"Hedonist"

When I am 59 years old I want to be able to look back at my life and say I did more than simply get myself laid and sell stuff. God am I glad mark and I broke up-his life seems so meaningless, boring and repetitive. Its no wonder I was just bored to tears with the non-life we were not having. What a dull, dull life he seems to have-and lucky...because if he didn't have friends that needed(sort of) work he sure wouldn't have gotten through this past year's economy without them. Of course that can't last forever-winter is coming and his house of cards is about to get soaked to the bone. Hopefully I am not here in this apartment when that happens.

Me: Who was that?
Mark: just some guy...

talk about a metaphor for his entire life..."Just some guy". Yawn!

This Is The Modern World!!!

There are stacks and stacks of McSweeney's behind me-taunting me with wonderous riches. The computers are relocated and I just have to sit down with the PC laptop and see if this is just one of those "viruses" that require you to purchase software-the equivilent of extortion-in order to fix a hard drive that I don't think was broken and FAR from full. Some thing is fishy but I want that thing OFF the network until I figure out what hell happened=and get it fixed hopefully. Fingers Crossed!!!

re/mem/ber

left your mother's
apron in the rain
cut the rhododendron
in the wrong place again
further than than she would have
would you ever find a way to leave this place
on the back of a book
on the back of shadows
know a lot of people
but after a while you
get tired of draining
the pool.

spark; resistance
timber and the persistence
of fools telemetry
swim and swim
will you ever go the distance?
constantly wondering
will there ever be a way back?
or will we end up blind,
mumbling and delivering
gibberish in exile
like jack kerouac?

the rain hits the roof
here like the arrows
of arithematic breaking
on the coast full of lingering shipwrecks
their hidden coins tarnished
like riches kept for ages
when slow light
moves away
from history's
pages.

(First Mac Posting! Thanks AJ!)

Callas Interpolation (grief for invisible sound)

hiss, crackles
rattles out of the
radiophoric stereo hero
trying to find the angle
removing the incorrect
jangles; a perfect mix
this drug I'll never kick
a magic trick
dance of deliverance
solace, tolerance.
wake to noise
silently lean into
the cracks in sound,
the bright sparkles
and loose flying particles
create a new myth
differentiated truth
never up to us
just sand through clear glass
bitterly stained
and invisibly toxic
bit rates, spin and vanish
infused metal
coated with varnish
memories never tarnish
but oxide breaths
breathe disease in between
tracks-warmer now in the autumn
leaning into trees,
jealous leaves not meant
to strike color
to strike a chord
disharmoniously in the cutting floor films
winds, divided, died in the wool
crushed in the hand
destroy the heart she said
drive the pain away
into the lonliness
of a single
dying sound.
the last breath
before a great voice
is silenced.
(and
when
her
body
is
dead
her
song's
spirit
will
rise
up
and
out
of
her
mouth
like
a
great
hunter
and
escape
in
to
the
winds
to
fill
the
lungs
and
fuel
the
breaths
of
every
singer
everywhere
ever)

Spiders Are Free

from family drama
from anxiety
from money
from pain

Misunderstood
Feared
Under appeciated
Slandered

And maybe like me they just want to be appreciated for trying to add beauty to the world instead of tearing it a new hole in selfishness.

see you girls next summer*

Butterflies in August

dancing alone
in an empty room
animals in cages
just endless pacing
the beast is tame
dreams of Canada,
butterflies in august
drowning in the
falling rain.

Trap

part visionary
part fool
particularly spectacular liar
partially dashing and ravishing
part way to the
party and half way
like the path
way leading to
the king of cool.

Doctor Miscommunication

who would've thought
wrong
all the tests come back negative
all the tests come back
to haunt you
singing like angels
of death in your non-sleep
the broken lines
and the broken home
break up the ending
of the difficult song
whatever they say
you have to do
whatever missed communication
they hesitate,
we wait
locked in a room
somewhere
waving my hands
like a crazy person
in the air

they find your nick name
on his neck chain
correct change
when all the
gambling came
to an expensive end

some time to kill
some sleeping pills
valium, downers,
drugs for out of towners
roll out of one
bed into another
the dogs bark
the corked suburban still life
fruit on the table
bills paid when you feel able
would you even notice
if you were alone
when it became dark
was it any fun
when the harpies and
the witches
came and
stole your tongue?

Hot In The City, Tonight

Its so hot today for a winter day in November-because 80 fucking degrees is ridiculous this time of year. Global Warming? That's just gobbledegook cooked up by those brainwashed wacko liberals, right?

All I know is that there are places in the world where the median temperature has gone up more than 1.5 degrees in the last 20 years, generally a phenomenon that takes HUNDREDS of years. So who is responsible is really a moot point now-we ARE running out of oil. The global temp IS going up. Tidal waves, subsea earthquakes and tsunamis ARE becoming more frequent and most importantly-they're getting stronger. If SF were to have a quake similar to the scope and size of the one in Chili, we'd be FUCKED. SOMA, The Marina and other parts of the city would liquify instantly or be underwater altogether. At least where I am now is on bedrock so its going to shake like crazy and break stuff but won't be swallowed by the earth at least.

Down Libraries

Late November's light
set against a sunshine scrim.
how many years
has it been?
Your heart
stared at Medusa's face,
(her snakes
are paper thin.)
your literate desires
burn down libraries
in the storm of words
you exchange in sleep.
the machine starts up again
when we reach the sea
would have liked
more than one
who recognized
we're on empty,
the lone arm
waving a white flag
in the driving snow.
done with Civil wars
disheveled lives and loves
mistrusted trysts
and added risks,
funeral plans
typewritten sans
parenthesis stands
wrapped around
future plans
it all blows away
they turn blue
and hollow faces
replaces aces
in a once winning hand.

Regards To The Stars (unedited)

you count your blessings
you want a life
you can't afford
time to wash your face
its been days
blame it on the bottle
this town will pickle you
you'd do well
untell the story
soon its over
at the beginning
when the gulls flew
and the fallen women
helped storm clouds
gather here
jellyfish drift like
smoke and haze
in the broken
glass reflections.
neon in the background,
hounds of hell tattoos
tells of a lie that's honest
born angry, just the open wound
bared the bile of the soul
while we lie to ourselves,
the canvas is big
the view point is wide
when the past and future meet
at the beginning and the end of time,
there is a hand
reaching out from a door
the hallway is dark
the room is full of light
at the edge of forever
everything is brilliant
and shining
and white.

Frozen Waves (far across the sea you're hiding)

Do you remember
the boy I used to be?
standing by the birch trees
a white hot sky
and birds singing,
name calling,
calling your name,
calling you out
on your shame.
what you're hiding
inside describing
someone who feels
like dying.
magicians manifest
the act of deceit,
conceit repeated
for all to see,
the magic of waves,
the magic of sound,
the magic blades
shoot into comets
locked in the tree
darkened shades,
fade and wander
shrouded by frequencies
vibrating cerulean darkness
summons deep
ice blue catacombs,
iridescent blue,
cataloged
and waterlogged
by ancient waters
that ran true.
the rabbit breathes
again, the handkerchief
changes colors,
flies through space
and distant stars die,
collide and change their colors.
minute particles
slip away into the
past light, previous
starways pass the harbor
strays, dancing ghosts
and placid hosts,
north star, guiding light
blue heavens;
where the
gods toast.

crystal days (clear)

trace his path
across the face
of a painting
of a stage
please...
lights go by
black and white
images filled
with post-war
misery,
please...

Other days
promises made to
children explode
and gazing out my window
another dawn shatters
like crystals
in a geode
like jewels
that make women
scream
please,
come back,
baby..

(and FUCK Meg Whitman....no, really.)

For All The Cunts in Marin County

Demons
offer conjecture
suburban wives
offer lecture
but lecture yourself
you rot the
shelf
your canned goods
sit on.
log on,
dot com
stay at home mom
careless
care less
care less about
everything
that stands for
something
that stands for you.
you bleed
claiming agony
but servant
in your matron's tower
reduced to ashes
lacking feminine power
but still usurped
perturbed, you claim
demons came to take
the perfect undisturbed
uninsured, inured.
scandal perpetuated
by whoring jackals
and their offspring
cloven hooved and rooted
in evil
like thresher sharks
tearing at flesh
gone mad with the
killing frenzy
of chaos.

and yeah, fuck you, you stupid lazy SOW of a pathetic excuse for a mother. Fuck your victim mentality. play the lamb, then cry loudest at the least worthwhile time. I am SO fucking SICK of women who use their children as shields against having to deal with the world. FOR GODSAKKES WHATABOUT THE CHILDREN?!? My mother taught me to keep what little money I had in my wallet. and never leave my wallet out where someone could see it. Backpacks? Pe-shaw! If you are too fucking stupid to tell your kids to keep their cash in a wallet(or their pocket)at the very least-then either YOU are sorely lacking in common sense or your kids are fucking retards, but since they were raised by YOU, what's the excuse? You can't take care of 3 kids at once? Wait! I forgot this is Marin where kids float on clouds, do whatever they want and are uber protected by dimwit mothers who stand by and do NOTHING, SAY Nothing and then...I'm the thief? Fuck you, you bitch! You claim we stole from you-when we're not there to defend ourselves, how nice!-when you know damn well we have nothing that belongs to you?

Guess what...next time I see you I am going to give you a piece my mind-a big one- so you NEVER forget what happens when you STUPIDLY expect the world to protect your kids from real life-and try and badmouth me on top of it.

Morning Escape (blue dawn)

Old time money
is fading
books unbound
flip, whipping
around in the air
impaired
my hollow atmospheric
stare at the rockets
red glare
stitches in woolen
arcades unraveling
in the cold
evening twilight
words reabsorbed
in to the very first page
these words, invisible
thimblefuls.

the first page
is blank like the second
and the record begins
with nothing
but crackles
and mysterious hissing
grooves long and thin
with delights
trapped within
and long winding high
ceiling cathedrals filled
with inept spirits
who long for a host
a steeple filled
with people
and spectral shipwrecked arms
gather flowers
overhead.