Wednesday, August 20, 2014


rotten down to the bottom
the roots the core
the part where I touch the earth
penetrate with each pounding step
the echoing vibes doing nothing
other than change everything
my ambition is to be your poet
the one you turn to in your most lost times
the times when you want nothing more
than a voice that will pick you up
like an over-tired toddler
hoist you up gently
put your grumbling tummy
against the warm pulse of their heart
your cheek pressed bouncing on their shoulder
whispering to you in your tiny reddened ear
how everything will be alright
how that feeling we’re all feeling will eventually subside
how it all really will be alright
but I am not that man
giant though I am
I have to bounce you bounce you
make you punch yourself in the face
choke your wrists with my fists
and make you slap
saying, “Why do you keep hitting yourself?!”
shake you shake you shake shake shake
you like a doll with a loose head
with a bad habit like mine
of constantly ceaselessly
taking things

I'll be reading here on Sunday, Sept. 28, 2014. 4pm - 6pm. Park Side Lounge. NYC.

Tuesday, July 08, 2014

bizarre artt (with a nod to Cassandra Gillig)

Shedding t-shirts like John Byner
on the open road
windows all the way down
it's fucking cold in the middle of the night
"To the stars of lower Antioch, California!"
we toast with whatever splashes
down the front of us
one extra "up-up-and-away!" or maybe
another high-five to your face
"Good game! Good game!" they snarl
yelling at us from below
like ants with burning biting voices
we never sing out like that
even when they clap steel
we don't know the words
to flailing or failing
only the footsteps
those rare bold moves
"I'm fading John, I say" she says
your bell loop is a time warp
and BOING out come her boobs remember
poverty in our bowls like a dead man's breakfast
a thin layer like resin it's so fucking obvious
replicating the chant chant
doesn't doesn't
recreate create the spell
coincidence and
the way it all works out
works into a story
I'm still in the middle
of telling

Chantal Rousseau

"Cyber Rebels" - Moon Pool & Dead Band

Sunday, July 06, 2014

4th of July Sharpie Tattoo: M-16 / USA (red edition)

easily lefted (for Austin Osman Spare)

in the other hand he retains
some fragment of a design
not out of fashion
the abyss rising slowly
against his will
failing to choose disintegration
he became a star instead
associated with some fragment
of ego he could have easily shed
he developed an idea of himself
all around himself actually
he titled a publication
"The Grant Morrison Abyss"
also "Mary, a poorly received publication"
eventually they broke up
with all systems of celibacy
appearing in the summer
critics (and the public) saying only
"Horrible. Very horrible."
since he failed to uncross
he now fears to cross
drinking layers and layers of alcohol
eating disintegrated and disintegrating meats
his unconscious part follows
encrusted with layers of self
always considered to be a follower
his truer self appearing
too laid out and overdescribed
somehow he retains pseudonyms
"Automatic Pleasure?"
"Fortune Exhibition," he counters
suggesting the idea of blasphemy
early and influentially
he is a successor to the abyss
designed to be a brother closer
Satan is too old for this shit
overproduced and flashing like religion
homeless he wanders
has to sleep on two chairs
draping like elevated road kill
lingering like a personal problem
homeless and injured
his talents emphasize
a good many rejections
it's like a portrait
10 May 1941

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Bible Stories

Sometimes when I'm going 
to the bathroom
I like to pretend
that I'm re-enacting 
Bible stories
but mainly only the one 
where I'm rolling away the stone
so the reincarnated Jesus can get out
of a dark and stinky cave

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

This One Time (written in 2001)

"Well," I said to myself more than to Steve, "this must be it.
This’s gotta be the place.”

Steve just looked at me kinda funny as we pulled to the curb,
then he looked away and said, “Yeah.”

The car stopped shaking, just like a beat up vibrating bed
in some shitty Reno motel room.

All alone when your quarter runs out.

And somehow I just knew: it was gonna happen today.

It would start the second I got out of the car and walked up the stained cement stairs to the chipped black and tan door. 

As soon as I rang the doorbell.

Steve was looking at me again, measuring me really, but trying to make it look like he was popping a zit in the mirror, or
rearranging his greasy dark hair under his stained and smashed out black felt hat.

It was no use, I knew. Call it a gut feeling. Intuition.
Fucking unavoidable. Whatever.

“So, you coming?” I asked him, even though I could tell there
was no way he would.

He looked at me for real. Just for a second. “Why?” he mumbled, moving his eyes quickly to his hands at
the bottom of the steering wheel, “You know these people,
right? You have dealt with them before, ri-i-ight?”

“Yeah-- okay, okay,” I said, cutting him off. “Message received loud and clear. You just keep thinkin’ good thoughts.”

Then, all in one motion, I swung my body to the right, pulled
hard on the door handle, and as the door went flying open,
leaned my way out of the car as it was still rolling to a stop.

"Here we go."

In just a few steps my hand will be reaching out for the cracked off-white plastic button of their dangling, rusty doorbell.

It reminded me of a snail’s eye hanging there. A fucked up
snail’s eye.

Broken. Dangling.

One, two, three. Up the steps two steps at a time in my beat-up K-Mart™ winos.

The snail's eye hanging, red and white wires creeping out of a
jaggedly cut hole in the lumpy stucco frosting of the porch.

I heard Steve start the car up behind me. I rang the doorbell.

"This is it," I kept thinking. "This is it."

I could hear footsteps behind the door, getting closer. Muffled.

Then a sound. A small kid shouting in another room--the TV-- what was that?

“Hey, it’s me,” I said through the door. 

“Gary? Hey, Gary,” I muttered, rapping lazily on the door with the back of my hand.

The floorboards made that distinctive creak: a human weight
on the other side of the door. 
I could feel it under my feet, through the floorboards of the porch, through the doormat.

"Maybe they’re looking at me right now," I thought, staring at the dark domed glass of the peephole.

“Come on, come on…” Rubbing the palms of my hands up and down the sides of my burgundy corduroy pant legs.

Was that sound the chain lock slowly being undone? What the hell was taking so long?

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Papa's Hands

hands like hard-ridden saddles
weather worn and tanned
a red near cordovan 
nearer to the sunset-lit red cliffs
ancient river rocks now standing alone
where he grew up where he was a boy
old old Mexican man selling ropes
and telling stories of getting robbed
by Billy the Kid

hands like massive slabs

dense muscle scarred and scabbed 
too big for most things
but nimble and agile 
in ways that seemed impossible

hands like sandpaper 

infused with tiny shards of coral
but warm and kind to a tiny 
person animal 
metal part fragile paper

careful tools to be used 

in a thousand varied ways
in the oil-scented garage workshop 
spotlessly clean yet cluttered 
parts and manuals bulbs and screwdrivers 
needlenose pliers magnifying glasses

hands that had already handled 

things too big for just one man
under the unrelenting 
New Mexico sky 
alone with the dogs 
and the fear-filled eyes 
of several hundred 
head of cattle

Negative Enzymes

your face is a hole in the ground
and I'm not stepping in it

nor am I filling it with water

or soil or anything like that

I shall pay it no attention more

the yelling, yeah it's a little hard to take seriously

but the sentiments are sincere, sincere and exhausted

we both know we're good at stripping other peoples' wires

what new do we gain by re-enacting it?

your mother is gone, soon mine will be too

one less person who, beyond having the bandwidth, actually cares

whether we as fucked up, amazingly creative, 

people will actually do better

than just survive, beyond 

not stabbing ourselves with knives

causing our own bodily distress with all the lies

we tell in silent whispers every minute of all the time

your eyes didn't show any kind of surprise

your gestures seemed slow and rehearsed, sadly tired

so familiar, so nostalgic

so hungry for this damaged routine

I fell for it, just like with my mother

raised my temper, then my voice (or was it the other order?)

your will is your own

as mine is mine

kicking holes in the speakers

don't make them louder

everything dying away from you, 

from us, not really dying 

but doing a life-saving 

job of pretending

withering then 

escaping into rest

into a world that shines with light and acceptance

that shares, loves, and makes friends with

our reality more like a martial arts movie

all bursts of air and violent shifting

gestures honed

slices rendered 


with minimal exertion

causing damage, sure

there's history

a traceable lineage 

of secret societies 

carefully killing people

under the guise of refined art

no more than your face empty

where a hole used to be

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

La Virgen de No Recordar

the terrain is so familiar particularly in the near unconscious state you find yourself in now who knows how many hours since your last stop or a drop of water quenching with a scream which runs through your entire muscular system like a full body patch of shade stumbled into like a nearsighted mirage up close all over you sudden like a panther hard to remember that time now conditions shifted to such a more extreme magnitude magnified to a scale familiar in the abstract only previously suddenly currently a painlessly burning reality mechanically lifting each foot and barely remembering to try to maintain balance to stay upright to try to remember that inherently humans have one leg slightly longer only slightly shorter than the length of an exhausted breath exhaled partially through your nose mouth and eyes if your senses can be trusted and let's face it at this point who are you even talking to right now are you in a shower or is that just the weight of the sun on your scalp your back the backs of your legs one only slightly longer the other only slightly shorter than the other that can lead to walking in long long long loping circles hypnotically drifting like the most graceful trapeze artist swinging endlessly from one perfectly lit silk-wrapped bar to another and who can even remember where it was that you were hoping to arrive earlier when you were departing originally your cracked lips moving but only your last motivations escaping

My book is out now from Punk Hostage Press.

Available from

Wednesday, January 08, 2014

21st Century Metaphor Prison

"...imagine all the people..."  -John Lennon

drawn entirely in negativity

wired like a waterlogged cell
minimalism as soul crushing device
form and function blended into a
fluid plastic weapon
like the base unit human
cost-heavy inhabitant 
the energy unit
tattooed and mutilated
the gun of a rich man
unbalanced human tragedy
some would say to hide him
inconspicuous ward of an
unnamed privately run unit
rather than Walmart poor farm
$5 belts for your convenience
dressing pods less 
discreet than you'd imagine
today is a jazz jam gone wrong
too drunk too high too gone to care
the day so young and cold
you'd think it was less than 
25 yrs old
so bright and unfocused
scattershot geniuses
drawn into negative trips
a man who had the strength
lived it out in the public world
shot down in the streets
too big to be swept up easily
instead made martyr in the
questionable clouds of American rock
the mess we all made together
a decade and a half smeared in the
whitewash of gov't dismantling
they thought they got us
snuffing out the stars 
in a generational sky
they made a newer
stronger monster
we mourn sure
but we're just too young
we the moving
won't be contained
can't be stopped 
by anything but death
or his ugly younger sister, age
my whole world is coated

in the iridescent sheen of
other people's lies
wondering about the future
could be a pessimistic fantasy
first class pass to isolated mediocrity
but don't you let them
don't you dare let them

Sunday, December 22, 2013

Listen, Claire

If you have nothing
left to offer me
then yeah
don't call me

until the next time

you feel like shit 
& no one in 
your shitty world
seems to give a fuck 

I'll still be here

loving you more 
than Sparks

Operation Kinky Blankets

I don't wanna
know your name
I don't care
I say that over
and over again
I say it
I don't care about your
haircut your pants your ironic
sweatshirt mustache face-plant
your naked flesh revealed
in hope of temporary Nirvana
the flashing hope in your eyes
at least some white flashes
of light inside your eyelids
every once in a while
head tilting back in ecstasy
some black stitches
inside your bottom
lip hanging loose in shock
after such a fall
happening like children
toes curling into myth
off the bed and onto the dirty carpet
I understand your paranoia
but still want you naked
all over my fantasies sweating
writhing like a jerk-off
on the shiny cold hood
of any number of overpriced
hotel rooms the champagne
arriving too late
and all you heard them say was
pain yes pain again
I don't wanna wreck your vision
or upset the apple turnovers
already in session
in league with a whole league
of lonely wolven travelers
John Lennon fans each one to
a man a woman a consenting
adolescence spent wandering
the horny back seats of
America radio light the only
chance of survival the station
signal like your memories of
virginity distant fuzzy and not
quite in line with what's outside
the fogged up windows
flashing lights and the knock of metal
flashlights on glass
I don't care who sees me naked
erect like standing stones
cold with every tooth chattering
red and blue
flashing like a disco
they don't care about our notions
our expectations or our truth
they only know if they feel sympathy
and people like us
make them root
for the bad guys winning
if only while naked
pried like a pearl
from a desperate backseat
wound tight in confusion
shirt balled over my crotch
I don't care I say
hair a deadened tangle
teary eyed and ready
I don't care

Monday, December 02, 2013


Untitled 2 (Written in 1995)

"Simplicity without simpleness," I think,
then: "Simplicity without boredom
is more of the pared-down moon
than we are

Satori, I mean
in the breath of stars are
the magic peaches of jazz
and honest laughter"

At Frank's on Thursday night we drink Pyramid Ale
and condescend to each other in simple language
hardware store employees feeling the slap of "loser"
and humming with George's homegrown

Head-down loss and lostness
shrugging the pain back into the gentle valley
you left in my mattress

it's already a year
since I lived in a ghosthouse
with your furniture
and all my stars died

Yellow rose blossoms
and a faint bloodstain
in the cotton blur of sheets

Cathartic always sounds like "lethargic"
my cocoon now a Chinese finger trap:
the toilet paper rolling
toward the end of my life

Tired, poor and confused
I buy a new pair of shoes
do a Fall dance to the end of things ripe 
and sweet with chin juice

Lone trumpet pinches
the ass of my typewriter thoughts
and sends me stumbling bumbling

into your time with nothing
but a shadow full
of rocks and 
some broken beer bottles

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

COIL - "Backwards"

COIL Day / -2 + 1 = ∞

when it is both an immersion 
and a stripping away 
to sit alone on a chair 
of Chinese plastic 
facing a window 
without being able to...

Oh, so many things!

"It's in my blood!" 
Jhon Balance screams out again today
with an intensity that few have 
particularly among the dead
drunk sacrificed from a balcony 
onto cold marble below
his last pie dropped from such a height yet 
still cooling on the ground
spread out now 
like the contents of a handbag 
now to the multiverse
another tiny ripple sent out 
his truly meaningful echo
defying age by sliding the web 
being immergent for so long 
you actually become part of it
in physics we call it momentum 
it is momentous
my ability to be alone in my room 
with a dead man 
with a couple of dead men
everything backwards
crooning grinding out magick 
electric channels max'd
cold sunlit spaces pictureless and worn 
out with white plaster lumps
scars built up from all the years 
of sleepers and stayers

now mine I fill it with boxes 
of things I drag along 
and share
Sleazy's invisible fingers 
still make it happen
push Jhon further
samplers whirring
dipping like songbirds 
like night birds lurking
these lines keep coming 
ebbing up to me 
like tentative kittens
all tiny faces 
filled with innocence 
hunger and rage 
tiny razor claws and teeth

to spend so much time alone and working
dedication to a practice mad 
bent toward delusion creation
thousands of kittens ripping 
piercing the worn denim of my legs
ever more kittens and their chosen 
soundtrack is all pre-written pre-recorded
flute haunting the call 
of a silhouetted bird 
with sheening black feathers
giving a moment's union
still dug in and
underlining the alone of this

Monday, November 25, 2013

From a Napkin Drawing Made a Few Days Ago

Purple Blinds

COIL - "Where are You"


cross a whole bunch of lines
grains of sand built up under toenails
mild discomfort expands rapidly
as you finish making scraping boundaries
shadow already catapulting past
gets to the point where you're just breaking backs
hopping from line to line and flying
trapeze style over the flaming remains of social convention
that word makes me imagine a whole auditorium filled with your type
it would be noise canceling itself in a conference room near an airport or pier
you wouldn't need no steenking bodges
go on you know you want to cross another one
break down your own neck
deal away your own deck of morality
claim everything and own nothing in the name of youthful vanity
toenails longer than they should be
dark grains almost like jewelry in the tender folds between
nature's own pixels displaced
constantly stimulated and simultaneously constipated
assessing what the conventional limitations might be
in order to race through them a screaming nude attacking
society's negative hang ups
our tiny shriveled shame exposed
pants pulled down we try not to cry in front of them
destroy the other person's face and head
use a blunt heavy object if possible
repeat a forceful downward striking motion
once dominance has been established
I guess this is it
where the horror sets in and poetry can't
this is my turn to take my own advice
eat my own lunch blood up to the armpits
made up of smoldering remains myself
head caved in melon
hot and rotten from the sun
so we won't have to look
watching my own face fold again
crossing some lines some might say
right as rain to wash wash wash this
hard to focus on criticism from this position
cross some lines and break away
bolt for the fence they may not shoot
the black metal of their guns
just something else glinting in the dark