close your eyes and die.

shards of the kitchen window catching the sunlight
it's sickening to watch it fall, ten stories down.
it's sickening to go after it, to be among it,
crashing your last couch.
laughing out loud, because what else is there to do?
close your eyes and miss the sunshine sparks?
that lone dog wandering the parking lot?
might as well smoke that last cigarette
drag it in with the paint fumes and carbon monoxide
running up off the street.
might as well hold your hand over flame to feel pain
one last time.
cuz you ain't feeling nothing at the end of this ride.
call your sister, your mother, your father, your brother, your friends, your wife, your kid, your grandma, your lover, your other lover, your dog sitter, your baby sitter, your baby sister.
might as well have bought that lottery ticket, that last bowl of chronic, might as well have gotten one last jerk in.
but man! what a way to go!

or, ........

moonlight on the bourbon

moonlight on the bourbon
and murder on the brain
caught a glimpse of your intentions
then caught the midnight train

now i'm headin' south to georgia
won't be comin' round again
won't be fallin for your skirt tails
won't be shakin' by your skin

oh there's moonlight on the bourbon
and a killer on the run
there's the smell of blood and entrails
sulfur rising from the gun

you spent your last night preaching
how you're nothing like the son
just another long gone loner
seeking shelter from the sun

oh you've felt the pull of that mighty pole
you've never known what for
you've just been leaking out your life blood
letting it puddle on the floor

and the bastards keeping tabs on you
they've banned you from this town
sent you scramblin' from the moonlight
sent you runnin underground..

best poem

she bends over the rice bin
and tells a dirty joke
the kind my grandma used to tell
i laugh, chuckle is more like it
jokes just aren't funny anymore
nothing is funny, it's all just ironic
ironic and sick and sad.
so, i pushed her into the rice bin.
she didn't laugh.
i told her a dirty joke involving her mother
two llamas and the dahli lama.
she punched me in the face
then laughed.
i never knew blood was so funny.
i pushed the rice bin into her.
and made a porn using pixels
and a highly rendered model
of princess diana's hand.
nobody thought that was funny,
but i laughed my ass off
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
seriously. this all happened.
just ask the dummy with rice
in her hair, rice everywhere!

it's all nothing.

If you'll carry the cold tube,
the compress, the last leg, and the jar
of peanuts, i'll make a pillow out of the
longness of your neck.

I'll watch the fall come and go
and leaves burn scorched marks
on the sidewalks of our hometown
and winter it can go too.

Everything can go, it's all going
anyway. the universe expanding outward
always, and always us going after it.
chasing paper trails and tails, tales
and tailing ponds.

forget it. forget it and everything.
forgive it and forget everything.
forge your smile, your stance,
your brilliance- of all these,
for all these, you are nothing.

if you'll carry the lipstick
i'll burn the effigy.
born still as the dogs breath
dying out.

floodgate '93

those blankets they carried my fears

and spread out like nightmares

another thousand years and all but blinded

by the light of your lie

these houses they carry the flood

and bring back everything but blood

your picture is leaking light

i guess now is the time to say goodbye

narrow little stairs and stars to wide

to span with one hand

narrow little stairs and stars that start to hide

under the kitchen chairs

those pea thick soup light streets

of new orleans are lying to us all

saying they'll catch us if we fall

but they're falling off- a long way off

and you can't catch them anymore

slipping through some nicotined yellow fingers

sparking when they hit the running board

gunning the last gate out past the flood plains

TOO MANY TOOTHS AND TWO LITTLE TRUTHS

I pulled the tooth out of the compost
pile, not because I had to, but because
it was there, I had to. I imagined
it was the tooth of a dinosaur.

The compost pile smelled
like a compost pile.

The tooth smelled
like a compost pile.

Every year or two I wonder
why I pulled the tooth out.

I never wonder how it got there in the first place.

Five or six years ago I lost the tooth.
By which, I mean, I flushed it down the toilet.

I flushed it down the toilet because I was afraid
that if I simply threw it in the trash,
I would dig it back out.

The trash smelled like compost.
The toilet smelled like toilet.
The tooth is gone forever.
The compost is now a garden
Dying it's fall death.

life and death on a slider scale

if you held out your hand i'd slap it
nicely, of course in the gesture of a high
five. in the morning i woke up and smoked
a cracker jack ship of dreams
squeezed into teenage jeans and addict
schemes. your sleeze isn't as hidden
up your sleeve as you would like
us to believe, so just be brief
in your freedom and free in your
bevy of unwashed hand
clasps.
your button is rubbing my thigh
bone and causing a cloud of pink
on my white fleshy man bits.
i know, right?
no, i know no right, just know wrong.
wrong is a lot easier to get right
and be sure of it.
right is decades of tests before answering and still not knowing if the final plunge will plunge us all into death. i like death, but not as much as i like life. i like life because of lifes relationship with death, what's to like about life if it isn't at risk EVERY MINUTE OF EVERY DAY OF EVERY YEAR OF EVERY DECADE? well nothing probably.

feelin' iffy spiffy?

if i had to nail my worth
to a word, shiver in it's
decrepit/silent/still falling
world, i'd follow lonely
women home from the hospital.
i'd be afraid of death.

i'd be afraid of death,
if every time it returned i felt
closer to the reality of a life
coalesced in the secrets between
here and maternity wardens.
i'd be afraid of living.

if i had to nail my sword
to a wide swath of land, defended
by my own hand's will to keep
working/falling/scraping/kneeling
before eternal sunrise light
i'd be afraid of nothing, but night.

TALK JIVE!

who got time to shoe shine
line up your chalk head get a fix
on that fixture. it's thicker then beaver fur
down by the river, who shot naughty nate
nasty nate's brudda, been drownin here
ya'll got a beer, hopped up on hop-scotch
single blend'll mend that head like a toothache
comin' on from that shit you comin' off
black smack, that's brown shit, dat ain't no fit for a king
ring or sing a thing bling
ya'll don't know a thing, just think ya do, damn fool.

creedles a pinwagon deluxe makeup kitbag

fuck you. punchbag.
punch your fuckbag face.
needles and pins
and coldcream compresses
on stitched up inches of face.
saturday nights alright for laying.
your alright, we're all alright.
so quit acting like you're not.
it's not your psyche that's off,
it's your philosophy on life.
you expect to get something out of life.
well you can't.
fuckface.

depends(it's more then just a diaper rash razer)

it's cold out
and the wind is cutting through the tops of the trees
the roots, the whole of the timber stand
snearing back, like a lost thought, run over
and over and over run.

what depends on me is dependent on me
and i depend on nothing, but that depends
on how independent i feel, and well, i just never have
felt the need to disappear completely, just completely disappear
in a temporary way.

laughter is sunning itself on the golden rock hard reason
of a two cent pickup truck sticker of unlicensed calvin
pissing on artist's rights.
i piss on artists rights and rightly sew the seeds of disillusion.
so what?

ghost town

in memory there's a pill
i took and forgot everything
so now i walk with my head bowed
and breathe like i can't ever
recall breathing before
and each day i find a new road
and a new soul, growing
old.

-

the colonel came in with a lengthy display of corpses
strapped around his neck
'killed these krauts in the second war' he said
as if there had ever only been two.
as if death were something to be proud of.
as if his soul wasn't already burning in hell.
as if hell hadn't come through the door with him
and followed him
every path he went down.

-

there's a chill on my back
spreading it's web
like the legs of a spider
working overtime
in feverish pitch
to quilt the whole waste-
land midwest.
visions are haunting
the crevices where i kept
my sadness locked up
like the indian in the cupboard
like fall days that meant more
20 years ago,
then they could ever
mean today.
it's too late.
it's too late.
so don't wait,
because i'll never be coming back for you.
20 years to late.

campasino

gonna run drugs into the ground
gonna get grounded
gonna grind coffee for a living
gonna run.
-

for a satellite picture press any key and dream
-

i dream in the key of G, sometime F#.
-

dear mr. karate kid,

i really enjoyed your movies and your will to overcome adversity. I'm sorry about your bicycle.

Like a knight in shining armor,

Tim.

skip

ridin' to nashville
high on freedom
6months of thorazine
shock therapy and bad dreams
pajamas blowin in the wind
spence spent 7 days
alone on the microphone
blew our minds
and quit the game.

Dear People of Earth,

i don't care about your revolutions
about your wasted homes and wasted lives
i don't care about absolution
or disolution or how disillusioned you might be
i don't care about your grandfather
i don't care about glory and death and god
i don't care about the night falling down around your head
i don't feel anything for your actors your actresses
your singers and dancers and laughers and lovers
i can't count how many times i've given up on something i've believed in
because there's never been ANYTHING.

slow-motion fast-pitch

watching the window fall
watching the glass break
hearing the baby's cry
counting up my mistakes
it's a minute to 4 am
and i can't be buried
my pride is to heavy now
my heart is to hard to carry

I used to see you driving home
from his house
carrying that guilt behind your
drivers seat
i used to notice, when you weren't around
but that time
is so far behind me

goodbye goodnight

I was born on a slow plain
a snow drift lane driving down
i'm from another town
but i'll come around

the devil always knows
and trouble always knows
where to find me
it's always behind me

your last call was enough
your last hall lost the truck
and the racket from
another forty track day dream

fell at my feet and fell out
and you fell off, but not far enough
she's a diamond, but i ain't buying
i'll be flying out of sight

i'll be saying my goodbyes
i'll be saying my goodbyes
i'll be saying my goodbyes
goodnight.

beer belly, bear belly, bare belly.

I'll take a buzzsaw to your boat,

violently. massacre the mast

and mastermind destruction.

two lips are sinking all the other ships

so i slipped the dock in the dark,

moored to your side and inside

saw what i asked for. now the light

is swinging wildly and outside the night

is sea-sawing in 4/4 time.

fog-light circus fly

each stanza is a
haiku; falling from the sky
like bird shit splatter.

but over your head
is where the skyline courses
blood; poet stalker.

the matter of course
is to course matter through you
not over your head.

like birds shaking wings
wings shaking stalks of dried corn
shakers and quakers.

birds shaking off the
horizon line, from sky end
to sky ending flight.

faking life on edge
legend of the ledge perchers
purchasing silence.

humple pumple pee

time flies- what happens when you throw a clock out a window.
-
butterscotch is a chocolate drop and i can't not talk about it.
-

i've lost touch with my side that used to be in touch with things,
so i keep touching things and hoping it's my side.
it never is.

-
today it's HOT and the AC in THE OFFICE i'm running is BROKEN.
today, HOT is what it is in this THE OFFICE of the BROKEN AC.
-
I don't give. in
time i might,
if time isn't
busy flying out
my open window.
which is currently
curtainless, closed
and current-
less.
-
my mind is a lesson that i've tought no-one.
know one and you know no-one.
none will ever be known.
-

humble is the bumble bee for he knows not his name.

10-4 goot butty.

I'm dirtying your coffee cups
last. first I'll dirty your coffee
maker. In the middle I'll wait.
---
there.

-------
no there.

--------
hello, i'm talkative.

---------
a burning bush is not a sign from god, it's probably a yeast infection.
is that a weird thing for a man to say?
or just a weird thing for anyone tosay?
-----------
if tuesday was today, it wouldn't be tomorrow.
tomorrow wouldn't be today if it were tuesday.
-------------
10-4 good buddy.

Rythm Blasted Nightmares(turn the goddamn bass down)

The truth devotee, lambasted, lethargic, legless, lawless, and loose. Chasing an ambulance with a wheel chair. Swallowing gelato in the sunshine spring parks of world turning dusk. I'm eating my way to freedom.

French fried, apple pied, double stacked and triple cheesed, mayonaise please, two stories of pickles, a ham, a hock, a hemlock swallowed by indifference. Jesus could have eaten sewage and still swam the English Channel, but he chose to walk.

I'm crossing myself to nothing and hoping nothing was double crossed.

In the country, boys steal to release, relive, relieve, repeat, rehash, re-establish the status quo of too much, too little, too late, and too soon. My donut holes are sunk years ago, my hollow leg filled up, and now my gut is busting. My jeans are bursting, my tee shirts tighter than ever.

Glutton, majestic fence rider, back door alleyway gatherer, mythic bringer of jungle juiced, camo toothed, whiskey booted, hollywood hating nightmare. My Buffalo Trace runs directly down my spine, my backbone thrown to a dog, devoured by the non-specialized and de-sensitized.

There's no cure for the common cur.

Mutt, butt-fucker, fag, harlott, skank, whore, misanthropic reviewer of two doors down from the sundance saloon. Might as well be night; time when you shank the bitch goodbye, slip into the quiet spreading pool of blood, and twist until the skin comes.

I'm free, I'm breathing, I am an I with an eye squeegied open. fingering the entrails of a dead goat, watching the stars for a sign of revival, burning the bible, ghost up on mountain side ski slope, slipping my cold breath through the cracked floorboard winter night. My mind is. My third eye dawning squeekie clean.

My chasm, schizm, schizoid ramblings, wrapping parties, rapping parties, ripping panties, raiding refrigerators, walls, dustbins (no one knows what it's like).

Lick the plate clean, lick the stems off the cherry, lick the ice off the window, lick the warm water off your tongue, lick the bath tub lined with soap scum/calcium/hair/skin/linoleum/love/cold/hate/self doubt/no doubt/steam/heat.

Mind, mined, mounted, stuffed, gold plated, pewter dipped, soliquoy to the little boy, who hid behind the closet door, and didn't believe you weren't trying to kill him.

(this is not a metaphor).

The ghost in this house haunts all floors, knows no doors, he burns with the candles, the incense, the cigarrettes, the pot, the eggs, the rice, the turkey, the chicken, the ham, the hock, the hemingway, spilled from the bell toll, pulling the weight down from the heights, pulling the wool over the midnight oil, burning the house down.

A LONG LINE FOLLOWED

the prude and the nude: Austin, Texas 2010


in the event of a hurricane loosen your blouse.
let it blow free and clear of the sinking houses
and hope. that for someone this means breasts
on the breeze is a little disheartening, but you can't forget that fog is dashed to pieces as easily
as a long line
followed by two short
is written and tied together by a third.

in the event of a lasso falling around your neck
lie very still and take a deep breath in
case it is tightened to the point of choking.
this is not advice to be taken lightly.
however, you shouldn't live in fear of this happening
to you, as it is very unlikely it will.

If a wizard were to turn you into a rabbit....
well, that's just not going to happen.

compost compulsion composed

they're bottling up the coke machines and choking
the alleys with stacks of black
mosquito net. last night attacked me
with a sound like freight trains sitting
still. nevermind the eternal sign.
give bondage.
take freedom.
leave roadsides wet
with rain, drink the darkness, spit
the light, swallow the whole,
in it's entirety.

and never?
take never where it can't go and leave it there
forever.

it's the only way to make the road back.

my novel

i'm writing a novel about the world. it only has two lines and ends horrifically, here it is!

-Everyone is full of piss and shit. Everyone dies in the end of my novel, The World.

I'm not sure who to dedicate it too yet, but i think it's pretty good.

Maybe you should come over and eat some ice-cream, or some freezer pops. I bought some reduced fat ice-cream on accident, so i need someone whose watching their figure to demolish a couple bowls guilt free.

I also feel the urge to urge.

urges are a hard thing to get a grip of.

i'm urging all over the place.

it's not like a grasshopper

it's not like anything.
it's a blank page until now.
your a yellow monkey suit wearing jump-rope tying handstand having heaven,
oh well.

i have one pb&j to get me through the day. maybe four quarters. no wallet. no nothing.
capitalism is a raw deal.
capitalism is a raw deal when your wallet is in the mail.

been reading a lot of kenneth koch, and a lot of the now defunct 90's alt-country magazine 'no depression'.

been reading a lot of emails, asking questions.
i've answered some questions and left others to the cosmos.
who holds space and time?
well it's nobody silly.

welp

this serves as a method for me to un-incumber myself from the wheels of academia that have been circling my skull for the last lifetime. everything i do in this blog will be in the vain of rebelling against academia and any other establishment that once scared me into the ditch i now thrive in. to start here's a nonsense poem i started.

i hope to have as many grammatical mistakes as possible,.

CHEERS!

THE ANIMAL KINGDOM
on the inside of the anthillare the limelight linesof lime juice traced to my kitchen sink, faucet dripping the day old news,60-gallons a day. wasteof wasted days.
now think about armadillos.is it a leap?not for them, i've only seen them smashed.migrating northward, only to meetsteel and become deadmeat. lockers of armored fleshflushed out by 18 wheels and a willie nelson song'on the road again' playinglike a possum: dead
lion, you jumped the list big cats are last. get backin line.