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Saturday, December 15th, 2001
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3:13 am - Restless
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his face holds a smirk
only for me
when he finds me strange and distant
situationally amusing
flamboyant
obnoxious.
i throw my hands at him
in despair and frustration
for life is as it is
every second of the day
as it is.
between the white crevices
peering through the
sans serif whispers
is a truth
innuendo
a beckon for more of
the same.
there is nothing in me
that he can break
rebuild and save,
there is something in him
that i cannot plant
water and grow.
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| Wednesday, December 5th, 2001
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1:56 am - per?cus?sion
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per?cus?sion
p&r;
a low vibratory murmur
to make, sound like, speak in a manner that resembles:
purr.
k&
swahili infix, and then,
akaenda, and he went...
ka.
sh&n;
steer clear of, avoid
deliberately, habitually
shun.
from
percussio, percutere,
to beat
repeatedly, forcefully s-tr-ike, hit, dash di-re-ct-ly against
from
per -
thoroughly
with full de-ta-il, in all respects completely, with full mas-ter-y
quatere
shake
irregularly m-o-ve, especially vibrate, t-rem-ble with physical disturbance.
tapping the surface
an act or technique of
a body part, the surface of
part beneath
learn the condition of
the resultant sound...
per cus sion.
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| Friday, November 30th, 2001
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4:19 am - the phone rings
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he might say shed it
this grin, or lack there of
back turned or via phone
when one girl's tale
turns into another girl's
green moment of whatif
of where was the goddamn phone?
i can only sigh, uh-huh, ohmigawd
as if i was as middleschool as
the middle schoolers
when they say that mr. quiensabequien
is hot, the hottest
never truly knowing the potential for hotness
born too late
or in this instance
the wrong place at the wrong time.
he is so funny
what were they watching, twenty/twenty?
funny thing is that neither of them are
he's got these harrypotter spectacles
the other one must wear contacts
to account for the squinting, blinking
putting on the four-eyes along with my cue.
she must be
twenty twenty
got moves, skills like i've never known, damn
devirginized quien sabe quien
tell me about it
like i've never heard of a onenightstand.
i can only rationalize
as if i was as jerryspringer as
the middle schoolers
when they say biyatch, ya bestbe off my manz
have to take out the contacts
bring out the rings for
a knock down drag out
never truly knowing what it means to have a man.
or in this instance
for what?
toss a friend over one television program
envious of the ovaries she utilized in the situation
kick myself over a year of misaction.
he might say it's the same faces
we've kissed
back turned and via phone
when one girl's tale
turns into another girl's
singular degree of separation.
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| Thursday, October 11th, 2001
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7:32 pm - Praying Mantis Tree
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obliviously twiggy green
wry knobby elbows and knees
outstretched a r m s, l e g s, n e c k s
d . e . l . g . a . d . o
good-afternoon y a w n i n g
toward the smog sun
settling face foward like clockwork
c . a . n . s . a . d . o
lonesome painted leaves
bright and fragile
remains from a long forgotten
beaten, s c a t t e r e d pi?ata
a . i . s . l . a . d . o
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| Sunday, October 7th, 2001
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4:38 pm - t a a s
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shove my hands down his dickies
tucking in that red plaid shirt
just to untuck it
breathe in the opposite side
of his bubble yum bubble
suck it into my mouth and chew
buy him another beer
like water
watch the swallows flow around his adam's
shake hands with my right
walk away
holding his hand with my left
nibble on those christyturlington lips
pin him down in his brother's car
and talk about taas
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| Saturday, October 6th, 2001
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10:22 am - q w e r t y
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there is only q w e r t y,
the hopeless
hopscotch of fingertips,
a makeshift game of duck duck goose.
hastily raise my hand to mask my mouth,
the candid defense mechanism
commands a smile, or a laugh,
and steel uninterested glances.
you're sinking,
that cubic retro armrest
where you rest, ankle to knee,
for what reason.
i've been here,
when i scribed the mighty freak's dictionary,
replicated more than definitions
ver ba tim.
and your sinking,
the sigh that would not come,
the no, the sorry, the no more,
floated up through your throat,
coated your tongue,
then you swallowed.
you say something
with specter silence,
this retrograde will not end,
or perhaps,
a familiar cease and desist.
the more i run away,
the closer i get
to you, to the verge,
a goodbye knock on a window pane.
close my pale grasp around it,
the reluctant glimpse,
the please, the once more, the last time,
when your sigh hides in
desperate lips, stumbling hands,
until you come.
you are sinking,
the welcome shallowly echoes
in emptiness, in yesterday,
hesitate to subject
these sighs to anything,
that is all there is, q w e r t y.
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| Sunday, September 30th, 2001
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4:18 am - Four A M
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i say, my hems sway with too much shuffling on the pseudo wooden floor,
the maybe t r e n d y dark boot cut,
the maybe hip low cut denim threads.
paperboy tosses the sunday on the yard,
the maybe dew glistening,
the maybe piss s h i m m e r i n g lawn.
swig down a fourth gallon of agua,
the maybe mountain spring m o n g e r i n g,
the maybe rio grande peddling h two oh.
and i say without maybe,
without the recycled c r y s t a l sugar-glass bottles,
without the corduroy-mocking bottom belled jeans,
without the weed green garden,
without four a.m. f a l t e r i n g,
it was,
is a good day.
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| Tuesday, September 25th, 2001
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3:10 pm - Be Mine
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be my little drummer boy,
strip off your snoopy sweater,
buff down on your spumoni and avocado afghan,
paint an azure oh, a round red on your chest.
be my angry spitting jerome,
let loose your gnarled curls,
pull your trout and bass flannel
over your stripes sans stars sweatbands.
be my all man-boy wonder,
slide off your hash half pipe,
turn today?s seventy-two hour shadow into
tomorrow?s fortnight jesus beard.
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| Monday, September 10th, 2001
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5:25 pm - Counting Down the Eights
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To wear black,
To bake in the noon-timed solar oven,
And simmer.
(In retrospect) Better to be pink,
In medium-rare tender sizzling,
Than burning from the inside out,
In butterfly blushing.
I got my color.
To wear black,
Cotton blend pockets,
A synthetic, all man-made materials belt,
Or un-PC leather.
Pulling tight to the skin,
With lunges, stretching the fabric
Over the knees like pitching a tent,
Yanking up the hem in
MJ high waters fashion.
He?s got his 32-32s.
To wear black,
And be new-old school old school,
Boyish, home-grown, and American,
Or possibly laced in China.
Anti-gravity to the poseur flying carpet,
Counting down the eights
In a Jane Fonda workout,
Creasing the side panels
In eleves and releves.
He?s got skills.
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| Friday, August 31st, 2001
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2:31 am - ...
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to go looking for emotional welfare,
serve up a self-pity soup kitchen,
when the friend-stamps have expired.
nothing greater than sympathy feed.
can't manage to swallow,
this stale regurgitation,
like some peppermint, winterfresh cud.
these are the moments,
if illiteracy could be a shady shelter.
should the application go unread,
you'd never ask for hand-outs.
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| Monday, August 20th, 2001
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9:21 pm - Patience
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it ends with a will-face strut,
its slothful seizure review,
tactfully reserved in fatal revise,
resistance gone headlong
from the gates of craving.
if by chance they played patience
then a fortress of rage,
a vain mortal arena,
unfulfilled and undisturbed,
would crown that alien brow
with waltzing transgressions,
misdeeds in a route of creases.
it begins with clay eyes turning,
peacock green pearl,
wading in the burden of wealth,
spent wantonly in innocence,
cushioned in corduroy satchels,
reclaiming strength in flowing tides of refrain.
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| Wednesday, July 18th, 2001
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12:12 am
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| Monday, July 16th, 2001
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12:54 am
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| Thursday, June 28th, 2001
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6:28 am - Light Emitting Diode
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| Wednesday, June 27th, 2001
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8:19 pm - Universal Time Ticking
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Over our drifting minds,
stumbling demeter,
her sly gardener's hands
darting through jupiter's yard,
stalking among the
umbrellas of mothering hedgerows.
Beyond the second star to the right,
weed-grown grasses,
where pirates wept
oceans of boiling tears
scorching the
crossest adventure's desires.
Driving restless arcturus,
collared, leashed
asterion and chara
on the scent of the den,
in pursuit of mama bear,
easily distracted by war cries of
rhea silvia's villain.
Universal time ticking,
taken in by crystal visions
of wandering saints,
rampaging the heavens,
simply exhaust from pons-winnecke,
nothing to write home about.
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| Friday, June 8th, 2001
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10:07 am
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theirs is a dull brilliance
that sheer signal from
the depths of moonbeams
a welcoming energy
purely smothering
crashing through slumber path of soft stars
restoring brighter darkness to engulf
today
tonight
tomorrow
this may end, love
only upon waking again
be slighting, good light
notice sleep's shining chortle
found way out under deep blanket absence
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| Thursday, June 7th, 2001
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1:46 am - shed that bitter grin
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happy to arrive,
late.
check at the toll,
magic marker branding.
colts on lemonade tees,
einstein afros,
some kind of
austin influx brings
foreign faces.
settle in a zebra sweater,
cozy up to the dike.
gimme that sweet pine-sol,
that gummi worm brew,
that and five dollar ice.
when i get lost,
i won't find you.
i can't see beyond
elvis on velvet,
and i have RLS.
exchange cholo nods,
i sigh,
quick to say
d?j? vu.
greet hi new friend,
detour his beer run.
fibonacci is the chit chat,
the sequence of sips is
one plus one, one plus two,
two and three to infinity.
trampling on the playlist,
pancake tossed over
liquid ecstasy serpents
masquerading in
grenadine weeds.
he claps over the bass line,
tour jete,
echappe,
pas de bourree,
and he has RLS.
mooching smirnoff,
mooching fries,
annoying me with
sketchy hairballs, and
rich and joe starring
as ron jeremys.
there is the tapping
of subtle phalanx on
blue jean patella.
not easy to ignore,
and you have RLS.
hot rods roaring,
a meow to rip van winkle.
rock the silverado cradle instead.
rearview mirror air freshners,
a mint to the locker room humidity.
go home, sans company.
no pajama party.
just four walls,
a loaf of bread,
and ramen noodles.
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| Tuesday, June 5th, 2001
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6:05 am
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| Monday, May 7th, 2001
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12:12 am - SN Charades
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keeping this chick on layaway
for a long day into longer night,
me, blurry among a pile of empty bottles.
vertical climbing,
scaling in denim and cons;
in a clown car,
taxied passenger trapped with large footed boys.
more gripping than griping,
such is conversation;
ways of the rock 'n' roll two-step,
more predictable
than novel,
historic repeating of the porn-style plot.
one flick more,
another showing, for the foreign audience no subtitles,
and, guided by seeing-eye dog,
the tour can be completed.
doing well to find a quarter,
the only token of recognition;
a sobering stroll through dusty tar mamas, babies looking for a peso.
good for something,
a doll with functioning brain and mouth,
job description seldom changes,
limited by ceiling
of bronze glass,
constructed by one or the other,
it is unlikely to be broken by saturday night charades.
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| Saturday, April 28th, 2001
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9:43 pm
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