so i got a new job, and they want me to take a drug test, so i guess i better study, it’s the story problems i have trouble with, like this:
if a teenage drug fiend leaves hollywood heading east doing 105 mph in a stolen lexis, and another degenerate wack-job burner leaves new york city hitchhiking west with warrants for possession and criminal trespass, how much meth will they smoke when they meet up in colorado springs?
i think the answer is d) a shit-load
the song below has nothing to do with the thingamagig above, it’s just one of my all-time favorite jeff beck tunes… enjoy
hello friends, back from fishing, and started a new job this week, so i’ve had my hands full, and feeling a little spent. but i’m coming to read everybody’s new poems tonight and tomorrow night. sorry for the delay. also, my poem “seven dogs” was published in “edge of humanity” the link is below if you like
maybe it's snowing it tokyo
maybe it's snowing in omaha
and maybe there’s a shortcut tunnel between the two
an easy commute
thru the center of the earth
an inter-dimensional breezeway of the soul
a straightaway that stays true
and there you are
side-stepping two blizzards
the long hallway is filled with portraits of dead uncles
and other gorgeous goons who stare at you
admiring at your shoes
antique tables with antique candles and
chihuahua zinnias in chinese vases
the floor is covered in zebra skin rugs
zebras sold separately
there’s a gift shop
that sells postcards of all your favorite memories
(sunshine, razorblade skyline, sunburnt faces
eskimo pies melting on a playground)
nine for a dollar
there’s a waiting room
recently repainted and waiting to dry
so you have to wait to wait in it
that’s ok cause
there’s a dumbwaiter that delivers old world newspapers
printed on new paper
made from reclaimed lumber
but the same old news as yesterday
there’s a gallery where you are on display
where you stick your head into a cage and talk like a parrot
(squawk! like a parrot! squawk!)
but then something feels wrong
something feels sick, oh
no, you say
where am i?
this is not a dusty old museum, it’s a mausoleum
it’s a warehouse full of funhouse mirrors
center of your soul
dead center of gravity
where momentum goes to die
it’s a prison
you run and run but go nowhere
and the more you run the more nowhere you go
you try to leave but the doors are just painted on
you try to sleep it off but wake up three hours before you slept
and have to start over
you rage at the walls
in fast forward and super slow-mo simultaneously
feeling like a poet who swore an oath of silence
wears a black beret and striped shirt
pulling a rope of pure hope
catatonic
catastrophic
chthonic
symbol of the dead
and your skin feels cerulean and your breath is feathery
and your mind feels glassy and your heart starts to foam
and you don’t want to search for yourself inside yourself anymore
cause a hole inside a hole is dangerous and ugly and unholy
and it’s still snowing in tokyo
still snowing in omaha
and probably six foot deep and blowing sideways in rome
and there’s a banjo in your pocket
but you don’t know how to play it
note: i think i should get credit for using the word “mime” even though i didn’t use it… i mimed it =) just kidding.
jalopy dreams 