Saturday, May 27, 2017

2wo 4eads

Get to the Midwest before communication is ruined by iPhones & all interactions are head-down no eye contact & the internet claims our sex—
like Borg outfitted with dildos introduced according to proximity—hey let's trade pics
& tissues of seed.
& because there is no sickness disease runs rampant.

O ye who are we who may wait until we bloat with Google detritus in pop culture gamma,
our down faces of digital pallor, scoliosis leaned screenwise,
not listening but scrolling on individual highways
with windshields very clean, but very small
that shrink into the expanding carinogenic Chase Bank blu-glo cloud,

our cocks less fleshlike, pocket pussies,
strap-ons slid from limp men,

we gestate from unseen ruptures at the bottoms of trash bags—
an island for them to weigh permanent
& dissipate chemical plumes—o we of seventy percent.
Our bodies process terabytes, synthesize faces from static.

Leave the coasts with walking lanes for texting & high heels in trash tornados & not knowing but friending monosyllables,
learning but fictions broadcast by satellites--
moons reflecting screen prompts of a subject’s dictation.

Clustered hives of humans,
the ocean’s bloody eyes reimagined into cliffs of silver trees that weep pixels of garbage
that swirl into the floating mass that encroaches coastal horizon.
Reports of sightings in the Bay Area over bites of mercurial fish.


You were my online hook-up & you left me under the TV screen’s singing, in the organic hum of traffic & air conditioners, thousands of metal motors (all ringing refrigerators, fans, phones vibrating, cockroach clicks of hard drives), above the underground rumble of construction.
You left the caps lock on my keyboard & mopped up with my happy face t-shirt, walked out into Mario clouds on the Whitney’s wall.

Recall the grinding of our mustaches were different grains, rows of wheat between east & west,
humming transmission down corn-absorbed country roads behind us—
the hope in cicadas whose drone drowns our anxious drive from nature to finance.
It was all there for a moment; when you came you saw a window—not glowing but clear.

Well, you turned to your iPhone, walked through the sliding glass & left that small moment.  
I don’t recall if we spoke in German or in English or in the ultraviolet hiss of department store security systems.

But the Bread Basket lies flat & Mongolia is hardly moving.

Old landfills now fear-based ski hills erupting with surveillance,

rise from grain pregnant cities spilling over with rats.
While the sun, diluted in haze, ripple in grass over genuine tassels whose ears are syrup, fuel, food fed to pigs fed to “polite” & “hospitable” people who float flimsy over the din of metallic others speaking of others,

the honest humidity free of synthetics. 

Here only rivulets of contamination, shallow plumes of binary,
& phones one must still flip.

Imagine yourself anywhere else & fully present, without an icon below your eye.
Winged ants at the end of summer find a home in red earth.
The physicality of leaves,  the droll, occasionally-realized, liberation of a driver’s responsibility, nothing but the sound of cicadas through windows unrolled
& butterflies smashing on the glass in front of you.

We are not yet pixels.

Found from long ago: "V"

I worry for a disappearing sugar cube,
l'absinthe, green and slow, takes sugar through the slotted spoon.
Anise, fennel, the strong pulls
"Oh, the smell, enjoy the smell
the strong pulls
will do you well,
fervent, disfigured
the strong pulls" you implore.
I am fear, an ice water fountain
crystals fall like dandruff
"dissolve, dissolve,
we all dissolve."
I accept a little too late.

A parting gift, the Czech
takes match to grit to me,
joy in fracturing glucose.

I am no greater than cloudy spirits,
the man I am inside.
The power is in the receiver

and you want to grow plants in air!

Tuesday, May 9, 2017


To live a life of no regrets is noble to nature
unless you haven't returned what you stole from your friends,
admitting at least to the pain you've caused them
& the lies, and to yourself--

But torrents of selfies fall through your narrative;
enablers, your well-wishers, steer you farther from truth.
The privilege to live with no regrets,
white man, unlearned narcisist, sociopaths don't learn,

but we listen, and in all this 'unfairness,'
(the word you taught us)
it's the only thing we have
that you cannot afford,
white, digital, oilman.

Friday, April 14, 2017


My fingers these past weeks have smelled like burning hair/metal. Why?
Tonight I'm going to sleep in fear & frustration, anxious over deaf heads packed with cotton, who confuse bravery with obstinance. I am an onion skin pulled by a dull knife through deepening layers that fall apart when sliced. My face slides across the computer screen, I feel its human warmth--it's me--& my open eyes see you're just a twitter feed. I feel unstable, half wondering if your purpose is malicious, a small faction against the whole merely disorients the unharmonic empire, the split hair of a country gone capital-digital, impossibly individual. I wanted to text you about this, but it's too late. I wanted to call the pastor who studies evil. I wanted to connect to someone real like talk to my dad, to get those pics from some Grindr guy & hook up, to just have a mind cradled by a deliberate body to hold & understand my intention, how to carry it out. Tonight I need a communication that, though words flow through, is not based in language persuasion or fear. The root of all evil is fear. The root of all fear is unknown, and those who refuse to know. 

Saturday, April 1, 2017


more dealing with how to be this drunk than real things.
Booze lets you embrace the grey space without denying yr polarity. 

Thursday, March 30, 2017

"I am so glad I can be your front porch"

You said

to look out,
over your 
and watch the


of you
was still 
in the bowl.

it as well 
and sent us 
down pipes together.