december 31st, 2009

here's a cut-up I wrote with Erin Dillon a couple nights ago...

in the yoke

The harvester of hearts is fresh out of fear.  All we have left now is the natural decay of flesh fruit that sags like frozen molasses.  Vultures circle the nearby ruins with vicious claws and mysterious bruises.  Unrecognizable logic severs heads in front of faces optimistic and vague.  The glowing tears that eclipse my pupils are merely illusions of happiness.  I’d love to sit and watch you take the money and run, but Mahjong millionaires throw the weak into the dark.  We’re all fighting for a lost cause because hope is a dead language.  While the sun promises that might of tomorrow my heart beats in the clouds.

december 27th, 2009

beware the friendly stranger

wine glasses litter the floor

records lay outside their sleeves

stacked

intimately

on top of each other

legal pads supporting thick

black ink

lay exposed, sullied

a bare-chested couple 

rapidly dreaming the night away

is this rooms Mona Lisa

the days run away

like wild horses

leaving us to swat away the dust

as it creeps into our lungs

december 23rd, 2009

Instead of scrapping this poem I removed a few sentence in the middle and now it doesn't bore me.  This is quattro mani reprise which I wrote back in July.

december 18th, 2009

this is our lot

We wiggle and kick like bobbing bait, anxiously awaiting a gratifying and genuine conversation with a human being. It was so easy back then and none of us knew it. This is our lot, our time to shine… but I don’t see that urgency in their eyes. I hear unruffled words exit trembling lips. I see wandering eyes glued to worried faces. You must remember that this is our lot. This is our time to shine, to give those bastards a run for their money, to show them what a heart pumping refusal is capable of. We must incite fear in their minds and prove that success is a tangible, beating entity resting in our palms. We must do all of this because they think we are weak. We do not intimidate them because we aren’t willing to make the effort, because we are too busy watching tv and concerning ourselves with everyone else’s issues instead of our own. No one said it would be easy so stop acting like you’re fucking surprised. Running for the hills in the eyes of the beast is cowardly, so join me on the front line. You aren’t alone, all of us are terrified.

december 15th, 2009

4:15

free book

If you would like a free copy of Matzo Ball Soup post your address and I will send you one. I have plenty of extra copies and they are doing me no good gathering dust in a cardboard box. Until I run out, all you have to do is ask.

december 2nd, 2009

abre los ojos

december 1st, 2009

poets are so full of shit

poets are so full of shit.

they break their poems in

     peculiar 

                               artsy ways because

poetry isn't about being straight-

forward, it's about 

   confusing the reader 

or distracting them

                     from your bullshit,

then convincing them they don't understand

or they just don't think outside the 

        B        O

   X enough.

or the fuckers break every

poem into neat little stanzas

because that's the way a real

poem is supposed to look

regardless of how much sense

each break makes, and trust

me, it usually doesn't make

any goddamn sense.

And occasionally the brainwashed assholes

Capitalize the start of each line, distracting

Me into insanity.  When will they shut the

Fuck up and stop polluting creative minds?

I don't want to be a poet, I just want to write.