a mother and son walked
a flat dog past my house.
the animal in me stood in a way
that might be off-putting:
one hip out,
hands flat on the porch railing
as if she were a parade for me
so i shifted the animal’s stance to ease her instincts.
the animal fidgeted in line
at the post office,
feeling the leash of time and space.
the animal is panicked about its resources,
about the debt that affects hunting and gathering.
the animal is convinced of the truth of its body.
the animal is afraid of other wolves
victimizing its form, its loves and its assumptions.
the spirit shushes all of it,
being merely the wick between the flame and the dynamite
and the cosmic comes through,
here,
again.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Delivery
either a higher power continues to provide
or we are just made suited to whatever nourishment yields us.
either way we find a role.
either way, it’s a decent enough salary
with shitty benefits.
i’m just a mid level badge.
im just the go-between
between whatever larger forces are at work
and art,
occasionally corrupting the message with my fingerprints wherever possible.
i’m just a courier,
an actor between what the director
and directives have ordered and whatever your camera perceives.
eventually,
i guess they will shoot the messenger
when i am forced into retirement.
until then,
i need you to sign
for
this.
or we are just made suited to whatever nourishment yields us.
either way we find a role.
either way, it’s a decent enough salary
with shitty benefits.
i’m just a mid level badge.
im just the go-between
between whatever larger forces are at work
and art,
occasionally corrupting the message with my fingerprints wherever possible.
i’m just a courier,
an actor between what the director
and directives have ordered and whatever your camera perceives.
eventually,
i guess they will shoot the messenger
when i am forced into retirement.
until then,
i need you to sign
for
this.
The Sun Through the Trees From the Train
the trees divide the sun into stop motion slats,
into a golden strobe,
into tattoos of backlit blood against my closed eyelids.
the train carves on through the woods,
the sun
flipping through a staccato rolodex of landscape,
and we are selected as contacts,
from time to time.
into a golden strobe,
into tattoos of backlit blood against my closed eyelids.
the train carves on through the woods,
the sun
flipping through a staccato rolodex of landscape,
and we are selected as contacts,
from time to time.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Lay Off the Kool Aid
God is Jim Jones.
Parents are Jim Jones.
Culture is Jim Jones.
salvation is coming.
damnation is coming.
drink this.
eat this.
buy this.
do this.
be this.
read this.
I am Jim Jones.
Parents are Jim Jones.
Culture is Jim Jones.
salvation is coming.
damnation is coming.
drink this.
eat this.
buy this.
do this.
be this.
read this.
I am Jim Jones.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Analogy
women wait for the dogs of men
to come back.
they wait for them to leave.
women wait for the dogs of men
to learn new tricks,
to roll over,
to be housebroken.
women wait for the dogs of men,
mongrelized from both mother and father,
to become pure of heart if not pure bred.
they wait for them to wag more,
bark less.
women wait
for the stick to return.
to come back.
they wait for them to leave.
women wait for the dogs of men
to learn new tricks,
to roll over,
to be housebroken.
women wait for the dogs of men,
mongrelized from both mother and father,
to become pure of heart if not pure bred.
they wait for them to wag more,
bark less.
women wait
for the stick to return.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Closure (a Halloween short.)
Elizabeth Stark was a cunt and it was as simple as that. Matthew Stark had heard the shortest distance between two points was a straight line and so the quickest path between his wife’s monstrous behavior and understanding it was, for him, to call her a cunt.
Granted he never called her as much to her face-she would have had his head (although that scenario ended up quite the opposite.) and made their children pay dearly for it with more emotional scarring than any child’s brain was meant to endure.
From her covered ankles to the blouse, buttoned everyday sharply to the neck, she was a cunt. From her graying beehive hair, organized away so that she could attend to more sadistic matters to the gash of red lipstick which falsely advertised passion but only looked like blood, she was a cunt. But finally, it was the kids. From the gruel she forced them to finish, (Every furnace in that bitches life, literal and figurative, had been a frigid disappointment.) to the one size too small clothes she shoe horned their vigor into, she was a cunt.
Matthew had met many a husband that seemed able to dismiss such a similar wife over port, a pipe and cards among friends. Although Matthew doubted they shared a comparable caliber of suffering, he was regardless unable to let Elizabeth’s reign go unchecked.
As it happened, those button up blouses, cinched up in fashionable asphyxiation were what gave him the idea. After time he no longer saw them as clothing or fabric doors slammed against his affections, but rather where the shirt stopped and the neck began he saw a seam, a dotted line intended for cutting.
And so, one night he crept into her separate bedroom where her sleeping garments were also sealed up around the neck and he used that guide as a template to remove her head.
The final insult had been that Elizabeth had not been sent to an everlasting maze of purgatory, but instead it was Matthew who, after dying in his sleep at age seventy-one with what he believed to be a clear conscience was now roaming the halls of his home as a ghost.
Still more insulting was that his livelihood and also his home had been a Goddamned mortuary (This had made for simple disposal of her body some one hundred and forty-nine years earlier.) and not one of his stiff clients was compelled or commanded to stay around and keep him company. No friends, no adversaries. Only time.
Only once, he had seen the passed on shells of his neighboring German twins who’s doorstep had been the recipient of many a bag of flaming human feces and when their ghosts appeared, they were still yelling scheisse!, stamping at the ground, trying to put out some everlasting prank of shit.
Finally, the only company he kept was the living, a new family occupying his old home, still replete with a defunct elevator and embalming room, secret passages by which the deceased had been transported so long ago. At last, some community and yet he was unable to converse with them. (Hadn’t it always been this way, even when he’d been alive? Oddly enough, back then he’d found his company to appear quite dead and now the roles were reversed.) Still, all this would have been tolerable, just watching the three-dimensional television of their lives if the family staying there didn’t so closely resemble his own.
There was the patriarch, developing hobbies and busy work as tiny vacations, almost like split realities to deny the truth of his family. There were cultural differences now certainly-every moment for this man’s family seemed hard packed with red tape and finish lines so that they were constantly exempt from having to look at themselves, but the same old routine was still there. The children, still, to this day frolicked in the secret tunnels while avoiding the embalming room entirely. As Matthew drifted through the walls, through the partition dividing family room from kitchen, through the guest bath and into the master bedroom, there, toweling herself as if to sand away her own heat, there, making the bed tight as if to wall it off from passion, there, setting the thermostat always lower and lower, there, ordering each day like a dress rehearsal for high society, there was the cunt. Now she was named Holly Worthington.
Holly dressed herself, all her clothes like starched upholstery removed from furniture no one was allowed to sit on. Matthew followed her through the house, trying to tip over her precious mirror, shatter the photographs of her parents, anything to help this family have some sense of justice. This was one of the few talents Matthew was capable of, occasionally becoming solid enough to swing a chandelier, throw a phone off the wall, lock and unlock doors. Once he’d managed to seal her inside of the very panic room she’d insisted on and the children had giggled and covered their mouths with joy. Once Holly was free though, she’d only blamed the children for locking her in and so Matthew had tried to temper his haunting.
He followed her past the front door, which he could hardly ever see. It was obscured by some concave energy as if in a dream, as if it was even less substantial than he. He could never focus on it or think of it properly and certainly never reach it. Windows were the same way, erasing any chance of exit. He hadn’t seen the outdoors in a century and a half.
He followed Holly up the stairs where she snooped on the children's chores, making sure they had failed in some way that she could call attention to. She patted down throw cushions no one would ever use, put things away, always putting things away on each pass through their home as if her ultimate goal was to finally have their entire lives in storage. She moved to the empty elevator shaft and slid the gate open. This was some kind of voodoo gift for Matthew. There she was, standing in front of the drop, staring into the dark throat as if it defied her manicured obsessions. She scowled into the gloom, as if deciding against it, as if she might set her kids at scrubbing away the murk, polishing light into it so that they might learn to work without accomplishment or reward. Matthew was directly behind her. He placed his hands against her and pushed, but they only went through and out her breasts. I can do this, he thought. I can save these kids and this father.
He collected himself which was no small task, not only because of his insubstantiality, but more because he had forgotten himself, what it meant to feel or try. Books were one thing, a human form another. His effort was akin to something like sexual endurance, reaching down to the core and pushing it out onto another body, insisting the person at the other end feel his intent. He placed his hands again at her back and this time felt a pressure there, like opposing magnets wobbling towards one another. Mrs. Worthington reached around and scratched at her back. Matthew saw his fingers becoming more opaque, certain that he could muster enough will to do the deed, but for some reason dropped his arms at his sides. He realized at once that his life had been primarily made up of contempt for his wife and then with the planning of her doom. Now, in the afterlife, he had not progressed, still basing himself around the object of a cold hearted woman and he wondered if his identity had not been lost to death, but rather an obsession in the acts of others, an externalization, an out of soul experience consumed with righting things that were beyond his control. This had been his mistake before: staying. It wasn’t that he’d tried to make a difference, but rather that he’d stayed always expecting things to change, thinking he could earn what he’d wanted. It wasn’t closure on the situation, but on himself.
He walked downstairs, through the bannister, past the children playing hide and seek, a game mostly inspired by the cruel rule of their mother. He walked through the study, where Mr. Worthington was making one of his kaleidoscopes. Matthew approached the front door on instinct, finding that it was no longer obscured by any arcane, curved wavelength. He walked through it, out onto the front lawn and continued walking, getting on with the rest of his death.
Granted he never called her as much to her face-she would have had his head (although that scenario ended up quite the opposite.) and made their children pay dearly for it with more emotional scarring than any child’s brain was meant to endure.
From her covered ankles to the blouse, buttoned everyday sharply to the neck, she was a cunt. From her graying beehive hair, organized away so that she could attend to more sadistic matters to the gash of red lipstick which falsely advertised passion but only looked like blood, she was a cunt. But finally, it was the kids. From the gruel she forced them to finish, (Every furnace in that bitches life, literal and figurative, had been a frigid disappointment.) to the one size too small clothes she shoe horned their vigor into, she was a cunt.
Matthew had met many a husband that seemed able to dismiss such a similar wife over port, a pipe and cards among friends. Although Matthew doubted they shared a comparable caliber of suffering, he was regardless unable to let Elizabeth’s reign go unchecked.
As it happened, those button up blouses, cinched up in fashionable asphyxiation were what gave him the idea. After time he no longer saw them as clothing or fabric doors slammed against his affections, but rather where the shirt stopped and the neck began he saw a seam, a dotted line intended for cutting.
And so, one night he crept into her separate bedroom where her sleeping garments were also sealed up around the neck and he used that guide as a template to remove her head.
The final insult had been that Elizabeth had not been sent to an everlasting maze of purgatory, but instead it was Matthew who, after dying in his sleep at age seventy-one with what he believed to be a clear conscience was now roaming the halls of his home as a ghost.
Still more insulting was that his livelihood and also his home had been a Goddamned mortuary (This had made for simple disposal of her body some one hundred and forty-nine years earlier.) and not one of his stiff clients was compelled or commanded to stay around and keep him company. No friends, no adversaries. Only time.
Only once, he had seen the passed on shells of his neighboring German twins who’s doorstep had been the recipient of many a bag of flaming human feces and when their ghosts appeared, they were still yelling scheisse!, stamping at the ground, trying to put out some everlasting prank of shit.
Finally, the only company he kept was the living, a new family occupying his old home, still replete with a defunct elevator and embalming room, secret passages by which the deceased had been transported so long ago. At last, some community and yet he was unable to converse with them. (Hadn’t it always been this way, even when he’d been alive? Oddly enough, back then he’d found his company to appear quite dead and now the roles were reversed.) Still, all this would have been tolerable, just watching the three-dimensional television of their lives if the family staying there didn’t so closely resemble his own.
There was the patriarch, developing hobbies and busy work as tiny vacations, almost like split realities to deny the truth of his family. There were cultural differences now certainly-every moment for this man’s family seemed hard packed with red tape and finish lines so that they were constantly exempt from having to look at themselves, but the same old routine was still there. The children, still, to this day frolicked in the secret tunnels while avoiding the embalming room entirely. As Matthew drifted through the walls, through the partition dividing family room from kitchen, through the guest bath and into the master bedroom, there, toweling herself as if to sand away her own heat, there, making the bed tight as if to wall it off from passion, there, setting the thermostat always lower and lower, there, ordering each day like a dress rehearsal for high society, there was the cunt. Now she was named Holly Worthington.
Holly dressed herself, all her clothes like starched upholstery removed from furniture no one was allowed to sit on. Matthew followed her through the house, trying to tip over her precious mirror, shatter the photographs of her parents, anything to help this family have some sense of justice. This was one of the few talents Matthew was capable of, occasionally becoming solid enough to swing a chandelier, throw a phone off the wall, lock and unlock doors. Once he’d managed to seal her inside of the very panic room she’d insisted on and the children had giggled and covered their mouths with joy. Once Holly was free though, she’d only blamed the children for locking her in and so Matthew had tried to temper his haunting.
He followed her past the front door, which he could hardly ever see. It was obscured by some concave energy as if in a dream, as if it was even less substantial than he. He could never focus on it or think of it properly and certainly never reach it. Windows were the same way, erasing any chance of exit. He hadn’t seen the outdoors in a century and a half.
He followed Holly up the stairs where she snooped on the children's chores, making sure they had failed in some way that she could call attention to. She patted down throw cushions no one would ever use, put things away, always putting things away on each pass through their home as if her ultimate goal was to finally have their entire lives in storage. She moved to the empty elevator shaft and slid the gate open. This was some kind of voodoo gift for Matthew. There she was, standing in front of the drop, staring into the dark throat as if it defied her manicured obsessions. She scowled into the gloom, as if deciding against it, as if she might set her kids at scrubbing away the murk, polishing light into it so that they might learn to work without accomplishment or reward. Matthew was directly behind her. He placed his hands against her and pushed, but they only went through and out her breasts. I can do this, he thought. I can save these kids and this father.
He collected himself which was no small task, not only because of his insubstantiality, but more because he had forgotten himself, what it meant to feel or try. Books were one thing, a human form another. His effort was akin to something like sexual endurance, reaching down to the core and pushing it out onto another body, insisting the person at the other end feel his intent. He placed his hands again at her back and this time felt a pressure there, like opposing magnets wobbling towards one another. Mrs. Worthington reached around and scratched at her back. Matthew saw his fingers becoming more opaque, certain that he could muster enough will to do the deed, but for some reason dropped his arms at his sides. He realized at once that his life had been primarily made up of contempt for his wife and then with the planning of her doom. Now, in the afterlife, he had not progressed, still basing himself around the object of a cold hearted woman and he wondered if his identity had not been lost to death, but rather an obsession in the acts of others, an externalization, an out of soul experience consumed with righting things that were beyond his control. This had been his mistake before: staying. It wasn’t that he’d tried to make a difference, but rather that he’d stayed always expecting things to change, thinking he could earn what he’d wanted. It wasn’t closure on the situation, but on himself.
He walked downstairs, through the bannister, past the children playing hide and seek, a game mostly inspired by the cruel rule of their mother. He walked through the study, where Mr. Worthington was making one of his kaleidoscopes. Matthew approached the front door on instinct, finding that it was no longer obscured by any arcane, curved wavelength. He walked through it, out onto the front lawn and continued walking, getting on with the rest of his death.
Friday, October 23, 2009
The Jesse James Museum, Loose Slots, Fireworks and Other Wonders Through Open Missouri
there was the tight cursive of trees at the horizon,
clouds miming against the invisible door
of the atmosphere,
land delineated by brown and green slashes
as though god had laid a straight edge at each farmed boundary.
morality warred on the freeway-
either you wanted God or you wanted adult entertainment.
special plots of unmolested woods
crowded either side of the road,
growing dark in broad daylight only ten feet into their crush..
concrete crop circles took me in to a local convenience store.
i walked my smoke away from the pumps,
watching old pickups pull away
in slow motion drag races,
leaving sprawling dust behind
and then i looked through the window
and saw there behind the counter
what i believed to be probably the prettiest girl
in local school,
working the register at a filling station.
clouds miming against the invisible door
of the atmosphere,
land delineated by brown and green slashes
as though god had laid a straight edge at each farmed boundary.
morality warred on the freeway-
either you wanted God or you wanted adult entertainment.
special plots of unmolested woods
crowded either side of the road,
growing dark in broad daylight only ten feet into their crush..
concrete crop circles took me in to a local convenience store.
i walked my smoke away from the pumps,
watching old pickups pull away
in slow motion drag races,
leaving sprawling dust behind
and then i looked through the window
and saw there behind the counter
what i believed to be probably the prettiest girl
in local school,
working the register at a filling station.
It’s the Swagger of It
this is hell.
right now.
in plain view.
demons dancing in the skins of family and friends,
in no danger of arrest.
it’s the plain sight,
arrogant in your face of it,
the absolute power of it without need
to apologize or disguise itself
or even name itself appropriately.
the flames naming themselves ice water,
the devil calling himself god and damning you for your decency.
its the black Ops infiltration of it,
how they’ve worked sleeper cells into your best friends,
your romances,
your kin and kind,
remote cameras into the privacy of your anguish and
penalized you there for your weakness.
its the self sabotage of the latest ardor,
them launching a surface to air missile
just to watch your needy dreams
fall flaming to the ground.
the tv is still on,
the light tower still flashing on the horizon
and the cat is still blinking
as if to remind you
that every little death of all your moments
leaves no mark on the world.
it’s the corporate espionage of it,
using love and hope to steal your advances and innovations in spirit
so that every time you go to battle
you will need to have newer and newer tricks,
flashier and more sophisticated means
of calling a horse a horse.
the poison calls itself medicine,
the dead screech in a facsimile of life
and when you try to seek damages for liability
they will point to the surgeon general’s label
printed down the side of their latest fashion,
they will remind you with a total glowing satisfaction
that they never lied to you,
that they were upfront about their true forms.
women are still chatting on the street corner,
men are still spartan creatures,
unembellished and unsophisticated.
children are still fired in a kiln of deprivation
as if to say,
hell is in no danger of revolution.
right now.
in plain view.
demons dancing in the skins of family and friends,
in no danger of arrest.
it’s the plain sight,
arrogant in your face of it,
the absolute power of it without need
to apologize or disguise itself
or even name itself appropriately.
the flames naming themselves ice water,
the devil calling himself god and damning you for your decency.
its the black Ops infiltration of it,
how they’ve worked sleeper cells into your best friends,
your romances,
your kin and kind,
remote cameras into the privacy of your anguish and
penalized you there for your weakness.
its the self sabotage of the latest ardor,
them launching a surface to air missile
just to watch your needy dreams
fall flaming to the ground.
the tv is still on,
the light tower still flashing on the horizon
and the cat is still blinking
as if to remind you
that every little death of all your moments
leaves no mark on the world.
it’s the corporate espionage of it,
using love and hope to steal your advances and innovations in spirit
so that every time you go to battle
you will need to have newer and newer tricks,
flashier and more sophisticated means
of calling a horse a horse.
the poison calls itself medicine,
the dead screech in a facsimile of life
and when you try to seek damages for liability
they will point to the surgeon general’s label
printed down the side of their latest fashion,
they will remind you with a total glowing satisfaction
that they never lied to you,
that they were upfront about their true forms.
women are still chatting on the street corner,
men are still spartan creatures,
unembellished and unsophisticated.
children are still fired in a kiln of deprivation
as if to say,
hell is in no danger of revolution.
Not So Territorial
i have been a fire hydrant for the men.
kittens have rubbed against me,
less in a display of affection
than marking their scent against a thing.
i have been a diaper for children
in adult costumes
who have yet to learn
not to shit where they live.
it has been brought to my attention that,
in running through the briar patch,
i only look for thorns.
it has been pointed out to me,
in the Tunisian desert,
that a thimble of water is never enough.
am i angry, bitter, jealous?
sure i am.
i have to walk to the restroom every time i want to piss.
kittens have rubbed against me,
less in a display of affection
than marking their scent against a thing.
i have been a diaper for children
in adult costumes
who have yet to learn
not to shit where they live.
it has been brought to my attention that,
in running through the briar patch,
i only look for thorns.
it has been pointed out to me,
in the Tunisian desert,
that a thimble of water is never enough.
am i angry, bitter, jealous?
sure i am.
i have to walk to the restroom every time i want to piss.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The Dark Ages: A Tragic Play in Two Acts
Cast:
Dad
StepMother
Brother
Young Man
Act One
Scene fades in on a common suburban kitchen. Dad and StepMother are seated at the kitchen table. Brother and Young Man lean against the counters with their legs crossed exactly similar. Conversation is already in progress.
Young Man: ...It’s nearly impossible for me to find the line in a relationship whereby I honor myself while still giving the other person the full benefit of the doubt. It’s rdiculous that I should find myself having to craft some diabiolical scheme.
Dad: Hey, you know what, son? Don’t call her for three days, then she’ll be all over you.
(Brother rolls his eyes.)
Young Man: I really don’t want a relationship wherein I have to scam the other person into giving me decency, reciprocation and consideration.
Dad: I understand that, but just think about keeping your options open, there’s a lot of fish in...
Young Man: I like to think we are people, not appetizers Dad.
Dad: Hey, it’s like your GrandFather used to say, “They come by like street cars.” (He sits back smiling, folding his arms.)
StepMother: Oh, come on. That’s not an appropriate thing to say. We’re not in the Dark Ages anymore.
Young Man: I cannot believe you just actually said that Dad.
Young Man steps outside for a smoke, kitchen fades away as does a heated debate about gender roles. Outside, an urban bustle is taking place. Women’s heads are on the bodies of spiders, others strut in unflattering shuffles with large fans of peacock feathers. Men lumber about in suits, recline with martini glasses, each of them possessing an excess of body hair with pronounced brows and jutting jaws. Two of them fight and grunt over a computer terminal, threatening to tear it in two. A mock pterodactyl swoops across the stage. The Young Man drops to his knees in anguish. Fade to black. End scene.
Act Two
Fade in on what is clearly a new and different day. The sun is out. A lone phone rings on a coffee table for an uncomfortable period of time until StepMother storms into the room.
StepMother: Young Man you come pick up this phone right now! It’s been ringing off the hook for three days now!
(There is no response, to which she sighs and shakes her head, answering the phone.
StepMother: Yes, he’s here, he just walked in, let me get him for you. Young Man!
(She yells and the set rattles with her impatience. Young Man enters at a slow walk, almost as if he is much too old for his years and fears the call. He takes the phone, slumping into a chair. His face does not change.)
Young Man: Hello? Yeah. Yeah. I know. Sorry. I’ve been really busy for the last few days or I would have called. Really, you’ve missed me? You’re dying to hang out? (His voice saddens. He slumps so that the audience can no longer see his face.)
Young Man: I’d love to.
End
Dad
StepMother
Brother
Young Man
Act One
Scene fades in on a common suburban kitchen. Dad and StepMother are seated at the kitchen table. Brother and Young Man lean against the counters with their legs crossed exactly similar. Conversation is already in progress.
Young Man: ...It’s nearly impossible for me to find the line in a relationship whereby I honor myself while still giving the other person the full benefit of the doubt. It’s rdiculous that I should find myself having to craft some diabiolical scheme.
Dad: Hey, you know what, son? Don’t call her for three days, then she’ll be all over you.
(Brother rolls his eyes.)
Young Man: I really don’t want a relationship wherein I have to scam the other person into giving me decency, reciprocation and consideration.
Dad: I understand that, but just think about keeping your options open, there’s a lot of fish in...
Young Man: I like to think we are people, not appetizers Dad.
Dad: Hey, it’s like your GrandFather used to say, “They come by like street cars.” (He sits back smiling, folding his arms.)
StepMother: Oh, come on. That’s not an appropriate thing to say. We’re not in the Dark Ages anymore.
Young Man: I cannot believe you just actually said that Dad.
Young Man steps outside for a smoke, kitchen fades away as does a heated debate about gender roles. Outside, an urban bustle is taking place. Women’s heads are on the bodies of spiders, others strut in unflattering shuffles with large fans of peacock feathers. Men lumber about in suits, recline with martini glasses, each of them possessing an excess of body hair with pronounced brows and jutting jaws. Two of them fight and grunt over a computer terminal, threatening to tear it in two. A mock pterodactyl swoops across the stage. The Young Man drops to his knees in anguish. Fade to black. End scene.
Act Two
Fade in on what is clearly a new and different day. The sun is out. A lone phone rings on a coffee table for an uncomfortable period of time until StepMother storms into the room.
StepMother: Young Man you come pick up this phone right now! It’s been ringing off the hook for three days now!
(There is no response, to which she sighs and shakes her head, answering the phone.
StepMother: Yes, he’s here, he just walked in, let me get him for you. Young Man!
(She yells and the set rattles with her impatience. Young Man enters at a slow walk, almost as if he is much too old for his years and fears the call. He takes the phone, slumping into a chair. His face does not change.)
Young Man: Hello? Yeah. Yeah. I know. Sorry. I’ve been really busy for the last few days or I would have called. Really, you’ve missed me? You’re dying to hang out? (His voice saddens. He slumps so that the audience can no longer see his face.)
Young Man: I’d love to.
End
Size Queen
its really big of you,
how you keep yourself free.
it takes a big person
to swear off commitment,
to take multiple lovers,
sexual or otherwise.
it takes a giant head
to see good in every
threat
it requires a grand perspective,
an elevated point of view
to minimize the terror
and it takes thick
determination
to embody all the ways
you were maimed
and wield them in turn
as your own zen detachment.
it takes an engorged, twelve inch ego
to believe that you can circumvent pain
by running into it with open arms.
you’d have to have an extremely well hung
ball and chain
to jump into open waters with that baggage
and assume surrender will bring you air.
it takes a big head and a giant shoe size
and really large hands to make human beings into
your playthings.
i just ran between your legs,
out and away.
how you keep yourself free.
it takes a big person
to swear off commitment,
to take multiple lovers,
sexual or otherwise.
it takes a giant head
to see good in every
threat
it requires a grand perspective,
an elevated point of view
to minimize the terror
and it takes thick
determination
to embody all the ways
you were maimed
and wield them in turn
as your own zen detachment.
it takes an engorged, twelve inch ego
to believe that you can circumvent pain
by running into it with open arms.
you’d have to have an extremely well hung
ball and chain
to jump into open waters with that baggage
and assume surrender will bring you air.
it takes a big head and a giant shoe size
and really large hands to make human beings into
your playthings.
i just ran between your legs,
out and away.
Costumes
it’s Halloween again.
the simple gourds have taken
cutting edge tools to their faces,
piling blown out wax lumps of identity within.
they scamper across the streets,
climb the stairwells,
stockpiling WMD’s like acorns against
any possible winter threat to their delusions,
scattering when you try to touch them,
leaving one to toss scraps and bread crusts of significance
in an attempt to simply lure one close enough to love.
they have taken knitting needles
and embroidered their trip wires into
Home Sweet Home plaques,
into collegiate sweaters signifying their
oblique allegiance to concepts
and never ever people.
they are full of hay and straw,
perched over dead crops of glory days
and always potential energy,
warding off any notation
that their faces are but burlap sacks
puled over their forms
by a higher being they cannot afford to consider.
look at them on the scrawny, knotted broomsticks
of their pipe dreams,
cackling,
flying into padded walls like fish that do not register anything at all
when you tap on the glass tank
of their insulation.
the vampires are clamped onto one another
in a circular 69 of feeding,
each thinking they are more than a perfect system
of cycles.
i tried on a Buddha mask,
a halo
and devil horns.
i don’t know what to go as.
i went to the super store,
but the human being costumes were all sold out.
the simple gourds have taken
cutting edge tools to their faces,
piling blown out wax lumps of identity within.
they scamper across the streets,
climb the stairwells,
stockpiling WMD’s like acorns against
any possible winter threat to their delusions,
scattering when you try to touch them,
leaving one to toss scraps and bread crusts of significance
in an attempt to simply lure one close enough to love.
they have taken knitting needles
and embroidered their trip wires into
Home Sweet Home plaques,
into collegiate sweaters signifying their
oblique allegiance to concepts
and never ever people.
they are full of hay and straw,
perched over dead crops of glory days
and always potential energy,
warding off any notation
that their faces are but burlap sacks
puled over their forms
by a higher being they cannot afford to consider.
look at them on the scrawny, knotted broomsticks
of their pipe dreams,
cackling,
flying into padded walls like fish that do not register anything at all
when you tap on the glass tank
of their insulation.
the vampires are clamped onto one another
in a circular 69 of feeding,
each thinking they are more than a perfect system
of cycles.
i tried on a Buddha mask,
a halo
and devil horns.
i don’t know what to go as.
i went to the super store,
but the human being costumes were all sold out.
Liver Failure
trying to convert the poverty to wealth,
the drought to water.
trying to help the romantics see their fantasy realized,
trying to convince the help
that they are making a dent in me,
the destroyers less guilty for their indiscretions.
i drank too heavily from possibility,
mixing it with the merciless pharmacology
of what cannot be
and tonight
Germany, Japan, Italy
and you
are attacking multiple fronts
and i cannot do it
and so it has passed right through me
to here.
the drought to water.
trying to help the romantics see their fantasy realized,
trying to convince the help
that they are making a dent in me,
the destroyers less guilty for their indiscretions.
i drank too heavily from possibility,
mixing it with the merciless pharmacology
of what cannot be
and tonight
Germany, Japan, Italy
and you
are attacking multiple fronts
and i cannot do it
and so it has passed right through me
to here.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Bald
fashion deprives us of high collars
to turn up against the cold.
liberal behavior denies us the chance
to salute the captains of our experience.
(if there were any.)
we used to have shamans,
but only drunks now.
we used to have mystics,
but only quacks now.
climate control denies us hats
to remove
in honor of anything.
(if there were anything honorable.)
western abundance nulifies the need to really keep
company.
urban sprawl has spread behind the curtain
and we have no mystery to investigate.
phones have robbed us of the opportunity
to answer a friend’s knock late at night.
security does not allow us to defend ourselves,
manners do not allow us to offend ourselves
and the glamour of the now
steals our memories of the glory days.
(if there ever were any.)
sophistication amputates any recollection
of our former, feral selves.
and we are shaved wolves
without the right to shiver.
to turn up against the cold.
liberal behavior denies us the chance
to salute the captains of our experience.
(if there were any.)
we used to have shamans,
but only drunks now.
we used to have mystics,
but only quacks now.
climate control denies us hats
to remove
in honor of anything.
(if there were anything honorable.)
western abundance nulifies the need to really keep
company.
urban sprawl has spread behind the curtain
and we have no mystery to investigate.
phones have robbed us of the opportunity
to answer a friend’s knock late at night.
security does not allow us to defend ourselves,
manners do not allow us to offend ourselves
and the glamour of the now
steals our memories of the glory days.
(if there ever were any.)
sophistication amputates any recollection
of our former, feral selves.
and we are shaved wolves
without the right to shiver.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Resistant Strain
i’ve realized
the people,
at this point,
are only opportunities for me to express anger
and anger is only an expression of fear
and fear is a resistance to assimilation
by the universe
and appropriation by the universe is love.
unfortunately ,
my cells were made with a high degree of belligerence,
so please do not love
or punch me
or relate to me until time melts me down
into slag
where upon i will finally
kiss you
at last.
the people,
at this point,
are only opportunities for me to express anger
and anger is only an expression of fear
and fear is a resistance to assimilation
by the universe
and appropriation by the universe is love.
unfortunately ,
my cells were made with a high degree of belligerence,
so please do not love
or punch me
or relate to me until time melts me down
into slag
where upon i will finally
kiss you
at last.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
ArtPrize2
The following pics are from the first official day of ArtPrize, although it will continue on for three weeks until the final winners are chosen. These are just a few of the best pics, of the pieces that I saw, but there were hundreds more I never got to see. The scale of this event was unbelievable...
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
ArtPrize
Got into this thing called ArtPrize in Grand Rapids, MI. it's the biggest art competition ever. there are 1200 international artists-first prize is 250,000 bucks. i don't know how to describe this place-every single business, including the streets and building walls, are venues for the competition. i walked the streets and every bar is crammed with artists sizing each other up like gunfighters. there are billboards taken as ads for individual artists requesting your vote, the bar staff all wear tee shirts lobbying for votes. I've never seen anything like it and the art is actually great. The following photos are taken from the night before as people were still getting ready for opening day...click on photos to make 'em big.
this is in the lobby of my hotel.
just one bar alone features 100 artists.
this thing is huge.
the museum without any participation at all. typical.
an outdoor install still taking place at 1 am.
another early morning outdoor installation.
as of yet unveiled...
got started like this-stalled dead on the highway for an hour. people turned off their cars, got out and talked to each other. very surreal....
this is in the lobby of my hotel.
just one bar alone features 100 artists.
this thing is huge.
the museum without any participation at all. typical.
an outdoor install still taking place at 1 am.
another early morning outdoor installation.
as of yet unveiled...
got started like this-stalled dead on the highway for an hour. people turned off their cars, got out and talked to each other. very surreal....
Friday, September 18, 2009
Mass Grave
burned a tank of gas
and a pack of smokes
with my dog in the car.
she’s in no condition to stick her head out the window.
she’s lost some weight-
weighs about seven pounds.
to say she’s a little dusty
would be a gross understatement.
any car was always too small for her-
i can’t imagine she’s too thrilled about squeezing into a piece of tupperware.
we cruised around the people in their pine box lives.
we threw cows blood on them
for their inhumane treatment of themselves-
all the confined cages
and forced feeding.
we spit on the beasts for wearing human pelts
and screamed murder
for their self-induced slaughter.
the dog of course had no idea what was going on
when i gave them all my condolences.
and a pack of smokes
with my dog in the car.
she’s in no condition to stick her head out the window.
she’s lost some weight-
weighs about seven pounds.
to say she’s a little dusty
would be a gross understatement.
any car was always too small for her-
i can’t imagine she’s too thrilled about squeezing into a piece of tupperware.
we cruised around the people in their pine box lives.
we threw cows blood on them
for their inhumane treatment of themselves-
all the confined cages
and forced feeding.
we spit on the beasts for wearing human pelts
and screamed murder
for their self-induced slaughter.
the dog of course had no idea what was going on
when i gave them all my condolences.
Perspective
burned foot working the clutch.
wet and crumpled face in the wind
with a box of ashes and a
consolation card as my copilot.
nothing new about that.
joggers were out.
license plate in front of me
said
FLYFSHR
at least there’s always someone
worse off
than me.
wet and crumpled face in the wind
with a box of ashes and a
consolation card as my copilot.
nothing new about that.
joggers were out.
license plate in front of me
said
FLYFSHR
at least there’s always someone
worse off
than me.
The Latest Iron Clad Stop Gap
make no mistake about it-
the high rises are merely unrefined stripper poles
around which father time and mother nature’s big butts swing.
i've filled the abyss up
a dozen times or so just for sport.
i’ve snatched the trumpets from angels
and shown them how it’s done.
i’ve been lashed to to the mast of the masses,
come up just fine on bread crusts
and self-immolated in protest
of my own invulnerability.
i don’t know how to tell the cultural enthusiasts i already had my yogurt for the day,
that there are more probiotics
in an empty room
than in all of life’s courtship.
i do not know how to explain to the chess players
that i can see their lives
twenty moves,
twenty years out.
i don’t know why i always lose myself around other people-
my voice gets higher,
i get shallow
from throwing buckets of myself
on flaming fear.
i don’t know how to stop apologizing to people for
their failure.
they always mistake my tourniquets
for gift bows,
they always mistake the heart on my sleeve
for dated eighties fashion.
you can cast a net
and drag the streets,
finding scads of bodies-
forget the fingerprints and dental records-
their hearts and minds have been surgically removed
making them impossible to identify-
more specifically they have no identity
and i can tell you with forensic certainty
where and when their crimes occurred-
there are no signs of struggle,
indicating an assailant close to them,
most likely their own reflection
which has both twisted motive
and questionable alibi.
through the panorama
of the wind shield
i noted that life is largely porous-
gaps between cars,
space between buildings,
holes in thought
making a veritable cheese grater
that
we are pushed across
and it just so happens
i’ve been tempered in meat lockers
and trials by fire.
Everyone is fashionably early
with monochrome ambitions-
i do not know how to stop writing reviews that exceed the movie.
i’ve tried to fashion a conclusive anthem,
a coda
to this life
but what would you have me say about this
white room
with no windows and doors
beyond some attempt at
immaculate perception.
finally i’ve had to raise one leg
and piss on the other,
marking myself
with myself
to shake the termites off,
to let the hyenas know i’m spoken for.
now i’ll vanquish.
they take forever to die.
they piss and moan until the end,
like i used to.
the last thing i ever wanted to be was strong.
the high rises are merely unrefined stripper poles
around which father time and mother nature’s big butts swing.
i've filled the abyss up
a dozen times or so just for sport.
i’ve snatched the trumpets from angels
and shown them how it’s done.
i’ve been lashed to to the mast of the masses,
come up just fine on bread crusts
and self-immolated in protest
of my own invulnerability.
i don’t know how to tell the cultural enthusiasts i already had my yogurt for the day,
that there are more probiotics
in an empty room
than in all of life’s courtship.
i do not know how to explain to the chess players
that i can see their lives
twenty moves,
twenty years out.
i don’t know why i always lose myself around other people-
my voice gets higher,
i get shallow
from throwing buckets of myself
on flaming fear.
i don’t know how to stop apologizing to people for
their failure.
they always mistake my tourniquets
for gift bows,
they always mistake the heart on my sleeve
for dated eighties fashion.
you can cast a net
and drag the streets,
finding scads of bodies-
forget the fingerprints and dental records-
their hearts and minds have been surgically removed
making them impossible to identify-
more specifically they have no identity
and i can tell you with forensic certainty
where and when their crimes occurred-
there are no signs of struggle,
indicating an assailant close to them,
most likely their own reflection
which has both twisted motive
and questionable alibi.
through the panorama
of the wind shield
i noted that life is largely porous-
gaps between cars,
space between buildings,
holes in thought
making a veritable cheese grater
that
we are pushed across
and it just so happens
i’ve been tempered in meat lockers
and trials by fire.
Everyone is fashionably early
with monochrome ambitions-
i do not know how to stop writing reviews that exceed the movie.
i’ve tried to fashion a conclusive anthem,
a coda
to this life
but what would you have me say about this
white room
with no windows and doors
beyond some attempt at
immaculate perception.
finally i’ve had to raise one leg
and piss on the other,
marking myself
with myself
to shake the termites off,
to let the hyenas know i’m spoken for.
now i’ll vanquish.
they take forever to die.
they piss and moan until the end,
like i used to.
the last thing i ever wanted to be was strong.
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