the crane pose

planets are aligned today.
gravity balances force
directly in proportion
and inversely proportional
to distances between them
measured in arm lengths.
dynamic equilibrium
seizes the order of things

commitments, counter-commitments,
millstones, gallstones, the moon,
holding patterns pulling limbs,
pinpricks and cold space
place equations
imaginary numbers
opposing me in the hallway mirror
like divisions into infinitesimals

i observe the order of things
desires equalized into stasis
stillness, two opposite pulls,
magnetic poles of earth
stabilized by lunar-spin:
tidal motions, hemispherical seasons,
reasons to close the windows
or mow the lawn shirtless

and once order is found and held
couches perch at an angle
facing digital reasoning,
directives to consume or imbibe
wavered by whim and suggestion,
balance sways flexing muscles,
sinews stretch and pull aside
waiting for worlds to collide.

Spells

Synapses fire in spray patterns
Suppressing stretched siestas on the sofa
Sunday afternoons caressed with fan breezes
Parasympathetic impulses, dust motes
Passed into hands stroking
The sacrum, fused and soft.
Your light skin hair stands against my fingertips.

the shoreline

you walked without shoes up the shore
navigating gull droppings,
ground glass, jellyfish,
missed the washed up castles
and a pink shovel left like a sundial

you walked a nautical mile
feet dug into sand just above the waterline
fine time squeezed between metacarpals
the earth conducting energies
directly into your pectoralis majoris

the ocean spectrum of sound
sprayed auditory static in the airwaves
flotsam frothed lapping at crab graves
water tongues wagged in passing,
atomized salt crystals stung your skin

the sideways sun skint on heat
still made you squint as you looked back
sands stretching into infinite shoreline
your grass hat brim folded
halos crossed on your retinae

from my lookout your form wavered
white flag scarf waving
the sky mist wandered inland
my towel island sliding ever closer to the sea
as i watched you flicker me goodbye.

Post Mortem

All the way, the phone call shook
Dividing goodbyes into discrete sounds
Slicing all the grounds of coffee evenings
Caffeine reverting to molecules
Mixed with plasma,
Dopamine, norepinephrine
The brain inhaled the cocktail and coughed
Words spilled out in reply
One mass of apologies

It’s easy to say there is still time
To try new equations, new concoctions
Mixtures of old and new melodies
Songs to wear like jackets or shoes
It’s easy to think there is still time
To lose inhibitions in the living room
To find attraction over the smallest things
To bring sentiment back into hands, eyelids
Walks up the hill at night

It’s easy to dissect moments
Into individual tissues and flesh
Tendons and nerves
Scalpel steady hand on the lab bench
It’s easy to dissect sentences
Nouns, pronouns, verbs
Mechanical parts and design
A classroom whiteboard diagram
The skeleton of language

It is easy for silence to outline spaces
It is easy for silence to fill up spaces
It is easy for silence to smother details
When all is said and done
When the corpse is cold
You can cut across it and count the rings
Notations and analysis
Scribbles of your pen
Glancing over dark rims

The call ends before the shock
Humectants in my ocular sockets
Formaldehyde occultists hold me
The stainless bed
Cold sheets
My blood removed.

Stone Mountain

granite slopes like a dome
like a serving of mashed potatoes
when i walk off comfort food
up the uneven water-worn path.
used fat evaporates
each step made under stubborn pines
each once just the idea of a tree
standing still in a stone crack
when sherman burned this town

i rise on the back of confederacy
where snow hardly falls
and bob, tom, and jeff watch tourists
interbreed and shoot off lasers,
their rock hard resolve
broken not by the elements
but by the blood of kin folk
freshened with bayonets
and crushed by memory into bright iron soil

i wipe oil from my forehead
as a way to exhale
as a way to climb above these plains
so stated in phrases of sharp gasps
rising always rising
to the gondola's final stop
where school kids and breathless riders
eat hot dogs and take photos
framed by the frayed southern skyline.

Rubber Soles

When I walk
All I see are shoes
Two days of moving through town
And shoes look at me
Like dinosaur bones in the museum
Backpack stuffed and worn
Shuffling to the coffee shop
Pockets clinking with change
My jacket seams all but given up

At least summer’s coming
When evenings stay like blankets
Soft beds of grass
Beer bottles almost half-full
County fairs and sidewalk stores
Summer shoes stare at me
Sometimes pointing open toed
Tongues panting in the heat
Painted lids, pedicures
Pretty flowered sandals

At least summer’s coming.
I’ll bathe in the river
Just at sunrise
Before light makes me transparent
I’ll wash my clothes, dress the branches
And dry myself on the riverbank
Until I shrink and become vapor
Rising from the earth to fall
Slowly in a shower or with fury in a storm
Only still to be trampled by countless rubber soles.

there sex is

trees there sex is
in the lusty buds
opening petals
pollen brings bees is

intercourse mixed is
swollen fermentation
eggs warmed in the nest
juices secreted is

the chemicals coursing is
blood working the flesh
stimulate under fingertips
the curve into hips is

undulated valleys and hills
folded in sheets is
rolled and twisted is
exhalations of sated lips

trance siberian

days were missed alone on the train
slipped between planks in platzkart bunk beds
passed by nodding heads intoxicated
with just enough samovar tea to wet cracked lips

coal smoke combed through clothes and hair
mixed with rolled fags chewed in silver teeth
vodka stained canvas sacks gorging junk
lugged by traders in tri-color track suits

table crumbs, sardines and beer spills under elbows
cans of salat, condensed milk, eekra,
grease stained newsprint piroshkees
all bought through the window at the last reprieve

you willed her face there under the pillow
to occupy you through broken sleep
through the rocking clatter of tracks
blue sweatered conductor checks
grey skinned drunks
prodding away your novelty
davai americanyetz
drink drink
eesho eesho

but at the end you stepped off into snow
into the spring-loaded taxi ride
that propelled you to your dorm room
to the strip mined soleness
(sometimes called samastayatelny)
in the siberian afterglow.

there is music in hell

there's music in hell
it is elevator music
because everything is going down
the place is a mess
cauldrons are cracking
boilers are on their last legs
even the forks are split
the devil is a corrupt dictator
minions argue and conspire
people are screaming
but there is music
and violins
and blood

this thaw

as in the past, the prod pushes us
sheared sheep assemble in the pen
promised sunlight
the full thaw

mutton breath stretches stiff legs
stunted grass
men and their dog teeth
bark before the inevitable slaughter

the farmhouse leans forward
wooden ribs exposed
to watch the wet stare of spring

exit

pack and get dressed before all hell breaks loose
before clocks are thrown at walls or stolen
before your B movie roles
make coasters for repeated cups of black
your bladder trembling in reruns
where children play in backgrounds backwards
hoping you choke on your joke

show me awake as i want to see it
bright blurs in the first seconds of day
adjoining beds parked in parallel
pass forever in space, stars wash into gray
watercolors and soapstone
don't lose your nerve
i can't do this alone

motorways move us in clover leaf outlines
blessing the foot that crushed your shell
burned gaps in chemical reactions
pain cracked pressure points
and bloomed like a firebird
swallowing everything in one bite
doors pried open by the jaws of life

bridge to the middle of afterwards
treasure island, yerba buena
missions and handfuls of orange clay
coastal highways blurred by fog
escape is just through the valley
through poppies and cristatum folds
the slopes sucking dry after the cold.

hills stumble to the foot of the plain
as raindrops chatter with tempered glass
lightning dictates still life flashes
stored by wind witch and saguaro
snatches of lost time beaten by blows
my neck cramps looking over my shoulder
your rear view recedes as fast as we go

i watched the back of promises
heads rolled in long hauls of shame
desert hordes of torn clouds leaking darkness
windowless homes with open porches
corrugated roofs, corroded holes
i've driven black ribbons tied like robes
banded tighter, cleaving hills,
clasping gas stations like glossy jewels

this is my final alarm, my last close
dreams tangled with lost sheets
scratch woolen blankets
the open window only blows cold
snow dusts the still streets and roofs
the landscape sheds skin flakes
clustered on the edge of cracks
iron dirt frozen in the wind chill

the map unfolded traces veins
back to the heart like skid marks on the road
boxes hold only enough to be carried
loads of paper words crumpled and folded
our sum totals divided once more
fescue grass points through white flecks
green fingers showing us where we go
as they hold broken bottles.

the drift

plastic keys try to please me
at my metal desk by boxes of energy
the lcd placates in crisp pixelation
electromagnetic paranoia signals in waves
printers exhale toner and ozone
the phone blinks red codes saying,
"you know where you are with"
hamfisted emotions punching holes
reasons and opinions stolen from the road

at the metal wayside you wet your sleeve
then you left (or did i leave?)
hammering discontent repeatedly
in flexing muscles, twitching signs
smithing warm iron into edges, sparks
preparing to point the tip at me,
shield in place, marked with crosses
a mace hanging off your hip

my totality is left in young feet
some walking upside down under a summer lamp
faces blurred by the watery heat
my voice just an echo
vibrating in their memories

some days i try to grow wings
look down on roads like brittle veins
where metal blood pumps and pushes
gray with smoke from the crucible heart
cold clouds part as i drift past

i visit plots where old houses stood
their smashed walls now dust
to be swept up in clumps under the rug
afternoons spent trusting
questions thrust in naked revelation
become cold slides used only for dissection

in the evenings on the oversized sectional
separated by digital noise
digital remorse
we drift downstream
lights dimmed
children deaf in their sleep
you snoring under faux fur
me holding the remote
purple cushions sliding loose
sliding slowly to the floor
while i fold vertical distance with my eyelids

Night is My Casual Friend

Night is a casual friend.
Come and go, night,
Stay for a while.
Here, have a drink.
Smile and tell me the lies of the city
In the fluent background rumble of living:

In the seething love of the body
shaped like San Miguel hills in neon curves
In the Polk Gulch alleys of piss and dumpsters
slipped between ever-lit storefronts
In the stainless First street lobbies and gated condos
packed with rich, young automatons
In the bunches of leather pressed clothes
passing through the doors of dark SoMa bars
In the headlight choke of cars and buses
sparking a thousand horizontal facets
In the steam and smells of fried meat
blown into rising clouds over hilly Chinatown
In the statues and sand held together by crabgrass
slept on by homeless in the worn corner park
In the random clatter of streetcars
heralded by bells and stone shuddering

In the pointed intersections of diagonal streets
In the phallic towers clustered downtown
In the din of 24 hour Haight Street record stores
In the smoke of hookah bars and Middle-Eastern trance
In the dance and clink of Italian coffee shops
In the sidewalk cafes lit by the glow of cigarettes
In the tenderloin on the crowded steps of mercy churches
In the fish decay and seagulls huddling on the wharf
In the crush of stuccoed duplexes and Victorian homes
In the solo apartments of lone microwave meals

Lies appeal to you,
And you shelter them.
Night, don't be still,
Come and go.
You are my casual friend.

wandering beats

although i'm partial to the use of rhyme,
and from time to time i like to wander, i think timing is key,
the tick tock stick of words in my teeth,
smacking red gums chewing asynchronous chomps chipped from dead leaves
wound around the pointed head of the painted fountain,
the snapping rhythm of water slapping the backs of frozen green fish
who thrash the still life scene until peacocks preen their fans
and plead beside the borderline bougainvillea hedges
gripping rusted wrought iron gates.

missteps and breaks are made walking alone
along the split asphalt path under top-heavy century trees
lean willow leaves stroke the constant clear skin of the low avon
running in slow motion past the black teeth of the rough stone banks.
ducks and fish swim and splash on the ribbon of shallow green
rippling the water near the gondolas floating lazily by
the sky a glowing gray behind the branches of kowhi and cordyline
interspersed with fir and pine shelter canopies.

couples garnish the rectangular grass, kids pass balls in open fields,
cricket matches and rugby games are played to measure time
as rhythm and rhyme footstep past in their own scene
leaning into each step caught tapping
leaving the mind to dream of days in the garden
clapping the beat of idyllic happiness.

not here (upstairs)

i don't find my mother here
where slick movements mesh
behind overdone underwear
sliding bra straps over nipples
nuptial motions sucking lobes
holes opening as old as productive urges
twisted pant legs chucked on the wool weave floor
drapes parted halfway
the shades cutting our bodies into slices
us fighting the limits of skin and skein
coiled like snakes under the striped duvet
arms that pull and hips that push
forgotten hinges and gaps
synapses snapping up motoneuron spaces
between coming home and the school bus horn
in the quick flesh hot breaths
of the locked suburban upstairs

released from the dog chain restraint
we lose memory for a moment
and regain the young days before distance and drudgery
our forgotten faces pressed down like reflections
once again open to be drowned.

Please leave your message at the sound of the tone...

Here is something peaceful for you to look at while I start to resurface...

This One is Especially for P-Slim and All His Friends at Apple

Gotta admire those guys at Blendtech. You can hear the collective geek consciousness cry out in horror and loss with gnashing of teeth and rending of garments...


Thanks to DD for your eeeevil sense of humor...

Flight of the Conchords

Last year, I was fortunate enough to watch on HBO the 1/2 hour comedy act of New Zealand's 4th most popular guitar-based digi-bongo acapella-rap-funk-comedy folk duo, Flight of the Conchords. It was everything I felt comedy should be: understated, intelligent, and hilariously funny.

Now HBO is airing a 12 part comedy series about the two man digi-folk band called, strangely enough, Flight of the Conchords. It follows Bret and Jermaine, the two kiwi band members as they try to establish themselves in the artist capital of the world, New York City.

I saw the first episode, Sally, last night, and although the humor made my wife groan, I found the episode very enjoyable with at least three Conchords musical numbers based around the storyline (or was the storyline based around the musical numbers? probably...). It's definitely worth a watch. In fact you can check out the complete episode here until the second episode comes out next week. Check it out :)

Here is one of my favorite "music video" portions of the show which does a brilliant satire of the cheesy love balad...

Awake in Dallas in the Light Hotel

Awake in Dallas in the Light Hotel
The weight of bed sheets holds me down
This envelope sends me towards unconscious outlines
Where new insights clash with old advice
And past pages turn to ash by firelight

Awake in Dallas in the Light Hotel
Movies are moved into long-term storage
And huddle on the corner of the street
Sharing heat with shards of glass
Passed by cracks in the concrete path

Awake in Dallas in the Light Hotel
A welterweight starved to bone thickness
With sick breathing extends black hands
Covered with duct tape and plastic bags
Asking for one more chance to fight

Awake in Dallas in the Light Hotel
The wood and plaster secrete their smell
Tiles still shed their dust
Washing in repetition only makes them thinner

Awake in Dallas in the Light Hotel
Heads are covered in shame
As games are played to pass the time

Awake in Dallas in the Light Hotel
The clock stares with red eyes

Awake in Dallas
In the Light Hotel
I wait for darkness.

When I'm 64...

Much to my friends' chagrin, I've really enjoyed the CareerBuilder Age-O-Matic Website, where you can upload the photo of any unwitting person and create an aged version of them saying whatever you want them to say....