Old hen says
birds feet on chickens lips
come from cigarettes and dicks
shell cracks
ears begin to grow
but what can little chic know
no set of eyes to see
how low her own coop can lie
or how envious mouths crow
the same tired tune
whoa is me
and boo to you.

mergence

Surplus of bass thumps by curtailing the effectiveness of music on my ear. Sitting here outside on this cool afternoon I don't imagine the man operating the motor as I often might but a bumping heart beat, the thrashing throbbing sound of the city. An unhealthy gurgle of encroaching metal and concrete, plaster plastic chemical spray chemical drink, intruding hands eyes feet, garbage spilling out onto streets already too full of waste. I hear the beat of a malfunctioning body marked by too many irregular pulses. The city contracts, wheezes, spits mucous mixed blood on my skin that wont come clean. It must be disease, some new form of unnatural death. I forgot that everything causes cancer these days and our drugs go in without ever working. There is no treatment in these parts, in this far down land of dank sweat and never setting suns. Home of no work to be had and many mouths to feed and wet cheeks and dirty hands of old woman still walking to back breaking jobs and pig and politician sounding like the same thing. Of bruises that blossom constantly on tiny torn up faces. I seen a child that carried the saddest eyes I ever saw. Sick watery things turned up in search of answers to questions that can't possibly be asked by a mind still acquiring self, still growing into something weathered relinquished and used up, less innocent and lost imagination.

alligator grins

i was driving

I was driving somewhat slowly rather riding in the backseat of my parents brand new shiny blue hatchbak compact automobile staring at the truck tires rumbling feet from me beneath a giant commercial beast. I imagaine it must cast shadows on both neighboring lanes of the bridge, us swallowed up inside our pearl blue bug the question becomes can the neighbor see us in the space between the concrete and the guts of the truck. It strecthes on this trip across a short and shallow stretch of water and somehow we never reach the first set of tires on this offensive moaning motor, the size of our car, perhaps wider, black and shining as if melting in the insane Florida sun. But we do reach the tires and slowly after much ado we slide by them with a quick burst of gusto only a quaint car can muster we reach the cab, slowing only for a moment before speeding on to new experience. A glimpse of the driver and thank god only for a moment, how strange to see the man.

in out

OR

a defining moment

I stand by my window, watch my hands smoke. All the use of fingers and lips invade my mind and I'm feeling very plummy and ripe. There's no light save for the street lamp playing in as faint lines. Everything transfers to black and white. Even olive skin turns alabaster like every little girls wanting. Sweet Thing dancing on the air, it sways. Looking out the chopped grass is strange in gray. I appreciate this small space between houses. Night squeezes in through this space, through the screen and seduces me into a heady slow. Inhale exhale. Lips barely move lest they disturb the drum sounding in my ears, my chest, distant steady rhythmic it goes. I wish I had film for this moment and that I were not myself, but here to take photos of a woman's sharp profile, only half visible next to the red end of her cigarette. It glows alone in the soft searching of the orange street lamp, white by the time it reaches her window. Everything loses color here, even the bright clasping silk turns, sucked dry by the darkness. There's an ease to it to be desired, needs no speaking of. Like the long swan neck. Is time lost here too, it wouldn't be beyond believing. Blissfully alone I wonder if it's possible for the world to intrude on a moment like this. If it's possible for an offense to take place during one of these junctures. I can't see myself being robbed or raped here, hanging on the edge of my mysterious time challenging sill. I am untouchable, unseen. I listen for ripples in the weave of sound outside. But hear only my own ruffling.

de l'espace

I like this place whose travel guide can hardly be said to contain city heavy word it carries assumptions of something swollen as a pustule or characterized by harsh unnatural heat is it too many busy bodies or too much metal or probably a lot of each word looking like something burdened by gray not as heather or clouds you smell on a stormy day but as smog spoiling infants guiltless within the womb our vulnerability is almost as unbearable as our self defection hunting turned to hurting robbing raping everything to raw extinction end of living end of believing in belonging or ever even wanting to overusing wasting hasting on and on and on towards conditioned desires no this place is a home to be had existing outside of the pile it does not manage to isolate me while awkwardly smothering me in a sea of prattle it lets me be alone and learn to breath.

excerpt

Eating a modest lunch of sliced apples smothered in peanut butter, the natural kind, grainy goodness none of that sweet stuff, I grudgingly begin my habitual scan of the newspaper. I picked it up on the walk home needing something to hold, something to keep my mind off of the slow and staggering pace I felt myself make. It was a much longer walk than the previous one had been, going in the opposite direction, mind set to opposite things.

Nothing interesting within. It seems this paper only serves me with dirty hands. Maybe I should take up with dogs, they seem mostly misbehaved, at least then I could roll it up and get some use out of it. It doesn't take long for me to lose interest and turn to the pages dedicated to taste. Even the opinions seem like a waste of my time these days. No new news these days. I'm probably desensitized.

Flipping to the obituaries I decide that 'probably' is grossly understating the state of my dulled sensitivity. It's not that I'm apathetic, au contraire. Only incredibly incorrect.

Since discovering the nature of this section I've felt compelled to educate myself on the expired identities of the surrounding deceased. Just imagine the amount of monikers in mothballs living somewhere inside my head. The smiling faces ironic to the purpose of their last claim to fame. Procured by someone especially familiar from dingy boxes too heavy to be worth saving from mold laden attics, in such a state of despair. I can imagine the teary escapades. Of course some of the photos look brand new, probably downloaded from digital cameras. More tears for these ones, done too soon. Ages read, monitoring the trend, analyst of the unfortunate.

So there is some new news these days. It's the good news that's sorely lacking.

Finis, this rag now belongs to my trash receptacle. As if to finalize the thought I roll the piece up into a rocket and send it soaring into the kitchen can.

The rest of my day is characterized by a shuffle of tunes bouncing through my apartment. I myself am slightly stiller leafing through various novels, novellas, compilations, essays, and memoirs as the whim strikes me. It's really a terrible habit as nothing ever gets read in full and all the pages stand shouting at me from their shelves feeling used and entirely unloved. But it's not to be dwelled on as I am a rigid believer in our innate inability to change. Change is but a temporary and uncomfortable denial of oneself and belongs to a fools philosophy. I prefer to embrace my habits, especially the bad ones. I'm just fortunate that stuffing my face full of trans fats and high fructose corn syrup while slouching in front of my over sized television set aren't within that broad landscape of tendencies. I cross my eyes at the ever growing collective of slobs.

Don't misjudge me, I'm rarely rude in public. 'Rarely' because never would be a denial of the facts. I'm often influenced by the drink (no emphasis on any particular drink as I am not a specific drinker, just a heavy one) and in such cases of jest the insult is usually so obscure (and incoherent) that no offense could be garnered from it. 'Usually' because I can not deny the fact that I have acquired my share of colorful bruises black eyes busted lips and ruffled feathers from the offended end of said slobs meaty fists. Very likely well deserved.

But I digress. I'm meaning to comprehend the words my eyes are reading, they deserve that much. Another bad habit. Splitting my machine to perform two functions, neither of which gets done the way it ought to by the end.

So this is how I spend my day. With Old Potrero, old friend filing my earlier outburst of rage far away, past the outskirts of consciousness into that dark place where dreams find their substance. But I do never remember my dreams so I feel no fear of it. I fill my here and now with words. I burst the seems of my comprehension, jam pack myself with poems and lovely phrases and wanton plots. All the while tapping my toes to catchy notes, to folksy tunes and daunting groups of intricately ordered instruments. Rolling cigarettes up and down my busy fingers, careful not to smother the camel, breathing, breathing.

Sleeping, hardly remembering to think lastly of the last smoke. Yes, I did put it out. No I will not soon show up in the sad black print. Died tragically in a slow burn, no picture, luckily will not be missed.

why don't you fly

little black friend

shiny little thing

its a precarious dance you've begun

amongst the dunes extending out to the end

of my horizon


why don't you fly

is it the heavy quilt

of patchwork grays

covering the wide blue sky

i see her peaking through

the slits of her sleepy cornflower eyes

aided by the sun

who sighs and sighs

waiting to be welcomed back in

fly bird fly

tell him for me

that i miss the warmth of my skin

and the kaleidoscope color of rays

through my damp down springs

Black silk falls so slow

over pleasantly gray painted peaks

and heather crags

and green grassy hills



Shimmering sheet

snagged on the slow and sleepy sun

pulled and pulled and pulled

over these giant heads

who roll eternally into their brethren

always on to other things

rubbing shoulders with close kin or distant friends



They are ever bellying up towards the moon

who resigning herself to neither designation

answers to no one

and makes not a single exception

showing her wild bald head

long before the suns proud end



He seems not to object

wisely secure with his crown

and simply whispers coolly

in ancient languages of old forgotten things.

when i was young

It's a Saturday and I am alive. Despite the dream theatre that my memory has turned into. Even in a moment while creating my life I feel as though I am not myself. I am an actor. I am a ghost. I am a quick breeze that blows violently as if to spite the trees and things hanging in the air. But my anger is short lived and lacking purpose. I am empty. I am lost. I wonder if I am not waiting for something to explode. To be full and held. I have heard that death is the road to awe; but do not feel courageous or desperate enough to find out. Besides I cant bear the thought of all the sympathy. It makes my mind nervous and stupid like an animal being carefully observed at the zoo.

Yes, alive. And if things are going to continue so optimistically I might as well be thankful it is a Saturday, as Saturdays are quite conclusively the only days which belong wholely to myself and are begun not by the ravings of the time that binds me, but by the sun. The soft slow glow that paws at my shades, consciously sewn thin. My window faces west so it's a subtle light, orange and not intrusive in the least. If I were a heavier sleeper I might find myself sleeping until mid day, and that's not to say I haven't, but today at least I'm glad my morning isn't wasted on idle sleep. I've often considered that an event effecting only oneself is worthless if unremembered, and I do never remember my dreams.

It's mid-january so the sun doesn't manage to fill the window until nearly 9:00am. Late by some accounts, but neither late nor early by mine. The right time to enjoy a patio too rarely used. Especially considering that that's why I settled for the apartment, the view from the small closet sized porch. It looks out on a creek which from far away one can imagine is a lake. Or perhaps more likely a pond, but a very charming pond which is always full of ducks and sea birds flown in from the coast- the latter part about the birds being the true part and entirely unimagined. Thin red trees and eternally green bushes hold up the sun when he starts his decline into the western sky and they are covered with vines that grow little yellow flowers. A charming picture if one had a device capable of capturing the view. Or time enough to relax on their patio. Which I do have today, as it is a Saturday.

My lips taste eternally of smoke. No particular substance, just an ashtray taste. This is certainly connected to the bronchitis that seems to have taken up residence in my chest and become like breathing. When I wake every breath that takes longer than a single second to complete sends me into a fit of eye popping coughs. The kind that proper folks scowl at in public arenas. This goes on until I consume around three mugs of coffee, a splash of milk 1/2 teaspoon sugar. The real natural stuff that sets me in a mood for sunny days, maybe having a slice of apple pie. Not that it takes much convincing.

Entirely outside of that fantasy, there are always little black ants in the sugar bowl. No matter where it's placed. Five or four busted unsuspectingly just beneath the surface. I say at least they're not red ants, the biting variety. Most people who encounter my sugar bowl on such intimate terms just say it's disgusting.

I decide to make full use of the sensational natural wonder that is my body and walk myself to a park. Quiet walk through a quiet suburban neighborhood. The occasional kid. The occasional old woman and her annoying terror of a pet. I imagine she would nonchalantly refer to it as a dog. I would say it's closer in breed and behavior to a possum and no my opinion could not be swayed. Not even by science. Facts, garble, I have intuition. (Now that's rather fanciful of me, all evidence leading steadfast in the other direction. The lost direction. The lack of.)

I roll a joint into tobacco papers. Twisting it into a pleasing shape is something I quite enjoy and take pains to complete. Like meditation. Between the first two fingers after the thumb I feel safe with it in a private public place. Like an unused soccer field. Like a cigarette. So I do, lying on my back. The grass is dry, so dry it would probably catch if I rubbed it the wrong way. But just as well for me that I don't get the grass stains which wet grass leaves. Collateral I'd be willing to take for the view of the quiet sky. But unnecessary and unmissed. I watch the clouds but can't pick out any shapes. My eyes can't imagine anything, mind sorely failing me today. Perhaps it is like any other mechanism, prone to falter.

An why not, our world is overwhelmed with new information. So the brain copes by creating shortcuts relying on experience to fill in the gaps. Say your experience led you drastically astray. Even skewed your personality.

I myself have become a dog trained by the constance of my own sick and destructive appetite. I wait for the little red light on the answering machine to blink, Pavlov's bell. In a moment of heightened anticipation, a ringing, new post, the world pulsates to some melancholy Lewis Taylor song growling about love. On second thought it might only be me who beats out the rhythm. I exhaust the joint and move on to a cigarette. I'm the worst sort of smoker. Addicted to the act of doing something in order to avoid the stillness, the emptiness the only meness that my life became at some point, or was always progressing towards. If you believe in destiny, which I don't. I think we're completely capable of ruining things that are meant to be.

dissociate from mental shortcuts (the skin were in)

self-righteous

you attempt to elevate outside of humanity. but we are one in the same. by nature you possess envy and greed violence hate prejudice ill-will insecurity romantic wanting shallow pining for that better face infatuation obsession compulsion petty thought petty want desire to be in conflict with something anything everything. The only difference between us is I don't construct an artistic box (i mean elitist hoax) out of throwback materials and old shit filled mostly with fragranced air probably eau de toilette sweat which is oh so in this year and call it my wide open space.

another complaint

Nothing is illuminated. We live in a gray and wavering world where the air we need is thicker than the blood we bleed thicker than the water that pulls and pulls at the tide of my mind and reeks of waisting and waiting. But waiting without any end in sight is hopelessly endless and can shred the rind. I haven't always lived here haven't always kept the little knife or held my thumb in the dike. There was a place way back where the shadows were warm and provided life. But the mothers womb is not like the ever expanding universe and I sigh to discover I can not remit and resume the cradle inside. This is my twilight zone, my mental disorder, my quirk or tendency. Nicely put, a whimsical way about me. Otherwise a swinging limbo, obligatory hell. Not a melancholy soul, pessimistic probably, but realistically so (well there you go). Rational only occasionally, and if nothing else I don't mistake myself for an enlightened or interesting epicenter. Not the self important type whose eyes wander when anyone else is speaking, and can speak an entire conversation exclusively with ones own exhausting lips. But the worst of those is that they almost always nearly only discuss their own self tauting suck ass quasi-humorous (in an I'm laughing at you not with you kind of way) past.

rehash and newhash

std

The heart swells up every once and while
like any other affliction
a bad case of some sexual disease
the kind one only contracts
while being wild
and humanly careless.

(disassociate from mental shortcuts)

and i

And I dream the day away
dream of life and life away
it's such a strange and heady thing
since I've become confused between a dream
and lifes real scene
could it reside inside an ancient shell
I stay and watch the tortoise slide across the road
pray for a slow in the flow of peoples days
pray for the old mans life
and all the things his old eyes seen.

sallow

Sallow my mind lies
waiting for ignition
recognition
aborting all thoughts
calls them selfish
not time efficient
un-economical
certainly not saving a generation
waistful it crys
waiting it howls
for what it wonders
always worrying one foot with the other
and at long last
sighs
at least it has that
strange reality of self
staunch reality of I.

my days

My days are divided not by time, but by the rearranged thoughts that cross my mind. Or more like boldly bogart all reason and regularity. I am consumed. Not as lovers do in lovers eyes but as flys dive into quiet lights, face crumbling into the dusty expression of a recovering addict. Eyes ringed with red, always a look of pleading towards pastfulness. Long hours become the impossibility to hope for future happenings and life takes a back burner to farewell blues.

separation

How can you split us so dispassionately?
Are you doctor
to two abominably attached twins?
I too use the hands
that you so hastily remove
from my company.
How can you bare
to lose these limbs
this blood, the very same
which deafened your senses
so loud was its pounding
in such a recent past.
Still I taste the mouth
tried on so often by me.
The lips, the lips, the lips
I sang from them.

the mountain

The mountain is pink
lying dying and almost dead
pulled apart and bleeding
her blood diluted by the pain of sap
and fear and rain
pink as flesh pulled back
and I can see her bones
skeleton of ravaged old wood
lying black and cold in the soil, now barren
and its as though from my window on the road
real life can not be reached
and roots are too far
covered in poc marks and scars.

my green mother

My green mother creeps and sweeps
strange and hideous
unbending and broken
fixing and breaking in constant rotation
I marvel at her
my green mother who begins
a slight mewing babe
soft as orchid skin
and ends a vast landscape of ancient creases
clothing a hardened hide.
Cover me in her green rolling hills and great wide basins
and bathe me in her white wading glaciers
with skin upon skin of ice.

dead feelings

dead feelings surface like miscarried fetus
in fits of despair
like every good abortion the subject must be sucked out
or sit and rot
surface in a horrifying scream
scratch a dream
in the instant of realization
that we are but dust and overgrown dolls
danced down the illusory aisle
but the illusion of time
becomes unforgivably unkind
when it realizes itself on your face
we all grow
as i have never been this way before
and may (will) never be this way again
and we all grow old
though i feel as old as i ever hope to get
so old that memories are the only solids
i still swallow

we have

We have punctured the soft green
and drank the sweet nectar of our supple earth

she is my mother

soured yet bambino fresh
made of Beelzebub's tears and Abraham's flesh

over manipulated for stone and metal
hard and clever
ruined forever
and crumbling into oceans following stronger rules
of white light, the lovers jewel

and her children are cruel
forsaking her to an unknown and untimely demise
or trust in god, a weak respite

she weeps
but will retain herself despite the rot
and outlive the rapist
outlive the plot