[04 Feb 2008|05:16pm]   when his mother leaves the den, the pup stares after (sometimes forever) and learns nothing outside the changing ways of hunger. and he calls out her name (sometimes forever) in faithful attempts to lead her home. YOUR NAME, MY ONLY SOUND. catharsis, anemnesis: coyotes howling out their loneliness, mistaking others  as echoes.

[19 Jun 2007|01:40pm] impossibly contented, i have discovered the appropriate manner in which to live in a perpetual state of orgasm.  nothing moves me in any direction. in this unwavering mindset of euphoria, i am no longer able to distinguish between victory and catastrophe. how is this possible? you might ask. what are you on right now? much like these inquiries, i've been coming for years.

[12 Jun 2007|11:58am] like two keys pressed together to make a simple sound, these birds of a feather clipped and tethered to the ground watch a third wait on the wire, hear its song sent spinning 'round: what am i without you?  the echo and the avalanche the cost of the crime the captain claims in arrogance the ship's severed ties the morning dove, i learn to love  the worm inside the apple of my eye

[03 Oct 2006|09:48am] this journal may not be updated  for long periods of time as i am working hard / hardly working on my book. if you're interested in that, let me know and i'll keep you informed. 7 // comment

[03 Oct 2006|09:46am] the morning thaw: like the damp chick crawling from its egg into a world so loud and strange, be still and silent, unafraid. you're watched by eyes that never change.

[02 Aug 2006|12:36am] while i may spread my arms and smile, i wish and wait for more brilliant wings. and l'Artiste pulled the sun from the morning sea, but i slept while this was happening. the sparrow's songs still birth inside my mouth, yet they find no voice with which to sing. and i might share my mother's eyes, but she sees jesus christ in everything.

[27 Jun 2006|03:14am] shimmy up the tallest tree and, baby, tell me what you see. does the horizon bare some shiny teeth or spread its canopy arms and smile so familiar?

[04 Jun 2006|01:55am] i am dandelions sprouting up like the king of pop prowling 'round the playground. i am james brown making that same sound [get up! get on up]. i get down. [get up! get on up]. i get down from green vines keeping time to the pendelum's thin, twisting beat. i am twin sisters in heat. i am helicopter seeds spinning o'er bustling bug streets. i am chandelier swingers still clinging by strong teeth. i am steamy shower singers and a dream between sheets...

[30 May 2006|10:50pm] ...but do not stumble and sway beneath these days of stormy weather. rather, steady yourselves above steps of blinding faith. for if we should let fall upon deaf ear this quiet call to mutiny, be most assured that we will one day wade waist-deep into the surrounding seas of doubt, standing side by side, our starving eyes filled with the sight of such rumored Love and promised land.

[24 Apr 2006|12:08am] where's the click-clack of the fabulous cavalry? the harlots and the heroes mr. media promised me? we see those aerosol gang signs crossed out and covered up by CNN headlines. the filthy waves finger the skyline of bonafide hustlers turning graves into goldmines. alley 1: "the rich are rolling over in their beds of fifty dollar bills. and the rest?" alley 2: "they drowned like rats! we watched, we saw, we taped it from our digital hills." we're still listening for that serenade of hooves upon concrete. we're still digging through the trash and glass that avalanched our streets.

[21 Apr 2006|02:38am] le coup de Sa brosse, le travail de Ses mains. bakersfield, california.  photo by cathy young the stroke of His brush, the work of His hands: a shade of Love more brilliant than i could ever understand. and as i strut around my garden, planting pride and vain demands, i gaze upon a field of flowers that was not there when i began. and these words spring up from the petals, blow by me like desert sand- we know the footsteps of our father. we bloom much brighter than you can.

[13 Mar 2006|10:04pm] oh, but love! this morning, standing in front of the mirror with an ironic beard of shaving cream, a weight was lifted and everything made sense to me; you are lucky to have left me when you did.

[13 Mar 2006|04:32pm] we’ll claw and climb the warm mountain of trash and shark attack victim's limbs, unlatch our jaws under the sewage fountain. these dry heaves go on for miles. tin can- yes, tin can- tidal waves will cut the hooves from our horses, dig and fill and cover our recycled graves. here she comes with the cake; frosting and flies on your face. surprise rips open your mouth and confetti fills this place. the mutual act of celebration, drowning in a pool of head nods and high fives. since 1956, your day of birth has been ceremonially witnessed by friends, co-workers and wives. in the most ritualistic of manners, a surprise party makes everyone's year worthwhile. the promoters of said party have the most creative goodie bag of options. they may 1) hide behind furniture 2) turn out the lights 3) kill you in your sleep but they must, without question, screech "surprise" like cocaine-stuffed trains when least expected and least welcomed. end. things don't happen 'less we let them happen. things don't happen 'less we let loose on each other. there's a fruit bat flying 'round the domes of our heads, pinning back our ears, delivering a fed-ex'd electric shock till our howling mouths stop snapping shut. now we know the difference 'tween master and stranger. now we know the difference 'tween true friends and neighbors. sign on the dotted teen's chest and a military man will chew up your store credit till you learn to love and consider death a privilege. buyer’s market (n) - a market in which more people want to sell than want to buy. example: strip clubs, orphanages, flea markets, orphan flea strip clubs. the absolute lowest of the low; credit card carrying pack rats of the shopping mall wearing jeans that cost more than their hopeful father’s child support checks. we’ve made impossible plans to scratch and scale our way up garbage mountain, ride the stilts of the flamingo ferry and shine the teeth of the homeless hordes. we’re going to sweep and scrub the skyscrapers from this city. we’ve got big plans to lighten your load. we’ve got big plans to light up your world. and the act of religion-based terrorism takes a turn for the worse; priests are encouraged to temporarily remove their hands from the pants of innocent children and raise them to the lord. i’ve watched you tan yourself beneath the neon lights of the vegas strip, smile big and admire your newly cancerous white leather skin. don’t you wish that you could buy back time, pay off your loans and kids? don’t you wish that bricks of gold could build that fucking bridge? “we don’t go down like that. we are bathing in our debt till we wrinkle like dead presidents.” so we set sail for the bulimic bronze coast; sunbathers snapped shut in their hermit crab coats. and everything was beautiful and everything was quiet till the billboards shouted, “fill your nest with the ones you love most! keep ‘em damn close while you’re giving up the ghost!” you could hear the ocean in the hollow prosthetic hearts strewn about the streets. beached whales were scribbling suicide notes in the sand with their barnacled fins. the following is a schizophrenic telling of the uprooting of the strongest mechanical tree, the carving out of the most busy, bustling city. the sights and sounds of the l.a. shell.

[07 Feb 2006|05:51pm] surgeon:  patient?   medic:  it's a voice trapped in the telephone,              the comfort of a dial-tone,              the sex that makes a house a home,              the strength it takes to die alone.   surgeon:  symptoms?   medic:  she speaks to me in heart attacks;              the language of a love that lasts,              the vowels of an arching back,              the value of a photograph.   surgeon:  i'm afraid that there's no cure for that.   [silence]

[03 Jan 2006|10:33pm] so when each smile is stopped short and the nights grow longer than they've ever been, remember- i may lie awake without you, but you sleep alone with him.

[21 Dec 2005|04:48am] comments. 29 // comment

[21 Dec 2005|02:49am] i'm going to stumble through the streets tonight with a tongue tasting of wine. walking an arrow-straight line, counting my steps the whole time. and i don't stop taking strides on numbers ending in nine, or any odds, for that matter, because i'm afraid that i might find that my luck could run out or i'll lose what's left of my mind. but with sixes, i'm fine. the evens are all right. and as i worry myself just as much as i like, i see three boys on the sidewalk, laughing and riding their bikes. and as they pedal their hearts out like they might race father time, i get to thinking they'll win. i place my bets on those kids whose future's brighter than mine. whose futures gleam like a goldmine. and as i distance myself from those dearest to me, i write down every thing that i touch, taste, or see. because if i'm going to rely on my own memory, i won't know what to believe. because eventually they'll leave. now i drink like i've always got someplace to go, but i'll lie down on the floor here and sleep quite alone. and in the dozens of faces whose names i don't know, i pretend that i'm home and that her love's gonna grow. you'll see there's no perfect answer to the equation of life; you give and you give till you give up and die. but if you keep speaking the truth every once in a while, you're bound to sleep with a smile. one that reaches for miles and miles and miles...

[13 Dec 2005|12:26pm] photo by kali benjamin

[13 Dec 2005|12:24am] the girl strapped in the ambulance begs the medic for a second chance.  and when hopelessness just won't make sense, he swears to do what he knows he can't.  and she thinks she's saved.  in the hospital on 23rd, her mother won't believe the the things she's heard.  "she was beautiful, that little girl."  oh, the lies they told to comfort her.  "it'll be okay." sometimes, right is wrong.  and we write it down in a poem or song, but it's none less cruel. wear that bullseye on your back, my love, and know you don't belong.  you're invincible. when all the picture frames are cracked and bent and the photographs are soaking wet, you'll realize then that burying things seems for the best.  but you can't forget.  and if you're ever trapped inside this place like you can't rid yourself of some awful taste, watch that woman's thumbs rub her daughter's face till there's nothing left.  and you'll think you're saved.

[01 Dec 2005|04:09pm] photo by kali benjamin have i ever loved and left you wanting better than my best? am i your favorite building, or am i just higher than the rest?

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