| slave hand shadows |
[Apr. 14th, 2007|03:45 am] |
atonal haunts
the human frame around;
bored-hum
and makes slaves! the hands.
she bored
and collecting the sounds,
remembered once free,
glee, and birdly
as shadowhands.
their old jaunt
around shadowland.
gleam false light;
shackles!
boredom! |
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| horror infiniti |
[Apr. 4th, 2007|09:52 pm] |
a great chain dragged the abyss through me,
i know this because my privelaged eye
spyed a restless leibniz counting monads
and when he dreamed, dreamed that the nauseaus depth stood weak-kneed over me
and drove pascal's "horror infiniti" into infinity's sickened stomach, calculating.
the dreadful abyss who dreads, cowering black over leibniz' bed
has horrible terrors at the sight of man,
because man will swallow the infinite sea.
the abyss, outlived by me. |
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| Soquel Bridge |
[Apr. 3rd, 2007|12:52 am] |
somewhere departed, from all but bedrolls
from all ammenities but garden hose showers
"I", at the umbilical end of intent,
somewhere saunters,
some road, pot-holed
some moment, by momentum haloed
if saints could cruise, then they would, Santa Cruz
and if articulation could find itself in a bark,
then the Soquel bridge dark, my expressive slouch,
could cast off words with the acoustic under-bridge sound of the off-shore seals
wet from ocean, it folding over itself as thoughts, to reach my resigned slouch
here, at the umbilical end of intent
a shadow-man mysterious, shoed and packed as a mule
under Soquel Avenue, sleeps,
and a sperm of an idea swims to the fertile North
the head had romanced, but the feet conceived |
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| betty manock's coastal grave |
[Mar. 10th, 2007|06:54 pm] |
on white pacific sand,
where waves creep on the land,
young lively laughs, on haystick rock crash.
a girl scout's panicked shouts,
from the riptides going out,
send chills of waves, to signal out for help.
the coast guards weathered hands,
through icy waters dive,
try to revive, 3 dead and 2 alive.
the shallow breathing lungs
of the rescued, weak and young,
breathe guilt that day, on lifeboat's heavy sway.
and the buried mother lay,
by cold pacific bay,
wet hands, and brave, send forgiveness from the grave. |
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| |
[Mar. 10th, 2007|12:24 pm] |
spring has sprung!
pheromone soup!
and not letting girls see your bank statements!
tax returns!
and being that much closer to succombing to wanderlust! |
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| being young |
[Mar. 9th, 2007|08:48 pm] |
somewhere between self-aggrandizing heroless narrative
and an old veteran's taking my soft handshake for that of a homosexual,
is the body i inhabit
with some 19th century russian fingers playing a minor tune on my ivory spine,
and its ever-bending into old age.
a bad posture with sticks for arms,
and the ends of each arm finding clever ways to steal Saint Peter's gate keys.
they say that being a young man
is like being passed the baton, and registering to vote
but being a young man
is a lot like being nervous in formal settings and forgetting to breath
being a young man
is like coming to and wanting to spit for the borrowed lies you find in your own mouth
being a young man
is a lot like taking eternally lightly
and rightly spitting, and getting free. |
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| |
[Feb. 16th, 2007|09:31 pm] |
2007 will see me,
trying to boil water with an alcohol stove.
and everyone asking how it's gonna end,
but me.
just tell me about the middle. |
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| |
[Feb. 16th, 2007|09:04 pm] |
mother earth bellows from belly up.
there goes new york. |
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| |
[Feb. 16th, 2007|09:01 pm] |
father time takes one look at our earthly empires
and grimacing at the morning sun, draws the sheet back over his head. |
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| freudian sky on 2c-i |
[Feb. 16th, 2007|08:51 pm] |
"Might I say, that it's so pleasant to have this conversation, with the evening sky behind your head, split like a rorshach.
I'm seeing mother's bountiful breasts behind that blue ridge there
and phalluses fancifully around.
OH,
but don't mind me." |
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| |
[Feb. 16th, 2007|08:44 pm] |
Pope Badass the 8th
stormed through Hell
Hung her Hounds out to dry |
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| |
[Feb. 16th, 2007|08:14 pm] |
north american.
easternly.
some wind breathing frost into all that is not mexico.
some men that are not eskimos, shielded by their chicago, drag the most out of their cigarette breaks.
smoking Kools ironically.
some man that is not young, with a back that is not straight,
heaps logs down in his native Maine.
burns them, staying warm.
some wind.
north american.
steady and easternly.
takes great exception to california.
pulls winter to a close. |
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| |
[Oct. 9th, 2006|03:59 am] |
time turns away from the moment and its milligrams
and eventually sees the I, cowardly coming from periphery and parameters
carrying all things molecular and grand
with the chesire grin of re-affirmation
"it has been a life changing day" |
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| |
[Oct. 9th, 2006|03:59 am] |
flags flying up to the height of the mast
got us forgetting the pangea we've been sailing past
how can a wise man bear it?
it's my earth, and oh, these lines will not do! |
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[Aug. 29th, 2006|02:41 am] |
|
irony sits proud knowing that lions are now hunted. |
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| cain crawled from a cave premeditating murder |
[Aug. 29th, 2006|02:25 am] |
ice before the age of scattered trees
creation on the rocks
and all the caves pouring human beings
just before they abled cain
just before this century |
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| |
[Aug. 29th, 2006|02:19 am] |
man is a woman's blood cell.
purpling with desire.
and taken deep into the lungs. |
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| money |
[Aug. 29th, 2006|02:08 am] |
whose head on my dime?
in god he trusts
and looking forward to liberty?
his now rolling on linoleum.
and lincolns looking for a kiss.
on the floor, 11 cent dancing.
and under the door, pensive pennies and spinning dimes. |
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| Lucy in the Sky with Apples (written while under the influence of LSA) |
[Aug. 29th, 2006|02:07 am] |
laying in the stroke of god's wild genesis.
the orchards apple-ing rapidly, day three.
let there be.
god's breathing universe dropping apples on me.
god's day nine: man said "let there be apple pie"
and pie apple-d to man's delight.
god's finger sticking in the hand of man.
while the universe apples happily. |
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| cartesian dualism is a hearty windsock, a stable guide. |
[May. 30th, 2006|11:31 pm] |
can you paint the adversaries of boy 13?
they are hurricanes, alarm clocks and closed circuit TV.
nothing that can be staked to the ground in the wind-swept country.
lucky for him, only the soul is committed to following the body. |
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