All I have is the bitterness of the pill.

Chapter, side verse
the GCI trian bridge
and worse

the fact I re-crossed
it dressed
for a coke hearse

what is worse?
being willing
or dying first?

before real ceiling
I want the horn
the night I go,
in my cheap bed,
I insist
I want,
to go hard.

I have lived in a screen,
and called in an interface
but I wont

an easy game
if it
comes down to it

I do not consent,
to be filmed, for the purposes,
of this commercial.

I’m just fine
purposely bumping
elbows ill never have
to see again

I’m better off in resistance
Ive merit
and still, like Rimbaud,

and the real definition
of sun kist

and you have little, but
the choices
of listen
or denounce

I never wanted
a fucking thing
and piracy and
cheap drugs gave
me all of it
and I still own it

every night I write
of the hy

I know

makes me less and less
the cursed gambler

its true
all the men you knew
were dealers
but I am
after seeing, through

being the repetitive
mimicry toy
for anyone

I spent my whole life
saying “nah nah nhah nah ”
and yr here

I am
holding if ever tangentially
to the thread

of white
and I burn

eventually we all

I burn it all
don’t you fool me leper I know you,

I know you red

held over at the wheel,
I know the bodies
a sewn

and I respect you
even if nobody else does,
I respect you at the

End of the Night
I Respect You Vickers
you still wear shit from
like 1997 and shit
and youd still be wearing it all
if you could

you were a non-compliant
soldier or worker
on each side

because honestly dude,
you just wanted to write
you were a cunt
a dick a douche
and a spastic asshole

and yet still my friends,
this man here?

Was one of us,
pure and simple,
we can no longer

such obsolescent hi ways,

he worships good. .
he’s on our side,

I hearby
confess everything you got
and then some.

And I have for years
harbored my own spoilers.

I am a self.
But that is some
heavy fucking shit.

Right here.
Right from the lamp.


You Won’t Know A Good Poem Until It Leaves You

You get a poem in you sometimes and
it burns through the roof of your mouth all the
way down, down, down and
even past you,
into the earth below you
and it keeps going you don’t know where it stops
or if it does,
it’s like the acid from the mouth sucker
in the movie Alien.

It goes through the floors of
the ship and
it penetrates metal,
and it laughs at wire and copper,
and it mistake’s your heart for a fuck fest
and all your friends be damned and even your
best laid plans will get shoved to the
ground and kicked in the shins
just enough to keep them winded,

nothing more than a cosmetic knock or two,
but it’s the overall audacity of the thing,
to think itself worthy of messiah like status
in contrast to your body,
to your life’s work,
to your stink,
it looks to all and winks,
as if to say
“Fuck Ya’ll, ain’t shit without me anyway!!”

Before diving from sight,
as if to never come again,
each time,
as if to never come back.

It’s a bitch and you still love it.

Characters on a Cooking Show

for Chad

Two old friends, in the midst of
some really poor, broke-ass times
would make each other cackle,
on a shoe-string diet, with little else.

Taking turns putting on impromptu,
quasi-starved cooking shows,
monologues that were somewhat tired,
and giving it a bit of flare where
such fanciness was possible.

“Tonight we dine on Mr. Noodles and Tuna,
and I don’t know about you audience, but I
am just super excited to dig in and make
the meal shine, you know?”

“Today’s shoestring meal is brought to you
by the creamers I lifted at the coffee shop
earlier, making that batch of peppered Kraft Dinner
something to really write home about!”

“These peppers I shoved into my backpack
before leaving work are going to go well
with the discounted taco shells and beef!”

“We take the leftover juice from our
Tuna-Mr.Noodle Surprise, and freeze it
for later reuse in this handy margarine container!”

When you have nothing,
you have a sense of humour
about your own sunken belly.

When you have a friend with a similar
sense of survival, the cooking show
can even fall into a couple condiment packs
and a few looted, workplace goodies,
without losing any of the comic flavors,
sealed in now by time, survival
and salt.

Eat your fucking heart out, Ramsay.

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.


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

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


Tron Soundtrack Inspired Mania

Robots Fuck When We’re Not Around.

They bicker after, too.

“You let people into the house
of your heart and then you
condemn them to watch as they
burn inside and you, you always have
an excuse for why it wasn’t you!”


“You, you always have a reason not to donate, and
You, you cynic, what have you done lately, that wasn’t
just to marginalize for your own ego?”

Pick up a broom. Always work in a kitchen. All that.

“You let people into the temple and you flick rocks from the
righteous belfry. You play a game of human domino,
and the shadow’s, even those fuckers get buried.
There is not a jury alive that would know your name.”

“You are like the many named demons of the old stories.
You are like the shit on hell’s waiting room urinal.
Written next to you is “Why Give A Shit Now”’

[Then they start to fuck again, ideas and concepts like shuffling deck. ]

And for a good time call someone who cares,
for a good time call the girl of your dreams only
99.99 only a dollar more, just an inch off the left,

Come back to Denny’s for the old fashioned taste of
Thomas Pynchon’s art-I-choke, come for the boot
of thy womb, Hertzog, you, you who have only ever watched

& siphoned and spoken and cried, the welp of the lot, you bitter
bastard child of Robin Hood, you, what are you doing with
the rest of that sandwich, where are the rest of your army.

What is the hold up with this extension to the Wasteland?
Where are all my vertigo comics, and what have you done with
the Vangelis synth’s, the medieval, digital doom now flops
in between the invisible gears of some hard house loom.

You, there with the ill-framed arc. Come we get ya going.
Upload. Engage. Re-form. Inspire. Release.

There now, how’s that?

Death of a Movie Lover (Re-Birth of a Blade Runner)

In 2014 the technology with which to finally transport people into the future was given up on in lieu of pursuing more manageable goals. From this dark era comes the newest fad: A vacation you take in your mind! Advertised as the perfect gift for the film obsessed person in your life, the Recall Institute uses technology beyond my own personal intellectual ability to fathom or explain, end result being our ability to be fused into Science Fiction films of the past, today!

This is not my last scene. I have yet to traipse through 2019 Los Angeles, to kiss her smoggy world with my 20th century senses. I have, in short, only just arrived from the Recall Institute , and I am not ready to go yet. The beeping indicates I have to return to 2014 real world, but I have fooled them, and integrated a loop-hole. Like the contractual kind, this system of algorithms and code prevents the Recall machine- made by HOBART, from detecting the final stage of my immersion. That of the Sonic, Neural Orgasm that occurs when you, for example, save Princess Leia, emerge from the battle with Khan victorious, or as in my case, finally defeat Rutger Hauer’s existentialist replicant character from the single greatest contribution to science fiction on film since Georges Méliès’ human moon, yes you know the one: Blade Runner.

This will not be my last scene though. I am here, and to be honest, I am not going anywhere. Which is confusing because technically I am inside my own mind, with wires and shit coming out of every which way, all allowing for this Technicolor romance to finally occur in the first place, but there you have it: this scene is my habitable opus. And I am not leaving peacefully. They will have to send someone in after me. Someone braver than my character, maybe Schwarzenegger in ‘Recall, maybe Cruise in Minority Report. Either way, I’ll be ready.

I am digitally reborn as Deckard, the hunter of replicant’s. In the waiting room earlier where I chose this, many others were present. Most were Star Wars fans. So cliché. Humanity finally gives us a Disneyland in our cortex and everyone wants to be Obi Wan’s protégé. Not I friends, no way. I wanted what I have right now- a near-death scene. Every nuance of Deckard has been downloaded into my cortex. It’s like inviting another personality into you. Like being in The Exorcist , but pleasant, if you can imagine. I feel the crunch of his/my leather overcoat in the downpour. My hand, literally simulated so as to replicate the sensation when Hauer broke my trigger fingers a few moments ago. So here we are, after a running time of 1:55:59 (Extended Cut was only another few grand and really, how can you live the experience of Harrison Ford as Deckard without the deleted shower scene with Sean Young, am I right?). And here we are in the penultimate scene. The one I refuse to readily leave. They will have to drag me out of the machine, risk absolute and Total Recall, and that won’t sell more tickets to the Star Wars show, will it? No sir, not on my watch. I am going to watch Hauer cry his tears in the rain for eternity. Or until they find a less hostile-invasive manoeuvre to extradite me, which I hope is at least 4 years (the length of time all good or bad replicant models receive in the film). This is the scene I have chose to embed myself deep within.

This is my paradise, in all its moody, dystopic gloom. I am not going easy into the credits good light. I am going to rage, rage against the Director Commentary and subsequent dvd footage’s pale light.
He is leaning over the rooftop where we’ve had our final (forever to be re-lived for me) battle. I swear the replicant let me win. It is like at the end of the Matrix where, after suffering through an overly long chase scene, you get told this has been an infinite struggle that will play itself out again, all that crap? Except, if you can imagine, more efficient, more Dick-esque, more pure in its cinematic perfection.

He is hovering over the top of the building at the end of Blade Runner. This is not my last scene though. Hauer is lifting his head from the downward angle, he is just getting to the part about “all these memories” and my pre-set internal Orgasm Preventer (on sale at The Source for a thousand dollars and your choice of reenacting one of five scenes from a variety of films) and everything gets looped. The way Hauer’s voice breaks when he gets to “rain”, melds with the way the doves fly from the building as he expires. The Coca-Cola lights of a passing commercial ships invade our final moments, casting us in a rusty, neon-dint. The sound of doves again, the speech ends. Then, like the old Laser Disc technology of the early 90’s when a blemish or hair found its way onto the massive, over-sized Compact Disc incurred, the scene starts again. “I’ve seen..”, Hauer’s head now going down again, the music of Vangelis with its dated synth-pop hush overcoming, like twinkling stars being slowly dropped onto a landscape-xylophone, popping and dripping with keys held, keys lifted. This is where I belong. This is where every young fan of another world belongs. The perfect dream, the one you needn’t waken from, just let the record skip, let the hit re-play, again, again, again.

“Fucking Rimbaud!”

You decided nothing was sacred?
And we stayed all night and chalked
lines of poetry all over the city walls?
Do you remember?

The gorge we jumped into
And how water shot into my ass and had
me crippled for like a week and we laughed?

You screamed “fucking Rimbaud buddy!”
as I leapt off, and that was hilarious on its own,

(I’d rented the VHS copy from Videoscene in
Preston heights and decided I would be a poet.)

We had our crow bars in station wagons at the
junkyard so we would always find them,
and dance around smashing windows like
“The Mask” or “The Joker” just casually
mocking the possibility of our detection.

(I secretly always wanted to be chased by
A dog named Chopper I think, it was my
fave part of the best movie I had ever seen.)

I keep them all in my drawer, these snippets-

It might not be Ray Bradbury Theater,
but it’s a start. Now, let’s go make some more magic.

Best Friend

My Best Friend

for HJM

When I needed someone
to protect me from the car
of angry Mexicans I
drunkenly slurred at one night
by merely getting out of
the car while I shivered
a bit in the back seat with
scrawny ginger shame,
it was him.

When I needed someone
to grab me by the throat
and push my face into
a desert of glass on my patio
after roughing me up and
letting me struggle a little,
it was him.

When I need someone to
goad me into picking up the pieces
when all the whore has run out on me
and all the drunk still in me

writhes and whimpers
“like a little ginger bitch”
Again, I am indebted,
to him and him alone.

You can talk on and on
about the myth of masculinity.

You can talk about male hegemonies,
and about the patriarch.

But I still dig having a best friend
like Christian Troy, you know why?

Because the world is filled with Kimbers,
and nobody wants to be Sean McNamara

All the time.
Or ever.

When I come across
The newest picture of
someone having done something
too stupid not To be
by way of meme;

a ghastly old woman painted
to look like a demon
or one of a ginger zombie
Ronald McDonald making love
to a deadite dressed as a nurse
while in the background
various characters from Hellraiser
and Event Horizon do foul things to
stuffed people with stuffed animals,

It’s his wall I copy/paste it to.
Not even my own.

And that is what a best friend is;
the person you excitedly take
a new piece of discovered darkness to.
So you can both laugh at it, in the face,

And try to find something to top the others
recent post. Another heaping handful of hell,
to pass the hours with.

Anything else would be healthy and balanced,
all that other boring shit reserved for those
earning their way into heaven with
public displays of pompous charity.

When we find people like that we just nod,
look to one another with bug eyes on the side,
knowing full well that shit is just for show.

Comic Book/Stored Antithesis

The soft, off yellow light often
produced in the dim chamber
of your childhood comic shop
and its ability to seem
from the kneeled position
over gargantuan strip boxes
of back issues, back then, in the
middle of your proverbial Sandlot
to act as temporal vortex.

A conversion of worlds,
a threshold.

Campbell was right.
It is all journey.

(This one shop owner in our core
had an eye patch and a limp
and I’m sure he did jail time
for weed. He hired us as helpers
me and my buddy from Sekura)

We had the whole back of the
store to go through, just tons of
back stock and all the new stuff.

It was the greatest thing that had
happened to me since Zelda and
sure, maybe even Shadowrun.
(but that’s entering the debatable)

I found The Maxx and Savage Dragon
as the boys from Image left their own
safe worlds and travelled to unknown

(most of them anyway, Sam Keith
is like me I bet and re-watches Cheers,
missing Coach and Diane and the 80’s

as they go by in a slow tightening of flare
and lessening of hem’s, until culmination in
Rebecca’s premiere a la red leather mini-skirt. )

Reading a superhero like Keith’s Maxx gave
me new dreams as a writer. Aside from Steven King,
no other influence has tainted me so deeply,

as those I found in the downtown comic book
stores (there were three at one time, where now
only one will ever at a time today)

Frederick Philip Grove talks about how he
found this call to adventure in Siberia when
he encountered these Khirgiz herdsmen who
yowled and yawped and sang out the true
beatific essence of life, masked in beard and
riding a slow trail to insignificance.

I don’t regret my influences at all.
The darker the Cave, the brighter the sunshine.