Christmas lights and Jesus Christ

Sleeping trees and rocks

We glow like anthills and mass old visions - we say our dreams but never do them because we love to dream but are too stopped to act.

Eye spied her.
I am looking at Venus
and Venus is looking at me.

All the stars feel each other
with equal clarity.

I am looking at the spider,
and the spider is looking at me.

A half-dead lime tree, half-alive
and the spider is in me
and the ants eat the bees.

I am looking at Venus,
and Venus is looking at me.

There are craters in the concrete.

-October 27th, 2010

Lightness

"Its all so absurd"

Here's a poem.

HAPPY BEERTHDAY FROM BEARDSDAY!

courtesy of Mark Morones.

Information
DARK STAR
SEE
BLIND MYSTICS
DRAWING
ENDLESS SEAS
A CIRCLE TURNED
INTO ITSELF
ONCE MORE
INTO
ITSELF
AND
god
NEVER STOPS
SPEAKING

DARK SUN
EATING BOOKS
GIVE
US
god
AND WE SHALL
GIVE YOU
DEATH

BUT
DARK STAR
YOU HAVE NO
USE
FOR DEATH
SO KILL
US
INSTEAD
AND GIVE
me
GOD.

-October 6th, 2010

All love is masochism.

Fender Bender

I rear ended an asian man this morning on my way to school. Everything's fine, really.

My notebook is falling apart, but its survived three soakings, if you count the sweat from the show at the Aladdin Jr.

Four Hours to Kill
to walk through the hills
is what I've wanted to do
since I was a child
walk through the hills
as a child
but never have done
so golden, and green,
and real
and I'm no longer a child
so I drive through the streets
which are not the same
at all.

Troops.

1320 AM
Early morning terrors
ghosts and bad visions beset by a rough cough
but the road was empty
so I did 70 smoking 100’s
all smooth
watching the hills and hovel cities

trying to escape (for once)
the drunk and selfish nobles
by way of a northern ocean town
called Paso Robles.

-August 7th, 2010

Scotty
My room smells like bad coffee
which is better than
semen and shameful longing.

I pour a cup,
and remember that I need to
retrieve my flask
from Heidi —

the next time I’m out,
but booze would be alright
right now.

What do those old china men
know?

I gave them seventy-five cents
outside the dry cleaners,
and they told me to follow
the good

In my life
and I’ll be happy.

I try to call, but the rings
fall head first from the receiver,
like always.

Out a buck with the madness
creeping in, I try to remember
what I did yesterday
but cannot recall,
and shrugg.

Burning grass and wide eyes
while I pick up
some wet, wet whiskey
to fall into
amongst the cheap darkness.

-September 14th, 2010

Old ships along even older coasts

Don't worry about me
I'm pretty sure I was never alive,
and the drunk king of Issaquah
tells me
"its hard to remember"
while I draw dark circles
around traffic cones and patio
furniture.

The gravel never made any sense
or the ants, or the string lights.
The trees never spoke;
and you never carved words
into my bones
so that's why I say
not to worry.

-September 7th, 2010

Archeology

We are
memery in static
boring sex transmissions
life is on
internet is brain
zero off

radio speak
and ENIAC grumbles
like Socrates
drunk

CRIZZAH
blank
CRIZZACK
blank
ERNT
blank
stop

and language is
dots on paper
in a sky

STOP

-August 30th, 2010

So...
as far as I am concerned,
this post will not be read, and if it is
it will not be read
by anyone
in the immediate vicinity of the event
which will be described,
so all words put down
or put up
will not mean anything really
which is the interesting nature of everything
it doesn't really mean anything

So...

No longer is it an act of God.

No longer is it an act of God.
I’d ask a question
but your collective mouths might vomit
and kill me
from this moon so wrapped
in a false habit.

you drank too much
and called too much to a ghost
with a paper plate face and
you swore too much
along a lifeless freeway
while I smoked endlessly.

The chirps are only nice
when we are drunk
So drunk is what we’ll be
and if the sun rises
And we hate ourselves
then we will hate ourselves
but forget to hate the booze
and he’ll scurry away, with all our treasures
he’s taken
to the bottom shelf
until the sun goes down once more.

Pass me a drink, you bastard
because I don’t want to hate you
but it’s hard not to
when I’m sober.

-August 10th, 2010

Thoroughly depressed.

She hadn't even finished her obligatory response before her interest shot downward into the cloud of another's voice.

So my corduroy sports coat flapped with me, inside, to evoke a response from someone else who was more interested.

I couldn't smoke anymore cigarettes, and there was no one inside who wasn't already occupied by mixing a drink, checking their emails, or engaging in a conversation with someone else.

I felt a little tinge, a little pull from a ghastly thing I thought had left, so I went outside to smoke another cigarette.

So thoroughly manic I searched and pressed for an audience, and following thusly, I became a desperate propheteer, spewing out words and phrases so I could put my feet and stamp a place into the patio.

I suppose it's better not to be Thor...

Great circles
I am a weak man
with no shoes

and beastly rage.

Go away...
great circles

are all that come to me

numbers in the night

and ants.

I never existed
so I think that means:
the joke's on you.

-July 27th, 2010

This is what they mean when they say those things.

So.

Last night I spoke of many things with many people. Death and the universe, the way it all pretty much might work, and the meaning of a broken whiskey bottle. I spoke about numerology, astrology and the tarot. I spoke of old loves and new loves, and all the small ones in between. All the meanwhile, the spirit in me raged for another, and the child in me is crying because he is about to be left, and the poet is calling in the waning moon for the one he cannot see; the world is in flames, partly, and in breezes the other part, and I try to sit calmly in the center, with the good people I know, and the good nights making the hard ones less hard, and the bad ones less bad.

I passed out in a living room that was for the first time empty save myself, and woke up and thought about it.

Here's an older poem:

Did me like a Telegram, in France.
So I smoke to the night
And all the small, strange things it holds.
Perhaps you are smoking too,
Somewhere,
Under the haze of midnight
With its half moon fog

Carrying our solemn voices into the old light of the sky.

-March 29th, 2010

All the big things in my room are gone down the street; the dresser, the desk, my books. My room right now, wherein I sit, is just as messy as it was, except for now there might be a reason: the movers are coming tomorrow, and all the clothes have to be washed. So I'll sit for now, and wonder, and worry, but not feel anything too specifically hard, because there still are havens, even if I'm moving away from Haven.

Anyways, here are some poems:

Another Poem to Ms. Irish
You big green bird:
I’ll send you off
To the Vegas heights, away
To dance and drink
and kill.

I’ll send you off,
You great green bird,
If only so you’ll think of me once
Beneath that little black dress
While you dance, and drink,
and kill.

-April 1st, 2010

All you give me is war
And I speak nonsense
nothing less, nothing more
but for why and I clamor the pink inky
hollows of my brain
but I don’t really care for searching
So instead I hear beauty
and see beauty
Ulrike!!!
Another wasted piece of grace.
Another wasted piece of love.

-April 5th, 2010

Josh won.

Notes

June 14th, 2010

Crazy eights at Dixon
with an uneven deck
shouting and laughing
Searching for the big hit
like Hollywood,
or Broadway.

---

Old light and new days
and I'm calling in sick
because of the nights
where nothing
seems to go right
but it doesn't really
have to
And the woman with
Red lips is wearing
a short skirt so
I steal glances at
her legs and try to
remember
what a woman's touch
feels like.
All I want is a beer
and a burger, and
occasional laughs
from good guys.

---

This place is beautiful
all mousy half red
and the lights
twinkle fade tired
love into a small
small chasm among
the road-
this is the life
towns and cities
for all and every-
one

The poem I said I would send you last night but didnt get to.

The poem I said I would send you last night but didnt get to.
What is the time?
Good miss, my heart is a drawing crayon red
But it never got taped to the fridge.
Haha.
What is the time? time, right now?
haha.
Stupid bullet-ridden clock holes can’t tell me love
I am felled.
Death, I am, mistress, with all my love I’ve lost.
What time is it?

I just want to know,
The brave annotated drug mutterings
And I fly high kite nights
Searching in the car battery fast lane
For the time.

haha.
What time is it?
Midnight mistress with my throat cut
But there is no blood, no monster, no soft light
love breath on your neck
kiss my death stone lips.
I hate this in my only love.

Sad sorrow half past noon time drunk
With a stone top tumbler.
I am no time for searching.
Haha.
Midnight girl with your noon time pushes.
I love you in my hatred
Where is what time?

What time is it?
Ha.

Leave no I can’t
In my last desire full of love hate midnight
Matter flat in my dead heart.
But I’ll wait.

Small smoke. Big eyes. I love you.
What time is it right now?
Ha.

-February 10th, 2010

Just for good measure

It would always be elsewhere.
Thats the third blare of sirens I've heard today,
And as I sit in my car
Soaked in sweat from the California sun,
Smoking my last cigarette and
reading the immortal words of Hunter S.,
I think,
"It'd be damn nice to go for a swim right now."

-March 15th, 2010

Death (but not really)
Your death would me so much to me
moans thrown against the wall
smoke-stained and soaked
into the dirty sheets

-screams echoed in empty glass
lovely, your death would mean
the world to me

and then I would die too.

We’d wake up
and you might be there
or you might not

but my words are too fine
and slip through your fingers
they are too smooth
so you breathe them
like air

-No
I can’t kill you
you mean to me too much
and I’m no murderer.

-June 9th, 2010

Alexander Lyamkin, Russian surrealist from Siberia.

I am tired of believing in peace.
The old Spanish island
Took a plane, me and you
drank in the sun
until it went down
and fell asleep in a
muggy hotel room
near the beach.

Come for me, into the water
a summer swim is what we need,
darling
Get your hair wet and let your
curls down.
Blue sea in the sun, and
pour our drinks in the sand.
Kiss me as that great ball
of fiery passion
descends below the dark
violent pink.
Four billion years from now
it will explode,
but we will be long dead,
just ghosts and stardust.

Here it is, the last one
The sand is sugary white,
and our towels are damp.
Our shoes washed away with
the sea.
I kissed you.
Then we cried as the sun
set long skeletal shadows
across our bodies.
Here it is, the last one.
I’ll tear it in half,
and give you the bigger.
Smoke with me, my darling,
our last cigarette against
the old light of the old days.

-March 17th, 2010

I am Helvetica.

There is something naturally beautiful about finding a note on a random, unused page of your notebook, from someone whom you love deeply.

I am Helvetica, for now.

There is more than smoke in the sky today
More fire, more fire
And I’m reminded of my
Grandfather
who was a brilliant man
and a time when I was not sad.

But that smoggy backyard
in the broke down town
called Lake Elsinore

is gone

and I am a devil
biding my time.

Brilliant, or some kind of peace

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What name was that forest high?

The chair was still, but Darcy was moving, so I struck her. She quieted and began to sob.
“Why did you hit me?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
A colony of haunting clouds had been brooding gray in the distance for the last few hours.
“Darcy,” I said, still grayer, “don’t go outside for the next day.”
“But pa, I love you.”
“I love you too, Darcy.”
She wiped her eyes.
“Where is mama?” she asked.
“I told you, mama went on a walk.”
“When will she be back?”
“The rain is coming, and it will be cold.”