Poems that I did not previously post for one reason or another. I am currently working on a play, so I may not post anything for awhile.
Untitled
Female climax
is not required
for procreation.
Will you say I’m beautiful if I let you breathe the cunt juices of yellow woman
down my neck?
Will you match my gaze if I am:
on my knees
with lips around your cock
swallowing deep & begging with my eyes?
Will you bring me pleasure if I lie by saying it feels good?
Will you Love Me Forever if my continual gratification
of your sexual desires
(without any myself)
is unspoken, understood?
January 2010
Hazy Frame of Reference
In the dirty, black broken glass back alley deserted in the vacuum that is my mind,
why are you there? what have you gotten into? Why do these glutton, mindfuck, greedy not Buddha—and is Buddha—sanctuary of smutty words and unwarranted tits in your face fingers in your hair play, rewinding spindly Nature, spooling through my subconscious mind all night?
Whether to kill you or send you a love letter, I don’t know, no Knowledge, weren’t we here once!
Packed in pork hides with our hot flesh and rough hands—eyeing eachother madly on the Banks of Eternity,
ready to cash in our shells,
drive away, or else be driven away,
Song parade of imagination, Batman of fatalist thoughts, shaking down to the bones, like twilight,
like grey, dim, pinking Indianapolis sunrises and sunsets, over & over in some warehouse, abandoned, powerlines of mind bouncing SHOCK THE LIFE OUT OF ME
whole world grey, grey hazing over, there is nothing left, Slanted Eyebrows, where did you go no way of telling where I am now without the Light, or if I am, or how to go over there from here, there’s no perspective, no street signs to speak of the Antichrist. You, yourself distorted image of god, Serial Killers, on antipsychotics—sociopaths, sinking into 10 feet of snow outside—This is a myth of my own creation.
Close encounters keeping us hard, fast from seeing & being the ultimate truth that lies in the back-lack of my skull, sitting in a hipstercafe (downtown), legs spread with a fat dildo, I’m not going, to try to, Push, Clogging up my Canal, You. Keep…keep…keep trying to push It out in the warm, crowded coffeehouse with a snowfort of Indians out front, I dream about you, lost, every night. for one week now (but not tomorrow since I’m writing this) The person inside me, living there: am I you am I afraid you’re in my soul??
Winter 2009
26 February 2010
14 February 2010
Arbitrarily Chosen Title
All of our dreams were just
the refuse of thought.
Random selections from experience
sloppily copied and pasted,
to form a beast to overcome, or ignore.
Not only Dreams of Sleep
but all we aspired to do:
arbitrary pursuit of happiness;
pursuing misery is just as deep and worthwhile.
Self-centered, shallow,
everything we do is hollow,
shake the Present to guess what’s inside--
some mystery
rattling around in empty space.
America’s saga of war, laminated paper-torn
brutality: WMD’S to temporarily deter PRP’S.
Black backdrop.
SHE is bound and hogtied on a stage
he’s aiming a sleek and miniature handheld Stryker, debating whether or not to strike her with it,
and spontaneously shoots.
JORGE I love you….
It’s moving and
goes through her.
SHE I never asked for a second hand, but you gave me one anyway.
Waiting for the part where she loses consciousness, and she is almost to the point where everything goes away for good... Then she realizes she is not going to, composes herself. The backdrop changes from black to white.
JORGE I’m glad you didn’t die. I love you.
SHE, like a selfish little girl--pink cheeks, bloodshot eyes—was criticizing her corporal suit,
in the reflection on the microwave door,
hypocrite, her hypothetically insane
(see disabled: crazy and lazy)
mind
(all the thoughts leading up to now)
of memory foam
springing from its pores, decompressing in random rambling,
isolated tirade;
the clock, digital
THESE are the numbers: you don’t have to count (for your whole life, they’ll be counting down anyway),
struck midnight
(open late for owls and bats)
and the day begun.
SHE Rotender, Rotender,
Wherefore is my Rotender?
Opening up cupboards, swimming through dishes, scraping the roof of the microwave; flakes of packaged food, exploded.
SYLVIA Oh stupid, don’t you see
you have not fed me. Also I would
like to be pet. Why are you so stupid?
Why so human?
SHE Are you always awake this late?
Distorted creature of the darkness
you are,
yet so enlightened,
why ever do I feed you
when I should just drown you?
And, where the fore is my Rotender?
SYLVIA All things end that began,
but do all things that
have ended
eventually begin again?
Your Rotender is gone,
so you should stop questioning why
and waste your time more wisely.
By feeding me.
SHE slides on socks, stoned, to the cat food cupboard; a stingy, plastic, pizza joint cupful of kibble is produced and poured for the cat to casually nibble—by smacking it out of the dish and eating it off the floor.
SHE (Reluctantly) The best replacement for flesh is food.
(Melodramatically) Delightful Animal Biscuits,
where are you?
DELIGHTFUL ANIMAL BISCUITS appear.
DELIGHTFUL ANIMAL BISCUITS Pick me, pick me!
SHE grabs them, slams the cupboard door and, like a karate superhero, traverses the stairs 2, 3, 4 at a time. Instantly, in the long, dark, winding staircase SHE arrives at a door, opens it, and steps into a room.
In the small cramped, Eastern decorated room—walls covered with pictures of goddesses, mirrors, little plaques with inspirational words, plants and books covering the tops of the antique tables—a small, thin bearded man with icy blue, tired eyes is telling a story.
TIRED MAN I was camping up in the mountains in Wyoming back in ’72 for a couple of weeks. I got myself turned around, lost, and ran outta food. In those woods with no one else around, I walked and walked for a day and a half, cold and lost with no sense of direction.
It was so dark you couldn’t see anything, far from the light pollution of the cities. My boots soaked through from the rain. By the time I found a road, I didn’t know whether I was in Montana or Wyoming. Highway 16 runs east and west.
I hitchhiked down that road for hours and no one would pick me up, so when one stopped for me I tried to figure if he was a preacher or a fag.
When I got in, he says, “I’m just going to tell you straightforward that I’ve got a revolver on the back seat.” And so I says, “ Well I ain’t got no weapons, so don’t worry.”
I started to take off my boots right away. It hurt more with them off than on, all that water compressing your skin, so you end up with these sores. I’ll tell ya, that felt like giving birth. Giving birth through your foot.
I realized once I had those boots off and was a bit warmed up that the guy was shifting his car all funny. I looked over to see that he didn’t have any legs: he had to do the breaks and gas with his hands.
I just broke down. I started bawling. We were going 70 miles an hour down a mountain highway where it was pouring so hard you couldn’t see 10 feet in front of you and this guy was watchin’ me like it was a soap opera. I looked up at him and said, “Man, I was just stranded in those mountains for 2 days and my feet hurt so bad. I had wondered if there was anyone else who had it worse than me. But I get a ride from a stranger in a gold Cadillac with no legs.”
The stranger looked me in the eyes, said, “I would give everything I have to be stranded in the mountains with my boots soaked through.”
JORGE My boots soaked through in the War on Terror,
when I was alone for seven nights in the woods,
trailing before my eyes,
nightmares
seven nights in a row:
America itself rejected me.
I saw some distortion of your new reality.
Guilty.
Anxiety.
Goddamn was I stubborn to protect what was mine and the fact that it was mine, the possessiveness of an animal and with claws to tear off the face of the Threat
A photograph of America (these “United” States),
thinks it’s sovereign,
why don’t you try to step off the edge of the USA
into blank, white, laminated emptiness:
Beyond this,
there is nothing.
Gotta be okay that I just can’t know how this will end:
I am the threat.
I’m looking in the mirror and I have no identity now.
This isn’t me.
SHE How I long for disillusionment
from this hell, society shit of globalization,
warming,
every inch and second saturated with ants swarming…
SHE Opens the screenless window, bends her whole body over the sill, looks down to the pavement.
SHE The choice we make
for eupathy
to live, die, adopt apathy,
is arbitrary—
If this is all there is of me,
how can I ever truly be free?
St. Valentine's Day 2010
the refuse of thought.
Random selections from experience
sloppily copied and pasted,
to form a beast to overcome, or ignore.
Not only Dreams of Sleep
but all we aspired to do:
arbitrary pursuit of happiness;
pursuing misery is just as deep and worthwhile.
Self-centered, shallow,
everything we do is hollow,
shake the Present to guess what’s inside--
some mystery
rattling around in empty space.
America’s saga of war, laminated paper-torn
brutality: WMD’S to temporarily deter PRP’S.
Black backdrop.
SHE is bound and hogtied on a stage
he’s aiming a sleek and miniature handheld Stryker, debating whether or not to strike her with it,
and spontaneously shoots.
JORGE I love you….
It’s moving and
goes through her.
SHE I never asked for a second hand, but you gave me one anyway.
Waiting for the part where she loses consciousness, and she is almost to the point where everything goes away for good... Then she realizes she is not going to, composes herself. The backdrop changes from black to white.
JORGE I’m glad you didn’t die. I love you.
SHE, like a selfish little girl--pink cheeks, bloodshot eyes—was criticizing her corporal suit,
in the reflection on the microwave door,
hypocrite, her hypothetically insane
(see disabled: crazy and lazy)
mind
(all the thoughts leading up to now)
of memory foam
springing from its pores, decompressing in random rambling,
isolated tirade;
the clock, digital
THESE are the numbers: you don’t have to count (for your whole life, they’ll be counting down anyway),
struck midnight
(open late for owls and bats)
and the day begun.
SHE Rotender, Rotender,
Wherefore is my Rotender?
Opening up cupboards, swimming through dishes, scraping the roof of the microwave; flakes of packaged food, exploded.
SYLVIA Oh stupid, don’t you see
you have not fed me. Also I would
like to be pet. Why are you so stupid?
Why so human?
SHE Are you always awake this late?
Distorted creature of the darkness
you are,
yet so enlightened,
why ever do I feed you
when I should just drown you?
And, where the fore is my Rotender?
SYLVIA All things end that began,
but do all things that
have ended
eventually begin again?
Your Rotender is gone,
so you should stop questioning why
and waste your time more wisely.
By feeding me.
SHE slides on socks, stoned, to the cat food cupboard; a stingy, plastic, pizza joint cupful of kibble is produced and poured for the cat to casually nibble—by smacking it out of the dish and eating it off the floor.
SHE (Reluctantly) The best replacement for flesh is food.
(Melodramatically) Delightful Animal Biscuits,
where are you?
DELIGHTFUL ANIMAL BISCUITS appear.
DELIGHTFUL ANIMAL BISCUITS Pick me, pick me!
SHE grabs them, slams the cupboard door and, like a karate superhero, traverses the stairs 2, 3, 4 at a time. Instantly, in the long, dark, winding staircase SHE arrives at a door, opens it, and steps into a room.
In the small cramped, Eastern decorated room—walls covered with pictures of goddesses, mirrors, little plaques with inspirational words, plants and books covering the tops of the antique tables—a small, thin bearded man with icy blue, tired eyes is telling a story.
TIRED MAN I was camping up in the mountains in Wyoming back in ’72 for a couple of weeks. I got myself turned around, lost, and ran outta food. In those woods with no one else around, I walked and walked for a day and a half, cold and lost with no sense of direction.
It was so dark you couldn’t see anything, far from the light pollution of the cities. My boots soaked through from the rain. By the time I found a road, I didn’t know whether I was in Montana or Wyoming. Highway 16 runs east and west.
I hitchhiked down that road for hours and no one would pick me up, so when one stopped for me I tried to figure if he was a preacher or a fag.
When I got in, he says, “I’m just going to tell you straightforward that I’ve got a revolver on the back seat.” And so I says, “ Well I ain’t got no weapons, so don’t worry.”
I started to take off my boots right away. It hurt more with them off than on, all that water compressing your skin, so you end up with these sores. I’ll tell ya, that felt like giving birth. Giving birth through your foot.
I realized once I had those boots off and was a bit warmed up that the guy was shifting his car all funny. I looked over to see that he didn’t have any legs: he had to do the breaks and gas with his hands.
I just broke down. I started bawling. We were going 70 miles an hour down a mountain highway where it was pouring so hard you couldn’t see 10 feet in front of you and this guy was watchin’ me like it was a soap opera. I looked up at him and said, “Man, I was just stranded in those mountains for 2 days and my feet hurt so bad. I had wondered if there was anyone else who had it worse than me. But I get a ride from a stranger in a gold Cadillac with no legs.”
The stranger looked me in the eyes, said, “I would give everything I have to be stranded in the mountains with my boots soaked through.”
JORGE My boots soaked through in the War on Terror,
when I was alone for seven nights in the woods,
trailing before my eyes,
nightmares
seven nights in a row:
America itself rejected me.
I saw some distortion of your new reality.
Guilty.
Anxiety.
Goddamn was I stubborn to protect what was mine and the fact that it was mine, the possessiveness of an animal and with claws to tear off the face of the Threat
A photograph of America (these “United” States),
thinks it’s sovereign,
why don’t you try to step off the edge of the USA
into blank, white, laminated emptiness:
Beyond this,
there is nothing.
Gotta be okay that I just can’t know how this will end:
I am the threat.
I’m looking in the mirror and I have no identity now.
This isn’t me.
SHE How I long for disillusionment
from this hell, society shit of globalization,
warming,
every inch and second saturated with ants swarming…
SHE Opens the screenless window, bends her whole body over the sill, looks down to the pavement.
SHE The choice we make
for eupathy
to live, die, adopt apathy,
is arbitrary—
If this is all there is of me,
how can I ever truly be free?
St. Valentine's Day 2010
03 February 2010
ἀνωνυμία
In an effort to increase input of your opinions and thoughts, the Author now allows anonymous comments.
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