his book, by now
was far too long to be read
in full

no plot was evident
he just kept writing

his hurried fingers
whirring inside of
his pathetic house

tim

There was a story told
about a man who’s hands
turned lead to gold
and what an awful burden it could be

Because, really, you could
never touch anything again.
The guitar does not sound
so sweet so gilded, nor
do trumpets,
nor do saxophones.

How does one eat? Or
sleep on such stiff pillows?
The paper in a photo-album
erased, worth a thousand
dollars to a thousand words.

Someone told me the story
but I can’t remember what it
means. I think, though, that
I’ll keep wishing for heat-vision.
After all, what harm could
that do?

i watch the moon
eclipse–
you sleep somewhere beneath.

bluffage brought roughage
to the cliff ridge

we held hands
and jumped

my words melt you like laser beams.
my rhymes nuke you like nuclear bombs.
my metre rocks you like a boat in waves.
this poem torments you like something
else that torments you.

today i felt myself slowly melt
as i drank a tea worth throwing
and not drinking then threw it
but poorly and nearly broke through
metal as my cake of horror shattered
in pieces and rained down on the
neighbors below red staining
glorious tea.

oh and i worked myself into a hole
yesterday with eight solid hours of nothing
but clicking and copying and pasting
my life into an oblivion (aka 239 footnotes).

but then on inspiration from a book
the library definitely should have had
i sprinted home and mined google books
for sections to quote to fill in the void
and in a burst of brilliance completed
the journey my soul has singularly
(not so much)
pursued for the last six months.

tonight i shall sip wine (for scotch is
celebratory but I lack any in the house at
the moment) and dream grand dreams
of someday graduating from this misery
of a hole i’ve dug myself by enrolling in
higher education. again. and then a third
time. as though i like to poke myself in
the eye with needles.

all of it hoping. praying. someday people
will sit in rows and look to me as authoritative
not because they want to or actually believe it

but because they’re told to.

I was walking down a country lane
to get my guitar tuned again
when I got knocked off my feet by a passing truck

When I hit the ground my guitar neck snapped
So I stood up and figured that was that,
Some other pickers just have all the luck

He was
a melancholic wave
handsome
in a silver-green night
his fingers pressed joy upon
lips and expiring pineapple cans,
imprinting eternity and warmth.
Street lights, shadow worries
and steaming breathes twisted threads
of his existence
only the wind hurled a “hello, I want to hug your bones”

despite the loaded bases,
i’ll throw one more,
checking the first
and the second,
finally the third,
hoping to close it out
and get the save,
but this is the end,
no matter what happens,
and in that freedom,
i’ll wind myself up,
hoping to not let you down.

when the speare no longer needs a shield
i plan to step in and oh how i’ll wield
a pen of greatest portions
denying the smallest doubting notions

I can see the blood
and I know you think
that you’re dying,
and the stagger
that you’ve made
so obvious
through the snow-bank
shows me all the pain
you’re in, but
swear though I’m sure
you must,
I don’t think she ever
cuts to kill.

You speak but
every time you
open your mouth
I can smell the rot
and I can fell you fading
and I get this ache
in the base of my being
and I can not touch you
with these fingers,
I fear your sick will spoil me,
but I wish I could
hold you close and
squeeze the ichor from you.

a couple of cups of oolong
perfectly suit the minutes we prolong

几杯乌龙
配种让长

Holy crap my English inspiration has actually been outpaced. I suppose it was time. This is effing brilliant in Chinese by the way.

should entirely consist
of bad ring tones
repeated endlessly,
ad infinitum,
at least we had the here,
at least we had the now,
to build upon in memory,
and turn into something grand.

For a moment I could bear
to watch the snowflakes
as they drifted past a streetlight,
but too soon the winds
blew me back inside where I
drew the curtains closed to keep
the cold air out, and touched
up the thermostat to just below
a hundred and three
according to the folks
in the other room.

I spent the afternoon counting
the pennies in my jars and
folding t-shirts that won’t
ever come clean after that
last brake job while the snowflakes
collected themselves
in smooth white sheets atop
my walking-path and Pontiac.

If the city has ever been more
gorgeous,I haven’t seen it, but
I’d give it all for a driftless drive
and maybe a snow-drift-free
drive-way, too

my thumb pulls off to show my child
the world is not how we perceive
for when we find the real is mild
our hearts are slow to this receive.

sweet little child it’s you i love
i break your heart to loose your mind
your hand i hold, your arms i hug
and pray the truth you’ll someday find.

triumphant in the night
i am breathless by your
majesty
truly befitting of so
many eyes left wanting

but still
your spine
does arch
with the waves of my
electric touch
masterfully wielded

my name rides particles
into your lungs
as you gasp for air
after years stagnant

and in this
i feel like a beast
and you do too
as i find my hand
on your throat

this rush is like a drug
as the teeth sink in

and i grow wary
to say the least
as the ecstacy
flows through our
veins
of what parts of me
are left in your
memory-foam
mattress-top.

Does their psychosis comfort them?

They wear it like blankets
on a cold winter’s day.

but with so many patches,
it’s a wonder the things stay
together at all.