Tuesday, April 28, 2009

A Quote and A Poem


from THE MAITRI UPANISHAD

"There is something beyond our mind which abides in silence within our mind. It is
the supreme mystery beyond thought. Let one's mind and one's subtle body rest upon
that and not rest on anything else."



THINKING ABOUT POEMS, THINKING ABOUT DEATH

It pains him to fake words with drugs, while
The driver of the chariot pollutes its substance also false.
Until he is asleep he knows not that he must wake.
From body to body, immortal ties 
Disguise his impending invisibility as desire.
Born again in good and in evil, contrary lotions
Pulse like embryonic delusions.

Thus their condition falls into confusion, magnitudes
Of loss and bionic contusions.
Invisible chariots drive through lotions impending to wake. 
Words define pain with polluted substance, from
Body to body, drugs prepare again what's immoral and useful.
And he does not know desire until he is asleep, perhaps soon
To be born a contrary evil before the good is faked.

Monday, April 27, 2009

2 Poems



RYAN TWAT SUCKER

We snarl our own immensity.
Things pass away into wolves who only function.
We go through old age then death again.
This in truth be dat.
And though resting luxuriously in the park, he feels sad
About his unwisdom, feels bad about spilling oxygen.
Two hills forward, a plastic water bottle is sharpened
By the falcon's shadow.
Two hills upward, she laughs when its feathers
Fall upon her string bikini bottom.
There's light never born, outside all, deeply quiet
Like the breath of a helicopter's wing.
Two hills becoming, she enriches his posture
And animalistic zing.
Hope is beyond sorrow, hope is beyond what's free.
Go ahead and die for me.




I WORK, I FUCK

Lucky to be so dumb.
Lucky for poetry, lucky for rugs.
And there is neither day or night, nor what is or
What is not.
Caves under swallowed seas 
Host the hidden parting of all things.

Lucky to be so sound. 
Lucky for perfume, lucky for mounds.
And there is neither stream or desert, nor what was or
What was not.
Wandering calves realize their duty
While dancing upon conveyor belts of beef.

Cardinals bury rocks with spaces and splendor.
The glory of gruel flaps toward its far-away journey
Beyond darkness.
A beast in the basement, eating
Its lost gravy.
A refuge from life where life's no option, unconscious
As a razor beginning to bend.

Friday, April 24, 2009

T-Model Ford


I've been lucky enough to see this friendly, but crazy motherfucker play live. Also drank whiskey with him and nervously tried to keep up. Needless to say, I did not. He is one of the last greats. Beware.






Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Poem



JET HACKED

Statues stalking sight for sky
Piss onto our heads the moonlight as it's found, leaving
Cloudscapes insertable.

Certainty is cold and seems so sad, exorcised
Baby beef underneath my pants treats it with a brainy liberty by
Waving soiled gauze at bees.

And energy ceases to fry the fraught lichens court-side, mirrors
Glare at their rebounded walls big as tags
Explosively crinkling the holes forgetting we're human.

A virus rings, hellhounds bark cha-ching, particles
Bash into alternate realities premeditating a primitive need
For charity, for toiletries.

Where I work uncorks me and I fuck up, I
Fuck my desk and then the deaf kid two floors above fucks the
Slotted radiator that reminds him of Orthodox Easter grass.

Terrified, I'm on the phone, it's terrifying you're on the other line, and
In his great mercy, God has given us new birth into a living hope through
The resurrection of Jesus Christ from the feds.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Poem


I SEEK TO HURRY IT ON

Thousands line up to mourn the slain little hospital.
There are spiritual states we must risk everyday.
My judgements don't churn heirlooms like I'd planned.

And droughts discontinue decorative housewares.
No matter, we're just illusions called a shelf.
I fall back asleep, seeking to hurry it on.

She lays beside me as does the way of extinction.
Polarity helps us enter the enemy race.
We intend peaceful invasions, but reputations always precede

Scepters planting a wheel in place of this horror.
And I'm cursed to endlessly struggle against meager spurn.
Once one evil is fooled, chaos routinely follows another.

Giblet stones hang from the shoulders of an elevator shaft.
Purified relics assembling such oppressive flesh.
I fuse genders and pretend

I too grow out of hearts, earmarked by rituals which the goat rinses.
My passwords change, my sex it erases
Vulnerable thighs licking the undying rain.

And oceans overflow with some higher purpose.
The lands sink into weak pleasures and lust.
I've forever slept, chained to sorrows beyond destruction.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Poem


CRAFTING A BETTER BUM

Coming into this world, a view is no longer of any use.
Nothing arrives just as it is, a wind without nature.
To be awake within an instant, I think already of mistakes.
Death is what I find waiting, my original mind
Neither here nor there.
Moment to moment does not make anything, I will be
As I have always been.

And the catfish opens her mouth, creating a whirlpool
That sucks me up by the toes.
My mind darkens with mind habits.
My future begins once released from her vagina.
But I've got no place to go.
The catfish has nauseating rolls.
I make everything as if it's always been.

And I like it when she takes me from behind, prodding
Our one great wrong.
It's the only benefit of toiling for eons.
The catfish opens my mouth and inserts her girl cock, creating
A whirlpool that sucks up my ghost shit.
I see myself as real but somehow I am not.
I create my own shit but in many ways my shit has created me.

I've got nowhere else to go.
It's my one great nausea. 
I'm about to smoke a cigarette so I pull my pants down.
A crack whistles in the wind, letting God's mind thin.
Ghosts shit in my mouth, creating the catfish 
I take from behind.
There are many benefits from being real.

Moments pacify moments, my striving for original mind
Is a thought already full of mistakes.
I am awake for an instant, a future without use.
I come into being, the world's neither here nor where.
God's vagina darkens when she sees what's real within me.
Death makes waiting natural, and 
Nothing arrives like it's always been.

Strangely, I'm Obsessed

Willie Smith is a writer living in Seattle. He may be found attempting to blow himself through the generous support of many fine online journals, such as Red Peter and Thieves Jargon. We don't know each other so this ain't some rump-kissing plug, I just think Smith's verse is dope and deserving of a wider audience. Do yourself a favor by witnessing his deep shame here

Friday, April 10, 2009

Photography Feature


Crystal Folz @ Shoots And Vines has been kind enough to display a number of my photographs over the course of the next 3 days. Be entertained. 

Sunday, April 5, 2009

Santoka Taneda


"August 2, 1934. Sometimes a life where I want to die, sometimes a life where I can't die, sometimes close to the buddhas, sometimes one with the devils. Sorry to discover the animal in myself. Then at last the night is over, the morning sun good.... Today again, must get myself in shape, make preparations so I'm ready to die at any time."


(from For All My Walking: Free-Verse Haiku of Taneda Santoka, translated by Burton Watson, Columbia University Press, 2003)

Friday, April 3, 2009

7 Poems


POND

This ugliness rhymes with gave, physically speaking.
Advertising 30 seconds of free sex, I shit
And sell off the trans fat.
Where are these vices deduced from?
I think I'm gonna peak, come on, you
Gotta irrigate the fiends, raise
The dikes and what remains will tax 
My rabbit skin and steep tasty stews
While inventoried. 
It's like the way I make your eyes stalk multiplexes.
And as fish grow in the pond
We'll eat their buns too.



TRY IT DIET

Minds and mental things don't exist.
Only physical things exist and it doesn't matter.
Immediate knowledge is a truth.
It follows in harmony with the victorious stun.
Once we come near contact we are gone.
Death purifies the fleeting pleasures of the world.
In blotches I am teased, the fruit
Goes bad and sticks to my fly.
Teens quickly dispose of my baby, a sacrifice
To keep motion orderly.
I name this bastard art.
My nature includes everything except for souls.
The ground of existence is the self becoming.
A wound full of mirrors and running water.
The mind includes everything except its nature.
Only mental things dismiss the harmonious
Pleasures of the world.
Death comes immediately and hardly matters.



DON'T KNOW MIND

Shadows of other planets
Hunt for worlds like mine.
The sky gets ahead of me no differently
Than what the stars say.

I gun myself down to feel my insides work, or
Maybe to prove what's temporary
In the ridicule
That takes its pants off and chews.

I will suffer on this tray.
I will suffer through life's stay.
I will suffer as if I'm a gay
Dressed up like some moldy paint thinner huffer.

Shadows wander without panic, hunting
For hopes and cares to buffer.
When I say "stars" my pants come off,
Lacking awareness of any project.



ODD RECTUM

Give up on reality.
Experience the spaces outside of the tug.
Give up on experience.
Reality is limited by the spaces beyond the jug.
I do not want what I think
The same
As what I think I want.
I'm devoted to God but without
My soul, God is without life.
I give into carnality, my
Logic likened to venereal bling.

Whatever has smoke necessarily has fire.
Matter reprehends every idea in the world.
The hill it smokes, thus the hill
Has hills.
These words cannot acquire
Their meaning through convention.
Many identities harbor how the I is born.
There may be more than one possession in my body.
Denying this world speeds release.
I'm suddenly illuminated once I wipe it.



DRUM

I want to bang your dark drum.
I’ll give kits another ringing hit.
A cloudy bay in cuffs, unleashed by
The evil of my solitude
Beckoning its spastic bloom.

I’m beaten through the violence.
I give myself another reasonable hit.
My agony becomes valued once
It reaches a soul reversed
By your blissful commotion.

I hope I can be the hate in you.
I’m exaggerating the reproductions we rank.
A pale gray or light
Yellow devil.
Strange mountains of violet slime.



CLICK, SWIPE, WIN, DIE

A heavy smoker with a broken ticker
Cradles his corpse online.
Automatically attracted, the battlefields roast up
Hippos and gorillas.
Withholding death, only the ground occupies.
Numbness changes little.

Ice drifts step back from
The trains falling asleep, farting.
Twenty more wombs to go, so
Repeat my characters, my clams
And kings.

Their meat sticks sprout, and I’m moving
And feeling weird, like a neck
Purchasing a toad, like
The batteries
Buzzing in a wolf.

My image is how I think.
This image is yours to click.
I’m out collecting firewood for guns
I cannot swipe.
There’s dairy flashed under doors
High in the air, winning.



NEAR NOTHING

Egg stain, the decoded
Crucifixion becomes
Her peach
A few weeks late.

Curled flame, mystical
Muscles frequently choose
Golden words
In heaven and in turds.

I long for the center
Of water’s sister.
Both now and never, I’m
Nothing near.