Thursday, January 24, 2008


I used to think the word "hip" was cool. I used to think the word was awful. Now I just don't know.

Some poems from Hip Posturing:

Title Piece

(So it starts!
Musical hopes-
Wild stories-
Useless actions-
Too many words)

“I want to go back to sleep
but I cannot.”
ideas must be exposed/written down/
must be put out on the paper litter table
remember falling in and out of love
that spring of ‘03?
when the first lines of summer shot you in the brain
porcupine ash end & the asphalt bakery downstairs
I was there and felt the needle’s injection
soft and slow the knowledge of Claire
the wheels of memory prevented sleep
(they control the dream documentary)
REM moments are filled with coin tosses
back and forth over and over the questions roll
who feels the cold steel piercing of love?
did it escape my prison and make it across the border?

the very questions I ask are diseases
no doctor alive can prescribe me pleasure
I have to find the cure on my own
hundreds of miles north she sits
a thousand heartbeats later
do we miss the same midnights?
no answer - the phone line has been severed for good
nothing grows - the greens do not get any greener
do I believe the photo album?
making the unclear a portrait of Titian
revel in the canvas freshly covered with acrylic goo
itch the mosquito bites on yr left thigh

“I listen for THE voice but remember it as goodbye
images drip from the poisoned string above my ear
into my thoughts and begin to slither through my wires
I am the machine that gathers entertaining figurines
I am a feast losing its flavor at an empty table
I am the ‘unique one who doesn’t have a good time’
I am Zagg the jester here to keep you company
I am the man-whore who comes every time he hears a call
I am the lonely boy who waits by the molded plastic ringer
I am a terrible friend because I taste bitter
I am the obscene jerk with bad karma to burn.”


Driving in Dallas

Escaping the sundown streets in Aaron’s Honda
with windows down and a mix CD blasting
three college kids singing loudly and out of tune
“Don’t Stop ‘til You Get Enough” joyous and Heaven smiling
the front seat choir giggled with hand motion cartoons
“I’m not not not not not not yr Academy” strange beauty in the serious art of driving Mission of Burma wonderful as I sing volume turned to 11
“Tramps like us!”

The Snapshots:

The thrusts and gusts of wind
that beat against my face
and play with my hair

The incorrect off ramp you took
wrong turns near strip clubs
and scary red light runs

The Semi that almost killed
us - Honk! from the car you cut off
and the circles we drove in erratic

The tap on yr window from the winner of the Chong look alike contest
his bum-stoned laugh as he told us of his plight and the 45 cents
we gave him to buy his blast

The angry friends in car trailing
lost twice with mad eye chase
and shame you felt

The defeat felt as we pulled into another parking lot
only to feel life go from “Rosemary’s Baby”
to TV and Nachos at home

The still happiness of being with friends
spitting juice through mouth and nose
and having 1 AM food sit on stomachs

The departure of each friend
the return to
homes & beds &

where we will meet later anyway....

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