Saturday, August 30, 2008

...And The Law Won.

"The Roman aristocracy had a great talent for law, which is not surprising.  In aristocratic, militaristic, landed society, the interests of the ruling class can be expressed in terms of law.  Law cannot deal with perceptions or emotions - with love, beauty, joy, or sadness - but it deals well with family property, state power, class privilege, and military force."

Norman F. Cantor; The Civilization of The Middle Ages, 1993.

How it Gets Done

Thursday, August 28, 2008

You're All Wet

Sick bed
cubicle chair
spin the wheel
head for 
the emergency room.
The ground is 
on this 
ill timed
I'm feeling
sans cullotes,
like I could
get stabbed
taking a bath
get soaked 
pledging my affection.
We all
gotta pay the fare
and ride 
the attraction 
It looks enticing
from the 
of the fairway
because you always
every top
is chasing 
the bottom.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Slow Learner

Take care 
how you relate.
I didn't
and now 
I'm fenced in 
by my own mistrust 
and paranoia.
on guard 
against friend 
and foe.
Spelling out 
I haven't gotta clue.
Now if you don't, 
take care
it's a terrible ride.
Fear is the driver
and hate is in the tank.
I can't say 
where it ends
because I'm jumping
It's never to late
to learn how to give.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Great Pacific Northern

Run out of track?
Just look behind you.
Plenty of it got you here.
It all seems different 
around each bend
but the spikes, 
and rails
always run through
the same stretch of nowhere
supposedly leading somewhere
(if you're into that kind of thing).
Look again,
and your diesel engine
is made of monkey bars
and the cap of the engineer
is made of newspaper
and scotch tape.
It doesn't matter what color you 
paint the sacred sky
or what words you choose
to wash out the mouths
of the profane passengers,
it's just something to do
to pass the time 
while time passes
with the scenery.

While The World Is Working

and burning up,
I look at the bright 
parade of nothingness
and commerce
spitting out of 
the vulgar square
in the corner of my room.
One after another 
some man's idea of a woman
gets called and sent out
to sit cross legged
in between
some failed DeMille's
dream of 
a smart ass refrigerator
and an air freshener practicing
Did you know how much money
people can save 
by spending money?
English people are so polite.
With the right man
a woman can really 
have it all.
The green dress 
on the brown woman
selling her family
on the rocky mountain
projected poise,
and star power.
The comedienne
and the mummy 
with a speech impediment
are relieved to find
the brown woman 
was not a red comanche.
There's so much 
I need to learn.
People can't get enough
petroleum and insurance.
People can't get enough
reality from this thing.
If you look really hard 
into this square I'm told,
you'll see yourself being
watched and adored
by everybody else 
looking into this thing
searching for themselves
being watched and envied
by you.
Keep dreaming.

Monday, August 25, 2008

This One

What happened?
My brain just spins
and whirls
around every memory 
of that certain one.
It's never been like this.
Now all I do 
is wait.
There are 
so many things
you can pick up
and put down
to put a dent
in the hours of the day;
things to take
things to leave.
Nothing can stop
the spreading need
that has seeped into
every wondering corner
of my being.
This one is my every reason
to struggle with joy
and call a truce
with passion.
I submit 
to this one's
community of
the faithful.

Govt. Mule

The phony weekend
put me down with a fever
and the chills.
I'm illin' 
for sure.
All drab day
the radio keeps 
me company.
Running a temperature,
running your mouth,
running for office,
running the table,
running a game.
They're up there
getting mile high
and busting 
each other's balls.
The mule's balloon
the emcee's tumor
can't divine 
the aggregated resentment
and butterfly knife
pooling up 
in the corpse
of the body politic.
No matter how 
you play it
it's just calling the shots
on a leaking life boat
with a spoon for an oar
and a collection notice 
for a sail.
If you want it so bad
you can have it.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Things People Have Said

Now listen up,
I was just rolling
the day
when all of you
started talking
a green streak
and I
had to do my job
like I do
and run
and tell
the internaught
this shit
you said.

"She's learing the finer points 
of being a pleasure mount."


"She had a blue collar voice."

Rock shockin', y'all.  
If I might interject.

You Think That You Can Front When Revelation Comes?

Well just plug me in like I was Eddie Harris
You're eatin' crazy cheeze like you would think I'm from Paris
You know I get fly, you think I get high
You know that I'm gone and I'm 'a tell you all why
So tell me-who are you dissin'? Maybe I'm missin' 
the reason that you're Smilin' or wildin' so listen
In my head I just wanna take 'em down
Imagination set loose and I'm gonna shake 'em down
Let if flow like a mudslide
When I get on I like to ride and glide
I got depth of perception in my text y'all
I get props at my mention cause I vex y'all
So whatcha whatcha whatcha want
I get so funny with with the money that ya flaunt
I said where'd you get your information from huh?
You think that you can front when revelation comes?

*Yeah, you can't front on that*

Well they call me Mike D the ever lovin' man
I'm like Spoony G well I'm the metropolitician
You scream and you holla 'bout my Chevy Impala
But the sweat is gettin' wet around the ring around your collar
Like a dream I'm flowing without no stoppin'
Sweeter than a cherry pie with Ready Whip toppin'
Goin' from Mic to Mic kickin' it wall to wall
Well I'll be callin' out you people like a casting call
Well it's whack when you're jacked in the back of a ride
With your know with your flow when you're out gettin' by
Believe me what you see is what you get
And you see me I'm comin' off as you can bet
Well I think I'm losin' my mind this time
This time I'm losin' my mind that's right I said
I think I'm losin' my mind this time this time
I'm losin' my mind

*Yeah, you can't front on that*

But little do you know about somethin' that I talk about
I'm tired of drivin' it's due time that I walk about
But in the mean time I'm wise to the demise
I've got eyes in the back of my head so I realize
Well I'm doctor Spock I'm here to rock y'all
I want you off the wall if you're playin' the wall
I said whatcha whatcha whatcha want
I said whatcha whatcha whatcha want
You suckers write me checks and then they bounce
So I reach into my pocket for the fresh amount
See I'm the long leaner Victor the Cleaner
I'm the illest mutha fucka from here to Gardena
I'm as cool as a cucumber in a bowl a hot sauce
You got the rhyme and reason but got no cause
Well if you're hot to trot you think you're slicker than grease
I got news for you crews you'll be suckin' like a leech

*Yeah, you can't front on that*

So whatcha whatcha whatcha want

Saturday, August 23, 2008

...don't come near it.

Rolling down the hill I'm snowballing getting bigger
An explosion in the chamber the hammer from the trigger
I seen him get stabbed I watched the blood spill out
He had more cuts than my man Chuck Chillout
24 is my age and 22 is my gauge
I'm writing rhymes on a page I'm goin' off in a rage
Cause I'm out on a mission a stolen car mission
Had a small problem with the transmission
3 on the train in the middle of the night
I have this steak on my head cause I got into a fist fight
Life comes in phases take the good with the bad
You bought the coins on the street holmes... and you know you got had
Because it's all high spirit you know you gotta' hear it
Don't touch the mic baby don't come near it
It's gonna get you it's gonna get you
It's gonna get you girl it's gonna get you

Lookin' down the barrel of a gun
Son of a gun son of a bitch
Getting paid getting rich

Ultra violence be running through my head
Cole Madenia y'all makin' me see red
Rapid fire Louie like Rambo got bullets
I'ma' die harder like my kid Bruce Willis
I love girlies waxin' and milkin'
Cordniating chimp is my man Dave Scilken (Smokie)
Predetermined destiny is who I am
You got your finger on the trigger like the Son of Sam I am
Like Clockwork Orange goin' off on the town
I've got homeboys bonanza to beat your ass down
Well I'm mad at my desk and I'd be writing all curse words
Expressing my aggressions through my schizophrenic verse words
You're a headless chicken chasin' a sucker free basin
You're looking for a fist to put your face in
Well get hip get hip don't slip you knuckle heads
Racism is schism on a serious tip

Friday, August 22, 2008

Symptomatic Nerve Gas Burlesque

We have to get it done
twice a week
down the broken wooden stairs
past the meth hotel alley
under the stripper's jewel-box.
Surveilled by the determined eye
of Nixon knocking back 
a 7-10 split,
the Golden Age of Larry King
is electrified,
and affirmed.
Up the stairs 
the strippers are geishas
in undertaker makeup
and monster movie platforms.
They don't wanna dance 
to our aircraft engine two-step.
They're here to "break all the rules",
shake their junior varsity tail feathers,
package cellulite in fisherman's nets,
exhibit their symptom,
and tell us to shut it.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Plowshared Shields

The white faced aldermen
from the new school of Hellas
will shield your children
from strange tribes
of other children
with guns
that shoot knives.
They will make sure
you can sleep
like you're on vacation
chains of locked fingers
ringed around your neighbor's
They promise your freedom
is eternal
and your right to want,
and your right to have,
is immutable.
The dividend of peace
conjures bellicose daydreams
of omniscience.
A ribbon is being stretched
in your name
around a watchful bruin
through the fields
of its estranged satellites.
An old familiar knot
is gordian
and grimly forming.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Exeunt The Idiot

Masochistic stamp
of the tambourine
Balinese bullwhip whistle 
string strands crisscross 
the table legged 
jack boot au go go.
The tudor to the heiress
was a rake in the ruff.
His first person
singular act one,
all a doublet,
sets this dim globe 
dull burning 
with french puissance.
Meanwhile the downstairs
rude mechanics 
naugahyde jewel-boxes
with urinal hymns.
They're only waiting
for their connection
and then
they will nod off set.
The blocking scene
is a blinding rain.
The only way out
of the pinhole camera light
is through the house.
Setting across the channel
down the center of the bar
the audience peers 
a folk dance
at Sunnyside streetlight;
mule clogging cars and 
bunny hop honeys 
all leashed to a sextant
tied to their ears.
Steer steady 
out of here
to the door up the steps,
to this place out of everywhere,
to this space out of every when.

Bullrush Blossom

I'm just trying
to find a narrow way
between the gold bubbles
and the technology rushes.
Just like
when I was a boy
and not yet medieval,
and not yet obsolete.
I walked from our home
to the fence by the freeway
looking for a small space
to squeeze past
and make my way
to the shoulder
where the narrowleaf cattail
swayed in the traffic's wake.
All I wanted
was a blossom from the stalk,
to hold,
to have for my own.
But to let anyone know
what I had gained
would reveal where I had been
shed the ever curious light
of authority
on meandering motives,
on wondered wanderings.
I never told a soul
until now.
I kept the blossom hid
just for me
in the child's shoebox
under the bedroom windowsill.
It never comes easy.
The world seems like
a panoply of distraction
and the pendulum clock
ever swings the minutes
away and gone.
Like that bullrush
the real doesn't
beg affirmation from
silicon ghosts.
It sits
outside of reach,
often overlooked
and waiting
for someone who can find
that slender path
through the fences
and the roar of traffic.
I'm searching.
I still
wander and wonder.
This time though,
I think I'll share
the soft caress
of the bullrush blossom
that sways patiently
in the forgotten median
while the world
dashes by.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Something Else

While walking to the store
along the root broken sidewalk
under the cherry tree tunnel
I thought about 
holding your hand.
You sure are something else, you.

Monday, August 18, 2008

How Can I Answer That If You've Got The Nerve To Ask Me?

Full Moon Freakout

Let me tell you
teen titanium stupidity.
It can come
in tootsie rolled quarters
on deep dog days
under foothill sun.
Profane fun
will tape spool 
over night cunt parley.
Garter snake rivlets
of Scott Walker
chase prone blades
of field grass mice.
A cat 
snake hinged
sits on electric fence post
singing like a saw.
"I thought you understood 
this wasn't what we were before
but we sure is now."
Sometimes it can 
make you call the lightning 
like baseball
bounce big foot basketballs
through fern skirted
stands of cedar.
It awakes you 
to your 
groovy decay.
Bastard rings
of San Francisco cocksuckers
won't be able to talk you down 
from the processed heights,
You will go outside.
You will go inside.
You will go like an olive
chasing a bee-sting 
in noon time.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Long Acre Mile

A waxing gibbous
clubhouse mountain turn
spiked with floodlight moths
and dogfighting bats
frame the grandstand's 
On this furnace fire
three across the board
on the six horse
in the second
puts cold beer 
in grateful grasp.
we unroll 
the highway ribbon
In full moon midnight
we will shake out
a ground glass rhythm
a low beat rhyme.
A return.
I return,
newly same
only different.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

The Great Game

Mute constellations
trail jellyfish tendrils
of light
through the night's ocean.
They stand sentry, 
composing multiple
exposures of
the great game
they witness.
Spheres of influence
stab blindly
at each other
with Khyber sharp
triple entente,
cold and hyper-powerful,
this world is their hated toy.
You are their heated tool.
The satellite 
in the subcontinent
skirt was raped
and left to bleed out
in a buffer state. 
In the wake of Molotov
and the dreams of Ribbentrop
the National Front 
opens up and swells.
Traveling salesman priests
sell ordinance 
and racist jokes
to necklace chains
of villages.
The game's pitch 
always tilts 
from the caviar table patron 
to the hopeless client.
So sit with me
in the invertebrate firmament
of the sky
and watch 
our great game,
our true art
and nature
tirelessly play itself
until the last lamp
of our existence
is extinguished
in tides 
of violence
and waste.

Monday, August 11, 2008

Chanting Your Return

Walk over here.
Not there.
Walk back.
Not there.

Every swipe
of the second hand
brushes back the dust
that settled in my life
when you flew away.

But its only a migration
pulling wild mountain time,
under snow cap melted sun
and your voice is a ghost
haunting the words of songs,
promising return.

Right now.
Not there.
Left then.
Not there.

In every empty direction
on the solid sidewalk street
the signals all sign caution
and time's traffic slows
under the flashing yellow sun.

But in each situation 
I would wake and find you gone
my sleep always remembers
the you that sneaks past
my thoughts
and smiles a mantra
chanting your return.

Sunday, August 10, 2008

"...through a shot of Beam he speaks."

"...and I laid them down to rest."

Pretty Vacant

"I just don't know how deep I'm going to get into the elements of this sabotage."

A young woman on the 5:07pm Maple Leaf Express chatting loudly on her cell phone
as overheard by Monsieur Cinq, 2007

Saturday, August 9, 2008

Mortification Of A Haircut

The barber's favorite patron
fell out of the ruined rickshaw.
The streets were filled
with rivers of babel.
The handbags were adorned
with biceps
and stitched together
with veins of gold.
All turned on him.
They all turned on him.
"I am a liar," he cried.
"Before you introduce
your bitter lash
let my words 
serve as sackcloth
and ash."
The field surgeon
from Tarsus 
walked up 
produced a saw.
He said,
"If you've been living
by the law of your second
head, you is surely dying!"
Next comes a bottle.
Next comes a biting bullet.
The throngs in sunglasses
and credit card chain-mail
sculpt a gauntlet 
and sing Stephen Foster
while Susanna's banjo is sewn to 
his stump.
The patron staggers 
and groans.
His eyes swell and split
like a brat on a grill.
The ghost of Holofernes
and Huddie Ledbetter arrive
to lead the haircut off the field
in retreat.
"Don't take it so hard, Lancelot,"
sings Leadbelly.
"You only lost your head once.
You can still get your end away."

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Our Everything

I'm watching 
this seagull
breakfast on
creamed crow.
That's just
another clock,
a daylight night-light
of impermanence
and diffusion.
is a tyrant.
Everything living
is it's propaganda.
We are
strapped into
plastic consciousness
to unwillingly
prescribed tragedy.
I occult 
the unintelligible
and random
my first person
The cypher 
is threading
the awful
and ecstatic,
issuing the call
back to a place
that holds no place,
holds no where,
holds no when,
is our everything.


All roads lead to roam
when you find yourself alone
with broken sword and shield
surrounded by your enemies 
and bleached bones
and you're running out
of precious ground
to yield.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

You Are The Problem

It's your rules.

It's your country.
It's your money.
It's your streets,
and your buildings,
and your cars,
and your flags.
Yes it is,
and none of them
are fit 
to roll,
or shoot
my hatred
your banality
the center 
my certainty.

Monday, August 4, 2008

I Killed The Devil

Well I never
had so much fun
as there was
fun to be had
plugged in
and feeding back
at the end of the ramp
by the sheet metal mill.
We test puppets
in the whiskey bar
with twenty two strings
and propinquity.
Punch and Judy,
James and Jimmy,
and Scaught Five
doing Walker, Riddley.
"Puncha, Puncha Puncha"
in stoned swazzle
and then,
"Huzzah, Huzzah!
I killed the Devil."
Just for tonight, anyway.
I walk off the set
with the guitar
and The Girl.
I never had
so much fun.

Sunday, August 3, 2008

Milk and Cocaine

Friday, August 1, 2008

Kelly's On Third

First of the month.
Come on in.
Kelly's on Third
is hoppin'
at 7:21 a.m.
The drunk checks
line up
to be cashed
by aborted
the rosicrucian queen
does his best
Veronica Lake
and pulls
on a menthol
and pulls on
a filthy john
in garbage
rusted rags,
a captain's hat
and yellowed beard.
Just inside the door,
sunlight banished
the construction paper
cut outs dissolve
the pointless remainder
of themselves
in Old Milwaukee
and urine.
I am a spectator
safe behind transit glass
touring the lower intestine
of the jaundiced town.
The dead part of me
cinemascopes this corner
and in little ways
this recklessness.
The lure of failure
is laced with renunciation
for this life,
for this country,
for love,
for money,
for possibility.
The lure of failure
promises wine and cakes
on cigarette butt streetcorners
at 6:30 a.m.
until the lost vessel
slips under the wave.