Naked Blue World

Naked, much more than uncovered people
Like paint is for billboards, is a streaking landscape
Even rush-hour slows.

Blue, more expansive between rainbows
Not unlike a paper towel in a somber green sea
Is a mop like a rolling cloud.

The world, much larger between people,
Not unlike the subway is for moving
I putter in familiar circles.

The Reciept Pillow Smother

I have two lines that
Burn in two different inks,
Crashing like atoms
In razor blade sinks.

Bound in a book,
In a pocket of trust.
A pawn was a rust cook
Bubbling carbon to genius.

A rook that crooks
With a torch to his skull.
I Reach arm above eye
Dip from my inkwell.

Acquire taste for scratching retinas
With my pen tip I'm risking tetanus.

Bungalo 89/Cloud 487

I reckon I’ve brought vegetables
And squid to your stone soup
But hope is not a rotting turnip
THAT BUYS HIS WAY TO THE TOP
My Q-W-E-R-T-Y told the exclamation point
To take a vacation, the words are the yelling
And my mind is the same caliber of bullet
Found at the scene of the artistic death
Of an innocent grandmother parakeet

30 second poem. A stream of thought. My mind took a vacation. I was doing sit-ups to kill space-time and it came to me so I wrote it on the laptop. Read Blink by Malcolm Gladwell, or LANGUAGE, this writing is a felt tip pen and its ink bleeds on the pages of my mind. My new guitar is named Procka-Zul, after the demon whose soul was ensared in her gloss finish when I used intestines to string my tattered sunburst guitar. Where after it was strung my guitar instantly shed its finish and glossed a deathly black with tears of abalone echoing a weep from the sound hole.

Bedroom

Piles and walls of pocket crunched
Napkins of puzzling absurdity
Singularly re-livable
But mostly fluffy clouds
And a black bear in pieces
Rainbows of college ruled notebooks
With calligraphy sweeps of
Thick black nonsense
One pen to a notebook,
Uni-ball vision microscopic
For the blue Italian only
Everything is paper
But walls are not easy to erase

Back Row

shut the fuck up
read it to yourself
if you wince, stuff it with a rag
cover your eyes
keep your popcorn, eat it
don't slurp
the theater



----

----

I missed 4-20, but after a week off the mental rut, herbal butt, surgical blood, allergic rash, Italic traffic, and whimsical hogwash my mental magic is back like a white rabbit. I'm real close to just moving, I think I went from droop-da-doop to pesto, prego.

Anyway, I usually like the cinema.

She sold sea shells by the sea shore

I left without a single wave or word in 05 or 04
My regrets keep piling on my shell as I think of you more.
We cross jagged edges again, and for your pearls I melt
Guilt for an unknown loss, for not knowing how I felt
Guilt for thrashing lone against dark world rage
Hurled against time, against a clock ticking ribcage
Now an ocean apart, every meter torturous tangible
My shell no longer cold steel, I hear every beat crackle more frangible
But my always pain, besides prescriptions, has never hurt more
Than when I thought of you and wanted to share yours
Manic or green hell, I feel polar or red, I panic a rainbow of unseen blue
I wish for every never fantasy, to have a reality with you

Homeless Woman Quote

“Living out here is like sliding down a 40-foot razor blade,” she said. “Your body cannot rest. It’s like you’re pulling out your eyeteeth to get up every morning.”- Lee Ann Salazar, 63 year old homeless cat lady. (San Francisco, 2007)

2 for Getting the Fuh kout of Dodge.

You’re the girl I learned to rhyme for
My first kind girl, the kind of girl
I knew was mine from the gym floor
To the milk forest frozen pine to
Now you speak like you still care
I want more of many things, but you
I need. (See: Bright Green Shoelace)
Bumble-bee the cutie has got a BF
And as I’d lost sight in the race.

~~~~

With catastrophic disastrous hobbits,
Introscopic masters of Chicago breath,
My style tested, I bested the robots
Hustled the mobbits, hustle be my death
Been training all my life, won and I lost
But trust my melt will be grand,
Generate on demand, the most magnificent wealth
I’ll command the health of the economy
With a sway of my stand.

I still feel like the surgery interrupted my train of thought like it did the first time. I'm walking sideways because my mind is taking zig-zags. I think that all I needed was to zen out of my manic bipolar shit. wrote a lady a love poem she'd really have loved 3 years ago, then I wrote one that will be edited into the third Microwave, possibly. i have two lines that could become greatness, burning in two different inks, crashing like atoms in razorblade sinks. bound in a book, to pocket of trust, burning a hole(rust on edges) in my skull like a pocket of genius.

2 for Getting the Bar Out!

The way the bar used to make my body ache
Has got me tensed up in my back
Tylenol 3s and frosted flakes are great

For spilling rhyme to fill the crack

If little no eye-brows and too much rage
With a heartbeat sliding on a rusty razorblade

The slack will take him by the toe
Break his body in two
~~~~

This man has got no gun
Why don’t you give him space?
Slather honey on your ginger child
For the Yellowstone black bear tongue
Burn the buds to a boil
Don’t eat too much don’t go wild
We like or brownies thick
Like clouds up in the sky
Like the matching leather tie

The reason there were no poems for a month is because I was going through a rough period. A lot of work and little sleep, lots of getting worked up, got me all worked up and all to screetch to a codeine halt. Anyways, I was writing, just not posting. These two were some that bubbled out of a nearly catatonic state, they remain unedited. savor their purity, for it will not be long that even I'll resist cutting them with english red pen. And that is irony, that I was lost and the drugs were good the poems were bad, but cutting them and making them impure is good for the poems to be like drugs and lose you in the words.

Summer Stride

The liquor ticking rodeo
Of the soapy little lie,
Like Borat in a speedo,
With aviator eyes
Of a flickering mosquito,
They clown car their ride.
Liter blurring meters
With clothes that stink of tide,
They roll out like detergent
In urgent summer stride

Arranged like a cheetoh,
Dusted with cheezy pride,
Weezin in the breeze,
Watching cells divide,
Pressing on the creese,
Signing on the line,
The metronome in pieces,
The iron realigns
For bridesmaids and the bride
In graceful summer stride.

The villain and his crimes
In a snakin cable cake,
With tapeworm rhymes
Napstering the netscape,
Counting every dime,
Producing bitter flight
Boxed in broken crates,
The wire lime takes time,
Heart beating stutter lines,
Spying the choir's ride,
Quakes dig loch's and lakes
Where Nessy lives inspired,
And wires his tracks to tapes
In Loch Ness summer stride.