4/19/2018

pop song

i know that you've been waiting for it
boy i've been waiting too
i know you got that fever for me
but i'm nine'y eight point six, see?

don't touch my body
don't throw me down
or wrestle me around
or try to play

i'll make you feel nothing
don't touch my body
want my legs around your waist?
let me wrap my hands
around your neck
baby just a little taste

don't touch my body
trynna lay me on the floor
boy i know you love my curves
let me give you what you deserve

4/14/2018

Maze

A maze of red sand
under red sun
ceaselessly shifting
rearranging in red wind
You are lost in the labyrinth
The Way moves like a snake
before you
behind you
The exit scatters
The dead end rolls away
while the red eye looks all directions

3/27/2018

a la carte

Bird

bloated corpse of a concrete-colored sky
ripped in half by something alive
excessively alive
a blight on empty air

Self-progression

Pain - Expression - I.
songs to live by
pillars on the old, old road
on the way forward
from the way backward
built in mineral - strong, sequentially, and slanted
by imperfect minds, now dust.
the continuous line of work of man
forms an asymptote of immortality

Creativity

urge then action then judgement.
soft segregations into
 good v bad 
 woe v rage
 proximal v distal
easy to lose the lust
small bursts of ejaculate
splatter ineffectually on plastic

Would you rather

Would you rather die in a fire or by drowning or by Disgust, literally.
Disgust.
And what would it take.
To what.
Be that disgusted.
Something worth killing me, something with the actual power, a thing I didn't have the power to stop and the weight of shame crushes my chest like a bag of cement.
Like what.
A bag of cement.
No, like what would that disgusting thing be.
Oh I dunno.
So you live.

3/13/2018

the rim of the sea
is chipped

sails furl
and float away
we tilt

beads of rain
rise from the ocean
to fall on black clouds

above/below

god yawns
yet even so
yes even he
the sun a candle
blown out

2/27/2018

nyc mornings

the mist-smog grinds down 7th
thrashing papers and bits of dreams
from the hopeless dreaming homeless.
lights shine for no one.

men drive, men honk, men growl.
their hearts are stillborn, but their fists work.
they go
to battle in boardrooms
while women seek another way.

a bird hits the glass and dies
and falls
and dies some more on touchdown.
patters of tears from a nearby fountain,
sponsored by jp morgan chase
in corporate plaza,
open to the public
dawn to dusk.
this dead bird is not public
yet here she is - or was

well anyway thank you
says the doorman.
no thank you says the doorpasserthruwoman.

each remaining separate forever,
thrown in the heap.

2/21/2018

stress test

if enough time passes
we will be forced to.
who is we
who forces
how soon is enough

breaking
plane 
line 
point 

my systems are stress
tested
my pain is
topographically
hard to measure
yet known

define the shape of a mountain
the length of a coast
the surface of fog

2/13/2018

sleep fragments

The Falls

do not purify; it is pure
do not defile; it is pure
do not change; it changes


Knowing

I hate the winter because it’s cold. I hate the cold because it hurts.
I feel lonesome because I am alone. I feel what I am.
I know it before I feel it.
Do you
know it?
feel it?


Plover's Trip

from open sky to
open mouth of the cosmic crocodile each tooth is the arm of a spiral galaxy
each grain of sand's a grain of sand each a beach of grains of sand man
call me the bird of the universe along for the ride on the edge man
open never close man


Driving Thru

Smashed turtles on the highway
Five dollar foot long
God in the trunk

1/24/2018

RIP Ursula Le Guin

she was a hero. a very important person to exist. she inched me away from misanthropy and toward, well, feminism at least. so sad she will never write another word. my favorite author.


from "The Writer on, and at, Her Work"


Long ago when I was Ursula

writing, but not “the writer,”

and not very plural yet,

and worked with the owls not the sparrows,

being young, scribbling at midnight:

I came to a place

where the road turned  and divided,

it seemed like, 

going different ways, 

I was lost. 

I didn’t know which way. 

It looked like one roadsign said To Town 

and the other didn’t say anything. 

So I took the way that didn’t say. 

I followed 

myself. 

“I don’t care,” I said, 

terrified. 

“I don’t care if nobody ever reads it! 

I’m going this way.” 

And I found myself 

in the dark forest, in silence. 

You maybe have to find yourself, 

yourselves, 

in the dark forest. 

Anyhow, I did then. And still now, 

always. At the bad time. 

When you find the hidden catch 

in the secret drawer 

behind the false panel 

inside the concealed compartment 

in the desk in the attic 

of the house in the dark forest, 

and press the spring firmly, 

a door flies open to reveal 

a bundle of old letters, 

and in one of them 

is a map

of the forest 

that you drew yourself

before you ever went there.

         The Writer At Her Work:

I see her walking

on a path through a pathless forest,

or a maze, a labyrinth.

As she walks she spins,

and the fine thread falls behind her

following her way,

telling

where she is going, where she has gone.

Teling the story.

The line, the thread of voice,

the sentences saying the way.

         The Writer On Her Work:

I see her, too, I see her

lying on it.

Lying, in the morning early,

rather uncomfortable.

Trying to convince herself

that it’s a bed of roses,

a bed of laurels,

or an innerspring mattress,

or anyhow a futon.

But she keeps twitching.

There’s a lump, she says.

There’s something

like a rock—like a lentil—

I can’t sleep.

There’s something

the size of a split pea

that I haven’t written.

That I haven’t written right.

 I can’t sleep. 

She gets up 

and writes it. 

Her work 

is never done.