Tuesday, November 16, 2010

drinks fall
to planned obsolescence
and my sturdy jawed boss
replaces my broken hand
with one filled with beer --

this continues for some time
and some time
until the Earth passes through
a patch in the universe
close to time’s childhood
and time decides to leave the bar

where he goes
only nobody can speculate
as I am left here to apologize
for speculating on time’s gender

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Waking up is hard in worrisome anticipation.

Neatly layered blankets


little heat.

Cold nips

at feet

through wool socks.



despite this.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

A clear picture
of a tree emerges out of paper
and graphite and ash;

it is a sprout between fractures
in the waterless desert,
where agave farmers search

for babies to, one day, harvest.
The dry flat land is drunk with us.
She makes no sense,

in her dry meandering humor,
that raspy laugh, a whisky giggle,
she burns our brains

and begs us to prettify her.
We stuff our bottles with rags,
and wait and wait

and wait
our legs a lotus, one on top
of the other;

we wait,
our breath heavy

for anything to show up,
anything, at all, to burn.

Whisky again. She speaks
to me: I wanna do bad things
with you.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Television Withdrawl

Let the pixels refract
through my cornea,
each little ray of light
to bounce throughout

my skull and brain,
this idle mind a porous
haven for a slingshot narrative,
a few laughs, or quiet captivation.

How I want it! How it teases me!
This universe, castrated,
factory-farmed, flash-frozen,
prepackaged, and reheated,

served in sectioned-off plastic,
a compartmentalized story,
a soft mush, easy to swallow;
its silence calls to me.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

as a human
bodies never burden
they tighten,
break, rebuild

knots that strengthen
their enchanted grip
with every
mortal cut;

but mind dies
with every moment,
cell by
precious cell,

we cannot feel
them pass but
in our
fleeting consciousness,

makeshift pathways build
amidst bodies of
dead thoughts,
broken memories;

do not look
at my words
to heal
your brain,

you have no
choice but to
look toward,
inward and

find the image
of your face
with a
wide smile.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010


Let’s forget our careers
for a moment and go
on a trip somewhere.
We can sit someplace
with grass or dirt
and watch the sun rise
or fall into the flat
or mountainous horizon.
We can talk about us,
our love, the trees,
or listen to the distant
train chug away
and let silence strike
the scene, as the world
lightens up, or dims
towards orange
then black in a mist
or on a clear night
or day.
I could look at you,
in your pink
or yellow summer dress
tucked under your
knees, or draped
along the ground.
And we could call
the place home,
or we could call it nothing.

But let’s go, leave, and find
this place, just so
we can see it exists,
home, or nothing,
someplace to dance
naked, wildly, with one another
or sit with quiet smiles.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Images in New Jersey, Ideas that are Our Fault

What do you want me to prove?
That I read? That I have culture?
That I have important ideas

that you can’t see
from your consciousness?
There is nothing new

in this world
but what we make
and call new.

And you want it said quietly?
Slowly? With purpose?
Allusions toward obscurity

flooded in language?
Here is an image for you:
A year old condom,

and a single rain boot
dance on the foamy shore
of Sandy Hook, New Jersey.

The condom, half-filled with
bubbly water, deflates
as a young girl

in a baseball cap and
dirty-white gloves
drops it in a trash bag

and another idealist
puts a tally mark on a clipboard,
parallel lines uncomfortably together.

The image, disturbed
by the youths, is regenerated
the next day. Another boot,

another dance, another rubber.
How can I say this quietly?
There is a lot of trash out there.