MASS COMMUNICATIONS

This is where I come from.

2012-02-16T01:26:00.001-08:00

Happy Valentine's Day!

2012-02-14T12:57:00.001-08:00

Little Debbie Downer from rabidmonkey69 on 8tracks.

Reunion

2012-02-10T18:34:00.000-08:00

In peripheral vision illuminated pyramid steps. Venetian blinds framed by pinned back curtains, thinking about dead girls I once knew. Years ago I saw them peripherally, eating sandwiches sunlit on wooden benches, or nervously finishing Trigonometry homework, the cafeteria's unkind fluorescence. Talking excitedly to other girls in matching uniforms, in poorly lit hallways, in navy ankle or knee socks with white cotton blouses and blue, black, and white plaid skirts. Reflected through the glass doors and across the shining linoleum, the grass and beyond that the tennis courts. The sunlight bouncing around the cement courtyard, cement Virgin Mary gray eyes downcast. These girls now invisible, now dead and gone. One in an avalanche, others more predictably. Invisible women. Gone women. Gone won't be at the reunion. Not in person but in lowered voices and heartfelt slideshows. In peripheral vision a white car drives downhill under neutral gray of sky, behind dusty pyramid blinds. These girls returned peripherally to my consciousness, removed previously at some undetermined time. It's cold in here now. Thinking about those poor dead girls. Lost on the periphery of my consciousness. It's not just nostalgia it's resonance. A card flipped over and the revelation of its face rippling through all human tissue for a half mile radius. It's ridiculous, this tiny island of living. Once about bag lunches and ankle socks and rolled skirts and ponytails and rubber bracelets. Now sitting thinking in a room so far from anything, fingers forming sentences on a screen. These women I once vaguely knew. My classmates. I can't even remember their faces. Didn't live in their town or work with them. Never met their boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, wives. Never knew their children. Weren't friends online or off but still. In peripheral vision black treetops and green splay of houseplant a tiny dinosaur made of latex, day disappears with a sigh. I once knew your face, heard your laughter, made passing eye contact on way to class. This year 25th reunion. You re-enter my consciousness peripherally, as words on a page in a newsletter I don't subscribe to. I never dated you. I never sat in front of you, or behind. I might have drowned out your conversation once with obnoxious synthesizer music. Maybe I saw you talking to my girlfriend. Your face--my memory of it, you--lost in that unknown other place, on the periphery of clarity.

Our Grid

2012-02-09T18:20:00.000-08:00

From Class

2012-02-09T16:17:00.000-08:00

Holding onto color like a memory a forgotten leaf languishes on brackish gray-green water, waiting. A torn-out page from a truckstop Bible random in its placement yet veined with purpose: drab putty of anticipation unfulfilled and still, expectant.

This is how I remember it feeling.

2012-02-07T23:55:00.000-08:00

Limerick

2012-02-07T23:36:00.000-08:00

Sand in the soles of your shoes
wincing toward bullying noon
You sank a tycoon
& corrupted a baboon
but these treatments won't clear up those blues

Sandpaypa

2012-02-04T19:25:00.000-08:00

Inoticed the scar on his cheek first. A loud pink swash underlininghis left eye, shouting up the block. Louder than blowing garbage,than piss, shriveled junkies, mice running nervously. Louder than thenight. As he stumbled up toward me, a whiff of backstory: grapewrappers, dark whisky, skunky ganja. Syrup- and herb-blurred eyes,drugs and drink doing their messy work. Spare and random white paintdrizzle on the back of his hoodie. He came in for the love, began aquiet litany. I thought a fast money hustle or "Oh, hey, dog,you got a smoke? How 'bout a light?" but he was gonna lingerlonger. Impossible-to-hear words dribbled onto the sidewalk, he wovein and out, riding waves of blinding inebriation. Gave me a free CDand explained with a hug that it was he and his brother on the cover, doing each track. Doing a slowed-down dance, pinballing between aparked car, the posts for the tree, the wrought iron gate, and hisown two feet. He talked shit, he yelled, and told an ongoing storyonly he could know, only he could flow.

On Hyde Street Again

2012-02-02T15:28:00.000-08:00

He stumbled up
booze breath arriving first
mixed with the stale piss and
god-knows-what garbage
of the broken street
His weaving walk familiar
like a punchy old boxer
just barely remembering

Soft Warm Reopening

2012-02-01T20:37:00.000-08:00

Itis both great and sad to be back on Hyde Street tonight, a mix of oldfaces and new outside the nightclub. The stark scarecrow of owl-eyedKenny, with his constant bumming of cigarettes and an ambitiousrequest for two dollars (to get some food, he claims). Emilio andKatie and Grant and even the new kid, Justin the barback, who seemslike an uncanny fit for the club. All the various and varied DJs andpromoters and their friends and fans and girls and boys and everyoneso very glad to be back on one of the toughest blocks in SanFrancisco.

While I'm still deciding if I'm celebrating beingback on Hyde Street after midnight on a Tuesday or not, a drunkenrapper shows up with a pronounced pink scar on his left cheek. Hisslur is somewhere between pimp patois and having been sippin' onsome sizzurp for a little too long, along with, of course, someweed. But he is lucid enough to require me to give him the "privateparty tonight" line to keep him from trying to insinuate his wayinto the club. He is obviously way too wasted to allow in and I can'ttell if he is cool or just another of the neighborhood's newestcracked-out denizens.

He slurs something and I nod and smilevaguely and mutter, "Yeah...", but I cannot understand aword he is saying. This conversation, I'm guessing, is mutually basedon a rough reading of energy and body language. We bump knuckles afew times as his low and mumbled monologue continues.

Apparentlyhis reading of me comes back positive, as he produces a CD from hisback pocket. It is a professional-looking affair: a clear plasticsleeve with full color cover, double-sided on glossy stock. It feelslike a familiar exchange and I quickly explain that I have no moneyto buy a copy of his homie's album. He explains, head still downtoward the sidewalk, with the occasional violent sideways swerve uptoward my eyes, that this isn't his homie's album, but he and hisbrother's.

He suddenly swings his head up and in toward myface, holding the CD in front of both of us. "See? Thass me,”he says, jamming his dirty finger into one of the confidently smilingfaces on the CD cover, “and thass mah brother." He forces theCD into my hand, then stumbles diagonally backward into the wroughtiron gate in front of the club. I get off my stool and start towardhis slumping figure, but before I can reach him, he lurches up into astanding position and wobbles stutter-step back toward the curb. Hekicks off one of his shoes, stoops low in the middle of the dirtysidewalk and carefully examines the papers and bills from each of hisfront pockets, weaving obviously and straining to focus his eyes. Theclub's smoking patrons watch quietly from against the fence andcomment in loud whispers to one another. One of them makes a grandgesture of giving him a cigarette and a light.

After a fewdrags, he sloppily throws the smoke into the gutter, takes a fewwobbling steps, then crumples face down onto the trunk of a blueHonda parked in front of the club. Perhaps he is finally unconscious.His pullover black hoodie hides most of his upper torso and head. I'msure he's still alive—I can see his back rising and fallingregularly—and at this point, that's good enough for me.

Aftera few minutes of face-down deep breathing, he flops over violentlyand lurches into a slumped sitting/leaning position against theparked car, pushing back the edge of his hood with his wrist. Hefocuses his eyes, and nearly indecipherable speech, on me again."Hey, mang, juss hol' ontuh tha' disk... Iss free... iss free."he says, making a pushing motion with both hands. I thank himprofusely as he falls face-first onto the filthy sidewalk. As herolls over slowly and starts trying to get up, demanding to know whojust hit him in his face, I repeat that he still cannot come into theclub, but I'm not sure if he hears me.

Close Captioned

2012-01-31T21:33:00.000-08:00

Behaviordata: Alkie attaches
Twinkle Oklahoma
Hispanics they'vegot
Wood-burning kilns
By day they're taking a bite
GW iced9mm
blow up sheep myself
Introduced to youlike
declassification clockwork
Directly into your jacket
andethnic group
You say goodbye

You're right: I didn't getwages
Rainwater is going to do it
Delinquents livingthere
trade voltage lines

Some say resolvable
about theoverworked
I think they should be asked
The shanghaicrops
fogged with trepidation
& bad weather
Theenvironment
already threatened
Played with in Chechnya
Rubberprogression

Overhead at last
Some okay competition
PeteStark obit
Watching dots respond
Data, if you're into it

Flowsor series
of arteries
of batteries
It's hard to write
Weusually get six
Plus, it's polluted
The right surroundings
Youknow people in Montreux
your out-there donors
your subtleingredients

I'm reading at Quiet Lightning in Santa Cruz

2012-01-30T16:46:00.001-08:00

It's just the living that's fucked up.

2012-01-30T16:40:00.000-08:00

Most times human interactions
are so difficult, so complex
harder than one imagines
even while in the moment
looking from a distance
at one self in a mirror
the mirror another person
with aspirations and visions
there together, sequential instants
pulsing and scanning
reading and rereading
shuffling and shelving
thinking and sending
perceiving and receiving

giving to and taking from
in imagined equal proportions
of equal or greater importance
than consciousness or cohesion
just seconds of skin touching
first fingers, then the arms
the lips and then it feels
so easy and so simple
lubricated and fluid
falling away from the complexities
to the simple animal memory
even while in the moment

Doubt

2012-01-27T14:07:00.001-08:00

If being madly in love
is knowing exactly what to do
then I fear, my dear,
that perhaps I
never truly loved you

It's great to be appreciated.

2012-01-27T00:04:00.000-08:00

A blog post from Fourteen Hills issue 18.1 featured artist, Chris Koehler, a very talented illustrator and a darn nice person.

Make with the pirate talk, Toots.

2012-01-26T22:38:00.000-08:00

Yeah, that's right, I said it:
They made me kill chickens
right out there in the yard

Watched from the windows
their faces smooth and neutral
Victorian glass behind panes

Supper my trauma
washing and scrubbing
time and again and again

End of Empire

2012-01-26T22:29:00.000-08:00

What do you call it
when they make you
bend over and think about
tomorrow from the perspective
of the implausible?

And what do you call it
when we Jabba the fuck out
on Funyuns and Diet Cokes
and Little Pizzas delivered
by acne-addled young masturbators
in cars borrowed or stolen
from over-medicated old neighbors
on rusty old side streets
in long forgotten apartments?

What do we call it?

& You & I

2012-01-26T21:18:00.000-08:00

years of slow smothering
an avalanche in spoonfuls
cascade of dynamos
a splash of magnificos
meat grinding disposal
dumping drawn drawerfuls
gone truly analytical
free-forming breakdancers
now forming perspectives

[slip a smoldering leaf
between incendiary skins
My book writ large
on the flesh of foundlings]

&, btw
I don't mind your mind's way
of damn-near breaking my spine

2012-01-24T19:57:00.001-08:00

The New Kid in Town from rabidmonkey69 on 8tracks.

Lip Moves - FHA.USA

2012-01-24T14:53:00.000-08:00

Breakfast of Champions! - FHA.USA

2012-01-20T01:23:00.000-08:00

2012-01-19T21:29:00.001-08:00

In Front of the Rain from rabidmonkey69 on 8tracks.

Sunset in North Concord

2012-01-18T19:08:00.001-08:00

Old Fred the Cab Driver

2012-01-18T14:35:00.001-08:00

One sentence

2012-01-13T07:07:00.000-08:00

Iwant to use words like "verdant" or "mordant",but can't bring myself to double-check their meanings, a.k.a. myunderstanding, so instead I type on in the early dawn hours of aFriday that was packed with action, but now filled with packing(rather than working), meaning as far as sleeping goes, it will haveto happen more sooner than later, but not at the moment and perhapsnot much longer than the thought will take me to form into somethingworth not only remembering, but perhaps even documenting, yetreturning to my purpose and my point, as lost as it is, I want towrite something, or maybe a drawing, that will give someone somewheresomething to remember, to hold onto, to cherish, to experience likeno other, yet that leaves me thinking about words that I don't usewhen I'm talking to others, fancy collections of letters like"umbrage" or "hacket", or "mordant", or"colossal".

1979

2012-01-13T06:55:00.000-08:00

Cross a bridge

tothe pants dance

Strikethat, reverse it

Somuch wait time

evenless time, still waiting

stillringing (and ringing)

atthe tone

it'sat the tone

Cutalong dotty spotty memory

redface flushed, contorted

thatyam sweater spotlit

hidingin plain sight

amidthe manic flutter

Followthe powdery trail (it always knows!)

TheBritish are coming!

andcoming! and coming!

Crouchdown in the bushes

Thesticker bushes!

Tinyneedle-sharp thorns

makingexclamation marks

onthe skin of your shins

Poink!Poke! Prick!

Countto twenty-nine

whereyour needle is holding

justabove the record's

surfacedotted with wooly lint

Atiny distant relative

coughingin the night

outthe night, coughing

deadskin and fibers

Crossback to a shot of the kid

BMXbike in midair

backdropa hillside

hisblack tuffs the envy of all

hisgreen-eyed companions

Moto-XFox shirt torn

likea battle-worn flag

flappinggulps of Delta gust

Moving

2012-01-11T12:33:00.000-08:00

It's so hard to start
Rusted metal in the backyard
Under the warm crust
waiting to come out
be revealed
Exposed to the wind
and the light
Spotlit on the stage
of your life
Folding clothes alone
packing boxes
Breathing the fumes
of permanent markers
Upending an ending
Digging it up
excavating an ending
Starting a new dig
somewhere else
Taking my bike and boxes
Leaving town
Opening the door and stepping
Putting down the metal detector
and moving sand
It's so hard to start
but once it's started
I've begun
and that's how it begins
Dust off an ending
from the stack in the closet
and while you're at it
hand me a beginning

Reading at VelRo on November 9, 2011

2012-01-09T17:14:00.001-08:00

Understanding v.02

2012-01-05T19:08:00.001-08:00

Downpour

2012-01-05T01:27:00.001-08:00

remorselesscold sculptor

runningmask silver

changesyour face

abruptsaturday morning

Papier-mâchébody

layingtired against itself

feltedwool weeping

contouredged in tears

cuffedglass filigree

dancingfor warmth

CocoRosie Live at Amoeba Hollywood

2012-01-04T11:14:00.001-08:00

Understanding v.01

2012-01-04T11:00:00.000-08:00

Wetalk in planets

atmospheres
transient amulets
often lost inthinnest air

Transient ambience
intentions losing air
asoup of stars
lighted last words listing

Mist conversationscast out
crossing breaths toward atmosphere
slipping stars ofsand
through words of hair

Parking Lot Abstract

2012-01-03T18:04:00.000-08:00

2012-01-03T17:02:00.001-08:00

Hearsay Say

2011-12-29T16:04:00.001-08:00

Theysay it's about

crossingit up

blockingit out

puttingaway what yesterday

leftbehind

Movingforward

unencumbered

Butthat just sounds like

swimming

withoutmaking ripples

Isatrophy my only option

really?

Bendat the waist

tiethem up & sit up

Walk,run, then jump

outof the darkness

intothe unknown ink

Dance,if you still can

Risefrom your accepted spot

tomake new

Buttry not to move

whilethey're nearby

oryou'll get eaten

fromboth ends

ukeleleto tuba

2011-12-28T18:39:00.001-08:00

2011-12-28T18:30:00.001-08:00

Lost Count

2011-12-24T22:43:00.000-08:00

I saw it in your eyes
a lost Christmas morning
I was young, Shane was five
Broken toys and still more tears
I hate this day so much
I cried
Bruises and beers
before the magic got trampled

Perhaps not that morning
but some other just like it
There were so many
became scripted
blocked, choreographed
I had hoped someday, somehow
to laugh, shrug it off as the past
but it rips through me like a gunshot
Echo repeat echo
its resonance still

I saw it in your eyes
abstract remembrance
angry colors flashing
frustrated clinging
and slamming
as I had said to you before
again I said
You're not that person anymore
and then I realized
cupped my mouth
and cried
You held my hand in yours
and for a moment
we were fine

The Cruelest Month

2011-12-23T02:14:00.000-08:00

Eliot said April
but did he ever
spend December
in northern California?

Bobby Golden Sandwiches

2011-12-22T01:40:00.000-08:00

They called him
Bobby Golden Sandwich
and he had the calves to prove it
a steam shovel mind
the resolve of a soft shelled crab's
tiny reserve of hope
between catastrophic erasures
a bed of popping bubbles
Bobby
bubbles popping shining star
miniatures spitting sand

They started calling him
Bobby Sounding Like a River
but no one took to it
& he ditched it at the crossroads
and it floated on back
like the cheese he kept
under his hat
messy guitar affair
a sea glass slide
strop for a strap
cigar box worth of dimes

They sang a song about him
Bobby Golden Sandwiches
with his funny short pants
that star-spangled tussle
his fur bow tie
A heart full of lotion
in the clasp of vermin
leaving no contusions
his tiny hound resounding
tincture of hamster
a viola of saxophones

FED RSV Filled With Clowns

2011-12-21T21:00:00.000-08:00

What follows is a
close lookG'd up
with grass roots
grown by
the establishment
Memorable broadcast
moment
A tertiary season
Clown show on speed
her mouth said
A real reality
televisionhole
in the wall
It’s officially a
reality television
Culmination of a process
Money supply that surfaced
Away away
The devil is dangerous
A puppet running
the show
Camping downtown now
ya hear me?
Clowns are promoting
the only break in the action
Mind your business
Calm down
Polyamory of trading entities
24 hrs a day, 7 days
Another member of
The Children
Every manner of idiocy
A former bankto
take over these movements
For months it has coiled
Declined to give comment
Wannabes are happy enough
it says
realizing there is no brain
Claims are mostly criminals
Slimy rhymes blowin' the lid
Promoting the only tea
party worth being at
Breaking bank and shop window
Eyes and legs twisted
cannot deal
Our stolen rights
ridiculous it did
We're all singing
I have the mouth

2011-12-21T20:17:00.001-08:00

Goths With Grillz

2011-12-13T16:44:00.000-08:00

Didanyone thoroughly

read thegift options?

VERYSTIMULATING IDEAS

Emo girlfound to be

almostentirely designer resin

Incompletewithout

appropriatevampire accessories

Linkedto the use of applied art & science

Emphasizingthe practical uses of

thoseearly years

Abare-bones operation

asopposed to George Wallis

"Keeper"Collection

Multi-foiledarches

manyunavailable

securethis online system

Whetherhot construction guys or

Theyare, after all, many

moremoneyed and

usuallyextremely tight

An edgyblack now

lugubriouseven

The daylosing its glitter

Healingthis space

fineexamples

copyingfine replicas

put yourfeet up and slip

anecklace with a cross

overthese vast spaces

thiscavern

easy &secure

They arethe billions

who lackcardboard

or weguess

profoundexploration

of whatmeans

and whatis now

sculpture

tuckedaway & plain

2011-12-13T15:38:00.001-08:00

3-Day Cycle (Krampus edition, red)

2011-12-11T21:42:00.001-08:00

Video Chat

2011-12-11T19:55:00.001-08:00

Crowning blows
don't you go
don't you stop
don't stop the music
Pretty baby, you are the soul
crossing lines of tape
or scansion
ribboning beyond & within
a silky starlight
twilight place for love
truck stoppage
Skiddley-scatting our way
thru the Milky Way
Is there any other way?
Endure this hurricane
tiny house we frame
just like last year
this year, the first day
met us at the old town's
favorite bar
The Nook
restaurant above us
it was great
everyone looked so healthy
in the multi-colored lights
river bar, Minnesota-bound
seeing where you used to live
you don't know
how things are gonna go?
Crossing lines
breaking it down
from the backseat
imagined acreage
future farmed out

3-Day Cycle

2011-12-10T01:01:00.001-08:00

Slam your face shut
eat it up
unknowing domination
untitled entitlement
claw barking the trees
hound absentee
offering a nest of hair
then another
within seconds
kick-starting yer muther
artificial entanglements
repeater conceiver the other
kick out session @ 7am
48 hrs of the same dream
salad & ice cream
excited driving drinking
slow jam following
everything offered
& nothing forgiven
auto pilot handouts
on a broken river raft
outer space time
just another hate crime
foreign barking tuned
just right flashes
2 for the price of none
forced coffee marches
never mind the blow back
yer own private dog track
horrified cashiers
with every purchase
granting understanding glances
polluted stage set
curly handclaps
& banned shampoo
oblivious villagers
jabbing not prodding
strip mining for love
get that thing out
of the trash
slam it up
eat your face shut

CJR

2011-12-09T18:19:00.001-08:00

A night report, blast of light
a starter pistol, a flare gun
pointed towardthe two of us
covered in dog hair& foolishness
wanting morethan having
hands wovenaround paper cupsof wine

Who Wins When No One Sings On Chet Baker Street?

2011-12-04T16:45:00.001-08:00

Can't you just taste it?
Can't you feel it coming?
high beams in the fast lane
Candyland grabbing
hiking up its g-string
waist-dipping for a dollar
just over your shoulder
a blown burst of cotton candy
Who do we talk to about this?
What station?
Which forms from what office?
It's a hustle. It's a hustle.
And the jazz sadness comes back
a friend, a fellow traveler
lost to the loud and dirty streets
in the dark tangle of his bearded mind
it's coming from him now, among others
emanating out
like an aura, an amplification
in intensity and color
Can't you see it coming?
a recollected image
from transient conversation
close it down, close these streets
shut them up and make them refill their blankets
it's all the shopping they can do
stolen and bought and stolen again
do that knee bend for a dollar
mining the sidewalks for cigarettes
Can't you feel it? When you see that?
just behind your back
leaning on a car
with its legs crossed?
coming and going and waiting
getting weekly hugs on the streets
this damned street
this neighborhood of endless tragedies
Can't you feel it?
Stumble of crushed resignation
Crack rock hand snatch
scuttling back to its land grab
Who do we talk to?
Which phone number?
Text what to where?
like a BART ticket in your pocket
unintended energetic transfer
Can't you feel it?
once was welcome
now gnarled by stolen carts
of fabricated talismans
paper eyes and antique hands
a laugh that belies it's near arrival
like an armored tour bus idol
diesel dust and dead flesh scent
there's no stopping now
Can't you smell it in the air?
like the fumes of some sad music
all the icebergs your sugar backpack
ride the crest of foamy garbage
winter handstands slowly melting
Can't you hear it?

Click the image to secure copies.

2011-11-30T00:24:00.001-08:00

2011-11-30T00:05:00.001-08:00

Self-Inflicted Shazzbot v.02

2011-11-29T01:41:00.001-08:00

Frankensteinfish fingers

lightningbolts in real time
birdcage of the gods

bmx yourspot-lit drive

figures oft forgotten

ghosts,né apparitions
sail the wind-churned fog

addingjazz to late-nite visions

frankincense n' cheez burgers

Frankensteinfish fingers
crossing blurry bridges

wrapyour body with your spine

negative nirvana

bentforth & given measure
stow all your visible efforts

cauterizeyour skyline

we've lost the words to say it

perhapsrobbed or just forgotten
the characters unwritten

unstitched,erased or misaligned

Frankenstein French figures

candypants'd young rockers
California condors

or askull of Tiger's Eye

carved from grounded clouds

grounddown & oft without
worth or worthy nerve

theselate November nights

OCCUPY. Don't stop.

2011-11-25T21:45:00.001-08:00

Killing Time at Make-Out Room

2011-11-25T17:52:00.001-08:00

Who knew we'd live long enough to see
disco reborn as some kind of shimmeringly rare unicorn of
mane throwing, hoof clicking, tail flapping, glitter eyes shining?
The kids clandestinely OOH'ing and AHH'ing like tykes under the influence
of a mean sugar high and new access to ancient human mythology.
Passing Time, your cruelty is so cold.
Invisible peeler of my onions. Reducer of human meat.
Barely conductive mass of sorrows & glinting pleasures.
From the King's seat, smiling, writhing
to the rhythm, sipping the sweet nectar, and singing along.
Eyes following the fleeing unicorns
pulsating sound waves & candy-flavored cocaine rainbows.

VelRo on Mutiny Radio

2011-11-24T11:15:00.001-08:00

Me, Thomas Fucaloro, Carolyn Ho, Jason Schenheit, and Pam Benjamin Reading Our Poetry On the Radio in San Francisco.
Click to listen.

Meeting Stacy

2011-11-23T12:29:00.001-08:00

Cut in or out of moribund cosmography

your facade of unflagging sprightliness

filled with peppers, bouncing boiled

nude but rarely naked, cantilever spine

blind to the hands of the cam'd

or splayed hands on the blinds, bending

touching, rubbing your hidden regions, nether or otherwise

pose wide, wider, wide

undulant succulent orbs prickled with raspberry barbs rising

displayed for all to appraise, test for freshness or pass by

fireworks in pink and red for each hanging sphere, anointed & defiled

transacting agitated energies concentrated fucking, whether together or anything

toes and feet, arching, curling, hands and stands of hands

ruinous furious stratagem

fractious diction of grunted communion

bold inhalations, colors shifting up, into the red range:

rouge, fuchsia, vermillion,

gold, amber, and pumpkin,

waves of radiant salmon, muttered ruddy russet,

blasting bursts of brick,

burgundy and crawling crimson

lights swerving, cameras shakily trained on this new mission

avalanching production of compunction

jump cut to satisfaction,

revelation or repetition

Reading at Quiet Lightning (Nov 7, 2011 @ Chez Poulet, SF)

2011-11-17T13:22:00.001-08:00

2011-11-17T07:02:00.001-08:00

Vibing on Alexis

2011-11-14T11:17:00.001-08:00

Sometimes it's important
to fall back in
Let yourself
swim it
Open your gills
spread your fingers and toes
Feel the external pressure
and dive deeper
Hold the face of the water
of the air
of this day that's just so
As if made for us
puny humans
Sunning & preening
smoothing down
and drying
Against the influence of
autumn's rough beauty
These are the days of survival
and slowly dying things
but amid the wet clumps
there still be shining metals

Singing Strands in the Morning

2011-11-12T14:20:00.001-08:00

Behindthe cracks in my eyes

is aknot that was knit

like arope across time

whichis space

asingle strand drapes

wovenin braids upon braids

in thecracks of my eyes

are theeyes I use

to viewyou

ontape, on screen

online,only $1.99!

withinthe cracks between

thecracks of my eyes

arecommon compartments of time

momentsor memories

sometimesyours, sometimes mine

theseare a single dimension

translation,like

stoneskipped on calm water

theconcentric impressions

soonlinking in ringlets

acrossthe undulant surface

andtime and space are combined

this crackedsurface of

ourcurrent conceptions

ourtwo-dimensional abstractions

cobbled,hobbled, and squinting

wideningtoward crevasse

inbetween

theimplications are clear

unitsof elegant compaction

agrove, né a forest

in thepure order of matter

strandupon humming strand

glowinghairs on the vine

aluminous lacquer

lightbeaming through darkness

dippingwires between stanchions

hunchingus deeper

both transmitterand receiver

track 3 or track 4

2011-11-07T18:03:00.000-08:00

Crackling down
clam shells
melting butter
and brothy ooze
warm and salty
descending a line of inquiry
ruminating sand dollars
cracked in sandy backpacks
climbing behind them
blind to the barrenness
sitting mute
hand working
correcting scrawl
watching people be
laying down on benches
above the sounds
of the twilight beach
dark sand
the "Shhhhhh" of the waves
I am asleep
eyes open to the darkness
my one-room hut
wizened and burned
much lost thought
riding on the cusp
colossal and gone
Clam shells, cockles
tuppence a bag
internal whistles
crows on the line
gleaming

A few of my favorite books.

2011-11-07T16:56:00.001-08:00

SB Stokes's favorite books »

}

Broken Glass On Blacktop

2011-11-05T14:41:00.000-07:00

in an antiquated hand

the note said she ran

rainwater down a rusted drain

we tried to explain it

but she was green, unripe and twee

took turns no other would have

caverns and tunnels and

scattered stars of broken glass on blacktop

without a coat

without a care

hardly knowing what

unhinged and shoeless

Through feedback of memory

she returns intermittently

our lost mermaid

dry finned

her tail splayed

made plain

deafening and

deathly train

Jimminy Rickets

2011-11-05T12:43:00.001-07:00

Get down on it
Cummon an'
get down on it
You know you want to
You know you can
Go on, jump the fire
go on, down the road
the line cuts back and switches
before your starstruck eyes
the drums roll in the clouds today
sounds like thought unfolds
boxed into this habit
a careless knot
the gum in your hair
a curious collection
selected at random
so, go on an'
get down on it
you gotta feel it

Kirby Cove Poem 01 (For Grant's Birthday)

2011-11-01T03:33:00.000-07:00

Drowning In What We Don't Know - FHA.USA

2011-11-01T01:12:00.000-07:00

2011-10-31T16:00:00.000-07:00

Adnan Sharif's "Shake The Disease" Remix

2011-10-30T13:56:00.001-07:00

Shake The Disease - Adnan Sharif Remix by Adnan Sharif

Kirby Cove

2011-10-27T23:41:00.000-07:00

to the tune of guitars, mandolins,
bagpipes, cheap coke & hairspray
Freighters crest the punk-washed waves
the sun shines out
unaware and uncaring
Our tiny animal foibles
behemoth sub-audible
military choppers
chop the air
The air, no offense, much better
on it's own
sans commentary or guitar-fueled breaks
the promise of returning surf
silent acceptance by rock and sand
Again and again, we return
and it returns to greet anew the day
again the sun and
more importantly, the moon

And here, right here I am
phone calls and photographs be damned
to live, to breathe, and be free
this is the gift we share
the covenant we acquiesce to
life's contract:
Be here now
and then be gone
Good work done
and done again

to acknowledge human order
to rever and accept
to create, not destroy
despite what might have come before
or will come again after
Be damned or choose not to
This is our secret
our secret treasure
kept right here
within earshot of the bored gods
spread out like bleached wood
our foibles, our suspicions,
our struggles
our gallant moments
in sunlight or in shade
we persevere and
look damn good doing it

Oh, the momentary glory
The ecstasy of our
reciting invincibility to one another
like religion or science
we accept it and trust it
and, therefore, it is true
if only for a moment

the laughter subsides
and what does it leave us?
the exhalation of waves
on shores unnamed

Things we hold so close, so near
clenched with inescapable fear
that this might suddenly end
lights out, curtain down
a dejected sigh, a knowing frown

This great place, this great land
Oh, the metal in my days
and in my hands
There was a time when
I would worry, I would fret
and wonder at what
each gesture meant
But now so much more I know
of the secret songs of our beloved coast

to think that somehow
we can digest all this
parse everything that befalls
such a joke, it is to laugh
in the shade of the cove
far from the mast
It is no joke, but more
to laugh, not to cry,
nor cower back

OOF! WHOO!
sunning & living & loving
just so
It is our way and all that we know
amid handclaps & footfalls
among cliff faces & sheer falls
we shine so solitary
& bright among the world
and its fashions

The thrill of standing so tall
against inhuman scale
its momentary humor
our highlights & travails

So much meat to manipulate
against surf & sail
from the privilege of the cove
friendship against the rocks
winds and darkness
Huddle, you beloved masses, huddle

The schooners schooning
the bay accepting
lucky our lives absorbing
the glory, yes
the glory, I said it
THE GLORY
of living today
like a grown-up
with a robot with its
hand up

Oh, the exertion
of simply being human!
Constructs of strobe lights
& nonesuch!
We claw, we dance,
we construct the armature
of the ridiculous!
We strive, we fall, we climb
imagined walls
What excellent detritus!

And now the chill descends
the shade the cove knows
only as a friend

I sit alone
construct these lines
wishing for lost loves
amid shade, sand & brine
sunken mermaids in my mind

I love the threat
they present
For me, ironically,
it's all in words
I share the secrets
that the tide keeps
in surf & loam

I look at technology
& I look away
that's how I know
I'm human
how I know
I'm not completely lost
not completely
without animal

All we can hope for
a pumpkin at sunset
& not being pathetic
with people that love us

Yes, it's a lot
good weather and foul
beacon of human remembrance
It's all we can ask for & should

(Oh, Dan Langton
how much you've simply
taught me
thru words, sure
but just as much through
sly looks & laughs

Portland you're all
houses and woods
and there's always shit
to do: so tender
to women "Beat me!
Oh Bob, beat me!")

& Motorhead prevails
on the Golden Gate coast
away from the campground
our shared & secret cove

2011-10-27T22:47:00.001-07:00

2011-10-27T22:33:00.000-07:00

2011-10-23T15:39:00.001-07:00

2 x 14

2011-10-23T14:19:00.000-07:00

He devoted his whole life to the future
a future he never made it into
petitioning politicians and scholars
to wake to the truth of our notion
predicament problem near-ending
the decline and fall of our empire
our 'use by' date now long gone
Gary Snyder still crying
from the deserts
and from the mountain tops
and the hilltops
and the gullies
And my father drank it in like it was gospel
and he knew he could do better in the morning

He devoted his second life to our future
his first life he spent like teenage semen
lost in the blur of the moment
in the darkness without focus or intention
spilled out in drugs & alcohol & sex
blind to the black magick he was wielding
voice of a ghost that is now leaving
He devoted himself to our saving
he devoted himself to our future
to prove to the world that he meant it
and strove to impart its importance
its imperative its requirement and its tenant
to his children and their children and each other
he gave himself to our hope for a future

One truth.

2011-10-21T20:39:00.000-07:00

You never see your own trapdoor, yet you cannot stop yourself from stepping through it.

Turn the Sound Down

2011-10-19T01:53:00.000-07:00

Where is the morbid clown found
you wanna say in the ground but
pond fronds bob in the Tule fog
your hand on your scapular
beneath thin cotton pique
and thick white undershirt
hoping that chipboard and
cheap wool patch work

Turn down your mirrors
dim them, those robes and cassocks
never wanted it, wanted that
can't you just plan a scam to end all brat frats
unspoken clown man
not funny at all
your leg bigger
my hand small

the morbid clown isn't found
that's the whole problem
the hardening pretzel
so fragile as to be broken
to break, to fall, or be pulled
in a million directions:
north, south, east and
as far as
we are the best
we know there was

so gather 'round, mopeds resound
kettle drum of lost miracles
cauldron of cackling mounds
the glass eyes so real
still judging judges
pained & painted faces
grimace or a frown
sick as mortal sound

Formative Years

2011-10-19T01:19:00.000-07:00

Sequence Initiation: October 1968

Gestation:
• 9 mos
• 192 beers (Lucky Lager with the "Concentration"-like puzzles inside the bottlecaps)
cow + saw minus the
s + windmill
equals... equals?

Year One:
• 12 mos
• (qty unknown) fist fights
car crashes,
emergency room visits,
hospital stays,
slaps, punches, missed
dinners, lunches, what is this,
love is?

Years Two - Seventeen:
• 180 mos
• 3000 beers (all $3 - $5 a sixer)
• keeping up appearances
• arms bent back
- making her
- forcing her
- the mother crying out
- blind and falling and
- mother of your children
1. and your only child
2. watching you
3. be drunk and violent

Greetings, Half Pint

2011-10-19T00:39:00.000-07:00

Limp to the sun, at the edge
don't mumble ever cuz smthttffflmmlflflln
Mick comes thru no matter what you're
having read isn't reading
actively humming "back home" ys I am
but on thin night legs
one dust better than a nightclub
the other, the other one, you know
skiffle spittle forgetting frogtown
downtown down bound aw fuck it
a harmonica and a dream (~~and an STD~~)
believing in time travel, if only thru the wall
going home, bohm-bohm-bohm-bah-bah-bohm!
I just can't wait
limp toward the hotplate, but remember the lesson
hand scars like leg braces: denied and hidden
in shamefog your shamefrog too much like
and that damn'ed harmonium
his hand's jerking motion
feel alright he says across time, and therefore, space
Early in the morning, gonna catch that plane
mumbling' somethin', your headphones holding onto the dream
such a, such a, such a, such a
long, long tiiiiiiiiime
the door ruptures into alcohol night
sweet love in the middle of the night, early in your mornin'
moanin' all up in your mornin'
all up in your gloved and powdered hand
aren't you the gentle-man? look at you!
shah-lah-lah, your priddy lil' smile
your wad and your whip and your shoes cost a mile
yeah, that might be seen as cheap
but my skills in the realm of super-high-fives when I shine
Mick is not here now, gone now, before they place me in the ground
the bass weaves and bobs, crosses up and under, drops the hammer
and this is my shanty banter
limp toward it, cummon
the sun, & the edge

The Ninth Step

2011-10-13T02:17:00.000-07:00

Summer dries up and
we're still driving
His hands grip down tighter
toward work
and that office we share
The weather darkens
his face and the clouds
sunken and tired
(we ride)
He takes in air
a breath
through clenched teeth
then speaks
"I don't know
if this is possible
but I wanted to ask
is there any way,"
his profile collapsing next to me,
"you can forgive
all those things I did
when you were small,
helpless and desperate
for that father I never was?"

Accidental (San Leandro, 1974)

2011-10-13T02:04:00.000-07:00

It trickles down to sensation
blood running across my hand
tiny ring finger slammed in the door
of a Datsun B-210
Six in the bloody morning
screaming bloody murder
Unable to say anything
the wet pepper pain
making my young legs dance
electric kneecaps
and armpits blasting
Cousin Rick
he didn't know it
just fucking around
like careless young
teens do
Getting ready for a family caravan
almost all in the rented van
but my 5-year-old hand
Screaming, tears streaming,
hoping someone would come
help me
just help me

2011-10-08T16:11:00.001-07:00

2011-10-08T14:15:00.001-07:00

LESS THAN COMPLETELY SATISFIED

2011-10-08T13:24:00.000-07:00

The video screen in the menu board has been brokenout of servicesoftware offline for over a month nowdisallowing customers from having visual confirmation that their order is being taken correctly and lengthening the ordering process by requiring the order taking employee to verbally repeat the order back to each and every customer, rather than being able to gain order accuracy confirmation by simply asking the customer, "Is your order correct on the screen?" It is a small thing, but deeply affects the customer experience overall. Each time I return to this location and find the screen STILL BROKEN, I sigh and resign myself to the fact that my fast food will, once again, be not so quick.

Untitled (Saturday, Oct 8 2011)

2011-10-08T13:08:00.001-07:00

Written in tears and small change is no way to go through life, they say.

Then I hear a fiddle that makes me wanna jump up and swing into light.

Memphis Minnie timelessly singing (and thinking) 'bout Ma Rainey.

Allen Ginsberg speaks of secret technicians and the future. And the future!

Complaining blindly to websites and street corners, we call this progress.

Here come the cold jets, the money all gone, the money all gone.

I try to listen to the insistent whisper of gray autumn rain.

Human animal movements informed by Hollywood movies and misunderstood scribble.

And yet, writing in tears and small change might be all I have on this particular day.

Can you hear the beard of your own body calling, trying to warm you?

He was the King of May, slept with teenagers laughing.

So very far from where we are now, what's happening in our sad fiefdom.

They also say, Takes one to know one. and I am left standing, arms empty, on the dirty abused cement of the sidewalk.

Or in a room, in a house, alone on a sunlit Saturday.

Writing, not in tears but in dust, carefully rendered.

A barfly brought me here and left me with little to understand or hold, heart beating like a frightened machine.

Sufjan Saturday

2011-10-08T13:08:00.000-07:00

I'm way out here

by the Devil Mountain
hiding out in abandoned suburbia
meth-powered tent village neighbors
the East Bay cusp
gutted frontier
water walled by refineries
clear sun and crisp wind and
just like that
it was autumn

Still Gone (parts 7 - 13) v.01

2011-09-28T01:31:00.000-07:00

"Thisis it. This is it."

Icouldn't stop

repeating

"Thisis it."

Myringing head ringing

movingas fast as

Icould

towardthe ER

downglaring hallways

labyrinthine hallways

unnatural sterile light

hallways

Icouldn't stop

Stopholding breath.

Stopgrinding teeth.

Stopthinking

abouthim leaving.

Stopthinking

abouthim dying.

Stopthe late-night crying.

Stophis bitter mouth

fromsaying hopeless.

Stophis fear.

Stophis sickness.

Stopthis illness.

Stopthe treatments

thatleave him

Stopthe suck of air

outof the room

outof each thought

outof our plans

outof. Stop. Stop.

Stop.

Don'tstop now

Desperatefootfalls

Franticmetronome

countingtoward him

Keepmoving, keep walking

Doit for him, for us all

whoeverthat is.

Findhim now. Find him.

Everyoneknew

thislast time

werushed him

thathospital again

lifeleached out

themechanical bed

hisclothes gone

gauntskull head

babyhair

bonewhite

Spitclung to his chin

hiseyes searching wildly

hisface swollen shiny red

Hegrabbed my shirt with his one free hand, strapped to theemergency board, head tilted toward the floor to keep theblood flowing to his brain. The word "insistence" doesn'tcome close to covering the intensity of his action. It wasn'tanything but desperation, recognition that he might die atany moment.

hisfingers filled with terror

hisface wild

drylips mouthing

something,a message

Hepulled me to him

wildand wide, his eyes

beforehis voice

hismouth moving

"You'redoing it wrong!

Yourwhole life:

you'redoing it wrong!"

heshouted

"Doyou hear me?!"

tryingto leave his body

Book cover design

2011-09-24T17:36:00.001-07:00

Built Out of Facebook

2011-09-24T16:58:00.000-07:00

Are you there, high school?
He's packing my studio
properly... It's me, San Francisco.
Blow-drying a unicorn. It's hot.
Kinda long, but very, very

funny in Dallas men's room
powders. Try and stay calm,
Powders!
‎2 more tests to go! Examine

stalker mini feed in full
effect: CREEPY! Listen to this:

I will be doing the unstuck tonight

tonight is the night

to see the panda dance

Interesting things go on

in Denver these days

they say.
Hey friends, what are you

reading from the weekend?
Worth reading? In love

with this city. Call me

please... I dig this so

much! Until I get

arrested for having that

one crazy dream again
last night... whoa
international? Lunch

today: 1 package

bacon 2 red potatoes.

Internationality? Yeah,

I don't get it. Yes, I most

certainly sent him

a birthday greeting.
One of the best

live sing-a-longs ever!
"Lose the ego." isn't always
about you &
your insecurities want
my truck back.

Not the easy snooky

phase? After this
week's perms I roll
a mean blunt hahaha...
kooka?

Baby Farida and Ricardo Sassafrassas were at it again.

2011-09-24T16:38:00.000-07:00

The accumulation of so-called random happenings was becominguncanny. "Ridiculous," Sassafrassas exhaled with the smokefrom yet another Gauloises. Baby was having none of it.

"Overcast just means the sky can't decide. Can it."

& why would it? Let's be candid. Honestly
honesty
like truth
is relative.
Relational. Not rational. Riddled with writhing ridicule. Just then, insectoid buzz of helicopter blades shuddering,

hacking at the air
in circles somewhere
out of sight, but still
just overhead.

2011-09-24T16:25:00.001-07:00

Almost Like Science Fiction v.05

2011-09-22T05:50:00.000-07:00

Whenyou extend

timechanges into words

reaches toward common history

Inspectyour saga

motivationsfor doing

anything

inflatingbike tires

handstandson the grass

ridingthe night train home

scrawlinga drunken note

surpriseregistry

sorrowspreading like dank fire

underthe skin of your face

thepiano calls

"rattlecolumbo skee-dazzle"

nowwave them around

hypnoticand sincere

youmust believe

inthe something I'm transmitting

upthe live wires

intoa collective hive

ordown by the rustling dumpsters

castoff shells

spentnutrition and supplements

informa blood ooze

"Ican't, I just can't"

gurglingon a blanket of blood

onearm waving

halfa pincher bug

electricitystill making it happen

anotherloop of living

purelymotion driven

withoutpurpose

thebody stays and stays

themind burns and slips

anotherdark portal

bornvoyager

bonvoyage-r

outof cleaner hands

roughwith hairy splinters

combinepowers

finda way off this rock

vortexof hand-woven sediment

chambrayand needlepoint

tinybackstitched leaves, flowers

sanga little song while he did it:

"Ol'brown poesy,

somethingsomething Alabama"

"Shutup, Kid!"

waving,eyes wilder

hisblood comes out

moreand more

glisteningcough

thickbubbles of dark

paintthe hard stroke

hispained face

getback from it, step out

ofhis way

hisoncoming fate

panicburned streets

campsspringing up

fingerfulsof air

"Ijust can't, I can't"

aweak wave, he lays back down

otherwords too far from the surface

hewaves

hishands tremble

spentimpulses

sonatural

thesoul slips

gearsburn out

themetal whines and snaps

thestraps are off and he is gone

rabbit'sfoot bound

nowa blur in cosmic space

flashingtoward a diamond planet

inferenceof his purpose

light-yearsfor comprehension

Smiths - Japan, 1986

2011-09-18T12:04:00.000-07:00

2011-09-16T18:48:00.001-07:00

''Ix Tab'' Cut-down Cut-up

2011-09-16T12:43:00.000-07:00

A book of limited opium
who, but and/or,
for it's his addicts book.

Everything drives

an effortless dream appeal.

Sexually intense blankets
in the cold.
by enacting confusion, garroting,
characterization persuasion

Hangings will call her.
all around 19th Street.

Admittedly, the heterosexual
may feel delight: a heroin
necklace and cheated romance

Fight the Muse to do more.
Just survive strangulation
seems not to be his vocation.

those veritable gallows
extend her patronage.
a jealous few witnessing,
Goddess, Mr. Good
has eliminated the fair sex.

from incident to
the central task of spinning,
the same aroused wit

anything that might detract from difficulty
the hard & happy truth.
erotic fascination of a night gone

hanging by death,,
Everything spinning
graces, stylistic paving
The night all gone,
but hanging

Those Last Days

2011-09-16T12:32:00.000-07:00

hazmat hands flat against the van
a rubbled city in the desert
terror replaced by helpless acceptance

bombs and guns and death
drifting in the dusty air
covering everything

the state of things
inside my father's body
the locals losing out, inch by inch

in the fabric of this man
a spent village, small and weak
sucked to its essence

(if you don't know
what I'm talking about
then I'll speak more clearly)

we left him
hunched and dry
on his side

alone each night
in that bed
in the ward

polished linoleum
working cold
those tired nurses

beeps and screens
rushing, rushing,
giving drugs, feeding machines

he lay strapped to a heat
burning to leave
eyes flooded blind

holding back the rage
his fingers
flexing and twisting

morning glimpse
first thought hit
do everything

for him now
run

Turn Around

2011-09-15T19:11:00.000-07:00

Thinking about passing

passing on,

out,

or through

and just, you know,

passing:

the internet of the soul

the portal,

jack, or

outlet

invisible cord of

sine waves, or

microwaves,

or sound

waves,

cut suddenly

passing into

nonexistence

history, perhaps,

temporarily

the virus we call

family

passing it down

until forgotten

passing in a crowd

of memories

strangers trading looks

like mirrors

Click the socks to vote for my design!

2011-09-15T18:38:00.001-07:00

Relaxing Sunday by rabidmonkey69
www.COLOURlovers.com

Click the socks to vote for my design!

2011-09-15T16:01:00.001-07:00

Tooty Frooty by rabidmonkey69
www.COLOURlovers.com

Soylent Green

2011-09-14T23:43:00.001-07:00

Return of Smiley (Cold War Nostalgia)

2011-09-13T02:01:00.001-07:00

Ugly smoking men

with ugly yellow teeth

slip around uneasy

Others by cars

parked in rows
read papers, meander

outside in the dirty snow

Hand-held or earpiece radios
watching from inside the van

cobbled side street

handshake exchanges

matching briefcase arrangements

their heavy plastic glasses

trench coats and mustaches

Navy slacks going "Shhk-Shhk."

when thighs touch

Each stride percussive
like a rolling jazz brush

Communication in reduction
microfiche seduction

Lies in your eyes

over untouched cocktails

quaint smoky basement

candles on the tables
wanting to abort, but unable

like over-sized tears
wrapped in netting

Lean closer

Suppressing an accent?

get the drift, clipped aspect

Spy cam necklace

Pulse rate carotid dance

Ambiguous fingers
on ambiguous hands

Agents abound

on the dance floor

at the station

all around you,

escape to a waiting sedan

clouds of smoke

push-button traps

taped instructions

along the river
cyanide tooth &

the strange couple
their cheap cameras

picnic camouflage
analog internet
espionage

Petaluma Transmission v.02

2011-09-08T12:52:00.000-07:00

Reading the fog back to front
half a cigarette for breakfast

windows let down
let some outside in

flying the ribbon of the highway
between crags and coast

over the fog-locked bridge

Soon slicing shade & dappling sun
through the near-Autumn park
Sailor Jerry asleep in my ears

the drive an effortless dream
even 19th Street
a necklace of signals
washed clean and adorned
with previously unseen gems

It's the fight to do more
than just survive
this day, the ones after

feel it out in sunlight
and ocean-colored air

The night all gone
paved and unspoken
difficulty and harder truths

It's never as it seems,
never what it seems to be

or even now is
never

hanging intangible all around
lusting for a truer self

Only tears and words
for blankets
and cold confusion

How much will be remembered?
How much is being forgotten?
How much now or