I do not enjoy ambition.
I am learning to embrace my lack of ambition.
I have ambitions,
I just don’t want to work for them.
That would be too obvious.
Then they’d know I want them.
My ambition is to turn it all into a joke.
It’s all a joke anyway.
My conceptual art projects
remain purer if they stay conceptual.
That’s why I’m in the word business.
Words are almost purely conceptual.
At best, they’re vibrating air.
This is as close to being
a cloud as I can be.
The page is a crime scene
laced with black blood.
This sentence is as violent as I get.
I don’t want to know how to do anything
but nothing
and that’s perfectly alright with me.
I’ve come to terms with that.
How could somebody allow themself to write
a career of awful books while I maintain my perfect record
of unbegun masterpieces? Not even unwritten.
I won’t even begin to imagine them.
The idea of them is more than satisfying.
I dwell in possibility
and I’ll stay there.
I never want to know
who or how I’ll actually turn out to be.
The glorious, unending fruition of procrastination.
I have never been quite so dedicated or effective at anything
as I am at self-subterfuge and diversion.
I am most accomplished at delay and self-sabotage.
Look at all these words I’ve made out of it.
I take my money and finance my nothing habit with it.
After half-heartedly trying for a quarter of a century
I am owed my chance at uselessness.
My concept is to turn this evasion into an intent.
If I intend to be this lazy, well, I’m getting things done now, aren’t I?
What did I do in my 20s? Procrastinate them until my 30s.
I celebrate nothing, and actually nothing,
not the little nothings we are left with
after the dismantling if the big somethings
and so blow up
into new everything.
It’s almost impossible to get away with doing nothing these days.
Nothing is quite a thing to accomplish with your life these days.
The current of productivity is overpowering.
I’d like more money
I just can’t convince myself I like doing what I have to do to get it.
There’s nothing I want to buy but time
and I already get that for free.
Basically anything we try to do
is a kind of violence.
28 December 2012
21 December 2012
A Video of Me Reading My Poem "I Don't Want To"
I DON'T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO I DON’T WANT TO
20 December 2012
Trix r 4 Kids
Being given away, credit cards in
cereal boxes, by a rabbit hugging
a dollar sign. Spoon your way to the win!
says the cartoon blissfully mugging,
who I've known longer than most of my friends,
and know well enough to ignore his tugging.
I peel a scab from the corner of
my face and flick the flake of flesh away.
I test the drip and more blood smears my thumb
than anticipated. I never pray
anymore. I am not waiting for love.
The rain stays perched in the clouds today.
I clot the cut with a paper towel
and can't help heed the cartoon rabbit's howl.
cereal boxes, by a rabbit hugging
a dollar sign. Spoon your way to the win!
says the cartoon blissfully mugging,
who I've known longer than most of my friends,
and know well enough to ignore his tugging.
I peel a scab from the corner of
my face and flick the flake of flesh away.
I test the drip and more blood smears my thumb
than anticipated. I never pray
anymore. I am not waiting for love.
The rain stays perched in the clouds today.
I clot the cut with a paper towel
and can't help heed the cartoon rabbit's howl.
The Tape
It felt like a buzzard was trapped in his side trying to chewing his way out. It’d been 15 years since his last drink when he went down to the State Liquor Agency using a 9-iron as a cane to get a bottle of Old Crow. He chugged enough to get the buzzard settled, hobbled home to the Winnebago and got back in bed. Thoughts started falling down on him. Thoughts he’d rather not have, about the girls, the gigs, all the bad things he’d done. He was too tired to fight them, figured it was time for reckoning. He thought about the boy.
He pulled himself outta the bunk and started rifling through the closet, the drawers, looking for the Cue and Review. He found it in the old shoebox full of tapes in the closet and got the guitar down from the overhead. He lifted his leg up to perch the guitar and the pain pierced his side. He winced and took a drink. The pain dulled and he sat down in the booth and strummed the guitar. The strings were rusty. They woulda sliced anybody else but they didn’t do much to him except leave a blue grime on the callouses at the end of his fingers. He tongued the grim. It tasted like an old penny.
He pressed play on the recorder. A live recording of a song written by Buck Chipps called “Death Valley Rose” came tinkling out. He swished some Old Crow and listened for a minute. From the peddle-steel he guessed it was Mason-Dixon, a group he played with out of Winslow. Blalock was a helluva peddle-steel player. A flashy guitar fill burst outta nowhere. Starchy Johnston. What an asshole. Starchy always played like an asshole, all over everybody else. Course that’s what people went for.
He popped the tape out, threw it back on the heap in the box. He leaned over and groaned and sifted through till he found a blank tape. He fed it into the deck and checked to make sure there was nothing on it. Everything hurt. Every little movement. He wanted to get back in bed and just go to sleep. He gulped some more Crow and put the guitar on his knee. He pressed “Play” and “Record”. The counter began to roll off the seconds.
He didn’t have a name for the song, but he’d been playing it for nearly 40 years. It’d been with him longer than probably anything else in his life. He used to play it around the boy when he was young, wondered if he remembered it. He’d recorded it before, a lot of times, but the recordings all lost themselves somehow. That’d always been the way. Ever since he was a kid he’d been streamlined. The wind took everything that wasn’t tattooed onto his flesh. He’d lived in the Chieftain for the last five years but most everything else he kept like the breath in his lungs, taking it in and released it again without a thought.
As he played he found himself surprised that, for maybe the first time since he was a 15 year old rookie studio player, he had some nerves. The voice in his head was walking along criticizing every note as he played it. The strings were thick and dead with rust, rattling clumsily against his fingers. He stuttered on a few phrases and reversed some of the arpeggios. It’d been along time since he last played, but after a few go rounds the song began to lift off.
He rewound it to listen. The pain bit hard into his side. He guzzled the rest of the Old Crow and the empty bottle toppled as he set it on the table. There was a large hiss of space in the recording. The way the tiny microphone sucked up the sound gave the guitar had a bright, twinkly sheen like a purse of coins dumped down a well. A truck wooshed by. The notes wobbled slightly between pitches like waves over hot blacktop. As the chorus climbed a gray cloud began to swell over his vision. He’d written dozens of verses and melodies for the song but none of them were any good so he hadn’t spoken or hummed or sung. There was nothing on the tape of himself save the ghosts of his fingers walking over the strings.
He started to feeling dizzy, thought he might get sick. He stood from the booth, wobbling slightly, not quite able to keep his balance. He stumbled to the back and collapsed on the bed.
8 or 10 years back Trace told him the boy’d snuck in her room and got his old guitar out from under the bed. Said it was taller than he was, he was playing it like a standup bass. The boy cried when she pawned it. She had to pawn it. He was proud as hell to find some of his own blood pumping through the boy’s heart. You can’t get rid of it. He knew that. Once it mixes in there you can’t get it out again.
He could hear the tape faintly as it kept running. The last vibrations of the song dwindled. The tape kept playing, the counter clicking off the seconds, as it ran in silence.
He pulled himself outta the bunk and started rifling through the closet, the drawers, looking for the Cue and Review. He found it in the old shoebox full of tapes in the closet and got the guitar down from the overhead. He lifted his leg up to perch the guitar and the pain pierced his side. He winced and took a drink. The pain dulled and he sat down in the booth and strummed the guitar. The strings were rusty. They woulda sliced anybody else but they didn’t do much to him except leave a blue grime on the callouses at the end of his fingers. He tongued the grim. It tasted like an old penny.
He pressed play on the recorder. A live recording of a song written by Buck Chipps called “Death Valley Rose” came tinkling out. He swished some Old Crow and listened for a minute. From the peddle-steel he guessed it was Mason-Dixon, a group he played with out of Winslow. Blalock was a helluva peddle-steel player. A flashy guitar fill burst outta nowhere. Starchy Johnston. What an asshole. Starchy always played like an asshole, all over everybody else. Course that’s what people went for.
He popped the tape out, threw it back on the heap in the box. He leaned over and groaned and sifted through till he found a blank tape. He fed it into the deck and checked to make sure there was nothing on it. Everything hurt. Every little movement. He wanted to get back in bed and just go to sleep. He gulped some more Crow and put the guitar on his knee. He pressed “Play” and “Record”. The counter began to roll off the seconds.
He didn’t have a name for the song, but he’d been playing it for nearly 40 years. It’d been with him longer than probably anything else in his life. He used to play it around the boy when he was young, wondered if he remembered it. He’d recorded it before, a lot of times, but the recordings all lost themselves somehow. That’d always been the way. Ever since he was a kid he’d been streamlined. The wind took everything that wasn’t tattooed onto his flesh. He’d lived in the Chieftain for the last five years but most everything else he kept like the breath in his lungs, taking it in and released it again without a thought.
As he played he found himself surprised that, for maybe the first time since he was a 15 year old rookie studio player, he had some nerves. The voice in his head was walking along criticizing every note as he played it. The strings were thick and dead with rust, rattling clumsily against his fingers. He stuttered on a few phrases and reversed some of the arpeggios. It’d been along time since he last played, but after a few go rounds the song began to lift off.
He rewound it to listen. The pain bit hard into his side. He guzzled the rest of the Old Crow and the empty bottle toppled as he set it on the table. There was a large hiss of space in the recording. The way the tiny microphone sucked up the sound gave the guitar had a bright, twinkly sheen like a purse of coins dumped down a well. A truck wooshed by. The notes wobbled slightly between pitches like waves over hot blacktop. As the chorus climbed a gray cloud began to swell over his vision. He’d written dozens of verses and melodies for the song but none of them were any good so he hadn’t spoken or hummed or sung. There was nothing on the tape of himself save the ghosts of his fingers walking over the strings.
He started to feeling dizzy, thought he might get sick. He stood from the booth, wobbling slightly, not quite able to keep his balance. He stumbled to the back and collapsed on the bed.
8 or 10 years back Trace told him the boy’d snuck in her room and got his old guitar out from under the bed. Said it was taller than he was, he was playing it like a standup bass. The boy cried when she pawned it. She had to pawn it. He was proud as hell to find some of his own blood pumping through the boy’s heart. You can’t get rid of it. He knew that. Once it mixes in there you can’t get it out again.
He could hear the tape faintly as it kept running. The last vibrations of the song dwindled. The tape kept playing, the counter clicking off the seconds, as it ran in silence.
Conversation
What is it that you love about me?
I don’t know.
See, you don’t even know.
Ok, why do you love me?
I love you because...
You can’t say either.
I guess that means...
We don't know each other.
No. It's better. It means we
don't need reasons.
I don’t know.
See, you don’t even know.
Ok, why do you love me?
I love you because...
You can’t say either.
I guess that means...
We don't know each other.
No. It's better. It means we
don't need reasons.
The Apple
He bruises quick, the soft
flesh bared to the air's waft,
never ripening for you,
only for himself, yet his hue
undeniably advertises him.
His pale insides dim,
an old bulb rashed with brown,
stained over with teeth marks, a frown
sinking into itself. A stem points
happily from his scalp above joints
clipped like Venus' phantom arms.
He knows he can be done no harm
and dives down into the earth
to thrust his skeleton hand up in rebirth.
flesh bared to the air's waft,
never ripening for you,
only for himself, yet his hue
undeniably advertises him.
His pale insides dim,
an old bulb rashed with brown,
stained over with teeth marks, a frown
sinking into itself. A stem points
happily from his scalp above joints
clipped like Venus' phantom arms.
He knows he can be done no harm
and dives down into the earth
to thrust his skeleton hand up in rebirth.
One Nationwide Plaza
The cloud crowns the tower,
Excalibur brandished by lilliputians
towards battalions of stars.
A logo glows with power,
matching the moon's complexion.
Lost in the light, the fiery armor of Mars
and the cool balm of Venus;
Rattling through, the meteor shower,
glorious artillery of celestial wars.
Man, with advanced computations,
has lifted the boot of weather
and shelved himself in rectangles and squares,
angles unfound in nature.
Birds and moths rest on the shoulders
near the illuminated crest of the gathered city.
The name is soft and shines
like a pillow, familiar
as a mother's face to a baby,
pale as an apple bitten into.
Excalibur brandished by lilliputians
towards battalions of stars.
A logo glows with power,
matching the moon's complexion.
Lost in the light, the fiery armor of Mars
and the cool balm of Venus;
Rattling through, the meteor shower,
glorious artillery of celestial wars.
Man, with advanced computations,
has lifted the boot of weather
and shelved himself in rectangles and squares,
angles unfound in nature.
Birds and moths rest on the shoulders
near the illuminated crest of the gathered city.
The name is soft and shines
like a pillow, familiar
as a mother's face to a baby,
pale as an apple bitten into.
19 December 2012
the sound of no hands clapping: haiku
empty chair
rolling down the hill
offering a place to sit
a boy dribbles a basketball
and licks ice cream
in the cold air
this is a gray ohio sky
i am seeing today
over new york city
the gowanus canal
is somehow buckeye lake
and i'm on my grandpa's pontoon
gulls are lifted
to unusual heights
by the tantrums of the wind
the smoke from the fac-
tory rises, tiny against
the ocean of clouds
windows are necessary
to the soft eyes
in the office tower
the old man hugs himself
walking through the wind
his metal cane pushes
against the hill
the hill holds him up
she pulls luggage
down pineapple street
she'll meet the moon
in puerto rico
the wind smacks
into the sun
on the side of
the chrysler building
orange price tags stick
to the purple flowers
apples are piled
in the cold brooklyn air
200 miles from home
sparks flying from
her ponytail
gently struck by the wind
fuckin' a says
the russian man
the only english he needs
on his shoulder
he carries the heavy bag
of yesterday's trash
lost in the wind
two boys with minds
holding the same kiss
new york has been in my eyes
for 400 days and nights
my first 25 years remain
captured in ohio
i go walking
the moon is left behind
on the pillow in my bedroom
a bike stranded against a rack
heavy chain around
where it's wheel used to be
every minute I am roaming for love
after the sun goes down
i walk my favorite sidewalks
pink hearts are taped
to the glass cabinet
my heart looks nothing like them
the tuna swims
through the frozen ocean
of the refrigerator
the street is tired
of bearing our footsteps
it splits itself into chunks
the man in the traffic signal
is made of circles
of white light
he is slapped away
by a red hand
a sky with no birds
a park with no squirrels
i have nothing to say
lights hang from an ever-
green in tompkins square
a streetlamp shares itself
on the leaves of a maple
the stoplight rises to red
a man is trapped
on the corner with himself
in mekas' film archives
a little train of pictures
is pulled through the light
in a blue aquarium
somewhere in the city
an octopus rests
i read on the train
next to me the rabbi
runs his finger
moves his lips
across the torah
trembling hands shake
each other and steady them-
selves on mugs of beer
the stagnant green water
has abandoned its imi-
tation of a river
the first snow of the year
walks me home
the whole world is ice cream!
rolling down the hill
offering a place to sit
a boy dribbles a basketball
and licks ice cream
in the cold air
this is a gray ohio sky
i am seeing today
over new york city
the gowanus canal
is somehow buckeye lake
and i'm on my grandpa's pontoon
gulls are lifted
to unusual heights
by the tantrums of the wind
the smoke from the fac-
tory rises, tiny against
the ocean of clouds
windows are necessary
to the soft eyes
in the office tower
the old man hugs himself
walking through the wind
his metal cane pushes
against the hill
the hill holds him up
she pulls luggage
down pineapple street
she'll meet the moon
in puerto rico
the wind smacks
into the sun
on the side of
the chrysler building
orange price tags stick
to the purple flowers
apples are piled
in the cold brooklyn air
200 miles from home
sparks flying from
her ponytail
gently struck by the wind
fuckin' a says
the russian man
the only english he needs
on his shoulder
he carries the heavy bag
of yesterday's trash
lost in the wind
two boys with minds
holding the same kiss
new york has been in my eyes
for 400 days and nights
my first 25 years remain
captured in ohio
i go walking
the moon is left behind
on the pillow in my bedroom
a bike stranded against a rack
heavy chain around
where it's wheel used to be
every minute I am roaming for love
after the sun goes down
i walk my favorite sidewalks
pink hearts are taped
to the glass cabinet
my heart looks nothing like them
the tuna swims
through the frozen ocean
of the refrigerator
the street is tired
of bearing our footsteps
it splits itself into chunks
the man in the traffic signal
is made of circles
of white light
he is slapped away
by a red hand
a sky with no birds
a park with no squirrels
i have nothing to say
lights hang from an ever-
green in tompkins square
a streetlamp shares itself
on the leaves of a maple
the stoplight rises to red
a man is trapped
on the corner with himself
in mekas' film archives
a little train of pictures
is pulled through the light
in a blue aquarium
somewhere in the city
an octopus rests
i read on the train
next to me the rabbi
runs his finger
moves his lips
across the torah
trembling hands shake
each other and steady them-
selves on mugs of beer
the stagnant green water
has abandoned its imi-
tation of a river
the first snow of the year
walks me home
the whole world is ice cream!
Song
The books:
Which ones of them
Should I take to my desk?
Oh! All of them, all of them, all
Of them!
Which ones of them
Should I take to my desk?
Oh! All of them, all of them, all
Of them!
18 December 2012
Song of Destruction
I am enjoying my annihilation
I will ride it all the way down
To the love lying
Low on the earth
I will ride it all the way down
To the love lying
Low on the earth
15 December 2012
Chinatown Bus
"Ohio!" they yell and it don't mean hello
Sometimes it takes you where you're planning to go
It might be a front for a drug-running scheme
It runs every night, it's a tired machine
My friend's all complain but I don't see the fuss
I tell you I like riding that Chinatown Bus
They call it the Skyhorse, thank god it's earthbound
it's half as much and twice as fast as any Greyhound
It might be illegal, it's dangerous as hell
whether it'll show you never can tell
I'm sick of this city, I'll do what I must
I'm going back home on the Chinatown Bus.
One drove off a cliff, one fell in the river
But with prices this low I'll always forgive her
It burns dragon fire and coughs out it's tail
The guy sitting next to me was just out on bail
It's gleaming and white, not a dot of rust
I had a fine time on the Chinatown Bus
The depot's like something out of the third world
People from all over into America hurled
I pick up my pass and I sit on the curb
Everybody's talking, I don't get a word
There's a toilet in back and you hope it will flush
First class all the way on the Chinatown Bus
I'd rather not know how fast we went
The point is we got there and not much was spent
The driver speeds up, he doesn't slow down
If there's a roadblock he just goes around
He couldn't speak English except when to cuss
Have the ride of your life on the Chinatown Bus
I can't jet off to London or do St. Tropez
I could fly to Paris and not afford to stay
The stone walls of New York move in like a trap
I feel a deep lust when I look at a map
I don't want a lot, I ain't asking for much
Carry me out, you Chinatown Bus
We leave the city, the buildings subside
All of the coach settle in for the ride
I look out the window at a staggering dark
Up in the sky the stars start to spark
The engine hums along as the wheels they rush
I'm riding alone on the Chinatown Bus.
Sometimes it takes you where you're planning to go
It might be a front for a drug-running scheme
It runs every night, it's a tired machine
My friend's all complain but I don't see the fuss
I tell you I like riding that Chinatown Bus
They call it the Skyhorse, thank god it's earthbound
it's half as much and twice as fast as any Greyhound
It might be illegal, it's dangerous as hell
whether it'll show you never can tell
I'm sick of this city, I'll do what I must
I'm going back home on the Chinatown Bus.
One drove off a cliff, one fell in the river
But with prices this low I'll always forgive her
It burns dragon fire and coughs out it's tail
The guy sitting next to me was just out on bail
It's gleaming and white, not a dot of rust
I had a fine time on the Chinatown Bus
The depot's like something out of the third world
People from all over into America hurled
I pick up my pass and I sit on the curb
Everybody's talking, I don't get a word
There's a toilet in back and you hope it will flush
First class all the way on the Chinatown Bus
I'd rather not know how fast we went
The point is we got there and not much was spent
The driver speeds up, he doesn't slow down
If there's a roadblock he just goes around
He couldn't speak English except when to cuss
Have the ride of your life on the Chinatown Bus
I can't jet off to London or do St. Tropez
I could fly to Paris and not afford to stay
The stone walls of New York move in like a trap
I feel a deep lust when I look at a map
I don't want a lot, I ain't asking for much
Carry me out, you Chinatown Bus
We leave the city, the buildings subside
All of the coach settle in for the ride
I look out the window at a staggering dark
Up in the sky the stars start to spark
The engine hums along as the wheels they rush
I'm riding alone on the Chinatown Bus.
11 December 2012
The Modern American Bohemian Dream
 |
| This set is best viewed as a slide show, scrolling from left to right, start to finish. |
Brooklyn vs. Home
04 December 2012
Grace
Grace holds no book
by Rimbaud. She clutches the Bible
into sleep and dreams
of Jesus. I don't know why
this girl raised by church summer camps
was there at the house show
where everyone was drinking wine
out of Solo cups and howling
old soul songs to the piano.
Her drunk cousin had brought her there,
who grabbed my ankle and put her head
in my lap, but I was more interested
in Grace. I'd always wanted to meet
a girl named Grace and she introduced herself
apologizing for the blonde who was getting pissed
because all the boys went for her cousin.
We left her on the floor to do
the Twist and, with her best innocent
shrug, Grace told me about
her frilly underwear waiting
in a drawer for her husband. She pulled me in
and breathed in my ear she was married
to Jesus.
She confessed she'd left a fiance
here on earth spun
into dementia from a bomb
hidden under the sand of Iraq.
She cried when she walked out
of the Institution for the last time and
even though she's married now
to a strong handsome boy
and they will go swing dancing
every Thursday until they die
in the same breath, she cries
every time she thinks about
that thing she had to give up
which she never really wanted,
the mistake she was pardoned
from making. It's her duty
to feel guilty. This is what love looks like
to God. She's sweet.
Her name is Grace.
by Rimbaud. She clutches the Bible
into sleep and dreams
of Jesus. I don't know why
this girl raised by church summer camps
was there at the house show
where everyone was drinking wine
out of Solo cups and howling
old soul songs to the piano.
Her drunk cousin had brought her there,
who grabbed my ankle and put her head
in my lap, but I was more interested
in Grace. I'd always wanted to meet
a girl named Grace and she introduced herself
apologizing for the blonde who was getting pissed
because all the boys went for her cousin.
We left her on the floor to do
the Twist and, with her best innocent
shrug, Grace told me about
her frilly underwear waiting
in a drawer for her husband. She pulled me in
and breathed in my ear she was married
to Jesus.
She confessed she'd left a fiance
here on earth spun
into dementia from a bomb
hidden under the sand of Iraq.
She cried when she walked out
of the Institution for the last time and
even though she's married now
to a strong handsome boy
and they will go swing dancing
every Thursday until they die
in the same breath, she cries
every time she thinks about
that thing she had to give up
which she never really wanted,
the mistake she was pardoned
from making. It's her duty
to feel guilty. This is what love looks like
to God. She's sweet.
Her name is Grace.
03 December 2012
City Lights
How does he fight
the gargantuan bellies
Of bullies
With eyebrows
Of thunder?
A little white flower
The mightiest rage
Of a torch
Plucked
From a dirty wool-suit
Offered to a
moon-skinned
Woman
the gargantuan bellies
Of bullies
With eyebrows
Of thunder?
A little white flower
The mightiest rage
Of a torch
Plucked
From a dirty wool-suit
Offered to a
moon-skinned
Woman
02 December 2012
In a Car Speeding Out Route 40
I'm going to the Midwest
to be closer to the night;
The rusted pipes and tired bridges
of Pittsburgh,
The angelic lamplights hovering over
empty spaces in parking lots,
Indiana, the great Old West
before the great New West,
Cincinnati on its muddy river,
Cleveland on its infected lake,
Bellefontaine, Mt. Vernon, Marysville,
The poisoned land, the Midwest;
I am wrapped in its vast night.
Route 40 is a vanished road
lined by silent oaks,
I walk through its darkness
across the blasts of Broadway
I walk through its darkness
as the drifting clods of memory
fall through my sleep
to be closer to the night;
The rusted pipes and tired bridges
of Pittsburgh,
The angelic lamplights hovering over
empty spaces in parking lots,
Indiana, the great Old West
before the great New West,
Cincinnati on its muddy river,
Cleveland on its infected lake,
Bellefontaine, Mt. Vernon, Marysville,
The poisoned land, the Midwest;
I am wrapped in its vast night.
Route 40 is a vanished road
lined by silent oaks,
I walk through its darkness
across the blasts of Broadway
I walk through its darkness
as the drifting clods of memory
fall through my sleep
30 November 2012
Cesar Vallejo
A whole civilization walks
by Cesar Vallejo sleeping
in a Parisian gutter.
His stomach resonates,
the canyon of his word,
speaking something
he can't transcribe.
His mouth has forgotten
the taste of words..
His tongue hunts
the craters of his
teeth, the squelched
ribs of the roof,
dehydrated apple skin
of gums, which
have given all
of their blood.
"That's Vallejo,
the great poet.
He subsists on
words. He must be
given pain
so he can make it
into poems."
His pen is out
of ink. His mind
aches for something
that cannot be
given through words.
The flying wings
of Spanish grasshoppers
are singing their
ride towards
this moment.
"Cesar, just one
more poem!"
The throne of the gutter,
he renounces it.
by Cesar Vallejo sleeping
in a Parisian gutter.
His stomach resonates,
the canyon of his word,
speaking something
he can't transcribe.
His mouth has forgotten
the taste of words..
His tongue hunts
the craters of his
teeth, the squelched
ribs of the roof,
dehydrated apple skin
of gums, which
have given all
of their blood.
"That's Vallejo,
the great poet.
He subsists on
words. He must be
given pain
so he can make it
into poems."
His pen is out
of ink. His mind
aches for something
that cannot be
given through words.
The flying wings
of Spanish grasshoppers
are singing their
ride towards
this moment.
"Cesar, just one
more poem!"
The throne of the gutter,
he renounces it.
29 November 2012
Indian Summer Layover in Grandview Heights
Birds by the thousands,
their cries arguing with the air
like a storm
Where do they come off
being so confrontational?
the great trees lift them
into their sky
which only knows it could easily tumble them,
unfamiliar with their ally, the ground
The Woodhill swings down
Mulford, a road you climbed
all your childhood
to school, to friend's houses,
it's slope feels to have slumped,
it's grade lessened, though
the trees you now are awed by how tall they've grown,
they've always been mostly that tall
Your hometown becomes a demonstration
of the pliability of how things are seen
You've begun to experience the difficulty
of any thing's survival
into all that air pressing down,
the miracle of a thing learning
to turn the violence of a storm
into drinking water
The birds that you remember never hearing,
you now glory in their storm,
and the branches too,
stretched into the gray
over the houses and sidewalks
you know by heart
A blonder man sees the sky
and his ambition says
it belongs to him
If he gets there
he is a hero
if he falls
he is a tragedy
if he remains still
he is sodden and trampled
like a piece of grass
stuck to the mud
You are not an ambitious man
their cries arguing with the air
like a storm
Where do they come off
being so confrontational?
the great trees lift them
into their sky
which only knows it could easily tumble them,
unfamiliar with their ally, the ground
The Woodhill swings down
Mulford, a road you climbed
all your childhood
to school, to friend's houses,
it's slope feels to have slumped,
it's grade lessened, though
the trees you now are awed by how tall they've grown,
they've always been mostly that tall
Your hometown becomes a demonstration
of the pliability of how things are seen
You've begun to experience the difficulty
of any thing's survival
into all that air pressing down,
the miracle of a thing learning
to turn the violence of a storm
into drinking water
The birds that you remember never hearing,
you now glory in their storm,
and the branches too,
stretched into the gray
over the houses and sidewalks
you know by heart
A blonder man sees the sky
and his ambition says
it belongs to him
If he gets there
he is a hero
if he falls
he is a tragedy
if he remains still
he is sodden and trampled
like a piece of grass
stuck to the mud
You are not an ambitious man
15 November 2012
Two Little Girls in Yellow Raincoats and the Empty Stone Battlefield of a Chessboard
There's life running all around me,
The peaceable caretakers of genetic code,
God's true scripture, speaking the universe.
I understand none of it.
Above the blue shelter of our sky
All is black, All is rock, All is fire
And here on earth, our soft-bodied earth,
the fire burns off into light:
only lost galaxies held within eyes.
The peaceable caretakers of genetic code,
God's true scripture, speaking the universe.
I understand none of it.
Above the blue shelter of our sky
All is black, All is rock, All is fire
And here on earth, our soft-bodied earth,
the fire burns off into light:
only lost galaxies held within eyes.
10 November 2012
Andy
I read some of "The Philosophy of Andy Warhol" the other day and I think
Andy(I feel like we all have the right to call him that)'s right.
Andy says he doesn't know why people don't like being alone.
Andy says all the James Deans are incapable of inspiring romance (On behalf of failed James Deans everywhere, I agree).
Andy says it's movies are real and real life's the fake.
Andy says that no one even knows what they're feeling till it's over and movies give us a way to feel everything without having to live through it.
Andy says be what you love.
Andy loved plastic dolls.
Andy says things beneath what he says, around and above what he says.
Andy is smart enough to say less and mean more.
Andy Warhol may be Frankenstein.
Andy Warhol may be Dracula, but most likely
Andy Warhol is just one of his mother's broken little dolls.
Andy(I feel like we all have the right to call him that)'s right.
Andy says he doesn't know why people don't like being alone.
Andy says all the James Deans are incapable of inspiring romance (On behalf of failed James Deans everywhere, I agree).
Andy says it's movies are real and real life's the fake.
Andy says that no one even knows what they're feeling till it's over and movies give us a way to feel everything without having to live through it.
Andy says be what you love.
Andy loved plastic dolls.
Andy says things beneath what he says, around and above what he says.
Andy is smart enough to say less and mean more.
Andy Warhol may be Frankenstein.
Andy Warhol may be Dracula, but most likely
Andy Warhol is just one of his mother's broken little dolls.
09 November 2012
Johnny Meyers
My friend
John Ryan Dobbs,
an air traffic
controller,
says pilots are
the only truly
happy people.
If they get
some time
in the air
then that is
all they need.
They don’t make
mistakes
he says.
I knew a kid
in high school,
Johnny Meyers,
who, though he
was small, had
bigger, more precise
dreams than anybody.
He loved planes.
He always had.
There was never
any doubt.
He wore a
newsboy cap and
an olive green
jacket with
golden wings
pinned to
the pocket.
When a plane
passed over
he’d stop the
conversation,
stare up
and name it.
Johnny had a
high voice and
it seemed like
puberty would
never happen
to him.
Presumably
puberty could
and did happen
to Johnny
but I like to
think he escaped
the pickling
and souring
of growing up.
Sure, Johnny could be
drinking Milwaukee’s
Best in a Ramada Inn
in Amarillo, Texas
alone right now
but I like
to think that
today Johnny Meyers
is up in some sky
somewhere
happy.
John Ryan Dobbs,
an air traffic
controller,
says pilots are
the only truly
happy people.
If they get
some time
in the air
then that is
all they need.
They don’t make
mistakes
he says.
I knew a kid
in high school,
Johnny Meyers,
who, though he
was small, had
bigger, more precise
dreams than anybody.
He loved planes.
He always had.
There was never
any doubt.
He wore a
newsboy cap and
an olive green
jacket with
golden wings
pinned to
the pocket.
When a plane
passed over
he’d stop the
conversation,
stare up
and name it.
Johnny had a
high voice and
it seemed like
puberty would
never happen
to him.
Presumably
puberty could
and did happen
to Johnny
but I like to
think he escaped
the pickling
and souring
of growing up.
Sure, Johnny could be
drinking Milwaukee’s
Best in a Ramada Inn
in Amarillo, Texas
alone right now
but I like
to think that
today Johnny Meyers
is up in some sky
somewhere
happy.
29 October 2012
Jim Carroll
Sprinting across the hot tar of a rooftop in Alphabet City
the red wings of his sneakers push and lift
and he goes soaring out of his own body
into a sky of flame. This is a city of war.
the red wings of his sneakers push and lift
and he goes soaring out of his own body
into a sky of flame. This is a city of war.
07 August 2012
My Friend Chip's Spiral Notebook
He wrote from bell to bell
at the black lab tables in
the back of Mr. Kegley's room,
so many words and still adding more.
Mrs. Moutvic hung a gallery
of his work on the art room wall;
etchings of space stations,
cyborgs, intergalactic derelicts.
He asked me to write a movie
with him about Vietnam.
We split it down the middle.
I wrote the first half, him the second.
Mine followed the rules:
I got into scenes late and ended them early.
I showed and didn't tell. The pages
were clean and properly formatted.
His looked like a homeless man's
autobiography: wild manes where pages
been torn out, rambling monologues,
a vision of a mushroom cloud.
Garf, who was Chip in a wig, sun-
glasses and a Beach Boys baseball hat,
stopped an atomic bomb with
the sound waves of his guitar.
We should have made that movie.
at the black lab tables in
the back of Mr. Kegley's room,
so many words and still adding more.
Mrs. Moutvic hung a gallery
of his work on the art room wall;
etchings of space stations,
cyborgs, intergalactic derelicts.
He asked me to write a movie
with him about Vietnam.
We split it down the middle.
I wrote the first half, him the second.
Mine followed the rules:
I got into scenes late and ended them early.
I showed and didn't tell. The pages
were clean and properly formatted.
His looked like a homeless man's
autobiography: wild manes where pages
been torn out, rambling monologues,
a vision of a mushroom cloud.
Garf, who was Chip in a wig, sun-
glasses and a Beach Boys baseball hat,
stopped an atomic bomb with
the sound waves of his guitar.
We should have made that movie.
21 July 2012
19 July 2012
Sheepfold Superimposed Over Garden
How to levitate:
crawl yourself
beneath new sunset
floorboards, candles,
wormwood.
There were iconic stones
piled out there,
but they fell.
Put forth
new accidents:
a fire climbs up your sleeve.
Pep rallies
in the bloodstream.
Aortic ticker tape
and periodic baritone
of young campfires.
Shakespeare gives a thumbs up
from the side
of a beer bottle.
No spine,
no ribs,
no function.
Assorted cookies
and danish.
Everybody learns
to hate
to be
their father/mother.
A brother pins you
to the dirt
and dangles a worm
in your face.
Sorry.
Lost without conversation.
Vivid
the contours
of the lucky terrors you survived,
your house burning down,
a windswept meadow
of fire. This fire
stored
in a compartment
of the mind
visited by the page.
Everybody learns
to drink.
The cities hold fantasies
which will never involve us.
Life is a series of defeats
and learning to be
a good sport
about it.
You will never
smell the bouquets
of the finest women.
The week snaps
back around.
Snivel.
But there is a road
that can never be filled.
The road is waiting,
empty,
for your legs.
A scribbled river winds
through itself,
each drop wandering
down the highway
of the whole.
The cities run on.
The cities.
crawl yourself
beneath new sunset
floorboards, candles,
wormwood.
There were iconic stones
piled out there,
but they fell.
Put forth
new accidents:
a fire climbs up your sleeve.
Pep rallies
in the bloodstream.
Aortic ticker tape
and periodic baritone
of young campfires.
Shakespeare gives a thumbs up
from the side
of a beer bottle.
No spine,
no ribs,
no function.
Assorted cookies
and danish.
Everybody learns
to hate
to be
their father/mother.
A brother pins you
to the dirt
and dangles a worm
in your face.
Sorry.
Lost without conversation.
Vivid
the contours
of the lucky terrors you survived,
your house burning down,
a windswept meadow
of fire. This fire
stored
in a compartment
of the mind
visited by the page.
Everybody learns
to drink.
The cities hold fantasies
which will never involve us.
Life is a series of defeats
and learning to be
a good sport
about it.
You will never
smell the bouquets
of the finest women.
The week snaps
back around.
Snivel.
But there is a road
that can never be filled.
The road is waiting,
empty,
for your legs.
A scribbled river winds
through itself,
each drop wandering
down the highway
of the whole.
The cities run on.
The cities.
22 June 2012
A Winter Evening
Translated from the German of George Trakl
When the snow against the window falls,
Long the evening bell rings,
For many is the table prepared
And the house is well-stocked.
Many on their wanderings
Come to the gate on dark paths.
Golden blooms the tree of Grace
Out of the earth's cool sap.
The wanderer quietly steps inside;
The threshold was swollen with pain.
There, glazed in pure radiance
on the table, Bread and Wine.
When the snow against the window falls,
Long the evening bell rings,
For many is the table prepared
And the house is well-stocked.
Many on their wanderings
Come to the gate on dark paths.
Golden blooms the tree of Grace
Out of the earth's cool sap.
The wanderer quietly steps inside;
The threshold was swollen with pain.
There, glazed in pure radiance
on the table, Bread and Wine.
29 May 2012
Trust
Trust your vaulted hallucinations
Trust your most ridiculous
impossibilities
Trust the wild visions that arise
from moments of boredom
Do not trust the larcenous glares
that surround you
Do not believe the gravity
in the black holes of pupils
Trust the improbabilities
and they will become realities
Trust your most ridiculous
impossibilities
Trust the wild visions that arise
from moments of boredom
Do not trust the larcenous glares
that surround you
Do not believe the gravity
in the black holes of pupils
Trust the improbabilities
and they will become realities
20 May 2012
Big Ten Schools
Those are classroom ideas. The dormroom ideas, the flip-flops
grimy in the shower, the barf-proof tiles, the linoleum mattress.
This is where the webisodes are coming from. This is where
the webisodes are going to. These are the things we know:
A great pyramid of beer pong cups, the rosemary tragedy
of a Sunday morning at the clinic, daydream incapabilities
flatlining in rows of desks, the windows shawled in brick.
After all this we will never get back to the four makeshift bases
of the old electric field. We are 27 years old now
and have no idea what that is supposed to mean.
grimy in the shower, the barf-proof tiles, the linoleum mattress.
This is where the webisodes are coming from. This is where
the webisodes are going to. These are the things we know:
A great pyramid of beer pong cups, the rosemary tragedy
of a Sunday morning at the clinic, daydream incapabilities
flatlining in rows of desks, the windows shawled in brick.
After all this we will never get back to the four makeshift bases
of the old electric field. We are 27 years old now
and have no idea what that is supposed to mean.
That Missing Civilization
Shakespeare making man
into music
Tu Fu locked in a tree
like Ariel
on the other side of the world
I can do nothing
but hold them
the blossoms
and instead they just
go on in the breeze
The big bombs rock us
to sleep as
Hamlet's body
is carried out
by soldiers
into music
Tu Fu locked in a tree
like Ariel
on the other side of the world
I can do nothing
but hold them
the blossoms
and instead they just
go on in the breeze
The big bombs rock us
to sleep as
Hamlet's body
is carried out
by soldiers
06 May 2012
A New Kind of Laziness
I've happened upon
a new kind of laziness,
the laziness of delight.
The laziness of a daisy
knocked over by the sun.
a new kind of laziness,
the laziness of delight.
The laziness of a daisy
knocked over by the sun.
23 April 2012
This Body
Who else has used this body of mine?
These hands and eyes and feet?
Which journeys did they take?
In what life was I a clown and in what life was I a King?
In what life did I drink blue drops hanging from a leaf?
In what life did the rose of the sun stain my wild legs?
Which year had me impervious to thought
listening to the frogs croak from the grave of night?
When did I lay in the orchards of the stars?
Or has this body always been used
just as it is now?
For purposes other than its own?
These hands and eyes and feet?
Which journeys did they take?
In what life was I a clown and in what life was I a King?
In what life did I drink blue drops hanging from a leaf?
In what life did the rose of the sun stain my wild legs?
Which year had me impervious to thought
listening to the frogs croak from the grave of night?
When did I lay in the orchards of the stars?
Or has this body always been used
just as it is now?
For purposes other than its own?
18 April 2012
Waxing like a Laureate: Poetry Secrets of the Pros
Need a quick fix for that sonnet your stuck on?
There are a few words you can throw into
any line to make it more poetic.
Try "sky" or "wind", "leaves" or "flowers."
The stars always give infinitude.
Oceans, trees, clouds, and the moon
can make any line soar. Birds are the poet's
best way to talk about himself. Fire is surefire,
be it a roaring flame or one quiet little candle.
("Little" is a word that can work wonders)
Most of all, the heart.
The heart must always be mentioned.
The heart flows with the finest wine.
You can pair it with anything and it's good.
Rattling heart, rickety heart,
beefsteak heart, the heart as an ocean.
Watch as I put these techniques into effect:
The Moon makes
a sky of cool fire.
As birds moan
oceans of stars
my beastly heart
again goes trundling.
See? Pretty fuckin' poetic.
Oh, also, sunsets and sunrises.
Anything nature does really.
The poet is supposed to be alone.
Nature gives him something to talk about.
There are a few words you can throw into
any line to make it more poetic.
Try "sky" or "wind", "leaves" or "flowers."
The stars always give infinitude.
Oceans, trees, clouds, and the moon
can make any line soar. Birds are the poet's
best way to talk about himself. Fire is surefire,
be it a roaring flame or one quiet little candle.
("Little" is a word that can work wonders)
Most of all, the heart.
The heart must always be mentioned.
The heart flows with the finest wine.
You can pair it with anything and it's good.
Rattling heart, rickety heart,
beefsteak heart, the heart as an ocean.
Watch as I put these techniques into effect:
The Moon makes
a sky of cool fire.
As birds moan
oceans of stars
my beastly heart
again goes trundling.
See? Pretty fuckin' poetic.
Oh, also, sunsets and sunrises.
Anything nature does really.
The poet is supposed to be alone.
Nature gives him something to talk about.
Easter
Jesus Christ, son of everything,
needed a woman on earth to be.
The man he did not need.
The man he was,
and the mother followed him
all the way
to the grave,
the rebirth into light.
needed a woman on earth to be.
The man he did not need.
The man he was,
and the mother followed him
all the way
to the grave,
the rebirth into light.
13 April 2012
Space Shuttle
Waves o'er the waves.
Waves u'er the waves.
Waves waving to us on the shore.
A space shuttle destroying itself
to get to the stars,
causing it's own earthquake,
a big fart of fire
speeding it through gravity's
invisible leash,
another violence only possible
in the 20th century.
The quails calm on the wires...
Waves u'er the waves.
Waves waving to us on the shore.
A space shuttle destroying itself
to get to the stars,
causing it's own earthquake,
a big fart of fire
speeding it through gravity's
invisible leash,
another violence only possible
in the 20th century.
The quails calm on the wires...
12 April 2012
Arras
People sitting on the steps to the river;
spectators come out to witness the sun decant the night.
The lights spark to
on the Brooklyn Bridge.
Offices, on all day, formulate
as the sun fades down.
It's something their cameras can't see,
chomp, snap and flash as they might,
how, as the day slips gracefully
out the back door,
everything glows.
It gets away,
the pallor drains.
There is a light
nothing can hold onto.
spectators come out to witness the sun decant the night.
The lights spark to
on the Brooklyn Bridge.
Offices, on all day, formulate
as the sun fades down.
It's something their cameras can't see,
chomp, snap and flash as they might,
how, as the day slips gracefully
out the back door,
everything glows.
It gets away,
the pallor drains.
There is a light
nothing can hold onto.
25 March 2012
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