Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Day 16

sunset land cultivated,
grow rainbows- harvest drinking.
Alcohol or not, no farms
for older habits-
no framing pictures on
these walls. They are rough.
They aren't straight.
There is no sunset here.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012


So I skipped a bit more then a week. Sorry about that- But, I have been writing. I assure you that, and I guess I'm inclined to post the fruit of my efforts. It's really long. You've been warned. It's called the manifesto.

The Manifesto

pt. 1

Bloated and swift,
Stilltime acrobatics bend round troubled curves and bounce;
Deaf, dead, dense, and moving, forever in multiplied,
growing undertones, we remind teenage boys
that forked twicks of carefree lightening
cannot compensate for a lost,
pronounced lack of grace.
Bloated blue, the rabbits turn heads and stare, bouncing
on acrobatics again, bounding into Ford grills and tires-
rubble rousing
country roads in the nightnoon lamplight stretched with
elastic power-lines.
Quashed, the null enforced laws of practice
were soiled the soil of these long dead amber grounds,
with bars of lead and
blue and red sirens flash, paused and repeated
droned and sung like a madman's parade of
dripped ether and canary enchanted voiceboxed noblemen.

We got smashed like lifted lightening
on the November ground, clouds of kicked
meat bled red into some premature ejaculation of snow.
Carl Winter, that man of frost! Oh how he recited the funeral rites and biblical passages
of found homesteads sharpened to the bare ground
while rocks slung entered skulls and flipped a giant acrobat on his
clumsy head.

Rocks entered skulls like missiles and flipped our acrobat,
while he balanced on this willed high-wire to return Dandy's underground
nukes with merely a spirit dripping of candlewax and spit.

Half tuned lyres and benches
shot glares
and kicked dust at theologians who tried to accept
a certain point as absolute, while
Musked masked Rosa sang semen stained lullabies to sleeping teenagers
while mountains dried and fell apart-

Ingesting mushrooms to feel a throat in a face,
Ingesting tar to feel a buzz of concentration-
And Sleep did not extended a lul of passage to those awaked and
vulgarized, and honestly,
Rosa, the drowsy maiden, hasn't traced my
outline me in days.

Bit by beautiful bit we are destroyed- self destructed like
implosions of masked anarchy firebombing some
Berlin concert hall-
To feel a beautiful mind battered and fried in
some popped kernel, KFC breaded and ready to attack,
and to feel a generation overwhelmed by pseudo reality in which
all idols are synthetic and fated to feel as if they are universally fleeing.

In a proletariat hospital seven men expanded the concept of over and done,
and strung out with the spirits, Carl rose
only with the sun, living in some urban trench- he wrote,
"I miss home today, and in some
sexual interest and enterprise, I feel
held to the concept of tomorrow"

"To air!" the essence declared,
And in terms I'd never understand,
he declared a sonic philosophy of
airwaves and lifted new world orders
while the Devil melted a wax heart
in shards of fires fueled
by caches of bottled atmosphere and ATM withdrawals.
And soon, He, that unkind apparition, opened my bedroom
door and with long, scaly fingers,
clenched around my doorknob like
Death after three minutes and
opened my bedroom to his deeds.
He pried open my eyes
to feed me images of his malicious light.

pt 2.

Headlines, for you who eat a flittling!
Nifty and firting, seven overlaps of conscious were
Declared to quite insanely nulled sensical. Quashing
Severed mountains, he fell like a rabbit,
Mad, vlogged and swifted to bloat.
Cured Hitlers justified no good empty prisoners
and were promptly hung or fed cyanide thru containers
of neckled peacepipes.

Crazy, although, deep inside, a
scale collapses and does never level
hair greased with dyslexic desire
dies and scrambles in motorcycled combat.

Read it. Books
smoked salt to pavement while machines cut holes into
wrists. Give a bitch a movement,
rebel, lather, gleam and shim aimed to reduce, repeat-
and she'd want to famous
for tearing up a paper towel in distain.

Never make a wave, dear childish hands, for water
unreliably breaks and spurts. knocks wind out of thrones-
No casual theory- no importance, no great minds
would pull out of pajamas and face a world.
Nothing but pleasure could cure a teenage brain and
flashedfoward motion penned, constant scribbling to idols
or maxed words,
vainly split open for the inside of a candy bar for the hope of
some narrow future.

This bar's poet laureate,
stoned worsed tossed beat battered and spayed,
took some paid lessons from a man of God and
roads less traveled-
aiming to maximize efficiency while
traveling on broken bicycle tires to the epicenter of
down and out, stuttered and sprayed, he reached for
a payphone call to his scrounged home for meals.

A flight attendant makes a phone-call
and flutters an eyelash to duke of airborne,
carnal indulgences-

Paranoid and left behind she
falls asleep to sing song gospels and barbed words, tearing
saviors from the velcro dreams of fisheyes,
cut and bled for God
in some parted center.
Obvious, she muttered, obvious-
marked blue for slaughter and withdrawn, wooden nails lapped
for breakfast lunch or dinner-

carrot flowers poke through the top
of a hill, grass burned brown from sunshine
against the backdrop of some hard sun,
while all the local rabbits hold and swing
forks of dried tar from
the nearby pits,
as Koi fish float,
asphyxiated and writ
to the sludge furnace that is the top of the
electric owlets hoot howls, perched on the wooden plateaus
built to burn grease
in the attics of some wildlife preserved in books,
given to extinction gift-wrapped, for the sake of building
progressive business-

turn your head 360 degrees

Not malformed and misrepresented,
B.K lounged and Wendy sat on a ketchup packet,
while many miles away someone loved a shifted
proletariat girl on a painted blue park-bench-

360, back to start

kept from falling, a redhead plumber
ate chinese food from the bed
of his pickup and would
have loved to smoke a cigarette-
"I would have loved to do it," he said,
"but god has yet to craft people so small,
as to fit comfortably in such a pipe-"

Love you, everyone! So good to me, love you too!
I thought I'd not want to so opposed to sleeping-

Blicked down to black patios, khakied old men spent
hours eating dried culture and fast walkers,
speaking of old times disappeared into air
like sawdust memories.

One such elder
struck at Art with his blue upholstered cane,
capitalizing on his bottled frustration
that bubbled from infancy,
inflated from delayed flights and skipped songs
or halftuned pianostrings that strangled halfloved brides-
Confronted and ashamed, no words in my mouth but
harsh shouts and condemnations,
he mutters some busy apology,
rubs the bust of Aphrodite
and smashes her plastered spine
against the top of this tarred interstate.

Not long to say ungoodbye and bad morning
with no such song daunted by a roseate sleep,
snow comes to growl
in his limited white vocabulary-
Attack! Attack or die! We are too deep for god, too deep for passion,
spawned in the crags of submerged rock
where the loaded harpoons glitter in the bloody folds
of some whaled skin-
leap, jump the gap or feel a chest under rock!
Crush skulls under some lipping tide!
Attack! Attack or die, see or remain blind!
Manifest! Expand!

Flat waltz off a globed circle,
pace round some papered world,
I'll be at the center of your footsteps,
wishing I never existed.
I could do nothing better than bathmats
and preying hawks that dance round the tops of palm tree fringes,
flittered in terms of dead sidewalk garden-snakes.

pt 3

Comfortable constables sat on
cigar chairs, hardwood working
with portable kindles and firewood zapped,
alight and arrested from a falling everything.
Dog eared and dugout, some special spectral spirit
lay like a coffin, inert in the company of god and
clinical poisons.

He lost a suitcase and literature was changed forever.
She slipped a cigarette and burned down a barn, while the
naked absurdities of man were made electronic-
The day she died, buses were fishlipped and flipped
into fiery rains.

We realized, kissing under the moon on her front-lawn,
that we all will lay inside sawdust forever.
Remind me, once, would you?
Today is not a special day.
Today is no tour-de-force wreckingball.
Today is an existential crisis,
shifting halfway towards tomorrow in some infinite limbo,
always under God and always changing focus.

Crouch on air before you fall, will you?

A 757 breaks the billowed crowns of
reupholstered clouding,
the top of some miracle seen through a Coca-cola
eyeglass, the pyramid prisms of
alcoholic perception blurred.
Knifeman said, in song,
Don't murder me, but come on in-
everything is perfect, once again.
For favours, knives, all fucked and shamed-
we await the fevers for our names, and long ago
in concert halls and wooden theaters,
I talked of that famous napkin.
Now, now we talk of a renaissance while
tracked and cultured cancers search
for burial rinds and epithets.

Movement is constant.
Life is temporary.
Nothing ever stops.

Some cleaned runway pushed snow into
gentle side pockets.
Never run easy,
sweated pigs shaking from turbulence-
I have a pistol for a brain.
I shatter mirrors in abstract violence,
I am a passenger.

Automatically brought to knees,
I felt sized and alive with each placemat found-
Acid tipped and lipped with water,
chased down perception and time lapses,
bottled or glassed necessity providing.
I'd snub you out if I could light you up.
I'd write a poem for the cost of blood and pirates
smoked and shown
in a menagerie of fucks not given,
worn like trophies
and paraded to a crowd of
17 in some unincorporated township.

Sweet liberty! Sweet blood! Take up arms,
o'billowed energy,
how you rise,
pulled like a handkerchief
from some pocket's corner.
Life after death, or death during life?

Never stop, oh spraypaint idol,
never cease 'till you read the burned pages 80 years later.
In high school, when the appeal of cyanide suicide
was debated with a democratic boy named Connor,
he said he didn't want to die,
but no street would mind if he did or didn't
jump the rope-

Bloated and swift,
today chokes on the dregs of yesterday.
Nothing was made for us, anyway.
Nothing was made for you or me.
Today is not a special day.
Today was not made for me.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

silly ambassadors shout obscenities to frozen lilacs and green eyes,
while we guzzle bottles of red wine,
labels coated with rolling papers
and freezers opened to
half eaten gallons of ice-cream,

we don't sleep, we chant, still awake to count the strands of darkness
as we pass gladly beyond pure minds and into convolution

Saturday, February 11, 2012

Day 14

Broken arms and skinny legs,
sad daughters frightened, stay pegged
by the rising tide.
Laced with leaping apparatus of darkened hide,
flashlights shine down
to those starlets who jumped and died.

A broken wife depressed
from some broken loss of faith,
Waters petunias
in some sunny garden, half open gate
left ajar for fear of disgrace

what a peculiar way to end this silly day-

For someone more, we pray for less
Some kind of savior who jumps and spins, I guess
the thought is just as unkind as all the rest;
the sawdust does not matter.

Friday, February 10, 2012

day 13

This hat will fall every-time time I look to
the ends of dorm room memories
tipping hats to cracked beers and cracked
that would fall apart when provoked to
feel differently.
And i'm sorry,
but it's time to shut down
so finish your wine
and leave for somewhere else.

day 12

I apologize. I had this written on day twelve but had no access to a computer.
Hardball apologetics pray to gods of sunshine
while drunken priests eat words of therapy to
likewise messed preps who shake cigarettes for
the threat of stupor and
rousing flags of rebellions

whatever the teenage do when they dream
is painful,

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

day 11

For eastern winds that blow,
for echoed plateaus of risen snow-
life is everywhere,
simplicity is golden

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

day 10

A gently tilted day is not much to awake for,
for if pushed to the side,
none would like to half-ass a triumph.

No knees would like, in a particular sense, to
bounce about and walk as if mimicking a pinball;
falling, pushed from bumper
bunker to bunker with flashing
neon scorecards and chiming audiotags-
points for concrete bounding-
points for breaking urban bondage
in terms of city blocks with freezertinged
homeless haired vagrants screaming,
admittedly, they are past due, but only
half late and are, as it turns to be,
three terrible mistakes down the road from relative success

An alarm, half ignored and fully basic,
sounds for hours, scribbling in appropriately low tech
notebooks that would gladly scribe humanities'
cruel secrets in the margins and log, in
perfection, the way in which
several sleeping students should awake,
like a long walk home from some metaphysical afterparty
in the dark to arrive at a flicked light,
eventually falling asleep to the humming mechanics of
the wistful thoughts that pertain to freezing to death.

Red eyes, half black, drawn tight and forced,
sunshine stains the shades in an attempt to
hide the daytime from nasty nighttime sins
while all young buck against the flow to
perpetrate errs. Articulating an ignored passion inbetween
stories of vicious
vicariously living through empty
cyber skeletons, I
attempt to carve some simple life into
these half awake forever bones-
for even some self destruction may suite me,
jumpstart waking up. In sleep I walk the dead halls
where religion becomes folklore, where these days become
history, where vacuums steal virtue and significance from
those who passed mildly into some fair unbecoming:

For every tilted day will cease to be.
Every artificial moment will die,
and transform, rebirth to clouds of
alien skies and organic manipulations in some dimension-

For every pinball game played
mayn’t be won, but in terms
of bondage, when the game ends
the chains break-
when the basics implode, explode, magnify,
and loop around to pat God’s back,
perhaps our specks would be to small
to be recognized by the impending nothingness.
Perhaps we’ll hide in some cosmic corner to disappear like
crumbs in the darkness.

And no joker, big, small, or beheaded shall
play me the fool,
unless every gently tilted day
lies, speaking in generic hostility.
Urge the several
hallucinations out of hiding and coax them
to become tangible, No
Nothing studied or calculated-
everything Alien and beautiful,
no stars, no moon,
all perception.

Monday, February 6, 2012

Day 9

Do not forsake wind,
or snow that crests the ground-
for in empty beauty
this life is realized and found.

Several hours later,
bibles clutched to chest,
we sing of rocks and seasides
we sing of the life kept
neatly in our heads.

Sunday, February 5, 2012

Day 8

Why not slap some DNA into her and make her more organic?
Because, you know, each and every one of us
could be dinosaurs someday, colossal, empty bones underneath
layers of soil,
landscapes in some alien world carved
entirely separate.

So why not have some fun while it lasts?
Because the ends of things
bring alien worlds to a tangible paradox,
unknown colours shed
some fingers to this perceptive universe.

And humanity, no river sweeps over the same dam twice when it all goes
to hell and
and no prescribed or doctored
mannerism could prepare you
for that moment
when your face twitches at the
thought of becoming sour,

tweaks at the
mere thought of becoming worn bones
or silvered and rectified in some corporeal attachment.

Saturday, February 4, 2012

Day 7

and in the smallest mornings,
with red tips streaked across a loved sky
i dream of you in the wide strokes
measured by a colored intelligence,
while He, the same,
paints the future dot to dot, and universe to universe, with
thin black lines connecting souls to bodies,
shells to await displaced substance,
while thick spirits transcendental of smaller thoughts
touch corporeal beings and lul them to a fine-tuned slumber.

I dream of you because you are gentle,
and fragile
and lovely.

I could cup you in my palm
and protect
painted bones,
project these skinny hands
from ever faulting-
I could dream a million dreams, and miss you no less.
I could see your eyes a thousand times
through photographs and

you could be a sun to me, and warm my bones,
but then I could not look in your eyes.
Still, I would. I’d gladly go blind
for you,
and crushed powder refined to sprinkle over iced wounds
and open the stems of closed hearts,
heat the chill of forgotten want-
gladly, I would go blind.

Friday, February 3, 2012

Day 6

wouldn’t you rather sink sometimes,
darken down deep roads and
gain black tinged dreams with every
pulse of life? To sleep and gradually gain
sight, like colour dripped, filtered, smeared, and feared
trickled down
to sightless creatures,
beautiful, made of shadows
and thirsty for nothing?

Of course bottles emptied would help you
and of course
would be enhanced by
smoked guns and
sandy chambers,
cracked and emptied into
store windows and grey
apartments- Like officers of the law, we sit in silence and
all the candlelit crimes the emptiness perpetrates,
skewed and bearded his smile is a
kaleidoscope built from plastic
paper, constructed in classrooms and brought to life in
tossed slumbers, and the worst thing is he doesn’t exist.
but he figured he wouldn’t like to sink all the time,
but the times he was real he wanted to be
artificial, and whenever
he shot synthetic plastic into his
head he nearly died, crumpled like a standup doll
against pillars-

caught in a flux, drowned and sunk in nothing

Thursday, February 2, 2012

day 5

Nobody could have prevented the downfall of the urchin,
the downfall of this slick enterprise;
broken now it hangs half-detached, soon to fall to a shattered reality.
The excuse is
uttered in the low, vibrating notes of the
civil, kind scratch of some slow song
played on looping values
and echoed in dead testaments to broken tablets,
cracked and misused.
A thought is a thought, even if mislead;
and silence is empty spare the knowledge of self-
while we talk, these empty walls decide
that there are worse things we could always
be doing. And better things we
could forget to do.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Day 4

Our hero was tossed in a gutter
with fourty pounds of latex face paint.
When it rained, the paint ran amoung
the water like it was seeping through some
cracks, and carried by force, the two, combined,
moved through the sewers and painted
the underbelly of our cruel city red.

Meanwhile, among garbage bins, a man with an
abstract, almost bending smile
sniffed sawdust from
the cracks in the brick while
a woman with a black umbrella
and ruffled feathers
gawked in disgust
as she pushed her
stroller carriage faster still-

those who do not obey or
understand the vermin

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Day 3

We fade like shadows
cast once upon the midnight snow.
For no sun could produce
such artificial beauty alongside
the dark places where such
pretty young things break.

Lamplight moons will forever
illuminate fresh fallen white,
so soon to melt into the
sunken cold of wet ground.

And no willed conversation to a doomed man
could give the night a tangible thought of day.

We fade likes shadows cast prematurely,
without thought, once upon some midnight snow.
Soon to regret in the context of
some simple, sunrise, melting morning.

Monday, January 30, 2012

Day 2

Silence now, forever moving
bodies of electric currents
sparked in ebbs of dying silence
now is forever.

For those poor men who lie in flames
to die is just another game.
Played for those who live in silence.

And for the second day I feel
a insecurity tangible, real.
For those who meld in melting times-
for those who live, those who die-
For life is but an endless dream
and we shall
fade like shadows cast
upon the

Sunday, January 29, 2012

Day 1

This is
For those who dream of landscapes.
For those who dream of
low, rolling hills,
crests of tanned leather earth,
cracked by the abuse of hard rays
unfiltered, unadulterated.

Pilgrims search for water, screaming
for some retribution or replenishment,
While my mind trades the golden exploration of sleep
for the terror of a starving voice-

And sweeping movements of sand
carry thoughts away to end and rest-
If one would change, he’d
be a strand, a grain set to move
against the flow- one grain in all
to cause an improbable shift of consciousness-
one shift to cause an avalanche, one drop
to cause a flood, and as if god was merely a
journey upwards, logic bends and cracks to point,
and science would not obey the
laws of empty chambers
and the angst of dying physics.

In a reality contained within infinite shells, hard,
baked solid by the desert sun,
we fall, slowly, to dust as these sawdust years
pass like mirage faded in perception.

I search for words to describe the
euphoria that moonlit evening when
I lifted-
but, I was scared. Something was
pulled like a handkerchief from my
inner, and I lay comatose while
visions harshly divided and I saw Him-
In some energy, red and billowing-
and I did not deserve to feast upon Him-

And forever parched and bleeding,
throats sore from endless screaming-
No hell, but those who never cease for seeking-
And for those who dream of dreamscapes, high and rising-
for those good men who fell from heights of lightening-
I despise those thoughts so frightening, but
who I am I to err for visions uninviting-
And several costs and bills paid later
I had a love but now I hate her-
For fear of loss, I’ll remain a savior
a synthetic instrument played much later-
And for those asleep, awake or dreaming
there's nothing more to feel-

must be more to feel