Contact me
Some people watch TV from daylight
Into the small hours of the night.
Others count coffee spoons.
My roommate wanders around
Looking for someone who will listen
To her diatribe on boredom.
Usually that's me.
Jessica doesn't get bored--
She always has me to ridicule,
For I'm not the proper lady...
I won't sit and gawk over Vogue.
The neighbor must be bored as well--
She'll put on her music,
But the screams of her masturbation are hard to cover.
Speaking of music, across the way
They dance to shake the floor.
Even the dog has a boredom routine
Tearing styrofoam apart.
My Plans
Hemitite coffin
Bunched home dried fire-roses
Doused by sea blue silk.
To make a milkshake really is a cosmic undertaking.
Spoon the Phish Food ice cream into the waxpaper cafeteria cup.
Milk next, slowly, like lava flowing.
As paths are cut around boulders of chocolate, the lava's velocity increases
Filling the valleys and ghettos and the miniature Pompeii of nuts.
Once everything is dead, gyrate the mixture slowly.
Mountains crack into sand, as calcium and de-evolution slide down your sore throat.
Blue Debauchery
When everyone else is thinking passion is red,
I'm thinking passion is blue.
It's a calm ocean that slides over you
oscillating as the tide comes in--
wetting your body with salty water.
Blue is the shade everything turns
when the tide rolls out and leaves you laconic
covered in evaporating sweat like a seal
sunning itself on the rocks after emerging from the water.
Even our tongues tastes your blueness...the left-over sweet
taste that rained into your mouth as you tried to breath under the wave
of the sea blue salt water.
The child that you promised never to forget got forgotten.
Climbing trees and biking so fast that any unevenness in the pavement
sends you flying for an instant that seems like eternity.
And now, after college, that Huffy is a dark-hour rememberance, haunting till you have
the courage to fly again in the rag-top highest horsepower car you can find.
If you'd found that child, you'd have walked away.
Instead, you return, in that instant of being off--and on the ground,
Realizing you're too tired to fly.
Lunge
The left hand over the head freezes.
The normally fluid muscles stiffen as the body,
Like a frog's tongue going for a fly, uncoils.
Recoils, the right hand thrusts out
Left foot grounded, as the floating hand snaps down behind.
And like that tongue, draws back to rest.
Multiple Personalities
Here in my hand; my other person--
All the secrets and deceptions.
They feed from the top of my pen like lead from a mechanical pencil,
and get writen down on a college ruled shread of paper
that I fold and place in the drab grey trash can.
It is no longer a trash can;
it holds my other self.
We, the class, wander up to pick people out
so we can slip them on,
like a body suit,
and unveil the purpose of their lives.
Jessica pulls out my carefully folded person,
and as she reads the blue lead writing,
I see her transform into a person she doesn't know...
a person that's me...
And I read as she tried to describe my favorite, and most loathed friend.
You ask me out,
and my disobedient tongue forms the word 'yes.'
Now I have to worry about you and your 'mood swings'--
your sulky walks at two am, and your abstract feelings--
about you trashing my ass to my not-so-friendly friends
when I get around to telling you
to take your cunt-sucking abilities somewhere else.
Proving Darwin Wrong
No one made me promise anything,
So I can go to hell if I want.
Did anyone ever say 'promise not to slit your wrists'?
Can people come back from the dead?
I sleep huddled in a protective shell,
That's been broken.
My confidence withered, but not my pride--
Leaving a masterpiece of a social fuck-up behind.
I should be in a museum, on display.
With a placard:
Here's one who challenged conformity, and failed.
the more fun it is to stand outside wearing thermal underwear
and a large blue ski jacket--barefoot.
That's the best part: placing chilly bare feet down upon the concrete patio,
which surrounds the green algae-ridden pool.
When my most recent U-HAUL lover finds me--she'll pucker up with worry
over my frozen feet and mental instability, but she'll bundle me up
and take me to bed and I'll laugh for cold feet
from a cold night on cold cement are weapons of teasing torture
when huddled under a warm comforter.
Cut
I have been summarily chopped up.
Each little piece of me has been fried seperately
In vegitable oil, then eaten.
My remains are wrapped in foil
And stored for your next meal.
I don't mind though, because it's you,
And, for some reason
My masochistic body craves your mouth in any form.
To Naomi Nye
I don't want to live in a "down" or "up" world.
I like my fits of semi-suicidal hilarity because I chose to delve into the "or,"
The left and right--back and forth.
Simplicity is boring Naomi.
I like my hysterical fits over stupid things
like my Garfield Pez dispenser.
So, Naomi...do you take your Grandfather's advice?
I don't think you do.
Your other poems aren't "down" or "up."
They reside where most of us do--
in the moment where simplicity meets insanity and shakes hands.
What happens when meat becomes vicious?
Does it decide to exact revenge by standing on your plate singing opera?
The acidic lemon juice you spray only helps clarify the voice that's singing
Sentimental Journey two octaves too high, and cruelly off pitch.
It's doing a good job isn't it?
Your desire to drive your metal fork
Into the luscious orange-pink semi-psychedelic meat
Vanished as soon as it moved and stood in protest
Ruptured eardrums are not to be ignored.
That juice is still dripping off the standing slab--
That vicious, not-so-dead-after all animal.
That singing salmon with no compation for your stomach.
View from Wardman Hall at Night
Blue-grey cigarette
smoke curls up into the bright
white halogen porch
light seaking escape from pale
eyes that stare through bangs of pine.
Birthday Cake
No candles lit.
No song--corny as it is.
Daddy watches football,
Cowboys versus Bears.
He's got the remote in one hand
And a beer in the other.
He likes this really wierd kind from Mexico
Something like Dos Equis.
Mommy runs around the house
Trying to find a folder.
She's trying to get to a Girl Scout
Meeting on time.
I think its a leader meeting.
Daddy doesn't want a piece...
Chocolate and beer don't mix,
And I'm interrupting his game.
Mommy will have some when she gets back,
But it's okay if I want to eat some now.
I settle down with a piece
At the cluttered table.
The cake is really good I tell myself.
Mommy said it was homemade
By Mrs. Alphe, our neighbor.
Oceanside Fencers at Night
Silhouettes dance
Against a backdrop
Of Palms and garage lights.
Straight backs and bent legs
Skittering back and forth
Mimicking the fiddler crab's
Movement over the sand.
Fuzzy
My eyes shift around the room at random intervals
Framed by purple fluff that would tickle my nose if I had one.
My white gummy feet protrude from underneath,
And are secured to the helper's monitor.
I am their security after all, so I can't be falling down.
THIS Whittier Warm Fuzzy actually has a job
Peering over cubicals making sure all the students do what they should.
Latch on and drink.
Suck my memories with my blood.
Hot--sweet--sickening--dinner
Gather my strengths and store them for your use.
Discard my hatred for life
You don't care about life.
Cleanse me of my fear of the dusky darkness of night.
For you have not fear of it--
It's your friend.
That's right, drink up--
Erase my memories of myself as I am.
That's good.
I want to be like you--
Immortal.
My eyes are stinging and I can't see--
My teeth hurt and my nose--
I can smell the living things around me
And you beside me, watching me.
There's too much light.
It hurts my eyes, turn it off.
I smell the air and stand up.
And I am hungry.
Teach me where to bite,
And how to play with my food.
She said you liked me,
The end of our verbal sparring
And friendly fights.
You ask about a date,
The ice I was skating on cracked
I was swallowed again.
Your friendship,
A boulder in a river that I clung to
Turned to sand and washed away.
If Guys Bled
If guys bled, they'd have magazines for it. All the pros and cons deliberated upon for each brand down to the milliliter. They'd get all excited when an "upgraded" design came out, and would sit in front of the wide screen TV during half time discussing the best brand and type to use.
If guys bled, they'd compare how much weight they gained, how long it lasted, and how many pads they used, like it was a competition like the size of their dicks. It would be cool, and special, and clean.
I felt it last night
when she placed her head against my back,
resting on the soft blue flannel of my shirt,
as I instructed a friend about swordplay.
I sit a little taller and think that she has given me a gift:
allowed me to feel the protector:
like Lancelot championing his forbidden Queen.
For she is a queen though she denies it
hiding in the mundane--
in the vernacular of today.
It's not about you
It's not about you at all,
and it's not him.
It's leaning against a column
and all my facial muscles
overcome by gravity.
It's shunning Christmas music,
supressed tears.
It's long walks with Lisa,
even longer entries on wet paper,
and mood swings;
It's being tired of smiling to be polite
the smile that drips off my face when I don't care anymore.
letting it slip into a silence of staring at a candy cane and not seeing it at all.
The green clipies come out--left one first.
Then the single-strand braided Celtic knot choker is removed,
Placed on my dresser with the Taz watch and four silver rings.
I step out of the shoes and walk off the socks, shed the jeans like a snake its skin.
Each piece of clothing lies where it's dropped in a straight line leading to the mirror.
I remove the body suit of skin from the neck down, then up.
The next thing to go is the muscle...leaving the skeleton and the organs,
But that doesn't last, the organs are carefully piled into the dingy off white sink,
The heaviest first, but the heart on top.
I take the bones apart carefully and place them in the correct order
To make assembly like those toys with the numbered slots.
To Define
Word (wurd) -s n. 1) a specific combination of marks left by a pen. 2) A set of symbols that stand for an object. 3) Synonyms for other words. 3a) Definitions for even more words. 3b) Able to be paired with others in phrases combined so as to define another word.