Archive for August, 2012

The Red Pants Tightened My Heart


There was a lady
with immaculate black
ponytail. I eagerly looked
but not one hair was
disarranged. And not

simply the ponytail. It was
this soft, slick, shiny, furry,
perfect, oval jewel on her
pate. Society would dub
me creepo if I had chased

her, but her red pants
fit too perfectly and her spicy
white blouse exploded
roars of light too good
for this rotten neighborhood,

so I wanted to tag after
and listen to her tell me
about all of the good things
that have happened to her,
listen with glowing eyes

to her indefatigable beauty,
but I am no creepo, so here
I sit, dead and dumb.



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The Diagonal, the Evil Happy Canyon Road

Happy Canyon Road has been
running through the bisque of my brain,
and she has forks sticking out of her sides,
her assertions make it always summer, her
psychic wails cough out these compendious
moments, blistering my cells, for I love being alone,

but the empty vessels of terror that come
from loneliness are inexorably authored by
the raging blasts of distress from walking a road
where all who surround us have perished,
the vast emptiness of screaming through
seashells larger than coliseums,

struggling to remember blizzards,
trudging through the sands of ice spiking
cells of skin, bursting in agony, furious
at the last half-butt falling daintily through
inches of flakes ruining that last pleasure
which had been saved for that moment
when the digging had frustrated the blood
flow while it poisons the eyes and then the ears,

but she burns furiously, Happy Canyon blaring
without interruption, watching me sink into waves
of black pavement while longing to recapture moments
when I held Karen’s hand for so long, but
it never happened, and instead, the Doberman
runs at me, tearing my flesh to see the defective
cells as Happy Canyon laughs in vivid orange beats,

reaching, not far, stabbing countless parts of me
with her 18 fingers, not needing any of her thumbs
and slamming me violently on top of the street
light with the sharp pointed cross on top,
like a merciless funeral drum, never stopping,
not a bass drum, but sounding like
always beating me in my sleep,
never stopping, never stopping,
Happy Canyon, smiling in repose.


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Evading, Searching, Running from Enticing

Driving madness for no one,
to ruin my gentle salads,
running over the poor kids,
seeing a perfect body,
unfairly enticing,
making me want
to dance with her,
shrink her ego,
giving her room and freedom
to love.


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George Wants to Be

George wants to be
an artist
of some sort. He
wants to inspire
people to dig
deeply, find that
spiritual center,
and he wants
to do that with art,
not from a pulpit.

George cries
at home every night
because his day
was spent in deflation,
failing with spreadsheets, failing
to do the simple things.
Simple rules and
the people are ashamed,
cringing at his incompetence.

George wants to quit
like that director who went
off the bridge, but
George has no courage.
No courage, no wisdom,
no freedom, no intelligence,
and he only wants
the impossible.

God gave George
desire, but god loves
laughing at George,
his daily, wasteful
efforts at staying alive
without purpose,
inspiring brick blocks
and empty templates.


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House Rules


Smoke breaks
are a privilege
not a right.
And must be
by staff
if time permits.
Only one cigarette
per break. No lying down

or putting feet
on the furniture.
TV goes off
during lunch
and dinner
and twelve step meetings.

No drug and alcohol
and no

Only one helper
in the kitchen.
Do not close blinds.
Don’t spill drinks.
Eat candy slowly.

Respect staff
and each other.
No bumming
Cigarettes. Take

your medicine.



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The Compression of Invisible Shards of Prison Glass Within Our City

There are the days,
the sun, a heady furnace,
burgeoning lasers and storms
of white, frying me in a crouch,
as the charging knights on horses
of glass come round to crush our souls
while we earn a meager living, one
that certainly requires gratitude, but one
that requires imprisonment within the
towers of slick darkness reflecting the evils
of those we never see, of those who would
starve us of our grand purpose, who would
steal our grace, would have us grip the
carpeting, chewing plastic trucks
waiting for freedom that will never be
here in our canons of dark light,
longingly searching for anyone
who might comfort us in our
endless decline.



I was happy to be able to participate in Claudia’s hosting on impressionism at dVerse.

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My Turn, My Turn Was Electric, for a Moment

She can’t hear what I hear,
but a haunting bolt of lightning
of a glance bears terribly gentle
beauty, and I want to be in her
pockets, a warmth chilling her body,
walk with her in a rhythm from
the pink of clouds which reach down
and wrap me in a seemingly-permanent

state of safety, and my turn, my turn,
it made me connected, made me want
to run away forever and listen
to bedtime stories, true ones.


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Wanting, but not Wanting, to be the Dancing Man

Dancing man, middle of the city block,
not on the corner, middle, by the bus

stop, dancing, singing, yelling commands,
but when the buses come by, back off,

as if the buses are vicious octopuses,
left foot, right foot, and spinning,

not like a ballerina, but now shouting
instructions into the balloon that is 

his head, and I pull my hair, longing 
for the hospital to help the middle

street dancer, but I remember
my visits to the asylums, hating

the very good, the compassionate
people who do all that they can, 

hating them for drugs that seem
to silence the soul, knowing the shouting

soul is more damaging than the silent
one, and I want my own spot

in the asylum, not wanting to dance 
at the middle of the block, but to sit 

and watch the green of the world shoot
past, sitting in the adirondack, sipping

tea, feeling my vacuous worth, but 
knowing that I couldn’t survive 

the middle of the block, would be
destroyed by a slick, red octopus,

by a bus smothering my lungs, so I
grip, grip tight, pull my hair, watch

the dancer, not thankful for hanging
on, but hanging and gripping my desk,

waiting for this barbarous fever to
pass so that I might pass for a human.


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Suffering the Reds and Blues of the Breakfast Room

Most times, I’m not grown
enough to sit by god,
and I eat in the kitchen,
the breakfast room, plastic
plates, no knives, and god
cannot share his will with me,
my brain still frozen blue,
the mean boys stuffing me
inside the red romper room
ball with the tough round handle
on top, cackling at my
deadly future.

I see the service
dog, the beautiful
Shepard sitting patiently
with his mistress, she loving
him delicately, awarding him
for his perfection, and I
say I wish I could be you,
boy, for I know the beautiful,
the loved, sit in the dining room
and luxuriate in god’s
will, in god’s kingdom.


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