Tuesday, February 28, 2006

I Got a Six Pack, and Nothing To Do

May sometimes sleeps to “Sounds of the Womb:” some other mother’s blood rushing,

her throbbing heart. Mary can’t sleep with it on,

because of the door off the kitchen where the killers will enter.

The line of Food City cashiers keeps gaining weight,

even the young ones, though some of them still look cute.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m three inches thick,

surrounded by meat in the meat section, peering out through these sockets.

Monday, February 27, 2006

A Whoozit For Mr. Snodgrass

MisAntropic Needle

Evening in her dress lifts the hem
For a peep at thunder, maybe rain.

Hope for the tomb, the laughter
Comes over a loud speaker

Installed near your armpit.
Quietly, quietly,

It is necessary to interrupt.

One point in the distance
Is a huddle of laundry
Dry, rotting, perverse.

Mellow Out Or You Will Pay.

1. The mass under my skin,
which on some days passes
for muscle; miles of spaghetti
and meat sauce; strung around bone.

2. Once, during dinner, before we knew
about the tumor, I watched the line of my wife’s jaw
moving, and suddenly became afraid.

3. Whatever throbbing meat it is that makes up my heart.

You're Gonna Have To Move Yer Kubota

Sunday, February 26, 2006

Saturday, February 25, 2006

Dual tower arrow symplegma

Huckleberry Onward, Lisa Thi

Because you are a true seeker. Because
We live this life by what we leave behind.

Thursday, February 23, 2006

Massive Plurals

You a hear the sound when its working
Which means I’m on to you. If everything
Were going well, you wouldn’t hear
That constant rasp of pants. The machine
Breaths to make noise, not for air. It wants
You to know its there and functioning.

Otherwise the leaves layered in autumn’s
Copulation wouldn’t give up to airy convection,
Sodomite leaves!

As I look at the scene, of brown leaves, gray
Sky, some motion of finger-y branches unclothed
To the cold, the photo of it in my mind
Fades to a backdrop on a pinball machine,
Scores amass to decay and fucking leaves

And that ball bearing is trying to break
The glass, to dot a bloody hole in my head.

The Dark

This is a machine we bred between us.
Is that distressing? It has arms and legs
--Are you frightened-- and hair. I made it
to be unsympathetic. You made it to
look out for you, and to be there when you
cried. I gave up my organs for it, liver-ish
and eye holes, you gave up most digits
with the most euphoric hopes, for how well
it would do. It’s walking now toward us.
What a dreadful cloud, the summary
of our parts for a bond between us. I hear
it stammering, its got your teeth. I hear its
footstep. Its got my resistance to action.
So wonderful, its putting together a whisper

Last Stanza Pulling out of Fuckoff Station

Wait, didn't you hear it? This is a repress...

Here’s the deal. I wouldn’t piss on Oregon Hill if it were on fire.
And I don’t care about you. Have you met Henry or May?
You make my life harder than it is, and you’re gone. Gone.
Sure, you’re making art, and sure you’re plenty cool
But you don’t have the kids. I’m thinking about today
And I’m thinking about tomorrow and how exactly I am
Going to get from here to there. Diapers for May. Words Henry
Can spell. The rest of you can go to hell.

Can you hear me?

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Sardonic Mesmerism

Opening on the watershed where
construction cranes bequeath holes
to landscapes like prehistoric esthetic
enforcement officers, a single celled
insect consumes the poisons of a million
abusive mother in laws. Other miscues
assemble at a beach head made of laundry
to discuss the reprehensibility of taking shape,
of becoming skeletal and therefore demeaning
to the spirit of formless shame. “We creep
upon them,” a jetty of sound escaping lips
“If they obey one another.” Everything that
ever wore a bikini dissolves into air. Only
discarded hubcaps are left to circle endlessly.
Oh tender word
You’ve escaped the guards and their skillful
Also the foundation of words
Themselves are truncating
To the example of maps

To the unfolded edge which prevents
The passage through

The brain blood ensemble playing
Smooth tones

Snapping blood vessels.

Sunday, February 19, 2006


We, enlarging, insinuate the rats.
All through the side-streets awkward
Personalities resharpen their credentials
Toothing conscription over
Happy-like self demarcations
Of the what’s-in-fashionable bible’s
Pleasant recreations of a you-baby

Attitude and other inklinged overhangs.

What a March-belly reach around. Get your teeth
Ready for the left-overs

It’s all inside, it’s true to the bit,
The entrance and the squalor of
Abnegation and doubt you pegged on me,

The chewed on wood of my self interest parade
loosens in the hightide.

It’s true rats. I made it all up
And when the waters rose you came
Scurrying to remind me
How bourgeoisie my hut looks.

Burning inverted babel flesh fork Adam & Eve

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome David Diaz

Consider The New Orleanean Artist, Years Ago, on Pine Street

Consider the struggle.
Will you embrace his return, Richmond, you dirty bitch?

Change, Yeah Nothing Stays The Same; Unchained:

And you hit the ground running.
Between the merlot and the winstons,
My mouth tastes like meat.

In the marshmallow time before sleep
What I have for muscle passes for frozen steak,
Not as cold but red and just about as bendy.

What gets me, if the fuckers come in
Through that window and the Snods get it
As well, sure they eat, but would they
Pick up the blog? Would all my tools rust?

It goes like this: Eeuuurgh. Aheh-aheh.
Gwarrsssssgh. Gnar gnar aroo, with
Maybe a gem like “I can feel myself rot.”
Everything else is waste, and that’s
The true crime: there's no art with zombies.
Zombies have no trade except meat,
And I hope I taste like a stack of turds by then.

Friday, February 17, 2006

Yes Virginia, There Are Such Things As Monsters

I only met the guy once, but I talked to her a couple of times back when she was above Exile on Grace street. No, me and Mary talked to them both once, walking down main, up by chimborazo park, and someone told us later who they were. Then the Newspaper told us later, years later, no, somebody on the internet before that, just a month ago, told us who they were. They were the butchered Richmond family, and they had always been the same as us. Artists in the transitional neighborhood, artists who eventually had kids. Struggled around money, saved some up and made a house around themselves, made a life around their art. Made their kids around their art. Laughed and ruined pasta with so-and-so, had some wine, the kids playing together.

And then the monsters came in through the front door.

I have no right to be writing this, no I have every right. It is a hideous event and there is no way to form words around it.

A small atomic device has exploded off Forest Hills Avenue and the fallout will unspeakably erode those hit by it’s poisoning radius for the rest of their lives.

Unspeakable throughout the thing’s long history, crippled maples somehow dying against that sad avenue, the cops who took them out eventually passing away. The story untold from one generation to the next, but passed, unspeakable and forever hideous, nonetheless.


It is the lime green light over the aloe plant in the basement that keeps it alive as there is not snow outside quite yet. My six week old daughter cries inside her bassinet as a matter of course, as a matter of breathing, hik hik, and I am waiting for her to sleep. I insist that I am not a monster. I pick her up and hold her to me to quiet her breathing. Then put her back in. She ramps it back up, over ten minutes, and though I am patient, she becomes a thing again, a shrieking animal with a mouth. A thing that my will, as I am an only animal, only wants to quiet. In Ovid’s Metamorphoses there is a king who goes mad and swings his infant, head first, against a wall. There was a goddess who caused this for purposes that I don’t care if I ever remember. I am no king and I recognize no god’s will against me. A king wouldn’t know his child well enough to play Johnny Cash singing “Darling Companion” and sing backup to June, dancing with her in his arms. Dancing forever with her in his arms. And no matter what happens, today or tomorrow, no god could ever interfere with a man singing, no matter how suffering, beside those two, forever singing below the steps of the Appalachians.

Never Trust A Hippy

Thursday, February 16, 2006


Orangutan: Mr Alex, don't you think being an artist is pretty pretentious?

Mr. Alex: Urggh, blaaggh.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Just Before Sleep I Feel Like A Frankenstein Monster Built Out of Stale Marshmellows

Me: Hey you should check out the blog, we've got an awesome picture of Randy's new scooter.
Mr. Alex from New Orleans: Yeah, what was the name of that again?
Me: The uhm, shambling darkness project.
Mr. Alex: ....
Me: What?
Mr. Alex: Don't you think that's a pretty pretensious name for a blog?
Me: It's about zombies!
Mr. Alex: I think you should change it to the Gary Shandling Darkness project.


SHADOW:So what was the first political activity that you were ever involved with?
LEWIS:I don't know. Probably when I shit on the grass in Prospect Park, I don't know. I don't know what that means. What is a political activity? What does it mean?

SHADOW: And people would resist?
LEWIS:Well obviously. And unions were created. We used to have a saying: "If you don't get the asses of the masses out in the street, forget it." And you get enough of them out there, the ruling class gets scared. That's the only thing they're afraid of, is numbers. Numbers! See, one thing you have to understand. There's very few people understand, especially people who deal in outlaw newspapers and magazines. The ruling class is smarter than you, and they're more creative. And if you forget that lesson, you go down the drain. Because if they weren't, they wouldn't be around as long as they have been and as strong as they have been. It's not an accident. Not an accident. Never underestimate your opponent. They'll tell you that if you're a fighter. Never underestimate. You can poke fun at 'em, you can do satire, but they work 24 hours a day. It's like Lord Acton said: "Power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely." I say that power works 24 hours to remain in power. Throughout history. Go back to kings, feudal times. The same thing. While you and I, here we're bullshitting, and then we go out: "Tompkins Square, blah, blah, blah..." Their fucking machine works 24 hours a day, man. It grinds, it grinds. Otherwise they don't stay in power, they topple.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006


Everyone knows zombies are all that’s good of consumerism, all that’s left of the buying mind. Everyone also knows zombies don’t drive, that if they could they’d just hunt you down, run you down with the pick-up, the presidential Lariat. Everyone knows if they could they’d have guns too, but it’s good because all they can remember is the buying habit and happy-day trips to the gun shop with paw, that, or the wal-mart bullet market. So it should come as no surprise that the vehicle of our destruction should come on dark wings, commercial wings, syrupy mall-mind, vespa, vespa, vespa,
oh Christ, buy it already.

Godspeed You Black Emperor,

Nuttier than a squirrel turd,

and Heaven Hang the Consequences.

Saturday, February 11, 2006

Grandpa Munster, Lifelong Anarchist, Died This Week

But by being a vampire might he be reborn to rip open the throat of your local republican? Who will record his passing? Who will write the bibliography on his body of work? Some shit anarchist fuck-zine out of Williamsburg?
Studs Terkel is the only one, yes, and we should leave Studs Terkel alone. The man is old and has given us enough.

Have you been reading your Studs Terkel lately, asshole? No?
Too busy with the Drudge report, down there in Tennessee?
Too busy with the Colbert Report? You forgot about the flag of Catalonia flying. You forgot about the Aspidistra. The man taught you, on the subway, and you forgot his name just now.
You forgot about art after the bit with the planes flying into the buildings. He learned his art beneath planes flying into buildings.
Before the assholes all over the airwaves, there was the struggle, he said. The man made art during the struggle with assholes all over the airwaves. Assholes killing poets and burying them outside soccer fields.
Assholes manipulating railways, assholes bending thought and reason and history
into a brand new word. And the stupid word made law, but for this man skewering it.
For the entirity of his life, and that was the body of his work, the body that he sacrificed, the body that he gave for you and me. Orwell
Without the Animal Farm, Orwell without 1984,
Orwell, a lanky young man striding through Spain, with no year, fighting a war that he believes in.

Friday, February 10, 2006


It’s serious, you bloat, the finger fetish
I’ve cultivated spurns elegantly
One choice, two choice, the button pusher

Tap dancing chronicler of the ATM
And her forlorn breast-eye-mirror
Force field of contusion on the world

See it in its bowl, request denied, withdraw
To vacuum grocery store, the bats dropping
Here, Christ, even with witnesses

Ordering things about is a hit on the head
With bats in finery, in scope dashed
Through to external punctuality

Throw up an elbow to the outside world
Because, whatever happens, save the hand.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

This blog might mean something after we're dead.

And perhaps, if life is true, we might walk again. To skulk after our children and make them crazy-er. To graze in an Amherst county field might be stupid, yet to dream, but if our blessed milk might give more life, then sure howdy.

I think I might hate my parent's computer more than I hate my parents, because the keyboard is awkward and the television is always on.

Please ask Mrs. Christine Snodgrass to put the Dr. Phill on the Oedipal connotations on all of this. Git-R-Dun for her. Because it is her birthday and I love her like a queer cowboy on a Montana mountaintop git-a-way.

I mean Gitt-urr-dun like any ignorant shit that ever screwed his cousin in a trailer and needed to git his dingle dragged off by a number nine hitch. Get-her-done for her.

Because she strives everyday, for herself, for her art, and for her family. Especially; For her art, and for her.

For her pretty mommy's hair. And for her Patience. And her love.

Ah crap this used to be a poem. Zombies zombies zombies! Here at the last minute!

Zombies loves Chrissy2006 yeeauurghh-yee-ha!

ClayClay the Brokeback Homo Cowboy

Tuesday, February 07, 2006


of behavior, of folding pages, of drifting emergencies and wood chips. In the window a carved ship complete with articulated rigging monitors the imagination of a shelf and all its descendants. You may ask if this is correct, if your sharing my anxieties is infinite. Should I call or not? Here you worship the chance light through a drifting ship. I can call but it is futile. Whatever I say is a trap of meaning. I am drowning in wood. Outside an electrical storm has risen from nothing. I contemplate nothing until I am submerged again, reaching to a passing ship. The pages crease. They are made of wood. The machinery runs. Power consumes the remission of sloth.


I can somehow walk and think, and looking at my boots, that is art. There is the forty hour week, and there is money, which both can kill art. Republicanism kills art. War murders art. There is the chattering darkness all around us. In work and in war. You’ve taught me all my life: Art is war, yet I’ve decided we can win. So let us wage our lives against.

Fernandina Beach Libertarian Women’s Tennis League

Because we are not striving for actually anything,
We are enjoying ourselves. We are winning.
We want to keep it.

pickles and mustard

You’re wrong, you’re decay means everything to me. I’ve built a fiasco of a deck down in North Florida for my parents. Am going back tomorrow, to build it; out of need for money. Went down with Henry, just me and him. Because there is no use for art in our great country so we go and build decks. “I want momma,” he sez. Almost every night. Because I dragged him four hundred miles for money, because an artist father always needs money from somebody. We all sit down on the porch steps eating Krystal hamburgers for lunch one day, I scrape the pickles and mustard off for Henry.

“You’ve got grey hair,” my mother said, astonished, still in her tennis skirt. “I can see it in the sunlight.” “Yeah, I got lots.” I say, and that’s all, because of the same truth that makes people stop behind school buses. Or else they don’t stop.

I am not a whining liberal and I will break your fucking nose if you call me that. I am a full grown American craftsman, doing my best to keep from dying.

Monday, February 06, 2006

Necrosis 1.1

A crisis in the upraised, I’m enjoying what’s coming down on my head. The treatment of my youth. Its hallways of hypnotized dilution. I watch it on TV for the reality. The shared grave. I make it up to me by not killing myself. What goes up comes together. It’s the primary rule of transmission: my decay is everything, except to you.


Either giving or eating, the teeth stay focused, dedicated to the knowledge of the impossible, for them, the teeth, it is the engulfed, the consumed. Love is to the masticated. The sky is overcast. In the city it is all the ruin of teeth. It is abutment, adjustment. Giving in to the blackmail of love, (How Useless?) I am engulfed by the sky, its limited potential for giving; I am dismembered to the knuckle, its exact placement.

Thursday, February 02, 2006