8 Nov 2013, 1:41pm
Writing:
by

leave a comment

In the next life (after Neruda)

Let’s go camping. You don’t need to work. I

don’t need to work. We’ll just send them all

away. Stop the pickup trucks, the movers,

and the well-drillers. We’ll take a long, long,

vacation. Remember Lucille Ball in that big

RV carrying all those rocks around? That’ll

be you. I’ll be DesiRicky, concentrate on

driving, making sure we don’t fall off the

cliff. If the RV breaks, we’ll pitch a tent,

sleep wherever we are. It won’t be difficult,

because the difficult part is past. When I say

I love you then/there it will mean the most

ever. Because we will have climbed a

mountain by then.

Every life is different, every fire. Sometimes

you know the end before you even set out

for it. On foot. Your feet. My feet. But you

want it so badly. So you work backwards.

You think What would it take to get there?

From the fire to the fire building. From here

to there. You go gather the wood. You store

it up like a squirrel with nuts. You

disassemble/assemble. You un-make. Until

you stop ordering the words around / they

fall out of your pockets. Then I’ll gather the

wood becomes We’ll gather the wood. It all

works out. Traigamos leña. Haremos fuego

en la montaña.

29 Jul 2013, 10:11am
Writing:
by

leave a comment

heard a lot (set list)

Poems are beautiful. Each one is breaking

into its own cut like a rough but organized

set list. There is a way to play them. If you

have songs in your blood you will know

what I mean. The order is what drives you.

The left one down, the right one up. Pick a

finger the good song the next one. Beat,

beat, the open elbow drum clang jam clang

the pick strikes the cord vibrates tiny hot

words. Think think. So much like a bass

line, you’re a bassist. Hopefully you can also

sing. Gordon Sumner, Geddy Lee. One of

those famous dudes.

Are there women who like Geddy Lee’s

voice? I am not sure I know one. But there

are plenty of women who like Gordon

Sumner’s voice. Men too. I remember when

he sang with the Police. Roxanne, you don’t

have to put on the red light… And we would

sing too. Each one of us trying our level best

to get the same falsetto/Sting sound. That

one I heard a lot. You couldn’t go to skating

rinks, pep rallies, or the parking lot after

school, without someone humming it, or

playing it on their radio. It was just fantastic.

WE couldn’t get it out of our heads.

5 Jul 2013, 3:39pm
Writing:
by

leave a comment

Blade Runner Diptych, Part Two

I love this panel as art; I cannot explain why.

How you love a movie or a book title. A

snippet from either/inside more than the

whole of it. Unsaid as a whole. The figure’s

a microcosm. Speaking into an open box. I

love that art-side. How the two leaves are

like the hands pressing down / now lifted up

as in prayer. Although I do not pray. I no

more can. I love the idea of it. That

somebody may be listening. That we may be

thinking of something to say when we meet

each other. I talk to myself more than (I talk

to) others. I am an empty vase.

Deckard and Rachael are running into and

out of the downtown / out of and into the

new town. Which is no town with no death.

It looks like a library, but the library has a

ladder. Into the books, out of the freakshow

that is their lifespans. The librarian leaves

them alone. (The origamist). There is an

ample plain with dinosaurs. There is a space

mission. They can see heaven and its picture

window. They will live on a new planet,

they will not be extinct. When they go into

the rocket, do they ever know? They are

running into the sweet movie.

5 Jul 2013, 3:21pm
Writing:
by

leave a comment

not persuaded (New Mexico)

The daylight is what it is… I go to work I go

to school and I see buildings that aren’t

mine, plans that I didn’t make. Families that

aren’t in my neighborhood. Their homes are

so nice, they touch me. The people are so

quiet. (and the dogs). But I don’t live here. I

live where There is More daylight. It’s like

in the afternoon all the time and I need

coffee. Things are messy in my life. In my

own home. My kids are at play riding their

bikes in the yard. Now when they give me

presents I know it must be my birthday. A

kind voice is telling me that I should like it

here, but I’m not persuaded.

I want to live in Taos where I can build my

desert home again. It looks like a country

farmhouse but it has four patios. Where the

porch is but past where the porch would be. I

picture it full of bright sliding light. The

upstairs open over the main living space, two

small bedrooms in back. Can you play with

me there? (I never really learned about time

before but I am learning now.) I think I would

like a piano in my home. Next to a central

hearth. You can play the piano. Or learn. The

soul-loving hills of New Mexico are full of

pianos. That’s what I think of when I think of

you painting on one of my patios.

3 Jun 2013, 1:38pm
Writing:
by

leave a comment

Sid and Nancy go to Hollywood: a poem

Gary Oldman is great, as always, kissing her

toes after ripping her stocking open. That

was so blunt. He sticks the knife in and she

is a real goner. But she prances about too

much. They fuck in his mum’s house; she

complains. She rips off his mum’s clothes in

the street. It’s sometimes better except for

when she yells. She is so whiny in the phone

booth; I wanted to kill her right then. Was it

just the actress or is that how it really was? I

want to ask Courtney, but she’s the only one

being quiet in this movie. She just sits there

pretending like she doesn’t know anything.

Foot fetish latex tranny stockings. I don’t

know if I have them all (down here). T/his

penis is so much like a thing you write with.

Pencil point. (Needle.) Like, how hollow it

must be. For poison to drip. F/or morphine.

Where I keep thinking you’re my Heroin,

not heroine. You left me outside in the alley,

face down. Not good. But punk rockers stole

this show. They started in the basement.

They moved to the attic. Finally, they had a

party in your bedroom. I pick up your

panties all over the place. My god, how

many things are in this house?

30 May 2013, 10:53am
Writing:
by

leave a comment

Two Portraits of Arizona

Does Maynard James Keenan like The

Books? This is a question I ask myself

lately. Does he even know who they are?

Has he heard of them? I would have heard

of The Books. But famous people are

different. Their time is full. So many side

projects. Besides fronting for the rock band

Tool, Maynard James Keenan also owns a

vineyard in Arizona. I heard about this on

the Discovery channel. This summer I am

thinking about making a visit to try some of

Maynard’s wine. I might even ask him about

The Books. I think of the bass line in

“Smells Like Content;” the singer’s voice

reminds me so much of Maynard.

Tell me I remember Flagstaff. I was there

and I saw people. Walking around and

buying things. Dressing up. Some of them

were like you. I saw a lady in a wool coat,

and scarf. She was bending over. I thought,

now this is a town that you might like. You

were always picking up things. The food

there—honestly I can’t say. I didn’t have

any. It was mid-January, the town reminded

me of dry-ice. I bought some gas.

Ultimately, what did Flagstaff have to offer?

Anonymity. A weather sample. Culture.

Pine trees, snow and fog. It was like the rest

of the world, I guess. Except that everything

there was lifted.

1 May 2013, 2:21pm
Writing:
by

1 comment

Redaction: Myth

Paved roads or highways. That’s what most

of us dreamed of… to get in the car and go

somewhere. A vacation or destination.

Family outing on the beach. Drive to the

mountain. Ride on the Ferris wheel. The

larger the better, of course. Except for this

one little one. He was such a perv.

Daydreaming of affairs in the middle of the

woods. Sitting nowhere doing nothing.

Making a stump speech by himself. The

parade went by. He missed his station. It

would be his death, or most of it.

I’ve been thinking, this is how you fool time.

With parades. Parade floats. People seeing

sitting watching. So many sections. And

much like religion. How do you believe it

all? Beelzebub dragons begat Disney begat

Puff dragons. But not on them. Smoking

watching. Over the railing of love. Oh, the

lazy river. The streets are empty, except for

a few blocks crammed with people. Ants on

a jetty. At Rio the Carnival would wear you

out. It wasn’t like that on the water. There

was just one, cool breeze.

26 Apr 2013, 4:51pm
Writing:
by

leave a comment

Lord Helicopter, Lady Marijuana

Sheffield in the little home looks back and

forth over his dream. He thinks of a woman.

The people are in his room and they shake

the sheets but he doesn’t mind. He is already

leaving/falling. In the Airstream there is cool

desert. It gleams; he has pictures in the tiny

box. One of them is of Suzie. Many Suzies.

Always this face sliding up next to him

reading to him. She could be his daughter.

His mother. His father’s mother. His wife.

She says I am a good little girl. He hears his

granddaughter laughing in the next room.

The girl is stoned. She looks scared/not

scared. She is Diane Keaton/Faye Dunaway.

She is a Hippie seamstress. Designer of

great clothes and writer of books. She has

come a long way for this. She knows about

herbs. She can cook. She lives in the 70s and

has no husband. She writes in her journal.

She gets in the car and says I am ready. She

shows him the designs. Yes, she is ready.

She has flowers in her hair, and bellbottoms.

She says let’s go to the city. They will go to

the city. She is getting her first tattoo.

24 Apr 2013, 9:47am
Writing:
by

leave a comment

Unemployment (Reality V)

The breakdowns happen in the broken

buildings. Here is a woman having one. She

doesn’t look good. See her, her lips are so far

apart they might split her whole head open.

Woe is me. Behind her, the water flows

slenderly from a wall. (There is a water

fountain.) Something is trying to break

though. But not breaking through. Her

breasts are not real. There is nothing flowing

from them. Her ankles are wrapped in ice.

The pipes hiss—or try to. There is too much

sadness/adhesive. See her, her feet are

becoming statues.

Remember the Dr. Who episode? Weeping

angels. They are statues that haunt you.

Gargoyle. Wanderlust. Gollum. One of them

might look like a cherub. Another one might

look like your mother. They are all bad.

They come from the shadows and find you,

when you’re not watching. They touch you,

you go back to another place. (In Time.)

You meet your father, and end up killing

him. That’s really bad. You die before you

are even born…. you don’t exist. Who are

you watching? Are you sure that they’re not

watching you?

28 Mar 2013, 6:38pm
Writing:
by

leave a comment

Take Off Your Fucking Dress / Santa Clarita Valley

The sea is arresting. With a pair of hand-

cuffs and a spring jacket. It does no good to

cover it with a wealth of daisies, or put it in

the wilderness with a lab-coat. The sea is too

deep, and huge. It wants you to go back to

Santa Barbara, so get on your bicycle and

head west. In the sunlight, you can still

make Ojai if you hurry. Pick some oranges.

Over there they are still walking. With your

wife, your friend. And there are no barriers.

You enter the tomb and you lie down with

someone. On the roller-coaster at Six Flags.

The paseos really help. It is a long way to go

but you don’t mind it so much. Do you?

Our F— Who Art in Heaven… You come

with me. You can carry a paint-can inside

your pussy, die your insides jet black. We

will walk together. The look I’ve had is still

the East / Coast West / Coast. Still mine to

keep. In the summer. Take the space /

blindfold yourself. Wear a sweater, it doesn’t

matter. The look I’ve had is still. Hollow the

eyelids of your eyes. It doesn’t matter. I

always dream of others. Why are they not

bothering me now? (You bitch, but they are

you.) Where in heaven? Who will you know

there? Apostle? Many many many eyelids

don’t fit. How will I know it’s you?