Frantic Boulder birds beat time
in heaved tree dancer
and dawn de color scheme
is East and brown is dirt
Birds like paths find drawn
breath unsatisfying
Crack out in lit desire - is
a bar of half-recognitions
shoulder touches -
for they have eyes
beer bit swallow-fulls: jam
branched full the words
are like candy – long practiced
in indomnable sleep but
birds are the shrill light
pricking corners
against my better cheek:
birds hum on the relay of wings

In The Dirt / Sun Beats Two-Time

On the dirt floor the child toyed with a scorpion - while
The sun hung round and feverish yellow

The scorpion - complained in passive lashing as
the body scooted further into shadow

Here: the dust rises without form but settles
on the bridge of the nose, threatening soft eye-white

a coarse woven blanket keeps time with tepid wind
in the distance, sand

The mountains seem cold like night on top of river
- they promise the health of sandless blowing wind

And here the drunken fishermen pass by in the streets
their nets hung empty, like cracked open lips

And drooping eyes, they take in the scorpion
And head home with wine-stained lips:

the boy redraws his home -

"keep those eyes with a glint, young joshua"

Wipe - that smiling - off Your face -
I'm - more - to blame - than You -
Yes - your - Body is hungry-svelte -
But I - supply the - Gaze -

We walked like strangers

We walked like strangers
 The straight concentration    and she found my skin
holding something under breath


was love she said
was love she said

    walked heavily
            like paste

Tucked into pavement
rough bliss your
vanity heeds nerve
to stay closed
as react meets reaction
At the Break of Spring
the flowers stir in
expectant earth the brown
does not become your moistening
thighs such fingers wrought
journeys thorning my life under lock
with simple words
and unpaced eyes
March gives weight,

The World is a Vampire

I'm listening to Smashing Pumpkins. They are so totally awesome. If you don't like Smashing Pumpkins you are so totally stupid. You are so totally stupid, you're retarded.

I used to not like Smashing Pumpkins and I was so totally stupid. The are so totally awesome.

My favorite track tonight is track 4 on "Greatest Hits" album, "Cherub Rock." It is so totally sweet.

But I think you're totally stupid if you only buy the "Best of" album of a band you say you like. You're such a poser. You totally suck.

Smashing Pumpkins are so sweet.

everyone
says

they'd rock the boat


everyone
says

they'd shake things up


used to talking

to the ghosts in their heads

vanity links

My friend alai is a much better writer than you are in either your dreams or in your mom's teary, pandering eyes after you've sent her the link to your generic, driveling PoliticalBlog, cow-fucker.

I love skaoot, and so should you.

Her knees wield secrets
inside the blue jean
flesh
to trick them into
spoon tapping
would send dizzy
the observant fingers
into their pocket restrain
to finger what
of making our lives
with the
least of movement
and the dullest of
gesture

Hay Fever, Palm Trees, Volleyball Net, Unfocused Hills, Theoretical Bay, what the Fuck else Do I SEE Out MY WINDOW

Stuffed with Blue
Thumbs the Grass
Pollen grits it Raw
Nails on Head -
And jars wrenched top-up
Counting away
The Sun

Souls are safe in eyeing plenty
counting up - the days
Eyes are rock and pasts are steady
relying on the - deep

Any touch resounds the raw expectation
sly-wise to the tongue
Found in rain - and tale passwords
mundane like dialing home

against white paint
and your paintings

I’ll try my hand out

sure you don’t know
what I feel



heavy, without drink

- 2 6 -

Twenty Sixth of October Nineteen Ninety Eight Big
Ben’s iron cast fist thumbing blank
crowded streets
A homeless killed himself jarred twelve
stories of river hush to indistinct
crackle death and tubes we –
make meaning of
the red leaves

and only the fall river he jumps

spread of nerves touch like stones

your poetry gives me nothing monsieur

Phone Call Pulls me from my Reading, Various Pictures

Today I pretended
than an ex-lover
called me
on the slim black
phone in the corner
of my room

Carpet weighed my steps:
my voice was no expectation
like glass under
a blue sky.
I sat down after I
did not recognize the voice

While she made small
talk I weighed grandiose
plans, imaging one
night of reluctant leg
nudity: fleshy weight
before a testing kiss, then

A realization of
her proximity pricked
me: to exude my
pleasure at the happiness
cherry season had brought her,
I wanted her greed

The way she opens
to the world, and
I was softer: and
louder in my reassurance.
For how she draws who I was
who: I can be

There was never any kiss
She finally says, removed
of the prosaic heart tugs.
Why bring that up at
a time like this?
she holds, lingers in reasons

From the cycle, "Variations on no Theme"

"Negligently, the way everything begins,
You yawn and bleed, you stare at
Your cut chin in the glass, the skin puckered
Under the Swedish steel,
The eye glazed in the morning light, an animal
In double jeopardy, practicing
The use of edged tools while standing on its hindlegs.
The beard hairs swarm like lice
In the basin, and each time you shave
The haggling begins again, your fear
Seeks an equilibrium: a first plea
For the innocent heart,
The amnesty long before the opened veins."

- Durs Gruenbein, translated by M. Hofmann.

Focus is not an object,
and headache isn’t a degree.
If I knew where all this
ice ended and my brow
began – I’d sleep the sleep
of babes.

No more tubes, and pressure
can just be a word. See.
On the side of
little bottles in little print,
you keep your pipes clean,
all right.
Sleep.

Insomnia, continued, again, Wedge it on through Sunday Night

I saw a terrible sign today. I saw a terrible sign today, and I can’t forget about it and nothing about this room or the darkness or the hideous threat of tomorrow morning helps. I stood looking at my bed for a solid ten minutes, after having lost myself in various distractions, old books, music, cards, computer board games, wine, and (after some more) I pretended I didn’t need to sleep - like I was some sort of superhuman - sleep was the strangest thing one could possibly imagine, Greek Gods contemplating the mortality of their lovers and brief enemies and the children that come between, or like it was some fucked-up cultural thing like people who eat dog. An interesting anecdote, something to quip about in mass emails or parties when there’s nothing else to say. I moved about yet again (distraction here, distraction there, but always conscious of the intent, so no actual distraction achieved) and pretended I didn’t need to sleep. I came up with sentences, fragments (maybe once I would have called them “poetry”) and one sentence leads to another, and another to a jumble. It’s all vanity, but at least I don’t write them down anymore. What a mess even now, what the bloody hell... a mess of tenses, but that’s the way the thinking goes to keep away from the bed, that’s been established.

green isn’t a color
and blue isn’t its friend
yellow burns my little eyes black
this dark sure takes its time

heart ache against all this green
and people – walking home
while sands – find – niche
on little minds
of strict imagination

it’s hell being so predictable kid
when you’re not needed to mark the day
silvery gears and simulation tucks
draw them to your house alright

things don't look
too good
for us now!


what with me

up in your tree!


I'd take the hint
if you'd
make it more -


Or else I can

wait all night!

saturday afternoon - curled behind a little word play

heart ache against all this green
and people – walking home
while sands – find – niche
on little minds
of strict - imagination

frizzzzzaiddeii

Night Rate - Hotel Waits
too close - By The Sun
Hand Pub - candle stubs
Talks You out - Again

Not Quite Pulled Together, kids - Come back Tomorrow for Pith

Track edges broke in a room that’s
ice fever fever you are nothing
your bones will grind back into the earth
and there will be no mentioning of you
It is time to be self righteous
Entering, frozen, unbroken glass pivots about into statues
closets entering tracen polar limbs
The room is filled with my
darkest ambitions, smooth lines
Your little friends are waiting, cocks in hand
with purple smiles and a compact disk
so you can understand
the fingers that kept me
awake at rest on your round
belly sloppy back of your thighs raised
stalking into this crease of nightmare I
present no illusion
you read me as you will
Around—the glass steadies in synchronized
shutter As it is alive to crush the
sepulcher is to thrill trauma cracks through
the hoarse throat touching the lock
Of bleached hair makes the room shimmer
in glass, breathe like dawn and the
little friends go on probing their neurotic cocks
against swelling glands that startle them
as planned this world would
be fire but that is not real, a
tear of a page and the glass so delicate
so strummed together in grotesque longing
will suffer the bend of its card expectation
stalking with no illusions I’ll imagine your eyes
before dreaming, never act (and make associations
with the solid metal bat,