Archive | November, 2014

Dirt Road Graveyard

27 Nov

seance-berlin-1930s


Dirt Road Graveyard

You’re like a graveyard

on an old dirt road

filled with ghosts

and fun to hold

séances in

 

 

 

(from my book Beautiful Graveyards, Farfalla Press)

 

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Main Titles/Dinner and Dancing

19 Nov

336771994_640

 

Main Titles/Dinner and Dancing

Your eyes pointing towards
the back seat of a dark taxi cab
my face pressed somewhat reassuringly
against the stubborn consistency
of cold concrete

I had the ‘Jesus Christ can’t we talk this over?’
for dinner
You ordered the ‘You know what? I just don’t
think so.’
and after that we finished our meal in silence
the check split like the legs
of a frigged turtle

skipping past the awkward dance numbers
that’s how this whole thing gets started

It starts as you leave

(from my book I see you, Lewis, Baobob Tree Press)

Alone For The Holidays

17 Nov

christmas_lights

 

alone for the holidays

 

I had to masturbate four times

today because that’s what kind

of day it was

 

sometimes I would think of you

 

tug stroke stroke

 

sometimes I would think of happy things

like a beautiful day

 

stroke stroke tug

 

sometimes I would think of you

 

 

 

(from my book, beautiful graveyards, Farfalla Press) 

God Bless Danny Devito

16 Nov

danny-devito-11

God Bless Danny Devito

The couch is a lonely hideout but it’s cheaper than the Catacombs these
days and comes complete with blankets and pillows and dangly chrismas
lights on the ceiling and a fairly extensive video library and a working
tv. I’ve got a strange view of my creepy neighbor’s yard and a miniature
sized stove and a cat who likes to jump on my face when I’m not looking.
I’ve been sleeping on the couch for weeks now–I don’t go in the bedroom
that much anymore. The place is haunted probably–the thought of that
mattress gives me nightmares. The whole room: scares me. So I live on
the couch. It’s a great place to grow a beard and watch the news and
read The Count of Monte Cristo at four in the morning after writing
imaginary letters to real bullshit-life editors. I’ve got beefs to pick
with all the big shots: Entertainment Weekly, The New Yorker,
Scientific American, the producers of See No Evil, Rita Cosby, whoever
the jackass is that decided to move 30 Rock after Scrubs, I mean come on
already–fuck Scrubs–hell, my nerves are so shot that even something I
read in Stuff magazine this month managed to piss me off. I don’t know
what’s wrong with me. I’ve taken to weeping hysterically every time the
theme song for Buffy comes on and I’ve started leading my Myspace posts
to Rob Thomas on his website with the super respectful ‘dear sir,’.
Every day I learn brand new things, like Robert Altman died and Mattel
had to recall 4.4 million Polly Pocket Playsets. These two bits of
information were announced back to back, I mean I don’t think they were
supposed to be related, the one being a reaction to the other, but what
if they were? What if for some strange and deviously unpublicized reason
the death of Robert Altman created some sort of ripple effect that ended
up causing the recall of almost four and a half million Polly Pocket
Playsets? What does it all mean? Why would they have to do that? That
seems crazy to me. But also sort of fascinating. Like Helen’s habit of ordering cheeseburgers
whenever we ate out at a cheap Mexican restaurant. Okay, maybe it’s not
like that at all–but that still doesn’t change the fact that Helen loved
cheeseburgers and would order them whenever we went out to eat. It
didn’t matter if they were on the menu or not. Helen could talk the
coldest bastard in the world into making her a cheeseburger. She once
talked a kid working the counter at a Ben & Jerry’s to make her a
cheeseburger. He wanted to impress her, so he impressed her. Jesus.

I’m still not sure how he pulled that one off, but
he did.

 

 

 

(old notebook poem)

Why I Want To Fuck George Bush Jr.

9 Nov

 

 

longside 3

 

(from series of longsides published by Baobob Tree Press. this one’s for the great J.G. Ballard, and the reasons he wanted to do Reagan. at the time this broadside was printed we had Bush)

Wanted

9 Nov

wanted

Wanted

 

I will bend bullets for you
arm wrestle perfectly strong freight trains
& over estimate the jungle

in exchange for

 

your confidence in matters regarding

our occasionally afflicted destiny

and a couple of really cool matching

tattoos

I will do battle and conquer
the filthy chameleons which threaten
to impersonate the partially severed nerves
and shattered bones of those past nights
spent without you

 

I will wring the necks of concrete gargoyles

and take out a entire army of mangling Death Fiends

in what some up-and-coming reporter from Reuters

might at some point refer to as:

 

An Orgy Of Guns!

 

I will descend inside their double cemented rabbit holes

and in an orgy of guns and non-essential back story

I will lay waste to their on-line Real Estate Schools

and any other of their apocalyptic-ly organized vehicles

that might non-theoretically tend to piss you off

 

for your protection

and also our sanity

 

I will rearrange your enemy’s nightmares

so that they involve getting their cheek bones

crushed in by octopus-tentacle-faced Anesthesiologists

sporting old fashioned walkie talkies instead

of cellular phones

 

I will kick out the plate glass window

of any and all things that’ve ever gotten in the way

of the two of us living our lives like a couple of

Billy Squier songs

 

or maybe not Billy Squier songs exactly
How about I kick the plate glass window

out of anything that gets in our way of our not answering

the goddamned door on the weekends unless we want to

 

and then to that you could say something like

‘Ok’ and stuff, throw on your black pajama dress

and then we’ll just leave it at that

Puddles

6 Nov

mr t

Puddles

Helen I..I mean you…I mean meatloaf-or not meatloaf. No. I mean meatloaf. And vampire comics. And songs about plastic robots vs. cream soda. Rampaging typewriters and the martyred ribbons that have nothing to do with it. Your eagles have landed and I’m having a hard time processing the most latest information.

This information pertaining to what it is that it pertains to. I feel like Pearl Harbor. Literally. I feel like a shitty movie and a real place that has seen death and experienced first hand the sneakiness involved in such attacks. Did you know that the CEO of Mothers Against Drunk Drivers name is Chuck? It’s true. And just because your new boyfriend dresses like Perseus, that doesn’t make him Perseus.

This thing is also true. Today in the street I saw two red trucks following each other. It must be mating season. This must be war. Arcadian, do you take quarters or should I get tokens at the bar? Orgies of raw cauliflower and green peppers rained down upon our last moments together’s abundant absence of generic switchblades and believable guitars–but fuck it.

What’s in a puddle? dirt, bits of stone, rain water, trapped weather, snake prints and squirrel droppings, the color brown and many ripples, worms, leaves, bugs that swim, bugs that can’t swim, reflections from hell of heaven, everything you’ve ever felt for me. Everything I’ve ever felt about you.

(from my book Avenge me. Baobob Tree Press)