Blind in the Wild Wood

Somebody told me
that repeatedly
undertaking
the same action
with the expectation
of differing results
is the bread crumb trail
madness leaves
through the
wild wood.
Uh oh.
I hear the sound
of bomb bay doors
opening
yet again.
More badger hole
and
less Toad Hall,
please.
Pot kettle black
fuselages
are gonna doom
the frightened
and bankrupt
the complacent.
Twisted metal
made rose petal red
by smashed bodies
huddling in oil black
basements.
All painted in atari green,
pixilated for human
amusement,
and spun between
the rods and cones
of
serotonin re-uptake
inhibited
inebreates.
Before they play
the march of
the tank tread
and all of God's toys
go off to be reborn
as sandstorm effluvium,
maybe remember...
it's the same water
that swrils in every eddy
bubbles in every riffle
n slackens in every pool
in the stream.
What's visited upon the other
will be visited upon the self.
God save the mad parade
Lord God have mercy
all claims are paid.

Dog Sized Ants

This is the second time
dog sized ants
Have come.
They touch my face
with their antennae
transmitting
a series of
songs.
Waitaminute you.
that’s Dwight Twilley’s
Sincerely
with your ant prayers
thrown in for words.
Dog sized ants
are insistent,
“We come back
and come back
until you sing
These sings.”
Ant prayers.
My prayers.
Hour prayer.
Were you looking
through my set list
of imagined persecutions?
These ant songs are
not about work
they’re about prayers.
A joke about a prayer
is my latest offering
to the top seven
hit parade
of teeth grinding
exchanges with being.
“We are making ourselves
known to the part of you
that doesn’t want to know
who you are.”
It’s dog sized ants
interrupting the signal
on long distance
sunflower conversations.
They promise to stay
and hum dread plagiarisms
into the hesitant pores
of my skin
until we are me.

Silver Lake 1971

It must be.

What?

It must be

and that's the problem.

It must be keeps on kicking in my eye

with the hopes and dreams

of the locust clouds.

It must be

so I dream

each night

in an

ocean of needles.

I know how to drown.

I learned this at Silver Lake

in 1971.

It must be

so I can remember

that my lungs are pinned

and wrinkled

like a cicada's wings

mounted and

left to migrate

towards dust.

What?

It must be

and it has been

and it is so hard

to understand

and be understood.

Headwind

The truth explodes

one hundred thousand

fictions.

Vascular and sclerotic

draining dead plasma eyes

know nothing tongues

cracked molar

grimaces.

Each head 

is just a tape loop;

capstan rolls out 

30ips at 

33° 35' N      

7° 39' W

of brute,

unrecognized,

final agony.

They were already

consumed

and lived as waste

before they were husbanded 

from the safety 

of nothingness

to the bright

bleeding

squirm

of being.

The Spaceman's Spacesuit

I knew a girl.
I made her cry
and then
I began to wake up from a dream
I had been having
since I was a boy
when the realization came to me
that everything is uncertain.
At that point
the dream started.
It was a dream
about isolation
from the world
and that uncertainty
always holds close
the true sting of disappointment.
Sometimes
this sting can come from others
and
sometimes it comes from within.

The dream
was about a spaceman
in his spacesuit.
I was the boy
inside the spaceman’s spacesuit.
Like many dreams,
I floated.
I floated above
a silent moon
in the black ink of space
that was splattered with stars,
distant and unthreatening.
The moon
lit up my faceplate
as I contemplated
it’s cratered surface.
The dead moon
hung so beautiful
before me
and
its silent face
made up my world.
Here I would float forever,
searching
for the source
of its forgiving light.
The kind of light
a spaceman could hide in.

As I began
to wake up
from this dream,
the unthreatening stars
that seemed so distant
began to twinkle
and sparkle
like diamonds.
Slowly
the twinkles of the stars
turned into the hard facets
of brilliant diamonds
that flew through the void
and began to cut
the spaceman’s spacesuit
I was dreaming and hiding in.
They cut the spacesuit to ribbons
and I was paralyzed with fear.
Suddenly,
I was naked and cold
but the diamonds
didn’t tear me apart.
No,
they splashed on my face
in the form of warm
salty tears
from a girl
I remembered
in a life I thought
was already lived and died.
I woke up
and turned away
from the dead moon
that had been my silent companion
for so long
and
that’s when I saw it.
The true source
of the moon’s forgiving light
was the cornsilk cheeks
of a beautiful girl
whose tears caught the shine
of the sun above our heads.

Stranded On A Floe

Poison
not so subtle
has taken root
in my cells.
I shiver
and sweat
the small hours
in the dark.
A dream
about a river
comes to me.
I'm standing
on a floe
watching
people on the shore
appear
and recede.
All of my words
are stripped of
sound and meaning
by furious gusts
of wind.
Every only every
disappears in painful
meanders.
There is only
the riverbed
where I lay
teeth clenched
stomach sliced open
and
leaking rusted
soul.

The Prince of Whales

Today

I'm gonna let 

Derek 

n 

Clive

speak on my 

behalf

'cause 

I ain't 

got anything

worth 

a 

monkey's 

shite 

to fucking

tellya...

Inventory

Occasionally
I pull my gulliver off my me
turn it upside down
shake it
n see.
Here's what tumbled
out this morning.
Let's viddy, eh?
My Sunflower
Fox Hunt
The Fool
Brian Jones
the split finger fastball
mycorrhizae and symbiosis
Patti Smith
modality
Rickenbacker guitars
the twilight town
in my dreams
The Mahgreb
kissing
turkish coffee
you
Theodora and Justinian
Lux Nova
Jackie Robinson
1066
Martin Amis
Helen Mirren
Eleanor of Aquitaine
A Confederacy of Dunces
Raymond Huffman
Peter Haskett
Tony Newton
237 Steiner St. Apt. 3
Hubert Sumlin
1966
the conservation of energy
Jim Brown
Sufism
The Kinks
In His Own Write
Mildred Corrie and her Cadillac
Bean
The Daily Racing Form
magnetism
Aristotle's Politics
Cthulu
that macaroni salad
they serve at Kona Kitchen
D major
G flat minor
Three Laws of Motion
Ava n Shriley
Molly

Not a bad haul, eh?

G-Flipps as Amstel Adams

Hey everybody.

You know Greg Phipps, right?

G-Flipps.

Amstel Adams.

These are some pics he snapped at

Emerald Downs

last Saturday.

If only he handicapped

the Daily Racing Form

with as much enthusiasm

and care...

1st Avenue/Morning

Teenage angels haunt
the four corners
of 1st and Marrion
shilling for mattress companies
sugar filled nothing bars
rusted condoms
carbonated amphetamine fruit juice
free fake hugs
white kleenex wings
what you gonna do now?
what you gonna do next?
get used
get tossed
get with it
or get lost.

Slip Kid

Hey,
know what?
Something's happening.
Coming to me from a distance
getting closer
and
growing inside me
with each passing
hour.
I feel it
in my body
waking up
from a long, long
sleepwalk
at the bottom
of a december cold
lake.
I can feel it in the
lovely keys
of the piano
who came to stay
and needs tuning.
I can taste it
in the blue popsicle
I enjoyed
with deliberate slowness,
like kissing
someone you know
you're falling in love
with.
Guess what?
I know what it is.
Its impermanence
is encoded with
divine transmssions.
The blind idiot universe
wants to briefly possess
a firefly minute to
see
feel
and heal.
I am the firefly
and the beekeeper.
Be here with me
and see.

He Loves Dr. Nut. Sometimes He Can Even Drink Three of Them

A proper education according to Ignatius J. Reilly:

"Then you must begin a reading program immediately so that you may understand the crises of our age," Ignatius said solemnly. "Begin with the late Romans, including Boethius, of course. Then you should dip rather extensively into early Medieval. You may skip the Renaissance and the Enlightenment. That is mostly dangerous propaganda. Now that I think of it, you had better skip the Romantics and the Victorians, too. For the contemporary period, you should study some selected comic books.... I recommend Batman especially, for he tends to transcend the abysmal society in which he's found himself. His morality is rather rigid, also. I rather respect Batman."

I also like the filing scheme he developed at Levy Pants.
I'm thinking of putting it into practice here...

Vega Tomorrow

No easy way to be free.

No easy way down.

I pace a trail around 

every rosy fingered dawn,

every black currant crow dusk,

watching the tall grass flagellate

the back of the sky.

I am caught in the earth's precession 

aware of a constant 

slow oscillation; 

rooted to aching evergreen 

and dizzy with elliptic.

Time out of joint,

reaching for a remembered switch

that's never been there.

Don't you know?

You don't know

the half of me.

And the other half

is Polaris today, 

Vega tomorrow.

 

Wore down rivals, drew clear

Approaching the track

walking past the motorized

hot walkers

and the squat barracks styled

buildings of the backstretch

I think about Lord Kitchener's 

index finger

level stare 

moustache.

An expeditionary force

is only as good as its maps

and I'm only as good as 

this Daily Racing Form.

Bumped hard, break

Set pace, gave way

Broke awkward, no bid

Dueled inside, weakened

Angled in, full of run

4 wide, stride late

Got through, cleared

Between foes, 1/4 evenly

Wore down rivals, drew clear

Lugged out turn, willingly

Prolonged drive, gamely

Yep

Wore down rivals, drew clear

Prolonged drive, gamely

Never Take His Name

Slow n spooky, maestro...

Once upon a time
lived a nickle
who got dimed
in the heel
of our lady
called a dame.
Burn the letter
burn the note
burn the book
you never wrote
but you never
take his name
in vain.

Up the river
down the creek
stealing firewood
from the weak
with a ledger
bound in ivory
in the hand.
Burn the village
raze the town
knock it up
and build it down
but you never
take his name
in vain.

but you never
take his name in vain.

Ride the train
spike the vein
dull the pain
but you never
take his name
in vain.

On the rooftop
in the breeze
going prostrate
on the knees
supplicating to
your ignorance
and shame.
Burn the letter
burn the note
burn the book
you never wrote
but you never
take his name in vain.
No
you never
take his name in vain.

Ride the train
spike the vein
dull the pain
but you never
take his name
in vain.

"Cute" Band Alert!!

"Cause if you think that it's cold 

when you're swimming in the ocean,

it's hard to believe you're a

Nova Scotian boy."

Halifax, Nova Scotia is where

Sloan come from.  Officially known as 

Canada's 'cutest' band ("SlooooAAANNN!!), they

have been making some tasty business

for over a decade.  

They make clever and engaging videos

too.  Wanna viddy some?  

Sloan borrow the opening scene from Easy Rider

Here's the single from the classic, Navy Blues

which sets the sleeve design to motion

More Jay!

Yeah, I'm geeked about 'em.

The new album comes out in June!

Grandad Got the 8-Track

The filtered gun metal light
bleeding through
the low hanging clouds
and the smell
that carries the threat
of freezing rain
or snow
reminded me
of my grandad
this morning.
I remember sitting uncomfortably
in his battered Chevy truck
as we wound our way
through thick forests
dripping with runoff
to Spirit Lake.
Early morning trout fishing.
The smell of gas
permiated the cab
everytime he struggled with
the manual choke.
"I got the 8-track now, Scottie.
There's a bunch of 'em
in the glove compartment.
Put one in."
Yeah, there they are.
Looks like he joined
one of those clubs.
20 hit records for just a penny!
Columbus House.
Hmmmm, let's see.
Dolly Parton (of course).
Flatt and Scruggs (maybe).
Jim Nabors (??!!).
Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass (most likely).
Wait a minute.
Aerosmith, Rocks...
Hey grandad,
What the hell is this?
"Oh, I figured I'd get
something you kids might
wanna hear.
It says 'rock' on it,
right?"
Yeah, it does grandad
and yeah, it do...

Downtown/Noon

I am among you
the stray dog stayed too long
the pilot-fish depth charge
or maybe just an autistic tape recorder?
Moving with you
next to you
from place to place.
A half life ghost.
I see and hear you
and when I sit down
way down
in the empty part of my life
I take out the bits I stole from you
and hum until I hear tragic harmony.

We're propped up
dumb luck
grey suited grafters
cutting holes in pockets
to get what we're after...

Your words push through me
on their way to your life.
That nervous glance
in my direction
is enervated
by my formlessness
made shape in
the dead parts of you.

and we'll burn your blankets
and sell your sky
and we'll fill your radio up with lies...

You sleep
and wake to find me there again
and again.
Your face changes
Your sex changes
but it's always me
haunting the dimwitting edges
of your fraying existence.

And it's no surprise to me
that the only thing you see
are those happy smiling faces
waving their flags in the streets
It's their way of giving thanks
for the gasoline and banks
and the price to roll the tanks
keeps spinning round
and round
and round...

It wasn't always...
or, perhaps it was.
Does it matter at this point?
You have your job to do
and I have mine.
I can keep you moving down the line.
Breathe life into your bad example.
Be a wrong to your right
direction.

Isn't it nice to have more than your slice
when there's hardly enough to get by?
But if you feel down I'll run you out of town
on a rail in a blink of an eye...

Whatever you do
don't lock eyes with me
too long.
If you stare into the dark
it stares back into you.

Reve On

Dear Scaught's Brain,
Thank you for last night's
manifestations.
The non linear presentation of
the day's rememberances
tingling lusts
auditory foxhunts
shattering blue mediterranean sky
n The Small Faces
was real
horrorshow.
Thank you for picking me up
outta my bed
and plopping me down
in a creaky wooden chair
at Les Templiers
in Coullioure.
Thank you even more for inviting
Princess Sunflower to join me.
Her dreaming waist
n magnet thighs
strain through that bedsheet dress
and we sit
sunning ourselves
drinking kir so tart
n tasty.
One thing;
Why did you make me innta
Scott Walker
when I'm Scaught Five?
Dug the hair n jacket though.
I shoulda tried out his pipes
he can swoon a tune, eh?
Two thing;
Why did Jacques Brel sing
with the Small Faces?
Sha la la la lee, yeah?
Sha la la la lee.
If only I could remember more French
'cause I awoke this morning
thinking I might have missed
something important.

Wallingford Front Porch/Late Afternoon

Hmmmmm,
While roaming this part of the fish tank
I run into some familiar sets o' fins n gills
getting really auntie ansty
bumping the glass border
between the possible
and the imagined.
Shite howdy.
Lookit the thousand league stare
on that guppy.
Tit's amost like he's grown lungs n legs
put on a moustached sweater
a stiff upper lip beret
n is sticking El Alamein
at the end of his first, middle and last.
Oh, O O O
says I.
'Cause I'm a Golden Champion-fish n that's what I do.
Some of the shiny things streaking through the water
turn out to be the omega to our alpha-spawn.
Hooked on a line
that becomes a sinker
that guppy's gonna squirm n squirm
cursing the grandma driver pace
of evolution.
I'm afraid he's gonna pass up
the occasional tasty flake
dropping to the bottom of the tank.
I'm afraid he's never gonna know
the mundane pleasure
of watching the plastic treasure chest
belch a school of bubbles.
I'm afraid he gonna squirm
and bump the tank's edge
for the rest of his swim
dreaming of landlubber empire.

One Day

Sometimes 

(but not very often, mind ye)

Somebody that isnae meself

has beat me to the paunch

n said the say I were going to speech.

Afore I lay we down to kip

last night

I spun a spin of compact disc

n these words sang forth:

One Day

You are my weakness, you are my strength
Nothing I have in the world makes better sense
Cause I'm a fish and you're the sea

When we're together or when we're apart
There's never a space in between the beat of our hearts
Cause I'm the apple and you're the tree

One day at a time is all we do
One day at a time is good for you

You are my woman, I am your man
Nothing else matters at all, now I understand
That I'm the door and you're the key

Every morning I wake in your smile
Feeling your breath on my face and the love in your eyes
Cause you're the honey and I'm the bee

One day at a time is all we do
One day at a time is good for us too (you too)

Cause I'm the fish and you're the sea
Cause I'm the apple and you're the tree
Cause I'm the door and you're the key
Cause you're the honey and I'm the bee

John Lennon

Shovel Into Spade Kit

Scaught Five
The Boy Wander
and also now Santa, folks
loses his shit
on the East Greenlake Express.
The Shame Train
as Roar-E used to call it.
Reading this Murakami book
I never read this type of book
cause I'm high fallutin'.
No disputin'.
Serve from the left.
Remove from the right.
Anyroad, it makes me chuckle
n then I start
thinking about a series
of laffs that prod me
ta dae the same.
Stone Fury.
Shut Up Little Man.
Amplitude Modulation.
Derek n Clive.
Peoples is getting uneasy
because I can't stop
he he he he he he heh heh
HA!
HA!
Snort n sniffle...
Wottaya lookin' at me like that for?
Steady on, grandad.
I'm Santa,
it's part of me job.
Uh oh...
I'm getting off right here
waaay before my stop
cause I remember this:
"Don't tell anybody what I'm about to tell you,
It's all very Candlestein."
Candlestein?
Wot the fook r you wingin' on about, drude?
Clandestine??
"That's what I said."
Nowt.
You said Candlestein.
Poops! I weren't supposed to tell anybloody about that.
S'okay Roosty.
He ain't gonna come here.
Things at the Last Rung is pretty candlestein, after all.

Molly Visits

Molly

your picture just fell out of Martin Amis' 

Yellow Dog

I don't remember putting it there.

Did you do it?

Good old Sauber

Did you do it?

I miss you

and your nightly rituals.

Remember your effigy?

It's here with me

on the dresser 

next to the Donald Duck 

my uncle gave me last year.

I left Donald in a drawer at his house

in Los Angeles

thirty four years ago.

The effigy still smells like you.

It has your porcupine hairs sticking out

of its chewed arms and legs.

Like Donald Duck. 

Like your picture.

You go away 

and you come back.

I miss you Sauber

I miss you Molly.

The Tennis System and Its Stars

The Night of The Long Knives

played out under a grimy 40 watt bulb sky

on this pissing cold spring day.

The low-self is in the house, people.

I can see it 

coming through the computer monitor

leaking through the receiver 

of the fucking phone

into my squealing ears.

Leaning in over the walls

of this baby vomit colored cubicle.

Everybody's killing everybody

with swinging accusations

blunt force panic

and heroic futility.

I know I know I know

You can't afford to lose this gig.

Believe me, I know.

So, shall we engage 

in a little self mortification?

Let's show them how much

they mean to us 

and live here like Anchorites

in workaday ecstasy

day and night

perched like business casual

stylites 

on this three story

stick up my ass.

Days like this

really get on my tit.

Almost start to snarl

almost start to snap

but there's no point

no one in this world knows what they do.

Build an elevator through the sky.

Ping Ping Ping Pang

It's dark
and the heat vent
whistles one thousand
meaningless songs.
Pillows are stacked up
on the empty side of this bed.
Sleep does not come easy
when every cell inside
is consumed with
omnipresent desire.
Arms wrapped around
tangled sheets.
A leg draped over
a crumpled quilt.
She isn't here
and it feels like
a fever.
The clock on the nightstand
keeps the beat
to a song
the heart
is compelled to sing.
Calling and calling.
Pleading and howling
at colorless night
to relent.
Let sleep come here
in her lithe form.
Let her lay down beside me
rest her head on my shoulder
wrap her leg around my thighs
and bathe me in
rose petal silence.

Mildred Corrie

Mildred Corrie

I saw you yesterday

in a cherry blossom petal

spinning from the branch

to the sidewalk.

They shaved off all of your

beautiful white hair

when I came to say goodbye.

You wouldn't let them 

take out your false teeth

and I never loved you more.

In the last hours and minutes

we were alone.

I did the only thing 

I knew how to do.

I sang to you

and held your disappearing hand.

Then I realized you were there 

in the tiny claws of the 

baby robin I buried 

in the backyard 

of the house on 86th Avenue, NE.

in 1976.

Mildred Corrie.

I will see you again and again

in the veins of a bumblebee's wings

or in the flaking paint of the front porch steps.

You will always be 

beautiful and strong.