Tuesday, May 26, 2009

The Juggler

And there she sits,
Cinnamon-Cigarette twist lips
Elbow propped on a switch hip
Made of aluminum siding,
Where the aces are slipped
And a Vodka/Lemonade made lisp,
That drips

Off a tongue so young and so fine
Some angel divine, drinking whole boxes of wine
At a time

All her energy poured out
Like spilt milk
Not enough white tears to cry
Not enough ruined silk
It’s not enough to ask WHY
It’s not enough to show ILL
Shooting always to kill
Put your hands in the sky…

I do it for love,
And lay-down days of Vics Vapo Rub
To push with my eyes
When you’re too far off to shove
Beating back tears with a pool cue
Trying now to bewitch you
With my lies, with my thighs
And the way I preach Voodoo
But en lieu
She smokes crack out-back
And then tries to step to you

Here’s what cracks
Conscience when down in the sheets
On my back
All those bar-stools built flimsy
The wrought-iron they lack
This last minute attack
Of memories ground fine
As a white-dust gold mine
Of sodomy, a temporary full-frontal lobotomy
What was Theirs, what is mine
Hair-dryer left behind
Parking fines

Left unpaid
‘Til the last minute
When credit is due
The purple hue of an aura, out-shone by a few
Outdoing many,
And many more to out-do
Look at you
All gone-gone-gone so fine-fine-fine
I still have my name
And we’ll meet in due time.

Cartography: A Proof

I’ve seen the tongues of
rooftops splayed out like
maps charting the great
North American fresh-
water seas. From the
glimmering wings of
recycled trash, the once
mobile concrete appeared
to be eroding, as if it
longed for a ride on
the tarnished barges
shipping timber out east.

But from the top levels
of the City’s old schools
with the deep limestone
roots, the floors smell of
unsettled dirt and the
windows can’t be seen
through: the sooty
smudges of hand prints
disguise the city a
forest with rolling hills.

Hidden between intersecting
valleys, the sidewalks breathe
the damp air of fallen down,
hallowed out logs as they are
trampled upon by animals.
Blocks with broken windows
frame the avenues of birch
bark one-ways as the white
turns a dull, muddy brown
escaping beauty with age.

Now the smudges have come
alive, every color, every shape
reflect the cityscape a wilderness
of hate and difference and race.
It was in the schools these
traits were institutionalized and
went unchecked under monikers
of “higher education.” The English
language as precedent over the
dialect of foreign-born speakers.
Children separated if unable to
pronounce vowels, told they
were hopeless and left to
learn by themselves.

But up here, the past blurs
and neighborhoods abrogate
to nature, hills, and space.
The present shies away beyond
the dense ore canopy. The future
laughs what cerulean must sound
like to the lofty breeze

“Ahee Ahee ahee”
Over the lakes
“Ahee ahee ahee”
Over everything

This eventual echo of humanity
hooting: a nerve gas of laughter.
On top of the roofs I can see
the smiles on generations of
offspring slowly melt on the
hot tar of realization. The
colors of their peers have
always been poignantly
mirrored back at them

Did they know how
education would
prep them?

These children taught
cartography by teachers
drawing gridlines onto
human compositions?

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Letter To Penthouse

The half-finnished beer
Blossoms with green glass
Like the breath of someone
Leaning in to tell an obnoxious story
Just close enough to your neck
So that the more ardent syllables
Find purchase on a lonely skin
That only prison tatoos
Can know the meaning of

"I like warrior women,"
You point out, while we watch
Nouveau Riche Sci-Fi
On the piracy purple screen
Made up all of silhouettes and static

You said that aloud, asthough
I'll take my que from such a statement

As if the man's supposed to give a fuck

I can not consumate
Your subsonscious desire to be dominated
When you've made it clear to me you have a
I'm bored of this and of the rest

No matter where I hide
The Parkland or the Northern Lights
There is still coke in the bathrooms
Like neat piles of dry-wall slowly crumbling
And blocking up the shortwave
Nose to brain
Turning voices loud and obtrusive
Soundbites flooding in, over-capacity
The echoing drip from inner stalactites
The infection that lingers on my more private arm
The weather, coming in spells

I have had enough, and dramatically
Have torn the looseleaf free and begin:

"Dear Penthouse;
Two girls take me out to a secluded acreage..."
Leaving out the alpine smell
And the intoxicating sweat that a female delivers
Jumping on a trampoline, the way that nylon
Pulled taught
Is just like any other muscle of the body
The restless horses next door
And pitcher of spiked lemonade
The laundry left

3 A.M and Space

Obscenity is a pair of knees
Hitting the grass so hard that Chlorophyll
Spills like dental blood
And OH!
Oh, I’ve felt this way before
The nocturnal beasts bathe
In what we must have been
: alone and like a fever
Blanket. Not much about
Warmth no more
Rather about the weight
The feeling of half a human
No, a fraction of a being
On your chest

People strength
Soothes like nothing
You’ve felt before.


Come to have thought
It-- Daryl Hall
Has a fantastic voice

On that note, One (you) should consider the work Hall did in the seventies as something magnificent. His voice alone, as aforementioned, is unbelievable. War Babies (a classic), the Silver Album (b-side is amazing), Sacred Songs (see. Babs and Babs), and even Private Eyes. Pharmaceutically digress and crave just one more cigarette

We’re having fun now
Trust me,
Just come on in
For the sake of a poem
Or words on a page
Just hold my hand
Forget about hands
Having more fun
Than sex
Just think
If this wasn’t happening
Would you feel you exist?

We’ll try to be subtle
And use larger words
With less abstractions...

Whistling Dixie

(Long ago, when humans were new
To Earth’s expanse, one Leopard,
Bestowed with power, served
Accordingly as prophet and imposter

Let the Leopard of Honor speak
Loosely. But not too free for
Long spells of quiet know how to
Last and lean on their effects.

LoH: Who-Ha
           Kitchen’s in the bath-
           Room toilet in the sink

They say mallards pick partners
The same way people choose
To mate: lying down, for all
Time and monogamous.

LoH: Water’s on the stovetop
           Evaporating without heat

Basically, you have to bend
Backwards if you want to
Be seen. Tell that to your Honor.
Black spotted, four footed and neat.

LoH: Prince thought he’d
           Never be a humanist

After the drakes swam collectively
Away, the hens discussed politics.
Along the shore their children
Aspired to fly without wings.

LoH: He wasn’t until
           After Egypt

Lying abound the Leopard answered
The aristocratic birds with a riddle:
Being honorable, she ate the babies first,
Admitted boredom then fed on the men.

LoH: Who-Ha
           What will come
           to the artist
           in the

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Jughead + Delphi = Forever

My radiant face is the sunny facade
Of the Adult Video and Book Shoppe,
Your capable hand clasped around my one long freckled arm
You've been here before
You are familiar with the heaviness of the door
That leads inside
I note that you're
Using just enough force to ease me open
Without unwarranted attention
From the sullen clerk
Careful not to
Pique the horsey shyness of the clientel.

A girl who drew down on herself the displeasure of the heavens

Have mercy!
I'm just a dumb beast in the spring time
With the dull animal rememberance of sex

Exhaling floral hormonal sighssighssighs

And blushing petals stick in your hair
Drifting yonder
To infect all around me
Awakening similar lusts
Exhuding an aura
Of pink harmlessness
Restrained only barely
By a famous blue raincoat
A Rose called Carnation
In my teeth

A May-time fire in my veins called MN
Raising welts in the fabric of my innermost
Flying always South
In dusty rural daydreams, lately
My fingers are velveteen field mice
I'm up to the elbow in the splendid icing
Of a wedding cake's memories
Sharpened marzipan teeth
Jaded claws on the greedy fingers
Of this will' O the whisp
That sweeps softly through all the local Friday nights.

It was all a dream:

Awakened by the wolf-cry of twin choppers across
The prairie streets
My vision splits
I know with the certainty now
That I am cursed
Brought back from this reverie
To find the constellation Orion
His belt writ in glittering lacerations
Across my milk-white _ k_ n.

I am sure of what comes next,
An audience with the Oracle . . .
I am headlong in preparation,
Making myself so drunk that I cannot talk
And going to loiter on her porch
Not far from the Aerostar
While a sickness all in golden bruises
Affllicts me, I lean there /
On her pillars /
And track-marks and pinstripes
Emboss my body
Scaling down the masterpiece of femeninity
With Thursday Night's style
I'm overready for my audience

*Bellerphon Calling!

Obscenity is is a pair of knees
Hitting the grass so hard that Chlorophyll
Spills like dental blood
And OH!
Sweet green grasses,
Under starry neon signs
The only limit we knew in this world
Dictated by a chain-link fence lined
With faded pastel refuse
Always we were destined
To scale a God's mountain
My body in your kitchen,
Now that's obscenity.

I exhale just once more
You crave the hot/cold chocolate
Of my words
I dream of foreign pavement
And new crystaline pint glasses
That I will cradle child-like against my breast
As I dwell behind the stained-glass divder
Sentenced and destined by Delphi
To run on bridges forever,
Passing greater and more beautiful things as I go
Never to linger
As my feet will singe

And the bridges burn.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

am I what we say I am?

We are what we say we are
By saying what we Are, we Are
Are we not, if NOT saying What we are?
We are what we say we are

By saying 'What? we Are we. Are
we not? can't we be?
We are what we say we are
Am I what we say I am?

Are we not? can't we be
what I say I am?
Am I what we say I am?
I can't be what we say I am

Is what I say I am,
what we say I am?
Am I what we say I am?
Are we what we say we are?

Monday, May 4, 2009


Hey treefolk, anyone want to do some writing challanges? I just learned about Pantoum's (http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5786) and wrote one out. It was a flipping trip once I got into the groove of it. I say we each do one and post it? Extra points if it makes sense (lord knows my doesn't)

I get it now

A conversation with yourself that is
not supposed to be read but sometimes
comes out, rendering the mundane
tolerable in an otherwise dreary day-to-day.

Not supposed to be read but thought,
as if that is more of a challenge!
Tolerating the dismal routine of
mind inside self and self projecting meaning,

as if that was man’s one and only obstacle:
thinking about thinking self into obscurity.
Mind over self and self-withstanding pain.
Best thing about writing: paper has nothing to gain.

Like thinking of things that obscure singularity
discriminates nothing when penned on the page.
Best think about writing on paper: words are free
which, is also true for ideas wildly out of place.

Discriminating empty space, ink dries on the page-
I get it now, a conversation with yourself!
A proper position for thoughts tranquil yet untamed
for when they come, they flush out the ordinary.

Sunday, May 3, 2009


on a CBC surfin safari she was sippin syrup with Gertrude Stein
I had a twitch, I was a nervous birth-down at the corner of heart attack and vine
Alice B. was sitting there, just a sittin', wastin' thyme and she said to me,
children of the moon recieve us! little darling don't bleed us
children of the moon recieve us! little darling don't bleed us
and Hhigggghhhhh
and waitin' for the spice to return, Ill make you some water if you'll get me the worm.
I'm churning out ashes that you put in an urn
cuz I'm curlin' out slowly like the fronds of a fern
caps-lockin' and poppin with adherance to code of the heard,
'picture me rollin and scratchin' inscribed under my neckbeard
not even withstanding stickers that read, 'keep portland weird'
(even if it does make for a good asparagus or overhead light)
moon kids skid stopping on short patience with tall bikes
they had torches sans pitchfork, atleast till the album strikes
children of the sun believe us, little darling dont feed us
little darling dont fetus
little darling please heed us;
a rose is a rose is a rose
but everybody knows that just isnt true
nobody grows right out of the blue
and I am not really you, but
youve got my thorns and Ive got your vine
sippin on syrup with Gertrude Stein