Linking a specific organic process of the mind

that resembles
trembling shadows
of branches.

I do not mean
"fair & balanced"

but I must

that is
synonymous with
this evening's sun

with waiting
for feedback from
cats, for the feeling

of the bathroom's rug
on my soles
as if I were

a mere comic-strip
in a massive
metropolitan city limit.

I'm a boy
trapped in a man's body
with a lot of love

wrapped up
in a human package.
It's hysterical

to think of this
metaphor as cost

like angry solopsists
clinging to life
like animals

in an abattoir.
These very words,
thoughts, pierce

my heart,
my own verbiage,
so that the

previous idea
of comedy
becomes like

fossilized DNA
spawning under
the debris

of my
Spock-like centre.

where is Insight
traveling through

the brain,
reflections of
the surface

of the sun--
moving us closer

to cyborgian,
as if technology moves
in different lighting.

On the table,
black & white

empty coffee-colored
coffee cups,
a plastic "line phone,"

a fork,
a used napkin,
a 2003 movie guide,

a black hat
& a green Sharpie
is all that I see--

this is a web
of comfortable

a cerebrum
of the misunderstood.
But, only for me

& I,
like a wingèd horse,
could be called

Mr. Pulp
with a blue pout,
with stretched

approveth of
grubbing feedback.

I sit here,
as always,
like a beetle

in stance,
moving sonic true,
like a woman's hair

in a swarm
of grass,
the mountains

are laughing out
like a loudly-cranked

Put me in
a photograph,
put me in

-side of your
I'm shaking

like a word-stem,
a tent, a falling against
the harmonic gizmo.


A Mother

recently slapped her baby
on a jet
after she was kicked.
Up the text
with sleepy icecube-grammar,
tongue-twisted wide-awake--
let the babies kick
the inward stomach!
Combat troops
are exiting Iraq,
& is this what we
had expected? this
overhanging hum, slum
-bering against our hearts,
sea-crushed debris, queries
for seasons ahead.
Salmonella out
-breaks are like municipals
in the mouth, clung of
discrazed world
in a smeary nightmare;
O stiffened tongues
of a nation, pestilential
discharges are mostly
ungussy. Gusty
winds today, Mexico
under siege is not worse than
Before/Now Photographs
of celebrities.

The Age of Gunpowder

is where the blood spoils, or coils, essential to avoid Waiting Times. 
ATM machines, The World Bank, in spite of their gravities, are
naked on the inside, completely ignoring the queue of the crowd.

All of our noses are bloody, like that of the woman who was ambushed,
as if for "research"--a map of lost secrets throughout the days
more than spring, hungry for too long, "a devil woman" in the scene

with a sense of impetus, in particular, the desire, particularly small colors,
the transformation of coded passwords on the skull. Men, women,
made-up by the ghosts of the same name, afraid to speak.

What is Enforcement but playing with umbrellas & raining upon
the people, slotted as friends, allowing access to the locked doors
of Subpersonalities, the ice cracking, splitting, before exiting, before

the almanac speaks for itself. Gunpowder up-the-head, clutches of
theoretical junkies that bloody the eyes of the youth. I've looked on beauty
for too long without noticing the scarecrow, the properties within,

civilization with necks in the invisible guillotines. What else is non-existent?
Blood spills like rubies down the throats of potential interpretations.
The clear air speaks with clamorous valves. Infinite possibility revised.


Adjacent Flares in a Photograph

To allow my brain to be presented
as adjacent flares in a photograph

I imagined myself
as a ventriloquist doll

speaking like an auctioneer
scanning the audience for takers

but the difficulties
of producing the image in my mind

was not like evoking reaction
but instead was the need to stay silent

allowing the surreal simultaneity
of the non-simultaneous

to be indexical similarities--
sound-&-slideshow extravaganzas,

pigments on paper--
& therefore I have determined how

to make holograms touchable.
I recommend this way of thinking

as if you want to touch the source
of the mistaken perfection

as if to speak of "what is living & what is dead"
joining up with this superimposition,

every wall in the room awakening
with a comparitive daguerreotype

when I spin in the sunlight, waiting & weaving,
interacting with isolation,

perhaps like snapping photographs of dreams--
snippets of them re-told with a lack of chronology.


4 Prose Poems


When it rains, my eyes are aqueducts, or Aqueducks.  I bend a tincan lid with pliars

as if I had a plan, stepping away from the margins again as if this were white space--

to be speaking without speech, to be thinking the unthinkable, to stomp & move, to build

bone-structure as if Kazantzakis was translanting rain within the troposphere, into

what we cannot give in return; splinters underneath the die-stamp, or the cursory of you

half-around the circle of my life, like the bright lights of this city belonging to us in the

corner, Of what severed the sounds, Of what you use to extinguish my fire, blowing

the dust off of a book or the blades of a fan.  You know, don't you, that I'm the noise

of your beaten drum, inescapable, like neurotensin inhibiting the activation of midbrain

serotonergic neurons produced by loud sounds & stresses.  What is this? a sea bird

in a used bird cage, surrounded by salty air.


Turn your back on them for a minute & run, earsplittingly, fragmentally-persistent

& hover from the Karoo or somewhere-air.  The Greatest Show on Earth is packed-to-

the-gills with affection.  The cotton fields have turned to concrete, symbolizing the electricity

of women's voices, frajilia, stinky romance in (is) a spaceship crashing on HAL's

dew-ridden prioperception, in the cobbed psyche' of a pelagic fish there is less-than-20%

drama in the middle of August when you sit inside amidst the A/C & wait for seasonal

ditties & carols to come roaring.  This evening, I thought of putting my finger inside of a

woodpecker's hole, but thought better of it after thinking of whaling vessels that break

international laws & treaties, felt it within the physical body, the process of pulling on

shimmering black satin.  My uncle wants me to purchase every color possible of shower

curtains to use as backdrops for photographs & I'm lost in every color's combination,

mostly at night when I walk underneath the bright boiling moonlight, like Beauty is truth,

truth-beauty—just jump out of your Bentley, let it roll swiftly down the hill, listen for the pow.

My family, I wonder about us, but we are not a pee-with-the-door-open kind of family

unless your metabolism is your icon, or if your rubbish is getting a fair amount of sleep.

Okay, well, it's good to see you.  Thank you for dropping by, and dropping a few lines

since the beginning of time.


I am feeling confident & vulnerable, yet I have become separated from a kind of medium.

I have been hearing a lot of good things lately about pseudo-clever drivel & booby-traps.

She's history.  I mean, voiced opinions, whackjobs that quote Literature just to "show out"

to the greedy elite.  What foolishness, like a Laocöon, or a racoon with delusions of grandeur;

let's admire our strange & wonderful sleeping dreams.  Ingmar Bergman films intoxicated

my "influence" to such an extreme that my psychological symbolic purposes have melted

into a Fruedian-slip that dresses in a slip & slips into the most consolable vignette of when

a voiceover recites an individual mass in my brain.  Why do you want to be a phantom?

When people utter metaphorical quotes, it reminds me of horn-rimmed glasses & Oedipus.

WHOA! Blow my mind, people, like Chicken Soup for the Everythingist, or Grammar Girls'

quick tips about sagging breasts that do not sag when you walk through a cold graveyard.

I am feeling vulnerable & confident, the medium is large & my tongue, before speaking,

has emoticons dancing off of the edge.  This has supreme significance like a suspense

thriller with ambiguity & complexity, romp with glee.  My confidence is soaring to new

heights, thanks to gasoline prices & picking daisies & driving with them in silver-noir



I do not have a chisled jaw, nor a perfect nose, but I have the interior of a stone balloon.

That pain that you may feel in your fist as it travels up your arm is like a swimmer's wet-suit

ensemble.  Climate is an untouchable tendril, but our solar system is burning like incense.

A Noosphere is incomplete, like cocoa powder extracted & pressed into poofy black ice, or

carbuncles, or irises, opals, or Bristol stones, hard wax & rosin, & this is when Cary Grant

enters the picture with arsenic; the camera-lens is the Glass of Antimony, amethyst of

tralucency.  I miss the trembling sweetness of your voice, no longer a rarity, ear of agile

retirement.  I saw a recent photograph of you, holding a cat while making a strange face

at it, & I thought of The Song of Solomon, the way everything disintegrates, turns to ash,

like the opinions of the world.  I hold in my possession a giant wealth of secrets kept abreast,

sulphur of suspenseful instrumentation.  I would demonstrate their shapes, but it would be

like watching the dissection of a frog.  I am homespun like agitated air molecules, & you

were like the wolf having the advantage of first eyeing a man, before he becomes hoarse

& silent at seeing the wolf first.  There floats an atmosphere of infinite suggestion. I feel

a special kinship with the codework of our past language.  Criterion Collection-worthy visuals

with slightly affected sophisticated soundtracks, but only at the conclusion of our time,

only when you became the innovator of cranking up your own jack-in-the-box that erected

out & punched me square in the chin, while saying, "winner, winner, chicken dinner!"