lots of maps, but no real help…

lot of maps, but no real help

everything theoretical.
required verification in tense & time,
contretemps are just industrialized
arguments, a fore-runner to dissolution.
who says you can’t have it all?

the house is quiet, there’s nothing to eat.
i feel weak, like maybe someone
should punch me to make a point.
instead, nothing happens as a few more
minutes dissolve like sugar cubes
in hot coffee while i sweat it out.

all of this; yet still some part of me
needs to eat again. it’s the only way
to keep moving; to keep
breathing. even if i’m as weak
as i worry about being. constance
made a virtue because it’s
always there.

nowadays i don’t shave unless my
pillow is sandpaper.
keeping up with a constantly expanding
universe. the implications are stunning;
what else is there?

situated between back-to-back
thoughts about some effervescent
liquid day-dreams; my furrowed brow
does the worrying for me. what was
weak now just reflects sunlight.


southern comfort…

southern comfort

it’s all seduction in the
bedroom while my music is
playing too loud for this
unexpected 5 a.m.
wake-up call. capital
letters invade my thought
as tongues loll around
& thoughts of the past
bring me to the present. 57
degrees inside this room
(really no heat at all)
& i need scissors to open
the southern comfort.

seduced by the light
on the desk shining
through the bottle in an
everlasting argument with
the flickering candle
ticking it’s way through its
wax prison. my stomach
warms from the liquor
& whatever was bothering me
bothers me no more.

i know i shouldn’t be doing this
but “i was seduced” & the bottle
was lonely like me & inside
was the heat & the goodness
i needed to start the day in the right
frame of mind. venom is no way
to begin when it flows so easily;
same extended shot like
a canon going off because
that’s what we need to start the

stumbling in flip-flops while
i’m singing along & wondering
about whatever comes next. i
can see me driving to a close town
& getting done what needs getting
done but past that is blank. i
have no clue how i got here
& no clue how to leave.

walking towards the bottle again,
drawn across the room for one
more shot of warmth &
peace of mind. it flows so
easy like a shot.

sweet blueberry & the random playlist…

sweet blueberry & the random play-list

sweet blueberry scented air & girls from
Heart singing ’bout some magic man.
i’m instantaneous laughter; fall-on-the-
’cause i know the magic man;
& he hates that fucking song.

sweet reeking wetter-blueberry than
blueberry’s ever been. Cream
guitars tellin’ ‘tales of brave ulysses’ &
me still belly laughs-on-the-
’cause i met Ulysses & he didn’t
say a fuckin’ word about any
of this to me.

sweet blueberry flowing rivers
around the room; i can reach out,
grab it/smell it/taste it…
Wonder behind it, chiming in
“until i reach higher ground.”
can you laugh yourself-off-of-the
struck stupid laughter; gales & hoots
& peels of laughter
screaming laughter
breathing laughter
spitting laughter.

bucketfuls of blueberry-fleshed
laughter & Terry Reid
would sing the next song.


cinnamon whiskey & freedom…

cinnamon whiskey & freedom


wet-haired amongst the rain drops,

(i don’t care where they fall;)

un-iced tea in an orange juice glass

next to the cinnamon whiskey

begging to be the next victim on

a rainy night under the memory of

raised lighting strung in place

by a good friend.


perchance recovery from another week

on; i’m still seeing the same writing

on the wall saying the same things

over & over. discussions with the cat

lead nowhere but he listens well; i speak

because there is something else to say

in a voice under darkness after i’ve slept

too many hours leading me nowhere.


in between the whiskey shots i drop the

usual mix of concentrated happiness down

my throat & chase it all with the un-iced

tea. this time we’ll do it right; maybe there

was a plan but it was forgotten or changed

or left behind. whatever it was i’m free

now, an advantage that become clear

& tastes like burning cinnamon. catch as

catch can; at least that’s what i was told.


elusive future considerations…

elusive future considerations


i’m stabbing cigarette butts

into coconut husks,

making random associations

seemingly vague enough to

be illusionary. all the time

the strength of my words coalesce

between money owed,

various deliveries, receptions,

questions of loyalty &

the truthfulness of what i’m



the few voices that reach

through the mire of obsolete

promises deliver more vague

assurances of cooperation

while frustration mounts in

torrents of valueless transitions.

today is tomorrow but for

numbers on a calendar.


earl grey evening tea salves

a cold night shimmering in it’s

own beauty & stillness.

rapid movement, apportioned

tasks, notions of solidarity

break free from absolutism.

delivery of minor blue potions

relieve the coming days of

cold sweats, sleepless nights,

incessant problems with wavering

homeostasis. ever the optimist,

i trust in miracles of

contingency. nobody is

sick today. there’ll be no

sickness tomorrow.

shorts promise to long…

shorts promise to long

so we played around at
conversation. it wasn’t without
subtext, the kind of
shit seen coming out
of a projector, if
it happens to be any good.

we tripped over implications;
such drastic solutions without
mention of Heisenberg
or Zeno. if i could borrow
your eyes, the red pylon hanging
from the tip of America’s limp dick
(we drove all night to get there)
would look different or
same, similitude, dimensional;
whatever you want.
another edition of infinite
regression. she wants meaning,
while i want breakfast.

continuing to speak, ignoring
all my flailing; i can’t help it.
after a day leaking brains under
the sun, i’d been baked,
just not long enough to justify
such inebriated logic.

halfway through the end of
dime-store discussion, music
was all but playing. gaps in
this story need to be filled in;
she asked questions
while i stuttered, making book
on teleological grounds.

confusion remains to be dealt with;
it’ll give us something to
talk about next time.

greed of the suck-fish…

greed of the suck-fish

gettin’ bombed watching sunday
untangle the last of her hours,
smoking cigarettes that go down
like water. rainfall outside fights
a rear-guard action keeping the
cloudy sky in place. the only
forward movement is time.

whomever wanted it badly enough
could feel the electricity; inherent
in swallowed ovoid capsules.
transformational acrobats are all
the rage in this delicate town.
almost nobody watches the slow moving
grass waving in the foot-breeze.
short attention spans virtually
guarantee this misdemeanor attraction
generates moderate success.

by varying account, autonomics rule
the day as it constricts the loose
hours spilled out over the afternoon.
tomorrow is already given over
to a celebration of the old days;
today is the pocket the key must
pass through before being inserted
into the lock. pandoras box will
spring open on its own.