Sunday, February 6, 2011


FYI: This is what an average text document of mine looks like before I break it down/edit it into a poem. Hence why it is ridiculous and annoying.

Horizontal City

“A City Cannot be a Work of Art”
-Jane Jacobs


Decorated thin trim;
A miasma of wood smoothed to what should be bone
But looks camp-fire stiff:
Faces moonlit until tossed by flashlight.

I’m dreaming parks in pools,
Islands in a city radiating.
Dubai is Fifty years old
And should have a happy birthday;
Sand never looks so well
Amongst tax hikes and voter peril.
I’d love a new spirit
I’m mitigating through.

Front-page news and I’m channel whatever ‘E!” means lately
Sun setting Alaska
I went for lunch
Until dessert was served
Then it was dinner.

Gotta stop writing when I’m gone again
Cause this happens
And I’d like to talk to you
And the smell of man soap reminds me of somewhere
Long showers with a seat and hair jell I never used
Nor paid for
So it was yesterday earlier
And I was about something
About something well and if
Tell the truth about Sacramento
It’s south east
Warm, probably
The people there are varied latino/Hispanic (depending on the man who drove you home)
Meant to connect you to somewhere they haven’t seen
A bridge connects something to something.
China Meiville.
Gosh this pastry taste like bacon.

Walked on gravestones buried there-haps
Betwixt literature sown into steel spires
Undeveloped blue prints begotten through fund-negligence.
I looked before bespeaking
A hailed cab to infinity.
Nah, I’m not drunk.
Nah I’m leder sunk (look up term for weight on line)
Billowing text messages
I’ll catch an old one
To fall asleep
Pleasant dreams akin a person you grew old with rather quickly
It was the hair it was the face it was the bush it was the scene
Forgotten rather poorly
I’ve met a couple beggers
Asking for change

Oh yes, Architecture in motion….

A mess of unconnected organs
severed with gunk built up
at arteries allotting congestion.
Febuary-bored women
cross-guard spring fashion.
A severed tumor doesn’t fall
it is unhinged by surgeons
coddling nostalgia:
A newborn slapped
then set down.

A wound pocket watch responds
to a determined faucet
questioning whether the pipes have frozen.
A leak swims on

moon mist fogs from below the bridge.
Central park and the river;
A fox runs along the bank
to understand if the river has courage
or is just runs on instinct -

Vapor tunicate
Sounds like a Mars Volta lyric
Eyes wound wide around a thesaurus
Speaks a river banked on instinct
The courage to provide
A self-help-book of movement

Yeah, redundant
I could have this conversation with myself and it could be something else
But lets push it.

See what we bring to it.
I’ve moved again.
I’m about to smoke a cigarette
Move a wet leaf and move and move and move and move.
Sounds like confusing thunder
Lightning in a snow storm
Sidewalks dipped into snow pavement
A considerable amount of thought
Some god somewhere put into a cataclysmic event.

"A city cannot be a work of art"
-Jane Jacobs

Decorated thin.
Trimmed miasma of wood
smoothed to what bone could say
to a camp-fire stiff face
tossed by flashlight.
I'm dreaming the city beautiful:
parks in pools in a post-Dubai world.
Sand never looks so well
amongst tax hikes and voter peril.
I'd love a new spirit
to mitigate
whatever the television
channel "E!" means lately.

Blow text messages to mend
bridges built on bridges that happen where you'll be
cause I have built them
and contractions are an idea
best suited for the late twentieth-century.

Gravestones buried therehaps
undeveloped blue prints begotten through negligent
drunk infinities.

Cities and the cities they’ll blend behind
a city being a city
scared of heights.

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