Fragments

some incomplete verse culled from notebooks



nothing much happens to a girl who hates happenings,
hardly anything, maybe a happy moment from time to time,
maybe a hard night alone.
nobody bothers a girl who hates happenings,
unless she's in the way and has to move.

...

I await spring like the warm wet tongue of new love.
thaw me with a kiss, that I might flower again.

...

I loved an elephant. He could forgive, but he couldn't forget.

...

In the little places, us ghosts go about without tragedy.
Between fate and free will, we feign routine.
Haunting, like dreaming your at work, won't earn you any overtime.

...

The way my dog died, the day I lost my faith in God,
reminds me now of Hollywood, blue prose, and me, lying on my stomach,
crying "he's just a puppy! take me instead!"

Kids say the stupidest things.
God does the stupidest things.
Faith is a luxury,
and God is a dog without loyalty.

Fergus died to teach me puppies die,
and neither I nor God have won an Oscar.

...

A creek once ran here, in the piny shade,
down the west hills to the Willamette,
before the concrete came.

Now it is a sewer.

...

I love the stupid city

...

Standardization of expression oppresses,
I vex the hierarchs, the police of desire,
and the soldiers of misfortune.

...

my visage dissolves on close inspection,
like an angel of cloud or a devil in woodgrain,

...

In your lostness who are you?
do you have trouble with tribulations?

...

It's so sad how the sky's falling,
and the sea's swelling,
how the world's ending.

lotsa regrets,
lotsa wish-we-hads,

Blame whom you will,
it's over and done with.

...

Cheers!


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Why Write

a sort of ars poetica


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Why Write?
at first I did it to get my dick sucked
later I did it to get famous.
the former for me is a once in 5 years dream,
the latter only happens for a Stephen King
After the illusions vanished it occurred to me
that we can reinvent anything,
biographies and sexualities included
in the transformative marriage
of art and craft
in translating the heart’s secret hieroglyphs
we can scribble down wisdom beyond
that of the conscious self and that’s pretty cool,
that gets me hard, and jerking off to my own work’s
a lot easier than seducing another to suck my dick,
a lot easier than sucking enough other dicks to get famous
I think writing gives us a buzz like no other
As writers we’re fairy godmothers
words yearn to be written into new voluptuousness,
to have their bodies perfumed, their tresses
adorned with flowers
and we as writers grant those wishes
and in return we reap the power, the joy, the despair
of such granting and reaping
Through the lens of a poeticized night
the real night’s darkness can be lightened
poems can comfort readers in the midst of daily shit
stories can be friends as friends flock and scatter
Something more seductive than moons, mushrooms
demons or whores is what a magical fragment
of language can dream of becoming
In writing a poem or a story
we conduct strange orgies of words.
Satyrs prowl down the page
in search of nymphet sentences or images.
the genitals of vowels and the lips
of consonants swell and moan
our secret names.
With the stroking of keys
or the flourish of a pen
we drive the money changers
from the temple, upset expectations,
make assumptions do headstands.
The dwarf gets to be king,
the hunchback gets the girl,
the bag lady gets to sing like an angel
and dance around in a queen’s crown. Read more!

M: you are my rock
F: thankyou
M: and my hard place
F: fuck you


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE

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Jean Marie

sometimes friends fade away as they should


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Jean Marie
Surprised to see you today
pretendin' friendship with coffee,
and a cool salmon sushi gone bad
kiss on my mouth.
Hey mike?
How ya been mike?
What was it?
Two years ago?
Drunken dance parties,
Led Zeppelin 3,
Tangerine and dry humpin'
Playin' ring around the Gallows pole
in our undies
pukin' off the balcony
laughin' in the mornin'
with shitty omelettes
And no money
Eatin' shrooms at the beach
watchin' the sea turn green
as little elves dance at our feet,
weepin' ecstatic
as radiant snot
dangles from our nostrills
Makin' out by the fire
not givin' a fuck as the UFOs land
and we vowed our love
till love's extinction
your breath on my neck
was like the ocean
and then--
What?
You're movin' to Seattle in two weeks?
Nice.
New job?
Nice.
Give me a buzz if you remember.
We'll get liquored amid strangers
And feign a fuzzy warm goodbye. Read more!

Moth and Me

a little lighthearted fun


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Moth and Me
The moth can't find its way out the window,
Battering its little face against my kitchen light.
Another locus of misery and dim consciousness
like me pumped into this world by the dumb
organs of parents who thought it was a good idea.
Bang! Bash!
How confusing for the little thing, just doing what
It's programmed from birth to do, told to do,
Just follow the light to paradise, brother
just follow the orders
of we who've gone before,
look neither left nor right for alternatives,
the path is known, don't question it..
Christ, it's staggering along the window sill now,
drunk with bewilderment and failing dreams,
and the open window, freedom,
the music of true companions so close.
Just fly the fuck away from this shit.
I'm fucked up too.
Do what I can't, and fly
This is no place to die in. Read more!

The Rose

Well, Starlite Motel of Tony's Tavern told me this one was solid.


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
The Rose
Cigarettes burn out like stars in dawn’s grey filter.
The wind kicks and bickers with bricks and pigeons.
Words stumble, stub their toes, and you
are the rose in the garden that God forgot to step on.
Morning slouches like a beaten child. Roses gone
Brown, dust thick on the portrait. Where you’ve gone
Only a sleeping beauty or bleeding Jesus knows
and I’m left in Oregon to languish with photos
and a ring locked up in a safety deposit box
Gone is the rose pinned to the bridal mane. Gone
Are you, the scalpel twisting in memory’s ear.
The body is not a temple. You taught me that.
But your image grinds through the gristle and rocks
of time, raises a bloody fist, growls to me no reprieve.
Sap sucked from a tree. I dust your books often.
The bathroom’s immaculate as you’ve wished.
Cap’s on the toothpaste. Toilet seat’s down,
Chicken soup’s done: two bowls, two spoons,
my works, my faith.
On that rock in the middle of that sea of wherever
You are do you think of me as you dip a little toe
Into the cold unknown? Between your legs
is a rose that tastes like honeydew. I miss you.
The pigeons flap away. The wind gets worse.
Fuck this daily fare of grief’s heat
There’s a mountain outside my window.
May it blow like Vesuvius, send me left of heaven
where angels forget to dust--a rose is waiting there
with open lips to suck me down. Read more!

fumbling

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE


***********

words caught in my throat
much to say but shut down
self conscious these days
Read more!

My trapping of ideas

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Stained Glass hiding sunshine
Forgoing all glimpses of innocence
Transposing everything into something
Not just anything
Not right away
But...
Something soft, pure and unknown

At least all of these thoughts contain verbs
And at last my eyes wimper at the visions ahead
Containing a glimpse of yesterdays news
And a dirty word used for my minds trickery
Which is a word I cannot say aloud
Read more!

Overwhelming Anguish

Read this at Tony's. I'm a fag :{(


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Overwhelming Anguish

Though young you smiled
and sipped from chalice,
filled with blood and bits of Jesus,
I ditched my manuscripts
to smile and sip in turn.
Though you weren't the Virgin
I knelt and bled
Before your shrine of sun, and lips,
and silliness.
Though God carved in you a dream
whose pursuit precluded me,
and subtleties of need
that neither kiss nor learnedness
could tame or place
in meaningful matrix,
you taught the dance of cock and clit,
you turned the shit to gold.
Though parting's path was pain,
after pleading with shrunken brain
on silver plate for grace,
after weeping at angry feet and worse,
I’d rather be damned
than recant the God
that shines from your eyes,
shines too much to last.
Though we built sad fictions
to shore the blanks,
Though you come in memory's wind
to migraine--the night,
our tale is not decreased by ends
or stormy means,
drained by grief's hyperbole,
not dark as if your sun had ceased to be.

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m[edit]ate

to: the thing perched on my brainstem,
please, I’m trying to think.

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Misfit Toys

mike's latest cry for help


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Misfit Toys
My friend Dave
read a page of my novel-in-progress,
set it down,
and frowned
Stop jerkin’ off the ghost of Joseph Campbell,
get your tongue out of James Joyce’s ass
and find a center already.
I have, I said, it’s just--
never held
Quotin’ dead poets is for pussies, he said.
I got up from the chair,
flipped my Olsen Twins’ calendar to June,
circled the 1st--there’s my center asshole
when the carnies come to town I’m joinin’
I’m gonna stink like cabbage and be real,
I’ll work the guess my weight booth,
or the basketball game where the hoop’s too small,
or the ring around the bottle gig
I’ll give the winners a goldfish in a little baggie
that’ll die before they get home
or maybe
I’ll write poems on napkins for beer
like everyone else
but at least I’ll feel--
Be real, he said. That’s not your center.
I’ll meet new chicks in new towns
I’ll become confident,
Revise what I tell of my past till the new persona sticks,
till I actually believe it--
When do the tears start? he said



Right then, they did.
He just smoked and worked
on his crossword for ten minutes
while I sobbed with violence against my
identity as a misfit toy with no Santa Claus
or Rudolph swoopin’ in to take me home.
Spent, I lit a smoke
Dave said nothin’
Just handed me a beer
That was perfect
I didn’t need to be held
or told that everything would be fine,
or that I haven’t wasted my life
I don’t think I found a center
but I feel better
And though I don’t know yet
how to name my tune
or if it even matters
that I do
I have this night
to rant off key
amid misfit toys
at a makeshift home
called Tony’s. Read more!

what scares you

i don't know where this is going to go...


at first i was thinking nothing
and so i used to say.
' till god or whatever chromosomal abnormality
decided to punish said ungrateful bitch

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Cold Coffee and Cigarettes

A Review of a decade


She told me to open the window
That was all that she said.
I didn't know why
I didn't care actually
I just opened the window
And she flew away

He told me to close the door
That was all that he said
I didn't ask why
But I did care, truly
So I closed the door
And now he won't leave

So here I sit, with a cold coffee
And an empty pack of cigarettes
Confused and holding my smirk
Wondering why i'm so cold
...............................
Maybe I should close the window
And go outside
Read more!

Strikin' Out

uh, i got issues . . . not waving but drowning


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Strikin’ Out
For once I’d like to know
what it’s like to knock one out of the park
in the bottom of the 9th
with the bases loaded to win the game
the game is havin’ the guts to talk
with some hot poet after a reading,
we’ll drink at the Bitter End,
we’ll tell each other how genius we are,
make out on the street,
go back to her place,
not to my shithole with the beer cans and porn stash
that would end the game with a big strike 3
back to her place--she’s got a soft bed
and a lamp with a red light bulb
my dick rises to the occasion for once
and we become a juggernaut couple like Zelda
and F Scott Fitzgerald
we finish our novels, get rich, quit our shit jobs,
eat hundred dollar dinners at Jake‘s every night--
the fantasy ends there
I dressed up like a little girl once
I don’t know what it means
last week after my reading, reeking of hubris and beer,
I figured if I can’t score now I never will
so I went to the Bitter End and lo and behold
the poet of my dreams was sittin’ alone sippin’ a PBR
hey, good job tonight, I said
[God, I sound creepy already and I can’t remember her name]
strike 1
she gives me an irritated look
Do I know you?
strike 2
I’m mike g from Tony’s
I sat next to you all night
Oh. Right, she said. you’re the creep
who was staring at my breasts.
What? No, I’m--
yeah, you’re mike g the creep
who reads nothin’ but confessional fluff
I know what you are.
But, you clapped.
I was being polite.
you laughed.
at you
Once when I was 5
I stuck a pencil up my ass
and jumped around like a bunny rabbit
I don’t know what it means.
But Tommy and Sauce think my shit’s good!
She shook her head slowly
left to right, left to right
No--they think you’re a fag
I’m gonna be the featured reader someday!
I’m mike freakin’ g!
No, you’re gonna be 86’d some day
soon if I have any say
and by the way, how’s that soft dick workin’ out for ya?
you should change your name to mike I’ll never get laid again.
Pathetic!
I used to play with my sister’s Barbie and Ken dolls
I’d press Ken’s plastic ass to my lips and kiss it over and over
I don’t know what it means.
Oh yeah--Strike 3












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Goddess of Bullshit

Surely I'll edit this. Either way, I stink therefore I am . . .


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Goddess of Bullshit
I weep my bullshit tears at your bullshit feet
offer bullshit prayers at your bullshit altar
I love you in my bullshit way and you love me--
my ex-wife said I was full of bullshit
which means I was full of you so of course
I couldn’t be faithful and since she left
we’ve had each other to our bullshit selves.
Consubstantial with you baby we both stink
to that bullshit high heaven that exists in
this bullshit universe where bullshit pays
much more than bullshit’s opposite which --
if history’s any bullshit judge--has never existed
Surely you’ll shit on the earth for centuries more,
but for me it’s not dust to dust,
but bullshit to bullshit. Read more!