Singing in the Rain

the bells & the whistles...all i've got is my sleep, my enemy who knows only the worst parts of me, i'd like to strangle him, i squint my eyes and fire and dance as a flock of dead birds rain down upon me, uplifted from my roots i stab repeatedly at my dead foot (numb), fear of hypnosis, I pluck the feathers from my newly acquired wings to demonstrate that it's only a coverup. i reach down inside of myself to taste myself, but instead I break down and cry, watching each bird dart back into the night sky, i trace their departures, drawing a line, connecting the dots, carving a small cavity into my own torso—wrecked, defunct, ugly and beautiful by all means to me—the flesh is putrid. I cannot take it so i squint my eyes and fire again at the flock of birds above me. I don't know if what I'm doing is right, but the sun's in my heart and I'm ready for love.

Discoteque (and Mr. Sundown)

the heroes and the cyclops shake hands. they not only shake hands but they shake their asses. its a peculiar island hermaphadides island. the way they do things here are quite unlike how they do things in the city of angels as the angels prefer to glide and waltz gently departing the earth. it aint about flying for them for they've already got wings. they prefer to walk and dream and suffer and long like us. but they are not us, the heroes and the cyclops. they dont know how to shake their asses like us. they lack the beats. purple and scrumptious, shapes of teardrops, they thrive in harsher climates like hermphadides island. we harvest the shit out of them and then we shake our asses. long live the union between the heroes and the cyclops in hermphadides island. i pray that the angels will one day catch up to our asses.

I kill myself in my dreams so that I wake burning for life.

If Only I had Remembered Future Greatness

If only I had remembered future greatness, my days will be fluid, time wouldn't tick but spill gracefully onto my plate. I watch the songbirds relive my mornings as I grub on a plate of worms, the record player still spinning softly, my body feels the rhythm of external forces. The walls are tied to my skeletal structure for support and I figure out my own moves that fucks with the universe and the people smile back at me. I take their chips, munching away contentedly—my grimace expands. I realize that some deeds can't be undone and some songbirds do not ever remember their songs. I tug at my umbilical cord questioning if I'm ready for all this.

Odd Ideas

I will become a better me, I will be kinder, I will listen and I will talk less, I will do whatever they do to be liked, the wolf thought. He wondered how it felt to be liked, to be approached by the raccoon or the otter and to be asked, how his day was going. And the wolf thought, maybe, just maybe, if I care about them, if I have enough interest in them, if I were to ask the raccoon how his day was going (to pose such a question!) that that creature can experience that great feeling. (Maybe it wasn't only about the wolf...)

In a Glass of Ale

In a glass of ale,

my misery, sanity, asshole personalities, insecurities, faces, voices, life and its ridiculous details exaggerate the drama of day.

In a glass of ale,

All the shit I'd said

float lifelessly in a circular conundrum.

My anguish relaxes casually on foam.

In a glass of ale,

I am, for once, just me.

No more and no less.

Sadder Days

As I write in the children's section of the Pasadena City Library, the weight of their world presses against mine, introducing a desired levity. I discover we are alike and together we travel so that the odd ideas of society do not silence the whisperings in our hearts.

The Face: A Short Love Story

The loveboat arrives to pick out the lovers off the face of the earth. The tear the eye on the face of the earth sets free is the precise thrust required to push them forth. Everything else is onward.

Blossom (Caribou)

My body

my soul is the sea

endless

birds

float

above me

roll over

see myself walking

with fear

look down again

realizing

it isn't my reality

a bird

falls

on the floor

and i'm really

really

confused

roast bird for supper

jug of wine

feeling spectacular

take a dip

inside the ocean

a shooting star

a cosmic knife

drifting aimlessly

leaping carelessly

living lovably

listening wildly

the soothing swelling of the sea

i am a savage caw

my body

my soul is the sea

endless

birds

float

above me.

When I Think of Rainbows

I hand her my hand, my throbbing little heart, my soul and my life, I look at her as a beggar would—gimme love, gimme touch, gimme warmth, gimme purpose—and I pluck out my eyeballs, I sip my coffee and I look (just look without any touching) at the crows outside her window. And my feet are cold, but I know she will not warm them, so I smile, and my time is slow. It ceases and I reach out to break the toes off my feet. (It is winter). Mr Snowman. Snowflakes. And I think evil thoughts like sunlight and I want to kill him. My feet hurt. My body hurts. I look away from the window.

The Search for Atonement

II. The Art of Rejuvenation

The last thing I did before going to the toilet was cut off my dick and stick a banana in my anus. Experiencing the most excruciating pain I vomited all over the mirror before reaching the toilet. The colorful vomit was like a drawing I did of myself in kindergarten—so innocent and pure.

I. Insomnia

I woke up at three in the morning depressed, wrote a poem, lit a candle, took a leak, shaved, smoked a few cigarettes and laid down and stared recklessly into oblivion.

Drab Words

Drab words dribble down my mouth like driblets onto paper into indelible thoughts and as they fall I become my own deity.

Drab words:

A housefly hums middle octave, key of F.

Race is the canvas of impression.

A heliotrope turns toward the sun.

Formal is normal.

Deepest

Go deep, fuck, lose, converge, purge, break, sweat tears rich with love, burn mother fucker burn, climb mother fucker climb, span the entire mountain range, cut the mountaintop if it doesn't please you, cut your throat, sing songs, burn, shed tears of joy, burn, rise, ember, speak your mind, slice your heart, make a wish, smile and fade out.

O Captain! My Captain!

Every day is an adventure—it's your story. The day unfolds how you see fit. It does this because you are the writer—you are bold, you are strong, you are kind and you are gentle. You are the writer—you are the captain.

Put wildflowers along the decks and destroy the stop button on that ol' record player. Fall back. Order your comrades to do the same, order them to fall back. Order them to take in that endless ocean before them, order them to take it in.

Now breathe, breathe, breathe—it's all yours.

Vintage (Rearranging the Stars)

It’s funny, a star missing its step, forgetting its part in the night, constellating incorrectly. And yet it still feels so utterly complete as I trace its passage across the sky. I examine its patterns, the mother bear and her son and charming little Venus. I begin to laugh. I begin to laugh at all this. I bite my fingers and lick the silver from the cut. I think about the planets orbiting one another, aligning themselves to their own rhythms, as I sway to mine. And I am satisfied when we undulate in unison, and I am more courageous with each sway and I am more merry until I come apart. My shame putters toward the light crowning the cluster. And what was once funny is now holy until a new star misses its step, forgets its part in the night, constellates incorrectly.

If

And I am chasing a butterfly (or is it the butterfly—the one I capture?). Yellow wings, everything light, even me and I am unable to think clearly. Clean. I am a baby. To imagine my life all at once, I rest my head on a stone.

Dust makes its way into my eyes, resting on my pupil and how I love all of this. How playful the problem is...the butterfly flys away.

My eyes are burning—it is day. I am twenty-seven today. I make coffee. I pee. I have already quit smoking cigarettes. I open the blinds. It will be a beautiful day, for it is a beautiful day everyday, and I drink my coffee silently in my room.

There's a lot of energy in my frustration and my heart is a filter.

I keep my energy within as my negativity seeps out.

Choreography (With All Your Might)

Today is a dawdy day, except the crows and my father talking outside my window. They drift away. I follow them whose dance I find uninteresting.

Grape Saltwater Taffy

If a bastard child were to ever enter a candy shop, he would be unmindful of the ways that things are handled there. The candy shop owner would notice that even a bastard child cannot help, but be thrilled upon laying his eyes on such a delightful collection.

A healthy child’s father buys his son five saltwater taffies. One in each flavor—wood, glass, a needle, stone and grape. The child examines the pieces and declare he does not like grape saltwater taffies, for it is piquant, and the piece is abandoned. (In a tribe of men, the reflections of health cannot be trounced.)

Oblivious of any kinds of gestures, the bastard child burys the grape saltwater taffy in his stomach. He is not thankful, he is not envious, he is not angry and he is not sad. The bastard child knows only of himself. He knows, only, that in order to retain life, one’s stomach must be filled. The bastard child unwraps the grape saltwater taffy and plants it in the earth.

When the initial thrill of the candy shop dies, the bastard child will wobble back into the alley and he will not be seen nor heard. The bastard child has already forgotten about the grape saltwater taffy. And the earth is fed and it is just another day.

Dear Pablo

My soul is a teeny little fetus playing musical chairs alone at night.
Love,
Danny

Dear Danny

My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.
Love,
Pablo

There’s This Pitcher of Something Good and Holy

Everything’s so perfect, I’m afraid. How can things be better? I don’t know. Sometimes there’s this emptiness and sometimes there’s this pitcher of something good and holy and it fills you right up. And it’s easy and it's flawless and it's straightforward. This thing’s a reminder and it’s an event. It’s friends and it’s lovers. It’s your children and they’re beautiful, young and handsome. It’s adoration, affection and love stitched into sighs. It’s inexperienced smiles. It’s a wheel and it’s flowers. It’s tombstones and it’s cakes. It’s one too many beers. It’s a blushing with embarrassment. It’s senseless lies made to make you smile. It’s one too many of a good thing. There’s this pitcher of something good and holy and it fills you right up.

Everyday (A hey, a hey hey)

Outside I see colors. Starting from my right are iris, clementine and ruby. (Colors.) They attract me. I fall out my window. I gather myself and look at the colors. A giant palm is not so threatening for I discover if I stand, I am taller. I find there are many colors and I take off from time to time.

Strawberries (God's light shines upon you)

Hope multiplies and you can rest assure that your world (the world) will be buoyed up. And the needle is soft and lovely. But also, know what's good for you.

Do not be a fool.
Do not be a fool.

Smile, because you are aware. I shall lay down on this good earth, for its surface is soothing.

Feather-plucking

I hide behind the tall tree. I shall claim it as my adult neck. the Scarecrow grins and I continue climbing up. Up the ladder. I am pleased about my nailing the hook and the ladder on the tree. Children are worth much all the time. I am sitting in the park. (I am old.) I am watching ducks, watching little babies rise up. I take off my lips and jump from the tall tree. I am having difficulty telling apart children from ducks. The sprinkler turns on, and I am cold (and scared). I am a baby again, rocking, cradled in the arms of the Scarecrow. And the grin on its face. Scratches on my face. I can smell myself—good, sanitary, replete. I begin to eat my hands, but I cannot. I vomit. I try to eat my hands again, but I cannot. I vomit. I try to eat my hands again, but I cannot. I vomit. I try to eat my hands again, but I cannot. I vomit.

When I do not want this any longer, I say no to the Scarecrow. I dismantle him and sweep the dried clover into the barn. I want to burn it, but I do not have a lighter. I climb higher.

The Burrow King (A Bird's Lament)

The burrow king is more alive than others. A rabbit emerges from its burrow. It's a rabbit no more. A seabird emerges from its burrow and flys off. Off goes the seabird. Sparkles cover the sky and the heart is pure. (There are no victims in our minds.) The lady is petting my snow leopard. I tell her to move politely. She hears bells. I grab her by the ears and take her away. The sunshine is good on me. I am thinking like a baby again. And your soft skin is good. I bite it. Each bite, seabirds hatch. I want nothing to do with the eggshells. I dismember my old ways and watch seabirds pile up like beggars.

She floats

She severs her insecurities.

Joan Miró

Things beautifully falling. Miró. Take me on a journey across the sky. Everything I've ever known, everything I'll never know, the results are the same, both sad and magnificent. That's why I'm drinking. (and you are happy.) did you know I'm deaf? Of course you did. That's the reason I married you. Do you see what I see? It's all beautifully falling. And I was the instigator. And I'm first to go. (I hold her closely but do not breath her in for the fear of becoming like my father. She took photos of a dead skunk today on the way to school. I waited in the car as she took the photos. She smelled absolutely beautiful. And there are no lies. I have heard rumors of flight. Money. Pocket. How old are you? I'm thirty dirty. (Do not listen to the rhyme.) I clip her wings. I love her. I think I can fly. Do you? Worries have wings.