abandoned senses (for Olena on the way to Tahoe, Spring 09)
in the back they are collecting bullets so do you really want to talk
about love? when a bee is on my chin
should I not mind it? shall I let
the pretty water sink my boat?
learn something for me for once
will you? A tent inside the barn
may be just what you need.
the bull shakes the snow off its back.
Yes, it's meat is nice to eat.
No, it's not a snowstorm.
All this explaining exhausts me.
I'll be leaving some traps in the forest.
Do come admire the trees.
about love? when a bee is on my chin
should I not mind it? shall I let
the pretty water sink my boat?
learn something for me for once
will you? A tent inside the barn
may be just what you need.
the bull shakes the snow off its back.
Yes, it's meat is nice to eat.
No, it's not a snowstorm.
All this explaining exhausts me.
I'll be leaving some traps in the forest.
Do come admire the trees.
{cincinnati/7hills/like rome} a unit of Jesus:
this town empties, leaving me drained, standing on the dock, waving 'bye-bye', the white handkerchief stuck in my throat.
you know the way Jesus
rips open his shirt
to show us his heart, all flaming, thorny & shit,
the way he points to it. I am afraid
the way I miss you
will be this obvious. I have
a friend who everyone warns me
is dangerous, he hides
bloody images of Jesus around my house
for me to find when I come home--Jesus
behind the cupboard door, Jesus tucked
into the mirror. He wants to save me
but we disagree from what. My version of hell
is someone ripping open their shirt & saying,
lookwhatIdidforyou.
you know the way Jesus
rips open his shirt
to show us his heart, all flaming, thorny & shit,
the way he points to it. I am afraid
the way I miss you
will be this obvious. I have
a friend who everyone warns me
is dangerous, he hides
bloody images of Jesus around my house
for me to find when I come home--Jesus
behind the cupboard door, Jesus tucked
into the mirror. He wants to save me
but we disagree from what. My version of hell
is someone ripping open their shirt & saying,
lookwhatIdidforyou.
elephant (12-24-08)
how to explain my heroic courtesy? I feel that my body was inflated by a mischievous boy.
I was the size of a falcon, the size of a lion, once I was not the elephant I find I am.
my keeper scolds me for my botched trick...I practiced it all last night in my tent, so I was somewhat sleepy.
people, connect me with sadness, and often rationally so...matthew barney compares me to wallace stevens.
anyone so ceremonious suffers breakdowns. I do not like the spectacular experiments with balance, the high-wire act and cones.
we elephants are images of humanity, as when we undertake our migrations to die.
did you know, though, that elephants were taught to write the Greek alphabet with their hooves?
worn out by suffering, we lie on our great backs, tossing grass up to heaven--as a distraction, not a prayer.
thats not humility you see, on our long journeys: it's total procrastination.
I was the size of a falcon, the size of a lion, once I was not the elephant I find I am.
my keeper scolds me for my botched trick...I practiced it all last night in my tent, so I was somewhat sleepy.
people, connect me with sadness, and often rationally so...matthew barney compares me to wallace stevens.
anyone so ceremonious suffers breakdowns. I do not like the spectacular experiments with balance, the high-wire act and cones.
we elephants are images of humanity, as when we undertake our migrations to die.
did you know, though, that elephants were taught to write the Greek alphabet with their hooves?
worn out by suffering, we lie on our great backs, tossing grass up to heaven--as a distraction, not a prayer.
thats not humility you see, on our long journeys: it's total procrastination.
with this change to indoor lighting,
with this new 'prescription', your eyes have become pools of oil in the back field the century before kitchen appliances
were invented, before the sky seeped turquoise like something withdrawn, before spy satellites stapled down the horizon.
Now the air smells of steak, after shave and gasoline, like my fathers slow slide into his newly formed uniform, a teenage lion dripping in the back of my mind.
The woman selling freedom disguised as coffee, is a secret outlaw--the fucker cuts herself for decoration--
thousands of tiny mayflies at her writs.
unmoved by the trend of punk teenagers and designer dogs, she percolates the end of the world in her ipod.
she is a liquid lioness without teeth, she is a photograph of herself, an empty theatre showing the summer blockbuster.
Her wounds are healing into minarets of crayon, into curling iron burns.
In this light my skin is the color of honey, jars of old beer.
When I was sixteen, my father built a disco in the basement
with speakers that flashed lights the color of grenadine, maraschino cherries, saffron and peaked ginger.
while in my mother's ash-like kitchen, a bowl of oranges
covers itself with a murky green and light grey shawl. The one you used to wear on very cold days. The one that covered
your breasts while we made love on the floor.
"It is not difficult to understand why women over the centuries mixed their own medicines," she says as she takes off her slick cowboy boots.
Why not kiss me for real, as if for the first time?
Why not write me an opera? I am sick of carpentry
and that tattoo of the constellations under your arm. But not really.
Let's make
ourselves famous
or else get drunk. If you want, you can find me
sitting on the frozen city center fountain in my 19th century skater clothes,
thinking of your Judy Jetson hair,
howling as my dog, dutiful as a warehouse full of looms, chomps at the memory...
were invented, before the sky seeped turquoise like something withdrawn, before spy satellites stapled down the horizon.
Now the air smells of steak, after shave and gasoline, like my fathers slow slide into his newly formed uniform, a teenage lion dripping in the back of my mind.
The woman selling freedom disguised as coffee, is a secret outlaw--the fucker cuts herself for decoration--
thousands of tiny mayflies at her writs.
unmoved by the trend of punk teenagers and designer dogs, she percolates the end of the world in her ipod.
she is a liquid lioness without teeth, she is a photograph of herself, an empty theatre showing the summer blockbuster.
Her wounds are healing into minarets of crayon, into curling iron burns.
In this light my skin is the color of honey, jars of old beer.
When I was sixteen, my father built a disco in the basement
with speakers that flashed lights the color of grenadine, maraschino cherries, saffron and peaked ginger.
while in my mother's ash-like kitchen, a bowl of oranges
covers itself with a murky green and light grey shawl. The one you used to wear on very cold days. The one that covered
your breasts while we made love on the floor.
"It is not difficult to understand why women over the centuries mixed their own medicines," she says as she takes off her slick cowboy boots.
Why not kiss me for real, as if for the first time?
Why not write me an opera? I am sick of carpentry
and that tattoo of the constellations under your arm. But not really.
Let's make
ourselves famous
or else get drunk. If you want, you can find me
sitting on the frozen city center fountain in my 19th century skater clothes,
thinking of your Judy Jetson hair,
howling as my dog, dutiful as a warehouse full of looms, chomps at the memory...
formostofit,Ihavenowords
I lost an ability I never had.
sipping aged coffee and speaking to my dead relatives in far removed babble.
latent images, and my indented skin, I fan flames to a new lover.
smitten, we carve our initials into each other and play heavy metal and country western LP's backwards. I'm assuming we're looking for the highest merit badge or a muni bus ticket. I catch my reflection in a mirror as I pass, I don't recognize the cowboy outfit that I am wearing while I sing sadly with my sunglasses on.
I remember seeing my grandfather laying in his coffin. he was breathing in my head.
I fogged his photograph in retrofitted memory.
sipping aged coffee and speaking to my dead relatives in far removed babble.
latent images, and my indented skin, I fan flames to a new lover.
smitten, we carve our initials into each other and play heavy metal and country western LP's backwards. I'm assuming we're looking for the highest merit badge or a muni bus ticket. I catch my reflection in a mirror as I pass, I don't recognize the cowboy outfit that I am wearing while I sing sadly with my sunglasses on.
I remember seeing my grandfather laying in his coffin. he was breathing in my head.
I fogged his photograph in retrofitted memory.
we blink
no matter what you say, no matter where the edge comes off, the complication is a long white egg, stuffed with radiation.
hubris follows a white puppy and is shocked as the puppy morphs from horse to buffalo in a matter of blinks.
humility is pumped in at daybreak, a couple pumps for breakfast, a couple more at tea, just to equalize internal running patterns, just to take the edge off.
the limp, now feel blood. somehow, the back of photographs have become more interesting than the emulsion itself, the vessel in which the hippocampus seals. skulls, muting the memories.
hubris follows a white puppy and is shocked as the puppy morphs from horse to buffalo in a matter of blinks.
humility is pumped in at daybreak, a couple pumps for breakfast, a couple more at tea, just to equalize internal running patterns, just to take the edge off.
the limp, now feel blood. somehow, the back of photographs have become more interesting than the emulsion itself, the vessel in which the hippocampus seals. skulls, muting the memories.
Llandudno
you press your choices into the streets from your feet, the salt licking
the manifest from an open window. each thought hurls the morning greek dew
from light...
your new lover still naked in bed
the white curtain stalking him
...and you wonder why I died in your reflections.
we get to be alone by time and luck. we die by mechanics. our chests heave with thick air and line up for recess.
you speak to your insides as you walk by the Liddell house...negative space helps you build up the voice to call humanity...gives you directions for how to mate the black and white buried in my ribs...and now there is this distance...
the manifest from an open window. each thought hurls the morning greek dew
from light...
your new lover still naked in bed
the white curtain stalking him
...and you wonder why I died in your reflections.
we get to be alone by time and luck. we die by mechanics. our chests heave with thick air and line up for recess.
you speak to your insides as you walk by the Liddell house...negative space helps you build up the voice to call humanity...gives you directions for how to mate the black and white buried in my ribs...and now there is this distance...
laughing with a mouth of blood
what point in the night did we end our panic on Paris? I remember the dizzy dance numbers, measured inside the parks and down the late night aisles of the low lit french super market...making sucking noises like Maggie from The Simpsons.
we stumbled across teenagers yelling at their lovers and at their own genitals...wrecked, they balloon in the subways...shaking coins from their mouths. in the morning they wake, probably by the side of some railroad tracks, only donning last nights underware with handfuls of scorpions...a song placed on repeat from a disc man, pumping with sex drive.
I stumble back into my own life, t minus drunk with some seconds remaining, throwing ice from my glass at the patrons as my black and white suit swallows my body. it is here that I realize that my grandfather has made it back to the bar...he stares at me with lost love.
we stumbled across teenagers yelling at their lovers and at their own genitals...wrecked, they balloon in the subways...shaking coins from their mouths. in the morning they wake, probably by the side of some railroad tracks, only donning last nights underware with handfuls of scorpions...a song placed on repeat from a disc man, pumping with sex drive.
I stumble back into my own life, t minus drunk with some seconds remaining, throwing ice from my glass at the patrons as my black and white suit swallows my body. it is here that I realize that my grandfather has made it back to the bar...he stares at me with lost love.
BAT
crushed to bone basic form...minced memories sink into a hipsters bloody gums. I watch her as she takes the second dose of the day, flying around the booth in some mile high dinner, grass stains on her jeans. her purse is filled with legos. my hip has a holster. I sit at the coffee shop and the little waitress drops a note on my table...folded, as though it is a big secret...it reads, 'go fuck yourself.' I chuckle at the note as it is an obvious flirtation. too many notes on memory these days...too much blood. such silent speech overflows from the table next to mine, lego noises. the colorado sun light riding on my coat tails...a parade passes, "god loves a parade," the all of a sudden 'cook turned sniper' in the back yells. a bus passes and an armored car. gotta love a break up happening across the shop...she just slapped him. legos everywhere. she's crying. I wish I could catch one of those tears...better yet, one of those legos.
Book
I want the scissors to be sharp and the table perfectly level,
when you cut me out of my life
and paste me into that sketch book you always carry around.
when you cut me out of my life
and paste me into that sketch book you always carry around.
silence passes the gates of tripoli
waking up to the house alarm, static on the tv. patterns. ghosts. It's play time.
honey tourniquet in sequenced cowboy moves...outfits layed out on the bed from the night before...never got to leave.
dear shadows: one morning I wear staggered sight without anyone dear to me.
dear shadow, alive and well, I die in reverb. never reached the frontier. a collection of silver knives.
memory is silent, light repeating it's placement from the past three weeks...held so tight.
the first step into Tripoli was the hardest because I was scared...
reconnaissance has only yielded the stitching in my garb. As always.
honey tourniquet in sequenced cowboy moves...outfits layed out on the bed from the night before...never got to leave.
dear shadows: one morning I wear staggered sight without anyone dear to me.
dear shadow, alive and well, I die in reverb. never reached the frontier. a collection of silver knives.
memory is silent, light repeating it's placement from the past three weeks...held so tight.
the first step into Tripoli was the hardest because I was scared...
reconnaissance has only yielded the stitching in my garb. As always.
μέσα στο χάρτη σου (into your map)
we are binary star systems waiting to hop on a motorcycle. please get your map...the length of time required is measured in parsecs, arcseconds, flimsy toss out shit...like my mouth overdried in seedless sands of some beach in my version of Xibalba.
my heart keeps beating, it likes to, so it continues...no matter how much it annoys me or what Hagakure says...do you know that you have a cute way of flirting too? Trouble. capital T. them there eyes reading the minutes, seconds and declination of the fastest way into me.
I want bells and soft music, like the end of an old movie, with hideous voices that once sounded of rings around the infinite, the folding of time to meet the shortest points. Turning toward the Astron, at the southern cross, the myopsis singing in our eyes, drifting filaments of salve. Onto your roof, Gisoli playing loudly from the stereo...the window open...the water running...the shutter open...stars in padmasana.
my heart keeps beating, it likes to, so it continues...no matter how much it annoys me or what Hagakure says...do you know that you have a cute way of flirting too? Trouble. capital T. them there eyes reading the minutes, seconds and declination of the fastest way into me.
I want bells and soft music, like the end of an old movie, with hideous voices that once sounded of rings around the infinite, the folding of time to meet the shortest points. Turning toward the Astron, at the southern cross, the myopsis singing in our eyes, drifting filaments of salve. Onto your roof, Gisoli playing loudly from the stereo...the window open...the water running...the shutter open...stars in padmasana.
Ljusan Dag (light of day)
1.0
my new accouterments consist of coffee cups, stained (mind you), a cellular device (non-cancer causing), a sketch book (yes, with a pen), my dirty scratched glasses, an SX-70 Polaroid Camera, some new teeth and a smile you couldn't give over to a priest upon hearing god's squeal.
you thumb your cellular device somewhere. the lone texture and shape, stuck. flicking the plastic shell, the phone never rings...and you sigh with a heavy scarf.
1.2
I roam the bookshelves. hoping to discover your voice in the pages, over and over, if I could recreate you in this media, I would.
1.3
how do all the thoughts we share get to alpha centrauri? aren't there traffic jams and pent up bullshit blocking the path? tonight, look to the east/south east to see the meteor showers...the returns from our dropped calls, sunk in Bill Withers drink. It is not warm when she is away. "ain't no sunshine."
1.4
gone too long in the wave of your hands, how they dip when you read your stories. the light of day playing Billy Holiday, shooting from the hip, taking hearts from the lord and hiding them in some Jarmusch film. giggle giggle.
1.5
"do not become a JPEG," I say! simply cover my hands with yours, warm them up. let me know you care. play iron maiden really loud and jam out in front of the mirror. let the sun fall. don't plant seeds in me...the doctor is going to do that anyway she chooses at the end of October.
my new accouterments consist of coffee cups, stained (mind you), a cellular device (non-cancer causing), a sketch book (yes, with a pen), my dirty scratched glasses, an SX-70 Polaroid Camera, some new teeth and a smile you couldn't give over to a priest upon hearing god's squeal.
you thumb your cellular device somewhere. the lone texture and shape, stuck. flicking the plastic shell, the phone never rings...and you sigh with a heavy scarf.
1.2
I roam the bookshelves. hoping to discover your voice in the pages, over and over, if I could recreate you in this media, I would.
1.3
how do all the thoughts we share get to alpha centrauri? aren't there traffic jams and pent up bullshit blocking the path? tonight, look to the east/south east to see the meteor showers...the returns from our dropped calls, sunk in Bill Withers drink. It is not warm when she is away. "ain't no sunshine."
1.4
gone too long in the wave of your hands, how they dip when you read your stories. the light of day playing Billy Holiday, shooting from the hip, taking hearts from the lord and hiding them in some Jarmusch film. giggle giggle.
1.5
"do not become a JPEG," I say! simply cover my hands with yours, warm them up. let me know you care. play iron maiden really loud and jam out in front of the mirror. let the sun fall. don't plant seeds in me...the doctor is going to do that anyway she chooses at the end of October.
Evil
lighthouse keeping is harder than good housekeeping, evil thrown into the mix.
the porcelain needle on the sink, dripping god's fluid
back into my throat. this is the waxing and waning. guilt-ish figures move heavy blocks,
tickling sensations.
Oh, the dead brothers!
I handle the long keys with a quick rinse, setting down on the moon. we go five times a fucking week!...how can you handle it?
the old man, by the stone wall, peeling his skin to show you the healed bone fracture, not really healed, just coagulated. loved on polaroids too long.
I am such a good rabbit.
I am such a good rabbit.
the porcelain needle on the sink, dripping god's fluid
back into my throat. this is the waxing and waning. guilt-ish figures move heavy blocks,
tickling sensations.
Oh, the dead brothers!
I handle the long keys with a quick rinse, setting down on the moon. we go five times a fucking week!...how can you handle it?
the old man, by the stone wall, peeling his skin to show you the healed bone fracture, not really healed, just coagulated. loved on polaroids too long.
I am such a good rabbit.
I am such a good rabbit.
recoiled under the leaves, with a white rash
I.
you came through with a "second star to the right and straight on toward morning" name,
white sheets with yellow retro flowers, holding patterns that mimic air traffic over chicago, the same stillness and lights are my heart beat.
I listen to the dim numbness at night and imagine the roar of broken things that this world has forgotten. I put a record on, so that people know that I am home. and I wait.
the mail slot catching the wind, banging soft codes to tell me no one is coming. the lights from passing cars, all false.
I have your alternative rocks, compressed in my own hands...the difference is a miracle, time flying in your eyes.
II.
you scream the terrors of mirrored history, keeping your body in metal. there is water on our finger prints, on the tip of your quill.
III.
I tap morris code in our future kitchen. the boy on a tricycle, your redish rose dress, full on your figure, the light drifting through your windows...you're at the desk writing. I hear my name, the boy races in, knicks your heel and you smile in pain...the dog coming to see if you're okay.
IV.
I have slept next to you in the stars, in the pinholes, for many lives. all records are recorded live. even played backwards, they say enchanted volumes of sleep and forgotten texts.
you came through with a "second star to the right and straight on toward morning" name,
white sheets with yellow retro flowers, holding patterns that mimic air traffic over chicago, the same stillness and lights are my heart beat.
I listen to the dim numbness at night and imagine the roar of broken things that this world has forgotten. I put a record on, so that people know that I am home. and I wait.
the mail slot catching the wind, banging soft codes to tell me no one is coming. the lights from passing cars, all false.
I have your alternative rocks, compressed in my own hands...the difference is a miracle, time flying in your eyes.
II.
you scream the terrors of mirrored history, keeping your body in metal. there is water on our finger prints, on the tip of your quill.
III.
I tap morris code in our future kitchen. the boy on a tricycle, your redish rose dress, full on your figure, the light drifting through your windows...you're at the desk writing. I hear my name, the boy races in, knicks your heel and you smile in pain...the dog coming to see if you're okay.
IV.
I have slept next to you in the stars, in the pinholes, for many lives. all records are recorded live. even played backwards, they say enchanted volumes of sleep and forgotten texts.
alleverythingthatisyou
Residue...what we leave on each other, on our memories, on our everything.
The issue is, what we decide to rub/wash off and who's prints we let stay. It is these beautiful markings that make impacts on our choices...on our love...on our mission (hold your fire)
The issue is, what we decide to rub/wash off and who's prints we let stay. It is these beautiful markings that make impacts on our choices...on our love...on our mission (hold your fire)
saint
we brush the wind and run down to the water, my incisions speak heat, easily.
and there is no need to make the sound that our cities' ping pong, behind a saint, tall and lit from chicago.
the praised paper and batteries, sent thru your closeness and willingness to breathe so sleepy, afraid to miss one of my thoughts if you dozed...
so I built up thunderheads in my stomach and branch them thru the cross wires to make one totem, to make myself a crown. cauterized in each direction you shared, your open words read in-car, loosen timed miles. my hands on the wheel.
the radio static followed us. in and out of the moon. the imaginary language, the radiation, the brake pedal and the floor:
some where over the newly synched rainbow.
and there is no need to make the sound that our cities' ping pong, behind a saint, tall and lit from chicago.
the praised paper and batteries, sent thru your closeness and willingness to breathe so sleepy, afraid to miss one of my thoughts if you dozed...
so I built up thunderheads in my stomach and branch them thru the cross wires to make one totem, to make myself a crown. cauterized in each direction you shared, your open words read in-car, loosen timed miles. my hands on the wheel.
the radio static followed us. in and out of the moon. the imaginary language, the radiation, the brake pedal and the floor:
some where over the newly synched rainbow.
Marquesas, filled in. driveable.
I.
larger voices sail the world. the keel is the absence of breath in my grandmothers anesthetic toned kiss.
everyone survives being bested.
the water line erases above one hundred and you run and run to come crest fallen, only to endure a dance in my living room.
the light from the TV, the ambient quest.
II.
I push into the trades, killing the downhill run, the water is as light as your morning spit. in noisy bars I call you. hoping you answer, just once...as to not forget the sound of your rotating tongue.
III.
I have taken to the helm of the downeaster. set the flags to flames back to fire and dive the winds into my small truths. It was just as in The Sacrifice, where the craze go to heat up their actions and all the gifts lay strewn in dead fucked mud.
larger voices sail the world. the keel is the absence of breath in my grandmothers anesthetic toned kiss.
everyone survives being bested.
the water line erases above one hundred and you run and run to come crest fallen, only to endure a dance in my living room.
the light from the TV, the ambient quest.
II.
I push into the trades, killing the downhill run, the water is as light as your morning spit. in noisy bars I call you. hoping you answer, just once...as to not forget the sound of your rotating tongue.
III.
I have taken to the helm of the downeaster. set the flags to flames back to fire and dive the winds into my small truths. It was just as in The Sacrifice, where the craze go to heat up their actions and all the gifts lay strewn in dead fucked mud.
when a man has a wife, it turns the cloud maker on it's side
film maker and writer, Penston Luis. He stopped in the Nati for a brief showing of his new film "man is deep red" as well as his new series of poems that accompany the film, "man's wife and the clouds she makes." Cool, down to earth guy. He likes ice cream and warm whiskey. Together.
surfing with Maria in Santa Cruz made me realize...
lord, she's done gone. my soul sings at sea level...I will still keep it in a tux though...
Pining in Hip History-Family Recreation 1
Stills from a short film titled "Family Re-creation 1"...describing my grandparents meeting in America; oddly paralleling my relationship history. There is no audio track.
leydig seminoma
I use to like to prowl ordinary places
and taste the people
from a distance.
I have never wanted them too near
because thats when the attrition
starts.
I now am like an x-ray machine
and I like that:
I am on view.
I imagine the best things
about the transparencies and what they tell.
I imagine all parts, brave and crazy.
I imagine them all beautiful.
and taste the people
from a distance.
I have never wanted them too near
because thats when the attrition
starts.
I now am like an x-ray machine
and I like that:
I am on view.
I imagine the best things
about the transparencies and what they tell.
I imagine all parts, brave and crazy.
I imagine them all beautiful.
et sans
"...I would have spent my life trying to understand the function of remembering, which is not the opposite of forgetting but rather it's lining. We do not remember. We re-write memory much as history is re-written. How can one remember thirst?"
"...the fragility of moments suspended in time. those memories whose only function of being was to leave behind nothing but memories...I've been around the world several times and now only benignality interests me."
" we live with those retriveals from childhood that coalesce and echo throughout our lives, the way shattered pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope reappear in new forms and are sung like their refrainess and rhymes, making up a single monologue. we live permanently in the recurrence of our own stories...whatever story we tell."
"...Divisadero, the street that at one time was the dividing line between San Francisco and the field of the Presidio. Or it might derive from the word, Divisar, meaning 'to gaze at something from a distance' (there is a height nearby call El Divisadero). Thus a point from which you look far into the distance. It is what I do with my work, I suppose. I look into the distances for those I have lost, so that I can see them everywhere."
"...the fragility of moments suspended in time. those memories whose only function of being was to leave behind nothing but memories...I've been around the world several times and now only benignality interests me."
" we live with those retriveals from childhood that coalesce and echo throughout our lives, the way shattered pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope reappear in new forms and are sung like their refrainess and rhymes, making up a single monologue. we live permanently in the recurrence of our own stories...whatever story we tell."
"...Divisadero, the street that at one time was the dividing line between San Francisco and the field of the Presidio. Or it might derive from the word, Divisar, meaning 'to gaze at something from a distance' (there is a height nearby call El Divisadero). Thus a point from which you look far into the distance. It is what I do with my work, I suppose. I look into the distances for those I have lost, so that I can see them everywhere."
a series of ghosts. in parts, numeric with birth year, but out of order:
001_78
this quiet past raises my new blood by rubbing thick mist.
slowly spilling, "you won't sleep, will you?"
002_78
I watched the slow hint of daylight exit her eyes like bad art
on friday nights, with neon bathtubes, slick
with nudes.
003_78
down on a pulse of high pressure love, when I was a teacher, I turned on the radio...we drove into static for the first time.
004_78
we all hold unknown codes.
they walk blindly into my arcade and deposit scabs.
the machines read each scab and know the owners memory, adding to the collection
of stored codes to unlock the hearts and loves of the true five finger discount.
.jpeg)
this quiet past raises my new blood by rubbing thick mist.
slowly spilling, "you won't sleep, will you?"
002_78
I watched the slow hint of daylight exit her eyes like bad art
on friday nights, with neon bathtubes, slick
with nudes.
003_78
down on a pulse of high pressure love, when I was a teacher, I turned on the radio...we drove into static for the first time.
004_78
we all hold unknown codes.
they walk blindly into my arcade and deposit scabs.
the machines read each scab and know the owners memory, adding to the collection
of stored codes to unlock the hearts and loves of the true five finger discount.
.jpeg)
fold in on oneself...bitten by a crank
tiger ripe tissue is torn
and each a lover turned into a stranger
...dropped into a ruin of distance
where emptiness is young, buzzed and fierce
time lines become bent and slipshod;
mixing memories that blur present and snail like pasts,
we gave our feet again and again.
they will land on fresh pastures of promise
where the air will be kind, blushed, engorged and lit...
as the wind has always kept it's promise to fold
us in on itself.
and each a lover turned into a stranger
...dropped into a ruin of distance
where emptiness is young, buzzed and fierce
time lines become bent and slipshod;
mixing memories that blur present and snail like pasts,
we gave our feet again and again.
they will land on fresh pastures of promise
where the air will be kind, blushed, engorged and lit...
as the wind has always kept it's promise to fold
us in on itself.
Idle Murder, to ribbons, the thread of memory
the following few images are based on an aspect of buffering memory so we can continue living. How do we remember things that do not/did not occur in our lives? but more importantly, how do we survive our memories? What is more authentic...the way things happened or the way we remember them?
Tight
only on occasion does the flood of childhood rush out of us...the surprising thing is, that we survive memory.
Vigorish (buried book/plummet sound)
He keeps the valley like this with his heart
by paying attention, being capable, remembering.
Otherwise, there would be flies as big as dogs in the vineyards,
cows entirely made of maggots, cruelty with machinery, cameras
and recording devices sniggering...the sea, the olive trees, grossly vast.
He struggles to hold her right, the six foot brown green girl by the well with
geraniums and basil.
He will rejoice even if the shepherd girl does not pass anymore at evening.
And whether or not she ate her lamb at easter. He knows that loneliness
is our craft and loss is vigorish.
He does not keep fine by innocence or
by leaving things out.
by paying attention, being capable, remembering.
Otherwise, there would be flies as big as dogs in the vineyards,
cows entirely made of maggots, cruelty with machinery, cameras
and recording devices sniggering...the sea, the olive trees, grossly vast.
He struggles to hold her right, the six foot brown green girl by the well with
geraniums and basil.
He will rejoice even if the shepherd girl does not pass anymore at evening.
And whether or not she ate her lamb at easter. He knows that loneliness
is our craft and loss is vigorish.
He does not keep fine by innocence or
by leaving things out.
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