Sunday, November 2, 1997

“You Don’t Work-a You Don’t Eat-ha” -JB

is taking a full-time job,
taking one’s life
by leaping into that green pit,
so much money
it drowns you
the part that most don’t like,
yet a few special girls do,
and your best friends do,
and even (in my case) your family does,
but none of these people can
save you from the suicide pact
you have made
just by being born
on this
lush green sphere.

What My Jazz Band Means When It Says “&$*%$#*!!!!!!!!”

A carcass
is what you see before you.
A group of carcass’.
Fuck, shit,
this isn’t “music”
this is ejaculation,
again and again
only one fifth
of a second
worth of
that voodoo
is all we seek;
to go there
for one small fraction of a second
to shed skin
with those wise old negroes
to laugh out loud with them
to float with them
float before you
our only wish

Upon Inhaling a Drug

In order to slide
more neatly into my
I find it necessary
to share
the steam
with the dragon.


These eyes,
long hallway perspectives
through long hollow sockets,
cursing me with
soothing sunsets
as well as
unimaginably gruesome vomit pit visions of countless rusty deaths.

and sadly these
varied and fantastic views
can only be received
from atop a cold soul-less mountain
look-out post banishment,
and all of these
varied and fantastic truths
are condemned to rot
in the hopeless endless confinement

of me.

Every Time

There is nothing left to write
it would seem.
I sit here and
attempt to ignore this
sad and final truth.

The Wisemen at the Coffee Shop

1/3 of my restauranting is for the food
(sucking the juice presently out of glorious bacon-
 the flavor seems truly endless
 my mouth bathing
 temporarily in the
 hidden recipe secretions
 of angels).
But the rest of it
is to for the chance
to huddle down
(for the first time admitting this to myself now)
to all these
these liberated wisemen.
They all wear shorts
because if they have learned anything about life
it is that one should try to be
at least
they all wear glasses,
50% are balding
and beards are
They scan newspapers
at controlled lightning speed
with that learned tilt of the head that says
“I don’t believe this”
yet also
“I am an informed citizen”.
They all went to college
and fucked their brains out
when they were young,
before the beards
took over
like the turning of a page.
They’ve been through the meat grinder
the shit and the sizzle
the art
the politics
the booze
the career
the girls
(65% of them have one at home, still sleeping in on this Saturday morning)
and they’ve come out the other side
with beards
and shorts
and a slow-motion logic
which they hide from me
(and others)
underneath their straw hats
(the sun is bad for your skin)
and in between their comfortably cool
organic cotton-socked feet
and ergonomically correct
and enlightened
(four straps each)
and they sit for hours and eat a breakfast they
could easily cook for themselves for
½ the price.

So that’s 2/3 of the reason I’m here.
The question now is
why are

The Question

So – the Question is –
to enjoy life as a psychedelic trip
“watching the lights”
“riding the wave”
letting the emotional needle
and pump one full of that delicious


concentrate your limbs metallic-
laughing at needle after needle’s
pathetic attempt
at piercing your
logic reinforced skin

The Humans That Have Gone Wrong

There must be a whole slew of us now,
the humans that have gone wrong,
our brains take advantage of us,
while the “lower animals”
exist flawlessly
we take our gifts of language
mathematics and
and proceed to
live a life of misery,
victims of knowing too much,
seeing too much
in every situation.
In many ways,
the average
has more of that
flawless animal element
so impossible for
to maintain,
yet we think ourselves above them
when we
are the humans that have gone wrong.
She’s on the dance floor
and I’m not,
yet mentally I am the dance floor
with her
sexy young angelic frame
trampling all over my
as I lap it all up
like some wretched slave
brainwashed by
Darwin’s evolutionary whip.

Saturday, November 1, 1997


I would call to you,
but your presence is so distant,
you’re 1000 train stations away
and I’m busy fighting a war
that nobody knows about
in some foreign country.

I could write you a letter,
but it would probably get lost in the mail,
the mail system is so complex
that something is bound to go wrong,
and maybe you wouldn’t care anyway,
even if you got it.

You’re now a crack in the sidewalk
and I’m just a raindrop
falling two
blocks away.

Wednesday, January 1, 1997



Joseph’s vacuuming in the other room
he’s being efficient
I’m waking up
fresh from a nap on his couch.
I skipped school today
and wandered around Petaluma
and wandered around my mind
and wrote a letter to Nelle
and carried around my briefcase and beard
it was so much
all over the place.

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