27 February 2015


The sharp echoes of coughing 
coming from the summer alley
remind me of the illnesses 
of asphalt and oil, 
sand and wind,
dry, hot bones; 
conditions for 
which I have 
never known
a cure.

07 February 2015

Parting site

Here is where we wrought
and chiseled gracelessly,
despite aspirations of
better craftsmanship.

We had our moments—
tenderness fills the joints—
but memorials are not the
softness of their intersections.

Flimsy joys laded
stiff and heavy stone.
How fitting for
those not architects,

but the sons of builders.
Our end—a monument
raised not by design,
razed not by regret.

29 January 2015

wanted - by owner

In pain, please help - $100 (whittier)
in a lot of pain. can someone help

17 January 2015

The last comment left for me

evidence tampering, really a felony. want to know more about evidence tampering. on Archipelago (7/8)
on 4/8/14

10 January 2015

After he

I'm turning
biographical upsets
autobiographical revisions.
It's not working
with my angles.

I'm burning
old receipts
new clothes.
It's a waste
of my resources.

I'm learning
It's increasing
my (self) worth.

I'm earning
my place
It's (not) replacing
my love.

24 September 2014

I don't remember writing this.

Dowels of half-cocked assurances pick up stick through me and open suppurating portholes.  I'm reminded of that high school production of Anything Goes.  Angels blowing.  Lamenting nowadays. Everything jumping away from tune with the exuberance of three thousand eyes on you.  Pancake makeup drying future flowers.

"Sing" everyone tells me.  After an hour on Youtube recording my warbling the advice is lost on me, having been repeated into unfamiliarity.  SING SING SING SING SING SINGING SINGER SING SANG SUNG SINGED.  All it does is make me 17.  And fat.

I'm taking on water.  Rather, I need bailing out—I don't know about the within and without of the moisture.  It feels much more forced and created from thin air than the process of transferring the sea through the barrier of skin.  There's a lot that needs letting out.  This ship is really a few plywood flats painted white and gray.

Yesterday I threw away some rotten tomatoes.  Lucky little tomatoes that got to give up.  Hold on.  Before long I'l have to make sure that dreams weren't involved in this ramble.  And then I'll remember how far away dreams are.  Blown across the world by Gabriel and his paper måché trumpet. Today and twelve years ago to this day.  Two times the presence.

Fragment #1

Who is partying the stories? If you want that question to bear a resemblance to rhetorical, take a whack at it.