Friday, September 29, 2006

Alligator Snapping Turtle

When they're an every day occurance, there is no way to gauge them,
first it's morning then it's night. Henry somehow becomes a little boy when yesterday he had no language.
The baby looks like neither parent because her face is like staring into the sun.
Mr. Snodgrass is the same one as yesterday, however he is not the same one with the long hair that smoked cigarettes outside Rhodes hall and talked about speedmetal.
There is not a single biker bar on Grace street, nor headshop, nor dirty movie theater. None of them are missed.
Perhaps we'll be able to teach them together: people vanish, suddenly. Intentionally.
It is plausible that your cat will yowl and drag it's hind legs around your room one night, and your father will have to take it away forever.
It is most likely that you will die in something so common and banal as an automobile accident. It is not plausible that millions of the dead will rise from the ground to hunt the flesh of the living. No matter how many times you dream about it.
It is nothing to believe in. Besides, they only get you if you stop running. There can be worse things. The lightening will always come to release the snapping turtle from your finger, if you look hard enough you can find one older than most people you know. If you listen maybe he will tell you about the silty bottom of his home, the horned history he wishes he could forget.
Clean the brackish film from his shell and comfort him for me.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

I am the Nightrider

Layin' down a rubber road to freedom!


I elevate all through the company

yes, yes, we all know you’re the Humungus

and lately the campaign has me
washing the rags from,
you know, the chaff and the lamb…

Ha ha, I arrive on the drop
like with halves unto my sickle

and so in range to parch longtime
crumblings we entangle now

you know, the weight off should
hamper the bereaved

make the converts drink any dish
or rat off the lord herself

just as the light drops its ball.

Shimmer Clips

Fall like contusions of blossom rich burdens
Remember that time

The incisors clipped a finger off
The door clipped off this voice, that voice
From all the hallways long growth

Then there were shadows longer like ghosts
Of someone, of the finger clawing her

Breath back to bonnet the air
To the fall flower in purple shade

Like the bruise marching up from the

Light edges out to make early some catastrophe
Of thinking.

I felt ok for the length of a sunset
And then the doors closed.

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Consider the Phases of the Interceptor:




RhinoPlatter w/side of Grits

All hail our horned master. All hail the daily special; the beloved product which keeps us supple.


Bronson MO

In this light I'm supple like a sock
Full of quarters

Or, meet this impression, the pillow
Case of RC colas

Preloaded for the youthful
Kurgan, you sumnabitch

No body, body nobody makes me
Look like a possum’s pecka

Dissolve this into that old fashioned
Colt 45, the predominance of lucky

Feeling and metal tattoos hallow lead
Bellied seventies creep out

Film and belligerence to the self
Mind. How ‘bout some cookies?

No Dice.

This aint ova



Distance burning thrum
hold on to the bits your bits
the chaw chaw

habitation inside
my whirly eye

seen the whirly eye
bird cross your squawk

squaw parody
super slip hypno
ic frantation

burry me in there
the toes
all curled up.

Reducing the Substance

Hopeful brown luminescence on my curious
Boots. By my hazard signs, road, I’m stigmatized
To your random pipe fixture. Fixed chromatic
And despicable.
Hegemonic Bunsen burners
Materialize in the back streets
With loose change or attitudes
Of art, the scrounged recon of a concrete seam
And suddenly the velvet ropes appear, like unto
Gold stems, the vapors, the Challenger blossom
Towards a recognized lapse.
One lead, two leads
I failed math in the 9th grade
Because the shuttle exploded.

And consequences trudged.
I flipped into a back-up folder
Where the music played as in
A music hall for the damned.

And it was good upon the waters. Target:
The waters, I took up later with the scientists
Who always need a good Igor no matter
The degree, all storms require someone

To trudge through on purpose

On agency the mind of god befuddles
The purpose of pouring vatfuls of acid
Down public drains. The orange clouds,

The orange clouds vitamin orange
And oil slick the skin as it decomposes

Like the rain on boots, like the slick
Shudder which noodles me, uncoils me to recall
The complex arrangement of stains on the ground
Where, foundered lapsarian, I felt my face

Receive the portrait canvass and rebound.

Saturday, September 23, 2006

Gustave Dore (1832–1883)
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Jaws Of Life

There, overlooking the river, atop the oldest hill we have, the sky will hang above us, blue shot with streaks of clouds. We'll come together from opposite ends of the park, our children running. Hearts throbbing in a cage of ribs. We'll skin our knees and cry even though it won't be anything to cry about. The wasps will freeze soon. Blood will continue to rush. It's nothing to extinguish. Those under the hill will continue to sleep and it's okay to miss them.

Rhinoceros Geographies Turtle

There will never be another morning to wake up to with them lurking just under the horizon. This zombie summer, stringy fried like okra and potatoes, incessant and split apart. Layed open like what my beloved therapist did to me, layed open like the fingers on my wifes' right hand. Did I not say no more fucking stitches?

These geographies underneath: that is not my hand, nor my head resting on it, the sidewalk I'm floating above, this is not my story outside my eyes. This is my story: A fire in the brain. The gnawing will never arrive over the sunrise, we shall extinguish, however, to wait for a mundane passing. Keep busy, meanwhile:

A group of us and our children gathering in a field. Trees that have been struck by lightening. A hundred-year-old snapping turtle yawning at the road before the bridge.

Friday, September 22, 2006

Here there be monsters

Address to the Nations

Dear Temporary Nightstick, you amuse
Me with you arcs, candle welding
On blood stains, nights of blossomed
Resistance, your mood flaws me into
Believing a society can be shelved behind
The corrugated.
With care we can get back to
Surgery and coagulate, dear your shadow
It’s pulimanting on the street again
Shiver it breeds a shiv to the prison gates
See it does.
Also, the fomenting resistance
You twirled from the footpath met
With unfortunate social equalities again,
See that you find a match for that skull dent.

Pistol Privilege

Notes on the Shopping Mall

Soldier in tantrum school
Rifling upwards on airs
To balloon-soar his tears

I’m fluttering underwater
Like a newspaper on an autumn
Roadside, flower food

Forgotten and particular
To what counts in remaining.

Solid waste water
In the runoff slough

You contaminate me to bite
Marks, I’m searching beneath
My own skin to remove

Your disease, art-bruise,
Points its rifle at my head
And waits for me to change.

Zombie Letters from

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Alligator Snapping Turtle

Rubberized Incisions

Slice and dice incursions blurred the distinguisher

Relevance like a long surgery
In which dreams form, oranges and weeping.

Elephant trunks estranged from this
Conclusion, this divider
Reads concise histories of
Automives, other trances
To courage like dense rectangles
Full of vitriolic hand lotion

The surgeon masks a social ill also called
Phenomena, also ran

Also bringing the hell fire to a party
Of skirts and head dresses

Boards nailed down to prevent forests.

Crumble Weeps

Snivel torque and blends
The churn of fingers

The strangle browns
A smile on apple shores

The demand of transparent
Snorts, the huff of Damocles

Climbs weeds in the right
Order of cheese, sheep and heartache

Subsequent to drowning
The half you meant makes sweet plum tubing

From some switch bruised garment
Toward this ant hill

Blossom in a hankie,
In wave goodbye.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Hey I put my kid on there too.



Not rhino beta
Nor trippy disclosure

Whoa, whoa,

Disco pervert.

Spread out on the radio
The Martians are here now

For the radio invasion
The lights
Candle smooth

Some loop Chronos
Of eating
All the little ones

Are headed inside
Like at the end of
Close Encounters

Shore line, dock, alien
Walrus boparoo
On the set down

The devil’s table
Knife, fork
Scissor legs
The devil’s table dance.

Disco Habitation

On the high
Wired out stringency
Liner notes to

Hyperioin wax code,

“What is the secret of steel?

Yet yet the funky funky

On the cloud trance alien
Infections infotainments

The stretched out door plate

On the taint, the taint
Neither here
Nor trans pelagic.

Whale wattle, bone disco baby

Trumpets and keyboards
The notes looky this to hell,

Monday, September 18, 2006

These Numbers Aren't Working Out.

Yes, I know, I got babies on the blog again.

Friday, September 15, 2006

Black Rhino

suasage beauties

Each one of us is prematurely elder-ed
Before the rich probe of the Alien’s shank

Child breath hangs meat hooks of mortality
Through the air, rich like cake

And shoulders strapped up
In slapped hollows, midnight to the ground

In shadows like slippery grooves
We, except for the aged insertions, wish

Would shelter us in moist enclaves,
Clavicle nights and limousine mists

On the dreams that shape up on
The monitor in the Alien lounge

Of experiments and cocktails and dream
Shears. Look, we’re all wearing baby grins.


Thursday, September 14, 2006

Post Accute Withdrawl Syndrome


"Now, in general, Stick to the boat, is your true motto in whaling; but cases will sometimes happen when Leap from the boat, is still better.
--Herman Mellville, Moby Dick