WHAT IT IS TELEGRAM
(from one haircut to another)
Dear low hanging fruit whining "Uncle," [STOP]
Make the decision to quit pining, jackass. For surface: anatomy of the shoulder blade or any various muscle to bone tissue therein. Whatever-thread-count-softness, tide rushing in and out lullabies, real silver on a tablecloth. THIS IS FANTASY. ALL OF IT. ALL OF IT. [STOP]
Fly over cracked ice or hibernate. We don't care. Dodging the tirade or not dodging it, but trying, right? To upgrade those glasses to a better focus one minute, a softer one the next. Take it from me, we are all sick of you. [STOP]
Fused? Is that what you said? Nothing to see here, move along. Because, listen, people don't want to see the darkness unless it's being fought. Heroically. [STOP]
Land this: People want to hear the voice crack ONLY if it's not broken. If it's on the edge of breaking momentarily, but really, it's magic. [STOP]
What it is? Scrap-junk-heart-trust. Grow up old woman. We are not thinking of you. We never were.
[STOP] [STOP] [STOP]
Sincerely,
Rust Face [STOP]
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Saturday, October 03, 2009
"Bored with Jupiter" Acrylic on Canvas 30x3010-3-09
finished I think, will take a shot in better light but posting anyway
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Monday, August 03, 2009
(image above wasn't shot by me-but inspired words below)A Swarm of Monarchs in Trees
Would for words as words
Except that the eyes are soft and round
And wood for logic isn’t strong enough
A canopy cannot stay unmoving, unbreathing
Simple is only a concept, not wind life
Guts can’t wrap around shoulds
Madness or beauty or short lived fluttering
Escapes as audible sound
In spite of nonsense
In spite of myself
They are still there in my core
Migrating my insides
Whispering sweet nothings
Laying claim to the spot
Palpable even in stillness
Teasing me away from sleep, food, comfort
To the chaos of the unknown
Away from numb
To blind desire
(One of the human Needs)
Quixotic or no
Masks or no
Cocooned or no
A Swarm of Monarchs in the Trees
Would for words as words
Except that the eyes are soft and round
And wood for logic isn’t strong enough
A canopy cannot stay unmoving, unbreathing
Simple is only a concept, not wind life
Guts can’t wrap around shoulds
Madness or beauty or short lived fluttering
Escapes as audible sound
In spite of nonsense
In spite of myself
They are still there in my core
Migrating my insides
Whispering sweet nothings
Laying claim to the spot
Palpable even in stillness
Teasing me away from sleep, food, comfort
To the chaos of the unknown
Away from numb
To blind desire
(One of the human Needs)
Quixotic or no
Masks or no
Cocooned or no
A Swarm of Monarchs in the Trees
3/26/09
It’s Not Nice To Point
(Born on the 4th of July, 2005)
Oh yeah, Banana Hat?
Click?
Just Click?
Only Click?
No Orders?
No laughing?
Only Click?
Peoria could teach you a thing or two,
Echo Park shadow man.
Didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s not nice to point?
Where is your mom?
You better hope she didn’t see your
Barrel to Slackjaw
Waiting to see what will happen tonight,
Little whippersnapper.
Think you’re fancy in your cornflower blue striped truck?
Surely it’s something American,
Sharing my lungs on this greasy precipice.
A jungle gym of metal on top.
Running me into the bushes of Cerro Gordo,
With your big old headlights.
Or worse.
Think you’re not?
Did she make you
Think you were so invisible
you made me want to be?
Taking my equilibrium for kicks.
Blaming me, cause you’re not really free?
Galatians and Leviticus can stick it.
A minute ago I was watching Mother Earth walk it off
In her hip moo-moo.
I was watching her absent minded professor
Circle her like a greyhound.
A minute ago I was puffing up this fatty hill,
Alive with sweat.
Thinking about how smokey this night is.
Red wine in my hand,
Watching the fireworks,
Listening to the dogs,
Watching the sun go down.
Now I’m wondering if I’m wet with blood, but can’t feel it.
If I’m dead, but don’t know it.
Because you wanted to dance, but didn’t ask.
It’s only a perfect night to kill a stranger,
Because your mom didn’t teach you any manners.
8/5/05
(Born on the 4th of July, 2005)
Oh yeah, Banana Hat?
Click?
Just Click?
Only Click?
No Orders?
No laughing?
Only Click?
Peoria could teach you a thing or two,
Echo Park shadow man.
Didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s not nice to point?
Where is your mom?
You better hope she didn’t see your
Barrel to Slackjaw
Waiting to see what will happen tonight,
Little whippersnapper.
Think you’re fancy in your cornflower blue striped truck?
Surely it’s something American,
Sharing my lungs on this greasy precipice.
A jungle gym of metal on top.
Running me into the bushes of Cerro Gordo,
With your big old headlights.
Or worse.
Think you’re not?
Did she make you
Think you were so invisible
you made me want to be?
Taking my equilibrium for kicks.
Blaming me, cause you’re not really free?
Galatians and Leviticus can stick it.
A minute ago I was watching Mother Earth walk it off
In her hip moo-moo.
I was watching her absent minded professor
Circle her like a greyhound.
A minute ago I was puffing up this fatty hill,
Alive with sweat.
Thinking about how smokey this night is.
Red wine in my hand,
Watching the fireworks,
Listening to the dogs,
Watching the sun go down.
Now I’m wondering if I’m wet with blood, but can’t feel it.
If I’m dead, but don’t know it.
Because you wanted to dance, but didn’t ask.
It’s only a perfect night to kill a stranger,
Because your mom didn’t teach you any manners.
8/5/05
CRAZY LADY
Crazy lady in the middle of the road, on a school night.
It’s late. I’m tired. And sleepy. And weary.
When my aunt Jolie would stop for triscuits.
My way is the loud BBC stage of night driving-
People are killing each other. It’s a terrible terrible world.
This floaty, chicken lady. big eyes, crochet hat and glasses.
White, thin, helpless looking.
But crazed, definitely crazed.
Did she drop something? A sweater?
“What do you want to do-?
Cross or don’t cross-
Make up your fucking mind-
I don’t want to run you over for christsakes.”
Am I being tricked?
If I slow down will her bandit friends jump out and tackle my car?
Does she have a gun?
Does she have superhuman crystal meth strength?
Does she want money for the bus?
A lost witchy hitchhiker maybe.
Her mouth makes a big “Help Me.”
Is she hurt?
Am I the asshole who leaves a raped and beaten woman wandering the middle of the road because I’m afraid she will hurt me?
Ok Universe, if I pull over and lock my car when I get out I am stupid.
But, if I move real slow and she moves real slow…
If I die before I wake, make sure David knows I love him.
Let him find some poem I wrote years ago describing his touch and laugh and love.
I should have time to write this shit now- while I’m making this decision.
“Are you ok?”
“There is a cat in the street. I’ve seen him around and he’s beautiful and now he’s in the street and I don’t know what to do. People drive too fast here. He’s still warm and there’s blood and I just got my nails done.”
“You can do this with me,” I tell her.
“It’s so sad. So sad,” she says.
I do not think about Spook, the beautiful cat we buried in the yard as a kid.
“I don’t have any pets,“ I say.
There are boxes in the market dumpster.
I have plastic bags in my trunk
We don’t go door to door looking for the owner.
“How long before you think he will stink?” she asks.
“Not long I think. Not long.”
The cat’s in the bag.
So she takes him home with her.
Like a good neighbor.
A stranger.
May 2006
Crazy lady in the middle of the road, on a school night.
It’s late. I’m tired. And sleepy. And weary.
When my aunt Jolie would stop for triscuits.
My way is the loud BBC stage of night driving-
People are killing each other. It’s a terrible terrible world.
This floaty, chicken lady. big eyes, crochet hat and glasses.
White, thin, helpless looking.
But crazed, definitely crazed.
Did she drop something? A sweater?
“What do you want to do-?
Cross or don’t cross-
Make up your fucking mind-
I don’t want to run you over for christsakes.”
Am I being tricked?
If I slow down will her bandit friends jump out and tackle my car?
Does she have a gun?
Does she have superhuman crystal meth strength?
Does she want money for the bus?
A lost witchy hitchhiker maybe.
Her mouth makes a big “Help Me.”
Is she hurt?
Am I the asshole who leaves a raped and beaten woman wandering the middle of the road because I’m afraid she will hurt me?
Ok Universe, if I pull over and lock my car when I get out I am stupid.
But, if I move real slow and she moves real slow…
If I die before I wake, make sure David knows I love him.
Let him find some poem I wrote years ago describing his touch and laugh and love.
I should have time to write this shit now- while I’m making this decision.
“Are you ok?”
“There is a cat in the street. I’ve seen him around and he’s beautiful and now he’s in the street and I don’t know what to do. People drive too fast here. He’s still warm and there’s blood and I just got my nails done.”
“You can do this with me,” I tell her.
“It’s so sad. So sad,” she says.
I do not think about Spook, the beautiful cat we buried in the yard as a kid.
“I don’t have any pets,“ I say.
There are boxes in the market dumpster.
I have plastic bags in my trunk
We don’t go door to door looking for the owner.
“How long before you think he will stink?” she asks.
“Not long I think. Not long.”
The cat’s in the bag.
So she takes him home with her.
Like a good neighbor.
A stranger.
May 2006
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