Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

the hard rim of forever

a man is fucked by a horse

his colon perforated and later dies

i guess it's not illegal in seattle.

still, i can hardly see you anymore

i'm too busy and you've turned

into ghost. what love we had

is werewolf and they don't make

good pets i've learned

anyways, i hid my groceries from the werewolves

but they were easy to find in the grocery bags

and i'm writing a screenplay about werewolfism

called 'linens 'n things'

a werewolf who eats zombies

will often develop a bad case of dirtmouth

my ex is dating a banker now

what the hell is she thinking

aquaman is thought to be a werewolf

but not much is known about

aquaman or werewolves but it is rare

to see a werewolf wearing a helmet

the bag is under the seat officer

a vast legion of werewolves

drove at least a thousand bankers

out beyond the gates of the city.

i dream only of death now.

i'm not a fan. i'm a werewolf.

it's always strange to hear a

werewolf say anything with a mexican accent.

it was late and we piled into the car

like werewolves

if you'd have told me beards

would come back into fasion back

in the 80's i would not have believed you

if you hold a werewolf up to your ear

you'll hear the ocean right before you die

you called me. but when i answered

the phone all i heard was the ocean.

are you a werewolf now, or moth?

i don't speak moth, but my mouth is mothy

and filled with moon.

imposter (graphite on 8 full size illustration boards)

the word cave

i was working in the word cave one night

my joints were aching from all the back breaking

and confusion. my penis was flying around in

the air like a lightbulb in a nazi movie when

all of a sudden the phone rang 'ring, ring ,ring, ring'

it glowed in the mountain air like a fiery horse

i peed a little. my balls were distended from age

i picked it up gingerly in my spotted hands

it was jordan stone calling to ask about the

word and if it was indeed 'titties' as i'd dreamt

it might one day be in a dream as real as ice

i told him that it was only in the dream and

in this world of caves and sleep it was actually

'discontinued beauty'. we slept on the phone

for a minute and then he said, 'let me know

when it's titties'. he hung up and i began to

build story after story about a king's kindness

reclamation proclamation (graphite on illustration board)

At this point everything is gravy

The prosthesis, the herpes scar

The blank stare on kim's face

The suicide rain, the bricked up

Body of kim's fiancé Steve

The Burning moving van

The four hundred billion dollar

Bank operation, the lone ranger's

shoe fist, the sex tape of

Sheila blowing her old boyfriend

The underwater skate park

The fact that everyone in the

Original banana splits is dead

The emancipation proclamation!

The unborn baby of a beatles reunion

The swollen and taciturn* Casper

Not so friendly since acquiring

Ghost cancer a year ago

The plain old fashioned road side

Beauty of a stand of bluebonnets

Off the side of the great Texas

'sit and roll real fast' thingamajig

(taciturn-to fall or have fallen from a brick

bridge into a bowl of blah)

loose hand (pen on paper)

bored to a crisp

or: i was a roman soldier once

or: thy neck is an iron sinew, and thy brow brass

i recall the day i became an eagle scout

the trees were the color of onions

the löwenfrau at the zoo turned 20

i was crazy in love with savana zweibel

i wasn't as crazy about the car that hit me

on the way to the interview with the parents

of the kid killed in korea earlier that year

the way the the bumper drove into my pelvis

knocking my PRO-Keds clean off my feet into the sky

the impact was such that the spinal cord at the base

of my scull actually snapped in two and once

severed the momentum of my heavy head

tore the skin and sinew of my neck easily

disloging my head and sending it rolling into the

street where it landed at the feet of the

six year old joel peter witkin

who would later go on to become

the celebrated photographer of the 80's

i'm uglier than you can ever believe (mixed media)

untitled poem marking

the tenthousandth day of things not getting any better

i put the love into everything

a retched led ligned head

the curve of the waterfall as it

breaks out over us all

an angle a reflex erection

a riminder of a past life

a green gas floating in a space

red gelatin that can destroy the world

forever. like really dead.

like real deadness

they had an open casket

you could see his sunburned head

and for a while i dreamed of spain

real dreams ma ground up into paste

the long wings of the spider

the pout of an elephant's ear

the mayor of france (a drunk

mayor who gets laid a lot)

drinking again works for him

jesus drinks screwdrivers

at the hotel monaco in downtown denver

showing us his book and acting like

a charming older version of jesus

i went to the show

with the ho's and the loaded guns

ice ice baby.....too cold

guitar (water mixable oil on guitar)


was your name written on a blanket

in the dessert the hunter asked

dangling his shaft eating bar food

the grey beetle night leaving

the sun flat against the ceiling

clouds painted behind her like a painting

a bomb belonging to the neighbors

borrowed but unreturnable at that point


yes the magic kitten was fighting the milk worm

blood and cream and stars pooling out from under the door

it is night now and so we are well clothed

out inside the city your name written on a blanket

out in the dessert the hunter dangling his sad shaft

the sun's moonwhite barf flat against the floor

clouds painted behind her like a painting

borrowed and unreturnable

his name was Ben Talk from bangkok and

he lived in cambodia with my three daughters

each one more beautiful than the other

they taught english to the gatekeepers' sons

grey beetles were seen eating the head of an owl

leaving only tragedy to clean up after itself

and tragedy refuses to do the dishes

.....and they are plenty dirty to do

magic eats the head of tomorrow

on the back porch of an owl

a long slow streak of red

(there are so many great DJ's in instanbul right now)

snake (graphite on illustration board)

flu-like symptoms

mr peanut's skeleton corpse

yellow and brittle in the moon's pocket

a green cloud of smoke

the turniquette of fear delivering

it's secret ingredients

standing at the jeopardy podium

alex trebek dressed in pink mouse hide

barking answers at the camera

mr peanut knows this question:

jamming his fist onto the buttons

"what are, 'expensive little pieces'"

his body full of darts

he staggers to the edge of her bed

green smoke billowing out

the young mr peanut

raw and sticky inside

a wonderful hopeful feeling

floater (color pencil, graphite and watercolor on paper)

Poetry machine

Or: I used to be a German


Walking to school in lederhosen

(Sputter spit poop a little)

I hated the stupid space people

Go back to Saturn I'd think

Their Sweaty balls their wring worm

The mild chafe the needle bags

The Swallowing of needlebags

It's so hard to make your own decisions


He loved her poetry

Machine washed

She preferred his poetry

Machine like she touched his vagina

A hairy chest filled with poetry

Machine makers making machines

I squeezed my old body through

another broken day

The beautiful poet R.Y.

machine bard of the future

Blind me with science poetry

Machine me with tautology

The black eye of poetry

Machine may make mistake too

My child has broken the door of my heart

The pig's house is made of poetry

Machine wolf eats the pig without mercy

I run into the oncoming traffic

My chest harried and filled with birds

In this dream the Herpes

has consumed Most of my leg

Whores stare into the shelter

lips burning kisses into my face

Using gel they try to fix their hair

Then it's One last hurrah of poetry

Machine tits in the cougar den

Billie Jean is not my poetry

Machine Mike made it with a little friend of his

It's almost impossible to read German poetry

Machine Der Gedichte

Being dead now all that is left is this poetry.

Machine of no return

Monday, February 22, 2010

the night way (intaglio copper plate etching)

and the trumpet brigade blew out my brains

even when the world is dying

on its ornate golden end table

the dust and grey light fading

into the belly of its shadow

you don't miss

as cinderella crying

removes her glass eyes from the moist

bedrock of her broken face

the tears pouring into the tomatoes

in the salad bowl

you don't miss

as children pass the ball flying

down the field of blue green

shouting and cheering while the

grey giant approaches in the distance

appearing over the mountain with a tank

in one hand and an airplane in the other

you don't miss

as the windchimes clatter sighing

outside the window in the unknown

thunder of south central

texas. an owl growing a garden

of hoos in the black steam of

the skies black ear

you don't miss

you are the greatest player

to have ever lived maybe the

greatest player of all time and

i do mean maybe. because

when the blood is drying

into the earth and not a single person

can still sing anything remotely

interesting in spanish

and even after you took the keys

to the car and drove to boston one night

my heart locked in the trunk

the wind a different color than before

a starling song squeezing out of the radio

'gold me now i'm ready to go'

eating the soft wilted spoiled peaches

the juice lining your mouth's blankets

swallowing the pits and teeth

broken off in my tongue

you didn't miss

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