Archive for August, 1993

Spooge

Posted: August 31, 1993 in Poetry
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A VOLCANO EJACULATING BLACK-HOT SULFURIC INK-JISM INTO SQUIGGLY PATTERNS TO FREEZE INTO SINGULAR HIEROGLYPHICS MY PEN LOADED WITH THICK CLEAR CRANIAL FLUID BARELY FILTERED THROUGH THE NASCENT HAIRS ON THE BACK OF MY HAND DERIVING WORDS THOUGHTS IDEAS FROM THE DINOSAUR TEETH-CLICKING OF NEURONS AND RECEPTOR CELLS IN A SQUATTING TOADLIKE SOGGY WAD OF SCHOOL BATHROOM PAPER TOWELS CROUCHING IN THE THRONE AT THE TOP OF MY CROOKED SPINAL COLUMN GOUTING INANITIES INTO THE SPEAKER HORN OF THE 101 FREEWAY RUNNING FROM FOREHEAD TO FINGERS DANCING THE END OF SOME STOLEN WRITING UTENSIL LIKE A SKATE OVER A CLEAN SHEET OF HOCKEY RINK ICE STILL STEAMING FROM THE INDUSTRIAL STRENGTH ZAMBONE MACHINE ROLLING FORESTS FLAT INTO PRODUCTS THAT I CAN WIPE MY NEURAL ASS WITH.

Take 200

Posted: August 31, 1993 in Poetry
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and when
I fall in love
with you
again,
it is all over,
pain and
frustration
again,
like a promise
for changing
the same
again,
if I can beg
for the sun
and the rain
again.

Pocket Change

Posted: August 31, 1993 in Poetry
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I can feel the sum sadness
of everything, in each object,
filled tablespoons with a hose of sadness,
the impermanence of happiness
when good is how they are now;
in moments it is gone,
I’m watching the cherished abandoned,
and the whirl of the clock is
the blur of this sadness, this change.

Pennywise as a Lover

Posted: August 30, 1993 in Poetry
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when I am away
I know that I am in love
with you,
with salts and breezes
from the ocean
that would go well
with your blonde hair,
helium balloons
for your big blue eyes,
dripping sandcastles
in the reflection of the sun
on the sealskin sand
of the tide on the beaches.

and I am the mist
that crawls in off the old pieces
of the sea that were caught
in tidepool fishing nets last night;
I come wrapping, a stole
around the necks of the cliffs,
rising up from the beach,
heads sheared off like
so many broken Michaelangelos.

I’m just plain loco, down on a funky track
slam the sick vocal, here comes the wick-wack
get back on the ska train handing you the new hype
come around to my block and learn why my name is Mike
juggling the fresh rhymes, not with the attitude
that I gotta shoot my gun just to prove I’m real rude
boy you got to get off thinking in the tunnel side
scramble you some truths now, better open real wide
put it in your pocket, hang it on a shingle
keep it like a gift you got from Kris Kringle
take it to your head now, kick it to your friends now
tell it over red wine, caviar or puppy chow
‘cause I got the new style, pushing trippy lyrics
if you go and blink, son, you’re never gonna hear it
then you get frustrated, maybe wanna throw down
I’m the big bad wolf and you’regonna blow down
like a straw building, a hut made of matches
punch your eyes with toothpicks, know you gotta catch this
thoughts coming too fast, gotta read the insert
then you try to lip sync at my fucking concert
like Milli and Vanilli, some guys are all the same
first it’s girl you know it’s true then they blame it on the rain
never mind now, my tricks will never get dull
I got a Dr. Seuss circus matineeing in my skull
a lion whip, a bong hit, my words are spouting clout
I’m the prize in Cracker Jack and once again I’m out.

on my driveway in Point Loma,
smoking 3 cigarettes,
I thought it was my cat Ferguson
cracking bird-bones at four in the morning,
but the white and grey patchy creature
was a shiny eyed opossum,
who moved off as fast as it could
back down the sidewalk
after discovering its way back to its lair
in the college leaf-lined drainpipes
was guarded by a flannel-skinned human.
insomnia can be a great thing
when the TV isn’t running any Godzilla movies
or Kung-Fu Theater;
then the silence outside, the cool air
can be heard straining to beckon
with no mouth, no gestures,
just an often overlooked phenomenon.
some will travel huge distances
to find beauty in waterfalls and vistas
that are easy to pretend that no one else has seen,
yet the early morning hours of solitude
and a token nightlighting of vapor lamps on telephone poles
is the hush of the spectacular
that not many appreciate,
right outside their heavy-lidded windows.

Constipation

Posted: August 29, 1993 in Poetry
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a cat calls beneath my window
and my stomach hurts
from constipated poetry;
I’m turning into mush
from trying to lift these
literary weights and be like them,
dreaming of storefront windows
and cardboard displays…