Feb 27, 2010



why the canon?
ease of access

why the pyre?
excess of use







curtains mice coffee

sometimes without wing
and melting

for lack of story

as river ice thaws
complexities overarching









the gamut of emotions
from A

to A equals A
o amateur logicians

without warning

at work
which is play

is not a sage







dickinson's poetry
--visually stunning
and the audio









being oneself
when artifice is cowardice

time a wave
like a vapor

given space
in the mind of an auralist

a rectangular light
upon snow


i think i've hallucinated
the moon

here but moments ago
in the language

foiled by the matrice
of the grave

replete and bone
light and cold







Feb 25, 2010




















Feb 24, 2010


with its little starlight kisses
fallen upon my cock-- cum
fallen upon virgin ground
steaming up into mother night--
what is love but another word
for more?








in the darkest
of rooms, we
would be furious
upon the other--
nothing to see
nothing to hide--
all to know







Feb 20, 2010



i've reduced
my life
in theory
to eight
now blank
of paper

which is
for being
where my life
is supposed
to be

a poison
as cure
its own







Feb 19, 2010









Feb 16, 2010



i want to be closest
and sometimes i am
without moving closer








To Catch and Retreat

my predilections are few:
that i wish i were better
than i wish i was

the guilt of having torn
from a woman

that there is no light
but what i see by

the moon
a bitter cup

that i am a writer
that i write less
and less

so many things i do not care for
for sometimes being good
at something else

that nothing clicks
in all these ceaseless shifts

that yes the beat of this drum
is rhythmless

that i eat lemons
and sugar
and drink tea

that i've thought of goji
that i've thought of sons

that these letters sent to everyone
are sent to you

these predilections are few
but they possess such
irreproducible potential

and that's enough.














Feb 14, 2010


the virginity of sublimity
which in this instance
is loss and apophenia
and the reach of neurons
like anemones upon themselves
and love i now suppose
the pit in the pearl
of want to say what i sing
and all this is bullshit
but even if every star
in its indeterminate living
is wrong i am right
not strong







not the brightest in the world but
i'm on the list of the top one hundred
million-- and light for all its piercing
bravery to go anywhere flees everywhere







Feb 12, 2010


the stars conspire
i figure in my intuitive bullshit way
for and against most anything
--i am more than star
and we all define the sky.







pissing outside
the snow don't know
the trees don't know
the stars don't know
the wine and the piss
don't know don't know
and all i have is a bed i do not sleep in
that is not my own
amen and so be it and alleluia
and god bless and welcome home.








fuck god
and i mean that in the deepest way possible
fuck god raw
fuck god stinging as the maggots at the eyes of the starving
and the maggots starved
fuck god lost as that sweet ass in the wilderness
made mad and screaming with the wolves closed in
fuck god in the same way the stars do not align
fuck god incalculably
fuck god with the roar of burning houses built of love
fuck god with truth singing like a trebled arrow
fuck god that loneliness of eternity we do not surpass
fuck god a well that smells of piss and kerosene
and vomit and antibiotics and rot and blood and steam
and money and deceit
fuck god the daffodil and the bluebell and the late frost
and the early snow
fuck god silence
fuck god lyric and fuck god song
fuck god the crumbling mountains and fuck god
the drying seas and fuck god the pittance
of climax one can not forfend against
fuck god oh fuck god whole
fuck god the sentiment and the pity and the strength
mistaken for wisdom to withhold and withstand
fuck god the artist leaving everything unsigned
fuck god the suicide
but most of all
fuck god the fame of perpetual anonymity
and fuck god this heart that thrives
upon malcontent and green eyes.







Feb 11, 2010



monday's light clean and bright
is tuesday's snow and wednesday's ash
and thursday's night--
the rest of the week forgotten

december's hold clear and bold
is january's sting and february's crow
and march's false ultimatum--
the rest of the year errata

and yet friday's wage is saturday's
flame and sunday's grave--
love perhaps the only eminence

and spring's tender groan is summer's
wraith and autumn's wreath--
tides of dissonance and of resonance.







Feb 8, 2010













Feb 7, 2010



too many promises kept--
that there be no images to idolize
but the feminine
be it roe from the gut of a sunfish
be it smoke rising exhausted
in curls of angel hair
that i write my own sutra
that i live my own psalm
warmth sung of
tho i remain cold
that i fail
as do the batteries of stars
as does the protean wall of night
as do the cilia of every reaching root
and crystal upon every hoary leaf
in order to be accurate
in my assessment
of the truth of things
that i lie
and poetically
without reprise

--a drop of wine
in a tumbler of tequila
blood for the spirit
a toast
proportions inversed.


i'd speak more
if i had anything to say
worth listening to
if my whispers
would not themselves break
the dawn

i'd strike the above
with all the cupidity
of a poisoned arrow
were my mind not made in echo
of a lightning bolt
upon the gathered serenity
of your eyes

and i'd burn the above
but to hell with hell
my words are swords
reduced to scalpels
of those sins
those cancers
of both war and peace
and your eyes are balm.


should you age early
mature slow
tulips roses
shallow burials
bright graves


tulips roses apple grape oak

but mostly

skin fire-lit
by mind upon same.


stealing kisses
from the ground--
snow upon brow.


love you
all of.









jesus christ walks into a bar
orders a bloody mary
says to the bartender
what do i owe you?
the bartender says
not much

there once was an indian
everyone called chief
stop me when this sounds
his real name was bob
drunk he chanted something
meant to travel past the moon
which is an awful thing
to attempt to do

the only good men i know are fools

the maple and the oak and the cut ash
in the darkness beyond this
indescribable contemplation
in the the midst of winter
upon winter
i suppose
drunk myself and one quarter
something or other native
just enough to allow themselves
within the mind of myself
which may as well be


the divine may as well be
but i disagree
klaxons and kazoos
porch-lights and windowpanes
it is all indelicate indelibility

and then there are the goddesses
spread-eagle in supplication
of themselves
this ruins me
in the same insane way
as the loss of thought
for the apple
of the apple tree

there is so little to say
that you must know
and so much to say
without being said

here's the joke i keep hearing
my whole life

all of sensation is a type
of laughter
not kind
not set.


so i really did know an indian
and his name really was bob
he empties the swill
from leftover drinks in his yard
and gets money from the government
for a type of arthritis
that makes you blind

the point of all this
is that it is pointless

bob wears a leather vest
and at sixty-five and six two
still gets laid
by love herself
whenever he sobers up

which really is a joke

tho i am the world's
not greatest
but most worthy of liars

i really do only
moonlit truth.


and this last cigarette
which i could not roll myself
will mark and mirror and profanely
commiserate these whorls
of worlds whored into words
i just have to think about it
to light it

here's a game by kitchen fluorescent murk
where have i been?
where am i now?
where will i go and what will i do?
hear and heir the shadows
of things partially defined
by myself
which is coincidentally
cigarette lit here
how i define myself
cigarette re-lit here

i forget what i've said
as i say it
i keep wanting to incorporate
the moon

and i do--
on this last inhale
i do.






Feb 5, 2010



memorandum unholy holy
balls two taloned feet
curling nothing
wave-form tenacious unholy holy
some wit about coffee
as they bitch about tea
disharmonious arrays unholy holy
here is a room
big as me
these clocks will die unholy holy
the living vie for rebirth
quiet light quiet dark
unholy holy unholy holy
unholy holy love love
love love love peace







Feb 4, 2010


may the wishes
you'll wish
after the wishes
you've wished
come true,
come true

may the loves
you'll spurn
after the loves
you've spurned

may the poetry
you'll write
after the poetry
you've written







Feb 3, 2010


i miss your fire
and i miss your fire
and i miss you, your eyes--
the underbelly of pine
indirect upon mountain blue--
windless and supple your gaze--

here are my hands, keys after keyholes--
here are my eyes, thermals of snakes
and birds of prey--
here is my glut of gulf, my stars--
my time, my space--

what better headstone
if not entirety itself--
that large contrail that plumes
in pressure and plummets--
what better epitaph
than a sincere lack of fate--

i miss your fire--
the coalesced embers of you--
my heart is tinder--
my mind is kindling--
my soul erased.







Feb 1, 2010



war takes a vacation--
a flight out of LAX to Chicago
and back to LA, and that's it--
no delays and no hurry--
war takes a ten hour break
in first class first, and then business--
doesn't eat, doesn't drink
and does not sleep, noting only
that the flight attendant's eyes
are immaculately adequate--
that the clouds are watchtowers of stars--
that any hold upon truth is temporary
or less-- war takes a vacation
to flyover death
at work in the garden
of love's backyard.