From Quiet Thoughts

we're going to need more blankets

2012-03-06T00:24:00.000-08:00

we're going to need more blankets

one lot

2012-03-03T22:54:00.003-08:00

one lot they share between
the bushels of oil

and amber serenades of red locked
hypnotists parading

jealousy and
anti-jealousy

sown inside the same headlock

them feeding breadless loafs to every mouth
who will feed.

and the sherif is salivating Hamptons
and pissing on the street

like we used to do
when we drank to much of ourselves

one lot we give in retribution
for when it was our turn.

ties, the know and tunnels

2012-03-01T00:06:00.002-08:00

I imagine life's sown sanctuary
collar tied around thieves

tied around the planks of wooden
castigates

they use to corrupt

and the horny stones tied brightness
they through at slaves

blinding hindsight
to see the know.

And the slaves who answer
their wounds with wounds

for the know.

the know that can't be known
unless the dog has been walked

first to the street corner where nightingales
broom

the allies with their hair
and breasts

for cigarettes and the know.
i imagine

this from the angle of a beetle
who is starring

at you
starring at me

and the know that eludes us both.
the beetle is trapped

by size
we are trapped by size

and the tunnels
we hide

tunneling southern rocket fuel
tunneling salamander red
tunneling to keep the fire's fumes
at bay.

at a swimming pool

2012-02-22T00:07:00.004-08:00

at a swimming pool
the Sun does the talking

large breaths of light
can fill the lungs

burning holes in skin

to let the past flee
Tequila helps

with books opened
to no particular page reading

nowhere

reading extremity
Mark Twain helps

with metaphor plaits
like tongues of light

stirring others tongues

to break the lines that divide

sounds from the water hippodrome
whispers everything

i dare not read long
because Water is cautious
and
the pursuit of knowledge can be a Dirty Game

but i'm not playing today
no

not today

a blind man makes a cake

2012-02-08T23:04:00.000-08:00

the blind sees the difference
between right

and what is left

to trickle down
between cracks strategic

between lemons wedges modified

between jet fume air surprise
because the colors are absent

and the pilot flies
spreading message assistant
for reference

blending horoscopes
with coffee makes the mind wonder

like egg whites foaming, with plenty of air
between thoughts

to keep the conversation light
but it makes the cake rise

and no one likes a flat cake

swimming primitive

2012-01-27T01:45:00.000-08:00

I sailed your severed skin savour

while smiling.
cupped hands

catching telescopes on time
like juggling Alvarez

throwing stones
at the temple gongs-

to quench what swells

while breathing. I could surprise your
mouth with mine.

follow touch

with touch
but in the door way

flounder-swimming half faced

into the sand
swimming primitive

the way i learned to do.

you couldn't make me flip
but that doesn't mean i can't.

2012-01-16T23:13:00.000-08:00

the difference between here and there is
the tea I used to drink, during double shifts,

at that restaurant we all hated working at.
I called it the trinity;

mixing black tea, coke, and coffee together
made everybody's lips curl downward

made mine move money into pockets
to buy drinks

later
when the slip resistant shoes

were hung dry.

now I just drink and remember
what life was like when I didn't give a damn.

twenty three and taller,
twenty three and fucking like

the wold will end if we didn't.

the physical

2011-12-29T01:57:00.000-08:00

the physical

tunnels deep
holes burrowing

bandits

cutting backwards

cutting

cutting doberman ears
to hear the Sun.

stunning liberty

standing sane
with room to breath

bares little subsidies
for the damages filled

filling soundless

filling subways temperature

filling ungraceful substitute
before the body can feel.

your colors steel my sound

untouched
highway nails painted bite marks

track forward

trapping lungs in astroids
leaving

osiris to kill the moon for silver

and thursday mornings spent with ills.

and the mind can betray
the mind will always betray
the savior that hides

a sutures tangle

like blueberries picked in secret

or the light at the end of alabaster.

the flavor of celerity at dawn

2011-12-16T21:20:00.000-08:00

the fear of luxury is mutual.
I can see it in their mouths, between

breathes of cold. it leaves with the last
bit of fog breath attachment-

but it does not last the wind. i bought in
once. the winter grey could not be seen then,

tasted then
painted on lines of sight then.

and the air was so clean

on december streets, blushing bootleg blues
emotion, but it could not last the wind.

the weight of debt is mutual.
I can see it hidden

in pea coat pockets
carrying elephants eating eggplants,

and paintings of still life-without eggplants-
bought with credit

extentions; so we all could have long hair.
its december again

and assembly is lost in the winter grey

like the taste of lemon seeds
in tonic,

or the flavor of celerity at dawn.

unknotted

2011-12-02T13:55:00.000-08:00

im good at knots.
the problem, it seems,

is the twin-
with fibers impartial to
juncture,

impartial to circumstance,
and the curtains you will hang

when you get your shit together.

i eat simple,
sipping life through

slotted spoons dripping,
and the good

drops
beneath the lips

and onto the floor,
so the cat can know brevity-

her nose smells the breach
of decent.

losing interest,
she attends the

fake mouse
sitting still.

they are...

the both of them...bored.

and here i am-alone,
sitting with the mouth
itching,

hands, incased in air imprisonment,
and can
not touche you-

a plastic pillow case of sinless saunter;

coating confidence,

and i am found
wanting you-

unknotted.

2011-11-25T15:24:00.000-08:00

it can not be found
in all the moments taken by breath
left to lead the eyes forward,

to awake-
ness

to impress the sheets warm-
ness

to breath, shameless sleep forward-
ness

while sleeping.

the toes are curled, and
memory, to engaged in dreams

for walking.
it would not be found

in rosary beads blushing her
breasts expressive (and she

wore it the whole time)
it could not have been found there

but i didn't mind looking.

It will not be found
in lesson,

when words require words
to feel, be felt

and fucked
under disposition. it can not

hide in thoughts given.
nor does it hide in movements,

faking movements, while all the waves
dream of clean breaks.

it has not been found in squares.
making circles optimistic-but not easier
to draw.
-
it has not been the breath taken;
that leads me to raffle.

nor is it a moments clutch in error, as it
exits, chain linked

imprisonment-as it leaves-

fatal connections in tact and toe;
so its not their fault

to follow.
no, to raffle is nature.

its body swells on cue
its temperature humor foreskin removed
by old men

with old problems and young minds.
-
it can not be found in you
or found without you

it has not been found in me.

work schedule

2011-11-22T00:10:00.000-08:00

your door broke its bell,
ringing saunter

down 17th, while you
spread your jokes

and the mouth can be so clean,
at times,

when the tiles of sanctuary
are scrubbed loneliness.

and the unmoved smiles of the web
are not enough.

and i never cared for your jokes.
the smell of them

makes me sad

like butchers cutting goats.

but we don't know any better
so i guess its ok.

and there is always next time.
i know

because the work schedule is on
the freezer,

and in the hallway,
its not changing anytime soon.

i mentioned the moon...as usual

2011-11-18T13:37:00.000-08:00

the mornings bridges bark
inbound,

but that doesn't matter to you
your belly

is full and the heart, just empty enough
to laugh,

and carry conversations about rocks
sold on Polk street

that can break you sideways,
grant silver lips auspices

and reminds the moon to blink
bloodshot pennies

facing tails

looking forward to the next hit.

but brunch was good,
the bus ride home, empty

but you can't blame them for that.
they wake up empty,

unfueled, humming without emission.

it could have been freedom

2011-10-28T20:08:00.001-07:00

did we replace the jungle of leaves,
with a jungle of thieves?

for there is plenty of wind in both
and

the ground feels all burdens.

a bold wind can blame the cholera
for chimera,

when the noises heard from opened windows
carries a neutral, nerveless passion

killing you to freedom,
killing me

indifference

and the last bit of child has left me,
was left by me,

in the spring of 97'

its skin dust settles sour
in the lungs of us all.

a moment in waiting tables

2011-10-19T00:51:00.000-07:00

you told me you where done.
standing behind

our wall,

shoulders bow bent and
stranded,

holding the weight with surprising
enthusiasm.

"I'm done with now, I could die," you said.
your words, moral and

justified, mumbled between

turning tables like tricks with your
blouse cracked.

your straight teeth teasing, allowing them
to see how lies can

blow luxuries into glass-to gain
light in silence.

and, we make the salted butter in house.

And I knew it was true. because
your eyes where gone,

unfocused

telling me nothing. so I knew it was true.
why not I thought silently,

you've seen
you've tasted

been tasted, with boring tongues;

and its tiring believing
that only sober eyes

see the truth.

I offered you the night,
the skin

required to sleep, but your answer was no.
so there's nothing I can do for you.

water records

2011-10-16T22:31:00.000-07:00

i take my contacts out. let them drop
into an old water glass

dusting its circle clean.
its satisfying

to take the day
off the eyes,

to see it floating in jobless water
thats casually leaving itself

to dry.
they say there's memory in water,

and when ripples widen, its wrinkles
are writing down

all the sounds we make. I'll take it soon
to the sink.

letting go, the sounds it keeps,
like water records

we'll both forget,

as it joins itself below the street-
and then the sea.

and the tide
gets high

laughing, yelling our quotes
to the moon.

I hear them too, from my opened window
microphone; only the nouns are verbs and

there is no room for why. but the moon
doesn't get it.

and neither do I, but we both smile
because the ocean is funny.

old noodles

2011-10-13T23:19:00.000-07:00

what now clutters palms in rash repair
settles debts with jesters,

spitting loudly, and calling out
bluffs settled by jesters-

when the days where blinks
left to up to

the Sun.

you asked me how we could dine
selfishly-on the flesh, grown

so thick the bacon curls
itself-

and in an instant be strangers.

you ask me with sounds, incomplete

but with purpose,

unmouthed, but leaking through the hole
in your shirt.

you left the party early,
but my jeans still smelt of lipgloss

and the story you told me, about a knight
who slayed a dragon,

and lost the ability to speak.

I know now, that you could never be loved
between stares

and that lunch you spent alone.

I will never know all the bands you think
are cool,

and why you need to be stared at
constantly.

but you could never be loved

will always

be loved by someone
giving it to you hard, like old noodles

stuck to empty bowls,
turning white.

2011-10-04T23:06:00.000-07:00

the blood is built to clot. so to not
let the lot of it

leek; into an opened air calvary
branding for keeps-singing,

breathing mischief.

u bleed like passengers in an airplane
sleeping, letting the rain drift off

unnoticed, until the landing strip appears,
on schedule; and then you forget the names

of your neighbors standing in line for taxis
heading outbound.

u bleed like jokes written for lawyers,
balanced,

because its funny when it's balanced.

we are funny, levied between floors and a
lifetime of light

defining shadows
of words uninvented, to keep

the sounds inside

and the hands soft
for touching.

but it feels right to touch. fingers sailing,
north to south, learning everything

there is to know, while the mouth is closed

and nothing is spinning.
not even the watch you keep

on your nose, letting me know
when its time to leave.

coupons and corn puffs

2011-09-29T00:28:00.000-07:00

the post man leeks his fury through
wrinkled corners, post marked

passive facility,
posing as ledgers of progress-

but I could never keep a sticker
stuck.
aggressive remarks lend their cents

too colorful to care, how many people
can use a useless

discount;

but I flip through the pages between
bites of corn puffs anyways,

thinking, that's a pretty good deal.

whipping milk from my chin I think of
cashing in on favors given,

like coupons crammed into my mailbox,
unannounced-

shouting, "cut me,

put me inside of your pocket."
so we'll both save a few dimes.

channel hiking

2011-09-26T14:10:00.000-07:00

I'll believe you when the locus become friendly,
spelling words from their ears

instead of toes. my nose smells your breath through the
screen in front of me,

through the words in front of you

and a cable of truths
between us.

no longer can I read the eyes of tin
people reading their point of views

on points of cues given to them as paychecks.
you say ad-lib, I say birdie

ad-lib, birdie
ad-lib-birdie
ad-libert-y

actors.

I wear my boots to bed while walking through talking ties,
leaning into syllables, like
girls leaning

into uninterested men leaning into them
for as long as it takes to get off.

then they get off, and the smell of it lingers.
I wonder

If we'll last through the summer, last
through the fall.

a food poem

2011-09-21T23:47:00.000-07:00

the belief of shame depends on your belly.
cured from within,

it's soft spoken sanctuary,
exposed the rue-

blinks when blinked at
while the summoner sneaks a smoke break.

these are the days of the Thickener,

swimming in salt.
I'll eat a piece,

when i'm good and ready,
but

the pistachios are burnt, and
I haven't the chips

to fold.

at least we can mend

2011-09-11T01:26:00.000-07:00

at least we can mend,
while the day is found short;

finding leverage
in the sands of the past.

forget what you think you might know,
and breath a wind

left by a strength
that surrounds you,

in theory.

forget assumptions of comedy

left
by dreams in the dark,

and build castles with concepts,
written with tears,

and we'll forget the rug burns together.

the birth of book keeping

2011-09-04T01:54:00.000-07:00

lets watch the clouds go grey.
cast out the lure

that made gold into lust-
made you into steal

and the story
is to long

to tell.

I would soften you with a kiss
if it meant confer;

but no one uses wood to make boats
anymore-

because its not practical.
or,

because the noise heard
while licking lips

softens the feel of it-

and the sounds are to loud for
resource.

or because I am a bad kisser.

or its not
what you thought

it should be.

I thought it was nice,
but I like it when it rains.

the drops of water sing,
drown themselves into

a short street melody.

see them halo, falling forward
like sleeping fingers-their flesh

cleans foot hole directives-
theirs memories

growl,
unwitted in their own mutiny
for they are many,

and can't read

the letters read to them
since the birth of book keeping.

or maybe i'm too self involved
to know

what you need
to feel-

to feel.

soaking

2011-09-02T00:14:00.000-07:00

soaking, pickled in the saw mill shaving
cure that carried me,

long ways,

towards
a kingdom once ruled by

believers, their thoughts
projecting immunity-the indifference
of slaves-

and I'm reading the paper

online

ignoring the difference.

smile, the doctrine of implant
sees you,

knows your face.

let us go, and we will love freely.

because what are you afraid of?
and,

there is so much to see,
and taste, before

the time,

named serious, complies.

to the witches that where killed...I don't believe in magic, only words.

2011-08-28T01:42:00.000-07:00

life is a confection of differences.

to understand
personas at random-

and the jokes they read

play and

spin-onto a listener with
pushy mouths.

or why don't we read anymore?

to love the unlovable shoebox;
emptied

and searching...

filling its space in a day
and there is still the night to come.

disturbed

by the small that affects.

hungry for The Age of Stars to return.

ideas

2011-08-20T10:42:00.000-07:00

ideas are safe as long as they are forgotten.
hidden behind a gate

never built to satisfy.
they believe in
sandstorm saviors, and never believed

at first,

the stories told to them by those who believed
the first stories told to them.

they are most dangerous when they learned to read
through the holes in your beard-

left alone to wonder how long it takes
to let lying dogs lie.

because no one eats for free.

ideas are safe as long as they can
spread, like fires adapted,

moving upwards

into the chimney top cap turned black,
and speaking,

teaching debonair-

like my english teachers used to do.
and what did they know.

Ideas are safe in the head, where they belong.

2011-08-16T03:02:00.000-07:00

it is the end of the night.
i know it is the end because i am

peeing white. that is to say there is no
yellow.

no more color. only white.

and then the eyes close.

and then black.

and then the
disturbing dreams only a traveler

sees, while searching
through the lines dividing
the forgotten from the televised.

and the news make so much money theses days.

the liberty of saints

2011-08-16T00:42:00.000-07:00

the sinners wept. living sounds like
screwing in nails; when all you need

is a hammer.

like a trumpet under Lake Michigan-
channelling comment cards to those

who do not read,
and counting coconuts always takes up

the afternoon...

when there is everything to do and nothing
is single.

their eyes tell you they want you,

but you know their thoughts.
and they are responsible,

and will not take you for themselves.

and you will not feel their skin on yours

and you will not taste their neck.

it makes the sinners weep-more than black berries
after the summer,

more than the rights of spring,

more than jesus,

because he was lucky; and took the liberty of saints
and died early.

something about ants

2011-08-08T14:38:00.000-07:00

i try to speak lightly, like walking
on egg shells, hungry,

looking for yolks-

but there is nothing to find but noise.
and breaking broken shells never feels good.

the chatter, attacks in waves,

discounted with coupons, selling adds
to the corner of my minds eye.

I try to walk lightly, like speaking into the

ears of ants, hungry
to please the lover they will never touch-

feeding fatherless offspring, and always moving.

the ankles, wear wrinkled clothing-roll their own cigarettes,
and complain about the weather.

and so i smile lightly, sit lightly, and let fingers do the talking.

its only wednesday

2011-07-27T23:58:00.000-07:00

they found a tea cup upturn,
and declared the cabinets clear.

a newborn believer sliced her breath
wide open with a knife previously used for

quality control. the lotus

soil spoiled a concrete coverup, called

in favors, gained when blooming bath salt

butchery.

and its only

wednesday.

hiding in the shadows

2011-07-22T01:50:00.000-07:00

the truth is a flower

hiding in a jungle

scheduled for demolition

so that we may wipe our

asses clean.

our feet and mouths

hiding in the shadows

awaiting rues.

i thought it best not to tell you that i'm not the one, for now

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

for the wages of sin is life.
what doesn't kill you makes you

want more.

what can i say about the mistakes i've made,
but more of the same-

and i've crashed a bike more times than
i care to admit.

and most of the trees will blossom in the spring.

and the songs sung by empty lovers makes
more music than elephants could;

fighting over scraps from the journals of thieves.

and the plans made by sons of gods-or at least
they thought they were.

but what could i know? i went to public school,
where it's better to be lucky in choice

than to know the Truth.

good always comes with the bad, like breathing
the dust of sailors past; traveling into the known unknowns-

and faking bravery,

playing the game of constitution, liberty and
other, "what the fucks," that games hide

to be more enjoyable. because noone knows
how to make their own salads and be happy with

them-i'll keep my plans tight to the chest,
angled, so the light kisses them conscious.

so they'll grow up to be lawyers-
arguing the seas

arguing the depth of law

arguing temperatures seen through the eyes
of estranged boomers

who never learned the meaning of Spring.

move with me

2011-07-13T22:30:00.000-07:00

move with me. move to me and i
will call your name. we can be like the power

lost in transistors, unaccounted. kiss my life
Judis lips,

and doom it falsified.
we'll become nameless but unto ourselves.

and time cards will forget us quickly.

believe in me. and i will be the lion
walking the perimeter of our lot.

feed me. to feed yourself. and we will learn to
lie when convenient, to a life that is to afraid

to make love; when love is for the making.

lets burry Easy behind our jokes and live between
the postcards we'lll send

to all that have laughed,

cried or cowered

in the site of Moirai.

i want to dance with you, make tacos on wednesdays
and never where pants on the days

stolen from reasonable substance.

with the bulk of our leisure spent forgotten,
lost between blinks and touches

that seem to last a thousand creation tales-

i could move to you, opened. allow me to
surface the hidden trappings of belief-

stowed away in a thing you've forgotten matters.

move with me. move to me and i will call your name.

NO PARKING: street cleaning from 9:00 am-11:00 am

2011-07-11T12:56:00.000-07:00

it's monday, meaning an early rise for
me and the street cleaners-

spinning,
counter clockwise,

turning the leaves

to mulch

when discovered

liable. but i'm not a hugger.
or i wish i wasn't.

and, if the trees hold their breath in winter,

we certainly can. for as long as it takes
to burn up what was covered-

and then, i guess we'll

breathe the difference.

or breathe only on mondays, like my car does,
because its doing fine.

you own a strength inside of you

2011-07-07T01:19:00.000-07:00

Ambivalent! screamed the risky night,
you tried to fill your bones;

with nothing more then cups of wine
to drowned the shattered stones.

close your eyes while the music plays,
and throw the bag to them;

to see the lucky winners eyes, you won't,
their broken, sotted, dim.

you expect to find what your looking for,
between a Pabst and Bullet-

or cater to him bathroom stall
snap a shot while you pull it.

beat them all to the punch line volley,
and they will forget your face.

cower like you've learned to do,
and drink to forget the space.

Or recognize the fading light,
that led our race thus far.

built bridges passed the broken rocks,
and channelled burning tar.

built time itself, to laugh it off,
and tapped the tree of thought.

you own a strength inside of you
and it's not the one he's bought.

2011-07-05T16:58:00.000-07:00

your broken. ending lives for
pipe lines and houses in the hamtons.

and machines do the trading for you.

what else is my money good for,
but lobster dinners and power

you've grown between your legs
where your needle dick

used to be. And no one cares.

being normal

2011-07-05T02:07:00.000-07:00

when the better part of sensitive, reverts
to sequence, like air spoiling fruit;

it's time to rearrange.

selling time to change is hard, like
lighting candles with scapegoats,

and praying for a flame.

i once lit seven cigarettes, at once,
and passing them to friends we shared

the moment.

I once half made love to a girl, who hid
her pain in the nook of her chest; closed

her eyes and wouldn't let me in.

I once cried at the site of an elephants foot,
dried and stuffed, resting in shag carpet

and covered in wax.

I wear shirts of justice, telling stories of
purity,

of letting go
of consequences that have no intension

of following through.

what does
that make me?

normal.

your hat problem

2011-06-29T22:20:00.000-07:00

i can not wright anymore, the words,
they have left me.

i see them collecting just outside the tongue,
trading card like jokes

to be used when its their turn to play.

your kisses do
this to me. for a time-for its

when you smile-you leave out the punch line.
like your saving it for something,

for something that won't cut you.

for something worth more then
a night,

more then an itch,

more then christmas in july.

you give something else instead.
something below your neck, below your

freckled skin, and
between the words you used, when we talked
about, how drummers are assholes.

but i won't judge you when you wear hats,
because you think it hides your thoughts

and takes away the feelings secretly
shown in yours eyes,

and keeps the sun out of you.

but before you go i would like to tell you
that i think your funny,

and wouldn't mind it if you stayed awhile;
we could eat some cereal and talk

more about your hat problem.

the coffee table

2011-06-26T12:53:00.000-07:00

two cups of coffee, a half eaten bowl of corn flakes
and an overt expression of debility,

conflicts what was,
an otherwise distant coffee table.

when it was younger it kept records
of people passing, and the words each one used to

describe proclivity. but as it aged
with coffee stained wrinkles, it began to loose track

of the many worlds spoken. as time rubbed corners
clean, my coffee table forgot what it was like

to carry lightly objects passed upon it shoulders,
residing instead to hold, with yellow constraint,

strings of frustrate. never cut or untied these strings
stretched, made shadows on the walls and assumed the art.

and now, in shadless excuse,
the morning pretense smiles.

blow me a kiss, and i will keep your hands
busy, belly torn and you can not feel

the sensation. the morning will come,
bringing its single blade of straw, breaking,

and brooming away all the clutter from burdens
past; but not today.

i wear my glasses to bed

2011-06-17T00:44:00.000-07:00

i wear my glasses to bed, sleeping still,
to see my dreams more clearly.

to define the leaf from the twig
at distance, and learn in multiple ways

the differences between them.

to rewrite signs and tangled lines, unmanaged
by the view-

seen through eyes, the shapes comprised of
reprimand, broken glasses

and the saltless tears of forgotten dreams.

but in the sake of dreaming awake, i find
the stories enduring,

like a fire burning tricks
like a sandbox shitting on babies
like an onion buried yet blooming
like hell, but in Miami in December.

job hunting

2011-06-12T14:00:00.000-07:00

job hunting is like trying to sell cloth to a clothes line.
you have to convince yourself, and the clothes line, that bearing cloth is normal.
is every cloth draped line, bent heavy, swaying in a sunlit afternoon, happier than the others?

the others, standing just as tall.
the others, entertaining birds.
the others, undressed without defense-scaring sheep.

job hunting is your last cigarette rained on.
the wet paper turning clear, exposes the guts.
forcing you to smoke it gently; or through it in the gutter.

it forces you to lie, by telling the truth.
to dance, interpretively, to the sound body language makes, underwater.
I can hold my breath for 30 minuets without laughing.

job hunting is for losers because winners already have jobs.
but if winners have jobs then what's the second job for?
and in the real world you wouldn't have to bleed, just to blink.

a story of the middle

2011-06-09T23:19:00.000-07:00

we enter the story in the middle
the middle
being where some stories become not boring

where its beginning to show signs of
something worth telling

worth repeating the story

and thats where it begins
in a sense

the beginning being ignored
applied as
unimportant

or at least
in as far as

the story goes

omitted

it is a story unfinished
the end is unseen

and therefor can not
and should not
be speculated upon

however it is important to note
that an ending is being formed

even now
as the middle progresses
from a beginning

into a middle
and eventually an end

meaning the inevitable demise of
and resolution of
the story itself
and most

if not all
of its unwilling inhabitants

i assure you
all the details will be presented

in order of importance
which may lead the reader into a twisted
albeit predictable ride

the tale
being unpredictable by nature
should exhaust such fumes

of nonsense
choking its participants
its readers

and if its lucky
any ears listening to its retelling

and this is where the story bends
the reader

searching for meaning
in the words
but sadly

i can not go any further
seeing as though

we have now reached the end

i moved on

2011-06-01T23:01:00.000-07:00

i moved on,
my legs carried me, as they do.

I walked out, into the path
of a man

drunk, pissing on his shoes,
his knees, cock hanging

freely as he stumbles.

life turns real in the time it takes
to wet your pants

and the street below. life always
appears quickly.

says hello with hatchets, stands
staring behind sunglasses

appearing to stare without sunglasses
waiting with hatchets.

I wanted to turn around.

or do it over
again.

if it was possible I would
have

made me selfish. taking you upstairs
to keep.

but.

I moved on,
my legs carried me as they do.

at best

2011-05-25T19:31:00.000-07:00

at best we are heros without capes
looking towards the clouds,

for rhyme, for shapes to move us
and chances to plug

whatever makes us feel important.

at best we are the opened books
being written on windshields,

before it rains. and the street cars
hum; itching for speed.

our songs collecting in ribbons
of water-like veins spelling stories

that always blame the weather
for directions lost. at best

we are a bridge, tunneling through
the wind, repenting to no one,

breasts exposed-fucking
the tide below.

at best we are sexy spring, growing
tall the smell of newness

we are lazy summer, to hot to care

we are fetid fall, killing what can not
endure the labor of winter.

at best we are augment, with nothing
but the past to set us free.

a kiss

2011-05-10T20:14:00.000-07:00

a kiss stays trapped, composed, ambiguous
collecting wait

like elephants grazing-but we can not
accept the touch

or breath its air
until there's room in it for the both of us.

there is a first kiss and a last,
ones that lead us to our death

and past, hiding middle ones
on the neck

to be remembered on mondays.

and there are others of course
less interesting kisses. forgettable

moments easily paid for, played for
thrown away in vain for

a cup of accession.

a kiss, tasting like december
and carmax. or cigarettes,

or vodka cranberries, or both.

and morning air kisses, warming
toes in woolen socks,

with you
wiping cold nose off you cheek.

Poetry

2011-04-26T01:32:00.000-07:00

Poetry, the effectual lover. She will leave you
for your brother;

drapes torn, while the taste of her is
still on your tongue.

Poetry knows your lies,
collects lies,
makes you believe.

Poetry is a plastic bag in the wind against August.

It is the unkept self in the morning;
with nothing to do but rhyme.

It is the weed pushing, drawing air
deep into its lungs, corrupting,

assuming parking lots.

Poetry makes love in the dark after fucking all day.

It will lame you, lead you,
find your most intimate words,
then leave you.

Poetry is the blind man singing beyond his sight,
a song made for everyone-

and some will not understand.

morning construction

2011-04-20T15:10:00.000-07:00

I awoke this morning to the sound
scaffolding makes

against cold hands and sidewalk.

Dimpled backs carried graffitied blocks
both

old enough to remember the days
when Unions gave a damn.

They moved fast, screwed fast,
hanging the nets and blinds before

my coffee boiled, naming it
Tuesday. I always ask

them about the weather; no one
knows it better then a day worker.

They know it like a baker knows yeast;
using their noses and
the feel of the air.

I watched as the new kid awkwardly
thumbed a hammer. Dropped it, in front
of a cute skirt wearing train wreck, walking past

them all-teasing us all. He'll get it
for the rest of the day,

but he had it coming,

the new one always does. When your new
you get it twice as hard, taking the shit
the rest went through,

all the days before you arrived-
just so its even.

Their always trying to make it even.

unfiltered communication

2011-04-18T11:53:00.000-07:00

I dreamed my father lived in a hallway,
painting clothes; hiding prose and

a cell phone between lucky strikes. counting
down the hours spent awake, and not

counting at all, days spent asleep.

he was younger then, stronger then, eyes opened
at the edges then.

I saw him planting tones, speaking vowels, reading
words everyone loved to hear. but he stood there,
showing me and

only me his knuckles- painted red like a sound
that covets the tongue; displacing meaning,
displacing thoughts.

displacing what it can.

I turned and stole his pack of smokes-
his words they could not see me-
and, plugged them into the

wall for a chance at unfiltered communication.

parades

2011-04-12T19:25:00.000-07:00

a toast to parades. I feel the noise.
the awkward setting arranged to let one stare
unmoved, watching life behind fences,

and catching free candy.
a movement of time,
like shitting on the street but with flowers,

or masks,

or plastic cigars

or elephants

shitting where ever they feel like it.
people dress in franchised clothing,
rented, appealing to fever-

colors, bent by the Sun and group think.

everyone waves. i see you. look at us now.
its fun because its true. its fun because
it doesn't last.

the imagination, the power to speak,
type, create and walk using just two
appendages is what separates us

from them. yet sometimes i'd trade it
all for the ability to shit and fuck where
ever and whenever.

i found it hard to practice care

2011-04-03T01:19:00.000-07:00

i found it hard to practice care, even though
the night was young, the tricks, flowing

like the bay to the next mouth awaiting
ruse.

there is mistake in practice, and no one waits
for leaning to curve; leading, persuading entropy-

but you can call it mingling.

i'm good at lighting cigarettes, playing
games of chance and creating holes that

loop, but i'm not good at you, or
me rather, and i've forgotten the cross streets

already.

a joke

2011-03-29T14:37:00.000-07:00

late one evening, a man, walking into his house, sees a snail slivering across
his door step; the trail drying behind him as he slowly makes his way.

the man picks the snail up and tosses him into the garden, walking inside
he commences his evening activities unmoved.

a year later the same man sees the same snail gliding passively
across the door with reliable fragility. the man picks up

the snail and asks why he is so persistent. the snail looking
up toward the man, stretches its feelers far into the air and replies,

"go fuck yourself."

-

2011-03-16T23:50:00.000-07:00

your mouth opens, surging argue. you feed trains
of thought railroad ties and square traces

of kudos; left to their own demise and
not yet understood. you reck syllables,

comforting enough to fuel oil jets speed; flying,
falling ungraceful.

you smoke and lie awake
fretting, thinking foul mouths end swiftly

but can not be controlled. you
can't please them all. so you please few;

candied tongue severed and aimless...
obtuse and unworthy to touch the one you

wish to please the most. you hum dirty floor
blues, swept

away by the next set of wills filling, foaming
cats tails-a cropped candle burning

with no place to drip.

you grow a beard because you think she'll like it,
but it won't pay the bills.

everything blends

2011-03-14T00:11:00.000-07:00

everything blends,

plastic blends if you forget
to look-

saying, "everyone gets tired
sometimes." colors

blend, on the skin, ignoring

how to spell blind
and in the trees, when words

can mean death.

dreams blend, in a clouded
mind, that wakes up tired.

wine blends with everything.

we had fun

2011-03-14T00:07:00.000-07:00

we had fun without him.

in the streets, and between the
photographs of saints,

left wing martyrs and pie

at what cost do you please him,
feed him deeds, like his mother did-

keeping him young?
he insults the gift before it is given,
with expectations, using

language of bondage and ignoring
the real.

what a child.

The well dressed Apathy takes the bus...

2011-03-01T20:33:00.000-08:00

The well dressed Apathy takes the bus headed uptown
with the boys, Cursory and Chance-

chasing girls and a free ride. Using the back
door they always find their way

into the pockets of Luck,

walking in with shoe strings
undone, bagging table scraps, while

tying up loose ends with the one really in

charge. Abusing their fortunes, and walking out
with whatever their knuckles can carry;

these three, grown tall by affect, smile wildly
in the trail of their impassive bane.

To connect outside the fold is cautioned,
feared at worst, allowing the prognostic

smell of mumbled words repeating
soak the air and

leak into my now undrinkable wine.

To the blenders at Dairy Queen or why is your skin so hard

2011-02-17T21:13:00.000-08:00

I burnt my wrist on the oven, thinking to
much of the beer thats waiting for

me at your place, when this shift is over.

By your place, I mean the bar your always at,
drinking until the lights go up; more drinking

at mine-and its always the same.

If we danced in my kitchen would
you remember?

Cold floor kids like Dairy Queen blenders,
spinning cream and sweetener until

it feels good, and the skin hardens itself-

insides melting and uncompelled.

Can I help the next in line...please?

The Faces

2011-02-09T23:13:00.000-08:00

The Faces looked blue behind second hand sunglasses,
walking up Mission St, wondering what
life was like when the

bus was a nickel. The Faces try to hold the night
in their eyes, but can't.

Its on their knees, their sleeves, on the dirty
street torn bags found

rolled up and sticking out of answerable pockets-

obliged to carry god knows what, and other tools
to survive.

The Faces have names but are not spoken, brief
substitutes loaned to them by nature, pose creative

boundaries and spelt wrong,
with syllables swimming through

the air unlingering; dying before my coffee
gets cold.

The Faces breath, but no one seems to care.

Pallid Eyes

2011-02-03T11:48:00.000-08:00

When you called me, I couldn't listen
the signal between your phone and

mine gave me mixed feelings of cajole
and being pierced; like when I was

young, feeding thin steal through skin-
watch it dangle there,

a fingertip motif- to be apart
of something.

But no one understood then.

They said Art was for fags, so I
drew a forest in the snow, it's

cold breath weening rain clouds,
and mix precipitation.

So you can understand now, why
I don't listen the first time, or the

second.

because of the fools, with no Art,
and their pallid eyes.

The plot is made best with a twist

2011-01-28T15:59:00.000-08:00

The plot is made best with a
twist, settled neatly behind

a point, neasled between few
words and empty lighters.

I remember there being more
light, but it was probably just

the bite weakening, flowing away
like New York, or the Earth before

we descided it was ours.

The scent of your neck makes me
sin, but thats not the point. I liked

it when we drank last, you mentioned
your plans and I thought you were

pretty. The image of you between
me and Jersey makes me remember

when I was a child, fighting trees with
sticks and calling it war.

Guilt is clever, like ashes leaving its mark
on your jeans, and catching the last wind

uptown, staining the Bay Bridge until Spring,

when we all get to feel the Sun.

books in the corner, thoughts in the air

2011-01-17T11:57:00.000-08:00

Sitting still, unafraid, and spoiling the game of
time, the words lay,

lounged, paper back lined and breathing.
I count the curled corners of pages turned,

as Fall turns leaves, writhing into Winter, and another
one tossed

into the pile.

I easily forget the words written, winged from the writers
woes, stamped for a lifetime on the pages I read;

but the soul of it stays in mind, whispers, guiding my
thoughts and busy fingers.

There's Books in the corner and thoughts in the air,
reading is the easy part, the hard is to care.

Vague is the sound of confidence

2011-01-06T14:46:00.000-08:00

Vague is the sound of confidence. Stealing
cliched tones and buying time form
the only guy who sells it.

Vague is the opposing alternative to silence;
it keeps the breath fresh while
clouding the air.

Vague does not care, after the moment
has passed, who's life was just
changed.

Vague lathers, forgets to rinse, but
always repeats.

Vague never disappoints.

Vague should be shaken before used,
and chilled when not needed.

Vague is the color of the Sun, when I
am asleep, dreaming of coastlines
bleeding from the stars.

Vague are we in the night.

Untitled

2010-12-25T14:50:00.000-08:00

I searched for titles in the Sea,
made peace with eroded toes and salt lines,
in an attempt

to be me.

I made a boat with smaller boats
and foil, I searched for cracks
and the wanting

parts I fixed

I broke an oar and sharpened another,
on a piece that I was writing.
The current was strong,

but I wanted to risk it.

I Changed, fleshing out what was
not needed, then searched once more
in the augmented Sea,

just to retire, Untitled.

There's no bullshit in baking.

2010-12-09T23:02:00.000-08:00

I put down a book of Twain's just
to read who's new thing
gets me what I want,

now on sale for a limited time.

I asked permission to blink
for free but was denied, then charged
a tellers fee.

With withered pockets and shallow souls
I can only sit and wonder

what a Twain is worth these days-

when no on knows how to
make bread and a buck and a half
can get me fired.

My fingerprints being chosen for me,
I played it casual,

measuring wishes

and deciding to count in months
instead of days, items saved for
when it rains.

There's no bullshit in baking.
You either have it, or your eating

dry cake and lying about it.

2010-12-01T14:46:00.000-08:00

I forget to be warm when the Sun
sets early into the bay

of a sheeted window.
Chill bent and blaming

vertigo, or whatever causes
the eyes to avert downward,

causing me to miss you.

I'd call it apathy,
but it hurts to much...

I'd call it boredom,
if I could tell time...

I'd call it envy,
if my contentious boasts of

words spelt vitae.

Curious minds grow intrusive
spines, and I probe what

could have been. But recall
strained voids forgotten on

purpose, when summer
sins proved worthy and

I drowned in your games.

the blankets

2010-11-16T20:16:00.000-08:00

We can not blend. Though we're
sitting still, for the

tampering eyes never miss
a thing.

Hand stitched and woven tightly
the blankets sit still,

letting rise a loosened

chatter. I speak for myself,
but in the

givingness of generalities
I sound vague.

An enigmatic mischief of tone,
hooking air and

putting her to cure.

I dare to improve the California
Sun on

bundled words and bonds in string,

selling them to her eyes, and
the trees

that follow. When
I should be the Sea, and

give the tides away.

2010-11-10T16:32:00.000-08:00

You taste of barley and
cream. Separate tastes

on your tongue and lips

conclude on mine, a devilish
dance in suit. I feel

your stress, see it in your
eyes, I pinch to

steal it away.

I pirate your
afflictions. Tell them lies,

and suck them from your skin.

stand up comedy

2010-11-06T18:29:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting with the self, relaxed
in the stream

of time. Coalesced, repeating,

then beginning again as new.
In fractals, within, between

and in a dreaming state without.
Knowing not the differences,

I guess with words and rhyme
spaces imagined,

using maxims I read.

Drawn into color by
chance, and with a single
smell

I live; breathable moments of

inference. Equal parts shadow
and light can not be factored

into the minds eye without intellect-
guided by perception and

what my fathers father gathered from
his fathers dreams-yet

so many stood silent back then.

The difference now is that we
ignore the moon, looking sideways

and sharing the air not allowed
to breath itself.

A stand up comedy of wills
to be decided for/by us.

Within reason. Growing anemic

and with plenty and chances to
feed. Love and the seeds of

rebirth appear as themselves and
masked...vanity...anti-vanity

combined. And at our will,
as offspring, they are change-

we are changed by it.

come the morning actions and the first of light spent in choice

2010-11-03T15:29:00.000-07:00

A valued cast still uncertain,
As the steam flows behind it's curtain,

Shall i peer into the fray,
Cast blight aside before the day,

Let the light grow from our eyes,
Or play into a small demise.

Before the sunrise I will decide,
Let emotions seek a better guide,

Or lay until the nymph returns.
Clean breath, the circuit table turns,

She will be the one to choose,
To drink a love behind the boose,

Put yourself into her hands,
Like she did on castled sands,

Ignore or heed the words we spoke,
Call the bluff, or let them soak,

Come it will the story told,
of us and ours it will unfold.

The difference being I haven't moved,
Within the thoughts indeed has proved,

Something more then unions past,
Channeled, built and meant to last.

an intermittent fool

2010-10-24T21:49:00.000-07:00

In the time it takes to ruin a
perfectly good night,
I spoke of

tomatoes. Leaving what was meant
in my throat.

Coughing, chocking on thoughts,
while leaning on the wrong

hole in the yard. Tomatoes.
----
I saw the present to late-
just when the nail

was coming,
going to meet its coffin
closing shut,

in order to talk less-I
gave it the slip.

Out ran quacks not heard

in echo. No-one knows why,
but the damage was done.
----
Onion flavored fingers makes
for onion flavored beer.

Its the smell, I think,
but i

do that to much these days.

Thinking aloud. I should
turn up the volume

of nature so that what escapes
these lips, blends.

when we met it rained

2010-10-13T17:55:00.000-07:00

when we met it rained. a hot
mist fell
and covered its tracks; so the

paper wouldn't know.

i believed, in secret, it was just a
fog, moving south

as it does, angled-playing rain.

but i could not find the right
time to tell, the

difference and then
it stopped. rather, we stopped
calling it

luck. calling it how it was,
when blinded by the mist and

the feeling you get when touching.

if that's what it was? niceties
not spoken, but

released was broken with the fog.
rain drenched silhouettes...
a guise in comment

of the mind. but being optimistic
i'll too say it rained that day.

And what of the rivers

2010-09-13T13:47:00.000-07:00

And what of the rivers, where one used to drink, cup handed and smiling? It happened in secret, behind the clown nose and jive shows, and they only charged a buck-what a deal. Cutting fish heads they count the dead, laying them back where their found. They don't loose count for it takes only a lunch break, paddling through plastic waters that smell of profit to the right noses. We have traded water for air in rivers of wheels, spatting down the 101. And kids pealing orange shaped juice boxes-instead of oranges. Sometimes I envy the Sun, so far away, and burning bright; but even He lives cursed to consume and can not touch be touched, get close enough to smell the scent of life before it is stretched, ambiguous and dead. In time, only ghosts will be able to count all the money they have made.

I once dreamed of a waiting room.

2010-09-13T12:59:00.000-07:00

I once dreamed of a waiting room
where sunless light fell across dead shoulders.
Lists of life peered through

the glass, and I could pick my next life.
a gopher
a whale
a dragon of pixels
a man
an ass

and all where there that was not
here. A quiet room, with no
need for sound,

left actions lingering, falsely
awaiting comment or something

to judge the space between static

and infest. A normal dream, meant
nothing and more

seemed to project the out inward
but reversed for easy viewing. With
so many options I

couldn't decide
and what was the hurry. The need to

live after life was strong, like
the urge fuck and
maybe that

was it. I found myself
in the land of ice cream,

and all I wanted was cake.

2010-08-26T19:09:00.000-07:00

I saw a picture of me, when jumping squares were chalked to the sky, left there by jet streams and understood as magic. Untailored shirt sleeves and broken skin I sat, thinking of the future- a possible dawn of thought waiting to be blanched, stored then used when needed. And now the same boy sits, sweatered and hopeful, and running out of world. I rushed to scribble a word then two on a parking ticket, hopeful to pass it through the plain that stood between me and me; until I realized I already knew what it said. And where is the good in words when rain can be made or not depending on the bidder and the cost of cheetos.

2010-08-10T21:17:00.000-07:00

A blink that lasts until the dream seem
real. They never come to me, were to

active in thought, I knew, to look
past the sea that flows there,

when the eyes are busy, looking
behind. An incorrect
state of mind.

I ventured here to find them seized?
Because the words you spit,

drain me of rhyme. You live across
the land so dry, and getting here took

three horses-but you sour tagged breath

still finds its victim. How dare you.

2010-07-30T21:43:00.000-07:00

A tangled bit of lie,
letting go the bridge's stare

on windows of shops
across the street where we
sat and drank tea.

We ate toast halves and sang

wet love songs when the
day moved west;
giving liberal dues to Fog and

grass fed Winds blowing your
hair across your face and making

it harder to breath, think and see

what else mattered. I thought if tea
was free we could bet on the stars

and let them choose the light

that guides us. But the message
was lost on

graveled rooftops
of a city, indifferent to the rain

and the snarled streets below.

We left, to get out of the bridges eye,
tossing money on the
table and casting shadows of our

own. A nearly finished plan, well
dressed and cured for the night-

shaven neatly and laid upon
the concrete to be eaten

at leisure.

Wool and Memership

2010-07-25T20:03:00.000-07:00

She keeps her heart hidden in
wool. Not unlike the sheep it was

shaven off of. Tucked behind a secured
neckline with scarves or strings,
depending on the weather.

And weighted evenly between her shoulder
blades, it hangs and does not move

in fear of playing to much.

She chokes at the thought of
being discovered boring. And the

effort she needs to keep up, bullies
her freckled skin and
builds a coiled labyrinth

of vines and avid eyes breathing

all the air around. Blankets of wool
is needed so she stays up late
for the crowd-

but rises early for herself.
To the sheep she sings a damn good

tune, picking and shaving only the
good parts ignoring the rest-

leaving what she can not use.

But the sheep are sheep, and
they will ignore the cold if a single
one does. Lacking the memory to care,

everyone wins.

Trampoline Karate

2010-07-21T20:08:00.000-07:00

The days where made long, by simply reaching towards the clouds. Thoughts of missing a fill-in your-daily-scheduled-meetings, and the dauntly complaisant feelings left when doing them but nothing specific, were years away. All there is to do is the doing, creating and making it clear to friends what is happening next in the world that does not exist until described. There is jumping and keeping your arms outstretched, and fingers straight-like the turtles did it. No breaks you just quit; I never remember being tired. That comes much later in a twice used gunny sack sown into your life while your still dreaming; containing words like pursuit, restraint, projects and duty-but this time you can't smile.

We played to the sound

2010-07-12T20:42:00.000-07:00

We played to the sound of
sirens; keeping time

like thieves, and staying in
the shadows as if

we were the ones being chased.

A mindful
wind blew from the Bay and touched
our coats like the

Usher did at the theater we
came from. To avoid real conversation

we crossed the street, dodging the moon

and some news rolling past our
shoe strings; But it was really us

rolling, the printed past fading, driven
by the wind and road construction.
Launching towards

a curb we could not climb

ourselves. We walked the night
touching arms, and talking

cross streets-looking
for a bar she swore I'd love.

One Night on the Fourth of July

2010-07-06T16:38:00.000-07:00

One Night on the Fourth of July

We combed through scents of spice and smoke,
comparing stories of guiltless

prose. A settled darkness lay on the streets,
so we happily circled the roof of our

building in sweaters, with jokes

and gnomic sights of youth. We played
and danced to the words that
were spoken, as fog

grew between the trees and houses of
the Twin Peaks. It came across

the Bay and encircled the city, ourselves
and a thousand others plucking

cords of our grandfathered freedoms.

Soon the fog had covered the sky so our eyes
fell to the indifferent stars below us,

We warmed to the change of hue,
and stepped closer together for a better view

of whatever could be seen, breathed in and
used to stay awake and

live through moments that could last forever.

Voices like whispers heard from
open windows slowly made there way across
the sky, only to be

drowned in a sea of sparks and sounds of
energies trapped by fate.

We recognized their pain
and tone, so lighting wicks we let them out,

for it was all that we could do.
One burst was heard then a hundred

more until all had been set free.

And taking hands we left to sleep, feeling
lighter as we walked, to beds of friends

or friends in bed waiting calmly to
warm the sheets. For behind us now

stood a piece of life lived, one night
on the Fourth of July.

jump in and swim

2010-07-02T17:55:00.001-07:00

I plot with points the view
of quils, angled so

the the feelings show on purpose. seeing only

rooftops, and not the pains,
life, and love within-I

smile. asuming good things,

is easier with a beer. brass and
dreams are static, so I must walk between them to move life along.

giving what I have in my pocket, and what is left

of my shoes to the pavement-
in order to breath.

I jump in and swim in the city
so shadowed because that

that is what is needed. burning bits of self, ill use the ashes to write,

about the story lived before
we knew how.

moving to San Francisco

2010-06-24T20:09:00.000-07:00

Making what we can out of options
lingering from feral stars like
the scented rear view mirror charms, blowing
wildly, with rhythms not understood.
We move, and change, and leave current life
to want. Peeling stickered attachments of life
off our skin and suitcases-fill them with
memories and sun spots. And introduce:
our head to new pillows, our nose to new
salted air and feet to new stones yet picked
from vagrant toes.

I'm finally moving to San Francisco!!

We glided past the desert air

2010-06-21T19:55:00.000-07:00

We glided past the desert air,
splitting cotton clouds and
diet cokes, that the Stewardess

pored into cups. Looking out the
window, I asked the twin peeked
eyes so gray with age,

for change. I heard they traded goad
for plans if the snow caped threads

that tied them quiet melted
in the summer.

The Window Shades where optimistic,

but views gained by climbing jets,
bathed my eyes clean of thought;
until the only thing left

was breath. My thoughts and fingers
still, I sat alone, in the middle

of strangers, where birds don't dare to fly.

iced plans and wine

2010-06-15T17:11:00.000-07:00

I awoke to blinking lights and sounds that my clouded mind
gulped down; like the blacked out drunk, I saw, on 10th as he passed
the Red Door a few nights ago.

My ice cold plans patiently awaited the days heat, in the ice box of my
dreaming mind. Turning off the alarm, I walked to the kitchen and blended
them with yogurt and wine.

Blending iced plans and wine, makes sounds like the 747's I watched at the
airport. Choking past the clouds, they split the stars, showing their ass to the
city and leaving me behind.

I smoked and waited for a ride; as the wrinkles of life-torn Cats in red
crew T's took turns, loading luggage,
trading stories and teaching me the meanings of night.

When my ride came, I tore off half of the mornings disappointment and
bookmarked Pilkington's poetry with it. Driving back I thought I should
have added more wine. It probably would have made not leaving funnier.

a painting

2010-06-10T22:27:00.000-07:00

There is a painting in the house I grew up in, that sends chills down my back. It's square framed, blissfully displaced and pink. Growing old with it's like minded inhabitants. It stands perpetually cocked, and sloped toward the window; like a pot of leafs in the warm light of day. The meaning or purpose escapes me, even still, for like it's color scheme; the painting bleeds sadness.

A newly wedded couple stands just in front of a lot of sad, leafless trees; darkened even still by the pale gray sky above them. In the midst of the, Poe figured trees, stands your typical church building with many windows-dusty and cold. Painted black, the windows are the darkest parts of the piece. Giving any onlookers, with any thoughts beyond the glass that encloses It, the impression that the Church is empty-locked. No way in. No way out.

The newly wedded couple stands underfed and impassive. Holding her breath, the bride seems cold with her arms crossed. Vale falling down her back with a corner tucked between the folds of her narrow, limited arms. The Groom stands behind her aghast, it seems, as if this is the first time they've touched. He, carrying his bible, with both hands most of the time; doesn't know how to hold a woman. The heat from her heart feels queer in his hand. She feels it too, so she holds her breath. Longing strange enough for her books, and the solitude of dreams. And how they made her feel safe.

Planted neatly in the foreground, with hints of spring and lightness, grows pink bushes in action as the cooling wind engages them. The winded pink bushes seem to ignore the sad that is behind them, they laugh and cheer and bread. Painted so, I believe, that they are unable to look back; to see the discomfort, the darkness, the gray. The blessed few, thus being in the appropriate foreground, play out their purpose with ardor. The delighted specks of pink and brown, sing their songs of joy and grace. Sending pleasant tones to the eyes of a passersby.

And, he or she who takes the look is glad they did. Instantly becoming cheerful-their step lighter then before. Conversation bested only by smiles, and warm touches. The night is made with such things. Not remembered, it seems, the plight and shadows, that's drawn neatly in the background.

There is a painting in the house I grew up in; growing old with it's like minded inhabitants.

Leave the change or change and leave?

2010-06-08T20:55:00.000-07:00

Leave the change or change and leave?
What do I sacrifice, in order to
change? In keeping

with the norm, it seems, right
to leave

the Good. With it's
sober and civil, cobwebbed corners;
Its

laces tied and clean. But

tied together. And when I walked
I trip to the ground, choking

on the breath of laughing faces.

Or leave the Bad instead,
and laugh no more. Only with simple

shoulder swings, arms crossed and frowning,
can I let a tiny smirk across,
my

face. Like my father did. Leave jokes,

and take the pokes. Leave the dotted
skin of life and breath-and the colored

brown eyes, that closed when we danced.

Leave the unknown plans of dreams,
and schemes. For static comforts and Suburban

gifts of sugar coated comity, and the
prodigal tastes it breads.

Leave the change or change and leave?

behind the twins,

2010-06-02T21:07:00.000-07:00

in a ranch of gray, behind the twins,
i think of you.

you are the stars, behind the clouds,
untouched, out of view.

a Play of yore, comes to trend,
beside your bed.

and a seed of mine, covered still,
inside your head.

will fade to bland, untouched,
starved, and unfed.

if i leave you, with my heart,
unlaunched, and bled.

i've heard of fate, in a story,
told to me.

between the sheets, i believed,
its fantasy.

but the doing, isn't done,
when we can pass.

this life off, with a remote,
made of glass.

and view charms, in the shade,
on our ass.

carving dreams, not from gold,
but of brass.

Just in case the words didn't

2010-06-01T17:20:00.001-07:00

Just in case the words didn't
fall in the

right order for you, I'll say them

again. And in the darkness-when
you willingly turned out the

lights-my hands where ignored
by your selfish defensive
guard,

to protect your heart from good,
bad, and

the life we lead-that leads us.

I said it twice. But you couldn't listen
to me due to the darkness,

and fear. Because of the others,
I guess, you didn't listen-

to keep it fare for us all.

I want to move there, for
the sake of L@V%.

You couldn't-didn't-find the,
time to abide my words,

hands. So I left.

this is just a test

2010-05-25T11:12:00.000-07:00

This is just a test, a
comical round

of betting,
to sweat through another

love. Unable to see the words,
align

from my tongue, stretching out
into the jaded air,
below

the skies, our lies and dew.

Not lies with words but eyes
with swords piercing

itchy souls. This is just a test.

With hope in my pocket,
plans in my

head. Dreams in my eyes and
strong hands. This
is just a test.

Calling hearts, spades and tossing
my chips in,

I do not blink, or move when bluffing.

This is just a test. This should have
happened before
...between kisses...

I am three years
to late she said...between
touches...

Than she called
her ex-boyfriend...this...

is...just...a...test...

the will to

2010-05-23T11:37:00.000-07:00

the will to live under the sun,
so hot, burning

life to live.

burning holes into my eyes,
yet I am still
drawn to

its pleasure, its pain.
the will to

sit in front of talking solders
of selfishness
spreading, fighting

for themselves. and

not fighting back. the
will to

drink, instead of love.

the will to blink. and instead
of keeping my eyes

closed forever-opening them
and seeing
the life

worth living. the will to
shed skins were scared,

and laugh the dead skin
all the way

to the broken path behind

moving feet. the
will to cause fear in life with my

eyes; instead of having
fear
in them.

the will to die under the moon-
smiling as i rot.

2010-05-19T20:48:00.000-07:00

I imagine things aging,
rotting where they

have been placed.

Sinking low below the life they
once had,

growing dots of un-use.

Taken over by dust and rust-
feelings unsubstantial.

What has been given
in life,

will be taken in the untouched
abortive-ness of worthlessness,

after they are done
with me.

summer snow

2010-05-14T12:18:00.001-07:00

in secret sounds the summer snow carried slowly by a breese,

danced calmly to the secret sounds, and found their way with ease.

unburdened by the time we keep, and details of our sin,

the summer snow will catch their fate, and keep the peace within.

sharing only what is ment to share, a plan to be decided.

the seeds of life, called summer snow, think not of what's provided.

instead they cure a precious place, when time indeed sees fit,

and birth a tree, with breath of life, a circle fast, intransit.

I called it in the air

2010-05-05T22:13:00.000-07:00

I called it in the air, but
it was just

a guess. There's no way

of really knowing. Who you
would be-and who
I would turn

into, you into me and the
same as usual.

At the cost of living, and
the simple actions

of our, post-literate-pre-
sympathetic-to-antiquated-symbols-of-
thought, mouths.

And the nouns they spit.

Or you just say whatever
you want. Because

your cute, and you've seen
Cold Play when they
and you

were in Paris.

And who am I
to judge
you.

I probable do wear my David Bowie
t-shirt to much. But

that doesn't mean we'll
still be friends.

What is free love?

Lentl soup pt.2

2010-05-02T10:00:00.000-07:00

The time moved slow,
the coffee fast and
there were

no shoes to tie. No
time to be stalled

by excuse. My mind left
moments unchecked, against it
all.

Then I found your eyes again,

and tried once more-
with tales of rice
and roe. Of stories denied

by common senses more
in tuned to social consequence.

A story of life's journey,

because what difference
does
it make.

And smiles found smiles; a difference
forgotten-we walked

to the park and played
til dawn.

Lentl soup pt. 1

2010-04-27T21:29:00.000-07:00

Do you remember the cast? It was
you and me.

The location was 10th and
a half, At a time when

The Lonelies had
favored a smoke break, and the chair
to my left to be empty.

We sat in a field paved years ago-before
it was harder to love. In a nook

of the city painted with fake age and labeled
itself to be genuine.

I asked you if words
could rhyme, if they said their prayers,
and only ate vowels with soup.

You said it didn't matter because Lent
is over.

And, now we can eat whatever we want.

I smiled and smoked,
to clear the air. A rough bunch of
words came to me,

unshaven, with sticky teeth,
poking my tongue-and I

mentioned the weather.

the time of disco

2010-04-25T12:37:00.001-07:00

In the time of disco,
not to long ago

Dancing found its own
way home. Prancing singers
felt their way

through the air, claiming
nothing, but being
itself.

Stretched thin, and worn tired the fray of
their jeans, reading, making more poetry than

wearer's lips ever could.

Dirty feet and clean smiles,
brought wearer's hunger
close, and

friends closer-to a quiet dream
that wouldn't last.
The fray knew

of the dream slayer,
and the Sun so rumered,

so they took what drugs they could
to stay thin-

teaching, screaming at
their wearer's
to wake. To change and give

them rest. But the dancing feet screamed
louder than Joe Cocker ever could.

And the Wearer's turned 30
and went home.

movie magic

2010-04-22T18:32:00.000-07:00

Perhaps I should go to blog school.
No I really need to go to blog school.
Until then my virtuous attempt, albeit naively shown,
to change up the monotony of this blog is this.

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMIYa7NVAc0)

Its the ending to one of my favorite movies, F for Fake.
An Orson Wells classic.
I'm sorry I lack the knowledge to do the extra steps
it takes to present the actual clip.

It's the thought that counts-maybe.

p.s.

Note the Align Center change as well.
"Is this the same blog?"

wishes and tree pollen

2010-04-20T18:23:00.000-07:00

I open my mouth,which
buys me some time,
stalling until something to say
comes to mind, but

nothing comes out.
Binge drinking cocktails of wishes and tree pollen,
keeps my head swimming

and throat dry. Lacking the balance to walk
through the lines,
and the vision to see through the shit-

i'll stay quiet.

I envy my windshield; freely washing
itself clean, or staying dirty
and content.

But even he is controlled
by unseen fingers. Twisting wrists induces
him-he obeys.

I used to like the trees, thinking
of them as noble creatures

with life giving talents, until their
seamen coated my eyes,
lungs and faith.

I close my mouth and taste
their sin, their guilt
but I say nothing...
Binge drinking cocktails of wishes and tree pollen.

obsession

2010-04-16T13:00:00.001-07:00

are we born with obsession?
or must we search for the obsessed,
in jest,
in calm rhythms,
with verve.

the steam engines of capitalism
filter out and blend,

screaming loud tones we crave,
and raw goods to be consumed,

setting fires to warm us all,
but we are hot and can not sweat.
feeding, fueling obsession.

we view coated story boards through thick screens.

believe it all or die,
a social death.

night tricks

2010-04-12T12:46:00.001-07:00

the night tricks are taking their toll,
feelings of a mutual thought, our eyes connect and breed.
simple moments,
simple pleasures.
a loose tie of strings easily broken when walking,
the story spoken in jest,
to simple minds,
filling the time,
playing tag tequila
watching the blues beat break the silence-with time to kill.

I gave some feelings to a rain cloud

2010-04-06T21:30:00.000-07:00

I gave some feelings to a rain cloud,
On a windy summer day,

She took them like a thirsty child,
In a thirsty summer way,

She too played a game of chance,
And kept her cards askew,

Combed, before my eyes a trance,
And taut me songs she knew,

Weaving skins, we shared the night,
Keeping close our shoes,

We came to, in a surety bath of light,
Releasing fast our rues.