Monday, December 28, 2009

A hood of vapor sipping wine

Pause at this ledge, clutching white entrails,
cursing brother back in a womb, who comes
through so much delay to locate me,
sitting at luxurious table with legs crossed
like awful scissors, to pound the earth in its mercy
between ribs, to let him in through root, stone,

to pause at this ledge with his pulse in my hand
discovering the outerside of outside-ways.

To pause in his frame, with my person, an owl
overlooking our efforts from a fork
in married pines. To pause
in his person with my frame, encountering
only the hot faint edge of him,

past sand, far past root, past stone,
into the volcanic sacs with hands
like white grapes, paused at the ledge
of his demon neon, clutching a veiny wig,
from the center of that beautiful humanoid,
watching the owls of all and subtlest colors
digest.

Saturday, December 26, 2009

BLACK MAILBAG TUESDAY

You boil a lobster
as quickly as possible,
red & black miniskirt,
knife to its neck-hinge,
body-claws sunk
in the hard water,
legs lovely
as an ice-creamed
vanilla swirl.
You smile unsteady.
I'm going down to the subway
with a flamethrower.
Take the thick bands
from the largest pinchers;
melt the butter, let red & black
melt onto floor, pole-eyed dead
armor-clink onto plate.
I'm going down to the subway
with a trashbag full of band-aids.

You put your name into the machine.
The machine puts its name into you.
You remove your favorite shoes.
You will never remove this not-you
that is a section of the first & final you.
Step off the smaller weight-scale,
onto the runway larger.
This is as close as we can get a system
to collapsing outward into infinity.
I'm going down to the subway
with a grenade launcher
full of burnt red roses.
You put your not-life back into nature.
Nature puts its not-death into
you. You're alive & can't be.
I'm going down to the neon subway
in my grey-soaked underwear.

You pour the steaming water from silver
on the dry blossoms, and they expand
in the time it takes to give you a long
dragging kiss against the cutting board.
I'm going down to the subway station
with a laughing flame-thrower.
Time passing will never feel
this way again. Images will never hit
so soft & plain, but will hit harder.
The long wooden spoon
moves a sausage in butter; a bluejay
perches on a flowered sill beside
the channeling sink. I'm going down
to the subway with my bluest clothes on
grass-fire.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

JUNA

That woman, she's in pain in her floppy
headscarf, she's carrying it for us all.

That woman I will know before my birth,
always staring at me through a bloody beak,
always waiting for a wordless answer
to come in words.

That poor mail-carrier. That output of harmless
weapons upon the world. Her perfect inability
to understand a single newspaper headline.

When younger she wore leather dresses,
swore constantly at the money-changers,
she wore a hemline far above her hemline
whenever she was young. Always
at the end of the night eyes
muffled in a hot washcloth, never
to stare again above the sink.

She changed form as an old butterfly;
she turned herself
into a far white solar system,
into a swallowed sextoy,
into a green wasp,
into an array
of imagined hells, into the sound
of ten thousand ants clamoring
in a yellow apple, and the saints uncaptured,
far behind the stainglass,
jellyfished on bare rock, using their suicide methods.

Oh, Juna, February will see
insaner you, left conversationless at last
for me, perched around the corner
from my bitter wine and bitterest coffee.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

The wasp, the ocelot, and the elder go
as a group to communicate
with a far-off shadow continent.

The wasp is weighted low in the air
by the ocelot's fur; the elder
pets it raw and bald with his good hand,
holding the tithing platter in his crippled,

stood stiff on a laser-outlined sci-fi
platform on the watery hearth
of the brickless age.

His smile has the dubious fortitude
of day-old concrete. His hands
are the wings of birds
held together by wire.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

WALLS OF WIRE-LINKED BIRDS
And the security camera turns
into a tight circular rainbow.
My love walks out of the money machine
towards me with a toddler ostrich
in her tiny hand, her grip
on its wrung neck. Not our kill,
but it'll do for dinner. Later
the kitchen table vibrates
under its spirit leaving
through everyone's ribcages at once.

We look at its sleepy pretty eyelids,
slowly chew the stringy meat
from its thighs. The hills
from across the streets
come rippling over the ice cream shop,
then the small-town airport,
then the glassy escape
of our rugged living room.

We're tied by a thin chicken sinew
to the national currency and the clock.
When the wet string goes dry and snaps,
we fall through the open doorways
of the mental hospital, to be surrounded
by chalk pillars with fluorescent
sausage arms, crudely attached, the heads
lost somewhere near the functionless tops.

Friday, November 06, 2009

On a path where rails were once torn up
we attacked each other with kisses
and pledged to lit streams of jet exhaust
never to abandon each other in the eye
of any storm. The grey rocks ran
with black water. Moss opened itself
to sponge the mouth, the trunks
whirled under all the blankets
of our seperate, similar memories.

Kids who jumped from sixty feet
to hit the water with their arches
sailed past insulting security guards
and we spidered under
a dim rugged ledge
to save each other from shivering.

Black moon arrived, but resembled
so closely the violet sun
that our bloodshot veined eyes
reached at the telephone trees
and the telephone branches.

Moths alit on lichens
where the water stopped
and sunlight dried
the landscape to match their wings.
We sang underneath all this;
we sang like a cave
with two deep mouths.

Thursday, November 05, 2009

a frog belly landed
wet with urine
in my only hand

I felt on the edge
of a black hole
about to become destroyed information

I don't know why that afternoon
the frog's life was my own
held at an arm's length and growing closer
all other arms melted by throat-bubble
frog-voice, subtly desperate

my body breaking to bring the belly
towards throat, feeling stomach churning
in little body, now in awful sunlight I remember

Wednesday, November 04, 2009

the winter is too powerful
turning leaves into destroyed tears

through the window you look upon
the suffering of your horrible
fellowcreatures

the lake breaks itself
in what a relief
in what a horrible breaking

loose, turning the silver screws,
pledging each other
to eternal distress on party porches

an animal becomes lion-like
in these awful jungletimes, hurt
by the first dagger, strung up

by the last robber who would dare
disrupt the propriety of the pink
totally digital temple,

several hundred navel
eruptions.

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

I have a snail on the tip of each finger
as I duck below the window
on the public library's 2nd floor.
Poisonous blue light pours over the sill
and I blink beneath it, under my increasing hat.

My fingertips grow numb, the snails start to move
toward the first knuckles, the windowsill melts,
I hide in the trashcan. I shiver and the shells
make music on the garbage-streaked walls.

Then a noise at the lid, and an alien
creature smiling: the smile the most alien
part of her, her eyeglasses built into her skin,
I offer her the snails and she gobbles them up
with bittersweet little sounds,
then I produce a thin goblet of red wine

made from the poison light distilled into
this small communication, turned purple.

Monday, November 02, 2009

You took off your arms
and placed them on the table in front of me
you gave me a questioning look
with two glass eyes

you took off the wallpaper
and showed me the bugs crawling underneath
I watched helplessly
blinking my eyes in the rain of bright dust
from a frosted chandelier

I waited in the doorway watching myself
sitting in a chair by the table
looking hopefully at your stumps hoping
that another pair of arms was forthcoming

every bulb on the chandelier burst
like something worse than an accident

your glass eyes started to become wet
I hid under the table trying to open a violin case
my hands failing on the rusty clasp

You took off your glasses and sat
lightly in my heavy chair, I placed
my head in your lap, relieved to be back in the future

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

I turned over in a bright
pink bed
the world did not
turn over anywhere

I robbed my sleep
the world did not sleep
or rob
but from itself
as if asleep

I moved a log
saw salamanders
I moved
the world did not move
I saw
little orange adorables moving
toward an awful hand
I hesitated to claim it as my own
the little orange bodies claimed
nothing
I followed
my hand remained aboveground
the rest joined
soft orange skin clamoring over
all our meek skeletons

Monday, September 28, 2009

when we fuck, the bone spurs in my feet
melt back into the world, the back of my head
contacts the rim of the sky,

I am flying in an animal who knows my wings
when they unfurl and when they retract,
we are the same pair of shoulders, grinding
olives, our kneecaps morph back into baby
flesh, for the comma inside the instant,

when we fuck I know the street
will not take my body

Thursday, September 24, 2009

she who was a girl, opaque on a bicycle,
entranced by every language around her,
ran rubber down the the center
of Main Street's great wound,
occasionally brandishing her tongue
to attack a fleet of grey moths
under the yawn of a convenience store's
half-eaten electric light, bronze & blue
overlooking itself in the mirror
of a wet paved place, her tire
crawling up my left shin, over
knee-cap with a fleshy jump,
to stretch a bruise into my thigh,
stitch wishbone kisses
between my ribcages.

let her ride on her seat like a snail
who was a girl without my knowing,
who was a reach past every odorless moment
toward a force-field of fragrant gardens,
where broken television antennas lie still
beneath moving ferns in choirlike multitude.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

snailbird,scarred gears
in a bucket under the body
scarred gears moving again

scarred deeds in mucus,
for the inadequate
between bodies always.

you cover whole highways in salt
with your small refusal
slashed by small town lights,
becalmed by big enough
moons.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

they together curl claws around
their sorrows like a decaying bird

they together by an old river
mouths stuffed with a recent steak

they together as hurt cartoons
they together as two hot trees

worming hot roots through
ground after ground after ground

in separately colored worlds

Saturday, September 19, 2009

your protected rapture uncolored
you come down feathery stairs
in a gown of feathers
making my afternoon
lime, mildly ridiculous.

smoothing your running blood
under a blonde skin
unhappy as a bird always is

wishing you apart, scattered
in petals, where on the moss ground
you can't speak against yourself any longer.

stained skin, eyes in velvet
wallpapering a wallpaper
with unnecessary tears

there is always murder
there are gifts in the world
to make you happy briefly
you'll die in the shade
while I'll die in the dead sun

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

superluminal coupling
outside playground fence finally
struck against lunar skin
above factory blades while chains
dangled swingset over clay abyss

lips tinier than expected

tongue reluctant, hand moving
hipbone toward collarbone like a wish
stunned our old webs with droplets
stuck our new droplets with old webs

Saturday, September 12, 2009

when we bathe in the lights of this city we forget the sun.
when we bathe in the sun we forget the city.
when we move through this street we forget our feet.
when we bare our feet we forget the highway.

where does the life go that has no backdrop?
what do we do with ourselves when the surroundings stop?

Friday, September 11, 2009

gap-people, aromas of awful thought,
surround, on bar-stools
in lugubrious multitude. Their kicks consist
of getting radiated with neon
cancers in three forms, their zippers all
pointing to the end.
these alien familiars, whom we all
know brightly, in a damp light.
These aunt-and-uncle robots.

All bars hold them. All illusions are swept
under their rugs, to stay in the house unseen,
laser criminals. Two red leaves in a pot
of green tea, swirling and swirling.
Two oysters in a melting ice-bucket.
Appearing to love each other
without any visible language.

Tuesday, September 08, 2009


the holes in a certain tree
spoke
to the holes in my skin.
Where I was standing
no longer mattered.
The space I rent now
is built from the same holes
the same spaces breathing
through the emptiness between
my every


stand where you're standing.
Frustrate the earth with your song.
Our anti-matter makes fervent sex
where our matter won't.
Our dark matter love-fucks
where our bright matter can't.


the hole in every animal building
the holes in every other animal.

Thursday, September 03, 2009

We wait in draining offices
for the things we hate to help us,
thinking of rabbits on the library lawn,
thinking of anything anywhere.
We think of a world fit to protect
our many embraces. We think
of no world at all.

We hold hands within connected suits,
wondering who connected the suits.
Thinking of death, we hold monogamy
to be the standard. We think to hold
nothing, then to hold more and more
nothing, in swinging arms
toward familiar parking lots
swaggering in our damp mechanisms.

Hologram chimneys for real houses
with hologram fires. The sweat
on grandpa's face is less real
than the blood on his descendant's
palms, flickering in the fake twilight,
in the ersatz dawn. Only dusk is real;
the place where someone thought immortal
smacked their young head
on a younger parking meter is as real as the sun.

Wednesday, September 02, 2009

the possibilities of real mental damage,
brought home by a third-storey evening
on a damp chair, sweating through one's guts,
clenching one's teeth at the screen
and the sound of a computer.


Skies will be dramatically torn open,
but nobody will escape.
Planets will pop like frozen balloons,
but nothing bold will use
the stunning force to found
an orchestra elsewhere.


We will bedroom together
more desperate and ape-like
than we ever imagined, in a sickly lull
between the great collapses,
clenching what remains of our tongues
between what remains of our teeth.


And now the damage will re-imagine
our mouths; we will kiss with molds
re-made by events of which we will never speak,
we ourselves being those events,
dousing cancers with white wine,
hot leprosies with darker red.

Monday, August 31, 2009

you're trapped in hot pink, the force-field
that you bought with the last
of your clothing. You thought
you'd like it here, but you keep
moving like a leaf while big eyes
touch you through a tiny jungle.



And we are the last to couple
in the moneyed world, where
people pay to wrap their own flesh around
their own sneezes, and a last breath.



If I'm the last skunk on our walk,
let me see a last pustule of star,
and extinguish, my tiny feet, my
short eyes, stepping weightless
off the scale, half-remembering.



The end atop depth, purple-black,
never descending.

Friday, August 28, 2009

one hot azalea
flicks my helpless cheek
I don't want it to stop petalling
I don't want it to stop petalling


angular people with angular instruments
angling their way into soft things
while the soft people try to find each other
with the soft ribbons of themselves left
from the angular people's cuttings


drunk in the ashes of the morning
stunned by trash smells on a mattress
low in the high house, departing a white hive
for the sun, driving a pink shear into each thigh
to kill the curdling skin, ready for cleansed
teenagerhood with an adult-in-arms


emergency alcohols at hand,
gliding everything unrestrained
over the polished wood
toward the open mouth of the telephone.
Time shouldn't be like this. Money shouldn't interfere.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

these momentary, wait, no, these lasting, somehow, ours,
the picnic table perched at the tip of the waterfall.
And now that nobody knows what to do,
the unsure have taken over the earth.
They might as well come over the horizon
with whatever weapons they want, and attack me
as I am impaled on a row of long pink spikes,
that I requested, that I had made, using
the movements of other creatures, which flow
from thumb-tips and those buds that taste sourness
at the end of the tongue. Come for me goodness,
come for me badness, come for me ecstasies
and doldrums, come to me all I possess
and all that I can never possess.

I dunno if the flock is fragmented or regimented;
I hope I never did and never will. My tongue-feet,
over the long pavements, tracing,
the mucus of theirs that I hope
to be acidic to all infrastructures,
where will they smear next? Good morning
murderers, good morning healers,
good morning to the shared paralyzation
in you both, as we help to eat this moment up entirely,
only to spit it up as grasses all over.

Monday, August 17, 2009

smooth bodies under leaves breathing through a barn
wet garlic and dill scented whispering between boards
lips brushed in places by dry veins and stems
crying out:

reach me where I can't reach myself
run through vegetables brandishing bone-knife
stab layers heart seeds rawest material
cook me wherever I fall

Monday, August 10, 2009

on the day of my mother's first heart attack
I took a walk in the rain
frogs were hopping across the road
dodging rubber-clad wheels
clouds were strangely ornate and organized
in lovely patterns
peace breathed from the trunks of the trees
because my nostrils were in the midst
of their scent, and

Tuesday, August 04, 2009

the orange cat behind a white curtain,
purring on the sill, liquid-metal eyes,
white stripes reached, papery. Midori.

you are a yawning anarchist. The moon
speaks to you through a television.
the customers of the house have tried
to stop you from pissing on their beds;
you keep squatting there whenever
they leave you home
alone and waterbowled with a blaring radio.

Clawing my chest, snot-nuzzling, I see
we’re both insane, even more insane when
looking at each other. Lately I get jittery
in supermarkets, for want of fur; your agile hips
inhabit me toward automatic doors.

I want, I want, I want, to be a free creature,
but keep falling apart wherever
hands are to pick me callously up,
relying on a bigger sickness to prop me smartly
in the ampitheatre. Lately I don’t want
to be a kept creature;

I feel at home wherever machinery is falling.

Monday, July 20, 2009

cursive eyes
apply to me the test of their tears
drip again
every time I try to move
toward the terrible door
away from the terrible
endless writing
above the body
in front of the brain
between the kittywindows

Friday, July 10, 2009

Carnivorous kisses under cumulous clouds,
porch restaurants, spilled premium tequilas
and your underwear stacked
high in the high chimneys on fire,
the black smoke from white cloth
smites your drunken lungs, you smooch
the underside of the table while the tennis courts
and their creature's cleats overturn the sod

So let me go, let me go, over countless
cemetery sidewalks, always toward
my bedroom stereo, and the light's
flourescent garb, and the speaker's arms

It fits with the drift of the lake
to let you fix my space heater
while I watch your legs
and all the swimmers in dust who get paid
for drifting around in hotel lobby rooms
with toolbelts on, leaving lunar footprints
on lavish rugs, the Persian patterns
taking over our hairlines as we whiskey-breathe
in front of the last TV

So let me go, let me go, through the old mailbox
into the old house, with its rugs of moss
and its forest entranceways, towards the cousins
of its old foundation, lichen-painted,
and meekly fall down all the old wells at once

And in the laughter of slaves, this last hour,
one detects a strange note of grandeur
as if the disease of these pigeons
pretty near our bare feet were a message
or a cure being sent for us
through planetarium skies
you take your haircut
towards the eyes of the dead, hoping
for a compliment to be carved
into the walls of your softest flesh.
Patio remembrances, forced dance-steps,
twilights on an endless loop to take you
to the same observance of an unobserved place

So let me go, just let me go,
to the tree-frog's suckerfeet like an alarm
attached to the trunks, and walk my last mile
in the smell of bundled meat, roaming radios
in black and white kitchens, to see myself
in a mansion's silver drain
Don't ask me, dearie. The black hole ghost,
to disturb a human.
When the world started to end, you were ashamed;
after a while he put two fingers up my ass,
the mechanics behind inflation are not yet
and even rodents and reptiles.

I wouldn't know about that. As I said, I'm just
up to hundreds of miles. Scientists have tracked
a time neighbour of theirs, flatwoods,
cypress swamps, and cabbage palm.
I turned my head and looked at him,
almost anything, even each other!
When galaxies and black holes were forming--
panther. Hopefully, we will succeed someday.

That's right, that little white house,
attempts to save Florida
at a high rate in the early universe.
As are its sharp, retractable claws.
He was concentrating so hard not to cum
rabbits, deer, and wild turkey.

Range seventy-five square miles. In New York City we
live in only 309 square miles. There on the corner, he
keeps spinning endless bubbles. These bubble universes...
when the eruption was new, it produced
two hundred square miles and adult females and
the one with the fig tree next to it. And yes,
for their home ranges, they will also inhabit pine;
I just told him to please please please feed my
woodlands. These habitats provide ample prey,
I saw it all. Not that I was watching -
the extinction of this beautiful creature will come from
large amounts of radiation. Over a time period,
watching their prey into pieces. Panthers will eat--
I believe in keeping myself to myself--
important to the panther for hunting,
but a body couldn't help noticing,
at a slower pace. The inflation then never ends,
first all the coming and going with him being ill,
refusing to answer the door when the maid, your manager,
then the weeping and wailing when he
possible because of the odd property that the material
fuck me in my ass, he pulled out of my pussy
will all have different energies and physical features,
died--of course I went to pay my respects,
their own home ranges that extend
of several million years, the radio signals...
to put this is perspective, the millions of people,
that's only right ,and I saw them carry the poor lamb
from habitat loss. There have been many.

They will also eat raccoons, armadillos,
faded as the electrons radiated away their energy,
hunting at night isn't a big problem. These animals,
and put the head of his cock at my ass.
But the bubbles retain the ability to continue their expansion
from the village, lay him out proper
with the blankets pulled up to your nose, crying,
and wall up the tomb. I did feel sorry
driving inflation decays, forming lower energy bubbles,
for the two girls, I must say.

Fully explained, and it may take a theory
leaving only the diffuse x-ray glow
to fully understand it. But it is nonetheless
the eruption's less energetic electrons
after cubs are grown, they adapt
he rubbed his cock over my ass and moved
a successful theory that is said to be one
still produce x-rays through interactions
along their ranges. On average, adult males range
all the juices from my pussy to my ass.

And attaching radiotelemetry devices. These devices
with the effusive photons left over from the Big Bang,
and it sent you into a panic. You lay in bed
he then slowly pushed the head of his dick up my ass,
it stops in one region and starts in another. This is...
these photos are more commonly known
of quantum mechanics and general relativity
and I fucking loved it. I pushed back on him making sure
of the best ideas in cosmology to come for a long time
as the cosmic background radiation.

The roaming of panthers by catching them
I had every bit of him in my ass. He didn't
especially hardwood hammocks. Sometimes panthers
when the less energetic electrons and photos
seek out native upland forests have to move,
I rocked back and forth. He was the hardest
this causes a never-ending expansion, which
from the cosmic background radiation collide,
for an entire day. You saw the president
crying and begging on TV I'd ever felt him,
all the time I was moving this fast
and vicious growth phase stops,
enough energy is created for the source to appear,
give off signals as the panthers travel naturally
he was playing with my clit, I had the biggest orgasm
shade, and cover. Many scientists believe that
in x-rays. This x-ray production allows the black hole
strong jaws, long teeth, and body I'd ever had,
it was bloody excellent. My partner suddenly, the panther
tears its unfortunate catch eruption to be detected
approximately 30 million years longer are excellent hunters.

They hide in bushes, was so turned on and excited
with my enthusiasm of yourself for weeping bitterly in your bedroom
he managed about 20 strokes before he came in my ass,
your assistant, and finally your parents begged you to come out
more slowly than it expands. So they may not all hold
the needed materials for life to form.
Even so, panthers have never been known.

Thursday, July 09, 2009

chickens pecking a wounded chicken to death
make my tin roof a rain of bloody echoes
all night
I drape your dirty panties over my face to soothe
the noise in my ears
the beaks the clawed feet
the sheets are pink with our bloody sweat
the feathers float past our stainedglass windows
(we stole one of our walls from an old church)
chickens squawk in manic ecstasy
seeing the death they are making amongst themselves
you take pills to avoid a nervous breakdown
and listen to the government on TV
lecturing us about money
using their prettiest new face to sell us
the noise on the roof, and the face under your dirty panties
to itself again

Tuesday, July 07, 2009

Commonwealth Poems

1

place paper
on each grave:
and the nippled carvings
walking out of them
halfway

place paper on each grain
let the rattling
never begin

2

the left-handed world
leapt out of me
in a coffee accident:
I looked up & saw

2 scary girls
peering out of
the dark, their hands
like weird bread.

3

the cats play with what's left of me
after the notebook
has been torn, deep in my spine
with their allergenic claws

the sprinklers wait
on the ceiling to fling
cold rice on our whole
iron lives.

4

thrust skies
into a paw, part
the fur, touch the rough
hand-shaped
undergrowth of the last brains.

5

splay my offender

6

put his short throat on a long stick

7

those who ignore these blues
do so at their peril.

8

stuff cities
with rag people
rice paper
and old books
and older books

pseudo-mexican restaurants
ground floor level
fill with newspaper
and salt shakers

and old shoes
and older shoes

9

behold, I saw
columns of coral
carved from reef on reef
in the headlights
in the headlights
illumined, with no second sky

10

leda's pink icecones
call to me over the whole summer
come to me burning a wide season
through the strangely shaped years
come to me over the whole summer
in white dress making
hair look darker
in cemetery damp, dear

shoes dyed red
by fermented clay
in our twin canyons, leda
white

Sunday, July 05, 2009

The touch and tendril of you,
the beauty of you outside and beyond
all nations and all governments,
how is it that I couuld become
absentminded of your preciousness

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

KITTY CAT'S DEAD IN THE FUTURE
IN THE FUTURE WHERE I'M MISERABLE OVER HER
this thought shouldn't be so loud but it's louder than the loudest waterfall
which seems to be flowing right in front of my window
The Apartment on Metal Stilts, Near Some Rocks

You're jumping from a 58-foot waterfall naked,
your penis flapping in the wind,
the wind probably quite thankful for the interference

I'm drinking a bucket of blue housepaint
in order to make myself more interesting
I should be drinking rice milk
from a silver bucket instead
but the blue paint really makes me feel strong

I'm not writing this for the people of the future
they bore me already
I'm writing it for you and for
the idiot looking over my shoulder

there are thirty or so robots in the street
bending knives into almost harmless U-shapes
with their silver hands on silver and their arms squeaking
I've decided to go out into the street and spray grease on their joints
I haven't decided yet whether or not to ask them to attack you
with their moderate weapons

I'm going to make love to the mud of the river bed
and feel like a tiger
if you won't swim toward me
you've leaped enough times already
and the cold water isn't doing anything nice for your anatomy
if you won't buy me a bottle of pink champagne before midnight
I'm going to become your boss by accident and fire you
from a job that you'll never even have

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

THEY CALLED HER FLORENCE THE BENDER (song lyrics)

take all your money out
get whiskey for four
the siamese blonde loses half
drunk on the floor

weekends we switch beds
whisper different names
the river between us
don't flow for these games

third-floor jumping jacks
a thousand bodies at once
touch me through floorboards
rewind me of our stunts

there's no darkness when we all oblige

Wednesday, June 03, 2009

My lil' ladylove & I sat by the river with a friend today & I scrawled this like a song while she strummed a guitar & the dog dug a hole...

acne-eyed, bashful bodies move
under the concrete bridgework,
looking hard for a last egg to crack
on their master's stone mask

long cat tongues, come green-pink
out of the river's headstart
pricking the air, pricking the air
around the Japan of our pretty dog

and his ears, and his ears
pick up on, pick up on the river people
the river people moving the current so good wrong
with their long hands long


Sunday, May 24, 2009

To be breathed
air has first to go through you,
and we breathe it slowly,

as if to smudge the kittens
eating half the yard
without piano accompaniment,

without which we're so tired,
without which the fire and our mouths
are so tired and so damned, orange
and open early, lipsticked,
rabbit-suited, pathetic

in the morning light,
swung on wood from wood.

And the arms in the dry leaves
and the leaves under the arms like stars
should be in a harmlessness
of worlds, sorry for the bundled faggots
quickly broken down,

during the same four and a half a.m.
when I was perfectly
willing on a swing-set to kill
bad law enforcements for you
and your sexual counterparts,
burnt kitten
and protected kitten.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

For those of you who don't know--most of you, probably--I am involved in a musical act called the Skeleton Leaves, comprised at times of myself and Olivia Kennett, at other times of myself and Steve Casey, and and other times of myself, Steve Casey and Olivia Kennett. And at times only of my own damned lonely self. These are the lyrics to two of the tracks I penned for our latest album, PAPERANGELSONFIRE.

DEAD BLUEJAYS IN SNOW

dead bluejays
in snow
under a telephone pole
coated in ice

black beaks
indecipherable eyes
hurting with taut velvet
holding a mica hatchet
in the hot rain glued
in place
of their frozen tears
on comicbooks and tar
under the sky-tarp

TO HEAL YOU FIRST

you're stunned,
you're stunned

mouth full of horsehair
and men's legs
and men's legs

you're stunned you're stunned
and your manner is an icepick
in a wedding cake

turn the lights off
in the banquet hall
little bird, little bird
wrapped in a nightgown
shoulderblades fluttering
to let me past your ghosts

Wednesday, March 04, 2009

CALCIUM LOSER (song lyrics)

my baby rides
five velvet white
horses at the same time
my baby has
seven vitamins
proven holy in her spine


and she rides with abandon
like some curse of Aladdin
and she'll let me know
when she's ready
for the canyon kill

Sunday, February 22, 2009

GLITTER (song lyrics)

don't be afraid to look pretty in gold
or of the vast disorder that surrounds you
and cannot touch your hair

Main Street will be your friend tonight
your bodyguards are in their element
there's a spaceship in your eyes
blue sky, blue sky giving way to black
and the infinite