Saturday, July 10, 2010


being alone in this minute is a vaccuum

one, two, three

august midwest melts in to the sun, the streets
a seascape
of the eyes of strangers, your bicycle wheels
one minute
a careful descent into dusk

it was all a long time ago, today
its okay, we'll live until tomorrow, she says

your footsteps on the steps of the bus, aviator sunglasses
seemingly hundreds of mexican restaurants and a barefoot man out there
washing the sidewalks
the space between me and their effortless swagger and
all of us caught up in it
holds the sweet ring of baba o'reilly

there's a chainsaw between me and poland
dagger between me and london

world in an icecream cone
twenty seven million miles and counting
my heart breaks to the rustling of your hair, and your dark hand
across my pillow
and the drunks out on lake street
overflowing down 32nd, right beneath my window
singing the saturday song

i wonder where everyone is right now

all of the suburbs are silent

i've got a friend in wisconsin! green fields all the way to chicago!
umbrellas on the shores of lake michigan and sheep at
the side of the roads, little mexico
dirt sky of el paso
gonna save up some money and fly

all the stars like nerve endings, lighting at random
my empty cigarette lung hanging dangerously low to a coal black slit in the
perfect oblivion
and steel drums in my head
and steel drums in my head

The Kill.


words i haven't seen

easy verses

cloudy nerves

platforms in memory

streets lined with perfect pitch

sidewalks like a


and my empty marionette stance

woke up to an ashen world

filled the pockets with

leftover girls

leftover world

kept the candy where i could see it

kept the poison where i could feel it

and the tiny burning sun

blister in a blinding sky

dangles before ruby mouth

tastes like every day

keep the candy where i can see it

keep your heart where i can feel it

keep your head where i can kill it

leftover girls

and my empty marionette stance

wooden legs

hands held by wire

buildings like a

set of stairs

winding up the horizon

filling the skyline with

every shadow

just to taste the day

so you're mellow
i can see
hard to swallow
such a treat
i let it burn
such pleasant razorburn
and scrape
away the shallow coat
its nothing but the antidote
nothing if not in this dream

you can't erase a bruise
that stays black
today tomorrow was
they offer me the same
uptown knows a face
and money too
pay for play, every day
offers me the same
accept that the catalyst
is in the women's hands
for business
for ingestion
for injection
its in the women's hands
palms smile invitingly
accept the excess runoff
until death do us part
and i knew it from the start
i would throw me away
into the women's open hands
providing runoff from the man
into palms outstretched
dissecting coils of time
giving me to mine
scratch the itch and peel away
pay for play every day
makes a sun shine
splits a sea
rips me in half

fantastic midnight found me in the
crease of your design
my paper fine skin is
chalk sliding down a bent sky
into the treacherous waters
of azul atlantic eyes
i fought the tide and found it to be
somewhat of a subtle hint
that fighting was a waste of time
can't fight the crease
of your design
so sick of spaces, its a drag
the way the arrows of desire
leave me full of exit wounds
white of the jagged moon
just piercing on through
and your design
like the scratch of blue fever
coldsweat and fire
frozen over
hurts like the heavens, it is
the red carpet, the only
straight, no chaser
burning so good as it
goes right down
echoes and shadows
your design, and the
sultry violence
of the sky
my pupils wide like
black machines
in the fantastic midnight
static clings to my dreams

st. christopher

slick red velvet chair, lace veil
guest list reads like a bible
I’d sell out just to please the crowd
just to be in style
just kidding

club nights and alley days
sticks and stones
a most sufficient remedy

candy seems to think she had it all
until one day she ran away
and went into submission
so now how am I supposed to pretend
its okay, I’ve exhausted my resources

sugar please, make sense of this
the skies are filled with dust
I’m somewhere in between, above the earth

my sullen saint Christopher
you weren’t cut out for this
I remember the rain coming through your broken car window
the way that you cradled my brittle frame
there was so much more I had wanted to say

is guilt a reasonable result of pleasure
or pleasure a source of pain

no use in denying the ascent to space
so many smiles and sighs
I have to remind myself, sometimes
of every stretch of happiness
that brought me to this familiar plain

how many units got you to the top
how many brought you down

into the white of the wintery dusk
curling plumes, steam and smoke
feed the air with its musk
and the snow, brittle snow
falling desperately fast
pummeling the frozen earth, and
sending the dirt to its
coating the deadened ground
beating it down
black heavens, suspended
in suspension, what suspense!
and the joy of the sting
and the crunch beneath my feet
never ceases to bleach
bleach the bitter, brazen, bold terrain
blot and
numb it out
sweet novacaine clouds crying
icy saline february tears
it was the language of the season

Feb. 14

the crease is right

caught in the fold

and every wrinkle like a sigh

the edges drawing near

translucent hands

paper fine skin

chalk sliding down a

bent and broken sky

all the clouds look fine tonight

every black space

each white star

both sides at once

its not enough

pulled my trigger

shot down the moon

restless sky is perfectly empty

chalk dust rains down

into the fold

mornings cut me a sliver of indifference
just so i can monopolize ignorance
the chill of wet air and the sun hanging low
over western soil and my
two feet planted firmly in the earth
the hours and minutes like a question
searching for seconds that hold the answer
suspecting the answer to be
somewhat like cancer and the
questions come down like rain

divine incisions
separating the folds in the
crease of the night
broken sky
two lights burn subtle
silver knife
the voracious arrow of mine
magnet pupil, slow spin and apple
slice through the skin and
carve about the spine
two hands
tendons stretch, the
sinews strain as my
weary fingers take the plunge and
slip between your own
your eyes
licked me clean to the bone
harsh ivory and marrow
the definitive structure
how the blue could cut through
every pretense
and time
and the distance
seemingly irrelevant
to the nature of my heart
can't write beautifully enough
to construct images of us
don't want to come across as another cliche
seems i can't pray to anything these days

lucky seven killed the cat
i'm quite sure its not so
lucky anymore
seven ate the nine
right here in bed i said
it happens all the time
seven says its getting bored
but making big plans so
rest assured
i traded seven in for a six
now its making me sick
should have been
faithful to the odds

3. sometimes all you need to remember is not to forget so those things so familiar won’t ever recede and the casual time won’t slip away except for the size of this its far too obscene to commit to the memory of it i am not the only one to simply decide not to lose we’re being accessible to the pull of possibility and a lift up, sometimes, exposing the seams to their otherwise manufactured appearance where has my childhood gone? hollywood, heroin. palm trees on the pacific coast endless road ocean tonight is the perfect oblivion.

Bang Bang
henry hudson,
you put a riddle through my vacant heart
and empty head, george washington you
filled it up
in the dirty snow before daylight savings time
I started to remember what New Jersey did for me

started to thaw

broke into an empty place, smashed out the windows
allowed all the winds to join me
watched the sun blaze its way west, watched the shadows lean crazily
went outside again and surfed a tilted sidewalk
all the way to your front porch
where I stood for a minute in awe of your tiny, fat hands

the skies were filled with a strawberry hue

and I was thinking about fifteen years ago when I would stay home from school

and how plastic and metal still turn me on

and piles of my little ponies, with their
neon hair, and gems in the stomachs of trolls, and my mother cooking
macaroni and cheese, and television static
the Yankee game on the radio, in my bed in the dark

awful river full of tug boats
the way we fooled that cop on the way to the bridge
listening to casettes we had bought at the salvation army
how the twinkling lights bore holes through the night, and the traffic

abraham lincoln
e-z pass, stop signs, driving fast
landscapers, outdoor spanish markets, changing your underwear in the lobby
she called herself Elektra; I was interested

her legs were full of holes

Burn Burn Burn
can’t ever return
thank you
mr. presidents


We used to go for morning rides. I would wake up early and drive everyone down to the Newport Club for the 6:30 A.M. meeting. It would be just like my first day in California, driving down that hill to 32nd Street with the sun slowly climbing over an endless expanse of blue-green, palm trees towering out of the view of the car’s windows. When it was over, I would drive Kialas’ blue car all the way down the Pacific Coast Highway, lit by the newly risen sun. I’d turn the music up as loud as it could go and chain smoke menthol cigarettes. The bass rattled the entire vehicle. We would pack the car with laughter. It was a form of procrastination. No one wanted to go back to the Treatment Center for chores and morning meditation. The ocean would be to our left, and those oil refineries to the right. We would pass Main Street in Huntington and continue to where the land was flat and it seemed as if you were teetering on the edge of the water itself. Before we made it all the way to Long Beach, I would begrudgingly turn the car back around and make the reluctant drive back to Costa Mesa. For some reason, that stretch of highway always managed to invoke a certain sense of freedom. Maybe it was the wide open space. I loved to drive. I didn’t even have a license. I still don’t have one, now. The sky was always such a perfect blue, those mornings. On the way back, on the right side of the road, near the fire pits, parking lots lined with Volkswagen buses dotted the horizon, and scruffy surfer boys unloaded their surfboards and ran a finger through their hair, looking out into the waves.

My dad used to drive my brother and me down to the Jersey shore during the winter in the family’s minivan. We were young kids then. He loved to go down there when it was nearly deserted. We would either listen to the oldies on a New York City station or some dusty old classic rock cassette tapes that he had in the car. The Beach Boys were a favorite of mine. It was somewhat ironic to be listening to their sunny California surf music in the grey stillness of New Jersey winter. He would turn the music up, loud, and the three of us would sing along. Nearing Pt. Pleasant, the radio stations would fade to static and the tapes were all we had. I knew we were getting closer to the shore when a thin film of sand appeared on the sides of the road. I always wondered how it got there. The trees were different down there, too. They stood so tall and narrow along the side of the turnpike. All of the carnival rides would be abandoned, the parking lots nearly empty. The boardwalk itself never seemed to close though, and we would spend endless amounts of quarters on those claw machines that are so nearly impossible to win. The music there was like an endless circus soundtrack. My brother and I would jump up and down with joy after finally clasping a cheap stuffed animal with the machine’s metal fingers. You could never seem to win anything worthwhile, though, like those silver watches sitting haphazardly atop mounds of small, technicolor pebbles behind the glass. We would get some pizza and lemonade, probably some ice cream too, and walk up and down the wooden slats. The ocean was a cold, dim green, the sky concrete.

Prom weekend. We went to Seaside Heights, along with seemingly the entire rest of the world. I got really stoned and fell asleep on the beach. I ended up so sun burnt that it hurt to move. All of my friends were having a great time getting wasted, but my boyfriend and I couldn’t seem to stop fighting. I really wanted to go to White Castle, but I don’t think we ever ended up going. The only thing that I really remember other than that was smashing a bunch of cheerios on the hotel room floor and then trying to shove someone’s face in them. The Jersey Shore seems really dirty during the summer. All the girls are all greased up in their miniscule bikinis, with their melted makeup running down their faces. Hundreds of beach umbrellas dot the sand, and little kids run around in diapers. Shrill lifeguard whistles pierce the air, and obese, middle-aged couples balance precariously on their fold-up chairs, drinking cans of Miller Lite and reminiscing about the good old days. The seagulls scream as they swoop down to grab scraps of garbage and cigarette butts from the ground. One time I went down there with some friends and we buried this kid in the sand, and then stuck fries in his ass. Not literally his ass, but the sand above it. Those seagulls shamelessly flew right down and ate the fries while he was lying there on his stomach.

My first word was “stuck”. I mean, of course I said “Mom” and “Dad” and the typical baby drivel, but my first actual word was “stuck.” Our cat Tidbit had climbed on top of this wooden chest that we had in the dining room, and I followed her up there. My mother found me, sitting atop the chest, saying “stuck, stuck, stuck.” Spoken like a true alcoholic.