FACEs are only on my piano.

November 18, 2008 at 8:29 pm | Posted in writing | Leave a comment
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My life is pixelated, populated by unfathomable faces, persons unknown.
All day I walk around looking at shoes, hanging my head like it’s chained to Hell, avoiding eye contact as if it conducts a new strain of the black plague.
Perhaps wondering, pondering the self-censored cardboard cutouts that frump into and out of my life morning day and night.
Ask me what she looks like, what she wears. I couldn’t say.
Remember her? Him? Them? It?
Vaguely.
The back of my mind works overtime to keep meaning at a distance. Glasses are my brain’s way of saying Don’t Look Now.
I don’t. Without the tinkered lenses everything geometrizes into the basic shapes. Lamp-ish, bed-ish, friend-ish. With glasses, things get complicated.
Pixels, black boxes over faces. Whatever it takes to show you that I’m not the friend to cry to. My shoulders are too low too broad too water-resistant.
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The nutgraf clearly coincides with another L word Funk. I’d like to slap some fictional characters around, and then maybe start with my future self. Stupid things clamor to cram my horoscope yet I still run home to fortune cookies at night, not sophisticated enough to chopstick my rice, not desperate to get drunk and dial for extended metaphors i can’t afford.
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land before time.

October 29, 2008 at 11:42 pm | Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment
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Maybe there were dinosaurs. Probably sea cucumbers and Christmas tree needles. Only in the land before time there is no Christmas. There is no twenty fifth. There is just time. getCurrentTime() >> 997345463746392384684575730475730573785026346590 <time units> have elapsed since “startTime”. Why thank you, ambiguous pendulum for maybe something useful. What I really want to know is: why Not? Continue Reading land before time….

vaccinate yourself from the world.

October 11, 2008 at 8:31 pm | Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment
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west coast ringer
L.A. blinger
bring her or give me
the mother fucking finger
two cents heads up
penny wars butts up
schlep them battles to
a body that prattles less
cares more Congress only pays
the whores
Shore (sure) Kleenax Chlorax
formaldehyde in cellared wine
makes for cyanide to faintly minds
wrench please
wenchs read corner humping
young men
old guys on mattresses
and roaches right
trenchcoat coke
snorting chalk walk the stingy drug walk
killing people with every buy dont know why
they dont vaccinate for shit like this.

This Fork and I are Biodegradable.

September 28, 2008 at 10:00 am | Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment
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favorite lines?

There is a girl who sits across the universe and stares at me. I can feel it. This tingling in the back of my eyes, but I don’t know what she’s thinking. I do the best I can, which is stare back across the continent, oceans, people doing people things in their respective time zones, crossing borders, dying for Someone’s God Knows What. On the Universal Tabletop we barter with the world. Like Gods playing craps for natural disasters we bluff until we know each other’s tell, an intimacy few people really know. We hate it. Want to take it back. Don’t want to know when she’s lying, don’t want to know why she’s staring at me like I’ve become a metaphor for death and dying and I’ve claimed her favourite grandmother before her time.

The earth’s core is thick with attempts to dig into China. No success as of yet. It doesn’t stop young children setting out to shores with shovels and a mind to make it through to the other side. Pop out in the street or the great wall perhaps and this will be my secret tunnel through the world. The can to string to can tree house communications system draws cobwebs now. Belongs in a museum.
The flowers on my windowsill are dying, petals lying dead on the sill. Still I haven’t watered it or thrown it away. The dried out stems sticking out of the Perrier 10 cents recyclable refundable. They really should be thrown out. In my free time I brush the fallen petals into my hand and drop them in the trash can. Waste tells a lot about a person. Like reading palms, read my trash. What am I like? I eat fruit rollups, got a package in the mail, wrote a note and discarded it. You, my dear. Well, let me see. You like junk food as evidenced by this nutterbutter wrapper. You went to a SLAM poetry event recently, see here this postcard? You’re forgetful, this is a notice that you missed your last appointment. Dear, you will graduate college with an unchanged procrastination habit, single, and one hangover that you definitely won’t tell your kids about. You’ll still be wearing Disney underwear though. You’re a lost cause there.

I wish I wish upon a star to die before the past tense catches up with me. Don’t want to be dying under sheets and daytime drama. Duck duck goose don’t want to know my noose. Bug off until I say I’m ready to quit my lying, writing, sneezing, laughing, Firefly watching.

I am alive in dreams and wakeness, so tell me when I can go home.

September 23, 2008 at 7:05 pm | Posted in Random Thoughts | 1 Comment
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Favorite lines?

I can’t think my thoughts when Vista damns creativity with 11 point Calibri, day over night over double spaced monotony.

In journalism, paragraphs are key. The holy grail of journalistic success, all you need are paragraphs. One or two sentences to express a statement of fact. Kyle Leerie, 23, died when his car crashed into a tree. He was pronounced dead at the scene. Not, the tree was Oak and Kyle’s accident woke up a family of blue jays. They flew away on impact. Continue Reading I am alive in dreams and wakeness, so tell me when I can go home….

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