Wednesday, March 13, 2019

Effective Usage

Walk around with no pants on 
like you wrote the book on it 
like you never got milk on your whiskers 
like your camera never runs out of power 

Pan down a little go on 
yeah the scene sure is set now 
correcting the instances of satin sublimity 

Cue the bullhorn shorn of its meaning 
yammering on in a language 
known only to the dead 
like they wrote the lyrics themselves 
on their outdated typewriters 
like they're good for anything 
more than tears and fading photos 
like their desires just ceased 
when they each left us behind 

Keep on going don't stop now 
the waffles are already on 
the proverbial dashboard 
the cards have been lain 
over the baby's face so to speak 
all the arms waving spastically 
irregular levers 
rendering no winnings 
but paying out nonetheless 
in fistfuls of filth 
and stinking dirty diapers 

Keep walking like a bass player 
behind a really hot trumpeter 
or a keyboard artist 
or running 
neck and neck 
with a sizzling drummer 
able to leap into and out of rhythm 

We all pull back then zoom in 
for a better view of the kill 
the killer groove 
shoeless and daunting 
taunting us to come correct 
in our serious jest 
in our vain attempts 
to stay abreast 

Behind the wheel or not 
behind the eightball on Eighth Street 
jitterbugging our sidewalks sideways 
beyond the satin sublimity 
of this or any other breathless twilight 
the lake does not care or matter 

Raise your horns 
toward the summit 
like you wore this trail 
into the side of the sunset 
with your own flat feet 
like you're never coming back 
down again 
like you'll never settle 
for anyone else

This Stormy Saturday

Clouds come and go
drag heavy fists
gray with rain
water like grains
escaping fists
clenched overhead

icy electric wind
cold on the skin
on the glass
raindrops flatten

not reflecting absorbing
surfaces light up
sucking light in
allowing light in

moisture slides
food blood and air in
through a condition of permeability
through the skin
glass-like pores
sliding and allowing

storms blown past
over other people
on a street
we may or may not know

even in electric quiet
behind thin skin
of glass
windows wet and windy
small trash blown
invisibly outside

Sunday, June 28, 2015

The Only Birds That Stay

unwanted and rudderless
on another underground Sunday
flub-dubbing my way
through the weeks 
the months lost 
like episodes of shows
I don't watch anyway
lately few words come to me
fewer thoughts stay
landing for a moment
on my wires
then gradually
but inevitably 
fluttering away
my hands 
the only birds who stay
busy doing other things
driving cars 
flicking lighters
rarely touching anyone
mainly holding tight
for another 
friendly fire fight
the train I'm on rocks 
and roars me through 
tunnels dug by 
dead men

Saturday, May 02, 2015

Fully In Character

If there's an anthropomorphic cat we are screwed I'm just saying when we get in there elbow-deep in the shit together don't forget what I told ya the music really cues you the music really kinda gives it away but in slow motion oh and watch for the trip wires they're fucking everywhere and no I don't think it's weird that you're cool with doing it in the middle of the Van Halen "California Girls" video set soundstage dressed as "Sonny and Cher"-era Sonny Bono and the full-grown human-in-a-fake-fur-suit approximation of our entire solar system pinioned to a mattress saturated with fear of any color planet other than a white white planet like bleached nearly to rotting holes burned through all over the place can you hear me alright because sometimes I can't tell when I wear this mask/wig combo

Saturday, April 11, 2015

Honey Walnut Pron

You're like Chinese food
for my cock
dropped off in a 
slightly soggy box
hidden wrapped
in brown paper
like you're ashamed
dirty secret fortune cookie
cracking up at the bottom
slurping you already
I pay the man

Tuesday, February 17, 2015

San Francisco sunset: DOG SHOW

For you, while you're in L.A.

This book lies unmade
a bloody bed sandwich
What is it between us
makes the whole world
lay down flat
folding neatly at the corners?
All my strings still vibrating
from your last utterance
Are you kidding me, Universe?
All this and more?

Monday, December 29, 2014


born in a rusted trap
gnawing off another piece again
clenched in a doomed attack
metal jaws chomp through the meat of me

not dead yet
this unrelenting morning
wretched piece of meat sky
leaving behind an attempt to survive

the day flashes in and out
I'm still here
my broken rhythm still pounding
slow blood pulsing out

bleeding until floating drifting
splayed out but legs bent
twisted breathing comes fast
cold water climbs inside of me

soon my lungs will sail
across the bent and blackened grass
just another part left behind

I can crawl a little distance since
the night came on indifferent
the sky doesn't try to hide itself
the trees offer nothing

whispering and dancing overhead
I cry
when I find the strength
but the frogs and crickets don't listen

Thursday, November 20, 2014


This place filled with people
runs rampant
these people run rampant
they are all from somewhere else
wild-eyed or pie-eyed or both
Nothing can be anything
larger than a bonfire
and because it's smaller
they call it a village

this place
these people
lounging in the street
ignoring the deadly nature of traffic
they laugh at the illuminated screens
of their decorated phones
they don't say much
just drink their beer
or margaritas yelling
throw spent butts on the tired cement
of the ground around
black battered ashtray
Can the world ever truly know us?
know the ceaseless exertions
of our night burning minds?
we burn electricity like charcoal 

or whale blubber or teardrops
grown under the auspices
of cruelty 

or of an ignorant disregard 
for the raw nature of kindness
some of us hidden
alone in our dark soups
Sometimes hand claps are gunshots
are you scared enough?
when we all wake alone
in the wind of a 
or a canyon high
made of stone
or at night on any Tuesday
outside a bar fading
a neighborhood forced 

to bear witness
to witness youth 

being wasted
spilling out of themselves
onto the pavement
"It's okay," I say
in a 
series of dry short coughs
their wet-eyed antics
their pedantic actions

scattering travesties
and when we try
to ignore them
we already were them
or become them
even more readily

Friday, November 14, 2014


I kinda wanna fuck both of you
right here on the sidewalk
right here in the wet spot
right now with our hands wet
right here with our pants hot

what's up with the hot shit?
what happened to the laugh track?
right there in the blood clot
slipped right through your mail slot

I kinda wanna fuck both of you
fast-forward to our cumshots
you'll wonder where the time went
feet dancin' to bebop

at the 5 Spot The Black Kat
The Magic Room The Cracker Jack
The Rickshaw The Flip-Flop

I kinda wanna fuck both of you
right there where your folks slept
right there where their minds went

collude with your ranch hands
smash down your weekends
lay flat your pop stands
get deep into mind scans
traverse all your lifespans
crouch low into handstands

I kinda wanna fuck all of you
right now while the moon wanes
while our love flames
while the lowdown strung up
truth still hangs
feet twitching over

last ditch piss stains
I wanna make it
with all of you
while it still matters


for Jennifer Brown
What are we all doing here?
other than nothing

Ian What's-his-name 
barely singing the lyrics
technical bursts 
of metal growling sounds
right in front of Joan Rivers
she's modeling the height of 80s 
plastic surgery technology
the TV is a trap 
designed to be a trap
his Da calls to wish 
a happy birthday
the band hiding their faces 
behind greasy styled hair
kinda puffy, but definitely 
supposed to look dirty
doing the Vinnie Barbarino 
in the background
hired guns 
L.A. guns on a set in L.A.
draping all over the gray couch
like vines wrapped 
in shiny black leather
(digital farts 
coming from 
actual butts!)
that rescanned TV buzz
so distracting in 
the near-silent nowadays
(the same way 
is a contraction of 
"Christ's testicles", 
the fan makes clean white noise
drab cocoa carpet
unfortunate stain color
honky tonkin' 
on a Sunday afternoon
hiding in a shaded room
is it sad that no man 
wears a sash?
papers just some 

business papers
forget about the Creedence

Monday, September 15, 2014

Doing What I Never Do

My body covered
with scars
some I chose
many I simply 
survived trying
hard to 
let them heal
not pick until
the blood returned
like a bad man 
lightning nightmares
cutting deep
the delicate skin 
of dream
Fellow wizard
do you live 
by the shapes 
of your nights?
Of course not
of course not!
The mirror 
would never 
allow it!
Triangles, rectangles
the geometry
never quite made 
sense holding order 
by its logical throat
never rendering 
the correct amount
of perfume 
to grant normal
dismissive glances
the streets render
with a crayon
made of something 
worse than shit
I don't know but 
that covetous feeling
comes from 
so many directions
The most unexpected 
human history
told in honest layers 
of micro-dirt

Derek Plaslaiko Boiler Room Berlin 12 Hour DJ Set

Friday, September 12, 2014

Photo and Flowers by Suki Jones.

single jingle (a prayer for survival)

run rampant tarantulas
scrabble and scramble down
the scattering basset hounds
astound the 'round massed crowds
with hoary feats on hairy feets
aground agog
heading toward 
the roar of sound 
or inlet tide 
riding up the shore 
toward town
children drag families 
expound the merits of 
merpeople versus werepeople
and studies have since found
that minus the fur 
but plus the scales
you would be 
hard pressed to declare 
with any certainty
which was which 
when found
dead and flattened of life 
at the bottom
of a barrel
a river or thereabouts 
in sandy vicinities or parts 
nearby or around

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Sunset Over the Bay Bridge Yesterday

spinning (in ever smaller circles)

flat blast 
out your ass
as in "talking 
out your ass"
like it's your mouth
teeth gnashing
like you're some 
fucked up character
from a W.S. Burroughs story
it IS your mouth 
I'm talking about
or maybe 
your squirming brain 
should share some blame
in this pointless 
mess you've made
I get it
you get up and you
wanna make a point
you're annoyed 
by something (you)
you're angry 
about something (you)
but your eyes point outward
and your fingers 
just can't wait
you have something 
so important
to say
so important 
to stab out
into the ignorant world
too bad your ire
your desire to 
"set it right"
overrides your will 
to read to perceive
too bad
there's no humor
in your morning
too bad
it all comes out 
in comments 
on my page
too bad 
it becomes yet
another misguided example
of "misguided" 
constructed of angry words 
typed angrily
chastising me 
accusing me
of what? for what?
too bad
it's not just another
ass blast
kept in your house
in your room
to yourself
from you to you
too bad

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