Seven 9/11’s (9/11 9/11…)

featured in the poetry forum December 8, 2009  :: 0 comments

34 Miles
squeezed from a quarter
of a Mitsubishi’s fuel-tank
from grey sun to no moon
for you and me: two Kamikazes

the road’s as flat as my cell’s
xxxxxreception; the hills sleep
xxxxxas lumps under sheets.

Our tragedy can be NO
less than irony—today is
xxxxxStone to Ash September.

It’s raining sideways, but the
sky’s not on fire…

wipers work too slow; they
don’t whisk away the terror

you call my name—like a murder
is called out in a crowd. I call it
as clouds flick at clueless trees
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxwith yellow finger tips.
the rain’s getting worse here
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxwe do pass a dead deer; it lets
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe rain roll right off its back.

it’s not us—it’s today
and this goddamn rain
at least
xxxxxthere’s no city to see
xxxxxcollapse—catch glass
xxxxxwith our lips; see City Sky
xxxxxRain fathers and mothers.

A few more miles are squeezed out
xxxxxas my name rings out to
xxxxxthe hill’s: earth’s elbows and
xxxxxas no ring slips on her finger

for seven Years
earth’s shoulders shrugged
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxand only cared about
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe occasional cloud

they carry on as
Mitsubishi Kamikazes and
other immortal tragedies

we check service bars, beg God,
and scream as we’re riddled
with rain spats on windshields
that don’t stop

for 7 Years
34 Miles or

“A Moment
of Silence”

sexy Lexi

November 3, 2009  :: 0 comments

I slept in a room with dead men all
sea faring, ship wrecked men
with explosions for ear drums
and Nazis for thumbs. Casts

of democratic Dum-Dum
documentaries. A crew of
Buzzcut corpses, bloated
on buoyant mothballed—Battle stations!

I slept in an always alive
red lit room, with dead men as
comforting as a battleship’s
ping to a submarine.

Night was not alright under
Her deck; the smell was
the chamber of a revolver:
the Blue Ghost’s belly
— was
dozy in red blow and

Her cozy rusty babes
birthed to sea while sleeping—drank in
by the blue deep reaper

born sailors wrinkled in oceans
drank in by tiny bits: ball sacks,
toe nails: debris, scalps driftwood to shores
buoyancy doesn’t comfort me. A call to all—Battle stations!

Without a Guppies’ chance
for a simple prayer.
Chance is a corpse for
the cod and crustaceans,

Those lucky ensigns
are graced with chance
to leave echoes: apparitions in
cock-pits; haunts that tap and
twist decommissioned doors. Arise—Battle stations!

& they’re still anchored by the hull’s hole
where they pick their teeth with torpedoes.
& plea for a mother’s help or yelp
to any god & haunt—Battle stations!

they slept in sheets like folded
flags; the fermented men now
sleep where only salt is safe
& with me & the Pacific’s Queen
cold, aground; a bloodied bitch
with corroded bunks & a banshee
rattling chains & rehearsing solutes.

I guess… the past has passion; what luck
these men haunt place of importance
these places that only know death.
These lucky ensigns—so many
aren’t graced with such a grave—Battle stations!

Big Building

November 3, 2009  :: 0 comments

Once these vertical valleys were reserved
for mountains, Daredevil sparrows, Sons
failing from sun-stroke, evicted angels
meteorites; gaseous glow, stars and other
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxspecks of space spit

oh, no more—

rivets, sparkle, and man-power un-impress
pedestrians: staunch civilians walk the spirals;
stuff the elevators of the Sword of Civilization
the spear stands and doesn’t spindle
to string: strands of DEATH FROM ABOVE

our heads. Praise to blueprints as
Phallic Man pleasures the sky. I’m Impressed
with the flower of this city. Sorry,

others who wish it’d be sucked into soil
with seeds and celebrity corpses. Sully
Inmates sick of the Sky’s Ulcer, pushing a spiked
shadow from the tall stall

sting and saline as eyes spy; skirt up God’s shimmering shin
tourists straining to catch pennies in their eye sockets

On a

congregation of mud, gelling on granite steps taken for granted
CLACK goes the hobo’s cups; germs jitterbugging on grunting
geriatrics and their spot stained mitts choke gracious railing
A CALL a cell call for all to hear; it makes another cell ring a call
such an early time to feed the energy of “You’ve missed me.”
acrylic sprinters are late to be laid off or lay into a CLACKING
keyboard. The tall stall is their stable; the clouds are a
cotton fable. And the blue sky that spreads over the glass
is a cotton picking lie.

I Pity the proxies of productivity, this
pulse of industry: small spiders shuffle
in a mother’s sack.
inanimate inmates shuffle like penguins on fire
these are the brief stints of barely movement that they lament.
As they gaze over white specks scamper
like baby scorpions on their mother.

They don’t know the sun better than me
than any of the ten-thousands below;
they don’t feel superiority—those who swivel with the gods
they don’t feel anything up there just the

pigeons who gladly; cooly coo and clash
into the glass
produced by people; protects people
protects profits and prevents suicides

produced by people; filled by people
who had hoped for more. Except
for the window washer. Who
hopes for less.

Loon’s Lagoon

September 25, 2009  :: 0 comments

Wheezy mosquitoes wings
as familiar as moonlight
Summer songs are sludgy static;
weeks in a wink—a freak show
frog croaking loud out the window
with washing machine abs. Wise

words are off on summer solstice,
silent like a gassed wasp nest. A
manipulating lips on corpses so
they sing sweet, soft

The fighting fish aren’t sucker punching or biting
just bloated & belly-up in filmy stagnant—home

no one should be left alone and
when I’m tan, I know I’m bored
belly-up you can see I’m a lotus
but not on purpose

Goddamned Genesis.

featured in the poetry forum September 25, 2009  :: 0 comments

crickets scrimmage among a warped whirl. Dust swirls
roots soar as sweat pours; a womb woven man unravels
the roughest quilt East of the Rockies; doomed Southern
spider eyes saw me shaking shade and they
scrambled spider legs that held dirty peace.
xxxxxxxI melt the crust; now it’s hell under ten trimmed nails.

This soil isn’t worth being buried in.

Two hands from one man
choke an axe handle and
two skinny farm-tanned
limbs: a sharp shovel—
are displacing denizens
xxxxxxxby the millions.

This soul doesn’t deserve this soil.

A man makes earth dance—spreads
an angled way for bright white sewer pipes.
Plucking out caulk rock: unveil pearls; pull
some fair foliage as hair from a mane. A man

taming ‘shrooms and soot since
trees can’t slip out nil nutrient
topsoil: take leafs
to the breeze and where
xxxxxxxfive vultures glide

over the toil: staining creation—
their shadows approve of man’s destruction

Lording over this soil:
I might die—gladly
they won’t let me be
buried in this soil.

The ABC’s of Bestiality

September 25, 2009  :: 0 comments

the modem screeches as it’s a sky of starved seagulls

the messy affair grunts in a static 15 inch smutty bulb

disclaimer free; what I see affects me like the
ABC’s, descended testicles, and a dear friend’s death note…
a beast and a beauty:
my first cunt—and it’s biting on a horse cock.

stills Stall as slow as The Lord’s tomorrow; nays & nees
arrived in a flash faster than a humming birds feathers.

Time hasn’t stuttered but the still figures stain and sing with the sound
and song of a million decibel heaven aimed Muslim prayers

swept with mouse and click of key and I am not an innocent me

but peeking
through the glorious keyhole glory hole they’re stalled—
in Stills

the cock and cunt captures will never culminate


I spurt in spoilt soil: her, that horse, all that hay

all I can ever sew will only grow
from that soil and that

Shower Scene

featured in the poetry forum August 2, 2009  :: 0 comments

Sometimes paper is no place for poetry; its
margins, motifs, schemes— revision—edits
sometimes you only get one shot, don’t miss

so listen for the water—
drawing trots on soft surface:
tanned pigment; the mirror’s
steamed—a lover is
drenched dot by dot
suds & bubbles devour curves

the water rounding the drain
is all the better after
liquid licks down her
nose, elbows and who knows—
I know what else…
The best ends—
for two hands, ten fingers, two lips; a tongue
spots soaked; streaks sneak in centimeters
cleanliness: this goddess;
my goodness, her scent
on towels, toilet paper;

Listen—the water—
the veil blankets &
devours her;
dots, steam – sexier than lace
hazy curtains & running water
lust louder than war—
sexed curves,
wet bends—down the ribs…
to trace the steps is to find God &
the old curtain didn’t stop him

She’s poetry &
all for me

Fragment Fist VS. 5-o’clock’s Tempest (A Need for Sleep)

June 30, 2009  :: 0 comments

Go gently—quite gladly to despair;
goodly disassembly. godly
wedding of fluster and meddling

go gently, paired, yoked &
yellowed with Lear’s near,
low, low shadow—You
under the glow of the skies hole
yodeling on white toilet bowls
to the moon going godly bright

Go outside, in spite of low light
starch the hide white & sleep snug
with null wolves:
tight lipped nannies
howling the sleepy moon to godly height

& gentleness of tempests missed.
low in lakes know the truth;
in wet righteousness, rest
xxxxxin-between the bees and pollen
xxxxxin-between the ants and sugar
xxxxxantennas and satellites,
xxxxxand none
xxxxxspends time with the butterfly
xxxxxin its short life. It goes with

xxxxxgentleness to any windshield
xxxxxa new day—wields comedy
xxxxxour moon—waning tragedy when
xxxxxwe stay—see it lone with…

miracles, hubcaps, words of God, Styrofoam,
snipped loins, caged lions, foreign comedies;
parking lots full of wheel-less ambulances;
unleashed canines chewing on paraplegics
fallen asleep during wheelies; A-cup Harpies
slamming glove compartments
packed with condoms; watching
lightning bolts fuck, with lips open
go gently—to sleep!

go with tragedy under the moon’s singing
with birds, in cages— gone gently…
leading Lear’s shadow, just for show.


featured in the poetry forum June 30, 2009  :: 0 comments

The stop light.
The only glowing bit
of conscience goodness.

Shining—good natured Christianity.
xxxxxHangs like Christ.
xxxxxIts bright red LED.
xxxxxAbove all our heads.

A couple feet away,
cupped with inches of glass
xxxxxa few molds of plastic
xxxxxa few pings of springs
xxxxxare other human beings—

Where are they going?
To get groceries?
To get an abortion?

They’re next to us all—
but we all try to play it off.
Try to win a race in this mess.

Out of the corners of our left eyes, we spy.
Pry into their space.
Be amongst their wrappers and their cracker crumbs.

Do race car drivers feel like this?
xxxxxDo pilots try to peak as they streak?
xxxxxAny astronauts?
xxxxxMen on mowers?

xxxxxDon’t pick your nose!

Pretend you don’t care…
position your arm on the seat, as if someone’s riding stick.
As you peek to see if your mobile neighbor is wearing pants.

As you ponder: are there bodies in their trunk?
Do they carry a gun?
Have they eaten another human?

Careful though

they’re looking

at you too.

Old Folk’s Home

June 30, 2009  :: 0 comments

Home Sweet Home
xxxxxIt swings— Unacknowledged
xxxxxDiscolored, unloved store-bought sentiment
xxxxxUn-euthanized, unsung, enclaved, Depend’s slaves
xxxxxThey’re not mindless just useless.
xxxxxThat’s why they’re in a place like this.

They didn’t do a thing to deserve existence.
Birthed on earth, birthed to lay in waste.
They all have epics to tell, inspirations to whisper.
They were a wanderer, a scoundrel, a hero, a lover.
One knows to craft clay to gold.
One’s caressed an angel’s wings.
All have received age’s gift.

Wrinkled, thinned, pill-trained train wrecks,
will soon be just lidded, buried piles of memories.

He was a legitimate sex god; he now wears badges of bruises,
xxxxxhe now volcanoes with bruises and hemorrhoids.
She was a worshipped goddess; she’s now wholeheartedly dodged,
xxxxxshe now shits in a bag.
An old man
xxxxxwho shared orgasms with Sirens
A cold woman
xxxxxwho seduced saints.
Now, they’re this:
boiling with sores.
Reciting tales to re-used bed frames.

Secrets die with these souls,
sipping substance through straws.
Their stench stains every wheel chair arm-rest.
Their silent call folds you in every sanitized hall.
Rest their souls, they’ll die soon…

We WILL end like this.
Wrapped in piss.
Missing ghosts.

My Grandmother is like this…

so far from the best Rest.
Ascending, out of sight.
away from this bed arrest.
From sharing stories with i.v.-trailed rank rocks.
On the front row—
awing; singing in the choirs of Creation.
xxxxxAll will be seen soon.
If it’s Heaven or its silence
both sneak or sprint
both are at the entrance
closer than all entice

drying hollow in the pine all along with your Almighty
your sane soul will be far from mad mind.

In one breath,
one bowel movement,
or in one microwave supper.
You’re closer to sweet forever.