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

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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 I’m an outdated reference.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.

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…