the weight of distant sound(3.18.8)

sitting on your stoop smoking a cigarette at 5:30 in the morning and the sun peaking over and starting to block out the orange of th pen. in all our inexperience we had a lifetime in a night or as I'd rather think, we gave the night life.
mud puddle humble in a choir of buzzing street lights. both talk vonnegutt sounds of rain. rent a tent rent a tent rent a tent. we stomp the park and laugh at the slurping and squishing sounds that four soaked all stars make in the grass. like angels farting or some other heavenly bowel movement.
and at your home, the living room is silent. littered with broken toys.
you take me to your room.
we lay together. we are both soaked from rain and you are shivering from the AC blowing hard. turn it off. lay back down. your hands are cold but i let you anyway. you nuzzle your nose in my neck and rub my chest. i can smell you, your hair, it's beautiful. not a moment you tell me we smell like wet dog.
the only time i have ever been enthralled and not felt entrapped.
you jump up and spray some foofoo shit on me and then put on the fugees. the score.
kick both our black back packs to the door and come back to me with soft hands like bringing me to life. they are warm this time. if only to death these hands would carry me then it would not be so scary.
with your toes try to take off my chucks and it ain't gonna happen. they are soaked. double knot low top. i chuckle to myself a bit. tied up in you and your wit. sharp tongued.

all regrets are a credible threat(12.4.7)

One by one you throw stones into me attempt to undermine and diluting me
Forget those thoughts you're selling me and the love you withheld from me
And I need me right now and I can't just tell you how much closer we've become
At any rate it's under rated and the only thing I regret waiting for it

But all regrets are a credible threat

the truth and other lies

I am a vile man
slanted and treacherous
no lipsticks limericks
nettled and molesting

I am a lying man
you are no soft skin
meat and flesh
fuck dream item

I am a fighting man
eyes tight scowling
not correct
whiskey right

kid

23 millers 8 vicodin the next one couldn't get it done later you hit my pager. you know where i am at. i'm stumbling over to you. i mumble and trip and talk shit on my way past the car wash. the stench of chinese restaurant trash bins i ponder crawling in. your bed again. late at night. wrestle with the back pack straps. filled with blue pills. bottles. white pills. and novels. and bottles. you call me on the pills and the bottles. you tell me i'm bad, and i tell you you're good. you tell me i'm bright, and i turn out the light. we talk about the novels. have you read that. you should. have you read that. it's good. you whisper to me whitman. you whisper to me frost. the hotness of your breathe. more noticed. the street lamp blast. showing me the curves of your body. above me. your hips. your lips. your stomach and breast. the orange from the penitentiary lights attempt to dull your features. yes i'm listening. kiss the the neck. hand in your back. now why you shaking. still got your drawers in my pack. the last time you laid me. you finish like you began. legs shaking. i think this building will collapse. a kiss. and i awake. grab the pack.

words.

stealing strife from the mouth of thieves is not so cumbersome as the addicts edict suggest

i will do violence

sat up on the bed naked smoking and curious at the peace in your posture. the love making tender. authentic. real. the whispers. the secrets. the airiness wanes. the atmosphere thickens. slow and deliberate breaths. and i tense. the thoughts come, as they often do. of what i would do to anyone who touched tried to corrupt or disturb this nest. the violence ferociousness and tenderness of the thoughts make me lean forward. the muscles tensing, preparing. the memory in muscles, forearm tense and straighten the fist first two knuckles placed. straight. and a sigh brings me back from this place. you shuffle you legs. feel your weight move across as you adjust. i slide down. face in your hair. i will do violence for you.

whiskey sonnet #730: fer all that ails ya

i keep an army off doctors on staff to tend to any emergency that may arise. sniffling coughing bitching bleeding broken bruise burnt or infected.....we have a cure
i keep an army of soldiers at the ready to respond at moments notice to any perceived slight. whisper glance passing bump shrug smug or just ugly...ready at your command

and in the moments i need to summon these sacred concubines, my hither elixir
the glass hits the wood and both in deep rasp reply
"WHISKEY, you sum bitch, WHISKEY"

Pieces of Spain

Never to have a love born of fate those trinkets and dried flowers are warm pulsing soul daggers piercing armor I did not know I had. Eyes wide open and then the sweet release like the first time, it was. For now and ever it will never happen and now is not the time or whatever the case may be I still remember and take that with me. Hold close the idea, the tenderness. Tenderness, the name of the painting that is on my wall, the name of the idea painted on the walls of my heart.

I had never really thought about it before that time but you awoke that within me. You painted these walls with soft young hands and caressing out the midnight. So now I go forth knowing that it is real and not make believe, it exist. A soil I thought so far away, yet I have touched it, felt it, feel it. Pieces of Spain.

operation

removed the rest and now have concrete left chest. no chance now for heart trouble.

bouncing

bouncing blank checks off your headrest wondering when they come back returned for insuffiecient funds or fondness. i just want to lean back a couple of weeks and know now, to travel the saturn.

want me to drive?

WANT ME TO DRIVE?!

but don't worry now I just flipped it up and out of sight like mirrors in visors. it works better because I was sick of looking at me anyway. pull down black, hoodie up and sunglasses, maybe we can break the silence with a laugh.

besos is kisses

she loves a bath until the water get cold and then starts over. she toddles and swings with glee at any given moment to some song or something make believe in her head. tells me stories about monsters and appearantly I am a carebear. She is my monkey and will tell anyone who will listen. Today she asked me what rainbows taste like. I told her they must be delicious. She said I was a rainbow.

She will run and sit in your lap and read you a story, or just pull one out of thin air. She is kind to animals of the stuffed variety as she makes sure each is under the blanket and is warm...all 3000 of them. Root beer float is now a food group or at least an important part of the existing. She likes to say, "that's hilarious" and her Knock Knock jokes have no rival.

She ask me to be there when she sleeps. Though she takes half the bed at 3'3" and the entire thing if you count the tossing. She will kick off all the blankets and then crawl in my shirt to get warm.

I am so in love with her.

Black eyed bimbos and half erect winos travel these mean streets of southeast. i lock the car and check it three times and walk away and then go half a block and walk back and check it again. That toothless grin he gets when he washes my windows with his cum rage. What the hell is that blue fluid?

I don't know, but at that moment I realize there is hope for us all.

I put up the flag on the mailbox and send out letters to gods. I make collect calls pleading for a connection. I smile but I have forgotten when it is right. I laugh at the wrong jokes. At the wrong time. Or at the smiles. I begin to forget what order and what timing to use. My social cues askew. Awkward and evident festering questions of relevance. Weighted silence wait. Please wait. Insert a gesture and pray it's correct. a grimace a grin. all masking confusion. the role to play. be played. what is the context. the personality. the unease. the letters sent.

romp bastards

scream at the natives drive wild engine growls
down back country road changing hands
left to right, right to left
slug 40oz and smoke, smoke and slug
many a curse and coarse word
not a slander was brandished
Al Capone, sex, muscle, and drunk
slug, smoke, left just ahead
throttle down and fire a warning shot
they are here
they are armed

Little Mother Fucker

When I was young, little mother fucker, all I had to worry about was getting caught. Sometimes that was the game, not actually having done anything, we would just go out and lure the police. 12 years old, little mother fucker, walking around some tiny shit fuck town, looking for the cops, walk into the street to be sure they could see...and just run, and they followed, they always followed. They always chased that little mother fucker, they never caught him though.

corralled

wake and cuss, groan and curse, kick a the hammer on the tool belt crawling out of bed, start the coffee piss and knock out the front door, dew on the pasture glistens like piss in my eye, long good bye to good long nights, 5am fuck off farewell to you kind friend. gulp a pot and shit black coffee, fuck, probably taste better going out, enter again to my dwelling, kick some cans over push shit out of the way grab yesterdays paper turn on the radio and listen to piss ant politicians and shit bag journalist create the same mistakes and ponder which side i am on for a moment, ready, fucking day, here i am

the audacity of existence

     My Great Uncle Wayne, my fathers uncle, my grandfathers brother, wrote once, "...it is seldom that a man truly has time, to sit, and contemplate himself..." These words, from a working man, like every man in my family, have continued to inspire hope and dilemma since I first read them the day I first heard "Taps" played and we placed his body in the dirt.
      Does the laborer above all hold the greatest philosophy in that the task to be completed in a day make him the master of the day? His hands are his tools, and with his tools he is master of movable and touchable things. Intelligent less than innovative, these are the men that led us from caves. Or does he toil and torment without reason, because that is his chore, so that others may have their way, and move freely in lives of gratification without instance?

por ahi

looking through your photos

you carry your beauty without knowing

the wages of stress and the world feather your features lightly

your gentle shoulders ever inviting

been a long time since that drive and the hot summer

the smell of redwoods and camping carebears

caress in sweet showers

your bare leg on mine in the morning

in cool sheets 

picnics at rivers with no name

2008 random back pack

it's tuesday at 2am and it's too late
to tell her
that heart aches are hurried
by hollowed love and affection
withheld
from a lover or stranger
no matter what
ends in tears
began a sigh
or a gesture
philosophies rendered
in lecture
our fictions
our volumes
of tomes burned
for different prospects
perception
or
a change in the diction
every word a
hurst proceeding
flowery verse
fractured by intent
or probably worse

sex

whisper to me slowly
with gentle demands
and subtle instructions
movement and stillness
nuzzle your neck
muzzled erect
carpet
in the dining room

no child left behind

save america

fuck a teacher

for the record

like some dirty trouser mind explosion
i cover my shame
awake
you rise from me erect
statuesque
brick broken cold
shit upon
for the record

hope broken

I feel like I have climbed this mountain. I have scaled these cliffs and fallen on some long sought shore. Ocean of wisdom. Tides tugging heart strings. Naked moon bathing. Beautiful love and life all around.

I am lost I think.

Laying in a coffins lined with pink slips and canceled rent checks. Fuck off letters from lost friends. Eviction letters on christmas. All the long lost loves of my life attend. Half bathed in spit and half bathed in lipstick but still clenched fist and no last wish only wishes for kisses never meant for me...and they stand and applaud.

Forgotten.

Angels breath on my neck and sunday mornings. Breakfast all day and pj's. Enthusiastic loafing. Making love potions with glances. Making the most out of chances and consumed in the passion...and it will be all this until the last breath

Home.

Pissed off and hurting cursing spitting at me. Heart broke and stoked about it. Songs I would never sing. Places never been. Fisrt times I have never seen. Broken glass in picture frames of me. Mom and Dad I am sorry.

The Love.

Perfect sunsets. Warm wind at my back and your timing. Hands ease. Too many cigarettes and black coffee. Tacos wagons and liquor stores. Pool tables. Gingerbread men. ABC's. Knowing the moment. It happened.

No hope lost or found.

Disasters distraction. Who will buy the flowers. Who will pay the mortgage. The Daughters are homeless. Less fed. Lay out feast on death beds. Welfare checks and bad deeds. Dad fled. Unmade beds and hopeless but he still leaves.

Lost topics.

Warm rains in August. Neck kisses. Your smell. Heartbeat. I will never leave.

ode to a toaster

The relationship is simple. Utility and function. Our needs are met and the timing is perfect. If only every love could be yours. The beauty of the simplicity.

I love you.

past to port

You come home strong sailed and black mast and I am humbled, I admire your strength and that you are genuine. I stand back as you take deck and display for all to see who this Captain is, they know who runs this. I will step off this ship. In your path lay warm grass, warped glassed and ash, ground beaten down and soaked in warm blood. Black palms overshadow this paridise I am searching and their long shadows grow the longer I search into the sunset of our lives. I have grown old of our long days at sea and the longing for home I could not discribe or no longer know. Yet frightened and fickle I crawl on this shore thinking, "stones unturned." Trying to remember back from birth if this mother birthed me or if I am just a lost soul belched from this sea, so deep, a bastard child from the broken heart of logic. Unknown depths and secret monsters, ebb and flow slowly eroding all your white sand beaches. A sunken treasure resurrected, washed ashore. I snap to and feel the sand beneath washing away the dreams from under my feet. No land, no solidity. and this was all a dream, no safe port onward the sea

Plato's Dream

"...it is true that you have given this last animal what you call reason; but in all conscience, that reason of his is too ridiculous and comes too close to madness. Moreover it appears to me that you set no great store by that great two-footed animal, since you have given him so many enemies and so little defence, so many maladies and so few remedies, so many passions and so little wisdom."

as spoken to Demogorgon, creater of Earth in "Platos Dream"[1756]

-Voltaire 

life just isn't fair...

...and you want to know why? I don't know. I am more concerned right now that the Korean owned store around the corner sells 36 inch swords but there are no black pajamas to be found in this store, and they have EVERYTHING! All I want is a 36 inch sword and some black pajamas to go with my 40oz so that I can drink my self to ninja...

whiskey sonnet #731: a gentlemens affair

enjoying a fine whiskey is like enjoying any fine thing
it's fine, so long as you enjoy it

there are few rules that must be observed
first. when drinking a shit biscuit whiskey,
drink that shit cold as can be and drink it fast
doing this will ensure that you can do anything to avoid the full flavor of the whiskey
and the unsolicited images of poorly paid barrel matrons alone on a ranch with Mr. Ed

when imbibing a more precious horror of the soul
be polite
take your drink as it is served.
neat, rocks, water, warm, cold
refusing or criticizing a given drink will immediately expose you
Saddam, Osama, El Diablo or Obama
this is not the desired outcome
only Fascist, CEO's and punch drunk lovers drink whiskey
don't get yourself confused with these other malcontents

when serving such rye, they must gulp it freely
like some Roman bath
drink it in
suckle on me

clever

the clever people climb downstream like
white fish
through the blue water,
past the rapids,
the clever people
with their clever throats and eyebrows,
their clever nostril hairs,
both shoes laced,
all dooms erased,
teeth white,
the clever people slide cleanly,
even their deaths are one-tenth deaths,
clever clever clever
they have better walls,
better cars,
a better way to laugh.
ever their nightmares are ringed with
tinsel,
these clever ones,
they sit across from you,
whitely smiling,
full of it,
even the the hair on their head
glints cleanly.
how long have I lived and looked
upon them.
do you know what death really is?
it's one of these clever
cocksuckers
shaking your hand and
embracing
you.
you know what death really
is?
come see me
as I slip the Gold Card
to the waiter
while
disliking
you. or
worse.

-Charles Bukowski

97801

home from the long road.

still.

scent. 

of your body still lingers. 

lay with you again tonight.

wash you off in the morning

mangle sentences in slurry sleep 

a laugh now and then

full speed

reverse 

come in

let's begin

     In an attempt to maintain my sanity without going full on Luddite on people this I hope shall become my mumble and murmur in place of what has become an dependence on social media. The lines are blurred and worn thin, as am I, from the constant interaction and maintenance of relationships made more complex by constant interaction and attempts to interpret intimacy through 150 characters or less. It's a farce to think that with the click of a button a person is immediately enshrined within some circle of me regardless of context, content or contact. With the absence of real contact comes confusion, and I am tired of trying to read peoples dreams.
 
  So now I return to my books, I have returned to my writing and have the rough outline of "Zen in the Art of Dishwashing" under construction. Plucking away on a broke neck, cracked nuts 5 string guitar making the dogs howl and wearing the vinyl thin. A more intimate conversation is necessary. and so we proceed. let's begin



"Gates is saying, 'Hey, don't worry about making your soul grow. I'll sell you a program and, instead, let your computer grow year after year after year...'-cheating people out of the experience of becoming."

-Kurt Vonnegut on computers, from "like shaking hands with god"