Sunday, June 27, 2010

there was never a plan, there was never a proven method that was supposed to fix everything. we all have our vices. las vegas jesus in l.e.d. you were strapped to the
windshield, in the back of a van on mulholland drive
down the block in austin texas there was a front yard full of bottles and mike would wear his hair in a ponytail,
please give me a chance to show you

this is an optical illusion. is it impossible to display pop art in its purest form of nihilistic kitsch war tools which one is the saint and which one is the winner
i clean my house and then put on silk pajamas smoke a million cigarettes and think about war and how much i like your
hands and remembered i could feel some bass if i felt like
phones calls and
later on the only thing i know is how good it is

a study in the obvious, what party ended up inside of this bag. things are predictable honey i know that they change they stay the same how come its sunday again how come its sunday again you're standing next to me at the show where did it
all end up, inside this bag? my metal and cancer representation of what those kids call dinner these days, i'm exhausted by the shape of you

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Rabbit run! That was such a fun playground, all the college kids took their shirt off. The cop just asked me for my ticket again, this time I have one. I'm writing in rainbow A.M. Easy to get photographed and published briefly when out at night, don't try really they like it more can you
See that pop art has eaten the scene, whole, spit out a zillion copies of it and that's what they are if you even know what the whole chillwave thing's about, I'm scared that all of us have finally run out, our ideas and opinions now overlap so we can't really have new ones?

Push the envelope, party people where does it go they get younger, I get old


Why, really, and how even? I think I want things like happiness. On a dirty sunday, mexican bus cowboys want to shake my hand

Monday, June 14, 2010


blue spit, psychic spit, over you on to your
she says many things i wonder why
into this bed again
your pretty pony's not mattering

i'm trying to do this thing, they're visiting me. all of the pennies turned bad with rust. the water won't go down anymore, is five minutes worth it
rate of the heart. the cars sound like a tide, i'm convinced that its worth it i know that its not

ok, not sure. go or stay home - which is which - who are you -
weird weekends,
ways to do it

there are indeterminable numbers of uncertainties, this is the same for all things, how often do we assess every single existing angle, not once
i have found the pockets are limitless. there's never an end. this is extraordinary to observe yet entirely different to partake in. thus is born the role of the watcher
and player, and those in between, what an astonishing spectrum

this manic-depression is predominantly comprised of a seemingly adrenaline-fueled state of heightened awareness and alertness. the rest is a coin toss. every diagnosis will be different; no two doctors will be the same. there will be disagreements; there will be references to a christian god or the way it first felt to get high, to get off, to be in high school; there will be notes

tiring of the constant archetype, yet developing it as more experience is accumulated. instead of going to the party

america, is it darwin or jesus, my question is does it matter- is there anywhere left to go? the pockets keep breeding like rabbits, or pigs. kept giving me names and phone numbers.

slows down. hits hard
metal hand
on spine
black machine eyes
dark flash of a
raven's wing pupils
the obstacle
warm teeth

Friday, June 4, 2010


days and days will go by. we will spend time waiting.
there may not be enough time in the end for all of this waiting. we may lose our place.
where does one start, which beginning is most appropriate and can we begin at any time?
is there a certain pre-determined number of chances to be received
and does this number change if the initial results of taking such chances are too costly?
telephones will remind me that people are there. they may be different when not over wire.
every bit of cement that we walk over will be just another thing that we shared, and
you may end up on the other side of town with your hands in your pockets, and
i may still be sitting here on this curb examining the skin around my fingernails, and
if it were supposed to mean something then both of us were lost.
and this is just, i assume, how it were meant to be played out
appealingly so, as casual as a sunday afternoon, yet equally taxing nonetheless
canvas shoes, chipped nail polish, exposed flaws
times spent looking for the sun out of jacuzzi eyes, wet open pools
the various ways yours may crease at the sides while you smile or frown at me
different creases being the way to determine which rule had been broken and
giving the answers away
thinking about other people when we are together, when you look at me, who is it
what do you make of me

Thursday, June 3, 2010


there is a piano melody canopy above this antique ceiling, no visual knowledge of its flip side but its there
now there's a sad but whimsical voice like a charm ringing out from behind all the keystrokes
now I'm Jonas
now you are the whale
in the fluff thickened air between origin and end-up the structure of reason began to unfold into
all of the buildings look bright tonight and the sky a black
hole in one
not ever knowing but wanting the same, keeping passion in mind, letting go while fingers cling on in defiance
fists clench oh blue
honey in a summer dress so