No flash player!

tee shirt: green. eyes:
blue and milky. bachelor’s
degree: double major
in business and environmental
science. buttons: up.
teeth: straight. apartment
walls: cream and lined
with quirky posters, like
the one of Jim Morrison
making that face.
dream: house. girl: tall
and not too skinny
social worker.
vacation: many. future:
golf. custom clubs
and green tees. private
sector. power nap. gym
member. sweat pant.
house: lake. jet ski.
bumper sticker: something
about saving our precious mother
earth. fragile. weak. trees.
climate. car: twenty ten
accord hybrid. msnbc. gps
tracking system. life: long.
dead. hobby: bass
guitar. high school
band. amp: dust. clean. npr:
educated. this American life.
listen. talk. articulate. atheism.
science: hard. breath: slow.
sun: glasses. smoke: weed.
morning: jog. night: sleep. dream.
stop.

a poet is not a scientist
or botanist or cartographer.
a poet is not a recycler,
not a true poet anyway.

a poet is a commentator,
a philosopher god good
at twisting a mind
to see his way,
a philosopher with dreams
soaked in dreams
like a molotov cocktail.

a poet is never in place
with his words but thought
in the plasma, orbs with violent
tentacles in the thick, spitting
white energy intermittent
in the veins, ripples of
blood to the brain
like adrenaline.

a poet is not a performer.
a poet is not most poets.
a poet is not of the broken
hearted; the poet is critic.
A poet is a bastard, mostly
we hate him, but damn it,
he writes a good line
sometimes.

Dear Slammer

“Accept me. I’m fat.
Respect me. I’m gay.
Just give me three minutes
to disguise these cliché’s
with a zillion clever little turns of phrase.
I can start with an anecdote
about the millions of years it took to shape
this collection of words, this being before you
with nothing to say,

I’ve invented a substance
made of pretentious fuck.
It balls up and explodes
in predictable orgasms.
It thinks it’s Bob Dylan.
It takes a deep breath

before it steps
to the mic like
it’s just stumbled down
from the mountain to present
some fountain of knowledge
on two flintstone tablets,
like some climax of language.

Look at you.
You’re all fucking Buddy”s.

Look at your smile as you
compare big bangs
to cute little flowers
shaped like vaginas, and
what was it for?
A great big disguise
for thousand year old proverbs,
a bitch rant about the blues
and rock and roll and the black
burning cross and your heart
cracked like fault lines
from when you fell out of love,
and your stupid fucking walk
through an empty city, and
oh, the birds! How they speak
like you in that rising gibberish,
that mating ritual that you call
poetry.

Forgive me
for having something to say.
I’m sorry I’m not gay and starving
for attention.
I’m sorry for trying
to collect a few syllables that crashed
your little party and danced around
that one perfect sentence, that thought
we were all looking for until
you decided it was best just to skip
around nothing.

But hey, at least you threw a joke in
to please those masses
you pretended not to be.

And here you go,
like a dada toilet seat,
and you’ll take such pride,
such, fragile, exhales,

between the shit-green metaphors
and you’ll drop down our throats
that professional, pressed blue
dolphin ecstasy, manufactured
in bath tubs with speed
and caffeine.

Forgive me for trying
to feed you the real thing,
this vision I have,
that psychedelic world-view
shattering dream
I thought I should share
that vaporized people
and animals and atoms, this ever
exploding, universal twisting
that you glanced at once before.
That one time you decided to just shut

the fuck

up

when you ran out of breath
and of those accompanied

spectacular hand gestures
you learned
from your Buddy.

Forgive me for slamming it back in your face.

You have nothing
in this world
to worry about.

You are at war
in the world
of your mind.

You are imploding
one second
at a time.

You’re becoming.
You’re forgetting
you were born
a second ago.
You’re holding on
to the womb
and you won’t
let it go. Let go
and become
the world outside.

The one that you made
is a shitty place to hide,
with all that darkness, the few
dripping colors, dark blue
and sometimes red
like evil raindrops, and
the chatter,
just one voice
but doing all the characters.
They swell and bulge
and surge in bad crescendo’s.

That asshole in there
with his nasty megaphone
and that tone that he uses
when he opens
your mouth,
that condescending fuck
and his controlling shouts.
He wants to get out of there.
He wants to pound his fist,
but out here,

demons don’t exist.

6/18/2011

I know what women are thinking.
I just have no idea how they got there.

Just behind the eyes of a woman
I can see a sloppy web of infinite emotion.

She thinks she’s god, but not in that
cult-leader-kanye-jackass sort of way
with all the bows and applause and pyramid tombs.
That’s the way that a man thinks he’s God.
Behind every woman’s eyes, that I’ve ever seen,
is a gentle god who feels responsible for everyone
else’s kids. She is the center of a universe of
people, only people
just people and that’s it. A surging internetwork
of personality, not ideas, of interpersonal
vibrations between the multi-colored
disembodied aura’s around her. She watches the ones
that are changing hues, and she revels in
her most blessed creations, she loves
her creations and she’s sorry for 9/11
and she’s waiting for all of us
to realize she’s the one.

She can almost remember giving birth to you
but it was messy and confusing.

She’s sorry about your ear and the way
it came out crooked.

what is this i am

Always silent
behind
the 16th century stone facades
there lies
a superexpressway
up to the temples of Gods’ mind
interwebular infohighway

of passion, desires…
and slightly unmanageable
socially anxious thoughts
there to defer
the state-appointed
court date
of that must-be
drug-addicted, dream-lacking, self-indulgent
piece of
nature? nurture?
what the fuck is all this

swelling, surging
why all the adjectives?
fybromyalgia?

can I think?
or is this all just an exercise
a substitution teacher
has assigned
in futility
fatalism?

a deterministic
have I spent too much time with
a philosophically obsessed
equally neurotical
just as
socially- any kind of event involving those OTHER people-
lets just avoid that
This ridiculous, awkward
(does anyone else…)

what is this i am
do i feel more or less?
what is this place
why does everyone ask this can you not ask someone are you that fucked up on your drug-of-choice your vice people give you shit for can people not be personally responsible

“accentuate the positive” why give a shit about me and my habits to me i am no one at least
in my mind
maybe one day:

personal growth
environmentally “green”
why this sudden desire
the push forward of the human mind condition
let’s utilize the power
we have been given
by this
Almighty
heaven-above-earth Creature
let us push forward

push that 16th century tool
we are now
transforming
21st century
fox?
be the hare or the turtle

thank god my other dream is to be an amazing housewife

6/16/2011