Thursday, June 30, 2011

Still waiting on the monkeychicken

Stumble Frames #4

Lake reflection
purges science and
bread kills

No it doesn't
eat fatigue and
drink to your health

white face and splotches of ink
a bench with snow below
and sea outward
and sky above

frost park
where snow runs into paint
and portals drag her statue
igni ferroque

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Stubes where is my monkeychicken at?

Stumble Frames #3

A crow in the middle of the road
shafts of light
a movie flickers
on her body
from birds

a record spins
atop her face
and piano keys stretch
towards an abundance of plants

black-clad in the rain
cliff jumping with birds
black market arrow
flew away in the hail
to a flat topped mountain

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Stumble Frames #2

So I decided to turn this experiment into a series, expect a new one daily.

Stumble Frames #2

Guerilla mystery
spray-paint on a truck, wall
alters the rhythm
of bare society

canary burn
sends shockwaves across the city
and rainy eyes run

the next day, el manana
dig in the sand, dirt
bring an umbrella
father said

honey fly warehouse
spreads hunger
around a field of weeds
the curse of the iceman

Monday, June 27, 2011

Stumble Frames

This poem is the result of a morning experiment with the random connections between things, and also framing.

Stumble Frames

Spider legs
twitch and dangle
The reds gone
exit music for a
fulfilled wish
photo gallery
of random, unrelated images
parking shell, billboard eyes
paper unearthed, a canvass of

Ghosts in the cafe
A hand abandoned in the middle of the road
Inuit mythology
opens the door to snow
vampires escape from grid world
and bite the apple of cities
curvature of wines
clothes with no limbs or body
empty clothes
like time lapse photography
when she flew in the window
she braced her arms against her legs
to dodge the taxman

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Fed a Girl to the Lion

I did not feed her the drugs, she paid for them and took them willingly, joyfully.  The law... living so close to it's sinister edge.  They have become thugs, men built on hate who feel that their every action is noble by nature and righteous in demeanor.  They came for us in the park and they took her.

I could only sit on my bicycle across the river, smashing my forehead against the bridge piling.  I could think only of her fear, interrogated, hallucinating, having order ground into her face and eyes.  When the police officer on her bicycle rode by, the true emotions the state desired to impose achieved their effect.  Fear, paranoia, a diminished sense of humanity was inescapable; even though I carried with me all my things, I could not be delivered from the sense I had been robbed of everything.

She did it for me...  I was supposed to protect her, her innocence and youth.  She sacrificed herself to keep me out of prison.  I was a coward, I was forced to be a coward...  saying that means I still am.  I fed a woman I loved, I cared for to the lion of man's fearful belligerence to be saved from it.  That alone would have been motive enough...  but, listening to her cry over the phone, after interrogation, after release...  Her sobs, racking her chest, they have rattled my soul back to the belief that I may indeed have one.  This large beast we have all made by our apathy and willingness to be dominated, it must be destroyed; whether the idea by words, or the buildings by Molotovs.  Hailey you have made me ready.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Porch Ashtray

This ashtray was empty, now is full.  Many good conversations had, about god, about life, about truth.  A good time to talk to a man, when he is actively, knowingly killing himself.

The true thief has gone back to Darwin for his answer.  He says that there is no wrong in taking this, because the idea of taking is absurd.  The ability to own is only what I let for social convention.  He offers a fair test, ''Stop me.''

The true gangster does not go out looking for violence.  He knows that it, like all acts of violence, are not matters of righteousness, they are matters of ignorance.  He knows that peace is a dangerous weapon that is gifted some of us to make more efficient the dominion our peers.

The true artist knows it is not about making anything recognizable or pretty.  It is about resisting the entirety of entropy, it is about being against the momentum of time.  All of this brilliant color is just his failed attempt at conveying an idea that was barely tasted behind a shade of a dream

How does he reconcile them all?  All these different truths in a mortal man.  His eyes are on her, because she is warm and laughing.  She likes to talk, and he likes to listen.  She has a plan and a reward and his master's  hands are begging for work.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Last Night's Festivities

Perhaps it's just the fact that I just saw someone get their head bashed in with a baseball bat...  I have to preface with that.  Gang violence, at a house party.  Cops. Scream. No, they are fighting outside? Who is? Holy shit that guy is big.  Someone is out cold. Time to leave. Gun. Squad. Bats. Head Blood Window.

Sitting by the side of the highway, hands on head after seeing that.  I will be going to jail, feels like purgatory set fire.  Why?  What reason did those bastards have?  Pride?  Oh yeah, you're a thug.  Not really, just a bitch ass coward swinging a stick around screaming...  That man, i may be going to jail for 30 days, why does that weak man bring a bat?  Why do they bring guns.  Men do not realize that acts of violence are not acts of righteousness, they are acts of ignorance.

They let us go to save a life...  The ambulance needs protection. Why did you stop us officer, as we fled from violence?  Because it is right?  Because it is capitalistically superior?  Dolla dolla bill bitch? Go catch that man with a gun that pointed it at me.  Go and shoot him and teach him a lesson in the violence he hopes to impose...  No, that will not happen, because you are sitting beside the road catching kids that you had to release to me in dozen because I am twenty one.  That is why you are so worked up pig, because your job is no longer about common sense, its about a big fat hog of bullshit.

I want to hold my woman, she is lovely and she will make me forget seeing blood shoot off of his head after the baseball bat.  Her soft lips and pink hair will pull me free from this insanity.  NO, i must find a place for the dozen underage allotted me by police.  I cannot go and protect her from falling and hurting her knee.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Ipod Found

Over the course of the last few years I have been making contributions to an ongoing social journal of poetry stored in the notes on my Ipod.  My recent, larger scale art projects, in addition to this blog, have caused me to focus my artistic energies on more pronounced and refined artistic endeavors.  However, we must go back, and I have flipped through to deliver some of the more profound contributions.  Those include a moment of survival, a conversation on my continual drunken bicycle accidents, and the overwhelming emotions that accompanied being removed from everyone and everything I loved in college.

Crawling across the floor
Every moment falling
No balance left

Dragging lower limbs
Screaming, howling, naked
Woke up into this hell

Seizing, sweating, gasping
Alone in this empty house
Not gonna be any help coming

Can't even dial the ambulance
Can't swallow the juice
So breathe it in desperate coughing

Go for the thick needle
But can't make it operate
Through vial into muscle

I am dying
Seizing again
Approaching coma

Get up
Muscle fuck this

More time
Not willing to surrender now

Get the unbroken needle
A new one
Fill it

Jam it into paralyzed thigh
And depress relief into me
Before passing out
On syringe scattered carpet

The pavement feels soft
As I throw myself against it
I like it down here
Bleeding from the bicycle
It goes towards something
All the tenderness in the world
Couldn't dare to approach
Tells me to get out of the street
Before the cars run me over
But most of me wants to stay.

None of this is real
Not to me
Not without you
Like seated figures of stacked stone
Left by transient men
Hoping to make something
More permanent than themselves
Following a staggered stream
Of stars into the cloudy
And shifting translucent above
Hoping to at long last become
Into a breathing machine

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

An Explanation followed by a Complication

 Many of my previous posts have been written without any explanation as to their content.  This is simply because I believe they are stand alone thoughts and items.  However, some of these are important moments, contents, and constructions of characters, themes, or plot devices which are supplimental content from a short fiction story I have been working process on for some time.  I am posting the outline here, so that some of the narrative will be apparent.

Premise:  This narrative is to take place in a semiparallel, semifuturistic construct much like that of Ayn Rands, Anthem.  The main character, Prometti, takes the titled position of Tinkerer in the beaurocratically organized city wherein the entirity of the narrative takes place.  The position he accepts and has been apprenticed under requires the maintenance of the entire mechanical workings of the city, including waterworks, the night lanterns, and any and all complex mechanical tasks.

Conflict:  The general claimed malfuncion of the cities underworkings, (which begins causing halucinations, apparations, and psychotic phenomina) forces the beaurocracy to remove the main charachter's master from his post and promote the young man in an effort to renovate the city to a state more conducive to their capitalist structure.  The young man grows to experience throughout the novel and comes to the conclusion that the structure they impose is no better than darwinism which has been restructured to benefit aristocrasy.  This realization coupled with his concomonate knowledge mastery of the construction of the city forces him to disillusion the beaurocracy and challenge them on evolutionary supremecy.

The Master:  An old man who has studied and mastered engineering in both theory and exercise.  A firm believer in self-autonomy and the betterment of self and knowledge.  This forces him to evolve literally and figuratively in his profession and form to create Prometti, and to entrust the city to the young man.
Prometti:   Apprentice become Master Tinkerer who's mastery of making borders on supernatural, in his ability to sense physical attributes of matter on instinct and feel.  This and advice from his forefathers cause him to begin making objects from his dreams and attempt to make a superior or equal companion in Delphinia.  His development as a charachter becomes more and more mechanical and rational action based as the novel progresses.
Delphinia: Mechanical construct created by Prometti who becomes self intelligent and autonomous due to the degrading and illusionary state of the city.  Her combined knowledge of her own artifice, combinded with her summarial loyalty and love of Prometti forces his evaluation of state as artifice of his master.  The violence with which the city gaurd regards her superior state and inability to be restricted forces Prometti to surrender himself to mechanical artifice in order to evolve and survive the coming conflict.
The City Guard:  The policing faction of the city who are both armed and equipped by Prometti and his master.  They use cast bicycles to patroll and cavalier the streets and act as a higher class in populace conflicts and answer only to the beaurocracic justice and aristocratic systems.
The Aristocracy:  The city is ruled by twelve elites, who are segregated as aristocratic royalty and have instituted officers of the guard and the justices to impose order.  A principle upon which the entirity of their objective, character, and station is organized.  This principle grows more and more impossible to maintain, which causes them to move through fear, to violence, and finally to attempting to govern by fear, as the city and populace degrade as per Prometti's defiance.
The Fireeater's Guild:  A group of beaurocratically selected religious advisors who smoke opiates and utilize the drug to impose theocracy on the lower levels of the caste system.  They also establish the aristocracies primary claim to rule as divine right through interpretation of drug induced visions followed by nostradomic insights, and see those occuring due to the cities nature to be a heretical offence.

Title: The Tinkerer

Plot Chronologue I: Charachter introduction
 Chapter 1: Called before the council, Prometti wanders the morning streets wondering what will be asked of him
 Chapter 2: The aristocracy demands that Prometti take the station of his master and repair the city
 Chapter 3: Prometti obeys as does his master who urges him to create of his own accord and desires.
 Chapter 4: Prometti wanders the streets and decides to make his work on a halucination he holds sublime

Plot Chronologue II: Building Delphinia
 Chapter 1: Prometti journeys to the Fireeaters Guild to seek council as to the consequences of what he aspires.  They denounce his ideals and threaten him as a heretic.
 Chapter 2: Prometti refuses their judgement, and makes way to the cities underworkings determined to change his world.
 Chapter 3: The young master finds his predecessors forge and workshop in the deepest portion of the underworkings, wherein he finds designs for what he sees as the perfect creature: Delphinia.
 Chapter 4: The forge is reborn, and Prometti builds Delphina,

Plot Chronologue III: Heretic Awake
 Chapter 1: Delphinia wakes and Prometti takes her through the city rife with hallucinations to see the City Council
 Chapter 2: The council sees Delphinia as an affront to humanity, and an abomination and order her destroyed and Prometti executed.
 Chapter 3: Delphinia demands her rights as an individual in nature, and begins murdering the guards restraining her.  After seeing this the aristocracy trades her life for Prometti's.
 Chapter 4: Prometti flees for his life from the city guard back to the underground

Plot Chronologue III: Rebirth
 Chapter 1: Prometti, determined to save the woman and creation he loves, draws himself a bath of molten brass and copper
 Chapter 2: Reborn as the masterpiece of his Master's design, Prometti makes for the forum to halt the execution.
 Chapter 3: A challenge to the cavaliers: Prometti meets them in the city forum and displays his mechanical mastery of physics
 Chapter 4: Prometti makes a pleading offer of love to Delphinia, telling her she need know no violence.  He begs her to direct him

Plot Chornologue IV: Redistribution
 Chapter 1: A challenge to the guards: Prometti storms the City Council, warning the guards first, then decimating them as if domesticating animals.
 Chapter 2: Prometti demands natural rights before the aristocracy, who refuse and order him destroyed.  The remaining guards threaten, then balk and turn on the aristocracy.
 Chapter 3: Delphinia makes the Fireeater's guild, and at the sight and speech of her they recant their theocracy.  Prometti arrives and demands of them to be curators and interpreters of the hallucinations and illusions in the city to alieviate the pschosis of the population.
 Chapter 4: Prometti leaves the city to seek out his Master in the land beyond in exile.  They discuss the meaning of artifice and its impact on individuality.

Monday, June 6, 2011


I've been influenced recently by Salinger and Wes Anderson and their use of stage direction in their storytelling. This is the first installment of a story set inside a one bedroom apartment

Claudine sat, looking out the window into the soul of the dark and muggy evening. Her skin was moist, it stuck to a leather chair that smelled of moth balls and copper coins. The air around her was stagnant and warm. The lamps radiated a low red glow that reflected off of the polished wood grained coffee table. Sweat vexed her face to grimace and a stream of saline slid the length of her eyebrow and splattered upon her nose. The stream divided into three tributaries and forged a route to the left check and slowly dissipated into oblivion on her neck.

Enter Timothy, a stout figure with slicked brown hair and sole vexation of Claudine.

Timothy swung the door open, arm extended with the knob and dark skin absorbing the low red glow of the room. Claudine does not turn to acknowledge Timothy’s entrance and thus Timothy is unclear whether she is aware of him. This statement is validated through Timothy’s response:

“Claudine, Claudine, are you okay?”

No movement of Claudine’s moist and sticky skin, no acknowledgement of any kind from Claudine for that matter.

“Claudine, are you awake? Are you alright? Claudine, you absolutely must respond to me. This foolish game you’re playing will not do.”

Claudine faintly knew Timothy was in the room, his abrupt presence bending the light streams of the red glow. However, she was preoccupied with the particular moment in time that was so perfect, now disturbed by her neighbor’s interruption.

A Pleading Offer of Love

I am obliged to offer unto you, my friend, all of what it is that has made me up.  You have shown me kindness, and i can feel the weight of your character in your frustrated descriptions of your allies betrayal.  You have given me a distraction of frightful youth and elegance from...

To me, this place is the in-between, the purgatory.  There are none of the white hot self inflicts from butane and paper clips.  They have been laid aside, so too with all aspirations, floating downstream and gone.  The air here hangs still, too still to stand in the middle of the street with a machete and retrieve what has been stolen from me, as once done.

I am not here to fight, I am here to pay.  A perplexity, for my mastery was meant the former, but I cannot motivate to raise my hand, my weapon, against them.  ...but you... you are pure, you are young yet wise.  You do not deserve the strife that has been laid upon you, you were not built for it.

So I tell you, that I was.  This is the offer.  My hands are those of a master thief, a violent rancor of man, but most so that of a maker.  My heightened sense of spatial reasoning begs for pop quiz.  So make yourself serenity.  Use me.  My own best brush for painting this, I offer myself to be your instrument without pain or fear.

Please, I beg of you, save me from this boredom pleading for violence.  Motivate me, and release me from this prison.  Let me pay for my crimes, or let me compound them.  Either way my success is contingent upon your smile

Sunday, June 5, 2011

land anemone

Black dog under the willow trees
and runs into crickets

The summerland, now sleeping
exudes white light like
   small breaths

Night churns into butter
and rays stand up straight like spaghetti
The dog wakes
and flies out of the shade of the willow
a bird

Saturday, June 4, 2011


Is necessary
It nourishes
a body to better
It's soft, comforting,
It matches the white,
Beige, powdered pink
Of you

It readies me
With tender cold
it contrasts
Your warmth

You are my breakfast
You are my nectar

Friday, June 3, 2011

Missing The Fire

Was hoping for,
colors on the breeze
again, or
shattering glasses,
scapulae to bar mirrors.
Blood, spit, semen.
Fistfight fuck,
screaming alone
on the bathtub floor.
Now, silence
and gray rain.
No phosphorescence,
purgatory in
a cold pool.