To The Streets!

How can one express the truly full experience of sound
rattling beyond all walls imposed by the fear of honest culture?
This must surely be how it feels to live outside the world
of top forty mass media! Shocking rush through the sensory
system, the overtaking of a body by the purity of sound!
Love, loss, and lust exuding from the circulatory satisfactions
of being alive, and for once, remembering it in the happening moment!
Exuberance exfoliating the exhausted soul! Enjoy it.
This must have been how it felt before. Nothing else to be
expressed in the face of this, being overtaken so fully,
a creative rape, still, hoping it will not end. Praying
for this forcefulness to be everywhere else in the world!



The turn switches, so well disguised as rubbish,
so often unnoticed until the collision’s imminent,
the animation set, the footage shot and cut,
the plot so abysmally realistic the
studio insists on a twist, sorry, happy
ending, which runs as a dialogless montage,
with a #1 hit pop song playing over top it,
the screenwriter having refused to lie to the youth,
who might, someday, watch his film,
not just see his movie.


Responsible For Eight Hours

More food stamps each week
Ration the meat to the meek
in forty five cent patties
The shorter they live

the less they breathe
Mix the water with booze
Saves them energy if they’re asleep



She walked to the desk at around 10:30 PM on a Sunday night, and she asked for salt. I was about to rip a negative into her when Oman went off to find her a shaker. I took to ignoring her, then she said to me, “My son has these sores in his mouth. He likes to wash them out with salt before he goes to sleep.” I smiled sourly, and went back to my electronic solitaire.



He paused and pondered. Many things went through
his head. Abstract ideals; love, unity, peace. Concrete
conditions; understanding, patience, acceptance. Realistic
necessities; respect, inquisitiveness, rationality. Personal
favorites; appreciation, tranquility, happiness. After
a full moment, he answered,
“Yes. Urgency.”


Next To Godliness

As the scenario grows, the mind tends to panic
and from panic comes the soothing regress of
the familiar. When the mind can perceive something
as attainable, suddenly the panic will not simply be
diluted by the usual, but overcome, and actions to
truly realize such ambition are taken without thought,
as readily and instinctually as any other form
of sustenance, ultimate perception of the fullness of reality.

But as dreams fade,
life goes on. That’s just
how it goes, honey. I know
it’s hard. Come coddle up to me.
Sanctuary of the physical.

Godliness finds
new meaning suddenly,
and historically,
allah sudden.



Freedom staring down the work time
night, as life gets out of bed
to clock in for the no one to go home to
tundric trek back. Should haste
be appeased in the possibility of
a pedestrian return trip? Or should enjoyment
linger in the crowded bar of solitude, stiff
drink, and contemplation? The ideas that flow
so sensually with even the slightest lubrication



Stalling in the silent downtime
of the month on, month off cycle,
like time is there for the wasting,
and there’s no way the paper’ll run
out. Come on. That’s an absurd idea.
I should conserve, you say? Well,
here, I’ve got all this extra ink I won’t be needing.



I feel like a child playing with a figurine,
that adults have told, this piece is very, very
valuable, and also very fragile. I’m fearful

of breaking it, afraid to touch it any longer,
content to sit back and admire it, shelved.
This will get me nowhere. What was ever

worth having that wasn’t worth loosing?
What was ever worth making that wasn’t
worth the risk of shattering into pieces?


Work as Exorcism

The powdered shards
So weightless
So sharp
Grinding in, Streaking

solid sheets with mechanical
moves, still shielding
us from the wind
The act of driving

as exercise in muscle memory.
If you don’t use it, you loose it.
The blurry windshield
showing only slowing shapes.
Motion holding instinct over the break pad.


Hey, Wanna Play?

The island table dart shooters are here every time I’m alone. I’m not sure of the exact dynamic, but experience, and the guys they’re with’s reactions to certain jukebox songs, leads me to believe I get it. The blonde one stopped me once, in a very similar, hunched over, occupied position, to ask me about a song I had played, and since then, although we don’t make much chit chat, I get a Tom Waits' song without paying. All this led me to believe there were three couples, the girls I knew, the guys I didn’t, and a mixed couple, the girl nondescript and the guy bearded and balding, enjoying the friendly competition of the overly expensive electronic reason to drink. Well, the more expressive of the two guys, tossed one over the shoulder of the bearded fellow while he was retreating from removing his throw, who turned to the shooter without hesitation, “Don’t you ever throw a dart over my head again. You get me? You’re a cool fucking guy, and I may not look like much, but if you ever throw a dart over my head again, I swear to god, I will tear you down before the bouncer can throw me out of here. Do you understand me?” The shocked recipient stood agape, “Of course, man. I’m sorry. I’ll never do that again.” Without reply, the balding guy gathered his coats form the backs of the seats and left, leaving his apparently available date to finish the game alone, as the jukebox played my songs.


Atomic Sound

Resting inside the atom
of plus or minus charge,
the mindset of smile
or frown, feeling up or
feeling down. Sound moving

us more than our light sensing
senses allow us to see, feeling
moving through our bodies
in the sudden shock of
electricity, transplanted

the boxed in, back staged
package of microns. To think
conscious is limited to human
conditions is so virally cyclical,
goddamn! Understand, none of

this is necessary, as everything
everywhere is the same, always.
Maybe I’m full of shit, or what
we think is going to happen, will
happen, because the energy only

moves in small intervals, seconds,
we call them, and that’s all it is,
that energetic second spent sitting,
wasted, rolled up, listening
to musical chords, moving air.



The old burn of the familiar
It hurts so good to feel so bad

Maybe the cat is a surveillance piece
of equipment, but she’s still cute
and fuzzy and cuddly and funny so
maybe I should just relax.

The sudden moth infestation, nothing
more than a subtle inconvenience. Let
Ms. Kitty pay her way by taking care of
the, now, all rooms only nuisance.

(Normally, this would be the introduction
of the morbid, selfish view of the demise,
but my mind’s changed. This is the time
of happy, go lucky, go daily workers.)

Familiar places won’t burn
That idea is ridiculous

Men are strong, self sufficient, and sound
Women move within, between, through
Man’s web, molding to the slots they’re
often selected for voluntarily

Other regulatory values include:
mandatory mutilation, masks, to be worn
in all public settings as to not entice, and
make up, in all public settings to encourage

Ah, if the women ain’t happy
ain’t nobody happy. And

I’ll be damned if, as a whole,
we’re gunna say we’re happy



So much for the safety of the usual.
The red picket fence, doing everything
it can to become my new best friend.
Perhaps it was an event of pure coincidence,
the authority of not having to follow
the rules, or maybe the preparatory interruption
lead to a pass of interest. Could be a nightly
patrol, assuring no property damage goes
unpunished, yet unnoticed in the routine.
I could have imagined the whole thing.


New Year's Eve

Gas station, after work, 11:10 pm or so on the last day of a passing decade, drizzling incessantly, but still a comfortable temperature. Pulling in, I knew the overcoated lady wandering through was going to ask for something. I parked at a gas pump. Getting out, she wasted no time, ‘Excuse me, sir?’ I’d taken a step without my obsessive check to assure the doors were locked, and turning to appease my compulsion, I prayed she didn’t take it personally, ‘Yes’m?’ She was bundled, but familiar. ‘I’m not asking for money,’ she said, ‘and my sister just got arrested, and I don’t know how to drive.’ I paused at the trunk to hear her out. ‘I’m trying to get back over the Birmingham Bridge.’ ‘Oh,’ I started on, again, toward the minimart, ‘I’m not headin’ that way. Sorry,’ I told her. She stepped between me and my convenience, ‘I’m three months pregnant. Could you spare some change for the bus?’ ‘Bus’s free tonight,’ I reminded her. The Port Authority’s sign of good faith, before raising the fare come daybreak. ‘Not anymore, sir,’ she said sternly, like my being wrong meant I owed her. But I wasn’t. ‘Until four am,’ I said and stepped around and on my way. ‘Ok, sir,’ she said, making her way down Forbes, away from the bridge.


Where You Need To Go

I’m just reading, not like that’s anything
to you. Sure, I’d love to spend fifteen minutes
on hold with the cab company for you.

What else would I possibly think to do
at this point? Truly, the pleasure is all mine,
as well as the responsibility of getting you


Hippy Dippy

That wire still hangs
much lower than it should.
Fuck if I’m the one
to call it in, last thing
I need is a power outage
or, god forbid, the internet
goes down, especially now
that it’s so damn cold outside.

We all can see it happening,
but we’re all waiting for
someone else to stop it. Why?
Why are we not all trying to
push it along? Inaction is the
laziest form of revolution.
There are people out there
now, I know, on the front
lines of the discussion.

Fuck it all. Every
where. The first time
was just as staged, just
as useless and just as
memorable. The only real
hope being the fact
that all confiscated
ideas start out free,
or at least with a price
worth paying. Still
every vacation has its end.

Every kingdom will some day fall.



Such a new scent, a kind
of smoky sweetness, like
grilled tequila, so unexpected
in the watery chill of November
afternoons. Inside so crisp,

in that painful kind of refreshing.
The still of ample parking
disturbed only by the play
of fledgling youth before winter
takes up all the spots. Pleasant

in its urbanity. Lives everywhere,
mostly unnoticed, the striking
realness of the pack, assumed
distances in the experiences of a block.


These Are The Days When The TV Always Stays...

Sudden shift in the demeanor
of daily ritual, the mindless
aspect of again not knowing,
the exhaustion of perhaps waking
up early or perhaps staying up
late, the wasted hours in the day
of nothing to show for the minimum
wage, who the fuck wrote this, if
the world is a stage? Why hasn’t
everyone got up and gone home?
We all know how the story ends,
do we really need to see it happen?
I paid for the ticket, I suppose. Maybe
I’ll be surprised. We’ll see how it goes.


Undiscovered Scraping

I wonder if they also understand I am of no use to them,
that really I’m here, and listening, and concerned with
the full extension of a modern american heart, but any
child in Dubai can tell you how effective those are. I will
not make any promises to them. Which I don’t believe
they’re used to. Odd certainty in payment and expectation
and the eternal motion of advancing technology. The deer
have no where left to run, nor are there any more logs
to build my house, wouldn’t catch me walking around
this time of day, that part of town. Rang to the desk and
the bell hop they sent up was too short to change my light
bulb. I insisted he grow, which he finally did, after much
whining (which cost him his tip), so I could finally flip
the switch and hit the hay, restlessness through the night


to me.

Sardonic resizing of the sure structure
around our sentience, simply constructed
squares lead only to a sample of the cyclic
surroundings we endure. To say we have
supplied these ventures implies thankful
consent, when its more like a side mouthed
insult found in a birthday card, scratch
and sniff stickers of the once supple scene,
now our last resort in recalling any pure
nature. Sales figures mistaken for prosperity,
like fashion is only fashionable for a time,
my technology is breaking, please don’t do this