Category Archives: older

faster than commas


some stuff i’m salvaging from an old archivemay 19 2009 prayer, whiskey after leonard cohen’s democracy in the usa

Two shoes
up and back
back and forth
and asking askance
lead me to water
lead me to present
lead me to shelter, sobrietys visit
lead me to harmony
and lend me forgiveness
lead me to empathy, community, spirit
send me the viceral
and leave me superfluous
lead me to luminousness aching in worthlessness
lead me to energy
to endless desire
lend me satiation and mist of the fire
lead me to convergence
and lead me to rapture
lead me inquisition at drawing the master
lead me to memory
lend continuation
lead me to the prolonguing of all the things feminine
lead me to convergence and convergence together
and to quickening cohabitation at the dusks drear dream
lead me to parallelism and the black eyes that linger
lead me to polygamy and all morpheous things

to chaotic echos
singing bright loud as they cross

in the hope of collision, detection of loss

but lead me from apathy
and lead me from anger
lead me from pettiness
and making amends
lead me from judgment
from dappled dependance
lead me from despondancy
and absence of friends
lead from simulcras shimmering simmer
and lead me from idols to soft moving flesh
lead me from hanging and baying and praying
and lead me to someplace for taking this test

walk with me shortly or walk with me far
drugged in the deepness and darkness of war
flat in the sinews and broad in the crags
of the marrow and matter, the pretentious portents

in the napes and the valleys, the scattering tribe
at the aube of the summit, in the castles of pride

as you roam with me ever and roam with me wide
from the trinkets remembered of chaos inside
to the bantering chorus of a dampened remorse
and the bandaid bonanza of a busyness horse
and the clop and the gallop of a tender caresse
that is speeding a question much more that a quest

making fattened eyes brighter
in the drowning of blue
in the grasp of that spirit that emenates you
in the cloth of the linens you hold to your breast
and call mind or diminion, the opinions of friends

red radios outscreaming the bent tramps gentle hum
foggy outrocket spirals seed dead delirium

a gleam
cache of pauses
fjord stretch of the sallow skin
streamed silk against iron buttresses
glide jelly harness in the billboard sunset
breeze across the unraveling of this here dream

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Moment , on the metro

Heliotrope sky.
Twenty three strains of black
sequester packs of this stuff beneath its lace
of fourty nine odd trees blowing west

Yellow moon bleeds into wisterical colors
Amoung mirages of movement, spontinaiety, thirst

And theres my bored head drooping, but a hungry eye
Devouring through a sheet of corrugated plexiglass
Licks worlds named by some adolescant idolotry
Ambition stretch-marks etched across the cold surfaces

The work of a Key, i presume silently.

A brilliant YELLOW luminescence suddenly floods the window tracings
As a screeching bullet train screams my one true loves name
Mercurial passing with a glowing, arched back and blurred white rumply face
I am now standing on my chair, frantic, rushing the window, nails aflame in tens

When suddenly what is it
But indigo and royal colors alone, wheat and a flaxenlime in their fade
streaking my face through the plastic… a sweating sizzle in its own loss lament

A cautioning scarlet bulb in the background fades to carmine as my mind wanders
drowns into burgundy, eyes into lids, days into years, into, into.

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miller metro

Image

Muse, you’ve crippled us all. We are the Syphillites, the Old Arthritorites, the Cancor People.
We’ve empty batteries, and slumped sacs of potatoes, sketch pads, and silence. Always, insomnia.
We wince towards the winds and windows, the waifs and the welcomes.
For You, You’ve castrated our fingers, disheveled our spirits,
scrawled beards across our young smooth faces.
My eyes You’ve placed upon my arms, the walls, my mouth square upon my chest, nestled in my sternum
You, oh, well pronounced, whom has summoned You?

You were the Train, today, transmogrified, sanctified.
That ugly train, its magnificence coursed between two narrow tracks.
Augean slime, sweet mechanical streams, which swept one sea to the next
Alien language, these mundane, molding Monet moments -mettle to worship, to triumph.
These train travels, these glints glowing shadows on spreckled linoleums …musing in the half light.

You, You were the referential mania of the modern world.
sickly poetry, You were, haystacks, kandinsky, toilets, surface.
Chevrons, your grey blouse, and three black matchsticks with crimson caps.
Alongside three dusky blue razorblades, mirrors foreshadowing the fleuves, the floods,
up, up, down, down
and down.

The floors, they are so modern. The walls, lights, too, are modern. You spring chicken!

I am a madman here, I read the wind howling by, line by line. …I stretch my ears,
my shoulders are all submission,
but the vocabulary, tonight, runes.
And I summon prophets, sibylline waifs, oracles, rosetta stones and
rose nebulas to my aid

The walls, here, the ceilings are carpeted. It is Versailles. The stairs shine, but cringe, terse, nervous stars.
Where might I find my long coat? Will I be bound? Who descends, amidst spring spectacles?

Man traces reflected silhouettes back to the Wells, demure azure shadows.
A mess of brushed steel lace, crouching stiff beneath this gruff velvet chaise, worshipping
shoes, coins, chewing gum, pulp grain paper with proprietaires’ prenoms, satiate, elegant incoherence.
This is Lascaux, this is Manhattan, Babylon and Berlin.
Myrrh, jasmine, cognac and urine.

You are Duchamp, surface, the perennial, the permanent. These are your pews, pues,
your shelter, Haleine, florescent evanescence, wherein the precious bodily fluids drain.
Your powers, mystiques, Your myths, and morals, Your labyrinthine quais
Course us, beneath a spell amidst infinite eyes, on the walls, on the arms. On the walls.
Up, down, up, down
And down, again, again.

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sandstorm fragments

There there. there you are, Prometheus.

When will you sloop off, anyhow, with your pronouncements?

You fucked up.

Once you gave us fire, the world was warm and communal.
Then you gave us electric light, and we stayed up well into the night
penning our darkest, most secret and poignant ideas,
all those that were laughed away in desperate terror of private society,
in the fascism of the social paradigm. Smile, you motherfucker.

So you came last season with a new gift, the television, to do
away once and for all with the cinema, that mighty conglomerator
Western mankind. Television. We all separated into our rooms,
our couches, our television dinners and iv sacs and coloscopy bags
and bathrobes and grimy three days old underwear and watched
images of our better selves broadcasted bright across
the living room floorboards.

We began to live vicariously, or to rust bright in
the bleaching rays of Hiroshima, bent tranquil and placified-icated
by myriad white faces and polos, gentle scenes penned by the
bloated Bronte advocates of magnificently overwrought
marriage spectacles, of the ostentatious birthday fiascoes
of the nouveau riche bourgeois bitches, of the immaculate terror
the nightmare society of an american high school extended and dubbed
indefinitely and forcefed to the gibbering goblin youth of a
Thousand countries.

Is this our final solution? The politicians finally got
it, then, the only real hindrance to their eternal dominance
was never any external scapegoat they could rustle up
to distract the masses from the shitty state of
their own lives, rather, the politicians greatest new battle strategy was
to merely

merrily inoculate the masses against any image of beauty,
the urge to chase it, to create it, to recognize it, to recognize what is not it.

They watched Daphne fleeing in the forest, and the moment
she stopped as a spruce they covered her in false snow and ornaments,
plastic birds and tiny business cards of local real estate,
pizza delivery and telephone psychics.

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Water, Wealth, Contentment, Health

Image
Modesto, five days in.

Ninety miles on the gas tank in this wee outpost, driving here,
strait towards there in the whirlwind of apps, faces, noises and sweat,in the heat
towards the same tedious bet for the old stations and habits and the patriotic glaze, the stickers and tee’d scenery where there’ll always be plays
…always gonna be a moral there if ya skip ahead to the last page, no point
the Mall, the sprawl of it all
nowhere here there but the church’ll make man right-fair.

and baseball caps’re everywhere, the straw sun-hats glow and every single motherfucker has three pairs of sunglasses at home, twenty sandals to top and or a mullet or mustang
they’re so proud of and they wash it in their front drive each morning
while talking to bob next door what type of gasket they hope to install
on joanne’s carborator so sunshine’ll glowthrogh it
while kelly gets ready and’ll buzz b93like, past the sunspot flagpole she skips off to see it sunspotted starbucks and then ol brenden theatres to wear the little ribbed shirt and the jeans that comes with it (but the jamba comes lata’) so then the drive to ______ house and then something real chill

real chill you know real chill and then the hip sly cigarettes in the car, on the road, on the road, have you read- and then maybe the fucking unending novelty of a twelve pack of beer for the men so smirnoff for the girls cause they don’t like that hard stuff it don’t taste good makes em sick
and no no and the buzz cuts and the sweat and the politics
and dentists and the honda civics, the shadow creeping sizzles from the a.c. units
and the sprinkler systems and the cockroaches scuttling under the curbs of the sweltering sidewalks along the ramshackle storefronts with thirtyfive million fucking extraneous cars zigging by
with seventy million fucking morons piled in two by twos, with graying hairs
or a powdered glistening babe alongside whose along for the ride, who believes the true christ and her nokia device and and her hookas and girlfriends and smirnoff with ice, just whats simple and cable, and laughs and nice asses they both have sunglasses and little tops and cute jeans and fucking honda civics but this summers a hot one so stay alongside the one you love baby do man buddy friend buddy.

And the clouds are somethin else here lean bacon ona grill, wondering are we stockton merced or LA’s overkill. and everyone swimming the heat waves in carts of suns and glasses cute jeans for asses, the shirts are molasses where sweaters makes passes on the same lanes the same routes the sames games where we grew up, on the same doubts we hung out to dry when we decided we’d be too far to cry, too tired too hardened, too bored to be floored by the ever expansive Lord, or by sprawling jingles and cell phone calls and late night fights and street lights and bumper stickers. we moved, returned, feigned the same stories, the same names, the same faces, the same places and charades.

Alongside that ugly handbag that made everyone swoon, thirtyfive million dreaming of some texas tycoon who will sweep down and plow down a marraigable price, don ballcap and profess a loving of christ and bring them the drink and the tube and the phone, before kickbacks and sprinklers will build house a home.

For a dollar a hit for a dollar a home
For a song that says something about long lonely roads, moans, baby done me wrong, she done

next to that fucking baseball you nostalgic backwards fuck named hank, with that orchard nearby.
belief and good diplomatic harm and wholesome values. with a pepsi and a gun, with bubblegum and and a dream! with booze and a goddamn job selling cellphones to all
the other lonely fucks driving mchenry late all night, wondering
about them kids, moblie grids and flowcharts making a society an organism. making sprinklers, phones.
High school scenes, gleams, seeking friendly faces, but seeing nothing but ages and wrinkles and spots and hats, and shades and drinks and cars for cares, cars, cars. cars. The cars outnumber the stars here ten to one, and all the dying palm trees are constantly counting, holding out hope against hope.

the bronzed skin, underlayed in ink streaks, walking along the dusty canal that is fucking parched
the canal is too in ink streaked in sun and tire marks, old shopping carts, memories
the water is red, read corrosive and heavy and there is slime along the banks’ burnt umber flanks tributary cement cracks juxtapose so many new shoes and so many old shows, flows and shmooze
trying to outvoice the poverty and the shitty tattoos, logos and the
buzzcuts and mantras martyrs, cheaters and hoes
and the games of tall baseball caps, roadside signs
advertising the heat and the dust and the evercounting psalms
and the tricks and trades and trivialities spent
sssspiraling over these fake clouds
snap crackling over the afternoon steet,
dreaming of L.A

And everyones tuning their voices up
hoping to be that jingle they heard, they seen on tuesdays spectacle next
blessed this that this there bigger than those EVER never never
not only not tomorrow never never ‘gin act now CALLnow …or never
come now laugh now screw now do now
in the car, in the new interior with the pine tree swingin tall
and me, and the picture of you, and of three, and him and her, and them, waving arms
with the air on, the lights on, the leather shining, the jamba sweating
a phone call coming, and the road bending and the lanes bluring
and he she he pretending to be the drunk with the slurring
laughing swearing panting drawling pleading I’m soooooo druuuuuuuunk baby
Man seriously now please and then laughing and crying and disgusing and pissing and missing and hugging and fucking

And then all alone
and the old train whistle and heat
and maybe you’d take it without missing a beat
when there’s silence with eyes, til the sounds from the street
ride the breeze to the rooftops so as t’die in defeat

faced with fractured desires, the energies’ll fall
and hindrances and jokes, burdens and guilt, phonies phone calls
act towards same old lanes and houses the shadows and songs
though they’re long rearranged so as the young might feel Young

well they’ll scoff as they blur by
that fuck on the byway
whose just staring and wondering
what the fuck he is watching for
what the fuck he is waiting for
what the fuck he is watching for

under the hot sun
and the fake greasy clouds
about the lithe, skittering, tattoed people gathering crowds
and their shorts hats and shades, late night charades!
and their cars and their shops and depressive barhops
and their train whistles at nights that tear holes in these props
their parades and the games stop appointments for fights
through their songs and tvs and brand new apartment lights,
glow down on their beers, cigarettes, the ads by the lane
that are trying to sell me something like- some kind of change.

tell me, what the hell is new, anyway
What is new?

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lets not conflate labor with labor

I tiptoe off another weekday. Labor day in a country that condescends towards workers, ah, the poor dears. Colorful, this is one more day for wealthy people to have picnics or blog, and laborers, well… go to work. I was raised to be in the mightiest of the bureaucratic cushioned rooms, to never see nobody outside of the countryclub clan. But i always notice, it starts with the arts,

“He was playing real good, for free
Nobody stopped to hear him
Though he played so sweet and high
They knew he had never
Been on their T.V”

splashing through the gutters, humming over the fighter planes in the adjacent skies, all swooping to coax ooh and ahs from the republicans, greying in the sun. spoilt without refrigeration, yesee these days i will never understand, thank god it isn’t always like this. everyone wants to sequester, make things better, produce one polished finished product, phantom it away into some murky private collection, get a big name, big jewels, big metal, big fame,

big everything.

alone with a chisel, whoever gives a fuck about money or applause?

the tumbling droves of drone cubicle workers buying tickets with their salary, humming for a hive. now you come on back yall when im outta wine and plaster

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