Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Monday, April 30, 2012
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
URBAN TWILIGHT
Life among the capitalized millions
Made more trademarked fumes
Than any happy hour could handle.
Terror was a balm to the ripened as
They stepped out of their mouths,
Eager for strip-searched
Eggheads' oily instruments.
A phone rang for the umpteenth
Time. It picked itself up and
Was never heard from again.
This turned peace into a button you could lick
Outside the old planetarium.
Loitering teens there approved
The notion that sex was no longer theirs
To define without regard for public policy.
So much for stars, and their homesick costars.
Breathless, the cancelled city was keen
To forget lies told in the service of swift
And solicited death. In alleys and offices,
Hypocrites waxed and waned.
Life among the capitalized millions
Made more trademarked fumes
Than any happy hour could handle.
Terror was a balm to the ripened as
They stepped out of their mouths,
Eager for strip-searched
Eggheads' oily instruments.
A phone rang for the umpteenth
Time. It picked itself up and
Was never heard from again.
This turned peace into a button you could lick
Outside the old planetarium.
Loitering teens there approved
The notion that sex was no longer theirs
To define without regard for public policy.
So much for stars, and their homesick costars.
Breathless, the cancelled city was keen
To forget lies told in the service of swift
And solicited death. In alleys and offices,
Hypocrites waxed and waned.
Monday, April 23, 2012
THE JAYWALKER’S DISCIPLES
Their favorite word is “clammy.”
They have a substance on their chins.
They’d like to derive pleasure from an eclipse for once.
They have nothing to add to fear.
They commit one random act of kindness per day.
They defecate with tact on the shoes of the deaf.
They may already be winners.
They move like the wind when the wind is in bed.
They’re running a big risk here, you know.
They are to snow as snow is to science.
They phone with impunity.
They’re better off not coming at all if
They insist on coming inside me.
Their signals, though crossed, are not to be undersold.
They prefer ink over chalk when
They can afford to live large.
They resemble castrati superficially.
They stole my uncle’s gum.
They’re planning to hijack a Brink’s truck.
They eat ivy too. Wouldn’t you?
They came from another planet.
They tremble freely in the library.
They pull feathers from pigeons and call it a day.
They celebrate yuletide tidings that are gay.
Their faces broke the molds that made them.
They toss in their dreamless sleep.
They can’t get past the mountains that surround their village, nor can
They see beyond them to the sea.
They high-five in groups of several.
They hold their liquor, but gently.
They find time for the kids, and the kids find time for them.
They’re not bad people, just ask them!
They are fat, thin, and everything in between. It is said
They “grace” the stage.
They’re wimpy at times, lonely too.
They get so they can’t remember their names.
They’re nothing to write home about.
They probably need to pee.
They’ve got plans for us though, believe you me—
They are, according to legend, here to party before they flee.
Their favorite word is “clammy.”
They have a substance on their chins.
They’d like to derive pleasure from an eclipse for once.
They have nothing to add to fear.
They commit one random act of kindness per day.
They defecate with tact on the shoes of the deaf.
They may already be winners.
They move like the wind when the wind is in bed.
They’re running a big risk here, you know.
They are to snow as snow is to science.
They phone with impunity.
They’re better off not coming at all if
They insist on coming inside me.
Their signals, though crossed, are not to be undersold.
They prefer ink over chalk when
They can afford to live large.
They resemble castrati superficially.
They stole my uncle’s gum.
They’re planning to hijack a Brink’s truck.
They eat ivy too. Wouldn’t you?
They came from another planet.
They tremble freely in the library.
They pull feathers from pigeons and call it a day.
They celebrate yuletide tidings that are gay.
Their faces broke the molds that made them.
They toss in their dreamless sleep.
They can’t get past the mountains that surround their village, nor can
They see beyond them to the sea.
They high-five in groups of several.
They hold their liquor, but gently.
They find time for the kids, and the kids find time for them.
They’re not bad people, just ask them!
They are fat, thin, and everything in between. It is said
They “grace” the stage.
They’re wimpy at times, lonely too.
They get so they can’t remember their names.
They’re nothing to write home about.
They probably need to pee.
They’ve got plans for us though, believe you me—
They are, according to legend, here to party before they flee.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
I DON'T KNOW WHERE I'M GOING WITH THIS
I don't know where I'm going with this
Umbrella I'm holding to keep the rain
From making an ass out of you and me,
But I have a vague feeling feelings
Will be involved, special ones for the dark
Side of a doughnut or the sigh of a wren.
It's so unlike me, though, to venture far
Without securing first a slew of notes
From emotive conductors I've had
The pleasure of being deafened by.
Perhaps it's time for me to enlist
In the army of delicate wackos who
Seem so full of themselves and life
And who constitute the human race.
Hear them singing their sweetness to
The disconsolate cumulonimbi?
I want that job and to find myself
Finishing the touches I started with you.
I don't know where I'm going with this
Umbrella I'm holding to keep the rain
From making an ass out of you and me,
But I have a vague feeling feelings
Will be involved, special ones for the dark
Side of a doughnut or the sigh of a wren.
It's so unlike me, though, to venture far
Without securing first a slew of notes
From emotive conductors I've had
The pleasure of being deafened by.
Perhaps it's time for me to enlist
In the army of delicate wackos who
Seem so full of themselves and life
And who constitute the human race.
Hear them singing their sweetness to
The disconsolate cumulonimbi?
I want that job and to find myself
Finishing the touches I started with you.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
IN PURSUIT OF PERMANENCE
Of lurid tales of turnabouts in accepted weather
Supply is rich in the addled heads of the young
And the morose alike, harrumphing under cover
Of aging and its private parts, whose crime was to approve
The fatal matrimony of mourning past delights
And driving one to love a wall. Heavy sunlight falls there
In its haste to outline the shadow behind the air's
Surprising anchor: a bark heard 'round the room
Of my animal consciousness, a reminder of the
Futility in any name. False enough to come apart
Like a molecule left on a dish after brunch
Following the night that broke to its tactfully
Shallow grave in the sky, the time is now to cry.
Of lurid tales of turnabouts in accepted weather
Supply is rich in the addled heads of the young
And the morose alike, harrumphing under cover
Of aging and its private parts, whose crime was to approve
The fatal matrimony of mourning past delights
And driving one to love a wall. Heavy sunlight falls there
In its haste to outline the shadow behind the air's
Surprising anchor: a bark heard 'round the room
Of my animal consciousness, a reminder of the
Futility in any name. False enough to come apart
Like a molecule left on a dish after brunch
Following the night that broke to its tactfully
Shallow grave in the sky, the time is now to cry.
Friday, April 20, 2012
SHADOW VALUE
Lost in the frame of an ideal light,
The dark as a knowledge of color and form
Arises and involves itself with welcome
Visitors holding hands. From the dark,
They have new instructions for living
Into what the dark provides in exchange
For their pain, which it takes to distribute
Evenly over the face of existence.
Lost in the frame of an ideal light,
The dark as a knowledge of color and form
Arises and involves itself with welcome
Visitors holding hands. From the dark,
They have new instructions for living
Into what the dark provides in exchange
For their pain, which it takes to distribute
Evenly over the face of existence.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
EVENTFUL OPENING
To stay weird in the presence of work—
This laughter is directed inward,
An itch that science has given us
For use with friends. Mostly they say
I'm entertained without ever thinking
I could find a worthy venue for
What empty space finds fit to explain.
Makes sense. Here lies the maneuver
Out of character which duration likes
To squeeze back into its formfitting stare.
Decisive action seems always to be
Less of a verdict and more of a product,
A motion against the loss of one's valuables.
Luckily, they were never really there.
To stay weird in the presence of work—
This laughter is directed inward,
An itch that science has given us
For use with friends. Mostly they say
I'm entertained without ever thinking
I could find a worthy venue for
What empty space finds fit to explain.
Makes sense. Here lies the maneuver
Out of character which duration likes
To squeeze back into its formfitting stare.
Decisive action seems always to be
Less of a verdict and more of a product,
A motion against the loss of one's valuables.
Luckily, they were never really there.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
ART PANIC
Ugh! This masturbated breath,
Unlovely as a filibuster
Yet psychosomatic—it bites
Me hard in the fatalism.
I want to say it's a movement, not a tactic.
Is it the sexiest funeral ever?
Though I relax like a joke of
My lust for what's wrong, a death
That never dreamt is the only
Unreadable library.
Ugh! This masturbated breath,
Unlovely as a filibuster
Yet psychosomatic—it bites
Me hard in the fatalism.
I want to say it's a movement, not a tactic.
Is it the sexiest funeral ever?
Though I relax like a joke of
My lust for what's wrong, a death
That never dreamt is the only
Unreadable library.
Visit my new street fashion photo blog
...which I am calling The Clothed City. Hopefully I will be able to accumulate enough pictures of people in interesting clothing to post one every day. So far I've just put up some shots from my Flickr archive. Actually I should have spaced them out more instead of posting them all at once. Hmm. Well what's done is done. Enjoy.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
THE MOST POWERFUL HUMAN SECRET
One moment, please, as I try to recall the last rabbit
I laid eyes on. It likely had spectacular hair,
Not the kind you'd ever want to cut, shave,
Or change the color of. In any event, I've soon got to run,
So I'd better concentrate real hard and not stop to chat.
I'm on my way to a pleasant day inside my pyramid.
Say what? You'd like to hear more about my pyramid?
I fail to see what that has to do with the rabbit
On my mind, but hey, you're the one who started this chat.
Far be it from me to throw sand in your hair
Over a little thing like the course our conversation should run.
I just hope I have time for a shave
Before my visit this afternoon. Going in without a shave
Is said to bring a curse on all who enter the pyramid.
What terrible roads the fates force us to run,
Am I right? But really I'd rather get back to my rabbit,
Which as I speak is starting to materialize, hair
And all, in the theater of my memory. Let's chat
Another time, a time more conducive to quality chat,
Namely the afterlife, the proper entry to which obliges me to shave
Lest tomb-raiders come to rob my tomb of my hair.
Though the security system I installed in my pyramid
Is state-of-the-art, I'm afraid it's no match for a rabbit
(For example) intent on breaking in and having the run
Of the place, pilfering its treasures. Hey, don't run
From me now—I'm about to elevate our chat
To matters far more pressing than what rabbit
Was last seen by me, or whether I need a shave.
The day grows late, the shadows long, and I can hear my pyramid
Beckoning me, screaming its fiery call that singes my hair.
It tells me you were right, you passerby with amazing hair,
Not to care about some lagomorph I once did run
With or maybe just blew my nose at as it robbed a pyramid.
'Twas a mere distraction from the jewel in the lotus of our chat:
The idea that to live well is to shave
Away all thoughts that cause us to obsess like rabbits
Over trivial, non-pyramid things. For as my hair
Is my witness, I am a horse. Adept at chat, in need of a shave,
Expert at running, I shall endeavor to be a friend to rabbits.
One moment, please, as I try to recall the last rabbit
I laid eyes on. It likely had spectacular hair,
Not the kind you'd ever want to cut, shave,
Or change the color of. In any event, I've soon got to run,
So I'd better concentrate real hard and not stop to chat.
I'm on my way to a pleasant day inside my pyramid.
Say what? You'd like to hear more about my pyramid?
I fail to see what that has to do with the rabbit
On my mind, but hey, you're the one who started this chat.
Far be it from me to throw sand in your hair
Over a little thing like the course our conversation should run.
I just hope I have time for a shave
Before my visit this afternoon. Going in without a shave
Is said to bring a curse on all who enter the pyramid.
What terrible roads the fates force us to run,
Am I right? But really I'd rather get back to my rabbit,
Which as I speak is starting to materialize, hair
And all, in the theater of my memory. Let's chat
Another time, a time more conducive to quality chat,
Namely the afterlife, the proper entry to which obliges me to shave
Lest tomb-raiders come to rob my tomb of my hair.
Though the security system I installed in my pyramid
Is state-of-the-art, I'm afraid it's no match for a rabbit
(For example) intent on breaking in and having the run
Of the place, pilfering its treasures. Hey, don't run
From me now—I'm about to elevate our chat
To matters far more pressing than what rabbit
Was last seen by me, or whether I need a shave.
The day grows late, the shadows long, and I can hear my pyramid
Beckoning me, screaming its fiery call that singes my hair.
It tells me you were right, you passerby with amazing hair,
Not to care about some lagomorph I once did run
With or maybe just blew my nose at as it robbed a pyramid.
'Twas a mere distraction from the jewel in the lotus of our chat:
The idea that to live well is to shave
Away all thoughts that cause us to obsess like rabbits
Over trivial, non-pyramid things. For as my hair
Is my witness, I am a horse. Adept at chat, in need of a shave,
Expert at running, I shall endeavor to be a friend to rabbits.
Monday, April 16, 2012
A VISION
We littered the shade with our bodies
Imprinting fear of motion on the trees.
Tools were far from prohibited—
Even ones to help you learn Chinese.
I got up then and walked the perimeter of the complex
For what seemed like days. In reality it was years.
Breathing became difficult, but less of a concern.
Flowers were not the fearsome editors
You see in movies, nor were the various forms
Of fauna I encountered very worthy of alarm.
Back in the shade, my friends inquired
Into what I had seen, and why. Before I could answer,
A brand new bag descended, covering my head.
What little light leaking through
Sought out more than I could chew.
Thus consigned to the dustbin of history,
I make my mark in subtler ways.
Armed with patience and threats of legal action,
The whole of humanity places a call
To warn me of its impending trip to the mall.
I would like to impart what happened next, but certain
Personal ties prevent me from commenting.
I'll just say this: the future is made of severed noise
From the folly of observed continuity.
We littered the shade with our bodies
Imprinting fear of motion on the trees.
Tools were far from prohibited—
Even ones to help you learn Chinese.
I got up then and walked the perimeter of the complex
For what seemed like days. In reality it was years.
Breathing became difficult, but less of a concern.
Flowers were not the fearsome editors
You see in movies, nor were the various forms
Of fauna I encountered very worthy of alarm.
Back in the shade, my friends inquired
Into what I had seen, and why. Before I could answer,
A brand new bag descended, covering my head.
What little light leaking through
Sought out more than I could chew.
Thus consigned to the dustbin of history,
I make my mark in subtler ways.
Armed with patience and threats of legal action,
The whole of humanity places a call
To warn me of its impending trip to the mall.
I would like to impart what happened next, but certain
Personal ties prevent me from commenting.
I'll just say this: the future is made of severed noise
From the folly of observed continuity.
These are (more than) a few of my favorite tweets (PART TWO)
QUEEFARR (@lolzque): U ask girl out on date via eharmony. She replies "do u hav any pix besides the vid of just ur legs doin the cotton eyed joe" & u block her
carlos (@famouscrab): twiter dot com is a web sitewhere girls go to talk about theyre butts but they dont know im reading every thing
bandit (@UtilityLimb): a new high is sweeping the teen-munity: mousing over the "delete profile" button+crying as insuperable vanity binds you to this time cancer.
xavier (@funWindow): stop being so annoying! well you stop being so annoying 2: annoying goes to college
Brian (@beebee880): I want to go too Paris France just to kiss a girl on top of the eyeful thrower
Peter Thraft (@DrPeterThraft): Men, most women enjoy men who slide slowly around them in bed in a controlled manner.
Apparently this is a guy who thinks of himself as a sexpert and gives unintentionally funny advice?
Dank Device (@DankDevice): neil armstrong scowling down at earth from space. "fucking hipsters" he whispers. "they're all just fucking hipsters."
sophie (@ughrevolution): "How To Stop Bugs From Landing In YOur Hair" first page says "you cant" & the subsequent pages are all blank. written by: A BUg
Conor Tripler (@ConorTripler): Am i a controlling bf? (drives RC car off a jump) maybe (drive RC car in circles) i dunno (RC car is wearing a little dress)
Guillaume Morissette (@monogamie): I take anyone having sex with anyone as a kind of rejection.
Wendy's (@Wendys): Dubstep sounds like a broken Frosty machine.
Apparently this is the official, verified Wendy's account, which actually in reality did really tweet this actual tweet?
Patricia Lockwood (@TriciaLockwood): Wow, Literary Recognition ... it's like peeing yourself on a warm day ... never freezes ... always feels great ... the odor of Daffodils
EAVIL SHAPE (@EVIL_SHAPE): You can tell if a girl is sexey by if theres a saxophone playeing
Anthony (@nedroid): Did you know: the word "lunch" is a portmanteau of the term "late brunch"
Kristen Schaal (@kristenschaaled): The most important quality I look for in a man is he's got to have a sense of humor about his enormous cock.
Horse ebooks (@Horse_ebooks): The Pyramid is the original attitude club. It s small, and it s a celebration
Horse likes to tweet about pyramids. This is my favorite.
xavier (@funWindow): you break all my thing you KILL my family, you knoeckd over my scanner
sex boob (@sexboob): boobin on a sex. on a sex sexboob
One of my top 10 tweets by anyone ever.
Jose Canseco (@JoseCanseco): Don't forget I complete you and always will
The actual Jose Canseco, ladies and gentlemen.
bandit (@UtilityLimb): What society thinks I do: [THE ABYSS, GAZING BACK]. What I REALLY do: [IT DOES NOT RETURN THE GAZE. WE HAVE NO COMPANION, NOT EVEN THE VOID]
Elisa Gabbert (@egabbert): She's my frenemone. My friend from the sea.
So jealous. I wish I had a friend from the sea....
Sunday, April 15, 2012
DOMESTIC TRANQUILITY
Human voices wake me
Into a kind of dual use
Facility. I am astounded out of my clothes
Through the murk of a broken clock. It
Addresses time as an equal, reminding me of quick and easy
Recipes for disaster. Behind every hour,
You are there to be sweated, as no small matter is
Your dark engine I imagine.
Under orders of dark, the cosmos curates a snack
On a night dripping with warm fuzzies
Slowly steamed away. Hell must be all we're
Cracked open for, opines the fridge door.
On a night dripping with warm fuzzies
Slowly steamed away. Hell must be all we're
Cracked open for, opines the fridge door.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
WHENEVER I AM CONFRONTED
Whenever I am confronted with the sentimentality of a Cheerio
Rolling toward me across a table, I choose
Not to intervene in my own undoing: the drastic measures
You've heard so much about in the media
Are useless against the hurt feelings of history.
I'm speaking of personal history here, its potato
Wedges and its crimes against reason. Yes, we are all infatuated
With certain special others for a period of time,
Taking out our junk and having it too.
Then as we grow older, we see ourselves
In each other and are disgusted, too bothered
By our debts to see beyond them to the designated exit.
As a youth I was beholden to such demerits,
But lately I have come to familiarize
Myself with potential methods of acting out.
I am a grownup now but still I desire much
In the way of immediate gratification—something I enjoy
Is to digest the injured air of social studies
In small doses, and to have it be a problem I like to have,
Far more fulfilling than a thoroughly pleasant jaunt
Into expanding heavenly vacancies
In which I am forced to limit myself to myself
And luckless threads of inquiry into loss and how to love it.
Whenever I am confronted with the sentimentality of a Cheerio
Rolling toward me across a table, I choose
Not to intervene in my own undoing: the drastic measures
You've heard so much about in the media
Are useless against the hurt feelings of history.
I'm speaking of personal history here, its potato
Wedges and its crimes against reason. Yes, we are all infatuated
With certain special others for a period of time,
Taking out our junk and having it too.
Then as we grow older, we see ourselves
In each other and are disgusted, too bothered
By our debts to see beyond them to the designated exit.
As a youth I was beholden to such demerits,
But lately I have come to familiarize
Myself with potential methods of acting out.
I am a grownup now but still I desire much
In the way of immediate gratification—something I enjoy
Is to digest the injured air of social studies
In small doses, and to have it be a problem I like to have,
Far more fulfilling than a thoroughly pleasant jaunt
Into expanding heavenly vacancies
In which I am forced to limit myself to myself
And luckless threads of inquiry into loss and how to love it.
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