Sunday, November 23, 2008

die a log.

inspired by this beautiful writing by this girl named Amy from years ago. Written some time around May of last year.


ray - chasing my hollow death.thats what it was.

allegra- dad, its not ur fault. never is. incredible how they disposed of so many bodies though. an efficient regime.

- no. hiding lies and historical it propaganda, patriotism...whatever...thats efficiency. ever was a great civilization (Read: empire) not built on the backs of great propagandists?

- ever an "empire" quote unquote, not torn from the cloth of evil?

- good answer to rhetoric. study that these days, and honor dusts itself off to accompany you wherever you may tread.

- so i'm at the supermarket, great sales. bananas, 1 buck an ounce. a head of brie cheese, que delicia!, ) about 40 euros. whatever.

- hey. one of these days im taking the day off. going to eat some cheap coffee. maybe drink wine all day..think they serve wine at that german beer garden miranda spoke of?

- doubtful. but im always full of doubts.

- chip.

- well...(reverie)

- (scratches middle of back with the thumb of right hand, nervously for a few seconds...withdraws hand slowly, mechanically...drapes his hand across his daughter's face maniacally) callous, thats what i've taught you.

- to touch without feeling.

- aye.

- wonder where samson is these days. i never spoke to him after he left med school. should've done though. the boy was brilliant. you always liked him. maybe cuz he was a cook.

- show me a man that can eat, and i'll show you a life well lived.

- aye.

- TGI Fridays. we must rid the world of these. their horrible pastries, shit for potato skins. i'm angry that these are the only dining houses that stand to make money in a country like this. glorified carbo-fat, without the glory anymore. what have we become.

- poppa. daddio. que maravilla. look at my lamb chops, i cooked them in the wine you ordered.

- vino. divino.

- daddy. buy me a pony for once. i forgot the smell of a horse. i was 12, remember?

- we went down to mexico. what, every 3 months or so then? your mother always loved the ranch. zacatecan whores. mmm mm m.

- daddy, aloud again.

- sorry, honey. i'll be off to bed. tivo conan for me?

- (lays her hand on top of her other hand, resignation-like, which sits directly above her elbow, which in turns lays lazily on the counter, not wiped clean since morning coffee..sunday morning. see it in her eyes, saturnine. dont forget the chin then, on top of the top hand, choreographed like a march on a soldier's day of graduation, as if orchestrated by a genius of which one is not totally aware)


The first paragraph of my ill-fated novel

from this time last year. Read + weep.

"Lots of times these people go around complaining about their overbearing parents. The ones who push them excessively towards excellence. The demanding, fanatical brand of parenting. They seem to heap onto their children all of their own hopes and ambitions. Perhaps those unfulfilled, or other times in a wild, perhaps unconscious act of vanity, (which is probably the first reason these people ever have children) they wish their children to exactly mimic their own career paths. Mommy's a mathematician, Daddy’s a part time psychoanalyst, part time poet, and so Junior and Juniorette are shoved headlong into those same straightjackets of destiny. “I always knew little Junior had a sensitivity, a propensity, a prodigious proclivity for poetry…HE GETS IT FROM ME”. If Junior becomes a poet, then it proves validation for Daddy Dearest’s genetic prowess. Indeed, it would appear this father had endowed his own gifts upon his son, by some wave of the magic penis, and having never ever “pushed” Junior to “become like me” or ever schooled him in the art of poetry since before the boy could walk, no none of that determined the boy’s fate; it must have all been just a natural touch that was passed down generationally. Then, by a colossal accident of Mendelian wizardry, the boy comes to see poetry as his vocation. It’s quite a Catholic event: clouds parting, heart opening, lightning striking…Boom, Bip, Kazaam, boy is poet. He pens lines, knowing not whence they’ve come, and in his head, like a young seminary student, he feels a great conviction, an affinity with the lifestyle of his desired profession, that of the poet, and that he must never stray from the road to celestially inspired verse."

33 Pages of Nothing (These songs for my watermelon)

this is from July 9, 2005. I remember that summer day. It was hot and I had this tiny little notepad, on which I handwrote all this and there were even kind of pictures in there, or I did some George Herbert type stuff with the words. I felt like I was intoxicated, as you can probably plainly tell. I was not. But I never write in these tiny notepads, but maybe I should try it again, and see what 26 yr old me comes up with, contrasted with this mess. Enjoy, if you can.

Pg. 1

Most people
My age have
Already learned to
Sleep on a capsule

Pg. 2

What wood
happen if
I cood rip tear coerce snatch pages

out of the
old Days?


Pg. 3

If I didn't
wear clothes
stare holes into
the nebulous space
between yours.
emptying myyourself
invitingly open

Pg. 4

glasses cocked
atop imperfection w/ a
glass eye, in a fishbowl,
so here's to forgetting
half-baked watcha
macallits that evend out
with cunning and
separate desires all
machinations of a sober
deathblow - last breath

Pg. 5 alternate title

500 words
(song about the woods and meadows
Outside LA

Pg. 6

Teeth clenched, tongues
For the imagined
pleasure matches the
The juices are known
From the past lives/
lies of your eyes.
I grow hungry
er in ev
ery glance
teeth eat
split on
who grow
to fight again next life.

Pg. 7

I'm so tired
I have to exhaust myself
go days without stopping
before certain worlds
hum to me without
reservation. I candle
light burn inside
a church so lone
atop a hill for all to
see - a sun.

Pg. 8

You iron clad
tooth decay magnet
attired so for evenings
With jesters of royal
Breeding. Leading
Seeding high ground
watermelon song

Pg. 9

why don't girls
sit on my face for long
my favorite song
I sing to them hurts
their ears
and pleases them
a secret hymn I sing to her
I pour
she too much purrs
nothing left is
his + hers

My fingers curse

Pg. 10

scratch that
I've maimed
kidnapped extorted
aborted fetuses
of notebooks, you sea urchin,
you lynchpin
of the kettle handle.

Pg. 11

these geniuses
trapped in this
bottle made madness
an art form.
Formalized constancy
bridled + tamed +
leashed + whipped
that most tremulous hummingbird

Pg. 12

CPU - afterglow
belly up eyed askance
cast net
drag lake
board stiff

Pg. 13

If I have any art
my art is transient
I do not want
poetry permanent

Pg. 14

silver faded
locks coal

sindow aging
cathair cast off

lips of Hades
entrails entree

ensemble absentee
tea tee
T cells free

Pg. 15

a penchant for
essential to his
libidinous his master
a kitten licked and
than richer kids with
dads more
poor with gifts for

Pg. 16

bullet over
blue sky
blue eyes capsized
Ahab overboard
a brand on
a band in
a box

Pg. 17

salt intake
gestate sea star
bottom feed but
shine shimmer
unnight captured
Mars afloat
the distance

Pg. 18-19

Blank Perfect Little
Butterfly wings spread
how I love thee
So well so deadly
I deface your awkward
blasphemous heretical symmetry

/Time looks
like/ a man/
And/ a womban/
With 2 hands\

At a

I'll BURN You

Pg. 20

Starlight vs. Moonlight

Which do I love better

the moon for its singularity

of purpose.

or the stars for their

unity. Long life after



Pg. 21

I'll Flash Like A Light
In the darkness the
distance for a second
but if I fall asleep
right here I'll dis
appear so what
if I went home I'd
sleep here I flicker__
flutter gone now|here|

Pg. 22

are pictorial
not just lyrical
the visual makes my dick
hard. the sound makes me
want more. to scratch
and here the sound again.

I want to echo my
my laughter in the
Sound of wind

Pg. 23

If I could love you
unselfishly I'd hurl you
into ecstasy
until your lungs
tired of crying
evaporated long
ashen masterful
walls into open ends

Pg. 24

I only dare think of you
On two occasions. Now or

If you love me
you will not wilt
you will only dry up
inside where it matters
where stars become legs
from which the sky

Pg. 25

MYSELF from the cage of

Pg. 26

I promise

I said I want my
poems to be picturebooks

I want my sanity
picked clean
(groomed by buzzards)
of oases

Pg. 27

One finds one's
Stretched to
Good effect

Though i am no longer
scrawler, have graduated
to writer who is also
in this instance
a scratcher.

Pg. 28

better yet
I want poems as
pop-up books.
sticking up and
out into your face
intrusive eaters of
elephant sized

Pg. 29

a somber

a meditative

these are the banishings

the excommunications

Of effeminacy

I accept without shame
Baldwin laying next to me now.

Pg. 30

A maniacal
in any
writer comes out better
than artist but not as
good as poet - a title not
yet earned.

Pg. 32

The Reverse SIDE

Pg. 33

salute the overlooked
(details) in the shaping
of categories . The winning
of semantic technical
on-paper victories.
celebrated in
typewritten Helvetica
ice words of

Sunshine Is Passive

[working on the title. (It could be worse. the title used to be "Lady, You're a Pimp". I get the idea I had behind that, which I'd like to still capture, but it doesn't really suit the piece, I felt after coming back to it later). feel free to give suggestions, show love or throw hate at the current one]

On a broken day
Where trees hang low
tired with sighs

You came to me
a constant no
that somehow rectifies

Entreaties and gifts
were not seeds you’d sow
they leapt like tears from my eyes
into your arms
when you turned to go
or return to a place never left
and somehow I died
and somehow I died
when I gave to you
what we couldn't feel
when you didn’t know

Though you never came
the weight of you did
balanced on my torso at night
and your fingertips ran
across the lids of my eyes
who'd swallowed all that they had cried.

My hand could’ve fit in your smile
Before you softened to sweet
And became like the butter on
Freshly made cornbread
Enriching all that you touch
Introducing my tastebuds
To gold
Like the summer did sand to the sun.

Base Brotherhood

"The consciousness of my own baseness has done nothing to reconcile me to the baseness of others. Nothing is more repugnant to me than brotherly feelings grounded in the common baseness people see in one another. I have no desire for that rank brand of brotherhood." - Milan Kundera