bedroom howling


the dog downstairs, at least that’s where
i think it lives
must not be appreciating my
music this morning;

it’s a pretty picture-frame outside with
a light breeze and hot light shining through new
spring leaves, a few accidentally-bruised clouds
dancing off to the east
but the dog I suppose can’t see out the window
or something
because the music is driving him

for an hour it has been howling and shrieking
at nothing but the hand percussion flying out
from my speakers;
percussion that blends well with the waltzing clouds
and playful blue sky of my morning

so I’m sure the dog must be locked
in the bedroom
below mine

where it’s
oh so forlorn


Go listen to some Guster, children! It's hottt...

Have the best of days, reader.


GUSTER - Love For Me

I know there is a place
A place where I belong
Not mistreated or undone
And if I find that place
I'll keep my mouth shut
Cause I won't be there alone
And if you're standing there with me
I'll swear it's a lie and I'll still believe it
Cause I came
And I spoke
And you ran
Didn't even wait to hear the words
Or see the look in my eyes
Cause I bled
And you watched
And I cried myself to sleep
Came to wipe my tears away but you
You couldn't look in my eyes again
Because of the love for me
I understand the time
It passes so slowly
And I can hear its laughter
But there will come a time
When you will ask me
And I will join you then
And if you're standing there with me
I'll swear it's a lie and I'll still believe it
Because of the love for me


your eyes are guatemala and your hair the sky i saw
above the canopy in the morning, the breeze your whispers
the light dust kicked up by the fruit man's
with its seductive smell suprisingly close to your unwashed hair -

i was drunk down there, stumbling down the street on a magic
carpet like i am tonight, lost in blue and white retina memories that
burn like magnesium flames
and could i close my eyes and shut out the seduction i would
but like pain the beauty pins my feet to the ground and
glues my eyes wide,
overexposing my sore and tired point-and-shoot oculars
to some of the toughest things
one could ever wish
to forever capture -
breezes and scents and the morning colors of the sunrise
and the way it lit her skin as she wept




it’s faint, like the
brush of a kitten on your ankles as you
wake up and place your
feet unassuredly down on
the cold berber below; this
whisper that you curl ‘round my ear
tastes like soft-serve on the warmest of
August evenings, a little bit of chocolate
drizzled on a calming heap of vanilla elegance

elegant … yet … dark

with a hint of an African sunset
behind the closed doors of a plainclothes
Presbyterian retreat
so let’s stroll for a time, before we run out of time
before the sun remembers its time
and dies

and oh,
keep on whispering those things you do
the old-time jazz


kodachrome snapshots:
       orange black lusty blood rouge
       the black of a jilted sky starless
       gray of a illuminated pen harmless
       and silver-sterling smiles
       on the floor
drip into me like cavewater
and spin me around like a
trapped in a seizure
mother screaming in background, panic-driven frenzy
and all they want to do is build a new story
but how in the hell
can you


the river current soft in the night?
She’ll take you to the delta if you let her
lots of coffee... lots of driving... big vegan cookie, lots of conversation... lots of smiles. lots of confusion. and lots of ... love.

this, my dear reader, was my evening in SLC.

oh, i guess i had some fierce spaghetti at my place, too; simple stuff but made with Amy's organic Wild Mushroom pasta sauce, which is one of the most amazing things i have ever tasted, save for Emeril's vodka sauce. Pity the latter isn't vegan, for it contains heavy cream. Unholy travesty!

It's now my mission to make a badass vegan vodka sauce for my pasta.

But in shorter terms of time it's of high importance to get me some rest ... seeings as it's a mere five hours until i need to work. Bah. Alas, i finished a poem as well, so here goes. Sleep well, reader, and don't land in any weird sexual dreams tonight, unless you're of the kinky persuasion, or you're just feeling randy. rawr.


forever stuck in hell, motel six


when my small friends
of the avian persuasion
make their little excursions across this
slate afternoon
the world seems to
blur a bit
and smooth out like a sheet of construction paper
rough and haphazard, colored by
chunky splattered wax painting the page
in faint crayon black, an irregular textone blast
roadhouse coffee-colored islands
floating in a silver icelocked marshland –
like a menace I try to
spread the black and push it back
but the crayon keeps disappearing, sauntering ever closer
to my stubby little toddler’s fingers
as I grind it across the paper
the frustration so hot it won’t even burn –

always these white isles in dusky seas
that elude the farthest reach!

to forget, oh, the essence of the calming ocean
but the birds …


this morning i feel... dim. Sort of here, but sort of not, and certainly, most certainly, confused beyond any and all description. But that's okay. Life without it would be, well, too easy, perhaps.

I just don't want a re-run of Black Summer. And, oh, she looks to be an interesting one, if it's this fucked and it's only April.

Alas, i just wrote a poem, so here goes! Not one of my best, but just a little rambling lament that seemed appropriate for this hung-over, windy Sunday morning. Be safe and stay smiling, reader, and enjoy this last day of your weekend.


as it stands


we’re all living with those borrowed minds
in the shadow of stolen lives
with a courage endless the winding road round the world
red thread against the blue heart –
if only we’d throw open our colored shuttereyes
and spy its light!
feel it land on our skins and wash us
like the springtime sun
realizing that if the well were poisoned
its water tainted and tinted
from crystalline clarity to a
dyed hue of confusion
that what draws from the earth
and that
like the courageous highway
never ends