Thursday, February 28, 2008

Oh You (mp3)

This is a tune from my one and only LP SONG AFTER SONG. This track also has an upcoming video post courtesy of Chris so keep yr eyes open and yr ears peeled.


Lost and lonely strumming blue
Until I met a girl named You
I wrote an awful lot of songs (2x)
I didn’t know they were awful
Until I sang along, yeah

Oh, you occupy my every thought
Oh, you I want to give you what you haven’t got
Oh, you – oh, you

My mouth hates the words I say
I think my thoughts are worse anyway
I'm full of emotion
Full of emotion, I dare not let on
In my dreams I turn around you’re gone – don’t turn around (2x)

Oh, you occupy my every thought
Oh, you I want to give you what you haven’t got
Oh, you – oh, you

Careful “Caution” tape is yellow
Been happy since you said, “hello.”
Happiness never suited me (2x)
But happy I’m-a-gonna try to be
The suffering artist is a bore (2x)

Oh, you occupy my every thought
Oh, you I want to give you what you haven’t got
Oh, you – oh, you

Monday, February 25, 2008

picture poem!

Hey guys, what's the deal? Well, here it is, the first picture poem. This is something Erin and I have been working on for a couple of weeks, taking pictures around town and having a good time doing it. I hope you all enjoy. Also, if you would like to take a picture in the beard, just email me and we'll make it happen. Dreams do come true.

here's the poem in regular written form:
picture poem

the snakes and

glass buildings

struck us

like new


and we

became different.


began to dance in

silk blankets

and sing


with coffee voices.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

Shake Me (mp3)

I have a set of new songs that I will be sharing in the coming weeks. They are loud and technicolor.

Shake Me

I’m a sleepwalker
Not a sweet talker
Not a shock rocker
I’m as ordinary as they come

I try not to try
I dare not die
I dare not cry
Call me a revolutionary

Please mama shake me
I need to feel awake
I don’t know what it will take
So please mama shake

Swimming in a coma sea
Don’t know what I wanna be
Not sure I’m even me
Can you relate to this at all?

I’m whistling in rounds
Not making pretty sounds
A-walking tired grounds
Like Ian I am screaming

Please mama shake me
I need to feel awake
I don’t know what it will take
So please mama shake

I’m not the worst
I always finish first
I feel like I’m cursed
When you aim at nothing you hit nothing

Please mama shake me
I need to feel awake
I don’t know what it will take
So please mama shake

Friday, February 22, 2008

more poems for your mouth

Hello again, faithful readers. I'm here to give you some more untitled poems. Meet me in the Opera House with Olivia Tremor if your willing. Control me, if you can (music reference; track it down, Green Typewriters).
p.s. the first poem is the latest untitled I've written

untitled 4030

if I lay down in the road to


feathers from birds


the midnight song

I should

be so lucky, says


to his father


they ride down a country lane


the mid-heat of fading



I should think you’re smarter than that,



son o mine,

left lingering among the skiff plough


drying upon the face

of the river

untitled 3601

school is for the officers who drive

through red lights

with the sirens on

for no

apparent reason.

and, yeah

, yeah, oh


school is for aging rock and rollers

who just can’t

get laid anymore.

maybe, and


school is for porno losers

with old age

and extended members.

it isn’t for me,

but I sit

in halls

and under

neon bulbs

and listen to

others preach about others



I am a shark caught

in the wilds of the

deep blue ocean

and strung along a pier for

all onlookers to gawk at;

or at least,

I am a free wheeling businessman


time in a white


jail cell.

untitled 2504

how lucky it is to be

born on a Sunday


she was a friend of mine.

wrapped up in the

comics pages.

funnies and funnies.

I remember the times of

the ice crystals,

jaunting down her hair


cycles, spirals,



she had frozen,

or nearly so,


came to my fire place just to



wrapped her in a humorous

blanket and


in my old oak chair.


sipped the strange mint

leaf tea

and guessed.

how old am I

how old are you

she was a nude


cleansing herself


to be loved,



to fire up the car

engine in

dead winter


not wait for the windshield

to defrost.

that’s all Sarah ever


little teeth,

the capacity to tear little

holes in everything


was her gift.

candy candy,

eyes are made for


and fancy.

discover lover,


always consumed by



Thursday, February 21, 2008


Strumming by the higher power. ½ words. Speak the truth. They can’t hurt ya dude. Slip off the tile stage and pay me a tuna fish ton of soul. James Brown. Jim Beam of light trace trash Led Zep. Cars and aero zepplins sperm down the road singing about Jesus. Dancing around a hat, the animals blast Miss Understood while my record player receives an award for diagrams. Miss Fully Realized got an organ B-3 transplant with pizza toppings a week ago. Radio plays of my once long forgotten youth are beamed via satellite with guitar strings. I hold my hand out for the 97th teardrop.
? and the Jeffersons play sleigh bells at the Christmas pageant. Damn croon of Captain Jack, he always has to make his presence felt because he is filled with a sadness. Lord and boastful shithead. Click. Blues on the green makes me machine hips. Long term tigers of hipness and idiots of buddy icons study what I put in the zoo. She could have saved the daysleeper, but the sex toy company had a TV show to produce. Invite twenty-something coeds over for WOW. Easy on the roommate duck sauce. Fuck, what was that Bob? Where is Claire?
There was a sound buzzing mono in my cranberry mind. Who dare speaketh to the wind? The prince of talk, was it you down there by the bayou or were you at the college? No, it was the naked waitress of my dreams serving me food. It was a hot boiled love dish called eternity. Always in the mood to be rushed off to the hospital. About time for the judge to walk in on his daughter Jenny, for she was the bustiest girl in town. La cocina su familia. I too, blame game train. Riding in on the money calf about id on a Monday. Come on stop putting us on. This is serious. I need to stand trial for all the wrongs I done. Starting with the apple and ending with the three kings of Ziplock.
“Poor Mr. Dovetail. He was a great teacher, but he could not keep his thoughts to himself.”
“For shame my over-sized friend.”
The newspaper was due for a burning. Too many facts. I can’t stand politicians. They choke on truth. Blinded by thunder. These slugs make their escape to the Jersey shore. These USA merchants. On top of old smoking gun. A reference to the plastic utopia that melted last week. Soda fountain. I’m dripping with jokes to the point of discomfort.
“Ouch! My sides hurt.”
Can you refrain from throwing books out the window please. Never trust a singer whose name is Singer. Put that on sale you march of times tale maker. I demonstrated the use of gymnastics yesterday while on the lamb. What a year it has been for the TV. (Pause). Foreground and back to center and hurry up please, its time. I really worry about the cost of being.
I wonder about the tunes of today tomorrow. Rolling rock tones and decide the tuna tomb catcher with the blow up. I grain with each passing tear. Too late to tide came in and you were not on it. I saw your look alike in the bookstore. I nearly said hello. A shame that would have been. It just proves I still love you. And if you don’t believe in “love,” L-U-V, I feel sorry for you. How do cowgirls ride in the new west? Side saddle? Or is that too painful? I avoid confrontation. The soft trumpet of joy with its sad morn scorn for yonder winning prize pug. I am jealous of a thousand upsets. Born and raised in utero.
Ithaca, or mack the fife. Foils upon the mouth. Breaking news, I can’t eat alone. I am a bad tipper. What a sweet treat of parting glances. Yes, you do remind me of other statues. Liberty and that Lincoln fella. Fib. Fiber was in his other court document underneath the static of cheekbones. Should I plunder for this book?

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

America (mp3)

Another recording of Chris' poetry. He reads, I play guitar, keyboard, and percussion, and Erin plays violin. Dig!


he is gentle
in his corner
standing hot in the night club.
he sees pretty ladies,
shorts skirts,
flirtatious diamonds,
rougher types that don’t
ask for tomorrow.
he downs a drink
pats his
pat white suit.
a disco light catches his eyes a moment
- flash and bang -
and he goes for the door.

his money spills on the floor
and he decides to
trip an elegant
youth on
his way to the bathroom.
the child tumbles hard
gashes his head open on the
tack tread floor.
America laughs and
rides high
into the night with his fists ramming
the nothing.

the moon shines bright
for him
for him
and the ghosts of the city
burst and pop through
the sidewalk as he passes.

an ambulance careens past
in flash.
America ignores its wail and siren
and makes for
his unlit apartment.
the homeless men
lined in the coffers of the
dance and jive
to a different rhythm.
their skin rubs
off the bricks surrounding.
America laughs
the second time,
hoping for a third.

hookers, the johns,
pimps and
pool sharks and gangsters
tramps, up and down the late
he sees the heroin pushers and
the dope fiends,
people smacked up and
dragged down.
the rude little morsels of a tender
upended life.

his apartment building stands
because it can;
it greets him in hisses of
materialistic courtship.
there should be that doorman
and his white gloves
barking orders through the
glass door,
but the night leaves off invisible.
America grunts and slams
the door open.
elevator buttons, the ride up,
the lobby and the

his apartment will not die.
he flushes the lights,
fastens a pack of cigarettes into
his bourbon hands,
and fondles the fridge
he grabs a beer,
a cold one,
turns the television,
sees sonic Manhattan doing
the great walk,
naked and nude,
well hung and grunting
and thrusting
meat into beautiful
bodies shrieking
as banshees on the
Fourth of July.
the fish tank is half empty.
the dead gone
tiny fish tell no more war stories.
it is all the
life of the city of the dying
and the damned.

America dreams of southern latitude;
the tropics;
go east, go west;
he dreams again of the great north pole
and the freezing air.
no life
but he laughs once more.

this third time hurts.
he remembers the cancer lodged gracefully between
his lungs and stomach.
surely this will kill him,
after so much time and progress and
America knows that time grows
short short shorter.

he opens a window into the fast leavening
night air and inhales deep.
this is a last chance,
a desperate grasp into the infinite
of oblivion.
he gazes into the stars and blots
the senseless buzz of
celebrity talk miring in the background.
my destination
he recites again and
and dreams finally of
astronaut adventures and
nineteen fifties science fiction.
project bluebook,
the great hidden history of

then it’s lights out;
his mattress lies directly on the floor.
a catalogue of the good
life rests next to his
humble pillow.
he grips the pages, flicks a lamp
once, then twice,
and stares into the fine coffee
tables presented in
four color fashion.
go to bed,
it’s over.
his eyes sparkle.
the magazine bends, folds, flops
over, and is discarded
effortlessly on the floor.
he goes away for
the evening,
no alarm wanted
or set.

his sleep rolls into deep breaths;
he dreams of civil war,
of bloodless
manifest destiny,
eternity and due process.

Monday, February 18, 2008

View from a bus

Hey guys, I wrote this prose poem tonight while riding the bus home from school. The driver was a real warthog, and he inspired me instantly. I'd like to dedicate this to him, then. Goodnight, sweet prince.

travel logos 85

The bus driver looked at me with a glint of anger and jealousy. That I, in my youth, might collect myself upon his bus, listening to my music, and so callous as to smile at him, was too much to take. As I prepared a seat for myself, the driver sped away, jerking the bus beneath my feet. This is an odyssey, capable only of seeing through windows in the dark. I couldn’t tell why the bus driver thought so ill of me; I slid carefully into a seat and rested my textbooks beside me. I would shortly write away with the rhythm of potholes and local transit idiots. Perhaps cute girls as well, or artists, whichever should be. And you know, he’s not so bad – the driver. He talks to people, but like a dog, and he closes his eyes, but like a toad. Sorry; it’s his mustache. Makes him look pathetic. And he growls, I suspect.

Poetry in stereo

Hey guys, to follow up the Jeff-in-the-backseat-video, here is one of me reading "travel logos 80." And yes, we do live in that car. It's a mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad world.

travel logos 80

america the beautiful: you’re mother’s legs are individual and smooth, generic, of course, but altogether desirable and graceful. I should clarify, however, that it’s an ugly woman to be the loudest one in the room, and it’s an idiot to have the fastest car in the desert. can’t get going too fast, can’t reach far enough. you know it’s late, it is getting hot out, even, and if all you want is to run down the avenue with sparklers in your hands and a red flag to tout, well, baby, you’re centuries late.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Me and Jeff down by the schoolyard

Hey guys, here is a video of Jeff Barnyard playing "Jonesin' for Some Loving" in the backseat of me and Erin's car. Sorry for the wall'o'sound!

here are the lyrics:
I'm jonesin' for some love
I'm jonesin' for some love
The only thing I think of
When will I score some love

Can't get it on the streets
Can't buy it in the stores
Can't learn it from Jesus
Can't catch it from the whores

I'm jonesin' for some love
I'm jonesin' for some love
The only thing I think of
When will I score some love

Saturday, February 16, 2008

three poems

Hey, here are some more untitled poems for you on this untitled day.

untitled 2179

a bright world

says calm calm


and smash your brains out


a clarinet.

and we live on the world

of sidewalks


car bumpers;


listen to rock and


and watch

daredevils soar

over open flames and

wooden houses.

untitled 3795

forty times to stop the universe

in the dead winter


of Ohio,


times to surf the sunset on the

beaches of Charleston,

forty times to kiss the clouds

under Texas skies.


we are pistol

and impetus.

we are a shade of smoke blown

out of villain lips.

we are an attack

on alarm clocks.

smack the damned thing, honey,

and we can hide out.


forty ways to forget

bebop and

sing unsung.


abstract, sure,

she guesses,

and tosses her firearm into the trash.

untitled 3532

a night journey is called for;

bring your moonpies

and your applecrisps and your

tin cup.

I can be the banjo player in the dive bar.


can be the gypsy dancer.

bright butterflies,

bright stars,

dark sky,

long hours.

A hundred revisions and indecisions

Revision #2. Still no title.

Between the cat-scratch and neon burrs,
I heard the loose-chained bicycle sing

a lonely silken rustle down the street—
a dry whistle, like wind through wheat.

The schick of a rattlesnake
moving through leaves:

the same bitterness of its bite
and the heady forecast of its strike.

The four fangs pulled back into a snare
as white and lucid as streams of milk.

A reminder to stop rooting for the spring,
whose births multiply the earth like cancerous cells.

Crowding out the alder, dead from blight,
the vines wrapped around its shoulders

like the arms of mothers in Pompeii.
Like the stone grapes carved

on the mouth of a dish
one woman grips to her as she falls.

Thank you guys so much for all your comments! Let me know if you want me to return the service.

Friday, February 15, 2008

prose poetry power

Hey guys, here's another prose poem from me to you. I love you all and oh gee what a wonderful world.

travel logos 3

A tirade for princess want. And you are the fourth person to step out of a shadow with a white mask on hiding paler skin. Go jump on a stranger. A comfort. Look in the stranger’s eyes, and see, and laugh. Curve your hands down the stranger’s face, ask their fiancĂ© about love, and run away without shoes. There is a song composed of desert road, dirt, great intentions, the last raindrop diner on the lowest point of earth. Let me listen, hush now, let me listen. We can nearly imagine ourselves singing it with brand new suits on. Blue suits that are full of shiny sequences and frequencies. I love you, you piece of infinity. When I kiss you I am kissing everything in existence. We can’t stop like vagrants, we are nearly upon the grand castle with gray spires and dragons.

All Latinate Words Sound Pretentious to Me

Well, here is a poem I wrote today but I think it suffers from being too "poetry-ish." There's an urn and the words 'clutch,' 'silken' and 'chiseled' are used. I think I've been reading too much Updike. Help me make this poem less stodgy!

I have heard the loose-chained bicycle song
lonely in its silken rustle down the street.
Fused and permanently echoing
with cat-scratch
and neon burrs.

It is the same dry whistle as wind through wheat.
The first-cousin of the rattlesnake
shicking through dead leaves.

The same bitterness of its bite
and the heady forecast of its strike.
Four fangs pulled back into a snare
as white and lucid as a stream of milk.

A reminder to stop rooting for the spring;
its crowded births multiplying
like cancerous cells.
Its sex is not naked.

Not like the dead vines clinging
to the skeleton of an elm.
Wrapped around each other
like the mothers of Pompeii.
Or the stone grapes chiseled
into the mouth of the urn
one woman clutches as she falls.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

poetry yo-etry

Hey guys, Happy V-E Day. Let's celebrate our triumph over Germany with some poetry!
Here are two randomly chosen untitled poems along with the first from my next thousand. Hurray for love!

untitled 3352

disharmony misspell again and again,

a girl in the sandy shells,

glasses rimmed tight around her jaws, angry and ugly and true.

a girl with something to prove;

she wanders off into the wilderness and beckons you,

please oh please,

follow me.

but your legs are concrete girders.

you’re a bank; you’re a restaurant; you’re a federal records building

in charge of birth and death certificates.

and the girl is gone.

she screams.

blood in the wild.

what can you do?

untitled 1418

the movies bring violence


so that’s stuck in my head.


brings serenity


and that calms me down


literature rips



and makes me



people of


only bring



they make me

rejoice and

they make me


untitled 4001

a view of Christoph


at age 25:

cold as an icicle in May,

he says,

oh yes, I want something.


it’s reason he needs.

some sublime

white stucco


the walls, oh


kiss me glamour, I don’t


a tiff.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

again more from SC

Dear Epistle St. Clean,
My name is Cobb Lar and I am looking to score some hugs. Do you know where I can get some? Remember when we listened to the radio? I was smacking my gums about the state of modern music the other day and I thought of you. Feel bad yet? This letter is in response to your theological assumptions. First, GOD DOES NOT EXIST. Do you know what you are saying to the tiny ones? The midget scoops of America are not ready for this. This is not a view that is advertisement approved. Stockholders will be unhappy with ya. We all know the consequences clean clear, profits will go down. Prophets cry when sadness overtakes them on Sunday morning. Good thing I do not belong to any club. I aint no sheep.
See ya later Shepherd,
These ramblings curse like purse thieves. Eating eating eatin e-din eden. Now that we are situated in a comfortable couch let’s play hide and sneak. His name is humorous to me. The past two days have been filled with haunting hums. My dreams involve basketball games. Tiny radios talk to me on the porch in the pitch-dark nocturnal night. How is that? Asking questions is like shouting at a deaf tulip. Ha ha ha. Sounding smart is tougher that you might think. Smooth Player skips on the vinyl love machine as he watches TV. Coaches are roaches in need of some quick death. Smoke ‘em fatty! Aphorisms spasm out of me because philosophy means nothing to no one. Doing damage across language…I mean barriers. Bonus mating techniques found in the gym locker room. This is a lot of brain drain.
Once upon a time, delete, the lass was my special beauty. I made no real effort to hide my infatuation. Trumpet that mistake personality disaster memory bank. A voice too many heard like an orator at a comedy club laughed as he dug the wench in the third row. Bored, I asked the funny Greek to throw something at Ed.
“Will you film me tonight?”
This is a kid’s book. Sneel the peek to pack shaker yr rump doolittle hump…begggggggggg. No, literally a book I stole from some kid. Forget about him. Some jerk with a gap in his grin from a town with no name came riding a southern blue jay up to me and threw his device at the injured cage.
Kitty put the middle back so I could write this chapter. Can you imagine every grain of badlands? I was love so I puked this sentence. Opening the jar of tomorrow to find calendar girls all dazed up with no place to snow. Taking showers. Taking take after take. There was lots of crying in silent lots. Painting eyeballs on sculptures from the days of the Greeks.
“Hey geek. Clean up that grease spill.”
Under the old rule I could never have gotten away with this shit. I was told to stop reading my book and pay attention. I just shrugged. I kept on reading. The math teacher did not want to have sex with her pupils. Eyesight is hindsight my lonely friend.
Read little short stories. Got to get away from this pad. Not anymore, she left me here standing in the doorway crying. I can’t very well keep on writing without her, can I? You have won.
Funny story, may I lay it on ya? Bad at tempting listeners, I know. Where is my bedside manner? Sloppy garage rockers rattle bones. This is not what you think. Journal keeper. Sleeper trite kitch in the warm oven. Bakesale. Other girls? What flutes in the dreams of great men? About ten other graduates ate pig while I slept on leather. I wrote songs before this book became a problem child. Doc Pomus makes perfect sense. Tunes. Toons. Tons of sweet. A sea breeze black trapdoor might sink us all if we shake rattle and roll. My own disease was named after some raven-haired chick. Clear is my name in other mediums. Enjoy like a strange movie made by some snog snog soon. The twinkle keys piano wings. Yes it does look like rain. Rings left by yesterday take on new meanings. He argued with her through the night. Strange, I thought love was all you need. Pet Sounds makes me cry.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Video Day

Hey, guys, I'm posting some strange video or other I've taken in the past. Hopefully I can post a video once or twice a month. So here it is, the first of many: Video Day!

double (re)vision

Well well, looks like it's the end, my friends. So sad yet so true, here is the last revision of the poem "Origin." It's been a long, hard road (missing a day or two there and making up the loss), but it's been worth it. I'd just like to thank Jose Cuervo and People Magazine, both which induce sadness and failure (that's a quote; can you guess who said it?) Keep on keeping on.

Origin (revision 7)

I said for her to go and whisper
on sidewalks,
to wear her red dress, to kick
me with her
heels, to laugh in the junkyard.

she said,
everyone dreams of the ocean,
you dream of heaven,
we make love
over beds
of limbs and glass,
and the stars are only spirals of
caught in the sky.

you can tell, she said,
open your windows
and feel the smoke.

I shook, I shivered.

Highly anticipated poetry debut!

I heard that there had been clamorings for my stuff, and now that Chris has opened the door to posting revisions, I guess I will follow his lead. This is something I am playing with, sort of two poems in one that also uses some prose poem form. Is that too high-concept? I don't know. Keep in mind that it's a draft. Also, technically, all the things in italics plus the stanza that starts "The night manager should be in separate columns on the right side of the page (the blog format will not let me publish it that way).

I pity the girls lying with their boy-fri-
ends in hot motel rooms.
I pity the lampshade, cocked askew,
beating a single-bulb light on their faces
like there was nothing but the truth.

It isn’t the sun that grows the pines straight.

The innocent waves might be lumping
themselves onto the shore below,
or the reeds whistling an empty-mouthed
tune to the sand.

the skin around a knuckle.

And the big motel drained for the winter,
and cars moored in the parking lot, their
fat-lipped tires circumfrenced by in sand.

the salt over the back.

But they stroll boozily along the vomit-
frothed beaches, while the waves beat
each other like wet sheets.

The night manager and the cook in the
diner both believe they have no parallel in history, and entered the world before pain.

Far away, the night drains the streets of
beach houses and lampposts,
or a soggy fence that catches the spill of
the dunes. All these things are fastened
to the ground, but slip away into silence,
not protesting at all at the disappearance.

Or something like that.

Monday, February 11, 2008


Hey, revision number six. Well, look at that, ain't it purdy? Shazaam! One more to go.

Origin (revision 6)

I saw
a woman
in a junkyard.
she fall
and dirtied her red dress.

the ocean sounds like
heaven, she
said to me.
to find ourselves among
mirrors and stars, glass and limbs,
she said as she picked
herself up.

go home, I said,
close the windows.
blow smoke.

Brand New Po'tree

A new poem titled This is a Love Song. I think it will be included in my yet to be titled collection. Does anyone have any editorial comments?


We look like the Gestapo
We feel like 4th graders
This is our uniform

We do next to nothing
We walk the walk
This is our station

How many years have we been on our own?

We have questions
We have desires
This is our problem

This is not a human be-in
This is boredom
This is scary
This is shaping up to be quite a century

What this situation needs is a love song

This is a love song but…

This can’t be fixed with flowers
This guy doesn’t have superpowers
This aint as bad as it seems
This life is one of many ended dreams

How many years have we been on our own?


Oops, sorry fellows, I was off my head yesterday. Here is Sunday's revision (Monday's won't be far behind). Also, how are you? How the hell are you feeling?

Origin (revision 5)

don't walk down those sidewalks.
don't whisper.
I saw a red dress smother
a woman
in a junkyard.
I saw her fall
asleep and drift into
the ocean.

it is heaven to live
among the damaged objects
of mirrors and stars.
to find ourselves among
glass and limbs,
to close the windows,
oh I am
home. I blow smoke.

Sunday, February 10, 2008

The Stranger (mp3)

I consider myself a songwriter. THE STRANGER was written back in Nov. 2007. I recorded this in my apt. on a Tascam digital 8-track by myself under winter grey skies.

The Stranger

I heard songs of love and hate yesterday
I couldn’t seem to chase them blues away
I couldn’t find the words to make you stay
I heard songs of love and hate yesterday

I was in a stranger’s strange old car
I asked if it was too early to go to a bar
He said, “it’s never too early.” I strummed my guitar
I was in a stranger’s strange old car

The downtown was not grey it was blue
The shaking skyscrapers reminded me of you
People everywhere looked sad - I didn’t know what to do
The downtown was not grey it was blue

At the corner of 6th and main my heart began to ache
The pain was almost too much for me to take
The stranger wore a smile – I knew it was a fake
At the corner of 6th and main my heart began to ache

To the stranger I asked, “when will we be where we need to be?”
“Soon,” he said, “but forget all that you may see.”
I asked him where he was from he said a state called Misery
To the stranger I asked, “when will we be where we need to be?”

Saturday, February 9, 2008

poetry do-etry

Here are some more of my untitled poems. Lord knows I need to post more, oh lordy, lordy praise be. Praise be, amen.

untitled 4001

a view of Christoph


at age 25:

cold as an icicle in May,

he says,

oh yes, I want something.

but perhaps

it is reason he wants.

some sublime

white stucco


the walls, oh yes,


kiss me glamorous I don’t


a tiff.

untitled 3523

I saw the police chase a man

through a Parisian street


the colors green, oh his


he had such mirth and handsomeness.

a rebel certainly,

or the violent


of his mother.

untitled 3581

dark mirrors,

dark meadows,

we are traveling down the last

road of a distant


and then she sets free her

blue and gray

checkered shawl.

we watch it fly about

a mile,

into the desert,

and shoot into dust.

the car is not so desirable.

it grinds.

it chokes.

it sputters.

x-ray (re)vision

Here is that fourth revision of the poem "Origin" that I promised to the moon eons ago. How about that? Didn't think I was that old, did you? Shows you right.

Origin (revision 4)

oh whisper to me of the sidewalks
you used to walk down,
tell me about the red dress on the

I, of course, can't recall too much.
the junkyard, I'd
say, the lack of sleep and the mud.
the ocean.
maybe those things.

maybe heaven,
maybe mirrors
and stars.
maybe we'll live in a home
with glass
laid around our bodies.

we can close the windows;
we can blow smoke
at our love.

Friday, February 8, 2008


Hey, what do you know, the third revision based on the poem (and yes I'll continue to put quotation marks around my own poems!!!) "Origin." Well isn't that something? ...yes, yes it is, Church Lady.

Origin (revision 3)

I don't regret the sidewalks
or your face
or that girl over there in red
and dress and dragged

I don't regret the junkyards and the sleep
and the mud. I remember
my dreams and
I remember the ocean.

you can recall heaven,
with those stars
and the mirrors and our houses carved of
but I'm waiting.

tell me something,
fall over, cry, slip and let your
hair down. tell me
that it's love
and ask
me to close the window.

more scenes from SC

A forgettable one act play.
Cobb: The break down of modern civilization is directly related to the quality of cartoons shown on television.
Heather: I disagree with your thesis. Why must you always blame television for your sexual hangups?
Cobb: The way my sex hangs has nothing to do with TV. I just want to point my finger at an easy target.
Heather: You are a self-righteous bastard, you know that. If I weren’t already sleeping with you I would have my coffee on the back porch.
Cobb: Cool. I couldn’t care less where your dynamite comes from.
Heather: I am voting for the elastic party where all us beauties can feel like carrots.

(just then the economy breaks down and the void swallows all participants in this dinner theater)
I came to this country looking for tolerance all I found was tollbooths. Why can’t I drive on the roads without paying my weekly salary.
“Son of a Bitch!” I screamed.
(Choirs above and below the deck were known to be all vocal chord and no jig). “Together we can take this herd to Missouri.”
The boat leaves at 1:30 p.m. towards a new wife. Seventeen seems like a good Manchurian. I tried to reduce the number of cavalry officers in this play, but I knew they were outta work. Stumpy Joe was a cry on the back lot of Paramount when the hurricane hit. He was devastated because the storm carried his favorite horse Mindy away. A funeral was held at noon.
“Where do babies come from?”
Bob Horny was with his two friends when science interrupted.
“Stacey please…” Joe said.
He pleaded with his mouth while Bob played harmonica.
“I did not know you expected to marry the Bishop Rawlins.”
Bob took his hands off her chest. In the forest he cursed God. Stacey was three cycles away. Bob never forgave the Bishop. How he came to be a hermit monk in the forests of Arizona remains a mystery.
Meanwhile Stacey owns a profitable pornography store in Dallas, TX. She sells condoms with a picture of Jesus on them. The tale end of the tail comes something like this: Bob was lost, Stacey was found, and Joe was on his knees three nights a week.
I started to finish…
Con fee skate the delirium post-haste transformer man – Ye best get away from the radio – I should warn ya – the ghost of rock ‘n’ roll hates to be seen.
Skinny down on the farm is the son of General Poor Pear. Skinny likes his sugar sweet. He wakes early every year just to pick the most perfect cane. His sister Jenny took off with an artist who was bound for the gutter. She never worked a day in her life. Skinny did not mind. He was always lost in a rush of sugar. It kept him going. Daddy pushed him to find the time to read. He read as if he were in a race. He went through books faster than most light bulb college students. Though an understanding usually escaped him. This was alright. He was not a calculating sort. He was not interested in being a scholar. Skinny felt they missed the point. Jenny never came back. He had a younger brother. This was news to him. Edgar Rim-Jim. Nice boy. A little wit and wisdom. He was gifted. Ed could play a piano better the Alfred Mozart. Al was the best piano basher in the county. Ed never practiced. He could play.
The local talent contest held auditions one sunny March afternoon in 1973. Skinny was reading Joyce on some fine SUGAR and it was, of course, making sense. Ed ran in and told his brother he was going to audition. Skinny knew his brother was great and gave him his best advice, “Vary the stride in a horse drawn carriage.” Ed thanked his older brother and ran down the dirt road leading away from the family farm and toward the glory of the performance stage. The audition was already under way. Oinky, the troubled orange juggler, finished his act to thunderous applause. Ed got nervous. His name was called. He went to the piano. He made love to it. Notes seemed to spring out of the wooden frame of the old town piano. Who played like this? He hit fourths and fifths and seemed to coax quarter tones out of the box. It did not impress one on-looker who said, “Gee, this boy is lousy.” Most of the town was in attendance. Ed was racing toward his grand ending. Just then, as Skinny walked into the performance center, Jenny leaped out of the notes Ed was playing. Jenny, the long lost sister, had returned. Ed started crying. Skinny jumped and ran to the stage. He hugged his forgotten sister. Jenny wanted to see mama and papa. Ed dried his tears and finished his performance. The judges talked amongst themselves. They asked the performers who had auditioned that day to gather on the stage. Ed did not make the cut. His playing was too unconventional. Even though he had brought his sister back home through his music the judges did not like his use of augmented chords. The three farm kids looked at each other and decided they hated the farm town and caught a train to the island of OZ.

Thursday, February 7, 2008


Here comes that sexy new revision I just done based on that old poem "Origin." Question: should I put quotation marks around the titles of my own poems? Kiss off!

Origin (revision 2)

so sidewalk so old
and slow and girl
and red dress;
I want your face

but I sleep in junkyards;
I'm just kicking the mud
in my

I'm believing in heaven
and ocean roll,
I'm believing in the stars in my
I'm waiting for you to say something.

tell me you're the fall,
that you wind and slip,
tell me that
you love to live to love to
tell me you love me.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

Sagittarian Conflict

This is the opening scene from my unfinished, unreadable, and unpublishable novella titled SAGITTARIAN CONFLICT. I wrote the first part in college on an electric typewriter. The second part was written when I moved to Austin.


(This story begins with Famine, the old man, looking back on his college experiences.)
I was pretty sure the door was locked. Other kids might have taken me for a hobo, but I knew better. I just wanted to use the bathroom. Where did that Nun go? Got a funny look from Elvis. Doctor! Doctor! I’d rather be the Devil than be that woman’s mad dog.
“Can you believe the high prices?” Cobb said.
(no sleep)
(no droughts)
(no complaints)
“Tell me the one with the deceptively simple rhyme scheme.”
“Okay, here is the picture of me with a noble grin.”
I may have told her to stop flying kites but I was lying. I would pick up the guitar if my fingers were not bleeding. I threw your entire movie into the nuclear war. How are the geese getting along with the fish? Joe Cocker grabbed the microphone and made me lose my vocabulary. Some nice melodies – infamouse – Infamous.
(look over there, no untouched frogs)
“My days are pretty damn good,” Famine replied.
Now, I will tell the one about the mistress of the Dean. In the back of her car was a rubber. Some hours later my knees regained strength – possible – truly in debt to the flying dutchmen of Kansas City, Kansas. Constant mind warp in the form of sandwhich
Peal Neal.
Buddha sits under a tree and gains wisdom. I am a passenger in a car. She would love to be making love right now. I guess the pauper wasn’t poor after all. Dame, I should have walked to my girl today.
The literary community will have my ass if I don’t behave like the corner drugstore and diner trouble was his middle finger. Po-dunk the rabbit is always making love – caught in the headlines.
The exposition: to be a floating pyramid on New Year’s Day.

revision 1

Here is my first revision of the poem I wrote yesterday, "Origin." Check check check it out.

Origin (revision 1)

stiletto heels and paper
and her face
on the sidewalk;
red dress.

she wheels to the junkyard to
see me king of
and mud
and ocean crest.

we who are not so long lived
must believe in heaven.
we must look into mirrors and
star and pop.
but she says
that she says
a lot of things;

I am the fall,
I harbor the wind,
she says
and says.

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

more ramblings

Also, hey, why not two posts today? Also, here's another prose poem, cut from my eyelids and bleached in my brain sauce (was that bad? sorry, just trying to sound like a Batman villain). Anywho, ho ho ho, here we go.

travel logos 2

I should be sleeping. The lamp is on. The cat claws the mattress and I yell at her because she has sick things inside her. The lament of time is that there is always too much and it costs nothing. The lament of the morning, one that has not yet held sleep, is that it’s a wonderful place. My hair is still clean even though I rolled around in puddles of drab mud, killing cars. You don’t even suggest we should go out for ice cream. You like to rent movies, buy them for cheap, and plug them into your head. Fall asleep, I am a cheap doll molded by somebody wonderful. I am glued to my own feet, my own steps, my own avenues and longing. Let my shoes kick off, smash against the hall, die in the pit of sandals. You say look in the mirror, wise up, don’t be so dopey. I look at the morning sun and hear it whisper. It repeats my name, truthfully, please believe.

Origins and borigins

Hey guys, I decided to start a new series titled revision week. I'm posting a single poem today, something off the top of my head, and then with each succeeding day, I will revise the poem, just to see how different it can become. Basically, I'm playing masturbatory telephone with myself. It's fun; you should try it.


she was once a thing
of paper
dressed in stiletto heels,

sidewalk scenes against
the duress of a red dress.

and I was a wheel
left in a junkyard,

and crudded over with mud,
dreaming of ocean crest.

she tells me, oh we
are not so long
in time to
believe we can have heaven.
but she
says a lot of things;

I smell of the fall,
I smell of something lost on the wind.

Monday, February 4, 2008

more more more

Here's some more poetry of the bi-weekly, untitled variety.

untitled 2012

easy, honey.

don’t fall asleep with the horror movie on.


your time soul soul.


just climb out of wells with bare


it is good to wait for the rising tides,


dream of better worlds,

to hide the best of your


chance the cold night with me.

go the distance.

in seven days,


week one



we’ll go down into the valley


cut the longest strands


our hair. leave it there.


so frivolous matters


and then, after many months of wandering,


come back to the same bedroom. the


will be over

and then, gently,

rest your head



wild and free

untitled 2118

when are we

going to see, sights and


through blessed eyes of peace”

she asks, fighting


a recent flu.

the sky grows purple, full

of heavy mist,

full and terrible.

but she smiles.

Cindy the dream has

had a knack for

the mystic.

all her life, created only


uncreate the drab drowsiness

clipped to the average day.

it is in her little life,

the movements of her limbs,

across the fields of unseen dust,

the change, the casual change


that she says,

“all of sorrow is gladness.

all of life is good.

to be and to dance, to die and to


to feel pain


to grab whatever one may,

is holy.

it is not too late,

not now or not ever,

heaven or hell,

we all have chances to see clearly and to see the ocean.”

it makes sense to her,

in her

blood and in her flesh


sickly coughing,

Cindy can’t understand anyone else


untitled 2234

the goal is to be closer to happiness

every time

love is had


but you’re a shell. broken darkness.


empty parlor on the boulevard.

don’t get disheartened.

it is easy

to become hollow like dancing

with a slut.

it is easy to drown in a river.

it is so much harder to take a black

eye from a good



it so much harder to

make love

after a year long absence of anything but

devils in dresses