Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Surrealism Sunday

I was asked a series of questions. My answers (in order):

1. Nocturnal. 2. Always, always, always. 3. Yes. 4. It hovers just above her fingertips. 5. 1991 (Grunge). 6. It flattens and fades. 7. It floats. 8. It's finished. 9. It circles three times and sinks. 10. It flourishes. 11. It thrums in the key of B. 12. Fire. 13. Contextualism. 14. Consumption. 15. Female. 16. Nancy Spungen. 17. On the bathroom tile. 18. A bloody ball of gauze. 19. A trowel. A tree. 20. Resting in the hollowed out crook of her clavicle. 21. On her lips. 22. Over her eyes. 23. Gemini. 24. This is not where it belongs. 25. This is not where it belongs. 26. Some great heist.

Then I made this:

Monday, April 19, 2010

Dar Mldoziezy (The Gift of Youth)

A poem I'm cleaning up. Blogger doesn't appreciate my formatting so it's uploaded as 2 screenshots... (Click to enlarge.)

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

In Progress: A Cautionary Tale about Life in the Mission

There once was a hipster from ‘Frisco
Who loved Fitzgerald, fucking, and disco.
She wore tights as pants
And blogged long vegan rants.
She proclaimed bio-pics were, “All shit, yo!”

She biked to her job in the city,
Struggling up hills on her fixie –
The Parliament Lights
And the way-too-small tights
Combined to make all this quite tricky.

Each tat on her sleeve was ironic.
Her memorized quips were sardonic.
She called everything gay,
(She’s kissed chicks – It’s okay!)
And her taste in pop art was LEGIT!

I met her one night at a party
In a warehouse graffitied and artsy.
She was talking mad trash
Through her Parliament’s ash
And I started to feel rather snarky.

Within earshot I launched my attack.
(I was hell-bent on making her snap.)
I’d derail all her trends,
Empty specters, and then
To my judgment-free world I’d go back.

“Punk is just so Disney Channel.
Pink argyle’s the new vintage flannel!
Vegan’s totes out of fashion,
Like Belle and Sebastian –
The cool kids are ALL smoking Camels.”

One by one, her friends nodded allegiance
To the bullshit I’d claimed “Now In Season!”
They abandoned the queen
Of their hip, fickle scene.
How I gloried and ate up their treason!

Cool’s a cruel mistress, dear reader –
It’s forever outsourcing its leaders.
Now the hipster queen’s life
With “Last Season” is rife…
So be cautious if ever you meet her.

Disclaimer: The viewpoints expressed in this poem do not necessarily represent those of its author (me.) For example, I sometimes wear tights as pants. Thank you.

Monday, April 5, 2010

Rejected Poems [[Part 1]]

Poetry Submission for Booth - KB, San Francisco, CA
BOOTH - A Literary Journal Sat, Apr 3, 2010 at 3:34 PM
To: KB
Dear Karen,

Thank you for submitting "Subbasement," "Documentary," "Out, Out," and "Old Windows vs. New" to Booth. Unfortunately, they do not fit our current needs.

All the best,
Poetry Editors

And so I give you, The Rejected Poems.


With four days of digging
you are found – fried pad of flesh
formerly responsible for:
e flat
last bit of batter in the bowl

Who is surprised
to see you like this, hands
having held much now unwound?
the side of no
face will know

You were laughing:
last explosive pause
full of floating nails and bad math
recipes cook


Documentary (A Triolet)

This time, I am with you as your ship sinks
on-screen. The planks shudder first, then shatter.
Inside the safe circle of your arm, I think,
“But this time I am with you!” As your ship sinks,
that too-fast crash re-hashed, you never blink –
So clear from here, the warning signs (but they don’t matter
this time.) I am with you when your ship sinks.
Onscreen, the planks shudder first. Then they shatter.


Out, Out

I took it out back and beat it clean,
watched each word explode and dangle -
lack-luster dust in a sunny stream.
Entire phrases rotated in the gleam before the breeze
sent them screaming down the alley.

The blank page blinked and preened, grateful
to have been set free. All opportunity again, it seemed.
Breathless from the beating, I didn’t see
that bits of this still clung to me.

At last, the sleep of ignorant relief.

Nouns seethed and sneaked from beneath my fingernails.
So quickly, they found that pristine page,
formed a chain and let it choke.


Old Windows vs. New

smashed my hand so bad I couldn’t
get it out alone -
so scared you weren’t home,
your name as moans and pistol.
watched the lines of my fingers refract
in all the wrong places on the other side
of the glass
and blast of pain I could hear in my canines
when you broke the window frame.

the nails that fall off on their own,
the nails I tug off with my teeth.

the thrumming pulp of my fingers under the napkin
under the kitchen table.

your swollen chest when you promise you won’t
always be around for things like this.