Saturday, January 26, 2008

paper sacks of rustling tears for sale

i am a vertical roadkill poet
banging my bleeding yellowed fingers
upon a scratched up laptop

i draw a skull & crossbones
in the film of dust on the screen
& then jab at my keys
the dead alphabet forms black words
beneath the death's head

the sentences pour out & i catch
them below in old liquor store bags

i hustle my paper sacks of rustling tears
on the street to anyone who is crazy
enough to listen

Friday, January 11, 2008

punks with words

this is our time
to be the punks
with words

while big, fat death
sits on the hands
of all of
the deceased poets

this is our time
to graffiti the world
hiss our paint cans
while our fingers
are still free

3 a.m.

two goldfish in the bowl
gills working away
like tiny, underwater

the snail inching
across the glass
like a restless spiral Buddha

my cigar glowing
like a ripe cherry
in the dim light

smoke climbing
the walls like a mesh
of gray vines

the ashes, the ashes
we all dont dream

Thursday, January 10, 2008

if i had to put it in human terms

if i had to put it in human terms
then my heart is an outhouse

my angel is a frozen block of minnows
from the bait shop

the thought of being born
is worse than suffering food poisoning

i adore the phrase "no-brainer"
all my life i feel like i've been
kidnapped from the beautiful country
of no-brains
chipped away out of
mother nothing's arms

& brought to another land
the land of earthlings

my body is a nuthouse

each of my
cells is

my body
is the largest
lunatic asylum
in the world

trillions of them
loose within the walls
of my shape

you can see
the hairs on my
arms & back
of my neck
stand on edge
from their
mad membranes
just beneath
the surface of
my flesh

i pour cups
of wine
on them
& they temporarily
fall calm

but then the next day
they're buzzing
madder than ever
like an angry swarm
of microscopic bees

Sunday, January 6, 2008

smash yr mirrors like you smash yr idols

for four years i drove
this 1978 chevy nova
w/out a rearview mirror

i had knocked it off jumping across
the seat to the passenger side door
b/c the driver's door was broken
& i never bothered
to glue it back on

also the adhesive that held the
side mirrors on loosened
& they both dropped at different
times while sitting at a traffic light
& shattered on the pavement

don't listen to the masses:
intact mirrors are bad fucking luck

that's when i broke my habit
of looking backwards
i just kept punching the gas
& accelerating forward

my fender eating up the center
line as i zoomed towards the sun
This blog is updated irregularly and has nothing to do with the poet's output. The poet is actually disturbingly prolific. He writes about 5 poems per day. The pages are everywhere, even stacked in the bathtub.