Thursday, December 22, 2011

ships in the night
who are we on the days when
the beauty does not flow from us
organically and the drugs wear off
and we are left with
our friends who stand in
for all the things we wish
we were and were not
encapsulated neatly like
benzodiazepines or
Russian dolls

i do sometimes wish we
were pumped full of blacke humour
like Galen supposed and life were
a hydraulic system of
leeching and letting
absorption and osmotic learning

and i love like madam
curie loved radium or
burroughs loved the needle
clawing for selective destruction
and stasis when freedom
curls up with a
soliciting purr beside
the fleshy thighs and
dimpled cheeks of
my covetous

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

i remember when
being in love with
you was so important

when it didn't matter
if my cigarettes grew
soggy on my lips

i had fewer tattoos
and i was someone of
which my mother

may have approved
when life had a
design with you

at the center like
a fleschy peach
and i've learned

the solemn pleasure
of stern apogees
and residual flavor

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

why it seems vapid to
be widely read
i don't know why i made
that connection

oh my saccharine black
america i can never
be yours i must
die young i can't

imagine outlasting this one
immeasurable moment
would this small poem
mean more if i quoted

baudelaire i understand
the deep envy of sickness
24 hour sports networks
and the junkie sweetness

of suspended living but
i have always had a romance
with crowded marketplaces
and urban churchyards

i've yet to define an ideal

but how women lust for uncertainty

Monday, October 10, 2011

the problem with points
is that you can see them
miles away

and watching you stumble
like a clumsy child
to get there

makes me sick
why don't you just
set a balsa wood

merengue puppy dog
afire in the sierra nevadas
and they'd love you

because they couldn't
understand your goals
you always win

when no one else
knows how to play
but everyone wants to

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

J Mascis for President!
J Mascis for President!
What a strange dream at that

I just want to live inside a pop song

I finally have a little money ferretted away somewhere

I think I can move.

Come with me!

Let's feed the elephants



Thursday, September 29, 2011

someday i will
tell my children the story
of when i was cruel

omitting finer details
but recalling trips out
the R5 i never spoke about

it felt like cheating not
when i woke up with
her but when

i notched my finger carefully
into her lower spine
in the small secret place

i had only ever known
with you the soft
droning of my telephone

muted by the padding
of a discarded brassiere
which was not the right size

and how the ways in which
i can offer myself will
never be quite the same

i will talk instead
in vagueries about
mistakes and misspent youth

though truth be told
i always have spent it
exactly how i pleased

i will kiss them
goodnight go to
bed as a man

who seems a stranger
now and will be
moreso then

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

it's unbecoming to crave
so much wisdom at twenty-three
they called burroughs
a petri dish for the human experience

happiness in the resplendent
concupiscent now i don't
have anything to say until
i wake up with you

who can match me
joy for joy as
i unwind like
a wirebird

its taken me till now
to listen like schwitters
but now all i hear is flying spittle
wagging tongues and flapping lips

Sunday, September 25, 2011

we will begin o-wer pre boarding process
at this time

the simple joy of stumbing

who pleasures you?

good evening ladies and gentlemen
welcome to delta flight 1160 - going to
"with service to atlanta,
we'd like to begin our pre-boarding process"
Noooo no no no non nooo

We'd like to board only the retards and gimps -


but it doesn't hurt to practice

we've talked about opening up a brothel
i'd treat them well
those ladies


initiator running ideas
through the meat grinder
of my sickness or
genius or
whatever you call it

capitol sqaure

don't cut your hair you balding fuck

Friday, September 23, 2011

we analogue to
what we touch the most
and i love to occupy
the spaces between
what we see and
how we say it
i do not try to
make sense of the
people that love me

lately i am thinking of
databases and spreadsheets
and the ocean of
our aboriginal unconscious
and how a single word can
touch everything and coat it
in oil like an offshore drill

and i remember not
giving a fuck about anything
but the thought of how
that cloud must have bloomed
in the gulf like a
carcinogenic rorschach test

and how beautiful that must have been

the unbalance of humours
blacke and cloying

it won't happen to me

Monday, September 19, 2011

what i would give
to see you
down by the mississippi
river like john berryman

everyone knows
i gt this story
2nd hand but in
our internet age and
still i have
no pictures of you

that night i sucked
brown honey
from the earth
kissed the man
with the roving billboard
moved to
a vagrant saxophone

my words maybe
make you dance
maybe just measure
your quaking like
a seismograph

how difficult for me
when you only
must stand and drip
as i solder on wings
tarred and feathered

to hear you shriek
to smell the cauterizing
of your alabaster skin
to see you
fly away

we who give permission
we who bring out the soul
in those who have it
and the fear
in those who don't

Friday, September 9, 2011

I'm so sorry my dear,
I haven't written you
since June.

So much to tell,
No way to say it.

Perhaps I should just
give up
write something that rhymes.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

my brain

electrostatic malappropriate jukebox

Monday, June 6, 2011

riding into town on
the back of a turnip cart
dime store jesus
your sandwich toothpick
sermons pinning the
hemispheres together

hop into the eye
of my bubbling
lacunae i'm going
to the well to
fill it with sand

your gorgeous fucking
crooked teeth
all of your brokenness
how do i get back
to a place where
i deserve you

Friday, June 3, 2011

someone else's anonymous list of good things in no particular order

1. Hats
2. Drawing
3. Amy
4. Cool fucking sunglasses
5. The Mars Volta / Tool / Led Zeppelin / Soundgarden / The Beatles / Jimi Hendrix, etc.
6. Smoking
7. Psychedelics / a little weed here and there / vicodin / coffee and caffeine of any sort / ritalin / Anti-depressants / Benzodiazepines / maybe even salvia (although...hahaha)
8. My dogs Astro and Petey. Most dogs in general.
9. Making mischief, doing silly things with friends (and even my grandma)
10. Blizzards from Dairy Queen and ice cream in general
11. Playing drums, guitar, keyboard, and singing
12. red and green chile
13. Biking
14. Rain / Sunshine / Snowstorms
15. A good bath or shower
16. Looking groovy
17. Cool jackets
18. Filming stuff and making videos and movies
19. Sex
20. Porn
21. Mr. Bean (the original BBC serious - not so much the movies)
22. Mountains, rivers, lakes, ponds, the ocean, city streets, a quiet bedroom
23. A refrigerator full of good stuff
24. Recording music and writing songs
25. Free stuff!
26. Thrift stores
27. Relics, nick-nacks, tapestries, posters, and the like
28. You Tube
29. Netflix
30. feeling really good
31. Compliments
32. Adventures
33. Cowboy boots
34. Tits, ah yeah
35. Red Bull or Amp
36. A really good concert
37. Colorful trees (trees in general, too)
38. Driving fast, road trips
39. Sleeping
40. Clean and dry clothes (especially socks and underwear)
41. Sacred Geometry
42. Friends (new or old)
43. Talking to strangers, hobos, and hippies
44. Pizza
45. Trippy things like trying to get into the 4th dimension or meeting space aliens or flying dolphins
46. Scuba diving and snorkeling, swimming in general, surfing
47. Skateboarding
48. Feeling free
49. Skiing and snowboarding and sledding and snowball fights
50. Orange juice
51. Fish (to eat - I don't really care when they're in the water, but sharks are fucking awesome)
52. San Francisco, Boston, New York City, Seattle, New Orleans, Mountainair NM, the university area of Albuquerque, Santa Cruz, Los Angeles, Burlington VT
53. Cleaning up obsessively
54. Feeling bloated and then taking a shit
55. Waking up in the morning with a bladder that's about to explode and then peeing. Damn that feels good
56. John Frusciante, Carlos Santana, Jimmy Page, Omar Rodriguez Lopez - basically killer guitar solos
57. A comfortable chair or a warm (or cool in the summer) bed at the end of a long day
59. When "lucky" thing happen
60. Novelty
61. Tim Leary and all of the Beatniks including the Grateful Dead (best band name of all time, in my opinion)
62. Tap water, coca-cola, sprite or orange soda
63. Walking through the casinos in Las Vegas (mind blowing!)
64. climbing onto and being on rooftops
65. breaking the rules
66. birds (yeah, actual birds, but women are great as well!)
67. Doing whatever the fuck I feel like doing
68. Laughing, whether it's a chuckle, a laugh out of spite, or that side splitting-tear inducing-breath robbing-uncontrollable fit of laughter that seems like it may never end
69. 69-ing
70. Halloween
71. Gifts and things given to me or done for me for free
72. being in the middle of fucking nowhere and feeling like I'm in the exact right place at the exact right time
73. peace, making peace, and being at peace
74. trying to be like Jim Morrison, John Lennon, Robert Plant, Cedric, etc.
75. Pranking people
76. love of anything
77. surprises (good surprises - no alarms, please)
78. steak
79. when something seemingly bad turns out to be a blessing in disguise
80. not letting anything limit me
81. trying to get my music heard by as many people as possible with high hopes for the future
82. art
83. advil
84. feeling eternal; all this pain is an illusion
85. relaxing
86. tossing off a load (know what I mean?)
87. my brother
88. flowing with the ever-changing moment
89. fucking the system (as long as doing so doesn't fuck me over)
90. chaos
91. getting rid of old stuff
92. digging through my grandparent's old stuff for cool things. yard sales, garage sales
93. lunch
94. hitchhiking
95. being me even when it's going to make somebody worried or pissed off, especially when they have done me an injustice or are currently doing so
96. creative writing
97. when somebody "knows it all," smiling and moving on
98. the fact that a lot of people don't have a clue why I do what I do, why I think like I do, and why I can change easily and go with the flow in ways that seem impossible to them (I'm thinking mostly of my parents)
99. going out on a limb, taking a risk, attempting the impossible or frowned upon (if it's something I want to do)
100. "stealing bread from the mouths of decadence."

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

when i drink
i see new york
i am swinging from ropes
tied to industrial fans
how do i
stay sane
in th i s w o r l d
without your p

i want to hang there like a toulouse latrec
into my sternum

may be
they'll salt me
and for centuries

read the




Tuesday, May 24, 2011

tick tock diner and the big watch

running treadmill on the cinema roll
always watching my legs move
and your legs
you want it in
your own tired way
and i'll find my own way
out thank you

every guy thinks they're special
paul says well
they damn well better
lest they find themselves
spladle limbed perpendicular
spread like jam
garnishing the waterfront
we all seep into
the concrete with
particular flavor

and who will clean you
up my dear
as your breasts hang like
christmas baubles
and your eyes wider even
i want to break you
but you hand me
shards and superglue

i only take photos
in the subway
or i leave you out
i can't look
at your wallpaper smiles

on the ferry
when i was young
my father insisted on being
in the picture so i held
the lens to his navel
and he threw that photo away

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Ode to an Absinthe Spoon

so you finally realized you're an entertainer
cowboy bill
i spnt (spent) a full 7 minutes
explaining to you why i love
absinthe spoons

if you
if you could
if you could only
if you could only stop
if you could only stop your
if yoo could only stop your heart
if you could only stop your heartbeat
if you could only stop your heartbeat for
if you could only stop your heartbeat for one heart
if you could only stop your heartbeat for one heartbeat

I'd like to roll you down the steps of
Mr. Callahan's ziggurat and
there are parts of you that i want to suspend in time
like a pickled head in a mason jar

jamie's too kind not to spare
a kind word for me
but he criticizes from afar and
doubles back on his bravado with
tongue in cheek bravado
aren't we who are brilliant all ashamed
aren't we

i still keep your headband in a cigar box
and i remember things sometimes like traffic
coming back across the throgg's neck bridge
i am wearing your headband right now
in traffic across the throgg's neck bridge

all thoughts are prey to some beast

they told me it was ok to steal
even as they severed my hands
and kept them pickled in that same jar
as they stole my hands

Coney Island the tumescent lustre
of 2 pm in Brooklyn
photo booths strong men pin wheels

o croaker, croaker fill me this prescription
i typed it and put it out in public
so as to make it legible

so well crafted and
for one small purpose
perforated with diamonds

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

when she takes off
her dress it reminds
me of the way you take
off your dress
like it was christmas
and you knew
it was something special
from the glances you've gotten
in windowshop mirrors

my verse i couldn't
do violence to it
building the levees higher
shoveling the floodwaters
back in to atone for a
lack of foresight
green chartreuse

Thursday, May 12, 2011


The year of grace 1654,

Monday, 23 November, feast of St. Clement, pope and martyr,
and others in the martyrology.
Vigil of St. Chrysogonus, martyr, and others.

From about half past ten at night until about half past midnight,


GOD of Abraham, GOD of Isaac, GOD of Jacob
not of the philosophers and of the learned.
Certitude. Certitude. Feeling. Joy. Peace.
GOD of Jesus Christ.
My God and your God.
Your GOD will be my God.
Forgetfulness of the world and of everything, except GOD.
He is only found by the ways taught in the Gospel.
Grandeur of the human soul.
Righteous Father, the world has not known you, but I have known you.
Joy, joy, joy, tears of joy.
I have departed from him:
They have forsaken me, the fount of living water.
My God, will you leave me?
Let me not be separated from him forever.
This is eternal life, that they know you, the one true God,
and the one that you sent, Jesus Christ.
Jesus Christ.
Jesus Christ.
I left him; I fled him, renounced, crucified.
Let me never be separated from him.
He is only kept securely by the ways taught in the Gospel:
Renunciation, total and sweet.
Complete submission to Jesus Christ and to my director.
Eternally in joy for a day's exercise on the earth.
May I not forget your words. Amen.

-Sewn into the lining of Blaise Pascal's Jacket

Sunday, April 17, 2011

i am looking at you
bull lee
i don't like your life
or work but
i like your story

you just wrote yourself deeper
into that hole
and the abyss stares back at me
when i look at
all your ascetic decadence
your typewriter black eyes

you would not approve me
but you are the forerunner
to all screen printed
irony junkies on greenpoint
taking your parents factory money
to make cutups

no not me

i fail with dignity
i am dreaming of a loft
on kent ave
i didn't take it

you see because it had this multi-tiered
effect we'd have had to climb
on top of the desk and
up a ladder to bed
i lit up when I thought about
how you'd scold me

but your father didn't like brookyln
and it was so far from sixth avenue
and i knew i'd get drunk
and break my goddamn neck

and so i didn't take it
but i dream of that loft
on kent ave

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

P.S. 1

this is where it all
fell apart
i found a field
of titillating anemones

the rocket fuel
seared an etch-a-sketch
of meandering milk machine

there's your violence
your squalling
and you wonder why
men think they should
just pull you by the hair

why they love
to watch it go in
but that's the rub
and it's too late for me

Monday, March 21, 2011

For a Friend

All of us in Madison had the immense privilege of knowing ______ for three brief months, and I’ve never met anyone in my life that got more living done with every waking hour. This book, these pictures, and these videos are our feeble attempt to give back to you a little more time with your brother and son.

When you think of the word “partier,” it can carry with it a lot of negative subtexts – a carouser, a profligate, a seeker of idle pleasures. But ______ was not a seeker of idle anything. ______ was no partier – he was The Party. He embodied the joie de vivre, the social magnet that everyone is drawn to and the elusive feeling that they seek when they draw together. When he worked, he worked his ass off. When he talked, he could discuss literature and his dreams of entrepreneurship in one breath and charm the prettiest girl in the room with the next. He went out late, and he rose probably earlier than any of us would have liked – just ask anyone on the receiving end of one of his early morning adventure plans.

In short, ______ wrung the lifeblood out of each day. I think that God simply decided he was too much for this world, and called him up to the Big Leagues. In his next great adventure, you can bet he’ll be the tour guide, and there’s no one – in this world or the one to come – that I’d rather follow.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

The Gift

Lou Reed, as read by John Cale

Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August which meant he had been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had to show was three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone calls. True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin, and he to Locust, Pennsylvania, she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity. She would date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain faithful.

But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and when he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his pleated quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes as he pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion. It was more than the human mind could bear.

Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual abandon permeated his thoughts. And the thing was, they wouldn't understand how she really was. He, Waldo, alone understood this. He had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile. She needed him, and he wasn't there (Awww...).

The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers' Parade was scheduled to appear. He'd just finished mowing and edging the Edelsons lawn for a dollar fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from Marsha. There was nothing but a circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company of America inquiring into his awing needs. At least they cared enough to write.

It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mails. Then it struck him. He didn't have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion, true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself parcel post, special delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to purchase the necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and a medium sized cardboard box just right for a person of his build. He judged that with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some water, perhaps some midnight snacks, and it would probably be as good as going tourist.

By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly packed and the post office had agreed to pick him up at three o'clock. He'd marked the package "Fragile", and as he sat curled up inside, resting on the foam rubber cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and happiness on Marshas face as she opened her door, saw the package, tipped the deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She would kiss him, and then maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne up. He landed with a thud in a truck and was off.

Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very rough weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about it though. After it was over he'd said he still respected her and, after all, it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no he didn't love her, he did feel an affection for her. And after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what Bill could teach Waldo - but that seemed many years ago.

Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend, walked in through the porch screen door and into the kitchen. "Oh gawd, it's absolutely maudlin outside." "Ach, I know what you mean, I feel all icky!" Marsha tightened the belt on her cotton robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on the kitchen table, licked her finger and made a face. "I'm supposed to be taking these salt pills, but," she wrinkled her nose, "they make me feel like throwing up." Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she'd seen on television. "God, don't even talk about that." She got up from the table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue vitamins. "Want one? Supposed to be better than steak," and then attempted to touch her knees. "I don't think I'll ever touch a daiquiri again."

She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the small table that supported the telephone. "Maybe Bill'll call," she said to Sheila's glance. Sheila nibbled on a cuticle. "After last night, I thought maybe you'd be through with him." "I know what you mean. My God, he was like an octopus. Hands all over the place." She gestured, raising her arms upwards in defense. "The thing is, after a while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all I didn't really do anything Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him. You know what I mean." She started to scratch. Sheila was giggling with her hand over her mouth. "I'll tell you, I felt the same way, and even after a while," here she bent forward in a whisper, "I wanted to!" Now she was laughing very loudly.

It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence Darrow Post Office rang the doorbell of the large stucco colored frame house. When Marsha Bronson
opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had his yellow and his green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen cent tip that Marsha had gotten out of her mother's small beige pocketbook in the den. "What do you think it is?" Sheila asked. Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. She stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living room. "I dunno."

Inside the package, Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down the center of the carton. "Why don't you look at the return address and see who it's from?" Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the vibrating footsteps. It would be soon.

Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. "Ah, god, it's from Waldo!" "That schmuck!" said Sheila. Waldo trembled with expectation. "Well, you might as well open it," said Sheila. Both of them tried to lift the staple flap. "Ah sst," said Marsha, groaning, "he must have nailed it shut." They tugged on the flap again. "My God, you need a power drill to get this thing open!" They pulled again. "You can't get a grip." They both stood still, breathing heavily.

"Why don't you get a scissor," said Sheila. Marsha ran into the kitchen, but all she could find was a little sewing scissor. Then she remembered that her father kept a collection of tools in the basement. She ran downstairs, and when she came back up, she had a large sheet metal cutter in her hand. "This is the best I could find." She was very out of breath. "Here, you do it. I-I'm gonna die." She sank into a large fluffy couch and exhaled noisily. Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the end of the cardboard flap, but the blade was too big and there wasn't enough room. "God damn this thing!" she said feeling very exasperated. Then smiling, "I got an idea." "What?" said Marsha. "Just watch," said Sheila, touching her finger to her head.

Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with excitement that he could barely breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat, and he could feel his heart beating in his throat. It would be soon. Sheila stood quite upright and walked around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down to her knees, grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath, and plunged the long blade through the middle of the package, through the masking tape, through the cardboard, through the cushioning and (thud) right through the center of Waldo Jeffers head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red to pulsate gently in the morning sun.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

i've been made
to dance
i thought everyone
enjoyed it

guess i've been doing
the billy idol
guess i should start
dancing with the Fat Lady

nurture my own
Wynand gallery
waiting for my
darling appraiser

Thursday, March 10, 2011

For J.D. and Kenneth Slawenski

is it true
that you
can't choose
the medium?

when john updike
was unctuous even
in his criticism
it hurt you

but there's
that old zen Janos
you want so badly
to eradicate desire

for example JD
i have this
friend and
he died

a land mine
on leave
this is my
Hurtgen forest

planted for subterfuge
i don't know even
the glacial tip
of your horrors

and yet you wrote
for me the bird-watcher
you disdain me
for my innocence

and you love it
zooey your red
cap your parade
toward the carousel

it takes a
truly dedicated
egotist to become
a zen master

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

there is a softness in your handholds
a malleability like the
cresting and ebbing crescendos
of a six-syllable word

there is space for
improvisation in your body
of work a soft strange double you
unlike its harder counterpart

where woda turns to wodka
with a small addition
the harsh alchemy of language
molds us like

I mold your skin
with hot coals cooled
by a whooshing streetcar
like a young girl's sighs.