Friday, August 31, 2012

slow heartbeat in a dry heat climate

When we lay in the brown bed, with the purple sheets, warmed
by disconnect static and pill buzz, (I loved this song with a scalding loyalty,

the way he sings,
even Richard Nixon has got soul.)

every day a slow mo fall.

Sweet cloying opiate twenty-one, its

nauseating cokefiend boyfriend drawl,
horrid sight night terror,
fell asleep in my impress-you-dress,
happy birthday los angeles bastard,
southern california took me down down.

Coulda sworn I -
"As Long As I Can See The Light,"
"I Cannot Have Seen The Light,"

slow heartbeat in a dry heat climate.

Card house of cigarette butts for to deny I was alone
and so alone torn by Corsican time zone.

I hardly remember a thing, dull wound no sting,
I hardly remember a moment, brain-dead drug-drone,

innocent in a film noir live socket.

Caught with no slicker in a shit storm,

to await the gavel smack.

Long Live the Gulch

Saturday, August 25, 2012

The Paramount

Young men are slow-walking,
drunk, past the Paramount

a few tumbles into their
whisky nights,

attempting to quantify
their mistakes

as one tallies up a bill
and settles it.

Everyone's singing
of throwing I-Ching
these days, darling,

but for you because you
sing of nothing

but an ashtray and falling to sleep

Have you never noticed
the blooming dancer?

She certainly can

The Hello Fall

Painfully I am attempting to make myself

and full of holes

that instead of being tossed
from hand to ambivilent hand I might be

run through

Dear tiresome invertebrate love,

I am still in you

still swim within you

I am simply sober

and no longer know some

"pheromone opiate sting,"

And our hello was murky

as our goodbye

was never drawn

Dear Dissident Sweetheart

At the beginning,
where it hurts,

(not like a slap from a spoon,
I wasn't a bad child, was
too good,) I have scrawled
your name in the sheet of


and been marked by your seal. 

A puncture wound, it hurts
a puncture wound, so beautiful

was it.

The ageless generosity,
gold coin of the moon,
spoke of something of

but we
did not

I had what I have.

Will I always be pulling yellow
hair from my mouth

Always, one old
door creaking 

Monday, August 20, 2012

on some faraway beach

I found another place to fall in love with

and I do,

each day do I



I found another feeling


a different kind of


I am looking

for a way

to destroy

my seething arsenal

of hate.

A way which leaves

minimal dregs,

which wont clout

my atmosphere

over its

lacy little


Friday, August 10, 2012


When I look for myself I find

that I am sitting
in a bar

with a face which has lost
the energy of expectation,
irises unfocused behind
an opalescent fog,

sipping a tonic through the thin line

of a black straw.

On all sides

by my autonomy,
allowing limited discourse.

If you are

a friend

your words feed me orchids.

Without Flora

no impressions

leave watermark.

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