Category Archives: Poetry

My Drinks So Tropical

 Serve my drinks tropical my minks are fakes
 but I sport them on ice skating rinks
 my shit is Ace like palm springs in a calm breeze
 when I'm on trees, kick back 420 degrees
 injection like antifreeze a soldier's repreive
 the war overseas and between the sheets
 my heart is a trick and it's up my sleeve
 life goes up in smoke while the jokers joke
 in the comedy clubs with all of my buds
 laughing like Trump ain't president
 that chump is a traitor to the nation
 shit can't think about that right now
 chasing good vibrations just a night owl
 with a tight scowl no paper bag I can't fight out
 man, give me a minute, I'm in it like Popeye
 after a can of spinach I pick apart
 the ticking clock, trimming the stock
 pins on the darts and ships in the dark
 looking for a port of call in this hopeless squall
 my pocket was picked at the disco ball
 but I keep dancing like a mannequin
 touched with magic somersault back flip
 every crash landing's so theatric  
 back stage panorama good guy grammar
 west coast straight syrup like French Toast
 My crew so comatose get mistaken for ghosts
 Gary Coleman with the different strokes...

 

 

 

 

I Dissolve in the Cracks of My Teeth

This is my last edit.

We’re all just skating along.
Anyway.

I think.

It’s just accidental traffic.
Incidental homeware.
Incremental wear.
Anti-intellectual war.

This world… I mean.

A plundered sunset with no returns,
I forgot where my horse was hitched.
Took a sip of water from a witch’s bottle.

Tilting windmills switching positions
beguile this big ol’ eye of mine…

The desert mirage,
those shimmering lights,
like the stars are all upside down.
Las Vegas bound and gone and headlong
into a new oblivion, diamond bedazzled
panties in the backseat, the sky like fish scales.
We made it home in under four hours.

I texted u back
lol

Am I the only one with Pan Am eyes?
Transcontinental dreams?

The frozen pond
we’re skating on…

A screenshot
of my smile
revealed the celery
between my teeth.

My astronaut walk got old;
in space everybody’s got that
back-walking, back-talking,
Sasquatch lost-in-the-mall-
I-took- a-job-as-Santa Clause
vibe.

Ya know?

Thursday at the Waldorf, Friday in Cabo,
looking at myself like, ‘who are ya bro?’

Hashtag flashback: Marlboros in a backpack
my shit sticks — sensitive like chick flicks.
You a space cadet a fucking waste of breath
I take a left I’m outta here fuck the atmosphere
straight jacket stitched from velvet and reindeer
this grass skirt made of Astroturf
I remember yesteryear.

I don’t floss I dissolve
in the cracks of my teeth
amid the ego and beef.

Can I come over?
Sure.

I listen to Nirvana
on repeat.

Jeff Goldblum

We don’t want to look at ourselves
so we look at our selfies
I want to get drunk, old and wealthy
mail me checks to the Florida keys
be chilling with my cat Monkee
pull his tail he gets spunky
pull my tail I get funky
the crunk be stinking up my teepee
remember me from the Stinky B’s
lyrically little loony cuz’ I got no chills
dude in the back in the espadrilles
pour me a glass I’m gonna spill
run ’round real fast like Benny Hill
motherfucker don’t know I pay my bills
and dues I got dudes in the cruise
and the Earth moves so smooth
it’s like Mikey J doin’ a moonwalk
that cartoon talk don’t fly in the real
like blooms of gold hold onto my pole
baby doll I’m outta control
misfit with a fifth of Titos
and a big fat wad…

It’s Independence Day
Oh My God (3)

in a maze of waze…

with these dot dot dots… emojis… impassioned texts…
torrents and streaming tweets… screaming bleeps…
a holy terror of interconnected never there… never aware…
forms a fog… deforms our perceptions… our emotions
stare at a mirror reflection… filtered through a million pixels
even a trillion pixels you never get a real picture
I eavesdrop on my own thoughts… my iPhone’s unlocked…
I live brave and foolish… do stupid shit for the likes…
It’s a brave new world with the same old assholes
But another model… with some tinkering… a new me…
I’m all about this season’s upgrades… blue eyes new kicks…
from flip phones to hovering drones… smile for the camera clicks…
My panorama fills every frame of this stuttering eye…
I’m remembering this memory as it’s happening…
In this maze of waze I’m glad I stumbled into you…

Food in a Box

I promised you a garden and a bird house,
but the birds never came, and neither did you.
And the newspapers landed on the doorstep
with the thud of a third war.

They’re working on a machine that can record your dreams.
I’m working on a dream that is worth being recorded.

Waited in line for an oil change.
Nobody gets out of their cars anymore.
Everybody’s waiting for bad news.

The guy cutting my sandwich never looked up.
We both watched the knife slide through 21st century bread…
breathing in the plastic as my credit card swipes right
like an old Tinder flame without a last name.

If it feels like we’re in a civil war it’s because we always have been…
I live in Los Angeles with the YouTube stars and Has Beens…
We’re born into News Feeds and start building our own aquariums…
From delirium we form customized holograms and emoji hearts…

And I got one I can’t send over the airwaves.
It lives in my chest and weighs a ton.
And it’s up to me to carry alone.
Through the war and the digital displays.

I can read a book on the dock in Barcelona but still my Spanish
collapses under one como estas? from bonita oros de Felicias
(this is where you laugh)
I could put on a puppet show, but still we’d never know
who was pulling the strings. Sometimes I think I’ve died,
and this is just a dream.

(Violins and humming and maybe an Icelandic chorus?)

This is where everything changes. This is where as an artist
you make a bold, big move; if I was a singer I’d scream
like Mick Jagger; if I was Jackson Pollack I’d drink a fifth
and throw my shit at the wall. But I’m me, so you never know
what I’m listening to at the Aerosol Ball (by the Felice Brothers).
And I can make these inside jokes all day.

Because art like life is only interesting in the surprise.
It could be a fresh snowfall it could be a flood.
It could be flowers for your birthday or stepping in mud.
My life is a long staccato series of sunset and sunrise.
My life is a full metal jacket rifle…

(this is maybe where the drums come in)

And if you could make any dream come true… would it be the one
where your bed is a magical raft you can float to the stars on
and space isn’t cold at all, and the wind blows through her hair,
and the moon isn’t made of cheese but made of music and melody?
Would it be that one?

I once thought it was impossible.

Because we’re vestibules filled with medical edibles and hentai
we unravel in a scramble for safety from bombs that aren’t falling
flirting with the comic because the drinks were free
my blimp read art of star what a fool…

(put in sounds of a jet flying overhead… trust me)

You wonder if it’s cosmic…

You found my diary and looked for a TL;DR
We took our drinks underneath the lemon tree.
Jumped from an open window with Parachute sheets.
My scarf flapping in a downloaded wind hangs me
from telephone wires like old Nike Cortez
Diamond Opal Imperial Topaz…

This hot air balloon has no fight with the wind…
I blow toward the sound of your voice saying my name.
My heart is filled with helium and makes me talk funny.
I take my photo in a booth and eat my food in a box.

 

img_2470

Today

All day I spilled coffee on myself.
All day I cursed Donald Trump.
All day I missed my girl.
All day the world was against me.
Or maybe I was just an inch behind and a second late?
Maybe at the beginning of the day I never did wake?
Maybe this world never did even exist?
Wouldn’t that suck?

I saw a man yelling at a newspaper stand today.
He was screaming about the news, I suppose.
That’s all of us these days. But he didn’t have any shoes.
He was singing a tune. I didn’t know the song.
He wasn’t there long. Then I was gone.

I was in North Hollywood mailing a letter.
Side by side a Home Depot and Best Buy.
Across from a Boost Mobile and wrong directions…
like a white reggae band. Just humming.

the mountain becomes a sea as time
gently rubs everything into liquid
my face becomes a photograph
as my mind hides everything.

Go on written on my arm
Tunneling ant farms
subway getaway

I was in
the valley

today

41 and an hour older

The ambulance came wailing little letters turned into words and rainbows fell
into colors across streets where the chimney sweeper forgot to sweep
I come naked into the semicolon semi-sober; 41 and an hour older,
I’m not from Illinois, but I can make noise, California boys like me smile
at the sunshine little wiggles when the night comes tickling the middle,
drinks are spilling, the gentle laughter filling up the bar makes me nostalgic
for when I was sixteen throwing pitches at the batter and interest rates never mattered I’m Amsterdam-bound lathered in lattes and lackadaisical attitudes
dazzled by the star splattered happening above my love 24 karot shinning
like a universe spiraling disco ball style into the future and my cares
drifting away like fleeing life rafts from a sinking ship
I hop on a rat and float to shore.