Tuesday, November 2, 1999


ha ha
I suppose everyone reaches
reaches the bottom at
at one
one time or
or another
yet I feel
feel like I’ve been here
here before
before and I
I have.

Time-Share Demons

Life has lent me
a large expanse
within which
to fight demons

how nice of life.

I fight these demons
in the name of life
and love and hate
and all that other shit

which I attempt to hold so dear.

People in this restaurant
stare at me
and in their eyes
I see the reflections of
their demons

and I sweat
as our large expanses


Your Ceramic Lips

I kissed
a hot
cup of tea,
being careful
at all times not to
push myself too hard
so as to
burn my lips.

The Past Does Not Exist

What a week:
using logic
wearing hats
strolling through
and past
the chained-up barking dogs
all the way
sending subliminal love letters
to long lost
sweet souls
debating theology
over hamburgers and fries
sand grinding in between my toes
the glow of creation
fresh in my eyes
scratch pad
beaming with jumbled
seedling madness
mind talking
and world listening?
was it possible?
could it have been?

I should have pinched myself
I’ll never know.

Upon offending...

My mind
has been fragmented
into beautiful
shards of
deeds and

with razor-sharp edges,
you’re already bleeding.

Haunted Cobwebbed Filmstrip Beauties

Today the female entity
seems to exist
only in the form of
dusty movie clips;

haunted cobwebbed film strip
beauties kneeling down
and kissing technicolor flowers,
finally having found something
more beautiful than
and blessing it
with cherished cinematic love.

Throw Me In

Throw me in,
I want to roll around in the mud
with all the other metal-clad boys
and dent up my sides
and twist my axles
until my body
is interesting enough looking
that I can stand myself,

Bottom Line

There is no woman
in my bed tonight.

The Swing Dance Craze Part 2

I think that I would
feel out of place
in Heaven:
everyone would be
swing dancing
and I wouldn’t know
any of the steps.

The Swing Dance Craze

Sweaty young bodies enslaved by
complex foot diagrams
with faces beaming forth
in electric neon happiness.....
but from the hidden corners of the room
and from within the folds of
antique dresses fanning out
as slender female frames are spun
by grinning wasteland hipsters
squirts the unexpected


and if you turn your head correctly
these buzzing cheerful swing dancers
will morph into strange, flexible crosses
dancing all about
like Walt Disney’s animated brooms,
and the correctly tilted ear
will reveal that
Cab Calloway
is quoting bible verses
over his 1930’s Big Band
with nothing but heroin
pumping smoothly through their veins-
they’d rather leave all that messy uptight blood
back at the church.

The Last Page

It’s the last page-
but it’s never the last page
there is no last page
because when you do reach
the last page
you won’t think
“this is it,
this is the last page”


maybe you will
but you won’t ever
be able to find out
if you were right


just turn the page
get on with

Temporary Dances Behind Time

Some days are like this one
with music creeping from everywhere,
every tilt of your head
revealing vivid
and you’re dancing
right behind time,
studying its habits,
catching coolly its limitations
the careful ebb and flow
of its endless walk.

But somewhere
deep within
you feel that iron-cold pacemaker
just like a bomb
as you
to once again realize
that soon
time will turn around
and it will yet again
release those tiny sets of iron jaws
to nip at the heels
of your endless walk,
and that’s when the dancing

Talking to Michael

Talking to Michael
the other day
we realized that
as far as time goes
you’re dead
99.999999----> infinity
percent of the time
and only alive
0.0000000----> infinity (there is a “1”, but you’ll never get to it)
There is obviously so much more
there is life
that I wonder if life really
at all.

Such a Tragedy it Was

Such a tragedy it was
this youth spent
with slow-motion foggy
of distorted realities
and my pocked grinning
the clown paint is still fresh
on my hands it seems
and stains my accomplishments

Sports Injury

My mental
slide guitar echoes
its hollow sentiment
and the TVs are sizzling
like everyone’s giant electric pet cricket,
with images unnoticed by mind
yet entrancing to the eyes,
a neighborhoods worth of eyes,
distracting them away from the
approaching line of the
golf course
just peeking over the horizon
like some reverse disease
cursing the body of the land
with an impossibly perfect skin,
turning it into a mannequin,
and all in the name of sport.

Spaces Between the Words

Laying beside
an injured angel
quivering with
self-hatred overdose
my silly fingers
walk themselves
in circles
and my speech
spins lamely into
itself as well
the ends swallowing beginnings
until they are the same thing,
and I realize that
I could probably
hum to her
and achieve the same effect;
I guess that
sometimes words are only sounds,
yet sounds can still carry messages
to those waiting
to receive them.

Chips and Salsa

As I devour
chips and salsa
I think of pleasures past
in a Spanish sort of way
and recall this morning
as I drove my car
through a hole in
the clouds,
and as my wheels touched that
small sun-soaked bit of
blessed (two syllables)
freeway I felt like the proverbial camel
who finally walks through
the eye of the needle
as I thread myself
through your life
and my life
and the lives of all I know
and love
and hate
and despise
and love again,
and there’s hardly any chicken
in this burrito
but that’s okay, I should have ordered
the veggie


one poem is just not enough-
I would need to write
17 poems
at least
to give this thing
One word describes this poem:
as I flail lamely
against paper walls
with this
now flaccid pen.

Sometimes Winter Wears Tennis Shoes

I turn my back for just
two seconds
and Christmas trees spring up?
and the streets run slick with rain?
and everyone retreats to their homes?
with sweater armor?
and I catch a cold?
and gloom steals the upper hand?
and we enter the season of thought instead of action?

just two seconds
mind you
barely enough time
think about sneezing

and then to do it.

Sometimes, Like Tonight

Sometimes, like tonight
I dream that my bed is a cocoon
and that when my alarm clock goes off
I’ll be a butterfly
and be free of my

Sleeping Girl 2

You’re emitting
other-world gravity
sleeping girl
with soft simple skin
singing pale-perfect silence
and meditation winds
spilling back and forth
forth and back
like the tides and seasons
and everything else.

You’re emitting
other-world gravity
sleeping girl,
a suspended
photograph of yourself
that you will never see.

My thoughts want me to touch you
to fall a little
into that other-world gravity
that pulls gently at my body
with the caress of a thousand angelic fingers
but that’s like wishing for heaven
and only fools
do that.

Sleeping Girl

You're asleep beside me
and there's a wind
rumbling beneath your eyelids
and your fallen body
receives shocks
from unknown
complex thought movies
that fuel the slide-show
presently spinning in your mind.

and I lay here
back at earth
and there's simple rain outside
as you turn over.

She’s Got the Dirt on the Stinky Guy

The stinky guy
has just entered Copperfield’s.
He approaches the counter to get a
and is told by the girl behind the counter
that he should probably go outside
because the boss is here and
my face twists up,
the stinky guy’s stink
has washed over me like a
yellow urine cloud.
I try to fight the question
“does he sleep in public bathrooms?”
contrast of all contrast,
here comes Sommer
in all her natural born
with my sandwich,
and we may talk later
because she’s got the
on the
stinky guy.

She Had a Boyfriend

to let the heart vibrate
in simple automatic
that there is good in
absolutely everything.

That’s what I’m doing
right now
and there is a girl
to the right of me
that is so
that my insides
are getting ready
to well up
and leap from me
in an explosion
of bloody cupid flame.


I’ve seen your form somewhere before-
lingering on the edge of daydreams,
curving up against cathedral walls,
rolling down European streets and
arching delicately toward sunlight
from soil.

I’ve felt your will before-
effortless, easy and with a grace,
like this very sheet of paper
from 30 stories,
slicing lazily through the atmosphere,
creatively performing
it’s goodbye dance;
taking it’s own goddamn sweet time
on it’s single flight

(A recent realization:
every time you speak with someone
you are saying goodbye
to that version of that person.)

Goodbye Karen,
again and again

Runner’s High

I’ve been-
carving out a technicolor
of Petaluma neighborhoods
with iron-cool
air being sucked in and
               pumped out
of my chest
like the steam of some menthol dragon
in other words,

Robots on Drugs

Okay, okay, okay
so- there is no such thing as
The passing swarthy lustful urge seems so vivid,
the induced frustration so complete,
we’re all just robots on drugs,
hopped up on
temper, mood and sexdrive.
Hopeless junkies,
with rehab only
a lobotomy

Logical Rain Falls Straight Down

logical rain falls straight down,
slicing deftly through winds
and wasting no time attempting to be anything but

and my family today,
gathered here my grandparents'
kitchen table
on one of Grandma Peach's last days at home
(her mind is finally surrendering to the infinities of time, and the rest home awaits her, hungry as usual for those tragic finish-line souls with landslides in their heads...)
creates a perfect circle
of logical raindrops,
falling straight down
the organic pipes of time,
while chiming the wisdom of laughter music.

and as my grandmother
violently raps her 83-year-old,
grapevined knuckles
against the kitchen table,
she howls through the chambers of her deafness
for us to "sing Father Abraham!"
and we do,
slicing deftly through the wind,
wasting no time attempting to be anything but

Role Reversal

It’s so hot in this room,
but I’m alright.
She hasn’t called

the phone rang
while I was
writing the word “called” above

how disappointed I was
when the female voice
on the other end was
my mother

for a second there
I thought my poem
was writing


Filling up my notebooks
using up my pens
mixing down my tapes
filling up my space
look at me I’m Ivy
crawling around
the random place I’ve ended up

Ivy looks nice

Nothing is Free in This Land

The sky outside
shrieks a luminous blue-
I feel well oiled
and steady,
yet this poem
seems composed of
nervously twitching toothpicks
and rusty springs-
as I hold my breath,
overthinking its fate
in well-oiled and steady
it crumbles before
my eyes,
a miniature Burning Man, 
and the sky outside
shrieks laughter

Most People

gas prices
The 10:00 news
Jay Leno
the weather
last night’s party

Miniature Relationship Tombstone

She had that
strange beauty
that I will always ache for
even when I have
held fast in my arms.

Her body was like
ghost milk;
I reached out and grasped
and kissed
and drank of it all,
paralyzed with trust
and disbelief.

Her eyes were of course wounded
and her speech confused me
as I was left skidding
through the damaged labyrinth of her mind
never knowing quite
where to turn.

Finally Spying on the Framework of Useless Prayers

One more sip of coffee
     and the inspiration will finally come home to stay
     and I will be a free soul, burning logic for fuel
     and the world as my inspiration.

One more hurdling light-speed jaunt to the Holy Ocean
     and the inspiration will finally come home to stay
     and I will be a free soul, burning logic for fuel
     and the world as my inspiration.

(The Question begs the Answer, yet the Answer refuses the Question’s advances, feeling way too crowded by the Question in the first place, declining to loosen even a single stitch of it’s elegant clothing, all the while keeping a cautious eye on this desperate and irrational Question.)

One more line written
     and the inspiration will finally come home to stay
     and I will be a free soul, burning logic for fuel
     and the world as my inspiration.

Pre-Coffee Orgy Battle-Cry

Oh gods
what are you giving me?
This lifeless body
that constantly wilts
and a whole arcade
of laughter responsibilities
dancing before my
drooping eyes?
Fuck you!
You stinking pieces of shit!
I’ll drink and consume myself
full of evil chemical
for ever
rather than give in
to your bland gray
wilting death!
I will not wilt!
I will

Mid-Coffee Orgy Battlecry

filled to the brim
with lovely
energy fire!
now that my
are strapped
to the
caffeine electrode
I snap my jaws
and brains
with hollow lightning bolts
and two dimensional thunder
in all directions
till this possessive demon
flees for it’s life
and leaves me
once again

Meanwhile on D’s Nose

I’m just a chancre sore
on your nose
irritating- aren’t I?
But that’s okay,
it doesn’t bother me that you feel this way
in fact-
I laugh at your hideous predicament.
I’m stuck in your face
I ooze away happily
while you stress all day
over life’s petty concerns.
I’m a greedy nasal parasite.
I laugh metaphorically
all the way to the bank.

The only problem is

I hate it

when you


Matches Are Not Toys

Like a rare geyser
these explosions of hyper-electric
creative flash forest fire
only ravage my
usually dormant
when they damn well want to,
and this one has been
drinking and driving me
all over the fuck
all day
and now deep into the night.
At this point I feel that
creativity itself
is abusing me
and setting its own fires
underneath me
to keep me in constant transition
between anticipated
why else
would I be giving
poor Smoky the Bear
the finger
and running through
these dry
dry hills
with my brain on fire?


a video camera paints a ghost green pixilated version of me
and shoves it rudely in my face
the instant I walk in.
Some young girl
asks a cashier
“do you have any Silly String?’”
and the question
sounds like a clown’s bicycle horn,
ship-wrecking sadly against this whole pathetic
as I pour over and over in my mind-
the notebook options:
“What the hell is going on here?  These are $.99 for 70 pages, and these are $1.99 for 100 pages.  Who prices this shit?  Do I want a thicker notebook?; The 100 page $1.99 option seems to hold itself rigid more, so there’s that advantage.  Yet, the 70 pager, besides being the more efficient buy, would be lighter in my satchel.  Plus they don’t have the 100 pagers in this cute green color.  Oh wait, they do!  Hmm. Perhaps I should go for 140 pages for $1.98, one cent cheaper than 100 pages (in one book).  Oh!  Hey!  Wait a second; all the 100 pagers are wide ruled and these 70 pagers are “college ruled” which I prefer!  Whew, saved by the “ruled/not ruled” distinction.  Oh, come to daddy you beautiful little greenish 70 page bastard you!”
can bring out this sort of
ludicrous mental behavior,
especially while throwing in a hangover
for good measure.
Ambling up to the counter now,
reveling in hollow notebook victory,
the Globe
boasts the beautiful headline
“Who’s Gay and Who’s Not on TV”
in large
patriotic letters
and while I’m thinking about how much
less I would have liked that headline if they
had used a comma in the proper place
I discover that
“$.59 is my change”
(I bought a pen, too).
Exiting Longs Drugs, 8:19AM:
“I wonder what sort of pointless crap I’m going to start with on my new green notebook”.
Listening to “Giant Steps”
take #5
Trane could be said
to be attempting
human exploration
a happy fury
and that just so happens
to be right where I’m at
right now
and godammit
if the happiness runs out
I’ll just attack it with some
of that
good old fury
that burning
holy anger
that is life itself
pushing its way
right on through my skin.

Laundry Lesson

my dirty laundry for washing
(a seemingly innocent task)
I came upon a tiny white sock
that obviously wasn’t mine.
(much smaller, and.....)
I realized that it must have been yours
and like a
I decided to smell it
just to make sure
and sure enough
this damp, sordid little sock
eloquently spoke
delicate female backdrops
like roses
swimming is sweet buttermilk
and for a second I perceived the outline
of your tiny ankle
from within the sock
and like a
I tried to pull it back
for a kiss
of course
there was nothing there.
I’ve always rooted for the
and the storms
and the floods
sitting in stale classrooms
the teacher droning
like an incessant low speed siren,
the clammy
corners of the classroom
with abstract dust-encrusted
trickling over the basketball,
on it’s recess
in between recesses
calling my attention

Let's Not Go Bowling

It’s funny:
right now I can imagine
practicing my saxophone
just as much as I can imagine
sucking a bowling ball
into my nose
and shooting it out of my ass
like some sort of
human ball return.

Monday, November 1, 1999

I Wonder What She Did With My Number

I wonder what she did
with my number
-not agonizing
just intellectually theorizing:

she gets it
puts it in her pocket
forgets about it
it goes through
the wash
and the ink from my nervous pen
stains her graceful laundry


she puts it on her
dresser and it fades in the
passing sun
and years later,
she looks at it
and remembers that weird night
and some sax player


she leaves it
on the table
in the cafe
next to a crumpled
the two objects
befriending each other as equals

The Enemy as Usual pt. 2

Hey you!
Skinny silly fool
clutching your notebook
like a girl does her favorite doll
you pansy!
Whirling through your only time
wise and useless.
You can’t make love to a notebook!
Mirrors are empty feedback loops
best avoided,
and your notebook is
but a glorified version
of a purse’s vanity mirror
you moron!
Oh yes-
begin innocently
with one hand
caressing your other hand
and sooner than you think
you’ll be gagging for eternity
on your own flesh
like some
retarded snake!

(Who wrote this poem?)

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