Monday, December 28, 2009
this is how i feel about los angeles and san francisco:
if san francisco is a leather goddess dripping turquoise aura, then los angeles is her immature ex girlfriend who is still bitter about the break up.
if los angeles is an absent minded piece of fiction, then san francisco is a hawk feather tied to a web of dreams.
oh and also,
if you could count tiny droplets of blood, they would wrap their wings around old carcass and i would bury her urn in the canyon and only the trees would wallow when i would cry. i would lay me down in a river. i would lay me down in quiet bones. make clay out of the river water and the rest of her ashes i had forgotten to scatter. i would pass singing bowls around the circle of apostles at her wake and capture the voice of each whisper and i'd cake myself in her, from ash clay. i'd cloak my self in her, i'd cake myself in her, i'd cloak myself in her spirit and i would spit wet rose quartz to the ground and the gulls would swarm.
written words, hmm.
wind like the way the
to the north
and to the south
keep your eyes shut,
you might speak
rhythms of tidal waves
but they swallow.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
i know my body with brush strokes.
i know when my heat be rising.
i know the woman who constructed the moon with two hands,
with two hands she let
enough crescent nails stain her body
with blunt scabs and silver tattoos
that flood up the strength of her neck
and pooled together into phases of eclipses with no meaning.
now she speak in quiet muscles
lifting up tragedies out of concrete cemeteries
and the granite projection of wordless
poured onto this cursive
born out of carbon and opium,
like the circumference
of the earth in one heart step,
she string yards of lanterns
across the hallway of lit match sticks
burning down six week old candles
and i’d carve out her biography
into the red wick wax
and then one into her back
so she’d never have to see it,
but inevitably have to feel it.
i know when she liberate wind children from her slant jaw.
i know when cold iris blink from the root of their birthstone.
i taught her to speak to me in perfect tongues
where the petals
paint their stain glass wings themselves
and themselves i call to her
like a voice in the subconscious
of the universe peeling back layers
of dialect changes,
like a wish for things.
she move rhythmic body to the energy
of flames she been feeding
and unzipped her hips
like the burden from her blessing
would spill out from within them
and she would choke on cracked bottles of
and they would take her
unlike a lover
in this framed nighttime
like some kaleidoscope deity
patching together each sacred palm
blooming with road maps of soul luck
and swelling of infinity,
so she be quiet.
so she keep silent.
so she let all the secrets
‘til they settle in the
‘til i can settle with
i is she.
i know she who has a photograph of heaven tattooed on the inside of her eyelids.
i know she who spells beauty with an L for life
i know she who be daughter of dawn bringer.
i know she who breathes.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
searching out too many caves of pot
luck under rainbows,
chasing a dame that drew
out a sword from his smiling gut,
and that’s not even a tragedy
because if you sew together makeshift masks
of alcoholic binging and 35mm photography
you might find something closer to truthful meaning
than meaning to
write out words of beauty
onto a tear stained cloth
in all capitals rising to the ranks of the city
and he might kiss you
‘cause he thinks you be so pretty.
he says it’s ‘cause he speaks four languages
that date back to centuries
before linguists knew what we is,
that his text book get heavy from ancient scriptures,
that his skin tone get lighter with each orthodox fixture
and he’d fake your organism
‘til you come
to his awakening
because no barriers will be breaking
just like flare guns pointed at
he took magic out of the missionary
position and excommunicated it,
be fathers of tradition
never allowing incense burners to settle
and i’ve planted my prayers ten times over
with sages burning brush fire
and tried to smudge out his refusal
to accept the act of his betrayal
and how he guided you
out of the world of men
and into the caves of women
and that for a while you’d still be bleeding
and consistently needing his validation
but he’s moved on
to get the shit beat out of him
by verbal rhythm
and two step death dance ‘round
which woman’s the right one for him
and he can’t decide,
more or less fight
because he thinks they’ll just come to him
crawling on hind feet
with a mating call
because he’s got it all goin on for him
but he can’t create a life
if you paid him
so he might as well stay lost
like his virginity
because it’s so easy to scrape the surface
these wings didn’t suffice enough for deployment,
that your span couldn’t tie him,
that those tips couldn’t bind him,
but wanted to.
that i heard in russia the cold creeps down your throat
and pulls out scallywag soul
makes no profit off your selling price
makes no heaven off your poltergeist
and i said
that i heard that in
they make lyric out of permanent ink
tattooed across the plastic walls
that one time they said,
i love a girl and a man
that one time they said,
i am a pagan and a pillow princess
that one time i said,
i am the moon and this is the madness of my cycle.
he says it’s because he’s too deeply unaffected,
that he’s never shoved his soul down the windpipes of her existence
and he’s too busy day dreaming about cartography
and planting seeds of money,
he’s too busy breeding heart wounds
in stuffed sarcophagus
to practice punching gold demons
so he just turns and runs.
and he acts like some willow tree
with my name carved on it’s base root chakra,
it’s heart etched in like a sorry archer
plummeting her way through the sky
and the trunk has green muscle under the skin,
but that doesn’t guarantee anything about an october harvest
and i’ll bet he has fists
that would turn flaccid at any threat of an attack
and he would still try to be that intelligent conversation
as if he had you,
as if all the hours you gave up to serve him,
as if you need any more reason to not retreat back to him
to hear stories of how he’s too scared to be him,
that no truth will ever be lifted,
and how he’s just so fucking wounded,
if my prayers hatch like pearls
from a demon,
then you’ll never have to answer to him
and you’ve already shed light your skin
so rebirth isn’t even needed
but restriction and thought process
needs to be limited,
have to answer to him.
he looks like magnified metallic
with roaring glory
like a slice of crescent blood stream
hut he’s not holy
and he’s still filthy
and he’s so untrustworthy
that even the Moon don’t want him,
and he will never change
Thursday, November 12, 2009
i'd stare down 16th street in a dream
and i'd not wake in this
and i'd call cabbies to break my bones against their metered minds
and i'd watch you evolve on a roof top
you'd climb my limbs,
hugging me gently.
i don't understand why you'd leave me,
spilling softly the things
that the forest can't breed
and it's petty things
like dirty prose
and false hope
and talking about you
and welts on my skin
sharpened teeth in my head
i'm a jigsaw doll
i'm a spit slam
i'm a worrisome teenager
i'm an adolescent in white dress
and i'd sweat out beads of your breath
and float like wings
down the stream of your conscious
i'd float lighter than pencils
deeper than wine stains
to break bread
to send me home
to kiss my mouth
to pull my hair
to let go of my hand
to fuck my mind
to steal my heart
to release my soul
to compliment my words
to pretend to care
to watch me walk
to never say
to remove salted masks
to bathe in vulnerability
to accept masculinity
to just be.
and you destroyed me.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
p.s. never eating cheese. again.
no love for this:
Friday, October 23, 2009
you don’t leave hell unless you’ve been nursing pomegranate muscles against rotting teeth. you don’t leave hell unless digging rug burns from coal cut cuticles gets tiring, pulling up daisy carpets gets lonelier. roaring flute beats from piper pan beast, steam roller subway service station, edible arrangements taunted by hour glass changes. you don’t leave hell unless you believe yourself, until anxiety slays the ignorance, she tattooed teeth onto her fangs to bite down, twice allowed, you don’t leave. you are a circle cross interlocking, you are a spoon fed serpent with paper cut collages, you know it. you don’t leave hell unless you’re the devil, the, the, the devil (reversed).
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
p.s. crater face was here rattling like a fragment of angry candy(slow)
Monday, October 19, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
why aren’t you in prison? the breeding place of unspoken consequences will ultimately send the buzzards swarming, chewing meat off your bones, swallowing salt flesh down their throats and i’d hold the crown of my head on tight afraid i might loose it with my neck fallen backwards laughing, you deserve a lot more than skin pecked off your bones.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Bazooka Tooth, Gemini, I came to break bread.
What's a troop's recipe for treacherous times?
I tell 'em fast cars, danger, fire and knives, lets go
Fast cars, danger, fire and knives...
I got her majesty Athena riding shotty wide-eyed
Its like never mind the bullocks.....Fuck
Like every other week these hipster tabloids jumping on and off my sex pistol's bullets.
Like every other week he spins the bottle.
Like every other week these fucking fanzines forget if they spit or swallow.
Too bad your inner sheep never forgets to follow,
cuz my inner greed to feed your hate for loving us is hostile.
Fortunate for me it coincides with what comes natural,
so the mongrels that I run with turn the fuck yous into fast food.
Like a little freak sick of the 3 o'clock bully knuckle dust, nursing his last shiner, finds the shoebox in his mother's truck.
Tomorrow's extra curricular punching bag
will finger daddy's widow maker out a brown lunch bag (bang!).
This is where the hunch back
snake oil peddlers
stuck under the burgundy sky of spaghetti westerns
tend to bubble up.
Weathermen huddle up.
Today the son of one too many 'yes sir's kings his checkers,
watch the double jump.
Back with a platter of hot leeches that'll drink up-every bloody drop down to the last diseases,
the peak twister.
Defender of the son of Vaughn Bode's Cheech Wizard.
I used to pray the treatments got easier with my aging
like serotonin weekends was merely comedic hazing.
Wrong, but along his travels located the key to world peace:
“kill every motherfucker but me.”
You cool with that?
Sorry, dog, rules are rules.
And too long have I followed yours. I'm trying to get them years back,
and walk through every cipher with dynamite in a beer hat.
Monday, October 5, 2009
this side of the blue, joanna newsom
And I am progressing abominably
And I do not know my own way to the sea
But the saltiest sea knows its own way to me
And the city that turns, turns protracted and slow
And I find myself toeing the embarcadero
And I find myself knowing the things that I knew
Which is all that you can know on this side of the blue
And Jaime has eyes black and shiny as boots
And they march at you, two-by-two, re-loo re-loo
When she looks at you, you know she's nowhere near through
It's the kindest heart beating this side of the blue
And the signifieds butt heads with the signifiers
And we all fall down slack-jawed to marvel at words
While across the sky sheet the impossible birds
In a steady, illiterate movement homewards
And Gabriel stands beneath forest and moon
See them rattle and boo, see them shake, see them loom
See him fashion a cap from a page of Camus
See him navigate deftly this side of the blue
And the rest of our lives will the moments accrue
When the shape of their goneness will flare up anew
And we do what we have to do, re-loo re-loo
Which is all you can do on this side of the blue
Oh it's all that you can do on this side of the blue