Saturday, May 31, 2008

The Ballad of William Wheeler (mp3)

I've begun recording my own spoken word LP. The Ballad of William Wheeler is an older poem of mine and it is pure fiction. I don't remember much about it except that it was inspired by the work of Will Oldham.

The Ballad of William Wheeler

On the front porch of the sun
Sitting in a rockin' chair
Rockin' back and forth for fun
Old man Wheeler is losing his hair

On the front porch
Nothing ever gets done

William Wheeler smokes his pipe
Wrinkled fingers stroke a gun
His eyes are still and sad
Thinking about his gone true love

On the front porch
Nothing ever gets done

Lydia left him in the month of June
She married a stable man in November
William renounced his faith under the moon
& he took a lover he can't remember

On the front porch
Nothing ever gets done

A gunpowder halo around the head
Of William's old chair
Lydia simply shrugged and said,
"Christ, I don't care."

On the front porch
Nothing ever gets done

Friday, May 30, 2008

poems about nothing

Hey guys, what's happening? But really, these poems aren't about nothing, they're about...

untitled 4203

a velvet sky


the day when the old limousine


consumes an entire loaf

of old wheat bread


shoots his lover

in the


untitled 4108

I don’t need her phone number

one summer

as the flock of ravens ahead


in droves

I saw a girl I used to know

serving coffee

in a place I used to live


she blushed when

I opened my mouth


lovers who never

we unwound in unison and

laid about

plainly upon a disenchanted

mattress in the middle

of a used furniture store

untitled 4296

butterflies amazed

by their





in the mire

of the glade


do well when



the smoke

and fog

of dusk


settle down around the mountains

Thursday, May 29, 2008

poems for sale

Here are two more poems (I know I said I would do three a day, but I felt these two make a lovely couple) for all you lovely people out there.

untitled 4365

she said of all gardens

I had


with my hands


jangled glass

tapestries will hang upon


skin for all


until the god of love

and losing

sits in the rock pasture


of flesh as



gather around the height of the horizon

untitled 4366

of lotus


to barrel in the river

and sink

you have

picked the white

crest of a wave to speak

the name

of a lover for


against a glass


in the glade

and down the ravine.

when making love


circles atop

mounds of white


she would say that all of all


the very thought


lays upon

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

poetry is not hoetry

Yes, the post title is lame, but all the better to make the post itself shine!

untitled 4363

wicked love was not made


men says


when he cries about

the church


crashed in on itself


the country we were raised in

the color

green through liquid



that falls atop

a white fence.

your mother

was young


and counted coins on a dresser


untitled 4362

I am a snake


cripple doing

the good


like the window



around the curves of a woman

and her

red hips



is not worth dishwater

she sang



and all brothers head off in mountains

with rifles

for my


untitled 4361

the slick rain


came off the line


the moment of


only a moment


be married

to the famous



the back of a match


and she’ll

be skeleton


stringent the silence of sliced


against a wire and glass

celebrity sightings in deep sleep

Famous people won't let me sleep! Here are a couple of new poems about my dreams and the well known people that haunt them.

Take a Chance on Me

Ah! The dreams I had this weekend past
I knew they were too strange to last

Johnny Cash said hello to me outside my office
He deep voiced his wisdom
& I listened
& I understood
But when I woke up
I couldn’t fucking remember his advice
Instead I was
Humming “Take a Chance on Me”

Dream of May 21, 2008

The Beat Hotel
Even Burroughs
& W.H. Auden
Sitting on rugs
Slouching 'gainst dark walls
Smoking hash
All crammed into a tiny space
I was there too
A door connected us with another room
My family stayed in that room
My extended family as well
The beats shocked them
Foul language
& dirty smells
The bathroom caught on fire...
I was with K in Houston
(before even visiting that city)
We were in the 'burbs
A group of thugs
& hookers
Came toward us as we walked the downtown sidewalks
Fast food joints and clothing stores
Burger King!
We got in a large maroon Oldsmobile
Must have been at least 8 people in that car
Some kid shouted about picking his sister up from "the shop"
We pulled into a Jiffy Lube type place
A young Hispanic woman in a pink dress waited outside
K and I left that party
I woke up

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

awesome baby

Hey guys, for this week, I'm going to post three untitleds a day. Next week will see a video post daily (or as often as I can) in celebration of the upcoming performance on June 21 at Okay Mountain, 8 pm. Yeah, poetry and motion, technology and oral tradition, the same stuff and the new stuff and a macguffin.

untitled 4358

I want

to be the number eight


your forehead

so the mirror




and when we just go out

to tumble

for taxi cab

trembles and the night




oh wicked

just why


she why

untitled 4355

some fragrance of disenchanted rock



the frame

I am the dyspeptic


of the man


the laundry mat



be beaten


bales of bushed whiskers

collected from

tired women

untitled 4354

lose me

down a flight

or stairs

oh suitcase


woman in red



in old alleys


dawn the disco



the ulterior taxi




cycles the

plague of



and shiny people


more for the lack

of their


pounding apartments of brick

and mortar

and prostitution



Sunday, May 25, 2008

pirate day (click here to download)

Hey, to follow up with the new chant poem Jeff posted, here's an audio poem to boot. It's about pirates!

stab! the sword swayed in sand

pirates were hiding in the sand,
ready to pounce on poor old Davy Jones
the hero.

he was a wanted man
but only because of mistaken identity
and so he was running down the coast,
looking for the thief who
stole the woman’s smile.

the pirates grunted and pretended to be
men as monsters and each laughed in his head
when he thought about the promise of
gold and sharp rusty blades;
the leader was angry because
he still felt childish
and only in horrible
id ways of
trying to fuck unfuck.

Davy Jones and
his gallant blonde hair
looked hitherto and thitherto
around the circumference
of things and imagined an ugly officer coming to
arrest him for a mistake and a silence;

he ran
he ran.

the pirates saw him,
running with sun on cheeks and eyes a blue,
and they pounced from the sand
angry as stepped on crabs discarded.

“We come for your life,
hero of misfortune”

Davy Jones froze and made a face
terrible enough to die in
and any woman would have;

he needed to find a pretty smile.
Did these pirates have it?

the head pirate with a tall silver tipped
dark hat and a failing for flattering himself
took steps forward and forward Davy Jones,
his sword swaying out and
cutting dull at ocean mist,
wanting forever freedom.

Davy Jones screamed un-heroically and
made to flee and to fly and to never gamble his face.

“but I’m the hero”
he whispered
and turned despite himself to face the terrible pirate king.

“Have at ye! Mangy cur!”
Davy Jones
Davy Jones sang.

a woman,
maybe the pretty woman with a smile,
looked on from her house on the beach,
dreaming that this be not fantasy or fairy tale
and watched as our hero dove
out of the way as the lead ugly
pirate lunged forth and missed Davy Jones.

he gave a laugh and sped off,
running again;

all the pirates let out ‘blast it all’s'
and gave undulant chase.

the ugly pirate sat still,
sword plunged in the sand,
and imagined a time when he wanted to
be other then the villain,

to be a doctor
or judge
or truant officer.

he wanly looked up weakly
to the house
and caught eyes with the woman
alone and dressed blonde.

maybe she gave him a smile,
if only out of humor,
if only because she needed to give something anyway
before she withered.

the villainous not so villainous pirate stood up and
yielded a roar and tossed his blade high into the air,
letting it fly where it may,
fall where it wanted,
and watched as it stuck stubborn from a lid of luminous sand;

water was soon surely to take the blade
with it into the unknowable sea.

the pirate hung his head low and turned to
where his amiable men had chased Davy Jones the hero;

he trotted away,
following what was destiny but
thinking of prettier things,
lonely women, hearts of twist.

Only in the past could he unfold himself and
find answers to riddles and maybe change;

maybe his Davy Jones.

he ran down the beach in search of pirates

Friday, May 23, 2008

Wordless (mp3)

We offered you "the sound of his voice." Now, what do you think of removing "language" from poetry? The music lives within us. Answer the spiritual hums and download this track...

Thursday, May 22, 2008

time to get your grub on

Hey, the newest installment of the hospital series for you, our dear gentle reader(s)! Quick preliminary notice: Jeff and I will be hosting a poetic performance at the Okay Mountain art gallery on June 14th. We'll email and all that other great stuff shortly, but I just can't contain myself at the moment and must let people know now. Zagets!

cafeteria worker

Lola watched french fries sizzle in pig fat greasers. She imagined her fingers stuck in the mix, plumping in the burn. A man across the cafeteria sat in a blue booth, munching a biscuit. Lola thought of him as a burn victim; his hair was burnt and his face was red mash. The kind of man who waits roadside in hot summertime, passing out for lack of water. His gown told Lola that this man was a recent acquisition at the hospital, a virgin of IV solutions and dank white gleaming light.

“Gonna’ get those, darling,” Esmeralda joked behind Lola. She was senior staff in the kitchen, but she had little authority in her voice.

“Oh, right,” Lola replied, snapping from the daydream of Our Sacred Lady of scarred flesh.

The flies flopped out into a metallic catch tray, ricocheting fry oil onto her apron. It matched a ketchup stain Lola had acquired earlier in the morning. She made the two spots kiss as she wiped them into the folds of the apron.

“Fries are done, Ez.” Lola removed her white hat a moment and thumbed at her hair net. Blue fingernail polish mixed with her blonde locks. The kitchen was a furnace, but she couldn’t remain free of the tyranny of the hat for too long. Everything, in the end, must be sanitary. Must must must to wash my hands, she said to herself, and caught a glimpse of a handsome doctor before she exited into the back room.

In this tiled part of the kitchen, Harold the dishwasher stood alone, wiping his hands on his pants. Lola nodded her head his way. His missing teeth were cause for concern. Lola passed him readily, imagining his hands all over the silverware. She needed fresh air. Lola played at a box of cigarettes in her pocket. She made for the back exit way and kicked the door open. Lola leaned against the support of a brick wall and stared into the haze of the blue sky. She had a dream last night that she was free from life, just floating in the ether. Or was that it. She tried to remember and lit a cigarette.


Lola had wings. Smooth blue feathers all over her naked body seemed
to catch the wind with every turn. She was high above the hospital looking down
on the happiness, the carnage, and the normal. She flew over mountains. The
faces of all the men in her life seemed etched into the rocks below her. She
landed on the ground only to discover the soil was made of jelly. Hunchbacks
with straw hats tended the earth with giant forks. Lola felt alone, but
liberated. She flapped her wings and soared once again above the ground. From
the sky all the jelly of the earth flowed into a centralized black hole. Lola
whistled in quick bursts. She saw another feathered creature flying toward
her. They were about to embrace when...


That was more like it. She put the cigarette down and imagined the hospital in the evening. It must have been a hungry place, a vacant building of blinking souls eating bits of plastic morsels from vending machines. The thought turned her stomach. Lola returned to the kitchen; she flicked her cigarette as she went.

Harold had gone, leaving his apron slung on the dirty clothes hamper. Lola imagined a rat sitting behind a large cooking vat, rubbing its teeth greedily with its paws. But the hospital would kill such a creature. No bacteria, no virus, no vermin. Such was the way of the world, Lola old girl, she told herself, and sanitized her hands while counting the cracks in the cement wall. She returned to the front line of the kitchen.

A young boy stood on the opposite side of the glass counter. He slid a red tray down the round chrome pipes that served as a stand. Some mashed potatoes, some red beans, a bit of spaghetti. The kid had large glasses and a thin face. He reminded Lola of her younger brother. She wanted him to juggle pies, or to do it for him. Move along, young man, she said under her breath, and imagined him growing tall and strong and tossing trays around the hospital café. Her vision wandered around the cafeteria again.

A couple, old and black, sat together in bathrobes. The man was bald and the woman had deep-set wrinkles. They were sharing a bit of ice cream in a beige bowl. He tried to feed the woman, but she was dodging the airplane of his spoon, laughing. Lola smiled. She did not notice Esmeralda sneak up from behind.

“Boo!” she sounded, placing a banana in Lola’s back.

Lola jumped and shrieked quietly. “Oh you bitch!” she played back, swatting at the banana.

“Hey girl, I just wanted to tell you we’ll need to put the bread rolls in a little earlier today. There’s supposed to be a big crowd coming. Cancer researchers, I think I heard.”

“Oh, okay. Sure thing Ez. Like what, in an hour from now or so?”

Esmeralda shook her head and traipsed into the back room, holding an egg beater. She was an enigma. To work in a place of vaporized water and hydrogenated kidney beans and ugly twisted old hands and the great iron sink that sucked up all chemical agents was beyond Lola. Two years, tops, is all she gave herself in this place before she moved with her boyfriend to a coastline somewhere east or west. But Esmeralda seemed happy. That is what life should be, or pretend to be, Lola thought, and wondered about bread rolls falling on an operating floor.

Lola glanced at the time and realized she had nearly half an hour before the lunch rush. This empty mid-morning cafeteria was getting to her; best to make a break for it, old girl. She checked the milk containers quickly, winked at one of the cashiers, and paced out from behind the counter and down one of the white halls.

Lola had discovered a near abandoned hall with a secret room in her short time here at the hospital. She felt the tug of a cat-nap; just down down the way from a blood clinic, past frozen viral samples. She had seen young intern doctors cram twenty minutes of sleep into empty cafeteria booths. Why not Lola? She carefully slid about the halls until she snuck down her secret walkway. Behind her secret door, an old locker room with an older bathroom waited, near dusty, near complete in its abstinence from human complications. Lola jumped past the locker room and into a bathroom stall. She closed her eyes a moment, thought of her younger brother, where he was now, then faded into a quick sleep.


Thousands of rats crawled over bronze busts of wealthy bald white
men. There were so many rats. Lola was in a box. She could barely breathe.
Her lungs burned. Her heart raced. She could see a man coming toward her. He
was yelling or waving his hand or dancing. It was too unclear. The rats had
kicked up quite a bit of dust and began eating through the walls. Lola knew
she would die. The man got closer but still his face remained unknown to her.
A large bucket of grease dangled above her head. The rats wanted the juice.
They wanted to indulge. Lola saw 40 one-eyed women get out of a van and enter
the space where she was standing. The cyclops women were holding large nets.
This would stop the rats from advancing.


The door to the bathroom swung open, startling and waking Lola. Two women entered; their shoes were pitch black. They rustled and fussed over faucets until speaking.

“Did you hear about Tina?”

“No. What happened? Where is she?”

“She got let go. She was stealing morphine.”

“No! Oh my god, not Tina! Really? She got caught?”

“Well, yeah. That’s what I heard at least. I mean, you don’t see her around anymore, do you?”

“Well, no. I don’t. But that’s a shame. I always liked her. In fact, sometimes we’d come in here after eating lunch and just gab. You know, get away from it all. I can’t believe she was stealing. Jesus.”

“Yeah, I don’t know if she was using or what. Just one day, she’s roaming the halls, pleasant with a smile on her face, then the next – gone. Lickety-split. I’ll miss her too. We used to gossip about Dr. Reynolds. You know, that cute one over in Post-Partem.”

“Who’s that? I don’t think I know him?”

“Oh - ”

The women stopped talking suddenly. Lola thought she could hear them whisper. Suddenly the two ladies stomped off and left the bathroom. Lola waited a few moments and exited the bathroom herself. For an unknown reason, her heart was skipping and jumping. She was excited. She’d stolen a conversation, one of the best things to do in a hospital. And the morphine: Lola had stolen breaf from the cafeteria before, but morphine was much sexier. If she was a hospital thief, she’d steal wheelchairs and send them rolling into lakes and streams. Or she’d steal gowns and stitch blankets from them. Lola stuck her head into the hall and made sure the women had gone.

Lola felt as if she got away with something. She was part of the invisibility of the old hallways of the hospital. I am a fly in the ether. It was the sag of the shoulders, the dip of the head, that allowed one to attain anonymity at Our Sacred Lady. Lola’s only offense, the only noticeable element of her person, was her slight scent of fried food. And as such, she sauntered back down the empty white halls, white shoes squeaking. Soon enough, men would be talking around her, fixing their hair, wearing smocks, counting things like boats and bank accounts. Women would be scratching their noses and fixing glasses and speaking about their husbands. Children would be attacking their plates with plastic cutlery. Lola was not eager to return to the grind, but only for a moment she wanted to escape and run out through the front entrance, tossing her clothes about the abandon of cigarettes and hairnets.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

some new poems...rough drafts...Jeff

Ageing, Getting Fat & Happier

my legs are in atrophy
they were almost Greek
built up from walking the last 2 years
but I no longer walk those 7 miles
8 hrs a day
5 days a week
at the art museum
blank young security guard

I sit now
and sit some more
my new job takes place at a desk
happier, maybe, yes,
not as active
fewer calories burned
killing time
earning $$$
stalling a little
waiting for the right time to strike
and contemplating the headlines & pictures of woe
and then there is my belly
lumping ever so slightly
as I age, not too bad yet
or too old yet
in love for sure
eating rich meals w/my one and only
ah, my won,won,wonderful you
we deserve perfect bliss
in this sad world
we have found
the smooth wash of wine
heats our union
and focuses our minds
on the good
and we laugh
and plan dreams together
ah, who needs to worry
about tomorrow anyway?
we're still young
dreaming is our right

and I ask
when will poetry pay off?
will I end up teaching?
will a less active me
still be
I'm getting better with age!
and rounder by the minute
answers are forthcoming


No doubt
The gossip has spread
Around and around
This gossip town

I don't have to answer
I choose to be vague
Rats carry the plague
For all to fever



History lesson, disappointment 101
Good guys are only good if they're the guys who won
Heartbreak's erased when you meet the one
Time to forgive, time to have fun

Monday, May 19, 2008

here's some tussin

Jeff and I present you the next installment in the sprawling epic that is 'hospital.' Why don't you come in for a check-up (of course that jokes lame, but what can I say, I watched I am Legend last night)?


The morning was too hot. The latest gift from the streets was a cadaver, not too damaged, that had promised its organs to science in the case of an untimely drunk driving accident. The young surgeon watched the body being hollowed. The heart, the lungs, kidneys too, dumped carefully in ice, in plastic, in foam. He thought about the makings of a great song, something about black lights and human hands. He thought about his girlfriend at home, just waking, rustling the cat. He thought about his father’s recording studio and the time of the torn guitar strings, the snapping piano chords, the hop hip drum spring. The surgeon walked away from the observation window and paced into the ethereal white. This was a morning made of rain and nurses with sweated brows and their tennis shoes squeaking. He rolled his hand over his face and headed back into the OR supply room. He knew his shift had just begun, but he wanted to see if Jessie was working, slapping together the day’s order forms. Her blonde creature skin was a curious kind followed closely with sharp shoulders draped in green smock and smitten. She also had a gorgeous smile and a kind pair of knees. The surgeon fancied her, but only inasmuch as he wanted to jump through a stained glass window.

The supply room was empty. The bed in the corner was inviting. He imagined a tall glass of thick beer foam dumping atop his head and wandered in his drowsiness. The cobwebs of the morning appealed to him. Hurry, no appointments yet, just a quick nap, a dip into the ethereal. He glanced over the empty cool metallic shelves and thought of early childhood days spent in doctor’s offices, breathing in and out. He hated the wooden tongue depressors. He hated the ear scopes and the rough palms of elderly aides. And giving blood, that was nearly antithetical to the surgeon’s way of life. He had become such a doctor so that he could take, not give.

He removed his paper hat and flopped atop the bed. A twenty minute nap was not much, but in the reflectance of the coming day, it bred loyalty. A spring blossomed in his chest; maybe his phone would ring, maybe his name would ring over the PA system. Maybe Jessie would come in and undress her frame and reveal her soft nakedness and descend. The surgeon flushed his face into the dismal pillow and fell asleep with his feet dangling over the edge.


A white tiger purred. The sun was as bright as he had ever seen it.
The desert sand baked. He was still, eyes staring at the tiger. He looked down
at his pants. They were ripped. He wore nothing else. The tiger came toward
him. He mounted the tiger like a cowboy in a movie about the old west mounts a
horse and rode off. They were in a pool of blood. They were in a giant
library. The tiger talked, but he couldn't understand the language. The tiger
died. He was next to his girlfriend. She was singing to another man and
strumming his guitar unstrung. He cut both his wrists with what looked to him
like a jellyfish. Colored lights pulsed.


He awoke smoky with no other reason except the sheer fact of awakening. He heard the shuffle of papers in the distance. Jessie was sat at a counter, back to the sleeping room. The surgeon shuffled up to her and whispered, “Hey stranger.”

“Jesus!” she jumped, swiveling in her chair with snaps and clicks. She felt a tingle of lightning and saw the face of the surgeon large and bearded. The time he had brought his guitar to work and played that song, the way of his fingers plucking, the strings, the progression of rhythm and tone, the words. She giggled. “You fucker, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Well, that’s alright. I think I’m trained for that sort of thing.”

“Oh yeah? What would you do?”

“Well, first,” he scanned the room then dove back into her eyes, “I’d scream.
Then I’d check your wallet to see if you had any money and go treat myself to a sundae down in the cafeteria. Next I’d take you car keys and go for a joyride. Then, after going home and getting some rest, I’d come back and arrange a rope and pulley system a la ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’ and make you dance for me.”

“Charming,” she said, smile slipping, swiveling back around.

“So how’s that cadaver,” Jessie asked, eyes scanning files and orders and needle numbers and platinum screw specs.

“Nearly emptied, I think. I don’t know. I took a quick nap. Suppose I should get back out there and check on my boys.” He glanced back at the white sleeping room; it was holy in its emptiness.

“Well don’t let me stop you,” Jessie said, shuffling papers further and further.

“Indeed, don’t,” the surgeon joked and patted Jess on the back. He glanced over her shimmering hair and waded out through the door.

Music filled his head that moment, a melody he hadn’t thought of in years. He heard the trumpet of gurneys flaring in the distance, wheels rolling as cymbals could crash. The swish of a nurse’s pants became the high falsetto of a flute and her decisive cough was the reverb of a violin. The surgeon would be a conductor, especially in the operating room. The place was coming to life, the morning hospital now had a reason to move and jostle. Patients, patients, there was blood somewhere on the floor, wild notes loosened into the atmosphere, a scalpel for a xylophone, a face mask for a saxophone mouthpiece. The surgeon put the song in the back of his mind and waded down the hall towards the excavation. He thought of his dream, flushing his eyes closed and indulging in momentary sleepy abandon.


A puppet mouthed words on a tiny stage on the corner of a downtown
street. The puppeteer was a mustachioed man dressed head to toe in black. He
laughed madly. The sky became dark with clouds and the wind was picking up. A
ghostly pale man without eyes, naked, carried the limp body of a red headed
woman. She was gorgeous. Her tits were exposed. The surgeon felt himself
rising to arousal. He watched the pale man carry the lifeless body of the
woman up and down the city streets. Slowly crowds gathered and he lost sight
of the couple. The puppet show was a hit. The crowd started clapping. A near
riot broke out. The surgeon was swallowed up in a mass of strangers.


The early morning had ceased, soon to become noon, and it was easy enough. The cadaver had been exhumed, all use now piled up in a freezer until tomorrow when it would be shipped on a truck or housed in a large freezer. Jessie had gone to lunch, waving with car keys in her hand. An operation had been performed. A young child with a small tumor was put under; the black thing of nothing and space was removed from behind her eye. It was difficult, the surgeon knew, but he went about the work with method and determination. He became clockwork, and he was sad for that. He needed a challenge, but what? In what form?

The sun hung above, center of a pendulum. By now his girl would be at lunch and the cat would be stirring still in circles of blankets or warm carpet. The house would be resting ordinarily. The fish tank would be bubbling. The surgeon was on until a little after five. The order of his sleep was determined, a kiss from his girlfriend tonight, and some stiff sheets. Tomorrow saw his next shift revolve in timely fashion, but half of it was going to be taken by another surgeon. He could rest then, or drive down the coast, or go to that coffee shop he’d been meaning, ask about the playing in the corner. He hummed a tune he’d recently written and passed the locker room. It was unnatural to see the graveyard of the regular clothes. Men were in their dressing themselves even now. The surgeon imagined a slow steady beat. To hold on oboe, oh to sauce the sousaphone, to jump in the small spaces of the day and discover the grand ordinary. He was a humanitarian, after all. He was a healer. The surgeon flexed his hands and smelled the stale, artificial air. Best not to forget any of this, he decided, and walked about the random halls the remainder of his shift.

Sunday, May 18, 2008

Who's that by the fridge?

Jeff Barnyard Daily presents another awesome song for you live from his kitchen. Watch out for the frozen pizza! Yoicks!

Chemical Tambourine

Woke up underneath a flat bed truck
Smelling of gasoline and bad luck
Couldn't find my shirt, what the hell happened to my shoes
All I had left were the blue jean blues

Then it hit me
It must have been she
Then I remembered
The month of December

Sat on the curb watching the drunks stumble around
My head needed healing, I needed a new sound
I sat with a soul expired
I saw her when the night became wired

That's when she called to me
It was all I could do just to follow

She waved a chemical tambourine
Beating out a rhythm clear and pristine
She waved a chemical tambourine
I love her jingle jangle magazine

Saturday, May 17, 2008

the complete set of blue post-it poems #1

I've been inspired by Chris S to keep striving for newer and great ideas. So I decided to put up a picture (artfully jumbled) of my first set of blue post-it poems. As you can see I did not post the complete set the other day, but I thought I would scan them all as a souvenir. I guess I kinda like the verse that goes:

Honeymoon still lasts
Outside troubles
Can't collapse
Our happy home

Friday, May 16, 2008

new poems

Hey fellows, I've posted like a maniac tonight already, but someone inquired about the blog today (yes, this is true; no, you don't have to believe it), and I haven't posted some straight-up poetry in a while, so here goes: my last three untitled poems I've written. Hope you enjoy, pope goo convoy.

untitled 4346


people believe

in blue


to hold themselves


so steady

we die.

and when we breath life


our clay toys

and shake them

as footballs

and kick



to die in the right moment

is is


untitled 4345

I should not write poems



and lay atop marble


while my lover

mourns the loss

of her grandmother

but still

it is a white cord

trussed over


barge of the midland


and I am coming home

in the hours

of sharp cut plastic lids and



untitled 4344

strong Casey


his heart in the river


climbed the tower

so he

could see the women


around below



like a letter written


ancient languages



oh only


in the many

ways of plummeting.

I saw

him fall across the sky


and opaque like

a barreling

tire on fire


Hey guys, here's a paragraph I just edited from my novel. I liked it and thought I'd share it with you all.

As he dried off eternally, the immortal examined his frame. His legs and penis and abdomen and chest and neck and jaw. He held a notion of sameness between himself and all of humankind, and closed his eyes a moment, pretending to fly through immense white clouds. If I crash, here, Eloise, send love. For his next road trip, he wanted a van, something capable of hiding inside, away from the hot and tepid elements of the horse-faced countryside. He could bring his wife, bring her pajamas and her glasses, her rum cakes and wrinkled test papers. They could dive into lakes and discover swimming holes and lay in creek beds. The immortal opened his eyes. The light seemed to bend and buckle and waver. The immortal stayed with the steam and hiss of the shower a moment more, then quickly vacated the bathroom as if on mission. He dressed, stretched his limbs, cleared his throat, then headed out for the diner.

dictionary 10.mp3

Hey hello hey there what is it then? Here's the final part of the dictionary series. Hope you enjoyed it! Oh I really do!

Dictionary 10: over

right there is the heaven

and the hidden.

beyond the mountains

of youth,

past the sea of ambition.

the sky

grows dark and purple.

we don’t

have much time to get there.


the place we’ve always needed and wanted.


just over there.

you’re looking

at it,

but you can’t see it.



Wednesday, May 14, 2008

dictionary 9.mp3

Nearly finished, oh graces, what will become of old Pa at the riverbend after tomorrows seminal poker match where Lee Reb will attempt to win the hand of Maria, my fair girl, who forgot about me during the war, but has since realized I am the secret stranger upon the edge of town hiding his guns and face beneath a tall hat and a long coat?

Dictionary 9: gunmoll

I’ve got a fine gunmoll.

she don’t

pressure me none


I’m out late, and boy,

she’s good with

a pistol.

don’t take much to get me going

when she’s around.

me and my girl

go steady.

but I’d

drop her in a second


it got me out of a wrap.



blue post-it poems post

I started a series of poems today called "Blue Post-it Note Poems." This series will probably die after today, but I thought since it is the middle of week, why the hell not?

My mind
My legs
Wanna move
Wanna sweat
Wanna make gold from nothing


Don't forget
to pick up check


(bored ink doodle)

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

it's looking to be a knowledgeable week...dictionary 8.mp3

Hey guys, here is the first of the last three dictionary posts I will put up this week to complete the series. Hurray! Or is it hurrah!?

Dictionary 8: corporal

the corporal ordered his men

“once more into

the breach”

and watched the little

toy soldiers



blood and bone.

he sighed and followed them


his life was just as

easy as

any of theirs.

even in command, more


in command.


felt responsibility hang upon his neck.

“once more…”

he hissed beneath the

fog of


Monday, May 12, 2008

I Sing the Seat Electric...sorta

This poem was written spontaneously just this second, but somehow fits perfectly with Chris' previous "Dictionary" poem post. Wow!

I wanted to write something brand new today
I got me a blank page
& went to town

This is it!

My new poem, composed
whilst at work…earlier this morning,
I wrote about the electric chair
in furious scribbled hand
on blue square sticky notes

Remember the electric chair?
Bringing death shock heat
Old chairs now retired
People today die in business seats
Leather and padded and rotating

The office moves
Some, but not a lot
This chair of mine doesn’t even buzz me

Sunday, May 11, 2008

dictionary 7.mp3

Hellow fellow shmoes. I have another dictionary offering for you. Man, that one blog night sure has yielded a bountiful meal. Amen.

Dictionary 7: daymare

he popped open his eyes

to escape from

his present



the daymare of occupying

an average ho hum


did not sit well in his stomach.

Douglas got up got


from the office, held his head

slow in the bathroom as water rushed rushed by,


called his wife, crying.

“how did I get here?”

he shouted into the phone.

she was

busy; she told him to snap out of it.

“yes…yes you’re right,”

he agreed, smoothed his hair,

and went back to his office.

“when will this be over?”

he asked. the

daymare continued, eyes wide open.

Friday, May 9, 2008


Here's a new installment in Jeff and my 'hospital' series. Again, Jeff writes the dream sequences and I write the narrative. Hi-yaa!

little girl visiting her mother who has cancer

Shelby’s mom would always tell her it was too much tv, but she continued to watch the screen anyway. The IVs and tubes and heart monitor blips originating from her mom’s frame were not enough to distract. Shelby wanted home, she wanted a stuffed bear and blanket, she wanted to swim in her pool and feed her bunny rabbit. She didn’t understand why her mother was laid out in this shiny room. The story they had just finished reading was about a magical caterpillar who transformed after hiding inside a cocoon. It had glorious wings upon its great escape. Shelby looked from the television to the wide windows on her left. How many caterpillars were out there now? Shelby was not told, yet, about her mother’s terminal cancer. The child kept chanting December, over and over, contemplating Christmas and requesting gift after gift from her mother. But it was March; there was too much time between then and now.

Shelby’s mother watched the child hide away within the confines of the television program. She drifted and fell into medicated sleep. When Shelby turned around to ask when her father would be back from the cafeteria, she saw the still body of her mother and smiled. She climbed out from the hospital chair and scurried up the side of the bed. Her mother’s face was pristine, peaceful if Shelby knew what that meant. Shelby sunk into the bed between the siderail and her mother’s hips. She was small enough that her body could fit snuggly in most places, here being the best, of course. Shelby closed her eyes and fell asleep too.


Shelby was on a bus. A field trip in the snowy winter landscape of
Colorado. She was with a group of about 20 students from all over America.
Shelby felt lonely. The bus ended up in the fast paced urban environment of an
anonymous downtown. Shelby followed her peers into a restaurant. Pictures were
being taken and all were having fun, all except Shelby. She left the group and
walked the streets alone. Snow flurries fell and covered the earth with a
dirty white slush. Shelby cried. She walked and walked until she found her
bus. It seemed like the night would go on forever.


Shelby woke suddenly to the spasm of her mother coughing. She shrieked and a nurse lifted her from the bed. They asked Shelby to go into the hall. Shelby caught a glimpse of her mother jumping about her blankets and pillows. The IV seemed poised to slip out and snap around like an live wire. Another nurse, taller than the others, picked Shelby up and quickly exited the room. Shelby was not aware that her mother had been fighting cancer for three years. This might be her last healthy glimpse, and Shelby thought of grub worms. Her sleepiness was still about her, and she leaned upon the nurse’s shoulder a moment. She thought of caterpillars. She asked where her father was. The nurse was certain he’d be back any moment from the cafeteria. Shelby was not so certain, but she sat comfortably in the waiting room chair the nurse set her in. The tall woman retreated back down the hall with her sharp knees cutting blue scrubs in scissor walk. Why not stay put, Shelby decided, hiding her desire to find a water fountain. There was a television here. There were toys. She stared up at the ceiling and imagined her mother jostling with violence once more, her flesh vibrating and hair recoiling. The image was something of movies, of fiction and make-believe. Shelby felt the tug of sleepiness roar in her bones. The motion of stillness pulled behind her eyelids. Shelby fell asleep in the chair.


She found herself in a giant closet filled with toys. There were dolls and
stuffed animals as far as she could see. A purple elephant said, "Hello
Shelby." Shelby got scared but wanted to grab the elephant. "My name is Roy
and I'm baking a pie." Shelby turned and ran. The closet door slammed behind
her. She ran and ran. She was in a grocery store with her mother. Her mother
seemed strong. Shelby kept trying to kiss her mother's cheek, but it was too
far away. Her mother was tall and Shelby was too short. Her father called
her name. Shelby ran past cereal boxes and oranges. She couldn't
find her father anywhere. She ran in circles until she found her father and
mother standing side by side in her backyard next to their pool. It was sunny
outside. Shelby smiled.


Shelby was woken by her father several minutes later. Despite the briefness of her rest, she felt refreshed. She was not crying, but he had a soft tone to his voice that belied catastrophe. This was all beyond her, well and good, and she was hardly aware of that fact. Her father handed her a hot sandwich and a chocolate milk. He patted her upon the head and waded down the hall towards her mother’s room. Shelby wanted to go too, but he told her to stay. She accepted this task of waiting, but furrowed her brow and kicked her feet according to her five year old frustration. The sandwich was hot, the milk cold. The television showed bunnies. Shelby grew excited and forgot her mother’s convulsions. She tossed her straw from her milk box and giggled. The nurses did not see her. She giggled again.

Soon enough, her father waded back down the hall, hugging his frame. He smiled and nodded towards Shelby, but did not join her. He walked over to the window and gazed out. This was the eight floor, Shelby had overheard, and wondered what her father saw from such heights. Whenever she peered out, she saw the ant-people marching around, and the tiny toy cars, and the small city buses. Her father rested a hand upon his face, over his eyes, and kept the other wrapped around his body. Shelby thought it silly to have such a view and bar it with your own hand. She turned away from her father and glanced up at the ceiling once more. The image of her sleeping mother came back to her; the image of her mother convulsing came back. Shelby wanted to go home and take a dip in the pool. It was getting dark out. Tomorrow she had planned to make a heart-shaped card expressing her love to her mother. But today, she just wanted to go swimming.

Thursday, May 8, 2008

dictionary 6.mps

Hey bro, what's up, hope you're having a good day, you know, not much, doing, how's about another dictionary post, oh really, that's cool, sure, I think I can, well great, yeah I'd love to, oh and did you hear about Jonie, yeah, totally, I know she's like, okay.

Dictionary 6: intumesce

as with all things,

the heat

of the nation caused all

appropriate people

to intumesce

in convolution and articulation.


people raced about television screens

to object all

the rising tension.

but like a bubble,

it had to burst, sooner or later.


was only so much


every single person could


Tuesday, May 6, 2008

Love is the First Song (mp3)

Time for more music!

Love is the First Song

You get a job
So we can take a vacation
To a far away land
You’ll be beautiful
I can write a song
About your beauty
Oh how I wanna hold your hand

Love revolves around our ups
Our headaches and our downs
Love involves you and me
And it surrounds everything

Baby let’s play house
You can be the mom
I’ll be the dad
We can’t go wrong
You are wonderful
As I sing my song
Come home soon
Please don’t take too long

Love revolves around our ups
Our headaches and our downs
Love involves you and me
And it surrounds everything

Love is the first song of every new year (4x)

You get a job
So we can take a vacation
To a far away land
You’ll be beautiful
I can write a song
About your beauty
Oh how I wanna hold your hand

Love revolves around our ups
Our headaches and our downs
Love involves you and me
And it surrounds everything

Love is the first song of every new year (4x)

Saturday, May 3, 2008

if you're feeling down

Here's another delivery from Jeff and my 'hospital' series. (a little inside knowledge for the eager reader: I used to work third shift in a hospital; wink!)

young warehouse worker

Kris showed up at ten-fifty five for work. His smooth khaki shirt and pants were eager. He slid his badge over a time machine and punched in for the night. The early mornings were the worst, but he put that thought away and marched back back into the annals of the hospital. He thought instead of his girlfriend, of their new cat, and the brother he had just left at a bar. One more drink, his brother had pleaded, but no, it was work, it was work, it was work. But he did hate his job. Animals could do it, machines, he thought. He was a writer, he didn’t belong in this place. Kris began to compose the makings of a new poetic form. Images and sounds began to compose and construct kineticism and harmony. He was, if nothing else, a man of new interest and fleeting attention.

The back warehouse was an arid place. Old black women sat up nights, answering phones. Retired Navy Vets and busted fat white men waited around, delivering supplies to nursing wards the hospital over. The back room, stocked to the gills with endless low end medical paraphernalia, was also a sight. It contained all the elements of blood and needle work with diapers intermittent. Kris did not like the feel of the room; somehow it oppressed him. And when the truck rolled in, and old men began to hop, young Kris somehow felt oppressed further. He was a tank. Lift a box of supplies. Sort it in the stacks. Heave the medical waters into the corner. Take a break. It was routine, perhaps, that had staked his soles to the concrete. But the truck drivers were swell people, and his boss was a great guy. Slowly, Kris thought, it wouldn’t be okay to just jump off the eighth floor. But the loneliness of the hospital was alternately convincing. Go ahead, just push off.

After the truck was settled, the shipment processed and supplies waiting to zip up to the floor, Kris headed for the cafeteria. Just a dream, some rest, he mused, and quickly escaped the misadventures of the back warehouse. As he entered the whiter halls of the hospital, many worries and cares flew from his face. The freedom to be a person, unknowable in all its glory, was ever present in the center of the hospital. Kris entered the cafeteria, noticed the vast emptiness of its body, and crashed into a booth hidden on the far side of the room. Momentary respite, Kris lingered into sleep abysmal.


Kris took off his beaten tennis shoes. He placed them next to his dog
Peanut. A gorgeous, buxom red head entered from the bathroom. Kris stood at
the edge of the bed. She slowly undressed him. She was already naked. They
got into bed. The humping wrecked the bed. An elderly man came
from the living room. He was smoking a fat cigar. He cackled. Kris didn't
want to wake. He could feel himself near climax.


Kris woke suddenly, determined to write down his dream. He noticed the clock had gained two hours, however, and punched his leg. When he returned to the warehouse, his boss was slightly angered. He asked where Kris had been, what he was thinking and that this kind of thing shouldn’t happen again. Kris nodded, total agreement, and reminded himself he didn’t care. This job was temporary, a means to save money for grander schemes, for better written days of lust and slovenliness. He paced over to his stack of supplies and readied himself to head onto the floor. Got to restock, he told himself, and noticed his fellow workers sat in the back rows, sleeping. Fuck, he wheeled a cart onto the floor and thought again of his dream.


A giant lizard sat on his face. He screamed. Where was his boss? Where
were the other employees? He was trapped in a box of light bulbs. The lust
inside him gave him wood. He felt the box suddenly damp with water. The witch
he was afraid of as a child licked his face and said, "be careful."


As Kris finished his final restock, he left his cart to the nurses and their station. He escaped into the quiet waiting room behind the glass doors of the heart center. The regular hours of this particular special room were only in the morning, and in this, Kris was truly safe. But he still felt timid, slightly afraid of the punishment should he be found out. Damn the consequences, he thought once more of his girl asleep with their cat, and jumped upon a computer in the far corner of the room.

The key to the job, to the late shift, as in all things, was the small moments of freedom afforded. It was the irregularity of escapist moments that lulled Kris into staying on the job. He had wanted to quit many times for many months, but he thought different upon remembering the odd night of the obese woman in the wheelchair, the swath of blood left in the ER, the old man talking smooth and fancy, the doctors with their invisible persons, the emptiness of the garage parking lot and the dawning of the sun. Kris remembered these elements when the worst of the nights came. Sure, it’s hard to stay awake when your body is convulsing from weariness, but.

Kris carefully recounted his dream in the body of an email he was sending to himself. This was his method while trapped in the hospital. He felt it a lifeline to the outside world. The tap of the keys, the reassurance of a blank screen, and suddenly he was home again. Oh great lust, he thought, and concentrated. He typed for minutes, quickly scribbling down images and conditions to structure his dream then emailed himself. Kris sat back in his chair and rested a moment. There is no sleepiness on the third shift, merely existence or inexistence. The dance between the two was exasperating. Kris kidded himself and rose from the computer. He thought better of returning to the warehouse, then reminded himself of his girl and cat. Kris marched back through the glass doors, retrieved his cart, and plunged back into the stomach of the hospital elevator. He sank, but everything was okay.

hospital dream blues

by Kris

I saw the girl

reptile boots jump me down



my friends oh lonely

I never heard so much kitten talk

of mewl faced

nurses I eat the night

but lightbulbs

and madness some

ambulance come over to cripple

to crash

red dresses and cash

spilled on beaches

A New Poem

I wrote this poem a few weeks ago and would love some feedback. Today I like it, tomorrow I might be more critical.

Capricorn Resolution (A Sequel of Sorts)


“Maggie, a girl of the streets,
I don’t think so Mr. Crane,”
Famine McCoy said.
“You see, Baudelaire’s lines constructed from
Syphilitic madness and heartbreak
No longer mean a thing to me.
Death to all my pasts!
Maggie is the future.”

Famine continues w/declarations…

To the poet’s darkness
I offer light
I revel in warm
Slender crevices!

When presented w/a key one has to unlock
What was once locked
And when the unlocked opens
Look inside
Stare deep
Reach a hand in
Up to the elbow perhaps
Fumble w/clumsy groping
Deny what was once closed
And feel it hot

Maggie gave me a key
I didn’t know, until recently, the openings
I didn’t know how far one could go
The mystery I used to chase
& came at me
I welcomed the wrestling ingredients

I now have recipes


Shakespeare longed for the loins of Anne
He did not loathe his wife
They say today
I want to make it clear right now
I live for her
She is my 9 – 10 – 11
How can one quantify perfection?

Melodies, humble hummed
To the ring of dull steel strings
Find Song After Song
Give it a rotation, volume topped
Hear me sing,

Be Here When I Wake Up

I got a shoulder angel mama jumping on my bed
She is hungry like a word waiting to be said
She’s a restless songbird singing into my ear
Animated sketch book queen – I have to have her near

Be here when I wake up
All I can say
She is the one for me
And the only reason I make it through the day

Laying next to me, her soft figure glowing
Her skin is smooth, her breath is sweet – she starts poetry-a-flowing
She’s a simple melody echoing in my room
I have to listen carefully ‘cause it’ll be daytime soon

Be here when I wake up
All I can say
She is the one for me
And the only reason I make it through the day

I got a shoulder angel mama jumping on my bed
She is hungry like a word waiting to be said
She’s a restless songbird singing into my ear
Animated sketch book queen – I have to have her near

Be here when I wake up
All I can say
She is the one for me
And the only reason I make it through the day

What will it take to unburden myself?
What is the resolution?
I must…

Burn my paintings
Erase my poems
Smash my guitars
Discover myself on the mountain top
Screaming Maggie’s name
Until my vocal chords turn to pulp
Spitting blood
Swallowing flesh
Pulsing ejaculate
Writhing in multiple ecstasies
On this earth, but not of this earth
Giving not a shit for oxygen
Because she is my air
Feeling intimate tingles, numb below the knees
Eyes shut heavy breathing
Gaining knowledge of mixed wines
This is our lifetime – this is our now
We must press on w/o the past