I'm off to see 3 powerman 5000 shows in a row! Tacoma, Seattle, and Portland. See you Sunday!!!!!

(give me a call, reader, should you wish I'll have my phones and i'll have so many stories to share!)

until the end of the weekend, have the best of days, and keep smiling brightly.

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what in the blue…

5/18/05

shit.

it seems that
tonight
under the duress of
a pot-of-coffee caffeine
executioner of
rationality
I’ve wandered astray
into what appears to be
a garden
(of all things)
half Bosch and half
Bruegel,
just a bunch of
peasants
fucking
and, oh, lord,
can I leave?

can’t I
just get out of
here
meet my friends
and have
a drink
like the old times?

eighty-five

5/17/05

she called me scarface
because my forehead had this awful magnetic
attraction to sharp metal objects
like mobile home skirting
and the bumpers of pickup trucks
and oh god she couldn’t be more right
for the July sun and cool of
our summer pools
are what’s in those lines
on my face
and inside these eyes
that can never let go
of the scents of deck-stain
and fresh cut grass
and the bullhorn blare, gilded glare
of endless Tom Petty flowing ‘round us
as we started the day and
lived it long
as it was
in those times; endless and smiling and always bright
for the clouds
simply didn’t cover us

we were lords of our realm
Colonial Estates
trailer park on the southeast
corner of town

and it’s that home
which I take with me
on the road
to my own

frozensolid gluestuck

5/11/05

what I feel like now is like
soil under the sunset
on the plain
in the
dead of winter, dim and empty as
night falls on me, flat land where
the wind stole the snow
and
only left the
grass
sticking up in
crazy bedhead
        tufts
that taunt and tease
and make you wish
like a child on christmas
that there was snow, just a little bit of fluff
just a
tiny
bit
that’s all I need

to obscure this desolation

radiating from
my icecube
toes
below

to the farthest horizon

found on an indie/anarchist's blog:

"i'd punch myself in the face just to make something fucking happen. ive got to stay loaded on something to numb the realization that im sitting here wasting time, softening myself, becoming more insecure and reverting back into the old me, whom i despise."

said punk just took the words right outta my mouth.

(god, i can't wait till pay day tomorrow... being cooped up here without any way of going places blows severe ass)

a wee too weak

5/7/05

I just went outside
to get my mail; funny
how I never did that today, but actually
went outside in the morning

alas, the couple passed
and I fell drunk in her perfume
fleeting and so meaningless, for I shall
never pass her again,
never sip a drop of that intoxicating
exotic
scent
that made me want to bed her

but I looked up, on the way back
(it can’t be more than
a mere thirty second walk)
and on the way spied two stars, so bright
amongst the low clouds
bloated with rain
and wondered what they meant

yet as I turned to climb
back up the stairs, the three flights that
lift me gracefully to my door on the
wind of angels
I spied a third, a dim, weak little star
near those two, but on the edge
like a shy friend who feels a bit lonely
and wholly out of place
puppy amongst the sharks

and if I could I’d reach above
grasp that lonely dog, pull her down
and simply look in her eyes
tell her
"you’re strong
so fucking strong
and the life you have is in your paws
hard as it is to notice
but it’s there –
grasp it in your claws
and don’t let go"

but I’m drunk, and there’s beer to be had
and she’s
far too high
for me

so I came back inside
instead

modest

4/12/05

I am the modest

silly little druid in a silly little land
sadly robbed of my forest! But
more often
I meander like
a duck
in the desert
frantically at first
sand burning my little webbed feet
as I waddle across the dunes
but eventually I give up
give in
accept that I’m not really built
for desert life
but keep waddling on in a mechanical way
for some distance later
I’m sure I’ll find an oasis
where I can swim for a time
and cool feet ‘jus fine –
I could clean the dust
from my feathers, too
perhaps

but as I waddle
being modest
I lay low to the ground
so I cast a small shadow in my travels
and slide across places
with the smoothest of ease,
my humble disposition the oil to grease the wheels
of my silly social shortcomings
and inept inequities
and as low to the ground I am
it makes it hard
to spy those rare pools
off in the distance

but at the same time –
I’m drenched in the scent of the
planet vibrant above me, the beautiful brothers and
strong sisters around me, and
duck as I be, modest as I
dream, or perhaps only perceive
through my tiny laughing mallardeyes
I smell the orchestra this afternoon
and taste its vibrant golden tones; it sounds
like cayenne and looks like the deepest, richest
corner-bar jazz
everyone and
everything
woven and
spun tight
in this perfect depiction of the higher
plane
man woman child and dog
grandmother son bird and wind
green and gold and blue and white
goosebumps and godly pride
blending together and
draping over me like a
silken cloak of smiles

yet I remain modest!
a modest merchant above
this marketplace of emotions electric –
a child spying magic amongst the clouds
and screaming dreams at
anyone who would hear,
any soul or hopeless fool
who would take the time
to hear a rhyme
and listen to my wild raspy quackings
as I shake the desert
from my feathers wise and cracking

uncommon product

5/7/05

steal thy friendly urchin
and straight from the bottle
i shall drink
with a zealot's zest! a love
for the strange, and the bizzare
like a lust for sunlight
or hermaphrodites
or simple things like
snakes in the grass

touch me, and deliver me to
a place of bliss; tempt me with
your tiny tongue, rusty with
the love of blood
and suck me off like a
salt-covered pirate on the docks of home

and listen to the breath i
exhale
like a gale from the middle sea; it's laced
with the scent of wine, the
australian that i'm letting slide down
through me now
and as you drink in that whisper
that scuttles from my lips
cover my eyes
and love me some more

sitting on Utah

4/12/05

so why not sit down in the grass?
I know that some of
my very best
writing
has been done inside, always
in the glare of a phosphorus window
or amber light, Sylvania’s best –
but why not let the real sun
touch my arms and light
my fires? Why not let this
spring breeze
        last of the day
mess up my hair with its playful fingers?

        It’s like a child, the wind –
and the playground ain’t far off

so come, wind, let’s ride the earth
like drunken gypsies, father and son
leering around like a pair of
basketballs trotting the globe
in search of nothing
nothing at all
save the fairies in the grass