Wednesday, June 30, 2010

This is what they mean when they say those things.


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,
Under the haze of midnight
With its half moon fog

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

-March 29th, 2010

Monday, June 21, 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
Another wasted piece of grace.
Another wasted piece of love.

-April 5th, 2010

Friday, June 18, 2010

Tuesday, June 15, 2010


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
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-

Monday, June 14, 2010

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.
What is the time? time, right now?
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.

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.
Midnight girl with your noon time pushes.
I love you in my hatred
Where is what time?

What time is it?

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?

-February 10th, 2010

Saturday, June 12, 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

Thursday, June 10, 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

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,
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

Tuesday, June 8, 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
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

Sunday, June 6, 2010

"Will God bless our nuclear bombs because the Russians are atheists?"
-headline from LifeItalic magazine, August 5th, 1966

I'll be here
and I've been here before
many times
the high kite kat
flying tall nights and
low low mornings
new people always
and the great unknown
blowjob in the backroom
from a woman
with black wings
but I'm here again
at eleven ten
working through some kind
of trip
and fallin' into the
world around me
arms and legs out
into the singularity
I've been here before
and I'll be here.

And from my wrinkled
paper shouts memories
fast tack high
low flat
the follows, the love
calls from the moors
with only dream returns
and nothing seems
answered as the
great green gates open and
Close into the haze
night over NASA
and the space man
is coming
To bring us a treat
so we call out our names
in ones and zeros.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

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.”