in the wind,
in the air,
whipping,
swirling,
blowing leaves
in my eyes
in my hair
in my face,
bringing the cool
air of death
and the promise
of future life
friday
poetryeach motion intentionally synced
to induce thoughts of another individual
in a state of near meditation
but more active prayer
hand after hand foot after foot
precision
perfection
years of practice
as it set, the sun
poetryillumined
a tree of buttery
leaves
and something in it
reminded me
of our first
week.
why does it always come back to
poetrygreed and dreams
of land
somewhere
in texas
Thoughts upon visiting the home of my brother-in-law’s supremely rich friend
poetrybeing rich would be nice
because then I could spend
all day everyday
watching my 7
ridiculously large plasmas,
drinking from my private bar
while talking to my
private bar-tender brian
and watching my 7
ridiculously large plasmas,
wandering through the jungle out back
drinking from my private bar
while talking to my
private bar-tender brian
and watching my 7
ridiculously large plasmas,
swimming in the pool
while wandering through the jungle out back
drinking from my private bar
while talking to my
private bar-tender brian
and watching my 7
ridiculously large plasmas,
sexing my wife
swimming in the pool
while wandering through the jungle out back
drinking from my private bar
while talking to my
private bar-tender brian
and watching my 7
ridiculously large plasmas,
and doing naught else
haiku
poetryfreshly cut blades
strewn across the path–
squirrel-dug holes.
All chocked full of fajitas
poetryMmm
mmmmm
mmmmmmm
mmmmmmmmm
mmmmmmmmmmm
I hate disappointing people
poetryit’s bad when it’s my fault
but perhaps it’s worse when
it’s not because then I still
have to take the blame without
getting to enjoy any of the
fun of living only for myself
night. berlin ’99
poetrysilence causing snow falling on
cobble stone empty roads
lined with trees we duck to pass
under the leaves as we walk this
peaceful night
the first time you knew snow
‘i want a flake to land on my eyelash’
you beam as we skip then walk
hoping we wont get where we’re going
passing by a statue of an italian chef
daily specials written in words we cant comprehend
we go inside to watch the air battle the
white bombardment
the ground begging to lose the fight
slowly being buried under blankets of white
walking home its quieter now
only one light on the street as our feet seek
to glide to the crevasses between worn brick
hoping for surer footing
and i know this night is salvation
when you light with joy and begin to cry
‘look look! a flake on my eyelash’
thin skin
poetrywords sever
flesh you’re made
of paper cut outs
ripped up
and dropped down.
Predicament
poetryI really want to go
hunting today
but I don’t want to
call the uncle-in-
law to ask if I can
hunt on his land so
now what to do? what
to do? what to do?
what will I ever do?
hakpoo
poetrydark squares set in white
framed by blue marble tile
holding up my bathroom
out of the matrix and into the wilderness
poetry2 pigs, 4 cows and 12 chickens sacrificed for me to send this message, “I’ve been captured by savages(stop) I do not have access to a computer(stop) Do not send Chuck Norris to the rescue (stop) hope to be back soon(stop)”
wtf
poetrywhat was
it the seer said,
leaving us coughing
fermented dreams?
you aint hard you just pretend
poetrya burden to see the world with such
sand-worn eyes
exterior so smooth from the deserts
muscly winds
parts amputated by the sharp knives
of time
and the sand takes what senses i
have left.
thoughts on darwin?
poetryhenceforth
i move forth
from the froth
of primordial goo
hitherto
i move to
return to earth poo
as i pass through
(don’t) rock the vote
poetryit’s like
a pirate is
forcing me
to walk one
of two planks:
at the bottom
of the first a
shark waits with
gleaming teeth
the taste of blood
already in its mouth
while a leap off
the other would
entail filling the
entrails of a giant
fucking squid.
(perched upon
such a precarious
position, i pray the
pirate will suddenly die
leaving me free
to sail away.)
In response to Mr. Mugs’ recent post concerning the morality of the honored and respected profession of teacherhood
poetryDear Roger Mugs,
The teaching profession
may indeed be evil
but be it hear known
that said profession
is currently paying
me more than i have
ever made before,
which is probably
more of an indictment
of my past jobs
than a qualification
of the profession.
if only for 7-8 hours a day
poetryall day long
i look forward
to the sweeping
encompassing
oblivion
in which
i cease
to exist
to think
to be
on behalf of all things beautiful
poetryi apologize for my existence
i promise to remedy the situation
within the forthcoming 100 years
the sieve and the sand 
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