Monday, November 2, 1998

The Chinese Mafia

Eat with your left hand
write with your right
in this Chinese dive,
the Chinese mafia
watch me eat,
check my progress
(or am I just paranoid?).
More water from an old Gator-aid bottle?
heavy on the MSG
from the kitchen
never takes his eye off me
for too long,
its as if he suspects me
of getting up
and assassinating the cook
with my fork.
I think I'm in an experiment
of some sort:
"will he eat it?"
"I think he's eating it!"
as the young Chinese daughter
sits in the first pew (church-like)-like table,
in the strange silence of
of this Chinese sanctuary,
quietly doing her homework,

and that kitchen guy
continues to stare.

Wolverine Clarity

My mind bends
with wolverine
as I claw at myself
and dream of setting
everything I've ever thought,
or done
on fire.

"'ve gotta smash your brain-cells, you know?.. ..crack 'em.." --Geets Romo

Ahh yes, we laugh
at the silly hipster's
cartoon mental meanderings
and esoterical
abstrakt nonsensicals,
(please believe me)
there can be invaluable experience
in the subjecting of yourself
to the nightmare rivers of
singeing everclear mornings,
to the echoing heartbeat of despair,
ringing truths of soltude's
unchangeable eternal reality,
and to the absurd stupid
howling winds of general
chaotic nature/man madness-
all scraping black dry branches
of wisdom
against your naked sides,
signing their names illegibly,
in random red ink
on pale human parchment.

Yet Another Mood Splinter Snap-Shot

Oh fuck
some feelings
be written down
her jawbone is so perfect
salsa dripping
Mel laughing
violins playing
Mexican violins
the chicken burrito has arrived
the chicken burrito is being eaten
“Honey, I think that man is staring at us.”
“Just ignore him.”
She has the most pleasantly slight of figures.
notes-wrong ones
out of tune
even worse: hesitant
my horn is a pacifier only
no other value
her smile
so graceful
beans rice

Who Can Resist the Sky?

Like usual
the vaulted blue skys
scream escape,
sending down their
cloud-shaped wings
to lift my mind
straight on up
their vaulted sweet eternity.

The Music

When the music is bad
it’s real bad.

But when the music is good
it becomes a bird
by the hands
of all things

Just Another Final Goodbye

Well folks
the closing music
is being cranked up
as I ink
so farewell
and may all your
days be
with a graceful

Typical Emo Bullshit Yields Truth

I’m using half a pen
     and half my brain.

I’m wearing used clothes
     and thinking used ideas.

It’s raining outside and
     I’m raining inside.

I’m being ignored
     and I’m ignoring.


everything makes sense.

Overturned Big Rig on 101

Truth is not supreme
this I have learned
truth is the interstate highway
and is backed up with
style is the opposite of truth
and is the
rarely used picturesque
back road.

Trans-Sobriety Communication

I can do anything
this isn’t because I’m stoned
this is real:
stretches a graceful
forward to tap
on the back
and tells him it’s alright.

The Naked Truth

Tonight the naked truth of the
shattering through my window
exposes my lonely existence
like a boy caught stealing.

Tired of All These Looming Shadows

Tired of all these looming shadows,
my friend’s junk collections intermingling with my own-
all of our wires are tangled
and nobody wants to unplug anything.

The Swing Dance Craze Part 3 (This Pen is Possessed by the Devil!)

Jazz begun in
and I kind of wish that this
(Ernie Small’s Big Band Concert at “Cub Rumors”)
was a whorehouse
because I wouldn’t mind
buying one of these
angelic little lobotomized Christ-cadets
for an evening
to take home and crucify
with ropes instead of nails
in my bedroom
perhaps that would help them
feel closer to their
dead husband
the carpenter
and I could get my kicks
to boot!

The Queen Takes Control

I’m entrenched in splendor
ascending from my throne
Mr. Tenor in hand
we compliment each other
job well done
and then
I glance down from my
and see a small
who effortlessly
strips me of my royalty
and assumes command
of my entire

The Problem

she looks like
that aqua blue blouse
sends my mind underwater
she floats
she burns neon across my eyes
she’s made of strawberries
she’s unaware that I am
trying to write a poem about her
right now

so’s her boyfriend


The Horn Sections of the Big Bands of the 20s and 30s

The horn sections
of big bands
of the 20s and 30s
still scream
and etch their
through five dollar speakers
in dives across
this great expanse.

Through some old
dust covered
Philco radio
Harry James’
whimpering trumpet still
needles through the
of indifferent patrons
with a cobwebbed

Those old songs.
“The Glory Days”.
Marilyn Monroe
shaking her dumb ass
all over mankind.

Harry James’
on his break at the Flamingo
with Marilyn in his dressing room,
he loses himself
inside Marilyn’s
commercially invaluable body

and his trumpet is miles away.

The End

Coastal beginnings,
sand through
sand through
a see-through
with flowers on it
just left there
five feet in front
agony in the garden
part two
me on my knees
dropping to my knees
forever dropping
the scent of perfume
the scent of burned wood
the clouds open up
my riffs pass before me
eyes upturned

Sweet Fabricated Memories

So delicate
never ending
a quilted existence
frills and perfumes
she’s young
so am I
we stumble through
our clumsy sensuality dance
and attempt to consume
each other
through a straw
as Cupid
laughs his guts out.

Good Night

It’s 2:15 in the morning,
three quarter moon hangs on the sly
belching through the fog,
dogs debate through long distances
and mocking birds recite their endless list
of reverbed permutations.
I can see that the horses across the way
are still awake too
frozen stoically
under the stark light of their master’s bulb,
they stick together always.
The only other soul alive at this moment
is the landlord downstairs
putting in hard time in front of the
it’s murmur undercutting the perfection that is my
2:15AM stir.
He’s missing the real show
as I write this by candlelight
by the window
having woken up from lucid r.e.m.
and a dream about having new
saxophone sounds
new frequencies.
Just had to get it all down.
Is all seems so sweet
that upon blowing out this candle
I might
step out into it
either physically
or in my next dream.


Speaking in Rock Songs

No guts
no guts
a hollow carriage
with nothing left but the word
to cling to
no strength
no strength
searching artificial supports
in adrenaline cups and
carbonated poisons
and secret herbal jazz cigarettes.
All this dismay
is so cliche’
but that will not
erase it away.


working/watching TV
6 new songs/sampler’s block
girl in my bed/4:30AM staring out my bedroom window

left right
up down
here there
1 + -1

Side Effects

Am I really such an insipid evil
because I won’t
shut my mouth and turn my head in line
with the others
sitting in the procession
at Taco Bell
and sitting willingly
in front of radios
that only transmit stations that have
songs and commercials
that are indistinguishable
from each other?

Is it really that big-headed
to have

Presently I am besieged by a
guilty gangrene

but something else
tells me
that this is all just a
side effect

and that treatment


I am nothing.
I have been erased.
In my place:
a carcass barely alive
at all.
The rest of the world,
still wondrously intact,
now echoes down long
thick carpeted halls
dripping with mucous.
As if to melodramatize the point,
upon looking out my window,
I discover a turn of season
with thick phlegmy clouds
only releasing
a small amount of the
once powerful sun.
Sickness is a terrible thing:
no matter what we are
without it,
with it
we are nothing.


I’m writing this
while walking across
a lawn
and that is difficult
to do
but I’m doing it
because I believe
is worth it
in the moment
and in these lines
I find escape
as many have.

Now I’m in my car
and I’m risking my neck
for these lines
ain’t that impressive?
One eye on the road
the other on this pad
doin’ it


Reckless Driving

Nerves jangled,
a hulking skeletal shell of a human-being,
barely propped up with high octane caffeine
on an uncanny office morning,
my brain floating
in the dull amniotic fluid
of a marijuana aftermath.
I seem to be able to pull this off
but I’m far too wise
to get
Complacency is gangrenous:
sweet easy death
and is to be avoided at all costs.
So I shall not relax,
keeping a merciless grip on my adrenals,
driving them like a
sports car.

Quiet, Quiet Thursday Night

12:46 AM
It’s me,
Laura Scudder’s Old Fashioned Peanut Butter and
a banana,
a midnight snack -literally.
Bert’s downstairs
stewing in his geriatric juices
and I have nothing to do with it!
Shorpkenhoff is home being efficient.
My parents are fast asleep.
Stewart’s on the internet.
Nelle’s reading.
Harvey Weinapple’s watching the late show.
and Scotty’s passed out next to a girl in bed,
she’s still awake, thinking of him.
Only police cars drive around quiet Petaluma now,
pulling each other over
just for the hell of it.

and I have nothing to do with any of them either
(thank god)
Me and peanut butter and banana
all wink at each other,

we’re proud of ourselves.

One Step Behind

It shows up
and spirals
and I want to catch it
but I would burn my hands
so I leap out of its path
and watch
while someone else grabs it
and I feel sorry for them
at first
but then they throw it away
because they know that
the real trophy
is their
burned hands.

......and I would have done it,
if only I would have known........
(doubt doubt doubt doubt doubt)

Ode to Bukowski

I interrupt people.
I smoke dope alone.
I avoid crowds.
I dislike most humans.
I distrust all humans.
My beloved spit in my face.
and I’ve got a fire inside
that could slice ya
right up.
I’m a goddamn flowering
of the
and the
I cuss
avoid shaving
and my body is
because I often forget
to eat.

That is why I like your books.

My Straw Sleeping Cap

of the summer
night sounds
of a
and a boy

the crickets
in my head
and out the window

she moves
he moves
they are awkward
and perfect

in the dark of the barn
in the night of my soul

Comfy Coffin Lining

My saxophone rusts,
my stomach groans for food,
each girl
out there
is a movie with a
bad ending,
the earth turns and
I burn with torturous perspective.
hands still dance
across faces of
watches and clocks,
my body suffers it’s usual
perennial floods
and droughts,
my sampler collects dust
instead of sounds
and cobwebs are spun
around me.
But don’t worry:
spiders are very beautiful creatures
after all,
and it doesn’t hurt
it just

Growing Pains

My hollow eyes
echo ends of childish days
and my tears are skinny ladders
leading down aging
facial cliffs
into uncharted regions
as I turn
just slightly
into stone

Musings in the Anti-Tattoo Parlor

My dad gets tattoos removed and
I sit in the waiting room
staring at the typical
wall paper
and passing an occasional eye
over the plump, mentally fettered
office muffin
baking her hours away in
easy boredom-death,
piercing her hollow eyes
through the double off-white doors
that only would lead to other
jobs and tasks and
printers and pictures of the kids-
how long has she worked here?
she can’t recall
waddling through the
off-white labyrinth
so simple to understand
yet so hard to
escape from.
Like tattoos.

More Effortless Fragments

This strange new winter reflection/
clouds form a blanket/
my mind effortlessly fragments/
cold romantic winds/
the inevitable agonies of default solitude/
empty lots resonate truth/
I’m old before my time/
sadness = beauty/
truth = sadness/
as my mind effortlessly fragments/
the tall grass is frozen/
oceangowers gasp at frozen air/
the trees sway like dancers/
and even lovers/
deep in the act/

Misplaced Autumn Agony

I glance at today
with knothole eyes
and autumn yellow teeth-
my soul is stained with piss
and my bones are warped
and there are tears inside
this rusted tank
with legs and arms
and thoughts and feelings:
too many thoughts
too much feeling
and too many more knothole
piss-yellow days like this one
and I may just
let these bones
and fall to soil.

Melancholy Contemplation #80.746

I hear
cobwebbed stereo
word samples
in each ear,
they say
(in a 50’s East Coast accent)
“welcome to the real world, kid”
home from work,
I feel as if my slow boring work-week
has whirled my brain;
all those plump office muffins
with their powdery litter-box minds
and dainty spinningwheel
as interesting to me
as whitebread on whitebread
on whitebread.

Friends pt. 2

It’s always been the same:
no one else
wants to eat
when I’m hungry
but I travel with them anyway
and starve.

Blog Archive