Sunday, August 26, 2007

Buy These Shits

This has been a great week for abstract hip-hop,
New music from M.I.A. and Aesop Rock.

So knock on the windows of the jetset's Hummers,
Or shake up the soil and the earthworm's slumber.

If the river's high then jump off the bridge,
Cut your bazooka teeth on Aesop's new mountain ridge.

And remember bitch, 20 dollars ain't shit to you,
So snap these up, they take plastic on iTunes.

Monday, August 20, 2007

Once Drawn, Now Drowning

-What are we gonna do with all this earth?
-Give it to the meek.

-Clint Eastwood and Lee Marvin

Soft flows the flat leaf floor,
Of riverbeds, long run dry.
Ear to the ground,
Cool, soft sand soothes the worry.

Don’t let the shadow of leafless tree canopies frighten.
Must there be no ground to scatter or cover,
Might there be a might and a will to slip off soft cover.

Not a well, not a hole in the ground.
Let “trip and stumble” float to its destination.
Callous trees blamed by carved hearts and initials.

There once drew water here,
For animals, for none.
The strong current, unforgiving,
So careless to have dove in.

Sunday, August 19, 2007

Il Sommo Poeta

If you haven’t, well should you?
Is there a clamor to be held aloft on shoulders,
Hoisted in the depths of a protected painting,
Protected by time, for once old enough then beyond reproach.
I’d rather not be protected by history.
I’d rather not be protected by anything that will become me.
I’m no entry in a half-assed history book.
No surface disturbing biography,
That enlightens like shadows in footprints on the moon.

A soul wind blows captured shod-song
And personal whispers,
Answered and unanswered prayers alike,
Animals slipping on loose rocks,
The silence of the lover leaving and not looking back,
The waterfall roar shooting barrel-riding thrill-seekers over her edge,
And someone saying “it’s time for you to leave” to someone already gone,
And the whimpers of terrified little ones.
The soul wind blew these all into hurricanes and typhoons.

Il Sommo Poeta casts stepping stones for us to follow into an abyss.
You can’t be as good as him or them,
You followed the stones too.

Ill poet interlude:

Trap me in prestige,
Wrap me in a blanket grown cold from the last who used it.

Whether I asked for it or not is immaterial.

Once I wanted to be a big word.
Then a small word.
Then a period at the end of a sentence
Then a period piece at the end of a period
Then timeless
Then nothing

End Interlude.

She vibrates elegance and obscurity into air where vibrations have been stilled,
But can return the room to an absolute,
Shalom, young angel.

Shalom held on high at the highest point in this natural world.
Shalom held on high at the highest point in the next world.
Shalom held on high at the pointed shoes of the lowest point of Death Valley.
And no wonder that is a place in America close to the far coast.

And hold on to the scratched patches of green,
I will unbutton my shirt to the bottommost button
And I will walk toward the end of [unnamed] street
And I will take no notice of people pondering aloud
About why I’m so indecisive about my body-décor.

When in reality, I hopes I sinks to the bottom of the Marianas Trench,
You’re there to remind me that it has already happened,
And at the whims of the current I am snagged on a cliff
Suspended, weightless as it were, in the dark,
Looking up forever and downward forever,
Wondering if a ship on her Maiden Voyage will come tumbling through the brine,
And if she will be close enough for me to grab of her wreckage.

Sunday, August 5, 2007

Birds and Spiders

Crack me open and fill me with crack.
The ghetto is a broke soft-soled shoe.
And look out for heavy editing.
They say numbers don't lie,
Except when the numbers go against the grain.

I'm going to pad my bra
And I'm going to clap overloudly and overlongly.
And I'll do my damndest to annoy the piss and wine right out of ya.

I will not vote.
Why should I tell those engulfed in flame that they are on fire?
There is no safety in numbers,
There is no power.

We are not la Neustra Senora de Atocha nor la Amistad,
And we are not Mel Fisher nor slaves.

We just lie on our bellies in springs and rivers,
Hoping beyond hope that we don't end up feeding birds and spiders.
So let me scare the hell and wine right out of ya.

Wednesday, August 1, 2007


I will not bandy words with philosophers,
They can be the same as false prophets.
I’ve been a philosopher before,
I nearly killed my friend with words.

There are greater ones than those great ones,
But instinctively they all try to be like the other ones.
I have been the other one and the unnamed,
And both are as anonymous as the great.

I once heard, “I was a lover before this war“,
And I will be again.
They’ve given up on Jesus where I’m going,
But still crucify him where I’ve been.

All will have to walk through the fire,
And all will have to be burned.
I can’t say I’ve been burned yet,
But meekly felt the heat off the fire.

Being obscure isn’t a sin,
Neither is being known.
Loyalty is heartfelt and given over and over again,
Disloyalty is showing colors to people you can’t see.

There are no spaces to occupy here,
You either are or you are not.
I’ve been and I have ceased to be,
I’m accepting both as a moral possibility.

Can’t you scream the blues at the empty world,
Or do you have to have someone listening?
When you do something do you imagine someone is watching secretly,
And do you act accordingly?

There’s a person living with a heart big enough for you,
And either you’ll leave them, or they’ll leave you.
It’s a great big city to see and be seen,
You’re leaving tranquility again.

Cell Phone Poem

Sorry about the long pause between blogs, I've been writing hard on two books and formulating a segueway for a third, I will be in New York soon.

Here's a cell-phone poem I wrote in a bookstore:

I don't want to paint words on canvas anymore.
But rather the underside of trains,
Speeding by in the night.