Monday, October 19, 2009

After Frank O'Hara

I am not a poet. My thoughts are a long memory; wet kindling that will never burn.

 I am a drummer.

I am not a drummer. My pattering hands are slow and stuttering, never continuous.

 I am a photographer.

I am not a photographer. My eye is set skewed and never focused, fading periphery.

I am a singer.

 I am not a singer. My voice is strained and weak and hacking and to low for a falsetto.

I am a dancer.

I am not dancer. My feet are not fleet but flat as wooden slats that do not slide. But, Drag.

This studio is a mess, this office, this station, this house, a disaster.

With all the memories over grown and haggard,

Like yellow grass. The racket of the smashing clang

 Drums, searing the silence with impertinence. Pictures

Hanging loose and crooked on worn hooks and a hollow wall. The droning call

Of a buffer idling, dancing in the same spot.

There is a need for cleaning up after.

I am a janitor. I am that. 

Thursday, August 27, 2009

the poet

there must be joy and fulfilling happiness,
ive seen exultations, ive seen shooting fists,
stabbing the space above where triumph is.
there must be joy and fulfilling happiness,
ive heard jubilant sobs, and the clinking croaks
fingers clutching glasses sharing in toasts,
for the waiting world the heavy breath,
of a  anxious truth to be told.
there is joy and there is happy to be known
the poet just does not know it. 

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

conversations,and commonality.

All the waste in all the bins said

Im scared of the straight ahead.

the accusations of speaking in tongues

is a searing flame to my lungs

 it flays the skin , where my shoulders shrug.

 All the waste in all the bins said,

your indifference fills me with dread.

your nodding, smiling impertinence;

is nothing less than emotional violence.

brutal lashes to my spirits inner flesh.

cautious then, young friends.

absorbing enough can lead to death.

Friday, August 21, 2009

muddled dna, tortured villanele: a bro's manifesto

Brother my brother,

Where have you gone in your head.

There is no other


There is no other

An aching baron homestead

Brother my brother


Brother my brother

Something inside me is now dead.

There is no other.


There is no other.

damning to our mother bed.

Brother my brother.


Hopeful now im tying together a purposed

Path from the laces of the shoes we shared.

Brother my brother

There is no other.

Friday, July 24, 2009




 Hyenas! Hyenas! and they are mangy.

You will hear the cracking of your bones in their snouts, sniveling

This is the new animal living and the old dying,

 The tearing teeth making with the flesh a searing ceremony

 An eternal exchange union

 hymens tearing,

 a cock with a hood, and then without.

 The skin of old animals given to the

 New skin of the new animal.


Hyenas scrounging all around and silly

 With your insides spilling. 

Bleeding so much

 The dirty pads of paws and rotten claws

boning you whole for your honest flesh,

Like your lover,

prying apart the inner of your softest legs.


Your steaming heart

 Your meatiest parts.

Hyenas taking it all.



Thursday, July 23, 2009

at canon’s jump

there is a laughing echo.

With fingers, With fingers.

There is a crimson hunt

Through the loose leaves and the pages.

For the names.


With fingers

For the names.

There is a laughing echo.

There is a crimson hunt.

At canons jump.

This is a wretched home.


There is a laughing echo.

With fingers

At canons jump

There is a crimson hunt,

For this? Wretched home.


At canon’s jump

The violent teeth

Found the crimson cuticles,

imprisoned fingers.

Let loose,

Let loose.


This home is not for me.

That echo

is the laughing me .


Pigeons leaving their shit in your step,

Men hissing their whistles like vapors.

Perched up there waiting for you on their walls

 while you walk,

Quick and deliberate your are tightened lightning

In their, with them,

With the filth,

You are there, you are clean

There are predators! They are shitting!

 you are clean! You are clean!