Category: poems

Here’s something I just wrote that I’m calling Hindenbursting:

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Hindenbursting

We are zeppelin.
Exploding clouds painted helium
red and yellow spark-colors at sunset.
I’m hanging from parachute clouds
by handrails of hail
and slippery rope-like raindrops.

I’ve taken a bottle of the explosion with me
to the park by our apartment, cloudbursting.
Grass is tickling the back of my neck. Dirty imperfect patches of grass
evolving slowly to mud, and for the moment
insects are too stunned or wet to move. I try not to squint
at the wet aerial assault and enjoy the perspective
of each individual shooting star of water, ultimately failing.

Tails of each drop point to the earth, simultaneously
pointing at me; making me the center of the universe.
Each spatter on my cheek is suggesting something–
a universal equation of which I am an integral part
or perhaps a span of time the length of my life
which could not exist were I not present to experience it.

We are too small or I am too big.
Dirty oily cloth and metal bones are screaming,
falling.
The air is hot despite the rain.
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I think it’s interesting that there is really no emotional turmoil whatsoever in my life right now, and yet, the moment I sit down to write a poem, I fictionally create some.

I am almost disappointed that the new moby album is good. I had kinda planned on not getting it, because I don’t really like that song they’re playing on the radio.

one thing I really hate: when a weekend feels like work. Tasks for this weekend: get groceries, wash clothes. OK, that’s not that long a list, but Laura has about 20 things that she would like to tack onto it, plus, there are another 20 “fun” things we have scheduled (party tonight, unicycling and museum this afternoon…) I just feel crowded for time.

Here’s a poem I wrote a few days ago… this is 2.0, and much more coherent.

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“Give us today our daily commute.” -the faint

On the freeway swimming upstream toward work
morning after morning Hiroshima on 394
little pollution gas light on
velvet mufler–divine spedometer
nursing my clutch
addicted to airbag
humming to the radio
like some dashboard freekshow
safety-cracks in my sanity.

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the world is my crash-test-dummy. w00t.

poem

elephants never forget–it has something
to do with their ears, or trunks, or something–
and I suppose, I wish
–photographically–
I had some of the same grey stuff
reminding me of all the things I’ve already forgotten
before I forget them–
or write them into a poem.

can elephants even write poems?

the eloquent elephant
(on the pleasant pheasant’s day off)
jumped over the quick brown fox.

outside, a storm cloud brims
with memories of its own.
soon a cerebral dam will break
and the sky will forget
into the lightening rods of local churches,
tops of banks
and skyscrapers.

there are so many things slinging electrons around–
who is to say the sky doesn’t rain down thoughts
too dense and wet to understand?

I’ve decided I don’t use enough fucking descriptive terms in my god-damned blog.

I guess there’s nothing for it but to celebrate the robots, robots who are “idealized post-modern savages“.

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Ode to Fighting Robots

silver-fist, babelfish
low-to-the-ground–vaccumed to the wall–
full of flame-throwers and bandsaws…

spin like flin, an angry din
axes and sharp sticks.
Robots making robot toothpicks.

Majesty of microcircuitry.
Radio-controlled Andy Warhol waltzing on tripwire
white iron and ornery LED conspire

Still life in electro-strife–
an onlooker’s geek rush and tussle
breed of new athlete’s mind-muscle

dissatisfaction, stirs within
our saucer-shaped metal-killing-coaster.
If circuitry got sympathy, it would have been a toaster.
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God it’s horrible. I’m like some kind of abomination.

On my screen I can count over eight visible places I could be entering text. Watch the blinking cursor. Keep track of window order. onFocus. onClick. onLoad. onLook. onSweat. onWrite.

________________
Depth of frames.

render template
upchuck doctype
crosseyed browser compatibility
nslookup dictionary.com
________________

I haven’t been paying attention to this whole blog thing this week. And why haven’t I been able to find a decent archive of April Fools day site modifications. Everyone does it… change their site just for april 1. I particularly liked GameFAQ branding themselves GameFaX, and covering only X-box titles. I should have looked for more of them, but didn’t even think of it until today because I was too busy playing Dynasty Warriors3 in a snowstorm.

sealed in our boxes of humanity
taped up and mixed, melted together
you never know what you’re going to get
a live one or dead one,
happy or sad.

we can be the whispered kind too
a word on the morning breeze
a meaning left to be imagined
our lives are like this
implied on a lover’s lips.

alas! the long island
slithering snake of a drink
sweet potato I
sip and gulp guiltily
she is a camera shudder
eyes closed, lips pucker’d
*urp*

today is a dust mop afternoon
my delicious morals are degrading by design
my hair is standing on end and inside out
my stomach is turning summersaults
from too little water, and too much sugar

I’ve been reading about fucking hearts and babies born on the internet.

ugh. I’m a lizard in sunlight
dreaming about crack cocaine and mescaline
robe hanging off my shoulder
tying knots in my brain with video games
playing chopsticks on the player piano
we’re fermented and moldy
green fuzz on my skin–alcohol content 98%
out to lunch
burp

Midnight houses all mannor of thoughts
creeping like edgy spiders into the whitespaces of your mind.
Sleep, the white web’s tickling tendril–
a trailing edge of symetrical dream-apocalypses.

Every night I fail to sleep a little longer
breathing life into darkened bedroom corners,
wearing covers and insomnia.