I see you around, your eyes hooded,
so magnificently bare and desolate,
so like a natural monument of stone.
You would become my makeshift grave on the plains of
Wyoming, your canvas hands enshrouding me;
winter-brown eyes, like iced earth.
I could carve into your frozen chest,
but would only be able to inter my little bones
in the topsoil, your rocky depths unplunged.
13.2.08
p: 02.13.13
jesus
I
Jesus isn't everywhere.
Tonight, he stops in Cleveland,
rents a hotel room with fuck-stained sheets
and falls asleep with the TV on.
In the next room, a paying customer
lays on his back, trying not to think of Charlene
as two hundred dollars worth of girl sucks him dry.
Her crucifix rests lightly on his balls.
II
Jesus isn't everywhere.
He drives past Nebraskan farms stretched lazily in twilight,
barns bleached bone-grey like
pubic hair of the elderly.
Behind one of these buildings, four boys
brutally twist the wings off a sparrow.
In the golden light of setting sun
Jesus weeps behind the wheel.
III
Jesus isn't everywhere.
His truck slides stealthy through Salt Lake;
he is careful not to make
eye contact with anyone.
He is almost recognized in Provo
when he stops for gas. He manages
to convince the man he isn't Jesus --
merely Jewish -- and shuffles away in a hurry.
I
Jesus isn't everywhere.
Tonight, he stops in Cleveland,
rents a hotel room with fuck-stained sheets
and falls asleep with the TV on.
In the next room, a paying customer
lays on his back, trying not to think of Charlene
as two hundred dollars worth of girl sucks him dry.
Her crucifix rests lightly on his balls.
II
Jesus isn't everywhere.
He drives past Nebraskan farms stretched lazily in twilight,
barns bleached bone-grey like
pubic hair of the elderly.
Behind one of these buildings, four boys
brutally twist the wings off a sparrow.
In the golden light of setting sun
Jesus weeps behind the wheel.
III
Jesus isn't everywhere.
His truck slides stealthy through Salt Lake;
he is careful not to make
eye contact with anyone.
He is almost recognized in Provo
when he stops for gas. He manages
to convince the man he isn't Jesus --
merely Jewish -- and shuffles away in a hurry.
p: 02.13.12
the party
slows, so i put on my shoes and
go for a smoke
and watch the round earth stretch open underneath
a field of gray sky
grass doing an impression of rigor mortis
crispy beneath our feet
i'm imitating awkward to those i walk with, i smile
back at the house
heavy bass pierces barriers between rooms
i know that
it's easy to forget that real people have schedules
and aren't tied to the cons of amiable commons
in other words, art students go home
the tired eyes on our hostess cause me to travel
out from the organism machine to the larger one
SCREEEEEEEEAM
as a bus passes and i realize it's the last
frustration that
is brief hope extinguished
the pavement shifts beneath my feet
walk ... maybe?
the drive is far from the horizon lights
the city's electric core
and my one rapunzel room in its network of wires
my scream rouses a quiltwoman
woven with old stories
sewn with snowy hair
she merges from a shop full
of strange ceramic figures
she is a mousey good witch
a practical glinda, but
dark like the early terrain
she stumbles over an "are you ok"
full of questions
laugh!
my desperation thaws to embarrassment
and shucks off like dead skin
she offers me a ride
to close enough to where i'm going
i babble gratitude like a stoned idiot
wait outside with
her big beautiful dog, her camel hump
think he and i could be friends
his tail thumps healthily
slathers me with mucousy slobber
i think he agrees
after clearing her seats and loading up
she steers west, towards home,
towards the city's cement nucleus
as we talk ink works stumble out of my sleeve
cover hands and skin
and the black symbols catch her gray eyes
I pronounce the word writer as archetype
and at the corner of cambie and nelson
after i gush another vigorous thanks
openly middlethawed
she tells me to walk straight, walk home
the rusty doorslam cuts off her last few words
begin to walk vauely towards home
i need to smoke
punctuate, a period of
cigarette in the dark
sing and know what i must look like
gruff half-crazy stumbling
muttering observations to the sidewalk
hazily consider Ginsberg
did he walk two-am lonely
or am i a crusted traveler
with empty headspace behind gravely words
another crazy drifter with tree roots nowhere
pass by a lamp-post
poised impressively in the middle of a parking lot
looks so damn remote
like everything in this city
insomniacs of Vancouver awake
alone
listen to thrum of electric lights
like me
i see streetlights
neon lights
headlights
they recede like most lights
can be turned off
still walking up street
in what seems an endless quest for bed
urge to scream overwhelming enough
to make me gasp like there's holes in my chest
holes that are sore sucking like
broken lips
bloody like humans, if there are any more
wonder how many sleepless would love screaming
at the sky-gray night
to make clouds part so we could at least see stars
stare at atmosphere
even through venetian blinds
slits of cloud reflect only electric light
pound the pavement like it owes me money
viciously impatient
spend it on cigarettes
take a few then give the rest away
man with blue eyes and
weather tattooed face
scowls friendly through bruises
calls himself loki and offers to share a joint
accept and
wait patiently for a
business transaction
meanwhile meet a devil, a short elevator ride
from heaven of 910
can't hallucinate myself an angel at all
later meet an Argentinean
who is awe-eyed idealistic awful
and looks at me green, tells me i'm free
i'm not so sure. i sleep indoors
in a too-nice-place, and not done
anything lately to liberate me
light another cigarette and wave him away
loki tells
he was once jailed for a fire he started
at negative 20 degrees
in a garbage can, perfectly safe
so he wouldn't freeze
get frightened when i hear things like this
i'd believe humans can be rational beings
but i should probably re-think
and do, when i leave
when i pad into the elevator amid more jazz mumbling
look up at myself in the mystery of mirror
and see
slows, so i put on my shoes and
go for a smoke
and watch the round earth stretch open underneath
a field of gray sky
grass doing an impression of rigor mortis
crispy beneath our feet
i'm imitating awkward to those i walk with, i smile
back at the house
heavy bass pierces barriers between rooms
i know that
it's easy to forget that real people have schedules
and aren't tied to the cons of amiable commons
in other words, art students go home
the tired eyes on our hostess cause me to travel
out from the organism machine to the larger one
SCREEEEEEEEAM
as a bus passes and i realize it's the last
frustration that
is brief hope extinguished
the pavement shifts beneath my feet
walk ... maybe?
the drive is far from the horizon lights
the city's electric core
and my one rapunzel room in its network of wires
my scream rouses a quiltwoman
woven with old stories
sewn with snowy hair
she merges from a shop full
of strange ceramic figures
she is a mousey good witch
a practical glinda, but
dark like the early terrain
she stumbles over an "are you ok"
full of questions
laugh!
my desperation thaws to embarrassment
and shucks off like dead skin
she offers me a ride
to close enough to where i'm going
i babble gratitude like a stoned idiot
wait outside with
her big beautiful dog, her camel hump
think he and i could be friends
his tail thumps healthily
slathers me with mucousy slobber
i think he agrees
after clearing her seats and loading up
she steers west, towards home,
towards the city's cement nucleus
as we talk ink works stumble out of my sleeve
cover hands and skin
and the black symbols catch her gray eyes
I pronounce the word writer as archetype
and at the corner of cambie and nelson
after i gush another vigorous thanks
openly middlethawed
she tells me to walk straight, walk home
the rusty doorslam cuts off her last few words
begin to walk vauely towards home
i need to smoke
punctuate, a period of
cigarette in the dark
sing and know what i must look like
gruff half-crazy stumbling
muttering observations to the sidewalk
hazily consider Ginsberg
did he walk two-am lonely
or am i a crusted traveler
with empty headspace behind gravely words
another crazy drifter with tree roots nowhere
pass by a lamp-post
poised impressively in the middle of a parking lot
looks so damn remote
like everything in this city
insomniacs of Vancouver awake
alone
listen to thrum of electric lights
like me
i see streetlights
neon lights
headlights
they recede like most lights
can be turned off
still walking up street
in what seems an endless quest for bed
urge to scream overwhelming enough
to make me gasp like there's holes in my chest
holes that are sore sucking like
broken lips
bloody like humans, if there are any more
wonder how many sleepless would love screaming
at the sky-gray night
to make clouds part so we could at least see stars
stare at atmosphere
even through venetian blinds
slits of cloud reflect only electric light
pound the pavement like it owes me money
viciously impatient
spend it on cigarettes
take a few then give the rest away
man with blue eyes and
weather tattooed face
scowls friendly through bruises
calls himself loki and offers to share a joint
accept and
wait patiently for a
business transaction
meanwhile meet a devil, a short elevator ride
from heaven of 910
can't hallucinate myself an angel at all
later meet an Argentinean
who is awe-eyed idealistic awful
and looks at me green, tells me i'm free
i'm not so sure. i sleep indoors
in a too-nice-place, and not done
anything lately to liberate me
light another cigarette and wave him away
loki tells
he was once jailed for a fire he started
at negative 20 degrees
in a garbage can, perfectly safe
so he wouldn't freeze
get frightened when i hear things like this
i'd believe humans can be rational beings
but i should probably re-think
and do, when i leave
when i pad into the elevator amid more jazz mumbling
look up at myself in the mystery of mirror
and see
p: 02.13.11
summer sabbath
Words rise off the crowd like a stench
Then silence drips from spongy carpeted walls
Prayers scratch at brick ceilings
Melt wings in hot effort
And dull-thud back into the hum of fans
Beads of sweat greedy in the chapel oven
Sleepy eyes sinister
Flesh baking in dreary dreams of hellfire
Tight suits, taut stomachs
Damp polyester dresses in pink prints
Molt-leaden ears lapse in hearing
Restless mewls from winter babies
Rigid mothers rock and fan to cool
Words rise off the crowd like a stench
Then silence drips from spongy carpeted walls
Prayers scratch at brick ceilings
Melt wings in hot effort
And dull-thud back into the hum of fans
Beads of sweat greedy in the chapel oven
Sleepy eyes sinister
Flesh baking in dreary dreams of hellfire
Tight suits, taut stomachs
Damp polyester dresses in pink prints
Molt-leaden ears lapse in hearing
Restless mewls from winter babies
Rigid mothers rock and fan to cool
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