Wednesday, March 23, 2011

I know

I haven't posted in a few days. I am working a lot but also writing a lot (have about 6-7 poems to type up/edit and post) so yeah finding time for that has been a bit tough.
Please bear with me!

Sunday, March 20, 2011


The mouth is bulging with round words and crowding teeth
the blinking headaches wash it out
and my fingers aren't listening again.

I can barely believe it's spring again
only the music makes it real
notes pulling windows down,
it isn't raining at all.

Friday, March 18, 2011

back date #1 for me

Spring Dialog
The daffodils are gathering in down turned yellow gossip
crowding the forcibly slim
sidewalk trees.
Subliminal roots swallow the years
tickling up
jagged concrete smiles.

More Than Butterflies
Small flutters
start in the mouth of your aorta
and before you know it
you've got his smiles coursing through your veins.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Poets as lovers

There is a precipice of blinking images
in a poem not yet arrived.
The pages hiccup
and release a deep brown smell
that is sometimes coffee and sometimes beer.
The body of text getting less and less incorrect
(which is not the same as getting more correct).

The poets reach out their greasy silver antennae
(nails & pens & graphite fingertips)
hoping to slice through their metaphoric interference.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011


2 windows open
You continue
like an unended parenthesis
an implied curve smiles like a fish beneath the reflection.
Things continue being
regardless of how strongly
the earth disagrees with your feet.

The engine churns & rattles
like a crow's angry breath,
leaves the lopsided journey in a lurch.

Sunday, March 13, 2011


the tongue
in dancing between italics
tilts past its balance
and shuffles hot from the dance floor.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

I wanted this to be more haunting than it was

This sickness is an angry pinwheel on the back porch,
the hissing of pipes in the basement,
a shivering window in the night.

The bright gray gets sucked up by hanging rain
converts light into fog
and fog into conversation.
Words get sticky and you have missed your puddle
the conversation bus stops
beeps incessantly,
lets out the air,
echoes out an empty destination,
in a voice rehearsed every 28 minutes.

Mouths snore into another subject
and that rain just won't come down like it's supposed to
like a bushy-tailed spiral feeling
or a transient raccoon scuttling under the porch.
The air is hissing like so many suspended waterways
and the glass gatekeepers sigh
refusing to let the wind break.

Friday, March 11, 2011


the mortar is melting
and bricks are sliding down my brain.
There is disaster leaking out the mouth
black lines collapsing out of the parallel.
It's all about perspective
and this sickness draws its fingers in front of my face
crossing my eyes into a dizzy blinking braid.

Thursday, March 10, 2011


This wind kicks wet dust into my eyes
and forces the gears into an unwilling down-shift.
The ocean is still cold in the throat,
bristles mist from the wavetips
coughs dizzy seagulls up gravity's backside.

The sky is awash with oysters and dead nuns;
sallow bulges falling in and out of love with the sun.
The colors are losing their religion
slipping through every kind of light.
Reflections get sunk in open-mouthed puddles
the rain shivers on either side,
then makes one or two wet stabs at the sidewalk.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Lost clusterfuck of poems

Assignment Poem:
How can I open to new patterns of observation & obligation?
like a painting devoid of light?
or a body emptied of skin?

This poem just had its sky ripped down,
the fireflies smushed out by a geometry yawning too big for its own universe.
This poem won’t look at the moon
& must,
in the process of gearing up its adages,
lose track of its own fingers.
This poem cannot be a fit of mouthy neuroses.
This poem will not be about itself.

This poem must be emptied of its lungs
as punishment for breathing out
too many overzealous personifications.
This poem won’t be subtle
or try too terribly hard,
you will write it with your feet
while your hands get busy
scooping through sternums
& pulling hearts straight out of their chests
So swift and precise
it’d make magic in the mind of Indiana Jones.

Words Collected on Your Body

essential parenthesis (on your hamstring)
concentric cataclysm (just below the upswing of the ribs)
a curmudgeonly uncovering (running up from your kneecap)
braised unsettling grasp (all along the inside of your thighs)
gesticulate (neighboring your bellybutton)
relapsing empty-mouthed recursion (hovering over your liver)

Common side effects of casually popping
the yellow chrysalis past your lips:
butterflies run queasy colors through your belly;
wet wings make their patience;
waiting to float up
& un-crumple in the heart.
In the right moment
The proboscis will uncurl
press the flowering aorta
and drink deep
the red palpitating nectar.

Consider the Following
Consider for a moment
that poetry is living
that writing is a stepping further in,
making words is leaving the porch door propped open
with a bowl of milk,
letting your convertible become a rain barrel.
Poetry does not in itself draw circles,
It’s followers tend to draw concentric paradigms.
Poetry is the backside of recursion
gearing up for action.

Your eyes are quicksilver hooks,
their smirking curve sharpens each time I circle back
& your eyes are sideways () smashed together
with a slate geometry living in between.
The look in your eyes is barking with the throaty cries of terrified zebras.
Yours eyes are a lullaby with playful underpinning of revolution.
Your eyes are an invitation with lipstick on the envelope.

Your eyes aren’t blackbirds anymore.
& I’m so sorry nobody has taken the time to write about those eyes.
Your eyes are a thicket with a mouthful of snow.
Your eyes flash angry like brakelights
& when the dusk comes to shut you down
Your eyes don’t move an inch
and begin their solemn task
collecting purple for their underbellies.

I guess I am going to be writing a lot more about the mornings. How the breath can manage to be just-less-than-grueling; how the busses move much slower— harvesting odors equal parts character & disinfectant. The moon hangs out in rooms I’ve never seen her frequent, smoking cigars and stealing brandy from the file cabinet. She gets distorted on purple. & I am thanking god for the warmth. I wonder if I could make it as a redhead. & I am blessing myself when I convulse(?) all alone. I want to be with the kind of woman who believes our engines can make it all the way to L.A. in a single blazing night. Drinking coffee until it stains our eyes. Her heart is a window into the red eye of Jupiter. A scarlet swirl of 10,000 hurricanes, whose motions pulse older than the concept of self. (maybe even before self itself?).

The Constant Self-Conscious
The churning discernment, and its gears of constantly documenting the dead skin flaking away. Media rushes us into relentlessly turning on. The engine’s scrapping grind becomes a theorem for living. An eye/I that lives parallel to all of your if’s and hovers twittering over your then’s.

Pickled & prickled
a thistle floats in a jar
at the bar
next to the eggs
& the wicker cradled peanuts

Ink Monsters
I am harvesting calluses in my writing desk.
Constrained by the inbetweeness of raven-ous riddles
the possibilities do not stop
as POE whittles them all down to brightly grumbling verbs.

I am inking holes in this white-lined claustrophobia;
This monster of space untaken.

Open the mouth of your universe
force a space for conversation
vibrate life into being (itself?).

My heart is more than broken
it is an anvil
hanging on by a hinge,
gravity dancing down it’s tensioned strings
my veins are laughing red hot with the tensile strength
it takes to hold your love.

Found Poem
You don’t let the weather get you down.
“I never really get sick” comes easy from the lips
As your body runs the gamut on the backburner.

Secret folk heroes
don wool hats & orange buckets
and sprinkle salt over the tilted sidewalk

All well done haiku
have subtext about weather
it isn't boring.

Friday, March 4, 2011

Little bit of light

When the words break out
your throat moves like a naked lightbulb.
You tear the lampshades from my eyes
& too hard, the filaments vibrate between pinched fingers.
When the circuit gets complete
open the twisting socket mouth
let the light pour out.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Just a small note:

Please excuse the long pause between posts. I am now working 2 jobs (one FT, and one PT), have been connecting to the internet at the courtesy of my roommate and am adjusting to a new sleep/life schedule.
I have got my laptop back! Daily posts (after my schedule adjusts) should be much more regular now!