Lay Down with the Jesters

My Mayan ruins… my life in stitches… take this photograph of me smiling.
Every man is an island. My jacket is rent in Mexico City. My disposable camera heart.
Take this image and remember me for my jokes. My teeth are strong.
My phone chimes with hollow alerts… we live for little moments of validation
while life passes us by… my Google Home answers my roaming calls.
You can buy yourself out of anything. Praying to a bottom shelf God.
Lost in plot points and soundbites and applying effects to a simple smile…
Extra ample simple syrup we drown in a teardrop that’s not even ours.
My cat bites me like he hates me. I sit in a crumbling building mumbling faintly.

First poem or last poem or one in between who knows? I’m no sugarcoat donut
misspelled sunset I caught late, rode the last wave, my heart is a pillowcase.
Take it in your hand to suffocate, my throat is the ultimate polka dot. What a bull’s-eye!
What a somersault alibi she wrapped up in that night. Spread thin like mayonnaise light.
Lay me down with the lambs, let me sleep with the queens, in the barn with the jesters. Smile at the morning. Clouds like gravity blankets. Dissolving into the pancake simulacra. Wipe the hashtag from my eye. Shake the egg so the yolk is woke. I can not tell a lie.
10:15 AM. I’m your favorite pagan. Pillaging your wiggling body. Shit. Let’s just stay in.

These ancient dreams drip and percolate the sound of my grief catch in my teeth.
Turning the technological tides like a flurry of flotsam the soul is squeezed dry. Rip tide.
Put ink into my skin and hide. Personal hideaways are dreams of mine… eyes of Iodine. Lip to lip we touch time. Suspended in the grip of life I let love slip like a disc in my spine. I’ve touched the sparkle and shine that left me stumbling in the brine. Fumbling my line.
Up to my thighs in grime. Like an asteroid I can end it all. One phone call. Upend it all.
Like a frog hopping tall dropping cards at the mall, my shutter speed full of unbelievable
tales of never-ending joy and despair… a spoke in the cosmic wheel that makes me squeal with terror and delight. An over-cerebral zebra at the watering hole drinking in his ego.

At the point of no interest I stand on the precipice with my selfie stick.

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Pining For Skywriting

I don’t write no more.
I don’t fight no more.
I just lay down and die some more…
Got me spitting out love songs, ya dumb Pisces.
Got me sitting in a tumbler tumbling in the high seas.
My brain was never great but it’s getting dumb and dumber.
A stranger in a strainer fuck that one is the strongest number.

Do you remember the day I told you I’d never stray?
Do you remember the brake lights the night I drove away?

I tell people I no longer write.
I tell people I no longer sing.
I never did in the first place I mean.
I tell them I’m one of those floating human beings…
Sixteen going on forty-something what a wonderful dream.
Baby pink first thing we do when we come into the world is scream.

I’m not a scary man I like my life medium rare
with a side of Ginger and Marianne.

Give my your electrocuted rain-soaked puppy dogs to hold.
Give me a dimple made of Astroturf I’ll make sure it’s asshole proof.
Give me a place to hide and a wave to ride I’ll give you an amazing alibi.

Just get me out of here.
Get me a stout of beer.

My resting state is always on the run.
My brain is like a hummingbird.
My hands are browsers running through your hair.
Daughter of an anvil son of a semi-automatic gun.

Anybody that sells you the world thinks they’re the center of it.
Sign up for my newsletter I’ll tell you how to get better.
I’ll tell you how to get perfect sitting on your perch of shit.

It’s 2018 and I’m not waiting and I’m not writing.
I’m just whining I’m like everybody else pining
for skywriting.

Christmas 2017

It’s Christmas and nobody was at the Car Wash so I went through quickly and wished “Merry Christmas” through a closed window. It’s the day we get with family and drink alcohol with breakfast. It’s the day the entire country shuts down for a pagan tradition. It’s the day we celebrate when a boy without a father discovered a message from a princess on a droid.

The super-industrial dryer blows the water off my window. It smears into progressively smaller drops until the final one is wiped from existence. I drive out without vacuuming because I don’t want to get out of my car. I drive down La Brea, the only car on the road.

I play the game where I pretend I’m the last human left in the city. Everywhere I go I’m the only one. I wonder what I would do? And if it would matter without anybody else to see me do it? If a tree falls without social media, does it make a sound?

Playing Tennis on an empty court, the balls just pile up against the opposite wall, a yellow ring at the base of a green mesh fence. I’m sure after a few months I wouldn’t even use the free car washes.

I get home and clean up to go out for a Christmas meal. The city is hazy and the news is shitty. Donald Trump is being a Grinch and confrontational, throwing a presidential tantrum on Twitter… such is our world now.

George Clooney gave 14 of his friends a million dollars. I wonder what I would do with a million of George Clooney’s money.

It’s Christmas in Los Angeles. My friend is waiting for me with spiked cider.

I’m so grateful for my friends.

 

silly little stilt walker

A crevice apart; splitting hairs and sharpening darts…
A neon sign blinks, when the last softball team clinks
their glasses… all asses, holding our soup hands out.
For stew or ghoolash; when did you see me smile last?
I was a gladiator, Scrabble champ. I’m going places,..
I’ll send you a postcard from the goddamn mountaintop.
I’m a son-of-a-gun, hole-in-one, dimple in my cheeks.
I’m your humble parakeet. Mermaids and layaway plans.
Burn through journals. Hard-boiled gargoyles are so loyal.
Lay down like a speed bump; cut down like a tree stump.
Snuggled up in the back of a banged-up red pickup truck.
Silly little stilt walker, come be my apple orchard manager.
We’re extra everything extravaganzas… George Costanzas.
I’m half vowels; an easy score. I’m transcribed from afar,
from the back of an oblong bar singing Smith songs…
I could be the boy on the moon or your cornstalk menace.
All the seasons at once, every year… I’m a LA angel.
With all the proclamations of a drunken preacher,
I drink orange juice and make sure the cat is fed.
Ain’t this a diamond mine of dynamite.
Ain’t this a drag…

This skinny dance avalanche
life of a hologram…

One or two
more of them
is all I ask.

 

Colliding Particles

charcoal on the walls
diamonds in my lungs
troubleshooting on a whim
getting high on self-doubt
overloaded by memes
cancelled by debt
intermediary friends
smoking pipe dreams

crate and barrel roll into the street

All hail the burger king

Comedy in threes but tragedy only takes one

Colliding particles dancing at the show
window down California sun
Megawatt Instagram smile
Riding on a camel’s back
fingernails cropped out
in the corner doing poet work
living through the dissolution of truth
documenting every feeling
till they’ve all lost all meaning

The word counts swell
poems fail
ships set sail

Dissecting texts till your heart collapse
translating tremors till they taper

Battle Scar Galaxy

I’m an astronaut on rotting cheese. I’m six feet deep buried to my knees.
The whole whirling world is whorls, earthquakes, hurricanes and whores.
I’m a snail afraid of the razor’s edge with a 21st century laser in my hand…
Shifting through the gigabytes… drenched by dripping fuel from jet planes.
I’m a little like Buck Rogers… but nobody’s heard of Buck Rogers anymore.
I’m not sure I know who Buck Rogers is anymore. I’m an outdated reference.
I’m a little like a velvet Elvis… star of my one-man self-centered crisis center.
This small world of shopping malls, selfish selfies, and soft-served hearts
has me transfixed and entranced — my pants fall down doing a white boy dance.
I’m going to a party of mimes. Everybody’s eyeballs pointed sideways nowadays.
We explain our strange feelings by copy-and-pasting other’s strange feelings.
I’m a crustacean on a Central Coast pier. I’m crawling out of a Cubic Zirconia.
It’s a diamond made of radio waves and gaslight. Carefully curated masks.
Gorging at the News Feed trough, living through a paranoid pretend presidency.
Not sure if I’m the brave puppet or the cave shadow, or if it’s mental telepathy;
I’m paintball splatter… but it don’t matter in this beautiful Battle Scar Galaxy.

Speaking into a Cricket

there’s a shining sea,
somewhere beyond plains
of shimmering billboards
and bumper stickers
and shit towns,
and if you come around,
you can hear the sound
of the bald eagles
fighting the sea gulls,
California people
wetting their whistles
in the wind,
growing opium poppies,
taping old sitcoms
we are
the lost albatross,
raised on fear factors
and disappearing factories,
we are
the blast from the past…

Didn’t even get a license plate
Lighting incense, acting like shit’s just–
Car alarms and disco balls
Earthquake faults
underneath the asphalt
consumed in an avalanche
at an avocado pit stop
a stethoscope on the velvet rope
anthrax in your syntax
sweet poetry in the envelope
doing somersaults on trapeze
trap doors, I always trail off
at the ellipses…

My head’s a half gallon of Hennessey
(but I don’t drink the stuff)
Got leftover Halloween candy in a junk drawer
Got pinched in the nuts by that drunk dwarf
(make myself laugh like crazy Uncle Mort)

If there was one word you could put on your tombstone?
Oh, fuck it, I don’t like that stuff anyway.
What? The mush. Oh, I forgot.

My grandfather died 28 years before I was born.
But he worked on the trains. Riding them in the midwest.
That’s why I wonder if I have train whistles in my blood.

They say print is dead. I write this on an Apple.
Eve is on Instagram. I swear I’m a righteous man.

This is such a nice cave of winddings… living in L.A…
get my smoothie from the dive thru… speaking into a cricket

I got a pocket watch tower.

Change my email signatures every month.