Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Happy wounds, which make us seek the beloved Physician.

Happy wounds, which make us seek the beloved Physician.
It's time to start treating contempt as a virtue.
He kissed you?
I kissed her?
Who kissed who?
I kissed YOU?!
I am see-thru am.
spend much less time trying
to prove everyone wrong
spend much more time trying
to prove myself right
I relate to:
You killed me,
you know.
Did you know
you killed me?
Sending texts like passing notes
crumbs exchanged with words unspoke.
I'd walk a mile to kiss a reptile.
You can't know yourself if you don't know your least.
As all things must reach equilibrium,
I implore that no one think of me,
so that I may think of no one.
Is that Forever
o if that axe were swung sober, what mark it would find, what tremors through the heart's pavement, what wake.
It's larger than our swollen tongues.
Lap dogs don't get Big Picture.

Thursday, March 29, 2012


¡Ah! let us breathe in this sweet city air. Bonnie "Prince" Billy + Matt Sweeney: "Superwolf". Falling asleep last night: a geometric crumbling; fat rectangles of brick loosening by degrading rectangle strings of mortar. A hand brushes silent chimes.

Suddenly, I remember: I spell only what I want me to see. Those that lurch along with my shadow on sidewalks are too finished to mention.

A good Catholic boy, I return home, light my candles, and open my bottle of wine. Memories: incense swung so graceful through auburn light, comfort in age, the scent in wood grain. Our Father, who art in Heaven, how be my name? Thy kingdom come, on Thy path I lope and sneer, Thy Will be done on Earth long before I Thy servant shall do it in Heaven. You give me today my bread, and You forgive my Trespasses as the wind brushes dust from a lichen, and I've yet to forgive those who've trespassed against us. Please, lead me to temptation, for what else is this blessed Life, but deliver us, always, from sin, for we are still Your violent fucking apes.

I need a phone, if only to call my momma and poppa. I miss them terribly. Tonight; I Will Puke.

Hydrogen Peroxide! Tiny walls of band-aids! Dead butterflies; this sounds so stupid, ¡but true, all true! Thumbtacks, sunglasses, six-sided nuts needing filthy grimace, needing a dam's relief.

[draw a dragon here]


when church meant something Else, when the fresh spice tasted behind our eyes meant more than the words lounging in our throats.

Everything else is stupid stupid meat. I'm going to consider various properties of water, stare at a cigarette while crouched on a porch that cellulose [word illegible] decrees as "mine".

no, fuck you
I'm going to bed.

I will take on planetary rage, I will take on christening the stage, just give me more red wine to sip on!

3-9, $12:52 am-ish

Hunched in the shower, staring at my crossed legs through the milky dew of water in my eyelashes, I wish the shower head a gun, to increase pressure and weight by powers of ten, to explode upon my sore sore back, sore from weeks of excess and unthinking chess moves, sore from days of flu fever and bed. My back would arch and recoil as if I were coming, maybe I would come, my ribs would splinter through the thin skin of my chest, a roar of violence trailing blood and flecks of gristle and semen to pirouette towards the drain. I would be all laugh, all joy, all tears, all dead and ripped apart, dying so satisfied, dying in the cataclysmic orgasm of relief. That's how bad I need a back rub right now.

Shall I tell which colors I see
dancing in the prism of dust
afraid to settle on her aquiline head?
No, not yet.
Shall I tell you how she tastes,
what lightning is, what red wine wishes it were?
No, not yet.
Shall I tell you how she smells,
shapeless herbs free of our fisted taxonomy?
No, not yet.
Seas of sun on wheat,
something sweet and melted in June.
No, not yet.


This sort of loving I can do alone,
perhaps better alone,
akin to a religion
and a personal grip of God,
a faith in my own limitations
and in the unending torrent
of that love
bashing me against winter's bricks
breaking bones
in a search for an amber spring.

No haste, no haste;
to rush the inevitable
is to laugh at this religion,
shake off the cloak of this face,
throw it upon the sidewalk
and march alone, totally alone,
so heavy, so unlearned,
so sure.

"Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud nor long."*

Wild as I am, wild as they come, I stretch and my back cracks like a cat. My eyes land on each breaking stick, maybe something to eat, to pounce upon, to bat against the wall until I lose interest.

There are secrets in every step, in every crevice of our alleys and stoops, and these lazy-lidded warriors know them all. No spark unworthy of investigation, no piece of shining meat unworthy of a roll on my tongue or a schism within my broken mouth. See how the world tastes, always new, see how it smells, always new. I am unbored, so unbored. My naps are lies, my dreams are lies. I feel coiled like a mean spring, wound and wounded by an unending and desperately mild winter.

"He pulls up his trousers, and buckles the belt. 'Why else do you like me?'
She looks at him. 'Shall I tell you?'
'Tell me.'
''Cause you haven't given up. 'Cause in your stupid way you're still fighting.'"**

Hafta wrap my fingers in masking tape on account of me breaking my hand. It's old hat now, I understand the consequence, know that after a few weeks the stabbing swelling pain accompanying my right hand balled into a pitiful fist will fade. Lesson; none. Last time this happened, perhaps four or so years ago, I set the bone by standing on it, flattening it under the heel of my cowboy boot, finished a quart of Budweiser, called my mother, and decided to see what marijuana was all about.


Tuesday, February 28, 2012

No Story

I braced myself on the wooden bar, breathing wine and garlic, and in a panicked moment turned my head sharply to the right as if I hadn't seen her. Some sort of dead magnet betraying me, my eyes sliced sharply back to her own, flashing green and wild, and her slim hand shyly waving, almost a fearful gesture. I pushed off from the bar with a roll of my eyes up to the bill of my cap and swung myself to the empty seat next to her, carried by jelly legs that through drunken grace gave the appearance of a slow-motion swagger.

The greetings and formalities exchanged, the topics quickly melted to those of smoldering honesty, me stuck lunatic between a grin and a grimace as if to hide the candle wax oozing from between my broken teeth. Her eyes green, green flame, the tense and wild green that eats the sky just before a May tornado, her eyes were the only reason I still sat, still spoke, needling through her with a rising contempt, a frustration bolstered like icy rain as my words hardened and fell, and still I couldn't move to lose sight of her eyes. As if understanding that I was a rat pinned to the board, chewing and chewing, she looked everywhere but at me. Helplessly across the restaurant, defeatedly down at the table top.

Bad noise, hummingbirds pleading with hornets, leaves burning into a cold October, December eating pickled flesh buzzing with rot. I was mean, a hammer thirsting for a nail.

She made admissions of guilt, plead for peace, looked finally at me with green eyes brimming with wet, maybe searching for a shared understanding, but I'd been drinking since eleven in the morning and couldn't be bothered to do anything but shrug.

Minutes later, dressed warmly and smoking a quiet cigarette in an 8 o'clock winter chill, I sighed and smiled and rolled my neck, no shame nor remorse, just a warm stiffening in the backbone of a proud drunk, and I felt amber and weightless, happily unforgiving to all but the flash of green eyes.


I turned from the water
from the end of the pier
and was even smiling
as I walked
and couldn't bother to watch
your ship sail away.

First snowfall of the year. Time for eyes to reflect the weather. I've finally emptied the last bucket I've drawn, time to find a new well, something clear and bottomless.

I haven't been too impressed by anyone lately. The wind seems to be getting through all the cracks in their plaster, they totter around weak and creaky and dull. Blessed solitude. To go an entire day without speaking a word aloud seems seductive.

I know more than I've ever admitted, and I hold above your heads your secrets that were never meant for me. It makes you appear much smaller, and I find myself feeling genuinely sorry for you.


To work, to grimace and tighten my sphincter

Maybe I'm a house plant.

Hare krsna hare krsna
Krsna krsna hare hare
Hare rama hare rama
Rama rama hare hare

No Story

She stammered as she recited Eastern breezes on unsure footing. "Taoism, Buddhism..." she said. I was patient, shivering in her car, wanting a cigarette.

"I don't care," bled my guts. "Let it tumble out a confusion of drunk meat and supposed scholastic loftiness. We have these claws for hands. We have these mouths to suck the head.

"I am a starfish, a sea urchin, I float sunk in brine and poison those who place me in their throats."

Despair looks exceptionally lonesome tonight. I ride waves of teeth and hair. She drug me to a colorless car by my name.

Bedroom in the basement.

Painting dirty pictures
my hands are museums
leaving fossils of scars
in the clay of your thighs

Standing naked, pink and scrubbed, swaying staring at my wrinkled shirts. Not sure which breeze to follow, too many tonight and me so tired, so I pull on a pair of pants, think about Krsna, and climb back into bed.

Kangaroo newborns, little boiled peanuts climbing rippling mountains of fur to settle little fetus in folds of their mother's skin.

I keep a loaded pen and a notebook the color of blood near my head while I sleep. Jung kept a revolver at hand to end nightmares lest Hell be Confusion, lest Hell be Uncertainty, testament to the fortitude of death.

I should like to awake and find I'm a tree.

Pissing staring at myself in the mirror, grinding my jaws, watching screws drip through melting walls...

lined paper a substitute for a come rag, a spray of ink followed by labored breathing and a slow, slow cigarette, though ink dries without losing its innate vitality. Will you swallow my words?

Thanksgiving Binge.

I take shit from no bitch but my momma.

There are these teeth rotting in my head and tonight a good-sized piece of one broke off while I was chewing a mint. I put it in a cigarette cellophane and gave it to the Virgin Mary, Full of Grace.

I can't write with a cigarette, though my drunk body may die trying. My bed is covered in necks.

I'm thankful for me and all my evil cells.

Look at this blue light
Purple shade of darkness

Hunting for dogmen with tobacco knives, the whole day darkening joyfully through the gauze of vodka and dope. Thanksgiving.

Wine now in cabin now
mud floor now
mud on the soles of my boots now


On my mind: we've been to the moon/men have seen Earth from space, world politics, cryptozoology, chapstick

The stars are insane
My piss is steaming

All I got
daydreaming about
candles, naked people

Guitar pick
green tears

Tiny breasts
in fog
wet feet
trail to wild bed

Can't Sleep, 11-22-11

Dreaming dreaming
Eyes are singing
Exultations to morning's thunder
Singing singing
Hands are dreaming
Their desire to hold you under

Some people keep so many secrets there's shit they ain't even told themselves.

this information will mislead you, yield no fruit, and ultimately the choice between the Abyss and the Glory will not seem so obvious. To jump, to fall, to never land, to fly death, to cheat yourself blissfully from everything that shaped your tender egg. Lost life falling leaves little room for metamorphosis. It will be as if I am a mindless angel, and always have been.

Doodle pentagrams in red ink in the margin, worry the medicine I took was non-drowsy, relight the red candle, sigh the shades closed.

Good weather for dark boys.

Can't sleep sober.

The dagger don't feel the pain it's doin', the dagger can't be blamed.