even in sconny

poppyseed evening

2006-02-06T05:46:16Z

cold and shivering
on this new and discovered
poppyseed evening:
a friend reborn and though
not much, it's a crush

quiet and true creativity drips
from the sinews and jumps,
leaps out the fingers and
eyes and least of all
the mouth

we are nothing alike
but have nothing to lose
so the cycle spins and
the burning scotch creeps
down the throat

an excitement is beginning
on this new and discovered
poppyseed evening

a ghetto bed and wetting scene

2006-01-18T04:04:33Z

had a dream that i got fired.
maybe i'm mellowing, but it weren't
no big deal, especially in relation to
the vacuous nightmare that followed.
shots rang randomly through walls
a ghetto bed and wetting scene,
truly ghastly and intense were
these monsters. an abhorrent
apparition to say the least.

i woke up, still employed,
in the suburbs.

grey has made its presence felt

2006-01-12T04:42:10Z

the world was once stark black
and white but now
grey has made its presence felt.

a ripple effect,
breathlessly brilliant and
brilliantly tasteless,
sweeping through peak and tundra
just reaching climax.

grey-eyed, confusion dances
behind the weary pupils of a young
mother - heavily burdened but swiftly
relaxed as pegasus memories and futuries
flood her senses.

school supplies are piled amongst dirty
clothes and shoes. the room, she is
dark. the contrasts of such subjects
bleed together so deftly in
the dim and mellow lack of light.

the world was once stark black
and white but now
grey has made its presence felt.

rock box

2006-01-09T08:05:56Z

it was my creation
so i don't gotta listen
to all your whinin
and moanin and pissin

i'm in my rock box
ROCK BOX

i love rye bread and A-Dog
and this one guy named N8
but even from them there's
an occassional break

when i'm in my rock box
ROCK BOX

what i'm tryin to say
though lacking in tact
izzat i don't like to listen
cause i think i'm all that

i got a rock box
ROCK BOX

-dedicated to ryan, adrian, nate, and maybe eric because they were the first rock box witnesses-

tuesday night

2005-12-28T05:09:52Z

its lonely here.
W is on vacay and
rye bread partook
in perhaps too much yeast;

and i sit here waiting
patiently for midnight.
i am presently uncertain
as to my enthusiasm regarding
the aforementioned time.

overwhelmed, i decide to
take a short and
raggedy nap.

William is one today.

2005-12-15T15:49:08Z

Life is passing me
quickly by.

Exams to be studied for
and birthday love to
be doled in massive
and frequent amounts.

Goodbye and Goodluck.

currently self-afflicted

2005-12-07T16:58:24Z

wicked anxious agitation
downcast and incensed:
amalgamation of
consequent qualms
inundate perceived
reality.

despondence ensues,
begat by self.

machinations unmatched and recurrent

2005-12-07T02:25:51Z

rheumatically animated
violet strings pluck upon themselves:
a satisfied tune, see major

issues abound like magazines
machinations unmatched and recurrent:
the enigmatic tacit of capricious

whit, whilst canisters buttress barricades
the polysyballic become affable:
meaning mutual cataclysmic proceeding

continuously to the fore with gusto
entity alights in the company of affluence:
such dogmatic countenance hesitates

an instant elapses with commanding castigations
venerating homage aptly and with fervor:
"this subterfuge reality begets aberratious acuity"

sleep approaches

2005-12-02T04:25:40Z

my neck is tight and my
phone call has faded away
into the unenergetic
somethingness that is
myself.

and still...
i am somethingness.
which is something,
i guess.

sleep approaches
quickkkkllllleyjdhj

reality

2005-11-28T17:00:10Z

my hopes have been dashed
as always they are in the end.
heart-heavy i write and conjure
a phone number that will lead,
perhaps, to happiness
or at least
some semblance of
unreality.

today, the beginning

2005-11-28T14:11:13Z

finally i'm not at my braindead job.
but piles and piles of papers await me
although i near-always leave time for my
pleasures: writing, W, rye bread and art.

i recently finished a Speigelman -
"in the shadow of no towers." and suddenly
i am more enraged than usually.

today is a birth - day indeed.
the beginning of the beginning is not
as interesting as i would have
imagined it
to be.

the unabash-ed interview

2005-11-27T04:31:08Z

"ah yes," i said to the lurid and
unabash-ing reporter, "i know precisely
the question you're meaning to ask."
"ah yes?" "ah yes, might it be a question..."
"a question???" "inquiring about a
certain..." "a certain question???"
"a certain unpublished person?"
"it might, it might..." "and this
question..." "this question, my question???"
"might this question be..." "this question
be, this question be???" "about me?"

"ah yes, about you. this question is about
you. you..." "i???" "you like..." "i like???"
"do you like to eat shrimp cocktail when you write?"

"no..." "no???" "no, the sauce..."
"the sauce, the sauce???" "the sauce is too..."
"too, too???" "too messy, too messy: it
gets all over the papers."

"you are the most boring person..."
"person???"
"that i've ever interviewed. good day."
"well, fuck you too."

hated the holidays

2005-11-23T03:16:02Z

i wasn't doing very well this day.
i had decided to use past tense to
make everything seem less pitiable,
but alas, i was still in a bad way.

thanksgiving was around the corner;
yet another empty holiday to fill
the voids in our lazy, luscious lives.
i was a vegetarian and angry as well.

angry at everything mostly because
everything reminded me of me, in the
bad way. people were too intense for
me then, and i was like the rest.

i had felt ambitious before, see, and
i was wary of the feeling. but slowly
it crept up and grabbed hold and i thought:
"tomorrow will be different."

this day was today and this
was how i felt and now i am
constipated with the endless
barrage of bottomless baggage.

shattered myself

2005-11-22T05:46:55Z

i love words but i am choosing
silence from now on. i have been,
perhaps, too abrasive at times and
i am, without doubt, particularly
good with falsehoodery. but this is not
i, who love faeries and their tales,
not i, who writes poetry and prose
and one day hopes to successfully
fly a kite and write
a book,
not i, who cries when babies laugh
and grow up before your eyes;
this is not i and i am changing
the way i am and the way i play
the game. more subtle it will be,
i think, with more nuances and
under-the-table winking. more
appreciative of our short times together
and less aggressive jibber jabber.

oh swoon,
i think i've shattered
myself
image.

i just need to get paid.

2005-11-20T06:40:48Z

it's a green year indeed.
papers behind and two jobs ahead.
all i want to do is write and
there are so few who know
and none that encourage.

i don't need encouragement or
recognition or bullshit however.
i just need to get paid. i have tires
to fix and apartments to rent.
i even have some beer to drink.

drunk is what i am and understanding
people are not. i am not myself
at work and i am not myself
at school and i am not myself with
friends because i don't have any.

and i don't need'em 'cause i got
a car and a son and ten fingers.
tengo mi novio y mi lapice. i don't
need to surprise you or shock you or
please you. i just need to get paid.

no dough

2005-11-20T06:19:49Z

i was driving, and i hit
a curb
at an estimated speed of
forty m p h.

now this curb, see,
this curb
was real slick and he came
up on me like shadow.

tap and jolt and the deed
was done.
he glared at me and hissed and
sat real snug down there.

later i checked out the damage.
no dough
to fix it see, so i have to
drive till it explodes.

my A-M thinks i'm on A-C-I-D

2005-11-20T06:10:27Z

well, i'm not,
but sometimes i drink and tonight,
i may seem more drunk than on other
nights. nights when i haven't drank.

chinaski and i will be one tonight, however
until the wee hours and i will read him
and in my mind it is william burroughs
that speaks hank's truth.
ah burroughs, he is the voice of my self.

we weep, burroughs and i, for chinaski.
as i said months ago,
i am in a bukowski mood. and before him,
in the first, formative years of my life
i was in an ee mood. and after him,
probably ginsberg.

So-so

2005-11-17T15:32:38Z

i am stress-free and watching
Nick Junior with my son.

unfortunately, such events
do not inspire poetry.
correction: GOOD poetry.

on love

2005-11-14T03:39:34Z

love is a manic depressive
with a penchant for paranoia.

but still we engage him
(we aim to please) and,
for the most part, he
is content as are we,
for the most part.

love sits slowly still
as cousin time races by and as
his slutty brother passion comes
and goes and succumbs.
love may not be as insane
as he once seemed.

no, he is not logical or
rational, nor is he
(to any degree)
forgiving, but he leaves us,
for the most part,
satisfied.

as Adrian would say: secks!

2005-11-12T04:09:16Z

encompassed in that lusty slink
a sardonic smile and a round, hard
gesture
of loneliness and of
pleasure.

an orgasmic radiance.

on selfishness...

2005-11-11T04:16:21Z

i am convexly inverse
and extremely poor.
i cannot afford extra credit
and my inner being is unraveling
at the very thought of itself.

have i no soul? no mind
of my own and no
heart with which i feel?

there is a cobweb drifting
slowly down from the overhead
light source. the spider has long
since perished, probably by my
hand or maybe due to sconny's winter.

i never knew this spider,
much like i've never known
myself. we are one and
the same.

i am far too involved in
everything but myself and at
the same time...

... fuck this poem,
it's hopeless,
like the poet.

sans-itch and sans-poetry

2005-11-09T04:43:02Z

it's not leaping out of me tonight.
it's not striving against the
inner fibers of my soul to
ESCAPE! and there is no burning
itch, no prose in my heart
and no love on my lips.

not for you anyways.
fuck you.

just a good poem to remember when things get busy:

2005-11-08T04:37:46Z

a great one by charles bukowski:

excuses

once again
I hear of somebody who is going to
settle down and
do their work,
painting or writing or whatever,
as soon as they get a better light
installed,
or as soon as they move to a new
city,
or as soon as they come back from the trip they
have been planning,
or as soon as...

it's simple: they just don't want
to do it,
or they can't do it,
otherwise they'd feel a burning
itch from hell
they could not ignore
and "soon"
would turn quickly into
"now."

(i am in a very bukowski mood right now. i'm obsessed...)

punch of my life.

2005-11-08T04:04:48Z

anxiety often eats away
at my maddening-ever-more soul,
but
it adds a little spice too
that little adrenaline spike
in the coffee or tea or fruit
punch of my life.

right now
on my plate lies
an outline and a presentation
(due tommorrow)
many journals
(due ???)
and the general stresses
that come
with being all-together too lazy.

but i am writing,
with the happiness that
follows suit to such an
activity of worthwhileness.
and the outline?
it'll get done.
and the presentation?
well that goes with the outline.

i sit back, drink
that spike-ed drink
and ask myself why i
am still institutionalized.
"no answers tonight, lady,
you've got an outline to do."

precious life-time

2005-11-07T17:04:04Z

much of employment
is bull shit
they pay you a certain
wage to eat away at
a certain amount
of your life
with teeth made of lies,
two-facedness, greed
and corruption, but
(chocolate jesus thank you!)
sans-craig

even sans-craig i feel
that it's not worth it
just like C,A,G and others
that aren't worth my time
this precious life-time
that could be spent with
W or the bread of rye
or reading bukowski
or ee; the loves of my life
whom await me in written form
dead for years, but
alive on the page and in my
broken, bitter heart