fun.

i wrote this in the last 20 minutes..fuck it if its no good

You might say to me, if you had word shapes that could fit in my word slots
That it is human nature to think more clearly when nearing death
And I might say we should think clearly at all times then
And my face would be red
Or my face would be pale
And yours would be its normal color
And this amongst other things would cause me to stop talking

You would scoff and return to watching t.v.
This is ok
You would be content


If we acknowledge that it is a rope
Our footing
And that it is low
Even so we must confess to a fear of falling
And strive to strengthen our ankles

Some would say that strong ankles wont change a thing
And I would smile at them because they were receiving my thoughts as words

We are waiting in this iridescent light for change
Never realizing that to some extent it is presently arriving
Due to the nature of iridescence

Clarity speak clarity to my neutral face and make its structure fluctuate.

You have constructed a notion of freedom that insists that we not insist upon it
This could effect movement in my lip region
But I am not home now
I am not home


Lets hide in the closet
Lets not hide
Rather lets live in the closet
We can create our own ecosystem and change science and be changed too.

But in our hiding we are feeling the sunburn that would necessarily accompany a voyage into out there.
This may or may not be a result of blushing and our capillaries taking in too much blood.


We are constructed yes.
And we are seeking at some points of our lives to be deconstructed.
But not before we construct a second self for the future which we will always fail to finish

Laugh now let us laugh.


It can be said that fate if we must name it such is following at a pace that we cant hope to maintain and so we fall.

You ran fast I was watching you in a pair of binoculars
But I had them backwards and so you looked as small as you were feeling
And then you fell off
To which side it matters not
You fell
And that is that.

I am yelling can you hear my volume change?
Are the words striking your face like crashing cymbals.

And through the flexibility of our language I am meaning nothing to you perhaps
Or something small
And that is a different outcome than I had planned originally.

It is objects that made this for us
It is our belief in objects
Shiny teardrop reflecting objects

Our steadfast grip is withering under truth storms

Truth is a word.

Lets walk in tall grass
We cant see the rope anyway so lets choose tall grass for the sake of having more fun
We can pick a piece apiece and chew on it for eternity
Until it is over.

It will end.
If it is kind.

We are very much the same
For one in our physical structures
But in our fear in the face of vision as well.

That we are seeing and fearing simultaneously and without an escape hatch
Is why you are still listening to me talk when I say things that bore you.

The nature of the word bore.

There is no turning back.

this might be a useful link for people who read this

zoooooom

Alexander, Who Used to be Rich last Sunday

weighed four hundred pounds and lived alone
he carried a gun in his hip pocket and he carried a flask
in his front left pocket and ate his dinner
out of the plastic compartments of a microwave dish
bent low in the carpeted corridor of his one bedroom apartment
he watched headlights flash against the walls like animal eyes
still in the quiet forest of his mind
lying in bed with curtains drawn it was Sunday and raining
all morning the wet pavement outside his window swelled
to the size of a Georgia peach the smell and the hairiness
of a wet crotch he played Van Morrison tunes and cleaned his gun
in love he was thinking of a girl at the gas station

she called him darling when he paid cash for beef jerky
she had black bobbed hair with huge hoop rings in her ears

swelled to the size of a can huge with botulism
because I remember a story about a family in Mexico
who ran a grocery store and had a bad batch of canned pears
distended like an exotic pregnancy and the woman
with her dog who bought the fruit and ate it and died
(or it the woman selling the fruit in her store
when Alexander walked in and bought a case of Keystone and walked out)

bid farewell to the cracked floors and the old sofa
big in the back corner of the pale room and farewell to
the hairy table and the clean lines of the plates and forks
when he with his big hands took hold of the double barreled gun
and did something none must have heard about not at least for a while
until they found him when they knocked and he didn’t come
or rather when they opened the door and there he was and that was it
really nothing left to salvage so with a barrel of gas and a flame
they burned the building from the inside, burned out the smell
until at last the gundpowder explosions and the alcohol flames
burned Alexander out so you couldn’t tell

poem

you might ask about the power of resolve.
you heard this phrase somewhere and so you ask
and we are answering the unidentified question
in ways that are not the same really or relevant.

“it has to do with graham crackers, and the perforated line”
i might say, and you would respond
“it is about the ten year old boy who was lost in the mountains
carrying only a hatchet” and we would divorce our own ideas

we are not right
because we are what is left
when words don’t make themselves

and because we are left we might be what remains
though this is troubling
charred useless remains are all that is left of our right
which we never had
to identify each other as speech receptors
reciprocal patterns that reinforce the notion
of being
which we are not
by way of negatives and their canceling effect.

lets light off a few black cats and listen as the machine-gun
rips our silence apart.

ask me why I woke up to tell you this
ask me why I woke up.
i would ask the cat as well
as he might know better answers.

we are eating our own shit
but we are doing it well and without remorse
or second thoughts about whether our enamel will seal it out.

its about perforated lines
snapping.

a poem for the new year

Wal-Mart loves me
i have many plans for us
i spend 3 hours a day in its aisles
there is not enough Wal-Mart
i start loving a second Wal-Mart
i love this Wal-Mart recklessly
like i would a celebrity
i still have 18 hours left in my day
i drive to 2 other Wal-Marts
one of them is abusive but i don't mind
because of the low prices
the 4th Wal-Mart smells like vinegar
i told it i would always be there
and that we would buy two bus tickets to Vancouver
and be happy
i told this to the 1st Wal-Mart
i laid down in its hair salon
and cried into its shampoo

toning the sweep

There is something growing in the grey
And the lack of specificity is intentional
And we are and not and crumbling now
Like porcelain figurines with little tears.

Clown-nose red smile painted half-heartedly on white circle
And the sirens outside are more intelligent than us all times
Because they recognize that there exists in this fucked world
A capacity for utter failure even when we think we are well.

And we could write each other emails or letters or songs
But we read different dictionaries with varying degrees
Of success at times of our lives that fail to correspond
Like us, with anything tangible or good and words die.

That we have constructed four line fragments of communication
Is good.
But somewhere in the grey we will lose our order.
We already have and we are
And are not
And are crumbling
No matter how you look at it.
But, we will always exist.
In one form or another.





Ascribing power to different verbal databases was not our first or last error.
It was and is the most devastating.

If I skipped lines you could read between them but you might find
Empty space
That we are never as empty in our silence as we are in our words.

And I could say now, holding your jewel encrusted head on my lap,
That all jokes sound the same and then ask “what would you do for a Klondike bar?”
And you would say “I don’t know” and laugh and false laugh and wait for the punchline
And then say “I don’t know what would you do?”

“It doesn’t really matter what I would do we would still be fucked” I would say
And you would get it then the punchline you would feel its true power
Then and only then could we be making sounds that the other could know.


Lets put our language back together lets lay down rules.
For the sake of our shitty attention spans we can only speak in two-thought bursts.

You are feeling neutral toward me now.
I am above the clouds but below heaven and I can see nothing but blue.

We are inhabitants of a dense leafy forest.
we are not the original inhabitants.

If they are smarter than us why are we not dead yet.
please let them be smart.

The speakers on my life simulation device sound tinny at high volumes.
Tinny is an example of where the fucked five percent goes.

I am yelling for distortion’s sake but I think it is useless.
We are receiving muddled messages either way.

Fucked.
Bliss.

lyrics to a country western

I ate a can of hot dogs sitting on the top floor of the cancer treatment center in Provo
I read the local paper saw the headlines 20 000 dead Sri Lankans missionaries go home
I watched a corner of the earth felt the sun felt the wind felt the emptiness of the canyon
Could have been the air or the AC only if if the windows seal me in from the mountains
Glass eyes bald heads I stand in line for taco salads feeding myself like an animal
I could have watched the parking deck cowboys roll their trucks like sardines in olive oil
The West America's nothing like the place we read about in books from the public library
On a mountain top a heaven huge eye bleak white watches birds flying away from me
Empty pages of string thin fields struggle like magazines stolen from the barber shop
While store bought pancake batter thick hot dreams burn like Indian nickles on the griddletop
Who knows if the stores carry cigarettes or beer or porno videos or long underwear
I put some gas in the car but the man at the pump wouldn't switch off his soldier stare
So I cooked chicken cooked grits green beans broccoli cabbage patch kids in the backseat
While skinny white boys chased in the streets after thin white girls wearing soccer cleats or just bare feet
Your jersey mind doesnt help me orient the misdirection of the big sky or the clouds in the sky
Driving on these roads seems like driving in a paved desert no direction no radio no tonguetie
So biting on the wheel of the wheelchair like a patient in the dialysis chamber waiting room
I hear your voice echo like an enema through the empty hallways cause I love you
AM couldn't tell a story fast enough out of range kicking back against the turnpike
Easter Sunday would have been my luck but the son left some candy in my ash tray try if I'd like
Coming hom for Christmas gonna bring the girls gonna see if she makes it through the sermon
Calling all cars calling Mom calling old folks at the old folks home who don't remember anyone