Sled fun
Lewis & Clarke
The Jefferson Memorial, erotic tights, jargon memory
bejewel inner Jesus
grenade heart pin angel line dance
the sailor
home from sea
take out the machette
take out the crayons
sweet eons of rain
in the atmosphere
the deep deep rains
Bugs bunny meat
sled fun
organ at church
hard on in a suit
under the table
psychics in New York
psychics in Japan
aerobic instructors
high hells---------------------> John Caged
Peter Kelder
Dizzy Gillespie
Donald Trump
zoo=elephant panther
meditate on the eternal panther
eyelid tattoo-bowl function
come back to the panther
the shiny teeth of the gateway.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
THE LEFTISTS ARE RIGHT (written July of 07)
The table reflects light.
I have a stomach.
There are guns.
What is a star?
It is dark in the living room
and light in the kitchen.
San Francisco is in transition.
Leftists are right.
Three peaches are out tonight.
The oven's door
is a rectangle
within a rectangle.
A fly swatter hangs
from the light switch.
I hear crickets
and air conditioning.
Exaltation of Light
by Homero Aridjis
is on the table
face down and open
between pages
108 and 109.
I see a street light
and a radio tower
out the window.
A mouse is
walking in the ceiling,
a god.
I have a stomach.
There are guns.
What is a star?
It is dark in the living room
and light in the kitchen.
San Francisco is in transition.
Leftists are right.
Three peaches are out tonight.
The oven's door
is a rectangle
within a rectangle.
A fly swatter hangs
from the light switch.
I hear crickets
and air conditioning.
Exaltation of Light
by Homero Aridjis
is on the table
face down and open
between pages
108 and 109.
I see a street light
and a radio tower
out the window.
A mouse is
walking in the ceiling,
a god.
TARGET PRACTICE (written July of 07)
It's 11:56PM.
The air conditioner is
offering it's white noise.
Insects with their contribution
are second, the the scratching
of the pen, and the sound
my hand makes against the paper
when I slide between words
then there is the continuous drone
of my nervous system
and my circulatory system
with the more subtle heart beat,
the squeaking of the foldout table against my elbow
the chewing on the end of the pen
and the visual of me in, the truly objective fact
in the dim lit kitchen
at exactly midnight now
completely naked
no jewelry
just a pen and a notebook
that cost me 10 cents
and now that the facts are straight
I can feel the intense vibrations
of my irrational dream reality
ready to submerge into blackness
the sinking zepplin
full of children
headed for the electrical socket
to unplug the red cord
to the mind.
The air conditioner is
offering it's white noise.
Insects with their contribution
are second, the the scratching
of the pen, and the sound
my hand makes against the paper
when I slide between words
then there is the continuous drone
of my nervous system
and my circulatory system
with the more subtle heart beat,
the squeaking of the foldout table against my elbow
the chewing on the end of the pen
and the visual of me in, the truly objective fact
in the dim lit kitchen
at exactly midnight now
completely naked
no jewelry
just a pen and a notebook
that cost me 10 cents
and now that the facts are straight
I can feel the intense vibrations
of my irrational dream reality
ready to submerge into blackness
the sinking zepplin
full of children
headed for the electrical socket
to unplug the red cord
to the mind.
Nirvana (written 7/10/07)
"Do you need anything else" she said
"No that's it." I replied
and couldn't help but finish the sentence
in my mind.
"That's it, that is my final desire
this lifetime and after this pint
of mint chocolate chip ice cream
I will have burned off all the
karma of all my incarnations
and plan to spend the rest of
my days in the exalted
hot tub of the infused higher self
fully realized, the lotus blossom
of god at the holy intersections
of the opposites, the sweet dawn
of my enlightened life is
upon me, like the ocean
a vast sea of non-doing
a pile of wood to split
and a 5 gallon jug to carry
up from the minivan"
It even said on the paper bag
FOR THE TRIP HOME
this bag insures
firm, fresh flavor
for your ice cream
and Frozen Foods
"No that's it." I replied
and couldn't help but finish the sentence
in my mind.
"That's it, that is my final desire
this lifetime and after this pint
of mint chocolate chip ice cream
I will have burned off all the
karma of all my incarnations
and plan to spend the rest of
my days in the exalted
hot tub of the infused higher self
fully realized, the lotus blossom
of god at the holy intersections
of the opposites, the sweet dawn
of my enlightened life is
upon me, like the ocean
a vast sea of non-doing
a pile of wood to split
and a 5 gallon jug to carry
up from the minivan"
It even said on the paper bag
FOR THE TRIP HOME
this bag insures
firm, fresh flavor
for your ice cream
and Frozen Foods
His Divine Grace The Black Pope Dr. Zod Zuzillion.
one of the many great people I have met at the Redwood Bar & Grill
one of the many great people I have met at the Redwood Bar & Grill
Poem written on a place mat in Beaver Utah
Waiting for my fuel pump to be replaced
I sit waiting for my three egg omelet
waiting to arrive in Colorado via coffee
burnt taste of life waving its antlers strong and dark
like coffee and I sit waiting in this heavenly purgatory
once again where mechanics and angels envy each other
and the U-haul transience of the morning
like dominoes the seconds stack up in the spiraling
black sip of death to the flesh so the phoenix
can roller coaster out of the burning desire to live
in a freedom of zero need where the avalanche
is contained in the whites of the eyes
that gigantic storm of the spirit, that CMT
in the auto service shop of the soul of the pole
of the scathing history of snow
in the snow globe in the snow globe
of Beaver, Utah.
Ultimate escapism into the endless swirl of problems
deliver us from the necessity of the tow truck
begin the horrible extrapolation of the void
that ultimate companion the escort like the
gorgeous gravity of the highway the black weight
the sunken temple of ground zero ecstasy
the erosion of total minimalism
a New York City loft with no walls, no ceiling
just the Jurassic yellow light
on the glorious hard wood floors
The Timberline Inn where the vortex of the heart
projectile gushes into the morning pool of disorientation
the guide built by the ignorance of birth
starts to decompose and weave through the dimensions
trying to stitch rip consciousness from its bearing
to bear fully onto itself
the gaping starlit shelf
a tsunami culmination of the inner conundrum
where the temple drums usher
the advance of the ash gray sand dune
the solitary tidal wave, unilateral demolition
sweet sweet personal apocalypse
silver crank arm of the typewriter
the glorious bell of a new line
on the avalanche damage of a new white page
what a remarkable gift of eternal renewal
ripping each page out of the book
to cast into the fire
so only the true text will glow
like a city
like the wet dream of a CIA decoder
the simple chant of the God of death
the burning bridge into the black hole
where no light can escape.
Check please.
I sit waiting for my three egg omelet
waiting to arrive in Colorado via coffee
burnt taste of life waving its antlers strong and dark
like coffee and I sit waiting in this heavenly purgatory
once again where mechanics and angels envy each other
and the U-haul transience of the morning
like dominoes the seconds stack up in the spiraling
black sip of death to the flesh so the phoenix
can roller coaster out of the burning desire to live
in a freedom of zero need where the avalanche
is contained in the whites of the eyes
that gigantic storm of the spirit, that CMT
in the auto service shop of the soul of the pole
of the scathing history of snow
in the snow globe in the snow globe
of Beaver, Utah.
Ultimate escapism into the endless swirl of problems
deliver us from the necessity of the tow truck
begin the horrible extrapolation of the void
that ultimate companion the escort like the
gorgeous gravity of the highway the black weight
the sunken temple of ground zero ecstasy
the erosion of total minimalism
a New York City loft with no walls, no ceiling
just the Jurassic yellow light
on the glorious hard wood floors
The Timberline Inn where the vortex of the heart
projectile gushes into the morning pool of disorientation
the guide built by the ignorance of birth
starts to decompose and weave through the dimensions
trying to stitch rip consciousness from its bearing
to bear fully onto itself
the gaping starlit shelf
a tsunami culmination of the inner conundrum
where the temple drums usher
the advance of the ash gray sand dune
the solitary tidal wave, unilateral demolition
sweet sweet personal apocalypse
silver crank arm of the typewriter
the glorious bell of a new line
on the avalanche damage of a new white page
what a remarkable gift of eternal renewal
ripping each page out of the book
to cast into the fire
so only the true text will glow
like a city
like the wet dream of a CIA decoder
the simple chant of the God of death
the burning bridge into the black hole
where no light can escape.
Check please.
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