Meta-Fiction

Several Short Blackout Poems

A smorgasbord of drugs a
stuffed animal dancing
in feverish commotion
and a hyper middle distance
that begs before force is
imbibed and passed around
again and again
until you call It pleasure.


Flipped,
rampant,
un-encouraged debate
between gravity and
full speed ahead.
Corked, bottled, bound
and ship berthed.
Sit and split the hammer
with your rusty,
rickety, family tree.
Climb until the haunting
speech is your own,
then disown it and own
the other,
less likely pursuit.
Open aisle ways
of apocalypse
the scripts split
between for keeps
and drips which
drop, drops, dropped.

Caught with the
minimum.
Symbolically set alongside
symbol wings.

Crushing into commonness
and holy about it,
perched.

….
Corrupt dancing,
a criminal undertaking,
rocking the centerpiece,
evaporating wine into smile
into shine.

Accomplice and converts,
a jungle-scape of prompts
and communion.

An overtly undeniable working
of a million necessary
gears and levers.

….
Hopefully a futuristic
causative heuristic
can consign this
bottomless chest and
its unknown content
hopefully services can
be convents.
Prayers are a contest,
nobody sincere is
wrapped up in game.
Every old now renewed
room is returned upon
and the holy uncertain curtain
gets cold again.
Nothing remains in
eager wait for hope.

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I Spit Your Reason Out

You stated in some circumstances,
we were only meant to work
and slumber in the after-party.

I fought with you I renamed you
cascading demon titles.

I even learned your enemies signatures,
paraded them out for you,
easy like a dealer, then hungry like junkies.

Complicit I charge in all you do
is an angle of you, you, and you.

I won’t go any further
around the room,
just stew on it as you feel fit.

Permit me the moment though
to wave my finger in the air
and tell you just what the whether
has dealt- whether it was rape or capital
assassination of character, whether it
was art science and political
or just another junglist off on a rant
about their own caved-into-stronghold.

I will not re-right your arrows.
Gibran was right, their sentience
it narrows so ol’ natural that
you reminisce about the subtlest
inference of it, like oil of olay
commercial, jagged little glass
plucking the skin in imperfect melodies.

You know what kind of like I like,
the kind of hate you hate to hate.
We are simple side by side
wallet photos
fridge magnets
matching joggers.

We are the constellation anyone can name.
We are easy.
Not simple
Sexy, not sultry.
Unless we wanted to be.
Unless it got out
of hand and turned
out that way.

I spit your reason out,
you judge me perfectly.
We dance on the floor like
marbles
eating through a mason jar
onto hardwood, we hard hoods of
hipster pre-destinations and
another amalgam of personal,
preliminary muses.

You and I are like two magazines,
thrown arbitrarily onto
the same laundr-o-mat floor,
in a hold up that became a
flash mob and ended in
a kiss that had virus’
named after it later,
and love songs, too.

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,
thus.

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.

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?

Rebel Kind

I want to round up all the money lenders also.
I know how it sounds.
All messianic and counter to love.

I assure you of my virtue,
through ignorance and rant
layered over a couple of firebugs of truth.

Opening a can of worms is impossible since
people started doing it,
so I usually spend a chunk of all my days
finding alternate versions to compliment
or to encourage something like “it”.

Tedium is the paradise of the poet.
That is an ageless fact, like
money and taxes.

Pursuant to your recent enquiry,
the stars do in fact taste like fame.
The odour is infamy. It eats your nostril raw.
It leaves you like
a meth head
with nar bitta tooth lef ‘in yuh’ jaw.

If you stay away from star dust
you stay clear of hot tar.
If you close out the sun though,
you turn to a ghost, which isn’t currently in vogue,
and mine as well me the morgue, how bizarre.

If you turn enough times in your grave you
can create energy for unborn post nuclear kiddies.

If you broadcast the inner machinations
of a conch shell to the cosmos
you will cause a cataclysm of falling stars,
which Benson & Hedges Corp. will envy and try to
find a way to sue or outlaw or destroy or corrupt.

If you listen to Nick Drake at the back of the bus
you can hear everyone’s thoughts and you glimpse the
certainty of the sublime, the twitching corpse
of people conjoined.

Look! –
the Child’s pompous head turned up and
crazy guy dancing with his
cd walkman circa 89
and the factory eye s
and the girl with 12 inch soles
and the one with eyes like Mennonites
and you a little half tipsy from years of cid
sitting back with a notebook and-

this is my stop.

Poe’s Girl

You are sure of it
with Portishead’s Roads
on the bus
you find the perfect harmony between
the sublime terror and
the sublimity of love

and you suggest to me I
might want greater things
than between lines
and hung out to dry later

I might do well now
to respect that and
all that other in effect
noise language
had little to no effect;

I was born in a black and white rainbow
with the volume ‘pumped’ into the noise like
liquid slaughter for a feast of fools and clergy
all indistinguishable in the intellect’s dark,
an abysmal landscape, watching Dark Crystal
with no understanding of legend or fantasy yet,

but it was better than nothing at all
and no time exists to lament
an un-had level of opportunity,

so I bury the curse words in my kids backyard
and I know the story of
Freddy Krueger and The Tell Tale Heart,
and Frasier read a violent version of Dickens
to me when I was but 12, so it’s only a matter of time,

and patience,
and dirt.

Before something’s uncovered.

axe, the question

The secret glances
between two musicians
the one that explains
a hundred jams that
preceded that moment.

This is what the
world spins upon,

this and dancing crowds
whose laughter,
and whose open joy, prevents
all out anarchy.

total destruction.

This,
the axe
and the question.

Zero Hour

Zero

Getting rid of a
virgin desperation
is like getting rid of
your blank credit score.

You need some to get rid
of having had none
but if you have not had any
then you can’t get any

because you smell
like you haven’t,
and nobody wants to
give any
to anyone
whose never had it.

You’re a zero
in a roomful
of skinny ones.

And contrary to the
optimistic economist
it isn’t getting any easier.

You look a bit disturbed,
here,
maybe some pliers?

Try and loosen the tie
around that thing there.
Well, I suppose it might
be said to resemble
a kind of strait-jacket

I always find what helps is
a long walk with as much drinking in you
(as much in you as you can handle)
and the next day your ears
will only hurt,

if your ear buds
were on blast
and your feet
if you danced enough
will swell in even a loose shoe.

Well yes, technically you
do just have the two,
but no need to dwell on it.

We all start at zero dear.
It’s the equation you liven up the
pages with,
that fucking counts.

We are zeroes desperate
in seeking any kind of
addition through it all.

Some of us though,
secretly preferring

to be a lone
one.