June 2011
1 post
Toss
Spinning catharsis like coins,
cerebral, these cortexes of ours.
Making answers that pirouette clumsily between
crisscrossed fingers, charting panorama dreams.
Without two currents to pull the stream,
these leaves won’t sink too deeply.
May 2011
5 posts
“I will not be just a tourist in a world of images.”
– Anais Nin (via ikhlasincere)
In vain
I tried in vain
to change the waves of your brain
like a moon made of salt
could be crushed in a dream.
I didn’t want to go outside.
You didn’t want to come in.
You watered the garden,
tilled our beds apart.
You hardened into a bulb
of sunned shit in my heart.
You’re right, that was gross.
I shouldn’t be so presumptuous.
Let’s say we just faded away
...
Because the sky is blue.
This is my emotional blog. It’s passive aggressive and often moody. Sometimes good things show up on it. Sometimes bad things come from people reading it. For that, I am sorry.
Consider it flattering that I’ve thought so much about you that you’ve manifested in my subconscious and from that you or someone like you was recreated in a poem or a prose poem or just a flat out rant....
Ouch
Numbtonguejealousywhatthehelliswrongwithme?
Broken.heart.face.odd
Who am I kidding? The kissing was misplaced passionfruit toxic juice spilling its milk all over the floor, so premature. So ripe. So not right. The stubble you rub with a razor smooth like the edges of your teeth when you don’t smile to me. Behind your lips, the hum of the bees moved from your knees to our grieves. Gray like your eyes. Could never convince me otherwise. And your throat, like...
April 2011
12 posts
Housewife Lament on High
A wet sponge in a porcelain tub,
Sinking, saturated, fully wanting unlove,
my memory would feel less redundant of.
1. A vast retraction of the tide. Its grand divorce from the moon. All seven bodies of water land within the custody of Earth’s womb.
2. Invest in a mirror, trap self in mirror, break mirror in sun. May every glare remind all who weren’t there when the lights were on.
3. Replayed...
Impatient
Were those bell tower sighs you heard —?— as the hum of my car turned off your street, silent with distance, by the big old tree — the only reason I remembered where you’d be.
Were those bell tower chimes you felt for in your pocket while I mumbled out my day, rolled off my socks and touched my toes to the linoleum space between the carpet and your bed?
Were those crucifixes you hid in...
Bred for Hunger
They came for the crumbs,
knowing our clumsy fingers
left much to be desired.
The body of the waif,
whose ribs impress outward
in a shrouded plea, waits
to petition our maturity
on knee joint, cutting blood
from heart to feet.
They came for the crumbs,
moaning organ to marrow —
A dirge, a gentle word:
We are alone, the feral.
She told me not to watch my hand
i.
We were eyeing something to pace:
A pendulum, a face tucked into sleep, Soffee’d nurse’s feet.
Craving a cigarette, like an orgasm — to move with purpose.
Opening and shutting doors, windows, wards,
back and forth, tides, gut and moon,
and great mouths leaping to extraordinary conclusions.
I only want what can be counted on a hand
so the other can ash it, forest fire,
tamed at man’s —...
dreamhouse
My best friend belongs in a little glass globe. Like this Mapparium.
Strngly, slwly
dnt hv tm fr vwls r mch ls, rlly.
En media res
Paranoid about a legacy that doesn’t exist and may never. Paranoid about an annotated bibliography with a biography on it. Paranoid about the way the air conditioner has made my nose run in this arid climate. Paranoid about eating key lime pie and not being able to write poetry in lines that make people want to tie a silk-scarf noose around their neck and die happily, complete. Enjambed...
Some things are hard to deny.
Oatmeal = Porridge.
Molloy, you question my subjectivity
For what possible ends to these wastes where true light never was, nor any upright thing, nor any true foundation, but only these leaning things, forever lapsing and crumbling away, beneath a sky without memory of morning or hope of night. These things, what things, come from where, made of what? And it says that here nothing stirs, has never stirred, will never stir, except myself, who do not...
Pairasailing
You, neutral tug boat, don’t fool me.
A pirate in the oceans and a brother in the seas. Every night I am pulled to your oil spill hair and lighthouse voice; Transfixed by your slow cresting movements and tumbling plunges around the diner tile like a mop bucket reprise.
Our spirits run in mountain water and turn to cloud before we can sit at the bottom, silly faced school children,...
Sunloaf
We came to the sink — stained by pomegranate hands, wiped clean by the psalms of soul sisters. Her sweet mandolin, a sunloafin’ blister, red and shining, considering repose. What was left of our moment swayed with the broken string stroking her elbow as she played on. It took everything to let her finish that song — a bowl of seeds from the tree we’d outgrown.
-for Grace
Molloy...
Dear Mr. Beckett,
Is your mother home?
May’s left for palm oil.
Yet, I think you’ll find,
she’s been here all along.
Your nost-gills are in-hoarding
amniotic vapo-rub.
I can’t cease marinatin’ pathos
while in this womban’s tub.
This is your mother’s room;
She permeates the air,
with such muchness
You, modern Oedipus,
can’t even tell she’s there?
March 2011
7 posts
A Desert Song
I should have kept my eyes closed when I lost my way home.
Four years sleeping with coyote ruins, waiting to be turned on…
Vorspiel u. Denoument
Vorspiel & Denouement
The kitchen vase turned to swamp
Three days ago.
At breakfast, I dug
Fingernails into the necks of flowers,
Left to discolor in the wastebasket
Like bilious sunlight through
A screen door in the maids’
Quarters. Where they’re serving up L’America.
Cp. J.D. Morrison wasted the dawn,
Dipping spoons into the ferryman’s
Grotto. Those bright eyes and excesses...
Black Carl's "Silhouette of Evil"
Photo courtesy of Downtown Devil/Google/WorldWideWeb
Pew’s got a spell on you.
Black Carl releases preview to “Chariot”
For most Black Carl fans it seems their song catalog always ends too soon. So with a sigh of mutual relief I’m happy to announce that Black Carl has released a new tune. And for free. And deservedly so. The scene has let Black Carl play the same 15 songs or so over...
Blue Skies and Last Words
desert scorpio,
off-trackin’ mofo. out like a light or up for a fight. anti-mind over anti-matter. don’t you wish we could speak in that neon vernacular?
keyword: the locksmith. time blows a house of cards come May. And I don’t want to have anything left to say. Like a prudent Glockenspiel, I ran-circle-fed words for the asking at hours you like…and kept it 7/8 while...
Los Angeles
We decided not to go for artistic differences.
Wills in the sky.
Before writing this, I seriously considered spending a good amount of time turning my life into some “Wheel of Fortune” (as in tarot, not television) metaphor. But then I realized I’m just too tired and that many of you probably don’t care. If you are one “of you” then thanks and I’m sorry for doubting you. Your reward is a picture:
I’m that...
February 2011
2 posts
Half-time Jester (White Lie)
Loving you is like being an albino girl on a bike at night.
Camouflage of the blindest kind. Remember what it’s like?
Rubbing alcohol into your bloody shirt. Lysol finger-tipped hips.
Concentrate. Do you remember any kind of “when”?
I’m going to disappear with all of them…
When I resurface in the stagnant vitreous humors of your eyes,
stained by red and yellow...
A message to Oberst
Now that you have your message, there should be music in Arizona. Why avoid mobilizing the people with voting power? Why avoid inspiring a state that is under a heavy thumb of corruption and forgotten morality? Sure, it’s an artistic gesture — a kind of anti-matter to make the heart grow fonder. But it makes your fans feel pretty powerless. I mean, my car stereo isn’t nearly loud...
December 2010
1 post
When cinema and literature collide →
November 2010
5 posts
mouthsqueak
I don’t like gossip.
Page 86
The old intergenerational give-and-take of the country-that-used-to-be, when everyone knew his role and took the rules dead seriously, the acculturating back-and-forth that all of us here grew up with, the ritual postimmigrant struggle for success turning pathological in, of all places, the gentleman farmer’s castle of our superordinary Swede. A guy stacked like a deck of cards for things to...
Thoughtfulness
Thoughtfulness. It is in the heart of the beholder, inhibited by social blockades and iron soldiers…get yer permits for neuro-transit before it’s too late to…
The smallest piece of matter in the center of the platter, when served to a mother hatter, will always explode. The mushrooms and clouds people choke out loud mouths are the only truth they can know.
...
October 2010
11 posts
gbcw, io.
my mouth is useless in a world without ears. so i’m just waiting for the worms while sitting here.
You want to know soul?
Tell me, where is your kitchen? Take me there, child. And take a listen.
Are you strong, sweet one? Can you take up all those dishes?
Good, then. We can’t have a single one missing.
Now, break that fine glass there in the road while I steal your shoes.
Take your eyes into my hands and let me lead you
‘til the China and street has tenderized your foolish...
Stab at surrealism
One can hear the industrial dirge’s exhaust resonate from the mouth of the Valley, where it rises condensed as cold mountain breath during the Sunless months in Linderhof. The people now only rise to blow kisses to the summits, lit up like candles by the trees’ garnet and, at times, gold and orange degeneration.
Deficiency hangs from disheartened branches, weeping over the field of epitaphs...
Imitatio Vita
1. A vast retraction of the tide. Its grand divorce from the moon. All seven bodies of water land within the custody of Earth’s womb.
2. Invest in a mirror, trap self in mirror, break mirror in sun. May every glare remind all who weren’t there when lights were on.
3. Replayed and overdubbed, the siren bemoans her song. A dirge, the words, her gentle tone, gilted in wrong.
Humor exchange
Where once fruit of trees caught fire within reach. a thirsty core.
Blood is white, like a milk maid. whore.
And if time were to really just be sand
Would we have seen a tangent of hands?
Infinite negatives climbing discontinuous
a loose-fitting wheel on our axis
Now a wet sponge in a porcelain tub,
Sinking, saturated, fully wanting unlove.
My memory would feel less redundant if.
Ode to wholesale vodka
Oh crystal handles!
How you do refract light just so.
A thousand tumblers of your silver tears
Bathe me in a Dionysian glow.
Ode to canned corn
Oh, cob-less vertebrae!
You do sweeten my chili thus.
Little kernels of Vitamin B
Now preserved in my gut.
"Coyote Song"
Oberst’s “Coyote Song” to benefit the Florence Project.
Metapollo
I don’t suppose anything I can prove.
Involuntary motion made it true, yet nothing is real enough to use.
Will you be my meta-love?
Is any distance safe enough?
Dreamlike roles on a different tongue. Silent frames; you are the one.
Play it loud or pass right out.
There’s no one there to steal your shroud.
And when sleep runs you cold, turn on that Face ‘til you feel...
twenty-seven
too tired, six years too early.
September 2010
1 post
Saussure
She has overstayed her welcome in this room and is tired of ad-libbing the withheld narrative of your souls. You sheep. You cows. You raindrops in a puddle of acid rain. She is tired. Out.
July 2010
9 posts
Zelijko Djurovic →
Obsession. That is what I have.
Good Thoughts, Bad Thoughts
Can’t be the last resort if plans don’t turn out like you want them to. When I’m drunk, staring at all your flaws, what I want is just something to dream upon. But, honey, really, our lip-teasing lyrics keep me still when I should be stumblin’ on.
Everything happens for a reason:
“The distinction between Funkadelic and Parliament was supposed to be that Parliament used horns, and Funkadelic did not.” -Dean Rudland