For You

timeless

2008-07-07T16:32:00.000-07:00

It is time to Get Started:
Please enter in a thirty-three character-long password that includes your mothers initials and the number P. Make sure it is something that you can remember. In the event you need to restart or reset your password, a questionnaire will be sent to your e-mail address; including (but not limited to) questions riddled with ambiguity that you answered three years ago. Keep in mind you must, not only, remember which question you answered, but what the answer was that you answered it with. All of which must be remembered from a period of three years past.
This is so much fun. Now after entering you password be sure to 'click' firmly on your mouse- nine times - until the next screen pops up. Before you know it - OH MY GOD - someone in (insert a nearby city) has a crush on you. And if you pay just $9.95 we will tell you who that somebody is. But wait; If you don't know anyone in (nearby city) we'll find you that special somebody from Tokyo who is also "crushing" on you. Everyday for the next 365 days we'll send you nineteen e-mails, including profiles and pictures of all those hotties that "totally want your body". Guarantees not included.

Someday's pop, up and out from something larger than 24hours. And I am wasted inside of its bottle, waiting for the nest to carry me away. The same thing made people worry over crumbs. It is invisible things. If you act now, not only will you receive the large, medium and small VacuumPumpSavers; but, we will throw in if you order in the next ten minutes a twelve piece cutlery set and a Kashmir evening gown ( size 7 ) totally free . There are only five more in stock, and - Oh no Karen. We have sold out. Stay tuned.

Annnouncement

2008-06-16T08:40:00.000-07:00

So I feel inspired, and more or less that i should do something productive with my life so here goes: I am going to build another chapbook, however it will be composed of my own short stories and poems. but I do have one question if anyone could answer? Is it plagiarism, or how do I avoid plagiarism, but snatching an existing comic strip and deleting the blurbs in order to replace them with my own? Any way here is a sneak peak poem:

And in the End
Corners in the sleeve of things called for sweat and smell,
A salad of smell.

The Round made toward a neck
Filled with ice-warmed liquid under blue flame.

I tingled as turns crack.
As do metatarsals crack,
Under hammered weight.

There is a great popping,
And
Cracking
And
Clearing from the throat of my glass.

A hair on end meets a discontented heir of
Hope and Chance.
Everyone named this period of time,
This wasting of second to minute,
and hour-by-hour, to minute,
only to find another piles on top of another,
and 365 of these we call a year.
Ten will be the decade.
and in between the white edged waves will flush themselves into sand,
and age will beat upon time as wave ruffles with sand.

I chiseled you out of gold,
And
Out of gold,
Watched
Your eyes bleed his blackness.

If this is heaven,
Than let me live again.
And keep the gates open
As I weep my way toward center stage.

My Poetics

2008-05-26T18:50:00.000-07:00

I want my poetry to live. I want it to breathe but breathe like aliens breathe, in a way that no one can pinpoint but everyone is happy in different ways. Theres a science and a skill all creeping in on the feeling of "I am totally freaked out" or "I wonder if their nice" or "How did they get here." There is something to say, I have, others have, and not many voices get to say these things. But I want my poetry to paint the pictures that colors can not grasp. Letters are colors, and in art there are more choices. But nothing in this world is a joke, and nothing is serious rather it is all the same simutaneiously and we merely choose to view it as one or the other or both depending on our mood. I want my poetry to have the same diversity in appeal, asthetics and syntax. It is hard to build a bridge between two cities that are hard to find. I feel I have found myself well in the world of jokes, and am working on the world of seriousness so that I may learn how to stitch a binding between the two without leaving the seam for others to trip on. I want to be the best, but I feel like there is nothing gained in being the best and there is nothing and nobody to decide who is the best or how one can be the best. So I want to constantly grow and not be afraid of growing and not be worried about change and find it easy to change and I want to learn to see my changes and name them and touch them and see my weaknesses and name them and touch them and love them, because weakness gives me a new challenge and i like challenge.

2008-05-17T01:30:00.000-07:00

Rotting Together

2008-05-17T01:22:00.000-07:00

I wish to find myself an old hag within your hand. Mending youth with age and memory with life. Together, reminiscing the silent fall of ashes and the dust where others fell. The little coffee cup we filled with various liquids, both hot and cold. Combine. Overflow. Hurt with comfort, excite and suspend. I never wanted healthy gorging, but filthy, rotten and bad is how I want it.This should be the waking point of our nebulous birth. Out of muck, life creating. Beauty within environments of vast inconsistancy, A place where the ends of envelopes can never be licked, and time is caught in water bottles sold at $1.75 a piece. Nobody is buying, yet stock-markets rise. And forever, you stay with me.

Indiscretion

2008-05-17T00:50:00.000-07:00

I am not the specimen suggested by my curves or skin.
I am river, clasped down by your banks.

I gush over cliffs, among silent waters, naked and cold.
I ruffle on the corners of boulders and split around islands-
Once at the middle and twice at the end.

I am chopped, like the air around your tongue, your switch.
Pouring onto deaf ears. I will run forever. Until you drink me up.

BlowJobs and Harmonizing

2008-05-15T22:50:00.000-07:00

D-chords. Goddamn D-chords!
Everywhere.
The flip-flop, clip-clop, slop-slop of
Goddamn D-chords!

But it wasn't Romona,
who said she'd suck anyone off under the bleachers.
And it wasn't Jason.
But I can hear the sounds of saliva being cut off by
Fucking D-chords.

"I cannot concentrate when you do that with your teeth."
"Wa wi my weef?"
"You can stop when I am talking to you."
"What with my teeth?"
"Don't chew like that."

We worked sweat out of ice,
but it was what everyone did.
This is what you do when you love,
you fuck like D-cords, and you do it because
it is part of the alphabet and you can't make
love.

Goddamn D-chords. Its too easy,
its too pretty, its everything I want but hate.
Its spinach smothered in chocolate but never put together
and it was Bobby pumping my head up and down whispering,
"Wait until the guys here about this."

Somebody ought to pump Bobby's head up and down
on the kneck of his guitar and say things like,
"Just a little deeper Bobby. Really, get all that in there.
Almost done." But he'd never have the balls to swallow.

"It's sticky," I say fingering around in his warm pudding, and he says, "its
baby-batter so its suppose to be that way."
Bobby smoked a lot of pot, and I could taste it.
But I just kept dreaming about his head bobbing along, up and down,
as guitar grew larger and harder, until it split his brains in two.
And then he could say, "Its sticky" and finger around in brains and blood.

But that can't happen, because I am suppose to suck as he pushes me down, and
I am suppose to laugh at my gaging and tears and snot.
But I can't make him choke on his own cock or swallow every pretty little D-chord of this lifetime with all its prickly little nails scratching throats all the way down.

B-bop

2008-05-15T22:41:00.000-07:00

This be cool B-bop, and bad, but hip.

Sly little orange slices with cinnamon and sugar will never be
the bottle or liquid inside.

B-bop. Your sooo cool.

Always worried about yourself and sweet juices.
With a lick on your hand the giggles squeeze themselves out of glass.

B-bop, you'll see. Benches sit on quilted hours as you wash that,
Slick.
B-bop.
Hair.

The center will be B-bop, bop, bop.
Just in. Its B-bop, bop, bop.

Don't stand to take by, or be with, or give for, Me. B-bop, just be sly. And be what you know,
Guitar.
Friend.
Alone.

Treats of that world Night made forever out of nothing for this. Alight, I think, you must just be doing those B-bop things with pockets dry and head wet.

Keep playing. This toy kept playing, this toy keeps playing like string with clarinet. B-bop you play some,
Good.
Sounds.
Rez-O-nAnce.

You never knew, never would, can never will but some try to space the heart with exclamation point, point, point.
Cool.
Slick.
B-bop.

Slices? I got slices without cinnamon or sugar minced with my eye, I got slices but you took peels while I was blind. Hey, B-bop, it never mattered. Because I wanted wrong where time never changes brain, so B-bop make it where you want to put it, but make it,
Sly.
Cool.
Bad.
And hip.

Introduction after the poem "Spoons"

2008-05-01T23:11:00.001-07:00

"Spoons" is a free association where I rocked around the idea of "a spoon full of sugar.." you all know the rest, and then the concept behind it. I have been kind of thinking about this idea for a few days. The idea that there are moments in life where things get "sugar coated" and there is such a great deal of effort put forth toward creating the ideal "how to" manual for life, or for anything that you could possibly imagine (ie How to be an Astronaut for Dummies {it must exist}). So i started thinking about all these forces, these invisible forces that try to tie us down to routine and regulation, to a recipe for life and for dreams, and how we have codes of ethics and morals that tell us what is right and wrong and good and bad yet these words are arbitrary, the words that I am writing now are arbitrary. But we give them meaning because why? Because we are programmed to? Well I think we are also hardwired to question these forces to just stop for a second and say "Wait a minute I am a Puppet" and that is pretty much what I did in "Spoons" I just let myself go and did what I could to develop, I suppose, an anti-recipe for what everyone knows is our life but cannot seem to define or change because it comes at you in such small measurements, one- spoon- at- a- time, that you don't notice it until your already buried. So I guess this is my attempt at digging myself a little skylight.

Spoons

2008-05-01T22:45:00.000-07:00

I will lump you out of all these things that you and I call revenge which centerfold the little moments and garbage was misconstrued as love while sound became music. But there are not enough round surfaces to keep our mouths busied and buried by heaping fills of tissue. There has always been a race for who will finish last, for who will see it end. But the eye should look the same from any town now matter how poor it is, and no matter the smog that chokes it down. We run from all the tiny scoops of measured folds, where we were once fat, and where we were once old, and have always been this way. It is carrying the load where weight is compared to density and people become the chocolate that is desired only in moderation. When ones tooth out does itself with flows of angry swollen eyes and stubbed knees You'll see I knew that there was a whole that we blanketed over with the patterned workings restlessness, with endless dribbling questions that are the voids which propel feet over cliffs, and knives into throats. Judging is such an activity that all children learn once they swallow the real words that other children molded out of lips and air, out of none of these and all of them. There is only teas and tables of every degree building itself over itself and around itself so much so that things grow solid under lamps that franklin dreamt of, and the sex that Hue grew rich on. The recipe never existed but it is easier for you to fallow instructions, because your idea of shadows is that they must be left as shadows, and lights be left as lights, and the undiscovered should grow mountains of dust where minds fell asleep and others minds twist and turn like tornadoes meeting deep sea urchins, where tides become hands and rain creeps beneath fingernails. While desk becomes me and lung becomes you, and we close in on each other as you lump us out of this mess that everyone desired, but only in moderation, and that which grew angry all to itself and they defined tranquility as lemonade in a rocking chair since most of us have neither.

SNAIL

2007-10-30T22:22:00.000-07:00

Reading the brail of the world beneath your belly.
Translate the tale of woe.
Go unnoticed but notice all.
Slink along an inch at a time.
But leave a trail for others to fallow.
Blind and hiding among a fragile shell.
Your only noise will be the end.

Who-what-where

2007-10-28T22:51:00.001-07:00

The best part about being completely confused and then utterly ok with being confused, in regard to reading these books, is that I actually come out of the pages thinking of something else. Now that sounds really confusing so here is a quick example of what it is that I think I am trying to say. I step into the book expecting something, someone told me this is poetry and I read it with the idea of "this is poetry" floating about in my head. Then about half way through the third or forth "poem" the voice that says "this is poetry" starts to change its tune and all of a sudden the confidence in the voice is lost and all of a sudden its this squeaky nervous and confused voice sort of saying and asking "this is poetry??!!??"Then by the end of it the confidence comes back because I am starting to "get it" what ever the hell that means, but I don't "get it" because "it" isn't anything but I just come to this acceptance that thats ok, and "this is poetry" and the idea of "poetry" is so crazy and over examined, but completely undermined, that it portrays this casual appeal of anybody can write poetry while still teasing such writers to try and go where they (the poets) have gone because such confusing and, cutting and pasting, translating, loosing one's mind, and then finding it in words on paper takes time, energy, and guts.

Her Season

2007-10-28T22:43:00.001-07:00

I find myself at the Holiday Inn soaping in the shower, shes covered up, what a withered old hag. Hope Preaching Network plays in the background and the conniving devil commences in herding around his religion. The grapes were good and the glasses stand in rows upon rows. A young boy is outside picking apples, shes in here, and I, awaiting to fill ourselves, but cordial Sanders, whose been waiting on a thought keeps going.

Shes a sticky hand and I am her blind shopkeeper. Her legs spread open in her mini and I with my newly conditioned head, listen to her whining air and see her out. I'll fix her hounding for smack. She'll store away her tourniquet and bath among the eaves of her contorted Eden. She will be the breeder of her enslavement and I shall tax her about her course. There she stares dismally at the mackuling of time.

I ask where youth has gone and she answers me back the question. Then she says don't think, just be, as the Rein of her fog kills her off slowly. I kiss her cheek and the silence eases her away. She'll float awhile but make her final peace at the bottom of a wet bed. About her slumber the garden will be toiled and her laughter found again in song.

Shapes of Autumn

2007-10-28T22:38:00.000-07:00

There clammy cells never cease.
Warm days later flower.
Still, more sweet kernel with a gourd to swell all.
To bend with the conspiring friend and mellow the maturing load.
The plump set budding.
Later flowers, they think for summer.

Sitting by a sometimes steady fur,
a cross reaped a book and it lifted.
The patient's oozing look,
who hath not seen thou,
watch thee sometimes laid by a cyder.

Swallow the light,
Soft and hilly garden skies,
We will not touch!

Process for poem of care

2007-10-21T22:51:00.000-07:00

I used a number of different methods. I began the poem by just listing out the things that I "care" about and what I care about and what "care" means to me. To care for something is to have an emotion for something or in regard to something or someone, caring can have mixed feelings you can care nicely and you can care unkindly. But, to care for something implies an effort is being made. The mixed feelings idea sparked the recipe section, the list remains throughout the poem, the repetition of feeling and feeling in a particular way is ironic in that the feeling is lost when continually repeating feeling like, feeling so. And there is a sense of hysteria in the intensity of the feeling which is expressed through the repetition. Some sections are moments or memories of others that I have overheard in conversation. There are comments and segments of conversations that have had an impact on me and found their way out in my list of what I care about. All of this is thrown onto the page in no particular order or arrangement other than sandwiching the quotes and segments of conversations around the list.

The Polished Turd

2007-10-21T22:34:00.000-07:00

Share the Pants!
Burn the Pants!

What Pants?

Be my garden car and drive me away.

Fight for the Ultimate...
and swear when you don't get intimate with...
you'll sell fried fish but never make enough to keep you happy.

Youth in mischief.
Stop Reasoning Tears.
Continue Ridiculous Growth mischievous.

Get little and buy one.

Watching you kiss me.

Make a list.
Share my feelings without
Pressure
Harassment
Pressure

Feel small next to the ocean.

Stop feeling so insecure
Stop feeling and to stop feeling, stop feeling.

Stop feeling like
Stop feeling so
Stop feeling like
Stop feeling so
Stop feeling like
Stop feeling so

I care

This time I care.

Let it be

This time

Change no difference but stay the change.
Remember when and just remember.

In fall the leaves change their color.

Those leaves remind me.
These leaves remind me.

Find yourself Find yourself find yourself fi nd your self

find yourself find your

find your self FIND YOURSELF.

Get yard for Picket fence but don't get picket fence.

1 English bulldog (whole)
1 weeping willow (aged and large)
5,000 trips around the world (crushed)

find a locket with someone else in it.
Create a dream.
Live.
Maintain my thrown as the pop-off queen.

Lame knot turd

2007-10-16T23:13:00.000-07:00

Of Elton taint the innocent lament.

Her rotten Reverend flew for a trumpet.

propane the vial self cockless with a brain.

The Parkless cunt nut on the ABBA Mommy.

For it lie, Live on petty penguin fruit.

Annette molest the potties, charm the lion.

sour fruit of thick virgin pheasants lord wands

call me a twit and learn to key titTies

entreat her scent and molest spines less vial

Fondle the lowers of the pigeons past.

Salami a Billionaire

2007-10-16T22:30:00.000-07:00

Holess! Crimes of penguin scent in her taint.
Elton Innocent of the see-saw lament her rotten.
A dude flew propane for a grand vial trumpet.
The selfless reverend cock blocks Rafaellle.
Titties, Titties, Titties, Charm Annette with brain.
Sit on no mannequin the nutless pheasant rail.
Park cunt spines ABBA event go thick.
Lie for it fruit Lion call me mommy and key.
Live agents entreat petty rent learn to vent.
Come molest virgins less vial lords of the potties.
Its no infill romp of past divulge a twit.
Knack, wand, sour lowers, pigeons fondle the gypsies.

Field Trip

2007-10-14T00:15:00.001-07:00

So I have decided that the world is not as poetic as I thought it was. I don't even know what that means, I feel like we have talked so much about what poetry is and isn't that now I feel as though it is and isn't anything. So I guess to really confuse myself the world is poetic. I spent a day waltzing, and not in the literal sense, around town watching people. I know that sounds creepy, but I promise there was no stalking and no heavy breathing involved. Rather I just took a day to pay attention, figures that when you are paying attention nothing really happens. But I did notice alot around here that I had never noticed before, its amazing to see what is out there when you take the time to look. So, I have decided that poetry, for me, or what makes poetry, is a compiling of all the unnoticed or neglected peices of the world displayed through a medium chosen by its author. So, for some it is an emotion, or maybe a color, or even a sound or lack of. It is the possiblity of everything and nothing displayed as purpose or accident.

Jogg Off

2007-10-07T18:28:00.000-07:00

The Chumscrubber writes the ticket.
"No whistle aboard, $90. "
You kiss your mother with that....
I got a DUI after my blind date with a Snake Milker.
Can't remember anything after that.
Lincoln had asperger didn't he?
No he got shot by a Rutabaga Missionary style.
You know... the Quokka is on top.
Wonder if they saw it as Armageddon,
Fermez le livre, le temps est en haut.

I found you Billy.

2007-10-07T17:41:00.000-07:00

Its at the edge of the pool. Bumper stickers mean God. On the way, I need to spend more Saturdays. I sat at the gas station warmly seated in my car and thought, "this mechanical and sadly notice the gap". Put the lid back on. Why didn't anyone say there was a fever? Stop trying to touch your nose with your tongue. Seibers corner was a hole in the wall. Save highway 99? Dont forget Cinderella. Would be a funny part in the movie had he not screwed it up. Somewhere between the front door and the stop sign across the street I realized the bed. Put the penguin in the closet. Also widley referred to as ass kissing. Nothing in the cubard and nothing in the fridge, but there really is something I just don't want it. Look pretty and never opened, others collect dust.

Sentences

2007-10-07T17:37:00.000-07:00

I find it difficult to seperate myself completely from some kind of syntax. It is almost automatic that a pattern of some kind comes out. I feel almost uncomfortable being without. Funny that when I try to make sense it seems that it doesn't and yet when I try to make sentences that do not go together all I can think about is how there is always going to be someway that I could possibly make sense out of this. But, perhaps that is different when it comes to the reader. Maybe the big problem here is that I am thinking too much and writting too little.

Little bits and pieces

2007-10-02T15:24:00.000-07:00

I guess I have always viewed the page as a place where I can lay my brain and let its juices sink into the page. Surprisingly, I get things that I don't understand and stains I can't get rid of. But I, for the life of me, try not to throw it away because somewhere in myself I think it could be used for something. I don't consider myself great, or good because those terms are ambiguous and really don't mean anything. Rather I figure that with practice I can learn more and get the picture clearer in words than the one that pops into my head. That last part I am still struggling with.

Social Viablity

2007-09-30T19:33:00.000-07:00

Put a basket full of dead puppies in the stuffed animal section of a toy store.
Watch the kiddes pile in to play with them.

People make the best piñatas.
Stuff them full of candy and beat them until they break.

Artificially inseminate a cat with horse semen.
Watch the baby abort its mother.

Sew together the dead carcasses found on the side of the road as a flag.
Mount the carcass flag on a pole and chant “The Pledge of Allegiance” while selling your little sister on E-bay as “used parts”.

Crucify Mother Teresa, upside down and on top of the Dodge Ram tattooed with the words “Balls Deep”.
Parade the vehicle around early Sunday morning, sporadically pressing a button which triggers a flame to shoot out of Mother Teresa’s ass.

Erect a statue of G. W. B butt-fucking the United States of America while snorting a line of coke off its back.
Have him holding an oil can in one hand and a crumbling United Nations in the other.

Place this statue in Texas.

Nuke the world, leaving only the shadows of our existence.
But, line up the people so that once the bomb is dropped our ashes will spell out
“Game Over”.

Margarida

2007-09-30T19:29:00.000-07:00

Men gargled “gay” in a gaggle of marmalade.
Greed-Lender, “My dagger ran mad and lame!”
Mail my nerd a mind.
Garden lager in a yam!
Lend me a deed.
Rail Glenda Mad.
Lend me manner in a middle landing, and rain alien lard.

Testing

2007-09-25T10:25:00.000-07:00

Check one... Check two...