Sunday, January 25, 2009

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Oh, and this:

Manifest Destiny

We stood at the end of the pavement
her in her wedding dress
me in her boxer shorts,
waiting for a bus that would never come.
An eagle cried out
A cock announced the morning at noon.
My wife, she whispered,
“Cream puff caper milk toast;
you take the trash to the coons,
I’ll clean the dishes with me teeth.”
I fetched the gun.
The neighbors, art students
killing livestock, cooking methamphetamines,
mocked the birds, laughed at my gun.
I waved it at them.
And, on that porch,
which, in retrospect, had nothing to do with a bus,
holding my wife and my gun,
I felt whole, for the first time
a real American.

The End of the Line

Well, la dee da. Here's a sample of my poetry, short prose, and whatnot (mostly whatnot). Some of it has been published in The Orange Coast Review, and some of it I threw into the 'zine Rubber Mailboxes. And all of it can be found on my other shrine to me, Myspace (I know, I know Facebook is the new thing, but what can I say, besides that I think one social networking site seems like enough).
Anyway, Enjoy:

A Healthy Fear

after worrying an ashtray full,
I finally told myself, I said it outloud,
I said, "just lie down, just rest."
And I put my hands under my head and watched the dust
sway on the ceiling, thinking about that trip we'd taken,
how, that day we spent next to that lake
just reading, and smoking quietly in the sun
as ducklings swam through their mother's wake—
the absence of all those things that make it so easy
to fill ashtrays over their brim and swallow handfuls of prescription pills—
how, when you whimpered in your sleep and your legs twitched
like a kitten caught in some comforting dream of cornering lunch,
and woke up and nuzzled your head between my chest and my shoulder
I loved you so much,
The fear nearly killed me.

The Lunch Date

Does that little bastard blackbird,
that one, that little cunt
stealing from your plate—
does he ever slip sideways, drunk,
to make way for bruises and scabs
which will remain unaccounted for
in the morning; does he ever wake up
chirping, "That's it,
fuck this. Fuck everything."

Weather Patterns

I think we were in love then:
Stupid and fucking and spending one another’s money.
She told me she controlled the weather.
I asked if she, might, maybe, you know,
want to talk to some somebody--
a doctor, or a lawyer, whomever one talks with
when one’s responsibilities are to the clouds and the skies?
It was nice. The love thing. (This wind is killing me.)
That’s why it hurt so bad.


My girlfriends body was too warm so I took to sleep walking through the city at night. Unconscious, I blessed the smells of baking bread and brewing coffee, the clanking bottles and snoring hobos under damp awnings of closed restaurants. I went into the homes of the resting and walked with them in their dreams. I saw the fidgeting anxieties of nightmares and tasted the childish delight of flying with seagulls. I spoke with king Solomon concerning the temple and met with the leftover figments of myth and imagination. I took a medal in the 1936 Berlin Olympics as a black man against a Nazi.
slept walked for forty days. I walked as far south as the Caribbean.
When I returned home my girlfriend had found another body to be too warm near her own.
I walked outside and went right back to sleep.

Lying on a Mattress in Brooke's Apartment, Costa Mesa, California

I pull out
to the edge of the mattress,
roll a cigarette and watch the two girls:
their dimpled-butts, bruised thighs, tan lines;
the bangs hanging straight as one kneels in
to steal a kiss, the shy hands tests as
breasts blush in bursts of red
under freckled lips:
I smile.
We've wasted our lives.

Make up Sex

There's just something
in that naked, swirling, milky-
way of pheromones--that palace
of wet promises and ululant hallelujahs--
that blunts, that blurs;
something in this panting heap
of saliva, oblivion, and lust
that nothing,
not kittens, black-eyes, rainbows,
or all the world's "I-love-you's"
heals like make-up sex.

For Brooke, May 7th, 2008

In this palace of rubbish,
rat shit, and broken teeth
you toss to your side
(naked, unscathed, asleep)


With a bottle of piss,

a bloody nose, and
withdrawl-symptoms setting in
I turn out the lights,
wrap a cigarette-scarred comforter
over my shoulders
and celebrate:
Happy birthday.


Lying in a pool of sweat and expiration
I watch the kitten arch her back and
bury her nose in a can of old tuna.
Outside some neighbor screams, something explodes.

It is so fucking hot.
My little kitten squints,
stretches her white paws, and
yawns contentedly.

Neither of us gives a fuck.

The Family Way

Christian and I brown-bagged it
in the parking lot between cars
after you went into the OR,
your child-legs trembling under paper gown.
I told him how it happened—
the shredded rubber dangling at the base,
the hysterics and what-do-we-dos after the positive test,
your bleak but quick decision, the panicking
scramble to collect cash. And then he and I—
survivors of defunct diaphragms and forgotten pills—
took the last pulls from our wet bags,
got in his car and drove to the back of the building
to pick you up. You stood there, emptied,
held by nurses arms,
a Dixie cup of orange juice in one hand
and a chocolate-chip cookie in the other—
consolation prizes.

The Holy Spirit

She and I,
filled with the Spirit—
The Holy Ghost and whiskey,
pulled hoods over our heads
grabbed a butcher knife
and, leaving the party behind,
crept, smiling, to the trail across the street.
I'd suggested the plan as a joke,
a ploy, a hope for a kiss,
not expecting:
her red eyes razors
hungry to knife anyone
her parents, the middle class
all of us.

A man came clopping along
younger-than-old, athletic,
enjoying the evening.
I hesitated.
She jumped,

slashing the air
screaming an animal's scream,
a jagged smile across her face.

Making The Move

Down on the farm Billy wonders if he'll ever get out of the little town, Ardia, while he flicks on the machines which milk the cows and process the creamy liquids.

Lonely, he visits the massage parlor in town weekly with the fake ID he got from his cousin, even though not even those girls will touch him down there. They just don't do that sort of thing, they tell him, as they pour the warm lotion across his broad back. He goes back anyway, hungry for some sort of affection, or touch.
He sleeps through most of his classes, dreaming of one day moving to the far-away coast called San Francisco where he'll still be lonely, but at least the girls in the parlors will touch him there, down there, you know.

Tuesday, July 31, 2007


Sweet, drunk and just created a blog, lovely...