I could swallow the sun
days once when the sun swallowed me
nights where I floated to the sky
nights where I sink like a bullet through the ground

birds by the thousands, millions maybe
migrate south every year, looking for vacation
but it’s a lot of work, it’s just life, there’s no real break
no break when you picture the big scheme of things
walking through the woods like the trees are people
like the city is full of trees, it doesn’t matter
putting cigarettes out on skin, the bird leaving the flock
shedding your layers that hide you, that protect you
I have all these scars, tough little images of pain

the pain I see, but the pain was mental.





NIGHT FOR DAY

A. 

In the south county seems there’s a way of talking
like, “I’m a relative of someone you know, aren’t I?”
But sometimes you don’t want to find out, do you?
Depends on what part they’re from, right?

Holding a cup of coffee like it is my world
walking outside like nobody’s quoted the morning light before,
has anyone looked at the ocean and said, “it’s my silent movie”?
have they watched the sugar maples sway and question their motives?

We look down at the soil then plant it full of garlic
thinking about the first time sex was on your mind
you were so wholesome then, before you became part of it
becoming part of nature’s the same, 
it’s in you and then you start to enter it 
you connect to it as you realize you’re ruining it.

I saw the man in the moon from Wyoming
then I got on the plane, I said “goodbye moon”. 
I can watch a day pass if I’m working and feel fine
but sometimes I do things all day in the city
it isn’t until the light fades that I feel my soul returning
I’d take midnight over noon any day;

in the mirror it’s not what you see in your eyes
it’s what you see through them.




B.

When I attain total clarity
I will be driving a western road
the deeper I get in working 
the farther the mirror appears.

I was a tall tree, a flower
I was watching the moon leave
like a kid escaping to their room
hiding from the sun,
the light is the abuser
and a room is no place to hide.

There will always be allusions
the job isn’t to make more metaphor
it must be the opposite
stripping the vanities that hide reality
the markers of time run like the night.

but what is it the real problem in the end?
sleeping in when you weren’t up late?
thinking of all the hours of total loss
sleeping like a dog with no thoughts 
wasting it away because of total loss
looking out the window and the light means nothing
looking at the time and the time means nothing

feeling your body and feeling your time
feeling your own hands sifting through light. 

Saturday, July 18, 2015

adages pour like days days gone by in a second
lately lately lately there’s been an understanding
but one day we looked at the walls of an aged barn
haphazardly placed in the same field that harbors every image
of some young youth dealing with things
definitions of romance, to the witches

when the sun was perfectly not
when the wind was a chill dude and spoke of tornados
like a folkloric voice recalling family vacations
or gossiping about the drug addled second cousins

met one at a beer who came back from Tibet via Thailand
said it’s crazy over there raught neow
here’s an article, telling
of sad i felt
with pics of macs and monks

sat with a bottle while a stone’s throw down the street
i found a window smashed with a water meter cover
i like the idea of someone wanting my amassed beer rust
i like the idea of a child bored with the heat
tossing metal through glass

damn near ruined my life,
i thought in the moment,
that there damn near ruined my life

there’s time to speak of sympathy and politics
while damning the already damned
in that same field around the barn
where each boy draws breath
grass in his teeth
for the image
the folklore is decidedly tacky, decided the cowboyman,

looking on : i guess that’s what it’ll be from now on

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

STARING AT CANDLES





CAS FORTUIT

Watching sweat drip down a strand of my own hair
I’m pleased to be happy when I am
but I don’t do things to be happy
I do it all for something else
it doesn’t make sense 
becoming a force.


PR

This is who I am 
it’s what I’ve done
it’s who I’ve been
it’s what I’ll become. 

5 PM

The morning weakness 
the day weakness
the aquarium of night;
looking in on the day
you are traveling again
and this happens to me
whenever I’m alone
sailing away into 
every evening.

ALWAYS

spinning as earth
descending as sun
with the angels who cry
loss heavy in each tear
we see eye to eye

kiss goodnight

Friday, July 10, 2015

NINA SIMONE






MIDNIGHT

What it was like to be a kid and how to remember
looking out the window a lot and sleeping too much
hoping things would happen, things could change
the lawns of childhood, always maintained somehow
where’d all of my friends go, I never had many.

I look for the birds and try to sleep more
the feelings are just as strong but now 
I don’t imagine future narratives for songs
I play out memories from the past as they align
with songs about love, loss, and well, that’s most of it. 

I work for a while and then question every aspect of life
I read for a while and feel inadequate in different ways
I hold my own soul so tight it squeezes through space
it moves away from me as the night takes over 
and I see all too clearly the black veil and ponder
how do I make something about it, before becoming it.

Friday, May 29, 2015

STAINED GLASS

Learning to deal with time, how to rectify a situation
when the problem was caused by others
problems are all in the eye and tongue
looking desperately out your own car window now
your own car window looks nothing like the backseat
the old station wagon red, the embarrassing minivan blue
colors on cars seem so pathetic now
wishing highways in black and white.

The youthful yearning to drive,
now we know driver is the loneliest seat
driving home, driving to work, driving around, looking around
sometimes so dead inside music feels impotent
music carries the heart from self to other
music brings hope and empathy, it cradles and nurtures,
so alone and tired music is a wasted on me. 

To think of living without daily obligations
making obligations for ourselves to survive
moving our legs outside, moving our hands inside
listening to others, others listening to you
the vampire inside us creeping around our lungs
just crawling in the dark bowels of oxygenated blood
thriving inside, sucking our blood, sucking our soul, 
our own self-vamping.

Monday, May 18, 2015

PURE LEAF




HALF A GLASS

Alone in a very big space
looking at little parts of everything I’ve done
I try to focus on something that doesn’t yet exist
I build the basics of something in my mind and let it out.

Driving out from the city stress sheds of me like rain from a roof
driving back from the desert there are gutters collecting stress 
pooling it back in the dirt of the day to day. 



ALL THE NOTHING

All the inner pain builds up and breaks out wet
like the letters in the mailbox of an abandoned house,
still receiving little nothings to fill the void of everything.

When I sleep in I wake up and panic
“one, two, three” and try to move out of bed
look out the window for a while, noticing only the glass.

Within a week there’s many things, 
many days and glasses of water
I’d sacrifice my body for a pure soul

I routinely sacrifice my body and my soul.

Sunday, May 17, 2015

jet lag



SOUTHERN HEMI

"Signing in" to the customary world
"cleaning up" after myself

holding hands with your own breath,
catching the couch potato in the act;
dreaming of the multiverse during commercials...

Painting the house blue
painting your nails blue
painting your eyelids with eyeballs
to hold the night the same as the day.

Are you a messenger to me,
or am I a messenger to you?

You know, I've never felt part of a club
I never thought any club would have me
I may have even been in a club once and
been too shy to acknowledge my admittance
always leaving before anyone is kinged.

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

elements of a tuple


happy and i were waiting in the bar. the whole place is strung up with christmas lights like its a college town. 'do it again' by steely dan plays at a level some spaces below moderate. somebody comes up and asks us if we know about the mandate of heaven given to the emperor, they ask if we know that when the emperor fails to uphold his duties the mandate is withdrawn and the world falls into chaos, that good is bad and that bad is good, that there are bandits building strongholds out in the marsh. people are kooks,







elements of a tuple, a dictionary of lists,

there's a fact of difference, a fact of change, becoming someone else

looking at the difference in someone's face when they realize at last



 it's winter and i was driving on the back roads with you,
its dark and snow was falling, the defroster is broken and i can't see anything
i was driving in the space of the car, pawing for where you sit,
i know you must have asked me something, everything is green,
its all like i'm sitting next to you on the bus

i see hands held out in front of me 
lagoons, canals, moon how it is seen
from a new neighborhood


a retarded child with very large hands sits across from me on the train and kisses his mother, who smiles, having all the world, for all the world to see

fences for houses, the true gravity of a dog bite, fellows that lean on the fences. 

what reach, its like a voice echoing through the stadium of the thousands

will i remember it then

it's sad when a man is so confused that he drives the car that is inside of the car 
trees go by, its sad when a man is so confused that he finds himself angry, 
waiting for you and the bus, donuts or chicken in the terminal
padding in a district of men who are either enormous or tiny, moderately sized women, 

looking at pictures of people and wondering where they are, knowing how they are there in a sense, and very much gone in another, growing beards, 
changing into different dresses behind half closed doors.



if a system is rigid it buffers: pressure mounts and is circumvented
its all hard to see, invisible, white skipping lines,
blue paper, a rogue tuple hidden amongst matrices,  
a set of infinities, union and intersection, the deepening ripples of
spreading from blue where the line goes on, the space between
two nearby points is likewise infinity,

of course, i have literally no idea
what i'm talking about

streamers come from me, and leave by the window
the flat pillow in your room, 
white and fabric folds, honey bees flying back to the moon

you always wake up before i do, i am your jammie, who slobs
 comes running through yellow, 
yellow dresses or churches,  trees shuddering,
 thinking maybe you see a river through the trees
while you're walking, fresh eddies of dust like beams
blowing from up the avenue and stay, curled up with you
i was asleep, there was so much you wanted to tell me

you were crying in a room i had never seen before
i was waiting for you in a spot between two small streets
listening for the sound we know well

if you can hear it, is it talking to you
am i talking to it like i'm someone else





and there's a house in north philadelphia where in the quiet light of early morning it seems like it could be soft, or have the feeling of soft, inside, you know. but it's brick, wide black streaks of burn ribbon still above every window. the door is held up by the 2x4's that irving engineered. the walls between the rooms are crumbling or have been knocked down. there is a smell i've heard about many times, a smell i've read about in books and heard about in movies. joy and tushy are smoking crack around the table. a blue tarp crosses the room, crosshatched shine, a streak of ocean like, the cords hold it up, sharks in the crest of waves, broken tiles still fit together in a way. there's a scattering of sharp objects. i'm sitting at the table smoking crack and joy unbottons her pants to let her belly hang out. she looks at me and correctly guesses my age, i nodded with my chin on my chest, my sweater's hatches, grids. everywhere a yellow, all a kind of green with texture. a garden, a lump of red dust, the deepening of space, a whole planet of birds, what was a hallway, what is one big room. irving comes down the stairs with a bucket and asks, 'do we have any more bleach?' he smiles and seems sheepish, his gloves are enormous. i know this is a world of many smiles, arrangements of teeth, sand on beaches, a knowing kind of smell, a smell that we know about, all of your life you know the smell, the rot of bodies. the bucket of bleach rocking up the stairs, you can see it dripping on irving's boots, shoelaces, clean socks

outside in the cool blue air of morning there are lots with weeds and shadows deep and noble. there's a breeze that wafts down the avenues and little yellow flowers that bow down together, in the middle of spring, spring is almost here. happy is in his room in the warehouse, sobbing and holding his face in his hands while 'brown sugar' by the rolling stones plays loudly. the sun starts to come up, the streets and lots begin to lose their blueness and are on their way to a new shade, a new kind of curve. in the lots and places between road and sidewalk is a swirl of blossom and the animals that go around on padded feet, days and their strident march, life, guessing, swatting at it like a long series of remembering backyards tangled with bottles, where you pad around bleary when you wake up in the morning while everyone is still asleep, the lawn furniture is dripping, all of the springs that came before, 

it was like this; preparation indicates belief, dedication suggests faith. 
work doesn’t mean direction, but it is a path, 

circling, listening