hidden in the grass
a snake lies
whispering haiku
to someone else's heaven

this proud tree sheds memories
tomorrow's children will rake
off the streets of their souls
fingers caked with an absence of knowing

what green was once
the sound of birds
water you could swim in

pounding out pemmican on pavement
where previously chariots roared
careening through one lone century
so long of hate

that later generations still choke
on fumes we wrote off as harmless
but capitalism is ultimately charmless
and unsafe at any speed



she covers me with time.

hands lifting mine.

beneath the sheets she sleeps serene and naked, waiting.

her eyes a mirror i see my own in.

one heart beating in two breasts.

sweat and sticky sex and smiles.

uncoercible laughter and bosom and joy-fuck sunrise.

a heart that wants to hold me inside itself.

pliable in all the right ways.

believes in my dreams with high ceilings.

my breath is listened to and breathed in by other lungs.

voice warming to new climes.

mayhaps a poem lies beneath this unsheathed sword.

have i the heart to extend it upon her papyrus day?



No — Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and shortwinded elations of men.”


A work of art that contains theories is like an object on which the price tag has been left. -Alexander Pope

we silly humans attempt to hide our vices from others
so we only have ourselves to whom to whisper lies.

lines in hands worn white with the dust of books I do not have the time to read.
lungs rusty with smoke, throat coated with a fine fire of whiskey,
dreams dangled before my eyes,
a child's mobile with only slightly more mature themes after which I may drool and pine.

buxom blonde barbacks strut their slender midriffs around my icicle eyes,
hips hugging that hint of sex,
whose simple tickle has little to do with love
and much to do with nothings whispered but insincere.

it's my dick in my pants
it's my empty pint glass
it's diaper prices these days
it's society at large
it's my stagnant pond of ennui
it's my sociopathy
it's someone else's fault,
i swear
all the time
and blame it on my parents
on George Carlin
on our Beta machine and boxes of ambiguous thrift store recordings
on my father's stoned biker buddies
on the sixties
on the ninties
on MTV
on middle school, high school, public school, college
on punk kids, on adults, on the liquor

I blame it on the whispering winds
whose influence cannot be discounted
as easily as a hangover
or hanger-on.
That sly, hungry stare of a predatory beast,
which I prefer to the fallout of their makeup in the morning.
That love-all, fuck-all apathy of today's nymphomaniacs
dressed up like baristas, construction workers, suits, skirts,
judges, jurors, executioners.
Anyone's cord can be kinked.

Oh, the tell-all tits of those with too much in their mouths
and not enough on their minds. I'd like to come all over their tomorrows
and then feign guilt 'cause I'd feel none.
(see ennui, see sociopath,
see man, see man run, see man ruin everything)

if everyone loves you, then you're fucked for sure.
if no one loves you, sure it hurts, but your poetry gets better
hands hairier
heart hollower
head heavier
but everything is easy 'cause
there's purpose in everything you do
even when you feel sorry for yourself
you miserable shit
you cad
bumbler of other's love.

do we try to change what's inside? because we don't approve?
or is it easier to learn to accept that which used to bother us about ourselves?
move on to the next thing we decide to loathe, regret alter about our selves.

personally i find it hard to find the time to feel much shame or guilt.
where's the productivity in self-abasement? what a waste.
i can worry about how others feel without caring what they may think of me or my actions.
i can care about and for myself at the same time as i ask extremes to dance, push limits around, live on a few of those rumored edges.



With someone who holds nothing but trumps, it is impossible to play cards.



I told her she had demons blood

and it made her want me more
even by telephone, I could tell
even without bacon
even with a college hangover

stars in the heart and head
and buns in someone else’s oven
her eyes still fucked mine to the wall
even by telephone
even by poety
even without music
though music helped stoke our blaze

wishes beyond the words
wanting so badly to share myself with someone
but selfish
even by telephone
even without orange juice
even through venetian blinds
even earlier than we wanted it to be

but we poured into each other anyway
that night by the fire
holding each others sweat in pockets
hidden away in our tapestry of flesh
eyes aglow
even by telephone I remember
even without time
even now, with everything and nothing
and scratch all to do with it but build

in the morning the smell of bacon
will remind me of her again
as it always does
even after college



Too full of life for words.
Walking 'round in prose gardens
with poems on the soles of my shoes.
Homeless this morning, drifting, vagueries.
To sleep, perchance to dream!
Aye, there's the rub we've been waiting for.
The demon of truth, her mandibles locked across your forearm.

Too full of life for words, good words.
So I dabble with meaninglessness.
Fail miserably.



Two years too late...


remember smokey ruins of a friendship gone too soon
our names dusted against a heaven we barely knew
but those dark-time words
weapons against some urgent night

she swallowed you before so many of us got the chance
but in my dreams you walk on water
a slight mist in the air behind you
lending a glow to the frame of your stocky figure

remember opening up your bedroom
your clothes, books, life
lying on the floor
waiting to be swept up

now: friends go on without
we forget those times
as the ebb and flow of emotions
slowly wash each other further out to sea

[i wonder if you were here
what would have happened
i wonder if we’d work in the prison systems together
still drink 40s every other night
put the devil up our nose
or if we’d go to baseball games in seattle
with my daughters
eat hot dogs
and talk about it

Labels: ,


I find a few parts of my old life I'd rather not remember...

but they treat me well enough at 3:33 a.m. on what I've come to call a "friender".

Busy busy rekindling old ties with fast friends who folly towards solitude, like me. But don't we always fail in our lonely attempts and come crawling back to the beginning, which is also us?

The narrative thread winding through my disjointed dialogue with death or something close to endings. I tied my tongue with threads thieved from tyrants tough and troubled, their audience aghast at such impurities of spirit sacred and sanctioned by said holy holiest of saints beneath our banner of dissent.

enough. relax and read, despite the distant thunder, despite the fallacy of hope, despite this breadth of bookshelves.

i remain reticent and solitary, waiting for your spark.


these are the kinds of notes I take

“sweety, you can’t stand that close to fight club, you need to play in the kitchen or the window and if you don’t then I’m gonna chew on your bumblebee costume until its soaked in drool.”

jingle bells – knots on my hammock

precise fragments [title]
“it is a luxury to be understood”

a song book and a talk book
“a good morning is when the sun wakes up outside”
“not a normal daddy”


le mot juste – “the right word” (complete idiots guide to a smart vocabulary)
pessimism and paranoia

judiciary poetics





create a parental etymology

daniel – “a pattern of consciousness and wisdom” – ezekiel

judgement of god, god my judge

mesach – “that draws with force”

shadrach – ‘tender, nipple’

abednego – ‘shining; servant of light

(daniel’s companions)

cast into a den of lions

she’s my daniel come to judgement

“a wise and upright judge”

one of the 4 great prophets

NOT mentioned in the Old Testament

interpretation of dream

memes are irrepressible

‘i dink muh’

‘bing, bing, bing’

‘pitty fwowuhs fo mama at gramma’s home’

sign share – ‘eamon home’


upon waking (5:37pm)

lyli says 10-14 words approximating the events which led to the bandage on her forehead. i catch: ‘mama ‘ome’ ‘bandage ahhhn’ ‘fawh down’ ‘chair’ ‘wine cabinet’ & ‘cheese crackers’

thumb toe finger tummy

‘dwah on paypuh’ – mama’s home, papa’s home, shawna’s home, noah’s home

‘i dropped my crayon in a crack’

would that i could be so bold a creature as to live

big brother isn’t watching, he’s collating

‘mi papa’ ‘no, mi papa’

mi di-a-puh

mi bithycal

calling each other: ‘come sister’ - ‘coming!’

mediocrity’s momentum

stab a wager or hazard a guess

my girls play house across the landscape of my chest

s- ‘shushu haf teem bi hrsf’

to dry a fire

gitmo and the superconductor – S & M

james tate

tony hoagland

hate hotel

lyli – singular dish, bowl dish, a very categorical girl

1st round draft pix – title for collection of sloppy baseball poems


http://mhpbooks.com/ - book blog


old turtle and the broken truth

trilingual books in english spanish and sign language

illegal art 0-8118-4749-7

octopus conspiracy

they have a word for it – rheingold

the meaning of tingo – adam jacot de bolnod

anaclypsis – godfrey higgins

laci cole – bell hooks style bks, political slant, jensen, teaching material

how to be a nonconformist

happy to be nappy

cathy hansen – st. martin’s librarian head

howard robertson

passive aggression

feigned cooperation

vindictive mediocrity




this is the eternal struggle of the artist: to ration out those minutes so lusted for by others, when, after all criticisms and hindsights are in, would have been worth more to hold onto.

paul farmer

kidder – mountains beyond mountains

partners in health – daniel’s rex.




think about the object subjectively and the subject objectively

the revolution will be letterpressed

sf stories set in the bookstores of alien and future civilizations

socerers covens on zlata ulicka – medieval street of gold

hulking ancients

clad in endless ivy

native like i am native

cracking a beer into the first curve headed for home

the longitude of his grimace

it had latitude

a clicka nd a half to our whiskey

a temper i’ve gotta lose or lock up

another two years of crazy

dancing without drugs


eagles may soar but weasels don’t get sucked into jet engines

I genuflected all my second chances away
on a wing and a a few prayers,
a scattered poem here and there
to end this static relationship with daylight.

Realizing it was merely winter in the Northwest
I broke out the whiskey and limericks,
stocked up on sugary snacks and sold my high metabolism
for a blanket and two dozen fat cells in a syringe filled with sunlight.

Me, who laughed too much at bad jokes,
choked on one too many garter belts
and devoured whole chocolate bars unbeknownst
in the dark dark single nights of a lonely
intoned by the absence of a fog drunk on daylight.

As salmon slapped their tales away on a river with no ears
you poured wine out on my skin before the fire and had everyone's way with me
before the sun rose on our stuffed schedules
and we sobered to the scuffed reality of the despicable clicking of clocks.

Seven chapters, a six pack and a bottle of cab sav later
I decided to Google true love once and for all
but all I came up with was some dude named Haysus
who didn't say enough but we wrote too much of it down.

Right now I collect milk crates from dark gas stations,
romanticize people named Pablo late at night atop the keys my tipee-yo-yo,
dream of tropical beaches with a great beautiful, brilliant nothing stretching out
to the absolute limits of my fancy, fantasy, folly or fucking el fin.

My daughters sleep upstairs while I commune with Bacchus,
piss wine-red beet blood out beneath the rotting apples.
They sleep, mourning their stems on strike for autumn,
as I press their ancestors into a fine pulp we guzzle down around the fire,
blessing blood and fish and fruit and root and worm alike.

Remembering that nightmares used to only happen in our sleep
the newspaper leaves my hands read with blood.
My scrambled eggs lack the substance they did before war tore
my breakfast cereal asunder and wore my patriotism ragged,
eagles may soar but weasels don..t get sucked into jet engines.

You know there's something wrong when you read
about Tibet and Cuba to cheer yourself up.
You know there's something wrong when your recycling outweighs your regrets.
You know there's something wrong when signs become confused with sins and sighs,
when someone else's tomorrows masquerade as our todays
and we regret to remember days better than this one.

We who invested our happiness in Hollywood daydreams
could not bear the blinding light of reality boring into our artwork,
tumbled coffee mugs in some diner we gambled against bombs
before someone wrote it down or remembered to remember this time,
or remembered how to speak so people hear.

We who invested our veins in someone else's bloodbank.
We who bought our seats in heaven from a devil in disguise.
We who have the luxury of poems and the time to digest steak.
We who muddy the waters of slaughter in a poem someone else dreamed last year.
We who bleed the blood of others out upon a canvas dedicated to the dead.

Our humble empty words strive to fill the stomache of some God we only think we desire
as our systems crush our systems and we struggle for a breath in this landscape bereft of beauty that we only envisage as being real. We fall, failures for freedom, under a flag set rigid with wire so that not even the slightest breeze may tickle its...


it's hard tell the truth to someone every day... it's hard to tell the truth to the same person day in and day out. to try to bring one's whole self to bare and share it with the same individual over and over again. I prefer to part and parcell pieces of my self, shards of my one whole truth, amongst a multitude.


goddamn but i want your poetry in my veins again like thunder under stormy skies and eyes upon us as in olden days when we thought we were so much younger than we really were.

my anger bubbles up and over sometimes and I long for your presence to diffuse my tempered steel, water to quench my just desert. just desert. your trees sway for me with you in them, branches dreaming of roots and vices versus us forever and another ever and a day like today, hollow but for emptiness.

salesmen of our selves we run rampant through whatever ramparts rise before us, braving battlements and raingutters alike for the sake of salvation and her gemstones. forget about whatever it is you think you lack, for you lack only me.


She fucked me until all the beer was gone from my refrigerator
and then the lonliness got the best of me.
So I learned how to subtly destroy myself
without anyone noticing,
with everyone thinking quite the opposite,
in fact or fantasy.

See, everyone always thinks the writer is so romantic
so capable, jovial, affable,
Anyone who actually falls in love with them,
finds out their little ineptitudes and daily failures,
begins a quietly adamant loathing,
a hate untouchable by change.

She turned my kite into a puppet -
strings severed, crossed, tied to my arteries,
bleeding out my ink to fill
a blank black canvas
with more black.
Usurping my page from my self,
my hand from my pen,
and my time from all my clocks.

But blue windows opened on my yellow eyes
drunk in the morning sun like syrup
through blindnesses drawn loose
so many pretty tales came walking
waking up my soul with coffee colored kisses
and I healed a bit
toughened a bit
forgot about a piece of my heart and kept
staying in one place while moving.
Last night the stars swallowed my upwards gaping mouth
as the steam from my urine coalesced with the smoke from my dangling cigarette
and my beer bottle beat out a pulsing rhythm on my thigh
to match the muffled whump of bombs.

I think
I am.
I think
I be.
I am, I be
I define.


my self subverts
evolves, disentigrates
it hurts
so I make a salve
from your arsenal of
batted lashes
wrap them around
my burning pain
whose ashes ascend to
some rendering of heaven
etched into your back

my sky bursts with crimson
orange and turquoise
you with jewels spread
over my thin thread
of a precipice
me poised to leap
into your shadowed
fading rainbow
translucently seducing
the light of my night
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