August 21, 2014
"Sadness made one “interesting.” It was a mark of refinement, of sensibility, to be sad. That is, to be powerless… Sadness and tuberculosis became synonymous… But it takes a sensitive person to feel such sadness or, by implication, to contract tuberculosis. The myth of TB constitutes the next-to-last episode in the long career of the ancient idea of melancholy — which was the artist’s disease, according t the theory of the four humors. The melancholy character — or the tubercular — was a superior one: sensitive, creative, a being apart."

— Susan Sontag, Illness as Metaphor (1979)

August 9, 2014

I realize that you think I need

to stop running from my problems,

but doctor maybe some context

might be helpful here.

some days momma use to make

dad two waffles in the morning

and leave the room.

she’d return after he’d eaten one

and whisper in his ear,

one of them was poisoned,

don’t know which one, though,

sorry, wasn’t watching,

good luck.

August 8, 2014
"My point is not that everything is bad, but that everything is dangerous… If everything is dangerous, then we always have something to do."

Michel Foucault, “On the Genealogy of Ethics: An Overview of Work in Progress

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August 8, 2014

you are the mean, blanched presence

of a glass diaspora beneath the oven,

a cup displaced by careless fingers

that I can probably just clean up later.


you are the cool, milky silence

upon the arrival of food in a diner, because

I definitely told them no ketchup but,

I mean like whatever, I’ll just eat it.


you are the moment of pause and contemplation

upon sitting down to urinate, before thinking

well, I guess since I’m already here

I may as well stick around to take a shit too

August 7, 2014

goons is goons, commie, I see

acclaim in poolhall agitprop, lauding

judo room pamphleteering, & I feel ya!

you’re fishing for green cops, sifting

for strong arms, building an army.

but goons is goons, commie,

and flags is flags;

where stepping stones are whirlpools

we chess some hegelia interruptus,

we statecraft an undying liminal.

goons is goons because red tape

is red, ‘cause nooses is

thread, ‘cause trotskies

is dead.

August 6, 2014

some days emergence is just economics
some days my silence was already there.
tonight’s socratics were wan bitter tonics
sipped to subdue a more honest conveyer.
our lives in a van in a lot by the ocean
all knotted in textbooks and systems and math,
we spoke of our minds but not of devotion,
no words of the floods that muddied our path.
keep your hand dry keep it in your pocket
keep yourself calm in the shade of a curve,
three months a mansion if you dare to clock it
three months a goblin sustaining reverb.

August 5, 2014

feed the grubs some consonants

& transcribe the pulitzers,

what punch in young babylon!

what juice in the spoken wrong!

I rode the sloop of degenerative grammar,

now aphasia’s my sole sense of meter,

don’t go there,

but those twizzletots, they’ve got the

butt butter fer yer baby blubber,

watchem squeal at my at my

doan need 2 biya frayed

gazin pon bold books

with the larval mes:

he’s so asighted

to run & write a pome

like an apricot peach or plum.

August 4, 2014

those teenaged shepherds, hearts of valley,

their swiss blades in saguaro pulp,

did they fear their love forgotten?

Your minds did meet in arborglyphs,

bibliographies of xylem,

cause snitching to trees ain’t snitching.

When our worlds were rich and igneous

we’d etch five-oh in granite pines,

their mangled halls spoke freedom songs.

I’m still an optimist, you know,

I’m no jeremiad for lisping

this too shall rot, this bark regrown,

this sawtooth gnaw, this timber scorch;

there’s triumph in buying time,

in pilfered moments wrenched from

the jealous fathers and the cavalries.

August 3, 2014
Literally a poem about testicles

never any poems for the
fruit beneath the glans
like an old cat’s heaving brillo,
always the wrong avocado,
always the cartoon bullseye.
I want to rehabilitate youth’s
soapy bathtub gonzo eyes,
I want you to supersede the phallus,
like tear ducts in a concert hall.
no one knows you are kinetic
twisting in thermic silence
like a gamete lava lamp,
no one knows the smack of almonds
when they’re thirsting for the sea.

August 2, 2014

I’m stewing for the horse latitudes
my warm westerlies and rancor,
I’m foot fauna in the hotel lobby
thumb drumming in papaya musk,
I’m shrugging off sadleaves and
swearing thru cassava chew, miga,
I’m mostly racing home to see yr
roots before you bleach again.
Travel’s a hug when you live on a sphere.
The jet’s a transpacific squid
and my good hand’s on the ferrel cell
so get your shoes on!