Tuesday, October 24, 2017

i c u betaz

crouchin down like

reckless measured bur

ten thir


like join us
gotta lotta fun

Friday, September 1, 2017

Thursday, August 3, 2017


ladybugs crawling swarming on the ceilings
german shepherds
a torn pancreas
the herbs from her garden
severed arm and foot,
flowers blooming in November, funneling a hose out the window to water them
remodeling the bathroom
poetry as a source of comfort
human death as animal death
choreography of the wrist of the mouth of the face
humming bird

Telomeres: TTAGGG

Seven meteors fell across my face in the last five days I saw you.
You were not your curled chemo body, you were radiating your self deeper into us
& changing our DNA, the unexpected reaction you have after cortisol dread,

Our telomeres shortened as we waited, malnourished, feeling of separation, of chromosomes fraying, getting sticky.
Exiting, you sublimated unready, collected
in thick the thick fog that would have been outright cinematic
to anyone not in shock.  The mirrors in German Shepherd eyes,
our quiet words.  I am positive I told you how much I love fog. 

How you’d love us walking in it.

We’re not held together by anything but atomic force.  Mostly space, we are empty forces clinging to one another in preference to nothing else.

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

This is me watching Charles Bukowski on YouTube & doing something more traditional.
Here I am totally just reading a poem & letting the words speak for themselves.
This is in direct response to the phrase 'ill educated'

with typos.

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"

--worry for a disappearing sugar cube,
l'absinthe, green and slow, takes syrup through slotted spoon.
Anise, fennel, strong pulls
"Oh, the smell, enjoy the smell;
strong pulls
will do you well,
fervent, disfigured
the strong pulls" you implore.

Fear, ice fountain
crystals like dandruff

A parting gift, 
match to grit--

I am cloud//I am inside.
firm with receiver--
We could grow plants in air!

Tuesday, May 9, 2017


life of no regrets noble to nature--
what you stole from your friends,
admitting at least the lies, and to yourself--

//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.

Wednesday, March 29, 2017

Perception Management

how do we handle

underchin angle
of camera phone,

the face folds
into itself.

Thursday, March 23, 2017


actin like a man, w/yr noise & body
a fuck commodity
we turn 31

a narrow challenge. 

Saturday, March 18, 2017

'Political Suicide' - N.i.l.8

something like,

check the basement door

inside the room
just like a tomb
take a deep breath in the stench
as you apply the perfume
go sit and stare at the boy
go sit and gaze at the girl
go on and laugh at them all
pick up a wig to unfurl
so amazed you're so amused with yourself 
pick up a needle or pick 
take it out on somebody else

political suicide
he won't know what to do
politician and homicide
he won't know what to do

a politician in jail
what do you think
he's gonna do

walk the street with the mind frame of a child
a politician at large in which we all can confide
the vermin down on the street the sniper up in the air
the carcass of the victim the way they all stare
no comment at present time
election year coming up
keep off the record try to keep them shut up
but this dirt is deeper than any mud slinging before
deeper than shallow graves
check the cellar door

so amazed you're so amused with yourself
pick up a needle or pick 
take it out on somebody else 

political suicide
he won't know what to do
politician and homicide
he won't know what to do

politician perversion mind snap
a schizo null and void negation denial pretend

no comment
political suicide

slightly corrected from http://www.switchdrops.com/, the best n.i.l.8 fan site.

Friday, March 17, 2017

A Poem

so thin






Wednesday, March 15, 2017


has no flavor,
insidious as it is unthinking.

The 'last generation
of orcas'

is a marketing ploy.

Growths filigree
our population, burn.

Monday, March 13, 2017


as taste of sharp strawberry
gives way to slow blueberry
fear turns to anger

Friday, March 3, 2017

One as but nothing to a bristlecone pine.

Churned into the abyss of history
a story to page thru, inconsequential. 

Tuesday, February 28, 2017


no female
i beersquinting
& sometimes animated
caught her--

hey, just wait--
to listen.
fucken done
tryna say.

Thursday, February 23, 2017


Found some planets;

while our land burns
& tgirls have to find

somewhere else to pee

there are those who complain about plugging in the USB port wrong more than half the time, and those who realize the symbol is always facing up

up 47 stories
over 53rd street
you're swaddled
in a canvas sack

you slide
in yr glass coffin

o ventilation

feathers pumped
zipped over face

shush of

turn over inside
don't think about money

Friday, February 17, 2017

White female tennis grunt. 

Thursday, February 2, 2017

'And if it comes to it,' I'm bored. 

Sunday, January 29, 2017

'Red, White & Blue, in Red'

human privilege is the right of choice
& urge to learn—

o the money
you funnel up

no one will take your bullet

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

experiment 216: pipeline

funneltunnel, face to face
your skin clearly 24 years old

& i love yr hair, o--
fitting between cruelties
of our times & cohort effects
i forget my tumescence is mine,
like worrying about it even happening
this hall of slabs
cantor warning, imam floating

are we divided?
you scatter as i slide
in shapeless sex.
digital smile in pixels
i touch,
buffer & roughen, blink alcohol down
& you’re smoother than before;
my ingrown hairs, bumpy thighs,

scratch a mosquito bite.
Blood center pooling
in coconut oil,
a hair springs out.

Friday, January 20, 2017

I got naked in the parade of bag pipers cut my body with the glass that was thrown at us & wiped my blood all the fuck over him before the police tackled me.

Thursday, January 19, 2017

In the face of a Fear, castigat ridendo mores.

Joy unshaded by fear's an exercise
of bravery, disciplined rebellion
an existence of greater compassion,
love in the face. a necessity carved
from monolith wealth's deceptive marble
so sumptuous but for frigid baroques,
but barriers boasting shadows of shame,
no caress, no one's friend, a soft mommy
whose love through all your petulance somehow
grows for you.
          Embrace, take broken dad down.

We few who align in freehealing care--
small perversities of understanding,
though our medicine cushion brains disown
radiation of ignorance, though ours,
violent division, ours, empathy
ours, man en masse, our grown-over system,
(the damn thing), ours, as discolored people,
whiteset beads unfeeling in currency,
eyes full of cash, crusted over with it--
all ours. Real is the man in our hearts.
Purple luna illuminates denial,
the false doors of regret, quantum being.
Her grace to hold our multitudes,
uphold whole vials uncracked of broken
sisters alike.
          No, there is no evil.

All unforeseen illnesses, yet-to-be
organ failures & obstructions. They drink
deeply. We drink because fuck it, we can
fuck even when our bodies won't work. Joy--
a shameless channel of motivation,
light to eschew fear's puckered ignorance,
its damning cacophony, its powdered
clown wig face made over in dementia,
bloated by the dull press of death's abscess
incapable to recognize absence,
dull palate of resistor embrace denies
& starves pulsating, capable brainstems.
Awareness, in joy--
           the flux of presence.

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

cebolla verde

to identify
my weak core
& surround it
with more

ajo verde

he is not polluted enough
with common things
a 'bubble' of gold
where the segregated
segregate further,
unfolding to weakness
and pain

Sunday, January 1, 2017


be goddamned
if i'm a whiny do
nothing this yr