Monday, July 30, 2012


Holy Shit!
I see Tom Brokaw, our Emmy
Award-winning babbler,
our favorite mythomaniac,

“It’s not only man’s high destiny, Anderson,
but proof of our immortality as well,
that we have the choice between killing the world
and carrying it out.”

What a supercilious smidgen of blabberistical presumptionarianism,
if oz ever did hear it!

“Cokie, God must have
loved these common folk very much
because he made so many of them.
And, Cokie, I
might add—Anderson, you might
be interested in this, too—
He made a tolerable fine work of it,
if you don’t mind my injecting myself,
I mean my opinion

The mob ardently projects its self-appreciation,
thinking U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.!
Tom Brokaw, Cokie Roberts and Anderson Cooper leading them
right up to that vital message from their sponsors.

Meanwhile, a Texas hang
man, rockin it, confesses he’s not
offended by this idea
of bullying Jesus Christ, that
it might be something to roll on.

Friday, July 27, 2012


The smell of death
stale from waiting out
this breath between storms 

kills us a bit inside our frailty 

while Moloch
escaping Its bloodbath
lingers without 

guilt surrounding us

Wednesday, July 25, 2012


This we have
now that

rising bush
initiating and guiding

this quivered moment
that majestic composition

as this presence

that dawning when
in a company of freaks we-aring
the private splendor reverberating
a big bang perhaps

or that party
awareness of the lamp
shade here on your crowning

where I’m a little teapot


Monday, July 23, 2012



Ideas come from differences.


Or Nature composing
multiple dimensions of
fuzzy space-time.


Sensibility seams a mean
dimension vibrating
strings in all directions
forming an imagined
knot or not-


Universal topology evolving
ropes replace particles
becoming wavelengths
stringing calculated stains
spreading out torquing
shapes of space twisting
lived time inside unbreaking
something evolving
the subtle elegance of


The uniform point
first one way then another
this situation into that
situation marking time
tuning to different keys yet
missing something…

reduced to emergent ballpark notions
useful at sporting events…

corralling arbitrary vibrations of intentional universes
intentional vibrations of arbitrary universes
arbitrary intentional universes vibrating
the functions of whim and necessity…

diverse membranes forming
unique laws legislating
constant yet cyclical languaging
words that begin without beginning
etymologies grammaring
meaningful and meaningless time
before the beginning and beyond the end…

transitional moments rupturing spatial variations in time…

when the free ends of our open strings
connect elsewhere closing others into loops
we vibrate in all directions…

equidistant from everything…

we’re massless strings of light interacting
energies with other energies stringing
vibrations within each others’ vibration quivering

the one pulsation of:



A lower energy string is lighter than a higher energy string.


The attractor seams the infinite energy of every string.


You are the finite energy of every meaningful string.


We are the energy of this string.


We do strings of energy that are not ex/ist.


What determines us is the pro/jected move/ness of our imaginary strings and the holographic energies associated with Its secreted light.


There is only the one infinite uniqueness: A string of endless resonant shapes morphing into equidistant places.


Seeing the inside from out here
undisturbed by Its mathematical hints
nudging this dream forward
locating the constant backward
seaming variables trailing every word and world
wrapping them up in their curled-up spaces
finding them deep inside our own extending dimensions
intending the way we’re spooning the universe
mistaking Its passing through for dis/appearance.


This twisted mirror symmetry supplies the energy our string embodies.


Our secret Attraction is much heavier and takes more energy than all the energy we have, so it feels infinite.


A universe of spirits and ghosts exists where energy goes beyond the limits of the potential future histories partly composing us, calling us out, that would swirl us down the drain like a…


The world seems seams of strings playing infinite tunes within the uncertain limits beyond the outside noise.


This one dimensional dancing filament vibrates strings of words.


An oscillating language magnetizing
us apparently electrified into knots
or not…

Friday, July 20, 2012

at home

a violent spark of
acute stillness dropping
seed containing seas
of boondocks loosing
marvels unto itself

confusing arabesque for theory

one more layer of emptiness
draining this tender seam
advancing you

your fingers load
meaning movements un/separated
describing proximity

an embryo

a universe of wolves
sitting politely
liberating their howls
un/hinging their how/lessness

in this bird’s beak

a knot of alertness
refusing to slacken becoming
the uncovered fact of leviathan
a meekness that won’t blink
a thought that won’t think

loving you

reasoning brilliant coherences
imposing survival

                                                                            at home

Wednesday, July 18, 2012


--for Randy

Though we unplug
your body from
the machine, our
memories live on. Things
were what they were.

We could have been better, but
loved each other none
the less.

There are more tears
shed in life
than death—ruing
our failures more
than our
facts, which we’d own if
we could only
believe them.

This sorrow
isn’t for our sins,
but the absence
our memory makes more
acute: the sound of
your missing voice,
the space of
your empty body.

As usual, it’s only ourselves
we can think
through, as our selves
seam everything
into us, then

Monday, July 16, 2012



Nice one becoming
that idol reaching
out to anyone who would
grab you—

for wearing the idolator home—

a new position for you to try, imagining
yourself some stoned prophet,
perhaps smoking weed with love,
or being that gnat blown by a mysterious wind—

some Johnny Appleseed
from your itinerant quarters, where
my thunder rumbles
your incoming soul—

a here-then now-there untouched

language dishonoring you
as my pearl, knowing
we’re numb with sex—

our interior Jesus forever
resurrecting some intoxicated Christ
obedient to Its fruitful pleasure,
keeps dying and so further multiplying
until he’s sober, stunned and lying
about His Word’s abundance—

harvested, crushed, commodified—

forgiven by father, mother knows
not what she’s doing, nor
do I understand better than she
what you’re doing.

We’re all just trying
to make you happy,

we’re all just trying to live—

sort of, some of the time.


So you don’t give a shit, do ya Dad?


Mr. Authentic prefers not to
protract his homilies.

Einstein deals
the micro-metaphors of frailty
in his relativistic mathematical formulae—

those deliciously complex variables
kneading his protection, those very
details he refused to interfere with
because he empathized with God,
not Its empty images—

those deceitful analogies
obliterate our quest for significance,
return us to genesis
via every hole
in our scaffold, spraying
potential futures with our DNA—

situations bleeding
bones ejaculating into
each other, braining
our souls, displacing
trust/distrust binaries,

that paranoia where
nothing here
seems this, there—

tomorrow ever cumming—

that immodest slut, Jouissance,
adores you

the great river, drowning
eagles looning to fly
ardent serene adoration
great blue
herons pitch their tent
nests against the sky,
ecstatic, feeding

on the catch of this

ocean surging and splashing
inside each chest—

a musical lotion—

composing female wisdoms
whose tits sustain me, whose
milk rivers my interior driftwood—

the cerebral salt of
your liquid breath, carrying
word-like fish, swarming

around my donkey—

searing It.

Friday, July 13, 2012



a babbling wake sounding resurrection in the garden again and again with leaf and feather flowering sounds of steam unfolding each mind’s punk weeding hemp once smoked by those now too dead to embody their desired peace


purities claimed for burning in the smoke lodge with your mother


that music all day and night fading as we fade when part and parcel of some riotous core informing notorious childish faces rosy with red flower bud illumination kicking ass in a station wagon going nowhere fast needing futile comprehensive inanities likening themselves to each other just to get along echoing pre-war forms of right and wrong sugarcane milling sweetnesses mixing long extravagant magnolia absorptions inside the song with the sky grasping that third kinda chick t’ain’t arn t’at all


rocking like that odd apple hanging from the twisted tree in our mind


antennae tuning our interior weather channels to usable universes playing notes of some midnight train’s distant whistle indicating our vacant seat promising tomorrow’s window ticket tonight feeling the axe view that’s leaving the leaves alone while spilling the sky from its station


swirl It down the drain like anything else inside the mirror

Wednesday, July 11, 2012


It weaves your heart,
hiding, effortlessly
mending; discounted,
It seems tepid, yet
loyal, personifying
the divorcee and

It tastes
barren yet feels
abundant, according
Its time.

It sounds
underlying calm
smelling Its name.

It takes
a peculiar stance
to ward existence:

Animating those
intensely, estranged

From their world, submitting

Transcendent beneath
what It cares to bias.

It embodies
feeling amalgamates
thought, allocates

Speaking from
this side of Mind—
unplanned, cataleptic
& political-
economic knowing

Or not

Monday, July 9, 2012


Love always rises
beneath the sheets

a helpless miracle
counting leaves in the dark,
transcribing grackle
notes those of mockingbird

reaching out

empty mortars need
filling, beggars’ bowls in

the boat of myself, submerged
yet living—transparent
ocean hazy with smoke

full moon my space
occupying time
for the cat’s return

god stealing
that look in your eye
snow in the crowd, washing
yourself of your self, somewhere

inside language becoming
a flower
mute and white

a poem
echoing all
i say flesh-
devising spirit

inside astronomy, oceanic
the interior math of a blank page,
a fallow field
ripe for planting the Absolute
seed germinating light, or not

a tongue unlocks its fear,
kissing sentences into a razor’s edge,
weaving the sun as Sol
weaves the sky asking
what time is why,

penetrating our body everywhere
at the center, sewing

nuts to be watered

with sound elation and
numb validation

b[u]y us, or
recent facsimiles

Friday, July 6, 2012


The wind blowing through my head
gives the shaman something

To breathe—

A nameless dog
howling, grief
running with Its tongue

Hanging out, dripping and
sweaty,  anticipating
reunion in the wilder-ness

This longing answers.

I’m spoken, an echo-
stealing swine of the mind;

An intelligent piece of pork
boars me open, birthing
itself into my trifle, bearing
mysterious gifts, buried
atop its tusk;

Provoking sobs
fragmented capacity
spiritual recklessness and
profuse scattering of seeds.

I’m a prodigal deadbeat, wandering
ignorant of Thanatos, preferring
the wind and rain that eroticize
this climate,

This lactating Earth milked by her whining child—

In-formed by Its wanting…

Wednesday, July 4, 2012


I lied to you (as a token of my love

[For you I sprinkled the Sierra Nevadas with crystallized corpses]
[For you I bred with Sasquatch in the Tongats]
[For you I fed the tiny elk rutting in the Kigluaiks])

because I know
in this common mass grave
we call Earth
I’ll never be alone

(heavenly crowds will blot out the darkness, thickening

the light, [oddly reticent and worried {like you}]), writing

against the given grammar, reading

every element of style (correctly [a political statement]), seaming
together (in the light [finding])
post-mortum a reason for life, living
the translation (into mystery [what the soil fed]), groaning
in the (mindful) presence (of something), wondering
about nothing (beyond


There) is something (not [no{thing}])

Monday, July 2, 2012


Those mugs exposing the sea
disguise its blissful gems,
blessing the solid fuel
flying within them.

Determining holiness,
that stare in their eye like salt
dissolves in their liquid swarm,
sluicing me of my self,
nowhere inside the ego
befalling this muted.

When will the newborn meat be siphoned away to slay the un-swept silence oozing through the fractured constituencies of my heart?

When that playable song of a locomotive’s breath howls some un-signified space.

When tomorrow’s voucher’s pledged tonight.

Where my elusiveness seams a glimmer of love reworking the light.


Your incidence seams my apocalypse—

That blankness of lacking,
a delayed mo[u]rning without
direction in the midway human

Insensitivity pursuing what I have.


Being nothing,
all breeds stillness,
going subversive
to reiterate us.


When this blind earth trembles
like a vagrant in the sway,
burying towns of strangers,
yielding worthy worthlessness, muzzy
but stirring, permitting terror—
lips crack open our themes, error
floating them away, pious furor
ejaculations concede, flaming
Its tower, giving It a taste of lovability.


An odiferous potion—

Free of allied malice,
blood-spattered bareness of bowels and brains—

Explodes confusion, becoming our chum.


This precise,
magnificent ingenuity seems a milk-laden Mars,
suckled by Its laughing mother.


A visibility
[when our hushed cerebral envoy crouches,
occupied by central secrecies teeming without voices,
while no part of our furtive tongues syntax
the frothing boogie-woogie
that sometimes washes away
the wickedness of precise
loyalty] blooming
this orb, purely subsisting.


Revealing Its embryonic void to beings, human yet not…