tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91897846168960363672024-03-18T21:16:28.471-07:00sureyourewrongpoetry, mostly.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger9125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9189784616896036367.post-45089549209910742262012-03-05T10:05:00.001-08:002012-03-05T10:05:50.126-08:00Just in case<div><p>The felt spot beneath your right shoulder blade. Where you cannot reach like a cat grooming and the snow swirling under the streetlights @ 80, @ 7, picking your wife up from the airport and all that's going on in your mind is a swirl like that, just like that spot just like that itch, fed by the low hum of a soundtrack - the knife, portishead, cypress hill. All the things you cannot reach feel like all the things you can and why do hold on to it. What is the Zen anesthesia moment called when you can feel the earth's irreverent pose, that some blind monkey can rip the rotten bones of what was life and bandaid them across the treachery, across what was landscape and is now something less than the bitterness you feel through your feet. All this is water. All this wasted.<br>
</p>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9189784616896036367.post-36805483996985442012011-10-24T16:34:00.001-07:002011-10-24T16:34:15.985-07:00I<div><p>n7uto <br>
pographically you<br>
rs, trying to reavh all s<br>
aints r4 free d<br>
om what ne<br>
ws is sure the<br>
sink all clos<br>
es free wher<br>
e stud3**s gath<br>
er algebra close<br>
d, fallout Ganym<br>
ede with rd bal00<br>
s solid wzst <br>
means mear on <br>
t@31e.</p>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9189784616896036367.post-82855266882564683942011-10-18T13:25:00.001-07:002011-10-19T05:43:10.621-07:00Clear, now<div><p>The tiered colony, a<br>
weighted ellipse of<br>
cigarette smoke outsides <br>
the rain. the train. <br>
adult paces... <br>
close these shutters<br>
wipe </p>
<p>dangerous thought <br>
mud<br>
across the surface, a <br>
will of pipes and glass </p>
<p>the desert is pure because it lacks the sun is pure in distance <br>
the sea is pure because we say,<br>
"Sunlight, rain, all..." <br>
the small home </p>
<p>whiffs of lime<br>
old woods carrying on </p>
<p>animals trained to carve <br>
meaning <br>
through slow circles <br>
obfuscation<br>
ask. </p>
<p>and your part:</p>
<p>"Where is the ice in all this, <br>
rust..." </p>
<p>calumny and reification explained<br>
how something is what it is not <br>
the balance of human interest the issuance of human heart</p>
<p>what your mother really means </p>
<p>slow lift in the radiator wash <br>
a bell rings once <br>
and goes ignored.</p>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9189784616896036367.post-30618956130233759712011-10-15T21:56:00.001-07:002011-10-15T21:56:40.889-07:00Like<div><p>The sounds of gas moving colder than you've ever seen it, small braying antlers jostling for confetti, indigenous melons squandering trust funds, Velcro tanning products, overpaid shittily-sequenced Agamemnon under kleig lights, a soft hail under bent eraser skies, huddled Sikhs without karela or marrow, bombastic algorithms grasping for tied votes, stacks of small vegetarians for us all to blame, avian malt, blue- and red- shift lettuce, broken thongs suspended by calculators, all the hundred billion desensitized sins, collective trammelling under perpetual yellow lights</p>
<p>That thousands gather to watch.</p>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9189784616896036367.post-18532118359342378492011-10-15T21:28:00.001-07:002011-10-15T21:28:40.520-07:00Bup<div><p>There's no soul in the in-between no grit in her litter, a small song trimmed homily Honolulu, brackish allusions in tenpenny snarls. Wherever did fall crate tempests, piano my nostrum. </p>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9189784616896036367.post-50120004422310510602011-10-13T18:04:00.000-07:002011-10-13T18:04:24.248-07:00all the way from neural (for Keith Higginbotham)<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">dish-wrapped shellfish clusters</div><div class="MsoNormal">gift themselves as trance, a</div><div class="MsoNormal">post-homogeneic facial crème</div><div class="MsoNormal">huddled shinily given</div><div class="MsoNormal">anemones you know</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">&</div><div class="MsoNormal">cucumbers you do not</div><div class="MsoNormal">like children, blessed</div><div class="MsoNormal">with no concept of other</div><div class="MsoNormal">kissing the fingers of a stale</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">air</div><div class="MsoNormal">where laundry hounds</div><div class="MsoNormal">the windows.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9189784616896036367.post-88313374610072224792011-10-10T13:25:00.000-07:002011-10-10T13:25:53.109-07:00whifflesometimes I wonder<br />
whether<br />
sometimes<br />
accrues<br />
<br />
is there a bank<br />
maybe in St. Louis<br />
where all these moments<br />
being placed on deposit<br />
will add up to something<br />
nice<br />
<br />
maybe they taste like vanilla<br />
swell and ache in the rain<br />
distend when the stock market is up<br />
dress nicely on Tuesdays, thinking you might come by<br />
buy things they have no space for<br />
buy things that clash with their decor<br />
appreciate a nice wind from the North<br />
have plans, too<br />
<br />
what will happen when they mature<br />
will they go on vacation and not return<br />
or are they drawn back to their original<br />
owner, dragging wounded hindparts<br />
across thousands of miles for a pat<br />
on the head?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9189784616896036367.post-74373207824130750622011-10-10T12:39:00.000-07:002011-10-10T12:39:46.174-07:00burying the seasonthe main roads are<div>more main<div>somehow</div><div>as if you'd ever written<div>anything worth remembering</div><div>aside from the</div><div>pain in your dick</div><div><br />
</div><div>your head</div><div><br />
</div><div>the same</div><div>as sliding down</div><div>hill</div><div><br />
</div><div>on your backside</div><div>the leaflitter clattering</div><div>broken like snakes</div><div>and chains</div></div><div>this perfect fall</div><div>described in</div><div>curlicues</div><div>held breath</div><div><br />
</div><div>when love had</div><div>a broadside</div><div><br />
</div><div>odes in rain</div><div>they smell like</div><div>the dying surge</div><div>,bloated cereal boxes</div><div>,long-suffering earthworms</div><div>bruised, buried in air</div><div>;no, you've never written</div><div>one down but they live</div><div><br />
</div><div>there in her</div><div>live</div><div>like mushrooms</div><div>like sunlight</div><div>a cadence that sways</div><div><br />
</div><div>a funereal beat</div><div>just under the surface</div><div>of the world.</div></div><div><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9189784616896036367.post-75697629863371730892011-07-24T21:24:00.001-07:002011-07-24T21:24:41.553-07:00the two inside<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-oBugx2ZectAIyHJZ2G7o4cOPbyvICTDFRKgRqZjdrnVxJPI_SEeARibpkSgbSfustaNVMAvx-aV58fZLDRkafhSwHkxtv4G2ailMHOFI2QazErsRq2zaWxqHU4H_QELQeayWDdAcFME/s1600/huddle.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-oBugx2ZectAIyHJZ2G7o4cOPbyvICTDFRKgRqZjdrnVxJPI_SEeARibpkSgbSfustaNVMAvx-aV58fZLDRkafhSwHkxtv4G2ailMHOFI2QazErsRq2zaWxqHU4H_QELQeayWDdAcFME/s320/huddle.png" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0