antiques, owned

things seen at a yard sale:

(1) wooden owl, formerly painted, now shellacked
(1) bicycle. rusty.
(2) hand-weights, pink, 2#, padded, unmourned
(1) rubik's cube (sp?)
(7/8) set codial glasses, used approx. once
(1) son or daughter, diapered, dirty (happy)
(2) end tables of rough-hewn planks, overpriced
(2) handmade dresses of indeterminate antebellum origin
(1) box of cooking spices ca. 1954
(1) box of cooking utensils &c, decrepit
(1) stuffed teddy. soulless, lonely, dusty
(1) cash box (NFS)
(12) ladies underpants lightly stained
(2) wax fruit bowls with autumnal seasonal theme
(1/2) bag dehydrated potting soil
(1) sun hat, frayed



a cup

slender. blue. preferrably
without stripes, cracks, chips.
smoothly glazed.
by a professional, i surmise.

put in it two, neither one
nor three, scoops. frozen
yogurt? not today,
nor sorbet. (whey? never)

a spoon

slender. nickel-plated.
nary a fingerprint fortunately
to be found, but mine
--a tongue-print?--

it passes below the arch
of your dainty teeth
as i feed you, lover,
it's kitten's cream.



in my prodigious form thou shalt find
six or ten or nine--lost my mind
--an orange rind my paunch,
crusted over with the evening's repast,
so fast, you passed, i'm left, last;
but see in me thou wilt, how thou wilt
how thou shalt my belly's curving
form and stout (my drink) it's no
wonder a trinket or two is rolled,
i won't rehearse this folio's fold
again; my liver spots, my hairy warts,
my complimentary birthmark stains:
these are the buddha, the buddha
in mine form as thou shalt find.

if you have any brains


you were perfect

you were perfect


why i don't read language poetry

obstreperous. camoflage. camisole
hearth rung bell swing
toddler's skinned knee keening
bellswept bellfry winds, a steeple
chasing your hoops that child laid.
an actuarial accountant and aunt-
eater. worm-eater, oh groan
that cramp the toddler crimson
ipecac lozenges; hardy hardly grown
skinned knees "NO NO NO" known.


tyre blown out

'lil sum-sum fr. tha peeps happy over the burr-gee-own-ing earf.
when i go deaf
i won't even mind
i'll be all right
i'll be just fine

i'll stay out all night
looking at the sky
i'll still have my sight
yeah, i'll still have my eyes

and, we will make love
we won't have to fight
we won't have to speak
and we won't have to lie

and, i'll stop writing songs
stop scratching out lines
i won't have to think
and, it won't have to rhyme

when i go deaf
when i go deaf
thx m. parker, a. sparhawk.


..and the living is...

where are my cicadas,
my ever-loving you mothers and their white-clothes babes,
where are their fathers sweating under a willow
eyeing a bobber, daughters, cousins,
sons, all short pants and hats running in a dusty yard?
where are my sunglasses--flat black and
fat--lemonade sparkling in the pitcher next to swim-
suits like the one you used to own,
chocolate icecream dripping from a cone onto
a cocoabutter arm, laughing with flashing tongue,
bicycling back to grandfather's porch?
where are my moths, my cycadas, my summer
beetles crawling on the painted planks in the after-
dinner shadows we used to hide from our parents calling
your parents calling,
brothers and sisters lying sweaty between the fan
the window opposite breezing curtains (shutters
humming) with the night folding sweat into your dreams,
bright like sun and moon twinned on opposite
horizons, stars thrumming--in winter they
twinkled, sparkled--and sleep slowly rushing in with
the warm puffs of solstice air, cycadas, singing?



http://www.smittenkittenonline.com/index2.htmThey say, ya know, human young born at a certain time of year are more likely to experience depression. 'Course, your sexual habits are so unique (and, actually, pretty fucked up and nonsensical if you think about it--I mean, constant sexual availability?) that it's a hazard. No overwinter foal-carrying or the like, I guess. Then again, some of your habits are intriguing... Too bad you're all so chimpy/violent. I congratulate you all on displaying your females to their best advantage however.



saw alice in chains reuinion tour warmup show @ metro in Chi-town sundae. xlnt show 'cept 4 old dud in cheap leather coat & wife tring to nudge in front of me 4 better view and got beer spilled on by @$$|-|013z on balcony but overall insane energy 300+ people singing all songs e.g. on 'rooster' tha ooo-ooos ghostly chorus also on 'junkhead' and 'rain when i die' some unexpected numbers but also the faves (thank god not 'heaven beside you' tho 'cus that shits old hat no doubt). new singer hits all notes, tones, not l. staley but better replacement than that dude ac/dc put up or that shit tryin' to fill michael hutchins shoes so whatevs it was the shit also don't ever go to a bar called 'cubby bears' that place is a rip. sludge factory
call me up congratulations
aint tha real why
theres no pressure besides brilliance
lets say by day 9
endless corporate ignorance lets
me control time
by tha way, by tha way, by tha way

once again u see an in
discolored skin gives u away
so afraid u kindly gurgle out a date
for me

now the body of one soul i adore
wants 2 die
u have always told me you'd
not live past 25
i say stay long enough 2 repay
all who caused strife
thx. l. staley, j. cantrell. yum: spitelife.



they stripped me of
furry loincloth, spandex, latex, leath-
er heather-colored plaid jumpsuit
OMG i can't believe s/he would wear--

handcuffs and a tattoo of a skull on my
(mark of the slut) back i'll
never give in to this chaos you
wanted to bring me out from
under this tutelage i can't won't
believe You.

so what if i put that on the site
W/we know what W/we're doing
--aren't you too--old sexual politics
getting in your way i IMHO; stuff
you. my head itches eyes red puffy.

get the hell off my servar
that is what they said but know
one knows how to get rid of
it is a blue and black bittorrenter.

and anyway on the 'space
her favorite band will be releasing two
singles can find matches with
just one click to save your soul
keep (drowning) surfing.



AIM, fire, GAIM, messenger
seventeen conversational allusions per minute speed
highwayfrosted--sliding--over the screen connect
us to us to us but (don't talk to her
anymore) not them bones.
Bones to pick I think I say
typing away
seventeen conversational allusions per second meme-
ography, orthography your YELLING
personality focused on backbiting; oh
are those the comments
your lover left last week I'm not so
so sorry as I might have (understated I will
hack your website) been once. The
medium is the... words anonymous not but flowing
as if anonymouse I am reading seventeen
year-olds' flurried self-conscious
unconscious: the message is the medium they
got it wrong (tell
Wikipedia quick
quick). Lightspeed and I am AOL SOL; 'nite.


Happy pills?

http://www.pharmacyseek.com/images/meds/prozac.jpgOr, How I Learned To Stop Worrying And, Um, Whatever. Hey Wanna Get Some Ice Cream?

God is a Chemical.


draft excerpt (for the homies in cell block D)

How does writing ever get done? I find no time, no time, and then suddenly too much time. As soon as I can do whatever I like, of course, I'm supposed to should shall will write... but I can live without ever gracing the pages of Zoetrope or Harpers. (NB character names=placeholders.)

6. Metastasis
Months before the trip signs of strain between Jack and Sarah grew into hieroglyphic billboards. Her tears would trickle down to the soft point of her chin, framing her sad lips as she told the story. Her friends were in a war of all against all, yet they stood phalanx against outsiders. A minor misunderstanding, backbiting, and injustice led to recrimination that lasted only until the next crisis. It was a regular occurrence; eminently predictable, only the characters changed from week to week. A codependent nunnery might run the same way, like Lord of the Flies with thirty Sylvia Plaths. Jack would hold his hands up at elbow level, lean in and feel the softness of her cashmere sweaters–the last time, a bit warm for Cinco De Mayo–as she clutched at his shirt. The wetness under her nose disappeared into his collar, and he would think about uselessness. The best thing to do, he'd decided, was to question himself about all the movies he had seen for her and figure out what to do that way.

He tried out some lines. When it was over, she didn't open her jaws in his presence for half a week. Like Junior High. Freshman year, in those days when Doc Martins were still a plausible footwear choice, and even the most serious of the baseball team, Jack included, knew the words of the imminant poet Kobain.

Any of her discomfort even slightly expressed sent chills of helplessness through him. We are taught now to be listeners, but Jack heard nothing, saw nothing, and spoke not a whit of his own frustration and anger. Months sleeping pajama-covered platonic. Nod at pauses in conversation, automatic from the eyesockets down as thought drifted to anything else, anything but the present. When did I trade half what I wanted for the other half? The lady and the whore? The friend or the sister? Fuck. The woman or the girl? Her emotions were all about him.

Then, they were just how he had wanted them to always be. They laughed together quietly after an absurdist German film, poking fun but for once not at each other. The intimacy of a fresh joke, the secret smile shared as she alluded to it again days later. The two of them in the kitchen, a bottle of wine. Chuckling over the overwrought sexuality of eating strawberries; the real heat that followed. Not love: play. On cool nights curling their limbs together and making the familiar mumuring sentimental sounds with dry quiet throats. Lying.

Sarah hated overland travel unless she could sing to the top volume of the car stereo with her music. She agreed to go with her eyes on his forehead while Jack glared while trying not to glare, saying, "I guess it sounds like fun."

"You'll love the desert."

"I do hate people."

"Me too. There's pretty much nobody out there. Northern Nevada, it might as well be the Moon."

"God, I hope so," she muttered.


Back from "vacay" bitches!

This is how you should look at it when I tell you in real life to "have a look at my blog" ha ha. Fully recovered and tearin' shizzle up this weekend. Do not fuck wif my whiskey!