Tuesday, March 31, 2009
of a river
my nails are chipped, because
i went cave mining by
the river,
was panning for gold
my hands pruned;
the cave made sound
then i knew that it
knew; knew
the way things went
caves repeat back old
nights ago, sometime ago;
it threw back cries
chanted my snapshots
of a thing that had
passed;
an audio album of:
a baby,
i threw a baby, in its river
rivers get cold
when naked babies fall into stream,
you hear screams
and the baby before it drowns,
shivers
i cannot birth in river waves
my rebirth is
small bodied death
stop hissing river water;
it, things get baptized at death
me, i was baptized at birth
forgive me river gods
i'm trying to find gold in holy water
keep the scandal down
back to cave mining
back to river panning
Sunday, March 29, 2009
paris sky
the many people
I Wonder How Many People in This City
{from "The Spice-Box of Earth"}
I wonder how many people in this city
live in furnished rooms.
Late at night when I look out at the buildings
I swear I see a face in every window
looking back at me
and when I turn away
I wonder how many go back to their desks
and write this down.
- leonard cohen
{photo: DENISE}
Thursday, March 26, 2009
the 2am
Big big big ben ben big ben big big ben big
I think your ticker is broken
broken like
speech
Of the things we say
Not much can be said
i doubt
we
make sense
Of the things i make:
Sound
Not only does it hurt your head
It breaks it
Big big big big
i look
because its pleasing
my sound,
your pain.
but
Of the things I look at
Not much time is spent on your owl eyes;
Mr.
my owl-eyed Ben
Read to me
Before it hits the
The
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
of running
running through the woods
nothing can erase;
deleting
a hidden war
a ghost knocking on the bed,
everything and
anything can be less nothing
don't go in
but do;
come lets see a ghost
it died
just run,
past monday afternoons,
drenched.
i want to soak in a pond of leeches;
suck on me.
suck on this.
of today in March
Monday, March 23, 2009
of telling
my teller is lovely
as moon skies and telescopes
this reminds of
childish affairs
but our characters
are past age limit
of tales bout fairies
and kisses in meadows
i'd ask him
over
invite him for tea
he must be tired
too many moon changes
too many stars
too many spins, dust, myths of gods
his eyes hurt
i know they tear
even turned kaleidoscope on him
my tea is
hot,
it screams
his hands are
red,
and bitten at
his fingers twirl
spoons
his grins ruckus me
and
he looks at me
through blue eyes
if he sees broken
and
i am broken
when does it
become
Saturday, March 21, 2009
of today
i said today
today
none of your shit
those
highly international sophisticated
ways of movement
crash into spit and vodka
you dancing fag
i smoke you
twice a day
wait for it
i'm going to chew and spit you
today
today
i said
photographs will be taken
of you
not me
i smell too foul
a picture within a camera would give me
away
i continue to produce spit
i am as refined as you
only i barf
you swallow
no beauty like yours is even half as sweetened as my verse
today
today
i smoke and barf
today
none of your shit
those
highly international sophisticated
ways of movement
crash into spit and vodka
you dancing fag
i smoke you
twice a day
wait for it
i'm going to chew and spit you
today
today
i said
photographs will be taken
of you
not me
i smell too foul
a picture within a camera would give me
away
i continue to produce spit
i am as refined as you
only i barf
you swallow
no beauty like yours is even half as sweetened as my verse
today
today
i smoke and barf
life and how it sucks
8:50ish
again my life
at least career is in the gutter
down
down down
and it smells
really
again my life
at least career is in the gutter
down
down down
and it smells
really
Saturday, March 14, 2009
3.14.09
Ballad of a young lovers
she was married at five
by the sandbox
in grade school where they taught
the national anthem in English
and Espanol
her husband did not love her;
she loved him
to know love at age five
broke her
hard ;
it left her with broken
Ingles
No rings
No rice
Just sandbox sand
Had she waited twenty more years
To marry
This loveless man
She would be pregnant; but
No babies
No bars
Just sandbox sand because she was five
And her mother cleaned that boy’s
parent's house, on Mondays
On Newport Beach Cliff,
her mother knew
that was no boy for her
his muddy hands
always left muddy stains
on marble counter tops
and
his room was never clean
but
she couldn’t help loving
dirty boys
she just liked
how
his saliva kisses
left her cheeks so wet
so young they were
she’d whisper her love in espanol
to his waxy ears
he’d curse her with “eww”s about
her Spanish witch spells
so young they were
none the less ,
that is young lovers at their best
she was married at five
by the sandbox
in grade school where they taught
the national anthem in English
and Espanol
her husband did not love her;
she loved him
to know love at age five
broke her
hard ;
it left her with broken
Ingles
No rings
No rice
Just sandbox sand
Had she waited twenty more years
To marry
This loveless man
She would be pregnant; but
No babies
No bars
Just sandbox sand because she was five
And her mother cleaned that boy’s
parent's house, on Mondays
On Newport Beach Cliff,
her mother knew
that was no boy for her
his muddy hands
always left muddy stains
on marble counter tops
and
his room was never clean
but
she couldn’t help loving
dirty boys
she just liked
how
his saliva kisses
left her cheeks so wet
so young they were
she’d whisper her love in espanol
to his waxy ears
he’d curse her with “eww”s about
her Spanish witch spells
so young they were
none the less ,
that is young lovers at their best
Monday, March 9, 2009
on remembering
I do not need to remember.
Remembering stops my sleep.
I have tricked myself out of sleep
the way the lights of planes have tricked us
into believing they are moving stars.
And across the street the musician plays the guitar
and harmonica for me, or so I say.
Remembering stops my sleep.
I have tricked myself out of sleep
the way the lights of planes have tricked us
into believing they are moving stars.
And across the street the musician plays the guitar
and harmonica for me, or so I say.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
about me
When you spend most of your life in silence and are surrounded by more awkward silence, one gets to know about stares
Sunday, March 1, 2009
the camera and i
the day she was not dead
i lend a dead girl twenty-five cents
she wasn't dead then
she waited till the weekend
this happened by the soda machine
not her death
i'm referring to the lending
she was meant for suicide;
for overdose
but that's not the way that a flu kills
years before this;
two
i had traded poke cards
hers fake, two real from my part
this happened by the red brick walls of elementary
i wasn't listening at the memorial
i don't know if it was coffin or not
this happened on Talbert and Brookhurst
i remember the dirty black hoodie,
that the dead girl, not dead yet,
wore on lending day
she wanted a soda
from the soda machine
the day she was not dead
what a jerk i can be to the dead
she wasn't dead then
she waited till the weekend
this happened by the soda machine
not her death
i'm referring to the lending
she was meant for suicide;
for overdose
but that's not the way that a flu kills
years before this;
two
i had traded poke cards
hers fake, two real from my part
this happened by the red brick walls of elementary
i wasn't listening at the memorial
i don't know if it was coffin or not
this happened on Talbert and Brookhurst
i remember the dirty black hoodie,
that the dead girl, not dead yet,
wore on lending day
she wanted a soda
from the soda machine
the day she was not dead
what a jerk i can be to the dead
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