Once upon a time I kept a journal of brief mindblurbs. Random brain noise bits I tried to wipe out onto the keyboard at least once a day. Usually they were one sentence long, but if I felt particularly feisty, I’d blort out as much as I could muster.
This is a page of old mindblurbs, and no longer gets updated.
Resolutions are blurry,
time dilates the worldview.
I stand up on my own,
a big boy.
My shoes are tied.
I still trip.
satellite spin stalactite
someone screams at midnight
Stagnate rooms of flesh
make for night suffocation.
birds rock superfluous blues
reek of the rifts between rafts of choral
reefs in the sea both fragile and floral
immortal rocks of dead bodies drown
blaze by with gaze turned upside down
I’m vacuous in my vicissitudes,
lacking in my lackadaisical learning,
languid on the couch of contentious.
saving grace’s shepherds on the salvatory swing
Stepping up for exhaust,
swing that linoleum zipper.
Swooh swathed in applause
Ground frightens me,
I prefer to fly.
taste is smell
air tastes like you
you smell sublime
you smell chocolate
Things leave his hands—tiny planets—scatter in the air,
fall and rise again.
Things live in his flowing aura
they are not in defiance
of gravity, or
rebellion from physics,
they are simply
following along his arms,
falling into his form.
view of waking vivality
vulvas full of venom
viciously veer from the vertical
In wake of this wonder which lumber about my room, acting like me,
I will surprise the morning with my absence.
filled tyrannosaur dines on meat
from either peripheral images grow
on a silent still cat-walk bird lays eyes on sunshine worm
cat-walk can taste sunshine, knows he’s juicy,
cat-walk’s frustration is cylindrical metal.
In darkness’ cask I’m drunk.
foreign alien silent
silhouette starch in sunset
earth is new to me
after andromeda, scream sun, scream!
on to silence, where words truly lie.
statues of flame and wings
ants and birds die together
mucus ties knots of snot
my arms flap chronic awe
monkey wrench to the grindstone
what shutters on the stream-line,
what dangles on rhinestone
gush intestine relapse
waveafterwave of fetid dirt
moth flower may
waiting for the savior in the mailbox to anticipate the guru.
on top of spaghetti, all covered with neon toxic sludge…
Love is a flea circus, where the fleas juggle chainsaws and bowling balls.
day in the night, god in the wood
robot movements in the glint of sunlight
Nothing on the name-line, noses in a niche.
The mythical masters mystery; perception is the slave of imagination.
Last night in a dream I remember fondling someone I haven’t seen in years.
Dime on the sidewalk, walks upright, stands on its tails.
Pants painting ankles,
velvet vulva dream
makes me drip,
its sausage saliva—raw white rivals swimming.
On another night the neuro-bats would swing in from heaven-town, tonight they stay there,
the rituals of coffin-night makes them high.
prevail in mind
scant attention is asserted
the lost leaves floating silent
focus only slowly
Loss is loss,
like lavender floss
and curtain-tails in rain;
all sound pretty
but damn-sure silly,
and silliest of all is pain.
my eyes are silver to eat with
chrome plated sex-drives
sex dives in electric escapades
swim in it skinny-boy
come out! onto computer chip clean
chrome craniums hidden—hiding in computers
silenced by keyboards
and screaming in pixels
black pixel pupils
perpetrating, pretending, pestering
my eyes are watching hungrily
man and mobius
pervert and infinite loop-which-I-tie-life-to
die and live
diet and live
skin off in skid marks
scan the skin, skank!
skirted the hasty scarecrow
sky high in scab-land
maybe scarred maybe
skidded on ass
maybe scattered asphalt asking
Scream, angry man,
coffins are filled with men who choked on pride.
And scream desperate man,
God collects the souls of the weak.
for injustice is the song of the hour.
Scream colored man,
but scream intelligently—so that others will think you human.
because words are never louder.
tradition is the loudest frustration.
Scream lonely man
so that others may hear you cry.
you have the least.
Air is the right medium for sound,
don’t do with sound
miles are hexes,
stone cathedrals galaxies and
torrential termites swoon in swan season.
On the median mountain mares moan and mangers meet methuselah in her soprano voices storm
On the median mountain, between the valley of the survivors and the valley o the dreaders,
I stood for a while pondering the headache I own.
for a fuck, too,
he smothered her, and
for a fuck he killed her
he was looking for a screw there
it was in the night, and,
for a fuck, too,
he would have done you
there, in the night, but
for a fuck he killed her
in red and glistening in silver
by moon and car light
for a fuck, too,
she was milk and she was smooth
in greying and in the chevy
for a fuck he killed her
he must have smelled her hair
he could not let her refuse
for a fuck, too,
for a fuck he killed her
In massacres the days twist sideways,
droves of days,
stanzas of days.
Snail-slime time slides by.
Slick but sticky
tick, and tick, and tick.
Sewage miles between us,
carp feet suck asphalt on a leather day.
Spam speckled spatulas we used to spank with
make good insect swatters.
assignment in silence
a serenade of the most sullen
walk stick-like standing up
into arms of stone revulsion
Mexican sky, Oh! Spanish sky,
how I long to gaze upon your breast,
millions of twinkling sun-tanned stars
and I’m stuck in the dull midwest.
European sea, Oh! English sea,
I would I could float on your creamy crest,
you’d whisper me poems and offer me tea,
but here I am studying, instead, your best.
Oriental fire, Oh! Japanese fire,
smouldering beneath a dragon’s breath,
your shinny toys like dart-gun eels
slither and strangle our states in your net.
African earth, Oh! home of the earth,
dry dusty prairies with interesting flesh,
tiger and elephant, lion and zebra,
Nature! if you could, grant me death.
4/17/97 HOW CAN YOU HARASS ME NOW, MEMORY!?
Green slime gut
puking guilt pancakes.
Her tornado words spin my own version upside down.
Is what I did so terrible
that now I shudder to think it might be true?
you serve me black stolen oil.
In feigned sleep-fright
I skewer my bed with eyes of bolt-black blinding hatred.
Damn biological demands.
Gorgeous morning, how cliche you are.
Your mouth hangs open against the sky.
Fallacy in infancy, the bedraggled in the soup.
Among the bedtime ragdolls,
bear’s paw and Ann and Andy,
bedbugs lay in ambush,
briar teeth and antennae.
There are tiny demons waiting in your bed.
4/22/97 — Blue Tongued Skink
Slithering skinks scant to ska.
I strut to one and smooch.
She skirts, I scare.
We fold on the sea of salmonella scarecrows.
balls with pennies in them I sink
to the bottom of the ocean
little ripples see their friends and laugh —how insubstantial
the pennies fall through sifting nighten-glass,
water surrounds them, acid eats them clean,
the ripples and the pennies play, good natured pennies,
faces on their backsides, houses
in their middles.
Newly-wed in the grass-bed waving at the bottom of the sea.
Blue light special on sand and crabs,
little pinchers grab the light and cling
my sting is in my eyes, not by bite or claw
Look! there on the edge of that sandy ocean—(ripples that match the surface)
there are penny eggs and copper children
just beginning to crawl,
just beginning to sting!
Who says wishes don’t come true?
ham recitals, rectum jujubees,
triumph Washington yellowstone!
short lavender strings and men in white
hands move religiously, pious hands
the pope sings hymns at mass,
folds of skin beneath his chin writhing
I don’t have all that much to say, so I must remember to paint portraits.
Sunflowers in the saffron sun,
lovely lilting and tilting their heads
What words are to dazzle with?
lumpy mudpie at the black-top bakery
it’s out there to eat
your pudgy hands shovel it
my minstrel voice markets it
we have dirt between us
wor(l)d waffling is when
you wander idly within rings of right
Carpet crust and floorboard asthenosphere
Black and white morning, checkered dreams linger. I realized we’re all different. I truly
saw from another’s perspective.
With stickiness I was drown in the revulsion sea.
That tired topic,
lets treat it tread.
It’s testosterone and table salt,
that talk of men. (The salt to add flavor.)
Hear midnight creep up on you like wolf/cat hunger.
Bat wings are velvet silent.
Blood is bat wing silent.
Blood is niagra’s explosion.
Hunger thrusts inward,
drain and ooze.
notebook floorboards, scribbled footsteps
so silver I’ve got the end of a spoon in my eye
nugget knowledges, I’m
naming nincompoops on my tongue
swollen like honey stings
bee brambles bare my briar path to badmouth, but
condemning has never tasted right.
swarthy sweat conception
feet jungle like jaguars
sliding snakeskin shed its itchy-wet
pounce on you, leap onto you
scratch into you
sit in that glass of liquor
stains in your pants
5/22/97 TODAY AFTER GETTING A CALL FROM EMILY
You have changed so much.
Sight unsound, hair
like velvet is scrotum soft,
eyes are doe-see-doeing
chance that you are sunk
is too boxlike
I must find the poet I once knew.
stuffed into truffles boxes
that crinkly plastic suffocating me
I’ve eaten everything.
itchy in my mouth
catchin’ chiggers crazy
in cool months like august
Connie coming up,
her toy bazooka blastin’
centipedes in my basement
their wall-stick magic cements my eyes
running naked on gravestones
Images are the medium of poetry.
halves of everything,
stars and light years,
little things too:
socks, lightbulbs, vacuum cleaners…
everything paired,—split down middles—me too: right and left brain war
arm and arm, eyes opposed.
We sit on a broken couch
(two cushions severed in the center)
our arms and legs tangle…
we are four halves,
slowly—we are four fourths.
I’m monkey swing strung-out,
veil parmesan cooped-up.
I’ve got African slave trade negotiating disease,
skin like declaration parchment, abrasive
tongue sandblasting my mouth’s roof
(in clicks and whistles.)
In winter maybe I’ll beat my chest.
For now sahara heat beats my shrunken head.
6/14/97 BLEAT POEM
umber sky twixed green umbrella
and black bottomed blossoms
fear bleating from sheering
bayonet belies blessings and behests—all ambiguous utterance—sheer silence bounces
Everything is possible, nothing probable.
Winds die differently each direction.
What are months are seconds, noon day scratches,
twiddling on branches and grasses.
Yellow scatters, a lemon cut pie,
Noon day scratches at my datebook,
lunch is dry parchment in yellowed markings.
Scroll sandwiches scream for yellow.
hyper-criticize, critical, hypo-critter,
hippo-crip, (opposed to blackbird-blood)
hypno-crime, hypoallergenic critical mass,
jump-the-ship, counterfeit, lickety-split,
schnitzerfit, sick of it, hypocrifff..,
hint of it, in the shit,
hip-misfit, at the ritz, took a sip,
Do it, don’t do it, don’t snot on it, snot on it, but tell them you snotted on it, it doesn’t
matter, but tell them that, they need to know, they’re in it too, up to their ears, just like
you, they jump the same, and snot the same, and they deserve to know.
glass ball swells his chin
princess’s tongue licks warts—my heart for the frog—whose legs are steak
a buttered reality slides off the knife
instead it’s all sticky and dingy
seaweed skunks up intake valves
& choral crams the knife’s sliding
scratching scars on that cycle
I’m cutting at worldly fabric
Everyone mates. Giraffes and cockroaches,
but mostly beetles.
Age of the beetle—beetle buildings and beetle brains—what we don’t see we are still consumed by.
Beetles enter culture through osmosis,
millions of people beetles, barking and badgering,
(we haven’t quite got the sounds right)
but mucking around and mating none the less.
Is it any small coincidence the Beatles were famous?
mass is master
Jupiter, the largest planet, is
struggling to hold pieces of another planet apart.
Someday I’ll measure out my life in notebooks.
white dawn down on that curved line
exploded night, those stars crept through,
false faces pinpricks pinning open our eyes
when all this time rays like that wait
zero in on eyelid lust
and scrape skull backs
with twilight tweezers
maroon morning, you spread-eagle
jet engine endways in sunrise
Light from that faraway flame fills me
with a far away fear of flying.
paper mache person I’m in love with
This voice, sometimes I don’t believe it’s me.
To be, me, flee the contingency
fall on my knee, boney knee,
bone shone through skin brightly
so much for me
and me knee.
sunrise is a harsh lamplight
sky welds my eyes – wretched bolts
turning in their sockets and stripping their important edges.
I miss you my sunshine, I am a hundred blades of grass.
What autumn felt thunders at the door?
Whose brass leaves fall trumpeting to the timpanic grasses?
When shall I hold a thread of silver lovelight in the evening sitting ‘neath your shade?
My velvet drips for you.
Hound dogs drivel and masticate.
hair follicles and folks spectacles and french horn specials;
all on sale at target for two ninety nine apiece.
Greyhound gunning it,
road eats mammoth man
His smile is the bat,
a thin curved sickle
slicing at your doorbell,
inviting him inside.
A vacuum vaccine for your vexations,
something that’ll clean you right up!
On living room carpet he shuffles
a Charlie Chaplin kind of clean.
Crumbling and melted chocolate,
I am looking at paper—that is who I am.
My identity is looking at paper
smothered into the folds of paper.
I am a drum. I am a parachute.
Rhythm and falling…
my world is drop bottom, sinking.
I look up and the ceiling seems to spiral towards me.
Just a daze away,
clip with smothering.
Fantasy after fantasy mingled with ammonia.
The day is cut glass, my circle is smashed against the sides of a square weapon.
Outside the hurricane of human contact keeps me inside.
I am so afraid now of what I don’t know. Why do these things scare me?
Frustrated, I anger all my friends away. Their absence pains me,
so I jab with my sore thumbs, sticking nails into the sky.
Aching joints stop me from hooking thumbs into a wallpaper day. I pull myself up to the
lip of the pool, smiling over the top, and drink an ocean of chlorinated morning.
I am the ostrich king,—poking my head in the sand—opening my eyes,
each grain is a tiny bit different,
all so magnified in darkness and proximity.
Images are the medium of poetry. So far I’m good at the medium and have no message.
on tides of lust the moon sweats in his hot cloud tuxedo
he is a voyeur bent
and with passion his crescent shape
creeps up into view
in our escapades we do not look up
he is always showing himself
I can see your tight little thimble shaped shelter.
The hermit that lives between your legs
is the closest to God we will ever become.
zero shaped particle running tracks
each winner breaks up
after each lap
those in stands wear white
lab coats and pocket protectors
leaning power of place
a spiral of it leading
things have no connection
convert us all
a dying radio connection
that song we listened to in jr. high
i am feet scuttling, run run
city scrambles on a pan of streets
The stumbling of lumbering—bumbling old men,
their feet and hands
tied in tradition;
the whimpering wet kisses
of dogs and men:
These things I do without.
tangles of an often shadowed tree
Time is a test of talent and perseverance.
ghetto words break with pick-axes framed in gold tooth-glory
I noticed nothing today, the moon was big, sounds interfered walking.
I’ve got to remember to let go.
signs painted on sidewalks, chalk outlines in spraypaint
dent cement with a dull morning mask made of sunken light
on sight of flying creatures, the wings design air.
mulatto woman makes muffins in baskets
The end of a thing is its sad point.
dust mites on hardwood
jump like rabbits on one another
their insubstantial teeth tear in a fury of savage dirt
These are not bunnies, cute, innocent,
they are living omnivores, wild,
hunting on hardwood.
On warships made with spool-wheels, the nail-bearers stand proud at the fore, nails in arm,
thimble-helmets pulled low.
fog horns and lantern jacks, and pewter cesspools and numb fingernails that sweep at
infinity like the sly smile of a fox, or the rose petal push of a briar birth.
I bleed black on my back, on the palms of my hands, and the inside of my mouth. All these
places have ink cartridge scars.
Swept by a fickle sickle, a darting dynamo on route to transience.
He was a manicured man; a lazy mustache sat fat on his lip, skimming whiskey from a
glass the man drank out of.
a frightened night comes spinning gone again
Shallow water—you calm beast; frozen on the blink of night.
my numbers, oh beast instinct, you play games and cry for a sunset that is not yours
latex glove hippocrasy,
the underscore of triumph,
the urban myth of religious freedom.
these leaves lead interesting lives
we lead lead horses on ropes of lightening
sunshine lets lives lay down and live
our ears are elevators
we ring at every floor
joints look like insides of clams,
shadows on hands make mouths of each crevice between fingers
each webbing winds into weary lips
In a sunlight palace, a prince waits in armor for his love to appear.
He will slay her when she comes.
She is night. She is moon.
She is all that he loves.
Weeks are passive, shrugging off days like a lice-lined jacket.