Month: December 2013

The Meta-Movie-like Hangover Experience

Head like a Hellraiser cube.

Eyes like Demons.

Feeling about a foot tall like Puppetmaster,
or some remnant of Harryhausen’s Ghost.

Woke up this morning like Groundhog Day.
Wanted to Lennon Bed-In my way out of it.
Couldn’t find the light switch like Waking Life
meets Philip K Dick meets 12 Monkeys,
or Mice of Men meets T-2, making robotic motions
slowed down like Fear and Loathing’s
man on an ether binge scene.

I’m stuck in my own meta-remake like
Last House on the Left meets
Cabin in the Woods.

My head feels like Blow Up.
I wanna throw up, like the
intertext of Stand By Me.

I want to crawl up inside a replicant,
I want to be Deckard, I want Daryl Hannah
from Clan of Cave Bear, to teach me about fire,
and how to be a better warrior, like Braveheart.

My fucking head feels like Scanners,
just seconds before the bang, like original
Total Recall, just before “Two Weeeeeeeks!”
and even a little like the Red Mist leftovers
of Hurt Locker opening scene.

My stomach is like Videodrome.
I could reach inside and pull out a pistol,
long as any of Eastwood’s, but surreal
like one of Nicholson’s Joker props.

My sinus’ like that guy in Crocodile Dundee
in the New York House party, eyes red like the infected in
Return of the Living Dead, Jonny about to scream
“Ginaaaaaaa!”. My nose filled with shit that alternates
between Slimer in Ghostbuster green and
the 80’s The Blob’s pinkish hue and the yellowy rust of
the alien in Enemy Mine.

I’m propped up at the table,
like Texas Chainsaw family,
or even the elder zombies in Dead Alive.

I feel like Gilbert Grape. I try to talk,
sound more like Mumbles from Dick Tracy.
Pale like Powder.

My memory is all Memento meets Hangover
meets Being John Malkovich.
I feel like the actual New Jersey Turnpike.
Like Kafka woke me up in a script for a
Basketcase remake
and all I can do is try to scream but my mouth
is all Mr. Anderson shut, or
even Twilight Zone movie-clamped up.
Either way it’s Eyes Wide Shut darkness.
Event Horizon of the holidays.
Candyman mine as well be in the shower,
and I’ve begun to turn like American Werewolf
in snowstorm. I just want to get back to school
like Dangerfield or Slater or Cusak
in any number of films.

I just want to dance,
like the guy in Dazed and Confused.

Where’s the easy voice over of Daniel Stern?

Yesterday I Wrote

Open season on
aisles of apocalypse.

The script, split
Between, for keeps
and lazy drips which
drop, dropped, drop.

Caught with the
minimum .
Symbolically placed alongside
simple wings.

Crashing back into commonness
And camp; holy about it,
perched forevermore,

Aphorisms for the Ugly White Page

For two and a half hours I stared at you,
you sexy white thing. You endless white thing,
you blank, ugly fucking whore
of a blank, white, single screen.

I wonder what you were thinking
while I was tripping over a closet of memories
like a black out at a party
while everyone rummages to smoke outside
in someone else’s shoes.

Like people about to go down in a ship.

My step father rolling his oversized
cotton sleeves in messy pastry mixing up with the
coffee stained back office of his garage and the
coffee in white Styrofoam,

creating a place where none existed before,
but where nothing but smell and longing
are able to say enough in their statement.

There was good in here but it was
only ever enough to keep warm, singly by.

Even the character feels weak and goes head-first
into a plate of glass as some bad homage to something.
Not even the reference seems worth it.

But we do it anyway don’t we?
It’s the only dedicated relationship I have,
so it has to be like this sometimes.

Even when there is nothing to say,
we have to live like this.

I know you don’t like me when I write to Miles Davis,
but I do it anyway.

You know I veer toward a schedule only for you
to smash it into new mosaic.

But we work together somehow.

We block out the blindness,
bad line after cliché after shaky reservation.

We work in record stores and on buses and other random,
non-momentary states.

Got married back in high school.

Have nothing but boxes of us now.

Boxes and ticket stub match pack haiku’s.

Ann’I still love you now, for every
new white fucking page.

Black Dog Boy Named Drake

(more drink than poem tonight)

I call on nobody and nobody replies
“keep it to yourself”
I call up the minor in me
and we drink a little more than we should
because it is a comfort and snow brings
the hibernating urges to form.

I scream to death in a factory at 51.
I am sure of it lately. I can hear it from the tip of 30.
I can hear it go bawling down the road.
My sanity.

I am the intense moment of every Blind Melon album.
The voice quivers with a mad purview into unknowns.
I start to cripple of my coaxed, confused filmic informed class.
I break a glass. Smash a bottle, irrevocably destroy dreams.
Start around the room looking for something else to throw on the bonfire.
It’s Burning Man every weekend in my heart. It’s Woodstock on day one, too.
A Wonderful Life Sunday morning, then Event Horizon by Monday again.

Nobody knows you like you know you. Secret listens to the Cranberries.
Romps down 1987 Hollywood lane. Crying with stranger bagladies.
Screaming into Atlantic stomach.
Chameleon Kid.

One Cramped Fix

one quick admonishing
for the prole and punk all kind:

I am sick of seeing Rob Ford and Harper madness
I grow so tired of conglomerates selling
cheap oatmeal mixed with blood…

My people, you want us to fight the war but only on Tuesdays,
when it is easy,

I urge you to be critical
to a fault, I caution you
embrace everything that
does not add up, and take
seriously the formalism we
can all do without…


being a writer is like

like always asking “what was I just thinking”
but never coming up with the thing
and just continually finding ways to divert from that fact
until no longer the case for a minute or two Halleluiah plays in your key
and you hush all eyes with kindness and grace until
again you are back out in the alley with
the rest of the human smoke

being a writer is
like being a child trapped in a
big world body
that ripples with the moon
and crescents with the sun

intermittently dances like a naked
French weather girl
up some mountain because
gender roles or not,

poetry is always like
being in love with the most
beautiful one in the room for you
and me too, so stop yelling.

I am trying to get you over the exhausting
cringe of not getting the miracle in our every movement here.

It has nothing to do with class or gender or hero,
just listen, you need to know this;

it is just when the story becomes too big to contain,
that it really stars getting good.

onward ho, bitches.
(Jesse Pinkman style)

we only have about a day’s parenthesis head start,
and the Sheriff’s of Sonnet and Formality will be upon us.

They will yoke us in genre and codify our scarred wings.

Won’t we be less then we were without this woe?

Credits Deux

The music of hurt
brought to you by the misery
of conviction
now a subsidiary of
the lie police who,
like it or not
have got your number.

Kicking stones along
the empty John Carpenter streets,
singing Happy Halloween with
Silver Shamrock masks.

Ripping through verses of a variety
of obscure poets can wait, we need
to deal with the waning booze situation.

The courage to belt out Arcade Fire
3 am, rooftops everywhere,
they are calling it some kind of cult,
but you know the rule of haters.

This kiss was brought to you
by Gibran, Jack’s and a sweet look
you gave me 8 summers ago.

Girl in the rain, boy in the blue
kid in the crowd,

talking to you,
just you,
and you.

Come here, into the center of the thing.

Credit where it’s due.