edward scissorhands

Seeing Permanent Red

They say us red heads have
tempers like East Coast weather
unpredictable and vicious.

I would argue this point but
it would only send me into
another full blown raging whirl wind.

I turn into a Snickers-less Joe Pesci.
I become Oppenheimer.

Without a moment’s notice.
Even my Jekyll is more like
most people’s Hyde.

Today when I could not find my hat
I felt like I needed it
like some average Junky,
then the more I couldn’t find it,
the more I became Herbert Hunke.

Suddenly I was a barrel short
of 12 angry monkey’s.

I miss a bus and start mumbling
to my room:

“How in the history
of all the holiest fucks
of fucking fuckers
have I lost this goddamn hat
when I have yet to leave the
house today?”

The theories get elaborate, fast.
Some kind of starving, stray
micro-goat-like creature
which normally subsists off odd socks
has not found one lately and has
decided to get brazen.

I must still be wearing it I say,
and pat my red, slowly
sweat-gathering
heavy hair.
Nope.

I check the legs of jeans
startling my bed’s frame
like crusty farmer clothes on
rickety, birch fences.

My inner Shining
declares that
Genes got me here
to begin with.

I go to punch air
and I hit the corner of my door
gashing open my hand,
now I’m bleeding and
cursing and mumbling and
tossing clothes around
like a baglady at the last
Sally Ann sale of the Earth
positive that any second I will
start to shit out everything
I have ever lost
and that’s a lot, a lot, a lot of shit.

By the time I give up and
put my hoody on
I’ve missed another bus
I’ve screamed in italic’s of cuss
I’ve prayed like a desperate Catholic
to a Mexican pick up truck’s Jesus-rust.

Curse this temper of mine.
All it was ever good for
were broken Super Nintendo controllers
dry wall craters covered in NIN posters
and a good post-meltdown chuckle
like the one just now,
while writing this poem.

Maybe that’s enough.

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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.

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.

This Is Goodbye (Poem for the Girl I called Olivia Wilde)

You are Blue Foundation
that song that grips the sublime contusion
and makes it sing.
You are the very shallow thought
I have had since 12

rolled up into the redeemed power of a star
a kiss
a dance move previously unknown
I rest my heart on the thought of you
despite us having known nothing of one another.

It is in the casual way you answer a question.
With a buried sense of delicate hope to be taken seriously and not
seen for nervous you are, like all of us, like that.

I have no idea if you know it but
you can learn a lot about a person
through details.

You are a smile away from staling my every sunshine filled day
and replacing them in terms of valuation.

You are a clinical yes you are going to live
in the face of dreams all week of terrible terminality.

I may have given many poems
to many beautiful people in my life so far,

but each one remains special,
and you are no different,

aka
you are.

Wild.
Before my eyes.

Wild.

It’s a fucking miracle we survive every day.

This poem is best read to this:

It’s a fucking miracle we survive every day.
I don’t ever forget that fact that the internet shows you
that every single terrible piece of shit you thought was out there
is just the first stage of the real hell of them all out there, in their undecided,
cynical, high and drunk and violent natures, casting their own shit in verse all over the world.

You can tell me that you see a world of rainbows and honeysuckle at midnight
out there in the one and the zero forever fields, but it is also slain bodies of a million
and it is the empty crevice of idiocy that drives all of them together to fight for their
own pop star suicide and it is the end on repeat in your room for three days and
it is the spectacle of it all removed of all repercussions and given all manner
of righteousness and it will always be this way until we finally go right over the edge.

Some of us will praise
the coming back
of the night.

Some of us will go right on back to our supermarket mimesis,
wandering through a burning, rat-filled Wal-Mart
aisles of melting celluloid and human fat,
everything seeping into the new history and tainting all the fresh ideas again,
it’s a fucking miracle we are less like the matrix trilogy than we are.

But I guess we have Baudrillard
and Nietzsche to thank for that.

You can tell me all you want that it is just a movie, that it is just reality,
that it is just Africa, that it is just truth, that it is just some beat poem or elegy.

I will be left,
in the night of reason
to fiddle my way into
seeing something more.

It is just in some of us,
just in some of us
to be curious with anger
to have an angry
curiosity is the only
healthy aggression you can
ever hope to inherit from
anything you take into your body
your eye
your mind.

Treat them with some fucking Respect.
Then tell me you don’t see the potential for doom in everything else.

Tell me it’s not a miracle,
every day
we get another.

People Love Puppies

It is morning and you
cannot tell me you
are happy to be outside
in the sunshine
not if you are like me
and you stay up later
and sip beer and tap at keys.

There is no coffee shop
jazz smooth enough
to straighten your
knotted neck, and a light
but effective sharp jab
of pain around the temple region
is just praying you try
and focus on the screen
or a page or anything
that is not a puppy.

The patrons are all
gathered around one,
a baby black thing that
is going to be loud
and annoying before it dies
and leaves the family
in shaky tearful messes
on the floor, and not
before it leaves a couple
hundred runny sloppy ones,
to step in still warm,
to curse at while half gagging
on the mysteriously pungent
stank that manages
to come out of
a toy bred ball of fur
and teeth and drool.

But that’s it, nothing
you can do about it-
you cannot stop them
before falling in love.

What can be done?
People love puppies.

Monday’s Jurassic Park Poem Got Eaten By A Clever Girl

It wasn’t even her cab but she jumps into it.
We are all huddled in a tent on the front lawn,
it is Southern Ontario, warm night, and the
party is dwindling, the different fragrances of
each freak making their own way home.

We were chuffing a bowl, and it was chotched,
and we had ordered pizza, and I am not sure if it was
there yet but I want to say yes, must have been.
She didn’t know the five of us were in the one tent,
and she just gets in the passenger’s side and
suddenly the music is changed to dance,
and up much higher, and she is half throttling the
driver and some sort of negotiation seems to be
going on behind the glass underneath the bad music,
and then suddenly she asks as if responding,

“What do you mean you don’t got it?”
at which point she threw herself back out and
slammed the door while cursing him.

All of our eyes glistened in the moment.

Someone said, “Ah, clever girl”
And we just all knew the reference and
the laughter, that night, I keep it close.

It is a smiling velociraptor in the troublesome jungle of night.

Living in Factotum: A Poem Stuck Between My Legs

In the same week
I learned to flip up a button
on the school water fountains
to attain auto-flow
(after 3 years of
pushing and leaning almost
breaking my finger holding it down to
try for more pressure
without success)

and then,
after

years of the erosion of my clickers
on my labtops touchpad
I realized a button
could be pushed
that left clicks
or is it right click
I cant tell because halfway through
I had switched their functions.

You win some,
you lose some.

I have that bitter old
kitchen crotch,
and feel like Bukowski (played
by Matt Dillon though not
Mickey Rourke),
while I mummify my thighs with
toilet paper in the stall twice a day,
carefully papering
my legs like a kid on Hallows eve with
asburgers who keeps
shit tight,
when the band comes around.

I’ve been listening to Dylan again and
I think between that
the Cohen and Dj Bl3nd
and Daft Punk, I might survive another gig

&

I might finish my novel.

It’s been a solid fucking month already,
and I haven’t even gotten, I haven’t even been, I still have yet to see,

my pay.

free for all (bukowski style)

You get one freebie
she says, before she opens
her book and signs you
up for a lifetime of cable.

You get one hundred dollars.
You get two hundred dollars
when the job is done.

His sandwich is leaking
and the furnace is too high.

Have you done this before?
fallen out of a poem into a dream
like this, Mr. Anderson?

Has it been a year since your last
re-watch, where have you been?

Off to the races, and may the craziest fuck win.

I think
i’ve been spending too much time,
listening to Tool again.

Need to return to Dvorak,
New World Symphony on hands and knees,
crack open the good book of Buk’
and breathe.

s.o.s

Sacks a hip hop caught up on the factual,
You’re all just fifth business, I be The National.

Flipping out to page 6 as it hits like music,
Conjoined twins make the headlines, a hydra
and a kiss.

I’ll open up with Pandora, move on
down to the styx,

where white privilege meets a real life
leatherface

and gets enveloped by post modern blackness
gets prevented from mooring the fickle financial predictors
gets strung up by her twitters for dropping expletives
gets caught in the net-nightly web, and bears the lashings

and gets straightened out like every drift lost and every tangled meaning

and finally gets us back
closer to meaning

s.o.s