Thursday, March 8, 2012

Voyeur, Redondo Beach


“Down by the ocean, it was so dismal”

I see her, the fat woman on a dented turquoise boogie board.
No, I don’t slobber all over myself with words like “Rubenesque”, that’s demeaning.
Certainly ridiculous in this scenario.
The gulls sound like sirens, even with French fries in their beaks.
The woman is just regular old fat, not “voluptuous” or anything.
Momish, I suppose.
She resists rhythm, lyricism, completely.
Almost.
Something about her reminds me of the last contact corona of an eclipse.
She is really getting pretty far out now.
Purposeful.
This occurs to me too, dimly.
Does anybody else see her/care?
Hm.
I consider fetching the tanned, muscular 20-something off his stilted throne, but don’t.
Maybe she would want me to?
Oh, wow, she just about ate it pretty hard there in a swell.
Distant.
What does it sound like that far out?
I bet we’re making eye contact right now, she and I.
Pretty sure.
The riptide sometimes feels like the tug of a willful child.
A disproportionately strong one.
There is a sense of wanting.
Is it nice to be wanted?
Must depend on your personal situation.
I look around.
My head feels not unlike that buoy out there.
Usually I would eschew the double negative.
You know, just say “like” instead.
This situation demands a little care.
Funereal?
What will my brother say when I tell him about this?
Smirking “natural selection”, but that’s not fair.
It’s wrong, imprecise, you’d have to see it for yourself.
Oops, there she goes, slips out of view.
Did she go under, or just pass the horizon line?
When you hear a song and there’s a tone that makes you physically roil with sadness.
It’s primal.
Defies description to the point that I might need adverbs, which I never use.
Beyond the horizon, I think.
What do you think she’s seeing out there now?

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Extrovert me, Jesus!


My story is there’s too many flashing
pixels vying for supremacy over
this holy Hollywood junta in charge
of my flashing, weeping neuronal
shadows, but it ain’t so bad, hey man,
what are you gonna do? Nobody bites
their tongue in this constituency,
I don’t, Shirley don’t, I say la vie
est belle belle belle, and all this
fancy French reminds me, have
you seen La V In Rows? Here:
v v v v v v v v v
v v v v v v v v v
v v v v v v v v v
v v v v v v v v v
v v v v v v v v v
v v v v v v v v and well you get
the idea, it’s a pretty long one actually,
that beauty goes on for hours and hours,
a bit of a snoozer, so I just gave you a, uh,
truncated version, but it’s got this
sort of austere charm, right? The poetic
equivalent of a still photo of Helen
Mirren frowning on a beige background.
You should check it out, make sure
you check everything out, because
have something to say, is the point,
and this helps, silence is the golden
idol that gets God sticking your sorry
fork in a wall socket, because he knows,
because ignorance is the enemy,
and that CO2 won’t leave your lungs
all by its lonesome now will it?

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

#ihavenogeneration


Man, I go cruising down these streets
like nothing lurks in the dark, because
now the night belongs to young archeologists,
blind opossums rooting through blackouts,
it’s just offal, tales from the intestinal crypt,
we are all squirming eyeless wasp larva
but we’re happy in these hexagonal walls
and we dream of stinging someday, dream
our asses off, and I feel long lost and Canadian
I just write whatever, I’m not afraid of internal
contradiction or hypocrisy anymore, it happens
(or does it?) gooble-gobble, gooble-gobble,
I would like you to know, I am in on the joke,
we are all in on the joke, there’s a joke, isn’t
there, yeah, I know, I get it, hahahahaha
you see?

Monday, March 5, 2012

Neurotica, U.S.A.!


Guy at the grocery store has stolen
my face, like literally, my face
is on the front of his head which
is on top of his body, and come
to think of it, looks like he’s got
my body too, you can tell because
it seems awfully soft and pudgy
for a guy so young, like you want
to look away, it’s embarrassing,
it makes your stomach moan a little.

Anyway, this guy has basically stolen
my, like, entire person and now he’s
got a cigarette lit up (indoors!), thanks
for the free PR, asshole, and I’m afraid
he might try some funny business here,
all of which, in line with previously
aired concerns, would reflect poorly
on me, but it’s not me, I don’t think.

Creative writing prof once told me
doppelgangers are cliché, and this
bastard sure fits the bill, all shifty eyed,
like you’d expect a damn doppelganger
to be, all sort of quasi-hiding like he thinks
plain sight is a rock in the crick, like
he’s a human mudpuppy with my face
and body, and it’s pouring rain outside,
which might be cliché too, brownish
liquid slowly percolating through cracks
in the corky white tile, bacterial cave kisses
surprising the lady who meanders past with
her toddler in a cart shaped like a fire
truck, oblivious to this, like, battle for
humanity going on all around her.

So guy keeps rolling through valleys
of vanilla yogurt, vanilla ice cream, French
vanilla flavored coffee creamer, and jeez,
what happened to all the flavors here,
bastard probably stole them too, where’s
the, like, moral fiber of this grocery store,
and now he’s heading toward the front,
slow, but that’s just to avoid attracting
attention, and I never want to attract
any either which makes him look even
more like me, but the point is I take a dive
at him and tackle him against a wire rack
that showers us with beach bodies, both
best and worst, and Challenging Sudokus.

And you probably expect that now is when
I figure out he’s not me, like I’m losing
my mind or something, but what are you,
an idiot, of course he still looks exactly
like me, he is exactly like me because
he has stolen my face and body, but even
once I tackle him, it’s like, nobody ever says
what you’re supposed to do past this part,
when your doppelganger’s looking at you
defiantly, like he’s somehow got more
of a right to your face and hands and balls
than you do, and really who’s to say he doesn’t,
as a couple of guys untangle the two of you
and you both just stare, eyes rolling, lips smacking
up and down in perfect wordless unison.

Sunday, March 4, 2012

Kuato


Alone again, it’s a race thing,
he surmises, but then again who
can say for sure, he’s so drunk now
that the oddly sleek and futuristic
Martian barstool  seems to rock him
to unsettled sleep, so drunk that
he’s covered in a solution of sweat
and tacky mucus and God only knows
what else. He’s in a baby sling,
his life is fetal, but it has advantages,
the bass drum influence of the human
heart in his sleeping ear dampens
this howling psychic miasma,
this future looming sharp and terrible.
These women, these women
should know he’s a man where
it counts, all he wants is a hand
on his scraggly forehead, sharing
in his toothless grin at the weight
of all he knows, all he’d whisper
softly in their ears if they’d just
open their minds, open their minds.

Saturday, March 3, 2012

Assignment: analyze this poem in 250 words or less


The problem here, it’s tough to verbalize,
but so he’s like hiding this desperate cry
for help, the author, in gimmicks,
alliteration, haphazard, half-symbolic
hoo-hah, (and oh, don’t get me
started on the oozing parentheticals,
this sort of obnoxiously hyper-literate
and deliberate betrayal of grammar and voice)
and why? Why does he, the author,
do this? It’s sadness but it’s something
more, poetry is bogus, poetry’s the dog
you ran over backing out your driveway
(whosefaultwhosefaultwhosefault)
and so how’re you supposed to set
your jaw and take ownership, you can’t
I guess, you’re stuck with these glib, twangy
Southern political speech metaphors.
He says, he actually says in this poem,
I’m not even kidding, he says for real that
“time is a pendulum, and I feel now the force
component antiparallel to the direction
of my movement growing as I rise, saying
come back down and cease, come lie
with me, with my siren song of gravity.”
His words. It’s just a joke, what is the guy,
a physicist? A physicist-poet? No
such thing, poetry is garbage, poetry
is lame,  poetry is an excuse. Explain yourself!
I could go ask this guy why he does what
he does, and he wouldn’t have an answer, just
a dropped jaw, a masked chasm secreting
simile and evading the truth, the pungent
garlic on his liar’s breath never quite
enough to keep all of these fangs at bay.

Friday, March 2, 2012

Excerpt from my biographical essay on Thomas Edison


Thomas Edison, you lump of dog shit left directly
under a rack of those free green courtesy poop
bags they leave in parks, you brazen mockery,
flaunting of social order, when you invented
electricity, or whatever it is you did,
(I only read the first paragraph on Wikipedia)
did you realize it would come to this?

Thomas Edison, you putrescent butt nugget!
Thanks to you I have to bite my tongue
while my male friends study up on current
post-feminist rhetoric so that they can post
it on Facebook and hopefully get laid
for their sensitivity and intellect.
The point is, you’re a damn enabler
of the basest aspects of human existence,
a vicious circle of ignorance born of you,
Thomas Edison, you fecal smear,
this is all your fault, we are blameless!

Thomas Edison, you bucket of urine balanced
on a door such that it crashes down to drench
whomsoever should enter said door with pee—
how could you? An Internet radio program
just told me Sublime sounds like The Beatles.
That’s wrong, Thomas Edison! Am I
going crazy over here, you electric prick?

Thomas Edison, there’s a reason Prometheus
stands chained to a rock getting his liver pecked at,
is all I’m saying. I don’t know what the reason
is, why don’t you look it up on Microsoft Encarta
or some other outcome of your vile handiwork?

Thomas Edison, you dropped out of school,
and I didn’t, I went to college for four whole
years, and I drank and drank and drank there,
and that’s called learning about life, Thomas
Edison, we call that letting our children make
their own mistakes, and waste time, money,
brain cells, potential, autonomy.

I’m smarter than you, is the point.
Fuck you, Thomas Edison.