Sunday, December 21, 2014

Remington 666

typewriter hasn't been opened
since we lugged that black box
3,500 miles to the coast and
then back
                and that was all some
time ago and still it sits there
ink drying on ribbon, keys silent
decaying imperceptibly,
                                   doesn't
have the weight or ability to call
out and end it's atrophy and mine,

something flickered like a victory as
it sat under kansas gray sky beside
that old green van, head gasket melted
night before on I-70 going west,
                                               scares
me now, it's seeming omnipotence, it's
visible and screaming existence as a
symbol in my mind, as a last tangible
link to that drive for the coast,
                                             a last
remaining symbol of our faded past.

They're singing this now

a new genre of
death explored

cryogenic brain
freeze corporatized
opinion

hands up don't shoot

c'mon man I'm already
submitting

goes mouth
vocal cords
nightstick
gun trigger
teeth
blood

autopsy reports,
like didn't Pynchon
talk about this same
god damned thing
in Watts?

count side-wise
from CNN to Fox
to--get it?

this is a test of
the moderately
dissimilar opinion,
if this weren't a
test we'd #hegemony

now now kids
santa's watching
he just looks a bit
different, we've updated
for this technologic age

gone are old things
and obesity, same
with bearded
white males,

we've revamped the
whole process, added
cameras at each
street corner

so we
know if you've
been naughty or
nice before you've
even been--

Friday, December 19, 2014

Note 12/18/14 (jotted down last night)

there's no stars tonight,
light comes from
little desk lamp too
far to reach,
no poems coming out,
no thoughts going in.

Nibs

mewling
gray cat presses
soft pink nose
against my hands,
body sprawled out
over keyboard score
blocking my view,
little black pieces
little white words;

every now and then
sits up stiff, ears twitch
orange eyes wild,
bites my wrist,
reminding me not
to get so complacent,
after all, with such a
wild beast;

little gray cat
thinking surely (I think, maybe)
fuck you for clicking away,
an effort to pay no attention
to me;

licks himself
absently, methodically,
(vindictively?)
front paw latched on back
of screen, straining,
no hair out of place
no kingdom left
unconquered,
hrms and haws
and growls,
low low whine lo,
purrs victoriously.

Anti-Freeze

take a sip of anti-freeze

one time

at that puddle
behind your car

where all the animals lie

panting
in the cold

slick insides
burnt out tubes

choking, croaking

jingle of salvation bells

green slime
hallowed halls,

seeps into concrete
all the brown sad birds
whistle on winter mornings

lungs cold
baying out blearily out

with a straw take it in
hold yer nose
or it'll burn

heaps of death
and crumbled
rocks mixed in
concrete shell

sound of heavy feet in alley
scatter of thoughts

breathless

one last taste
'til
divinity.

Friday, December 12, 2014

Room C-100

two collared shirts
choked by ties
discuss printer to
print philosophies
in stilted dialogue
blended with power
games, hidden
subtext of sex and
dominance/submission,

they go on and on
open gaps flapping

there's an unwanted
boarder, he's hitching a ride
laid out on the cabinets
behind them, head propped
up on stacks of unopened
white paper (yet for the
sacrifice of memos and
board reports) he's reading
some book without outed
numbers, about,

they shift and scratch
at fabric softener softened
lightness,

it's easier to ignore the
ruffled shirts

turning pages

the printer goes
bwah-ehhh-bwah-ehh-ehh-ehh

they check the digits
shirts and cuff links
swoon

Thursday, December 11, 2014

Several signs arranged into a poem

"You should never ask death a question...(Looking at office nameplate) [insert NAME here] you invite him in if you do...hmmm..."

To Security: 
Man in Shroud
Black dog nipping at heels
steady procession of robed figures
Red Flags

See something?
                           (lips sealed) Say something
[matter will be brought up at next meeting] *wink* haha

You smash fists
at door of gone
souls

flash steel/water like mercury/liquid silver
flow
writhe/beg/plead/pull
again...

There's no money in caring for corpses
in the land of the dead

Never ask a question
                                   that invites an answer.

STAFF ONLY
BEYOND THIS POINT.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Daily Routine

Those plastic globs
drowned in shower drains
pregnant with body
image heat sensitive
cameras blue/green
with rolls of pink flesh
sift slowly through fusion
cell lead pipes cellphone
fiber-optic crane machine
super computers
slowly building your face
eventually replacing personality
decoding deconstructing
actions to numbers
faceless
merciless
pervasive
cleanliness

Saturday, December 6, 2014

island pome

Cayo heyo keys hello,
west into clear seas,
December palm trees
coral reef, brown breaths
green hued horizon lines,
string of isles nestled
against the sun
a tangled wind through
mangrove mysteries
whistling.

Radio Marti

propaganda lines drawn
in mangrove mazes,
silver pond and big lake,
tunnel and shade, brackish
waters sifting through,
a heron's nest maybe and
off somewhere, flight
of egret bird's wings on water,
daily broadcasts of
sad unheralded radio signals
beam hazard thoughts
like crocodile dreams into
Spanish heads in ole
Cuba, warm scotch &
rolled cigars, somewhere
off the mainland
who's revolution?
who's imperialism?
how far?

south of boot key
just 90 miles
droning 24 hours.

Keys

December's great poems
leak from damaged
railroad bridges--
finished 1912
abandoned 1935
after swirling winds
hurricane winds of
labor day--
south of mainland
USA off mangrove
islands of florida's
keys,

sun is skipping
boil of fire sinking
far away over gulf
scalded red flicker
of pain in distant pink
sky,

December's sunsets
at southern most point
slap like blue-green
maybe sea-green
clarity slashed
with brown sand, waves
on the shore, fallen
so you miss
and the lights out,
early,

December at the
bottom of America
no more land
mile 0
gray pavement
used up and
skips its way
to end on backs
of martyred men,
slouching.

693 ml of fluoride

commercial shipments
begin
post industrial entertainment
dissemination
complex orders
on the
up and up
advertise
on side of
crystal blue
aluminum can
held in perfectly manicured
american fingers
fizz fingers
dripping condensation
just enough
foreplay to choke
down endless
brown syrupy gulps
tearing into pinal
gland before
throat before
ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
small silver pixels
replicate look of
bubbles
drowning thirst
thoughts thoughtfulness
awareness
fizz pop

Saturday, November 22, 2014

Saturday in November

long johns
wool cap
no shirt
with window
open
heat on
sounds
of Saturday
golden
sunlight
powder
blue blueness
reaching
gray cat
sleeps
behind me
faint sound
hum of purr
keys ticking
green fields
of what once
was is no
longer
colorless
trees
branches
sapped
faded tiled
roofs
never noticed
before
a breeze
cuts in
every now
and then.
freezes
my chest
freezes
my hands

Friday, November 21, 2014

Chapter two

like
rain-
drops
fall-
ing
hun
honestly

kid thinks
while pocketing
cigarettes

don't leave this time;

space isn't the end,

it's more like
going in search of nothing
you can ever reach

[the thing ain't even
there anymore, like
the whole universe could
be long dead and we'd be
dead before anybody had
the nerve or years to figure
it out] jus' sayin'

you don't have to believe

either do I, necessarily

we're--

just shootin' the shit,
she goes, I know
and kisses him,
one quickly on the
red cheek,

I wrote about
them long ago,

this is a continued
story,

they were standing outside
that gray diner for too many

years, neglected,

they saw the stars go--

Oh!--

I'm leaving them again
in snippets, in just
enough to be vague,
immortal

match snaps,

light!

let it--

she backs away

he goes,

don't l--

falling apart

in scarlet sash
dripping over
drool
hang that
head lo
lo and be--
held by angels
of no wings
crawling on star--
dust in sunbeams
early afternoon
dance to unheard
music
played on cricket
legs two hours
into night

these days
there's no one
else listening

three rubber swings
rusted chains
frame painted
forest green
chipped
wood chips
underneath

blown by the wind

creaking.

these days

creaking

wind

by