Friday, April 22, 2011

not, may be

Things you don't know. I don't know. Unless you tell me. Or someone. Like that I am. I am here. You see me. Or someone. That tree in the woods. Clapping. Crap. Room. Was where it was. One of us. One of them. All subject to recalls. Yours. Mine. The cause undetermined. I only see what is shown. The rest unseen. We will pray for rain. If I don't say you can't know. So faith is blind. And justice. Parents. Never to rain again. And what if there were none at all? One species wiped out. Then another. Wasteful. Not necessarily. Only on certain occasions. But even then. How to be if not seen. Heard. Touched. Not that way. I am what you tell me I am. Except you never said. I was not. You never saw. Directed elsewhere. I am what they said. But they never said. I am not not. We are. We are what they did. No one ever saw. Or said. It was nothing new. Lola gave us peanut butter. On spoons. Dancing on the table. Bare footed. Small. For that problem costs three dollars. We got it bad that time. All the time. But that was the only time with spoons of peanut butter dancing on the table. And the last time for Lola. they say they are writers. No one disagrees. No one says any thing ever. Maybe the rest are here but not really. Somewhere else. Like another room. It was windy. That's what he said. Dark in the closet. Without wind. Without air. There was no wind. Can't be. Unless he is trusted. Not lying. Spinning a yarn. None of the above will do. We are all cynics. Still we want to believe. We want to believe. To know. Someone to tell us we are. Not a thief.

Sunday, April 17, 2011


word like tentacles paralyze small
fish and hope of all ages
maybe though
dead cannot be found
maybe then
dead is safe
at least the time being, at least for now

we headed north up the coast
til there was no more
we always believed there must be a place
some other time, when they like us
they would go to hell

But how would that be different?

There's no gain in wondering why

they were boxed

It was never one of us but
once all of them were phenoms, the good ones
of blond-ed hairs and blu-ed eyes
fat cheeks
endless smiles
lacy ankle socks and mary janes
and then the rest of us, the ones you never saw
or if you did

planned out our lives according to the ones we had
our own childishness hiding the missing -- what of it?
We are a dangerous species
no safe place for our love to flow.
As if.
There was never need of love,
to become embroiled without fear of pain.
Anatomy never a friend, yours or mine.

THe telepathy of words, the sounds they make unsopoken
Aware consience brings only conflict
There is no personal philosophy but narcissim
And control.

Everyone had a roommate but us.
To be alone, kept alone, is key.
One alone will never be believed
so much the easier for what it was
Yet we stayed
Were we waiting for them to show us our ends or did we never care?
did we never matter
so much as that?

Even yet.


They then were in
the days of john birch
the kkk
mandatory sunday mass
i the disruptor still trying to dream
through to the end.
Whose nightmare it was.

Roaming the world through its sewers
chipping round.
some on, some off.
There's a price to pay.

Savoring a smooth cool barrel
with all that implies.
Infinite promise.

A fascination all my own.
Not any business of theirs they knew
but looked the other way
refusing our existence by those eyes

There are no more pioneers.
Everyone knows everything yet no one
knows one damn thing worth knowing
Abominations that for nothing else can be
when labels run out
no longer marginalized
instead simply ceased
the being.
It should take another two weeks.


the parasitics within they make us
famous for things they say we should
a realness of one of me that none can see.
I am
we are
invisible to the naked eye

it is not
rebellion certianly not
in this strength only
in isolated instances.

It's just that we
wanted to go the same way

now over and through it is blood, burnt flesh
a dry empty body waits to be
used, reused, discarded, recycled
Laying on, not near, absent use
emptiness reverbates, then shatters

it's literature and drugs
to all who wonder at the sameness
All of it is
nothing more than this

there is not more than a modicum of challenge
but for the vulgarity of some life some live
it was not a happy time but only the sameness
hiding these violent loathing selves

there is nothing of importance here
or there, only you.
spiritual liberation is not yet
liberation of any sort breeds fear
like the wavering signals coming in over
late-night radio snuck under the pillow of a stick-figure
girl, a caricature is all and so
neither can it be true what she thinks they were
did or she saw felt.
Empty lines never fill in

Nothing is until it is
They refuse to see what is in front of them.
WHat is behind them.
They refuse to be seen.
Then we are not.


We were never
we once cried
without knowing
the mind foresees out future
We weep
for the aura of it
we restrain ourselves
Going off
we miscalculated
Then we finished
Would apologize
Didn't know what to say
Luminaries legends devils and saints.
It wasn't just a baby's terror.


Words imprecise unfamiliar complicated
imprecise artistic transliterations
to illustrate any dreamers
no mere approximations but only
things indescribable
for lack of words the use of which
render bluured the dream
Ayy dream

Making fun, ruinous fun

There is no art
Only paint and words
the subtlety of nuclear explosions
And blood

Only blood will do.

Sunday, April 10, 2011


i can't do any
more writ
ing be
have not
to say and i
might run out
room to say if once
words come or
thought to be
i don't
have time to
read every
they say
response to

no se

Morning to night walking round
a thought in my head

Go ahead and say it the others
In the corner sitting with their concepts, their precepts
I sit but cannot know how it is they learn
I understand none of it
I tested their feelings and failed
Magic is not i must but i can't

It is no matter that you again are sure to be absolutely right
But then I came late, hating the knowing
the making of a living and not just to be
before that great committeee an urge to vomit my ending truths
instead we shed those those things like a mocassin's sin in the jungly overgrowth
Yet the index remains there for the committee
for you
waiting to be found

It is not just only you and me but there are
others hiding in the woods, behind my cerebral cortex.

Who knew.

not me

one of themm a father tied
one rope fr the sky thinking like
that he said is a sin but to be
saying things like
that worse than sin
how worse than I don't know

Pummelled like a piƱata
a father I heard say
said some breathlessly sin
removes you from god
your father
wondering how many fathers to make just one
life and then but only later if sin
removes me from god then how
can talking be worse than that?

perhaps that then is why even
now our ghosts are bruised

Meme les pigeons vont au paradis

thought after

When I leave I will go off
as a note.
Only one or a piece.
There will no offerings.
Of course providene and all that has a place.
Things that have no name.

"Long ago and many years was my my music taken."
Who would listen to such talk from a man like that?
Much less a vaguness called girl.

it just vanished like the tide.
That one no longer able to be with that she gone
so went
the music
unrecognizable by choice then
became and the music
simply departed
it wasn't the farewell he hoped for

hospital sunday

fishes bubbles
on the surface only one
producer of grand babies
two two year olds
i love you
he makes a good hamburger
beeps and songs and buzzes and all the other
electronic detritus
it's a whiz on sunday
cause the lines aren't that long
or young
babel babbles
bot never The Test
only children and food and family that
no one knows, will never be seen or maybe
isn't even
all this easy talk covers the not talking thant can't be and
is not allowed
some more full of himself than others and
he's not even wearing boots
still the fishes bubble so they
for one or however many is there
can leave alive or
naturally dead

Sunday, April 3, 2011

and i'm not here either

i am not here but not there am i either.

where you are is not where i am,
else you might know where i am, or
could be, or
have been.
the human leavings incapable of cleaning.
wiping free of memory, of
thought, whatever
it is this consciousness we are
blessed and cursed.

come to think of it i've no
idea not only the place of
absence but of
your being as well.

we all are hid behind our
personas crafted, disdain and aloofness, no more
joining with another, no connection, no communication.

you write you say is enough is all you deign
or have to give.

not that my selfishness was ever a secret
i am human still i think
though uncionnected yet still
selfish narcissism springs to life anew

like you.
like all the rest.

you may say or write or post as you will and i
need not be commital, you expect nothing.
i too fade away,
making no constraints.
it is after all nothing to do with me
but only you

of time we have just so much.
who am i to take of yours?

you're tight, yes,
pretending other, but then i already knew.
i am no one and
i am not here

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houston, tx, United States

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