Thursday, September 29, 2016

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Curated arc
      Thou mitigated
The syllabus-centric
      Didn't do the readings
          Asleep at the back of the
    Round and round
And spinning
  Like a dervish sotted
    Scrub antler
On the backyard fence
Can I borrow your notes
Or your pee-chee folder with
The doodles?

Babs & Pap ©1999 Oil, graphite, on canvas

Untitled © 2000 oil, newspaper, baseballs on wood panel

Sunday, September 25, 2016

the placated antiquarians
       dressed in blue and red
             steamboats bound for Uruguay
                  lost at sea, presumed dead

Antartic explorers steaming crustaceans
          smoking Tareytons and drinking Tang
                  looking out over the ice
                      find a survivor whose name is Chang

packed in wool crates
         bobbing on the sea
                drinking cans of 7-Up
                       somehow survived, now drinking hot tea

the newspaper is months old
              but he reads it again
                       the stories don't change
                                 and no mention of his friend


Saturday, September 24, 2016

The Blades of Glass

 stars drifted like
liquor store signs
           we stumbled in the street
              the conversation started
             as the lights went out
 and the waltz
   was frozen
         stringed instruments
            walked away
                       we ascended in alien eyes
                           looking at the cars
 their headlights
       the dreamers were streaming
             videos of cats
                      but no one left
   until you started to yawn

The breakfast of champions
   like Rome or 
                   The Parthenon
                   dead Centurions 
                              strewn along the Rubicon
                spilling blood money
     for oil 
waxing the dishes 
    before the feast 
               the moon river 
                                  flows like pure virgin flesh 
the green grasses of Palestine
     the flow of the Tigris and The Euphrates 
     the swamp dwellers
    killing boars 
    in the reeds
    of Des Moines 
 Or Waimea
                                                                 we stink of dusty flesh 
                 we supplicate 
       in market share ideas
                            stoving in the craniums 
           of the didactic deity swooners
                   we song and dance 
       at money 
 and money 
   the Witch 

my glasses
are dirty
  the fog is back,
thank god
    summer heat
    is great
   expect SF
to be
   a certain way
                    don't fuck with my

The tables
have turned-
it's a veritable
  shit ball
                 of twister fucks
    nipple twister fucks
    to be exact
    or redundant
   depending I guess
    on something or other

Paregoric trilobites
   encased in Damien Hirst
      funerary medicine cabinetry
    "the wounds of time"
    (some foreign antibodies revel in myriad
asymptomatic retardants)
     Grossly misinformed,
   the electorate
     vote to have their feet
chopped off
       "...better than military flights over
 the Atlanta Falcons game or chicken fingers"
       something something something

the bearded end game
                                                 salacious bricolette byzantium stone washed
set apart
                     kind bud for sale
  and $7 gelatos
            seems too hot for a day like this
                        but the
                                                                cement went $100k over budget
fred said

prurient lapses
 in the remiss
 cake, candles, a wool blanket
     laundry piled in plastic hampers
              the toast is burning

The acorn or twig or some shit
 fell on thc car roof
 while I was smoking
        laid out
    in the back
                          listening to nothing
the car windows are open
     and i'm curled in a comforter
                              wrapped around my sleeping bag

      blades, glass
    broken round
                 butts can
                   steaming breath
         i see you
     the van is
        not waterproof
            buckets of rain
          the hoop guy
                                            seemed kinda like a dick

the Apache wedding
       was twin-less
   or half twinned
                                                  one was not in a good place right now
           many times
   I was the beard
            but times have grown
                           the van was cold at night

surrogate star centered
revelations re
 breezes and facts
in the reality show
of it all
i don't remember
    but i scratched
   the rasta guy
           he danced
on your
        no one backed him up
      not one
                                                     but it didn't matter
                                                           he nailed it

synaptic miasma
 the earbit torn
plague device that you left on the tv
   seen through a veil of october red leaves filtering the pumpkin latte

breakfast was oatmeal
    w nuts
           and coffee
   strong strong coffee
       then back to sleep
how do you do it?
   "I don't do anything,
                                              it does it by itself."

on the cover of
                            Who Cares magazine I saw
your picture
if you got a blowjob you should be thankful
well i'm not watching musicals
                                          (Southpark ref.)

banging and
   at 8 a.m.
                          outside the window
                                     all speak Spanish
                                sometimes Russian
                                               I'm trying to jerk it in here
                                                   go the fuck away

the deciduous, no, coniferous drone
flying and dropping pine needles
onto the hair of the enemy;
   the ground

steep forecasts of death
or life
the whatnot
or the in-between
some sutra dutra puke-tra
  the beads on your wrist
                   make you look like a dork

   don't say vertiginous
   say fuckall
    don't say
        say berned agin
                       as your orange face melts
(policy wonks)
                 strung out on heroin
           or social media
                stream baby stream!
I can see freedom from my window

the lights are on
      the highway
              on a bridge
                over water
     the fog is coming in

now its raining
like Sunday rain
                  smoking cigarettes in bed
  looking at pictures
              no news except
orange news
          we listen
   to the rain

the fall burst twitchery
echoed in lost friends
    with bad backs and
                    but there's always the sun
and the rain
       and old videos
             of drunken rambling
              to remind
                                                    of what we don't need reminding  

Monday, September 12, 2016

    of justice
            he should know better
    kings dish
  heads on platters
    not elected presidents

lips sealed
 the era of magick
   long passed
         the raven king
looks like sting in dune
     not a good look
    an awesome book
 loved the footnotes

Saturday, September 10, 2016

Six months later and the administration had been
 inundated with a barrage of emergencies-
the war was a continuous beast feeding the war machine giants
that they only concerned themselves with for political ends
  the General took his annual vacation
this year he decided to go to Slovenia
  he traveled in disguise
as a Catholic priest
  his entourage kept the curious and the spiritual away
saying his holiness recently had gall bladder surgery
he did however spend hours at the gaming tables
and made himself an unholy amount of money playing baccarat.


the skyline
baked into the eye
   i steered my mind
 or with out
   scenes of sounds
 and thoughts
    programmable messages
   from my brain
 to outer space
  what the fuck
     still here
 on this ball of Iron
   waking again
to night
    no stars can be seen
 the fog
 the lights
the walls
 I'll steer the ship
   around the corner galaxy

Monday, September 05, 2016

The General's mood had improved.
The campaign in Jalisco had been a stunning success and he had restocked his treasured key limes.
Word from the administration was to capitalize on the ground game win.
'This could seriously snowball' was the line that stuck out in his mind from the classified memo.
'Those fucking cokeheads at Washington would love a giant snowball of peruvian flake, that's what this is about'
He knew the areas they seeked were heavily fortified by the enemy.
He would bore Washington to death with preliminary expenditures and tactical equipment requests.
This will 'blow' over if I overwhelm them with bullshit'
He turned back to the television and changed the channel to the Sox game.

Sunday, September 04, 2016

Once you had the goods
  You bet it all and it came up
  You were the street
You were the finish line
You were the goddamn
Who kicked ass
 The wrench in the works though
Ah that damn wrench
    The leaves burned the house down
The dog died
Termites ate the violin and the cello
The car caught on fire and crashed into a police station
 Because you
No longer had said goods
  Your lawyer explained
   As she hung up on you
  To move
     To move
The thought
   The directional
      Not the car
Not the thought
The direction
   Je ne veux pas
  The thought is
Is protection

Saturday, September 03, 2016

There was little time to waiver.
The General knew certain factions within the military
Were aiming to see him removed from command.
Luckily, he had the dirt on "the old presidente."
He held the dirt in reserve, it wasn't the kind of dirt you can
Use more than once, like a nuclear option.
"If those weasels try any bullshit they'll be eating sand dabs in Montefusco."
Some time
The batshit crazy
   Gets thrown around
 And you
  Steady the
But you know
You have the
So the windows are peeling
   The grass is burned
The retreat route goes through
   You don't want any more sugar
You have to drive
 Into the belly
Of a large animal
New York
The A train
Doesn't go/
Not now/
There's a skunk
  Down the stone steps/
By the bamboo

Friday, September 02, 2016

The General's supply of limes was getting desperately low.
He checked the positions data screen.
'We could take the state of Jalisco with a few thousand men. They've got lime trees up the ass down there. Those Huichols are baked on raicilla and peyote. They'll never know what hit them.'
He pulled the keyboard tray closer and started banging on the keys.
The defense
   And the rigor