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Last Updated:
Oct 2, 2008

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Gender: Male
Status: Single
Age: 98
Sign: Libra

City: Los Angeles
State: California
Country: US

Signup Date: 08/19/05

Blog Archive
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Thursday, October 02, 2008

Scattered Crumbs
Current mood: savage
Category: Writing and Poetry

Scattered Crumbs

They scowl for crumbs,

gossip on the esplanade,

ready to purge the nest,

commingling amongst

their shirts, their vaunted

skirts. These blatherskites

lather quotidian compliments

upon their plumage and equipage.

Sibilant labials wasted on labels

and designer makeup, dollop

kisses streaking and fading

like larkspur lost amidst

the rhododendrons.

Witness the welter petulance

of their lineament, calculate

their shimmering chimera

droning under grenadine

skin and cowl, such a pithy

pity, a dull douce campagna,

a violate viol plucking pizzicati

arrant verismo on the assailed

statue of mutilated Pasquino.

Wail for your crumbs,

rock pigeons,

you ground doves

and squabs and quails,

recoil, cower, and wail

for your crumbs,

I say, nay, peck

for a simulacrum

of scattered crumbs.

---------------------------------------------

Currently reading :
Infinite Jest
By David Foster Wallace

10:30 AM - 30 Comments - 28 Kudos - Add Comment

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Fugue Life
Current mood: ashamed
Category: Writing and Poetry

Fugue Life

I'm nanoseconds younger

in the mirror and abashed,

wearing weakened skin

like a sharp cilice abashed,

drooping guerite eyelids

and inwardly wince abashed.

Such shame, the leathery cinctures

of centuries, such Biblical shame,

ashamed and drunk with lust like Lot

pining his salt lick wife and his pregnant

daughters repugnantly ashamed

but alive, sight travels from my iris

to my spittle spackled elapsed reflection.

A single candle flame flickers, fantails,

my soles are burnt, I've walked through

il Ciampate del Diavolo, I've seen

the devil's footprints and the damned

fascist suffers from plantar fasciitist.

I pray contrite in this windowless place

where the hankering citherns play hymns

contrary to the wind; let the impatient

clamor bestride the misery of Job,

let the Buzite bees attempt to mediate,

let my adversarial accusers walk to and fro

and stomp up and down and let God

harangue from his tourbillion.

I am the only penitent in my fugue life.

I grin chagrined, consecrate my memories

to forget and fit my foot into the Teufelstritt.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Currently listening :
...Waltzing Alone
By The Guggenheim Grotto
Release date: 2006-09-26

12:01 PM - 32 Comments - 26 Kudos - Add Comment

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Susan the Sumptuous
Current mood: pessimistic
Category: Writing and Poetry

Susan the Sumptuous

Lost every one of them

to pale palaver,

these thistledown blondes

unfettered

in their pristine thin

and white dresses.

Beribboned cajolery

and lasting impressions

of the imprecations

of seventeen,

a canker swells

beneath gray weskit,

vague obscenities,

murmured and chaffing,

breach the brocade.

I was the churlish upstart

with the exotic face,

also was considered detritus

everywhere I lounged,

gawked at like a gewgaw

as if sprung immaculate

from underneath a wigwam.

And these dulcet flaxen girls

incipient in their pellucid world

with curiosity piqued, they never

heard such convivial malarkey

whispered languidly in Spanish,

those days when their fatuous parents

tried to fence off their trammeled dais,

surviving this Southern gothic town

full of pillock cretins and lickspittles.

Yes, there I am, pictured with Susan

the Sumptuous, feeling like a corncrake,

a mewling drake, a dross chatterbox,

mawkish, distracted by eldritch attention

and oblivious of being the cynosure

of derision by our most compost peers,

yes, those obdurate fellows with pustule

sneers and chivalrous duty to protect

the most rebellious of their beauties.

I lost all of them to palaver,

foisting my future cadaver

high up on the halyard

but unable to climb past

the flippant American flag

permeating my cozened sky.

Am I not crazy, all agog

and gaga for their coaxing

embrocations?

Hang, they'd say,

commit crimes,

you reprobate.

And did they not know

about those scared

and innocent moments

when I believed

that the potential existed

for a skerrick

of their affection?

--------------------------------------------------------

Currently listening :
Crosby, Stills & Nash
By Stills & Nash Crosby
Release date: 2006-01-24

1:04 PM - 26 Comments - 26 Kudos - Add Comment

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Folderol
Current mood: aggravated
Category: Writing and Poetry

Folderol

Stammering, high on Aderall,

the last we saw our dear folderol,

he was stuttering at the windthrow

ivy flapping from the asylum wall.

Somehow his mind filibustered

mumbling memories sotto voce,

a lover calm on a catafalque,

holding on to ersatz fig stalks.

Schadenfreude,

the last we examined our own

imbroglio, our epicurean

disambiguation of an edacious

nation, complicit in dining

al fresco on afflictions of others,

baiting phyllobates terribilis,

darting fuck you glances

at the Fugu poisoning

of the affluent,

how dare we indulge?

Is this part of the great charter

of our freedoms? Did we sign

the Magna Carta Libertatum?

The rich still pay scutage

and the destitute obey orders

to kill and in turn be killed

in direct confrontation

with perceived enemies.

The writ of Habeas Corpus

died underneath the barbwire

sunshine of Guantanamo.

Stick another piece of gum

on that alley in San Luis Obispo

or on that wall outside a theatre

in Seattle and stare at the trivial

landmark and be proud.

Our dear folderol has tangled up

his remembrance within the Hedera;

He smells the flower, tastes

the nectar, yet he is never there.

-------------------------------------------------

Currently listening :
Autumn Days
By Gus Black
Release date: 2006-03-21

10:30 AM - 22 Comments - 24 Kudos - Add Comment

Friday, September 05, 2008

Myspace
Current mood: sore
Category: Writing and Poetry

Myspace

I own enough space

to delete myself

among my things,

my books on the shelves.

Perhaps I'll do this on my swivel chair

and turn myself around violently pretty

& simply bowl over on the dirty carpet

dead staring at boxes full of memories

under the sweat stained bed, mates.

My mates, these friends laughing

at the ceiling. Some wear hats,

some smoke, some don't eat meat,

some are Republicans, some write

until dusky dawn, and the Seventh

Day Adventists, they dread Fridays,

and rush to gas stations and grocery

stores before guillotine sundown.

An amazing thing I remember

at the penitentiary Academy,

some girl wrote a letter of respite

and I never bothered to respond,

I was too sedulous with masturbation

and surviving until the weekend,

and the interested maiden rewrote

the letter verbatim, without flaw,

including misspellings and mistakes

in grammar, a peculiar Florida argot.

Her longhand crisscrossed zeroes

and sevens, she wanted me to know

she would wait for a promised trip

to Disney World but how could I

have told her that my parents

were freezing flan at grandmother's

house and four calls on a Saturday

begging for reprieve could never budge

their complacency….

So these are my mates on Myspace,

comparing salaries and life choices.

Don't worry friends, I've done well

enough to afford an Elizabethan collar.

I bleed drunken dollars but I don't

own a high enough ceiling with

a crossbeam or a Gonzo shotgun.

Football season begins anew.

Nobody cares as deeply as teenagers

anymore, not enough to write two

letters exactly the same way,

verbatim, nothing so important

to relate heartfelt love diluted

with saline kisses and sun-dried tears,

marinated marriages ending

with a lifetime supply of preserved

beef jerky; This is what we win

for our sin, salt and MSG and the inability

to pee on command after bourbon

mixed with peach flavored iced tea.

One book on my shelf teaches

herbal healing, another is a bible

commentary on the book of Job.

I hung a samurai sword over the transom

and I stare at the blade and I feel lucky

that I have avoided being charged

with felonious transgressions so I can

wait ten days. I can plan two weeks

of parties and goodbyes.

I own a distinctive thumbprint

and a valid California driver's

license.

That is all I've ever needed

in this space of mine.

Currently listening :
Origin of Symmetry
By Muse
Release date: 2005-09-20

10:26 AM - 46 Comments - 44 Kudos - Add Comment

Friday, August 29, 2008

Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Current mood: restless
Category: Writing and Poetry

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Prisoners sleeping on their pillows,

they eventually have to place feet on floor.

Unfed fish in bowls and nowhere to go,

talking of Michaelangelo,

a brisk walk up to a wall, a fence,

a forest scene, bank tellers wait patiently

for transactions capitulating freedoms,

the art of haggling is not lost in used car lots.

Blood on the tracks, iron nails through heels,

blind waterfalls and cloudy cataracts,

buckets of rain on summer steel

and parking spaces filled with oil slicks,

I'm wading across the cold creek water.

I am fixated on the sagging porch,

the oil lamps stain the warped wood

and the cane box mattress sheds feathers

of dead geese and one black swan.

I sink into electrocution, my execution.

My penis sings unhealthy hymns,

praise be to the Malthusian soliloquy,

and the walls be bare, undressed,

and the outhouse be leaning to the left.

Elizabeth, I do love thee with a love I lose

through rubber tubes tied across my bicep.

Elizabeth, at least you gave birth to a son

named Pen in your lonely forties,

dark thoughts in my lowery, a spent dowry.

Barren Brooklyn brownstones full

of Barrett Browning sonnets and the

memories of christening bonnets,

I am the world's unforgettable uncle

to nieces raised misunderstanding poetry.

----------------------------------------------------------

"Pinkie" - Thomas Lawrence, 1794

Currently listening :
I Am
By Michael Tolcher
Release date: 2004-05-04

9:57 AM - 26 Comments - 28 Kudos - Add Comment

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Galen the Physician
Current mood: lethargic
Category: Writing and Poetry

Galen the Physician

Flower of mercy weeping unforgivable

sap, fortifying Alexander's army,

burying gladiators, vivisectionist dream

warriors befuddled by God's own medicine;

And the ladies of the 19^th century

ladling laudanum, cheaper than beer,

in the Chinese dens the men come and go,

resisting poison and venomous bites,

let us lay down on our sides, vertigo,

saddle pipes molded out of Yixing clay

blue and white ceramics or expensive jade.

Galen, did you foresee the criminalization

of topknots, a generation of zombie children,

the indifferent amputation of battle limbs,

the humours of deafness, apoplexy,

dimness of sight, loss of voice, asthma,

missionaries in the Philippines, coughs

of all kinds, trenches of the great war,

spitting of blood, phosgene gas,

tightness of breath, mustard smiles,

colic, jaundice, hardness of spleen,

an Asian empire reduced to addiction,

urinary complaints, physicians arrested,

fevers, dropsies, leprosies, female trouble

with the moon and the tides, drug regulation,

and once our government had control of the flow,

then the purging of a counterculture through

carefully time released bad batches, did we lose

perspective focused on melancholy and pestilence?

Sweet flower of mercy, wipe clean my decade.

I've been too long solitary, alone too long,

long enough to know that all that time is gone

should I find someone to share today or tomorrow,

all that time spent alone is gone long and bitter.

My lotophagi, induce narcotic nostalgia, transport me

to when I could smirk and melt her inhibitions,

when a whisper in an exposed ear created ecstasy,

when a morning of lovemaking was never enough,

we had to order pizza, shower together, dance,

drink, fuck in the afternoon, chase each other naked

through the house, laugh at all unanswered

messages, smoke, brew coffee, rug burns from

the hallway runner, watch Seinfeld with our legs

strewn over another, stretch, and then exhaust

ourselves in darkened bedroom, the sweaty

sheets cooling us to sleep.

Galen, I don't own twenty scribes to write down

my observations of digestion, my experiments

with hypodermic needles, the differing bevels

of color coded Luer Loks. I only employ

lethargic fingers, these black claws

steadying blackened spoons. Oh Galen,

why could you not figure out that the heart

circulated life through the elongated body?

Why can't I?

----------------------------------------------------------

"Pipe Dream" - Wylog Fong, 1927

Currently listening :
Drifting Away Violently
By Vega4

9:06 AM - 18 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

Monday, August 04, 2008

Emmy in the Kitchen
Current mood: gallant
Category: Writing and Poetry

Emmy in the Kitchen

Panspermia,

I'm a toiling slug in Hollywood

losing when deciphering

all these dollar bill numbers

submerged in liar's poker,

forswearing my name,

age, heritage, religion,

salary and job description.

I'm a slug and ride piggyback

on the back of heart shaped shells

of the Olive Ridleys, believe this

or not, I don't dare give a care,

incompetence abounds,

the luckless are always stuck

buying the last round 2 am bar time,

routinely ten minutes too fast.

Words hijacked daily by the deliterate

at the Savoy or the Greencourt

deliberately, this artform I love

has been altered ghetto fabulous.

The dumbing down of America

continues to be promoted by Oprah

and her famously illiterate book club.

"We are Virginia Tech", way to exploit

a massacre Giovannni, my ballsack

is more French-Italian tant mieux,

my tainted hemorrhoids can write

better poetry than you, necrospermia

on your academia, skeet skeet-

I've never given a convocation.,

congratulations.

I do have a confession, my sweet.

I long for normal exultance,

killing spiders in Legoland purgatory.

I've disappointed my parents

after repeated failed attempts

at fulfilling lofty familiar obligations

which seemed easy to my sisters

clacking their castanets towards the sky.

Instead I flip eggs

and pancakes

above the Emmy in the kitchen,

listening to solemn copy spoken

by purveyors of forest fires

and avalanches.

One lightning wing holds mardi gras beads,

and the other a rubber band bracelet

promoting organ donation.

I've written myself old,

at first the words were never enough,

and now my inkhorn pangs are too much

for current trends. I can't tell jokes

and can only dance to Herbie Hancock.

My clothes sag, I've lost weight,

but I am loathe to memorize anything.

So these pages are all I shall leave.

One of my sisters will have to wrap

mismatched china with dated newspaper.

She will pick up a gold plated award

and wonder about the misspelled name,

the meaning behind "commemorative,"

could it possibly sell on E-bay

if she scraped the dried piece

of spaghetti off the dusty base?

My computer will be perused

for stray financial information

and then erased and discarded.

Paperbacks will be donated

or resold back to used bookstores,

and my poetry, my soiled poetry,

la-di-dah, the sheets that survive

will become peculiar reminders

of the childless uncle who moved

to Los Angeles to make movies

but ended doing some nondescript

work with broadcast news.

"He sold self-published books I heard,

I haven't even read the few sitting on the shelf."

Cremation is comparatively cheap,

ashes scattered in the ardent sea.

Raelian fish and plankton may seed

life back up into stellar microbes,

exogenesis in extremophiles,

who knows, breath and merit

never endure, cleansed keypads

and broken typewriters, yeah,

blanched print, fading from view.

----------------------------------------------------------

Currently listening :
This Is Hardcore
By Pulp
Release date: 2006-10-09

10:53 AM - 33 Comments - 40 Kudos - Add Comment

Saturday, August 02, 2008

Mons Pubis
Current mood: blustery
Category: Writing and Poetry

Mons Pubis

Truculent fucking,

I flex my abdomen muscles

and pretended sit ups,

some whore in Vegas

relates some story

about her parents visit,

all good folks believe her

a waitress, folklore

and fairy tales.

She tells me her name is Rachel,

biblically beautiful

in form and appearance.

I spend seven minutes drunk

withdrawing fifty bucks

for a thirty minute adventure.

On a homiletical level,

at the point of mutual Eden,

I tell her I love her more than Leah

and she doesn't get it.

I destroy.

I'm a jackhammer,

obliterating

and defacing

the mons pubis

with my face

and curved torpedo,

swallowing in sotto

an exquisite voice,

Tzadik justice in my gist

of ejaculating grist,

all is surreal in the heat

of marmoreal tryst.

A snake tattoo curls around the Pequod

with the tongued maidenhead flaring.

Thump the pierced hump with nipples

exposed to the seasons and seven continents

that begin with the first letter

of this dickslap alphabet.

I've smoked the safety cigarette

inverted in my pack of Newport Lights

since I was fourteen, now I am forced

to search for stubs in scattered ashtrays.

Oh jackal, I think I'm sick,

shower curtains are replaced

when moldy, common labiaplasty.

I've fallen in lust with aberrancies

such as eyelashes around areolae

winking at my inexperience.

Cindy snorted the syndicated honeymoon

and fucked only on birthdays

and full moons twice a year,

what do I know, I hardly knew her

for a full year, 1993,

November icicle trees

sagging under the weight

of cruise ships in the Caribbean.

They were both redheads,

painted ladies,

Family Nymphalidae

fluttering away.

Scented Cynthia

and treacherous Rachel,

extracting a life cost

and a retentive toll

that all the drugs discovered

in this world will never

be able to erase.

-----------------------------------------------------

I had John Collier's 1901 painting "Venusburg" posted here but some ignoramus over at photobucket canceled my account because they thought the painting was a dirty porno picture. I wrote them back and told them that their employees needed to take art appreciation classes and learn something about the Pre-Raphaelites.

Currently listening :
Urban Hymns
By The Verve
Release date: 1997-09-30

5:01 AM - 31 Comments - 27 Kudos - Add Comment

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Shunned
Current mood: savage
Category: Writing and Poetry

Shunned

Eventually I'm boorish

and can't hold their attention,

my smile glistens

in tight corridors fleeting,

a speck of dust in the tear duct

which moistens one lower eyelash.

Churlish trivia,

I can quote the isolation

of dead porn starlets

who bled out in hot tubs,

their girlish arms draped

behind their ghoulish recalled

fear of dreaded schoolmarms.

I carry with me that pale sort of charm.

I can quote their resignation,

I can hear them murmur,

"Everybody leaves,

eventually you're to blame

by all these lapsed church kids

who simply get bored and leave."

So I am judged

by my immoral laugh,

by the purported movers

and supposed shakers

of this turgid town,

these noble turbid clowns

lost in their own attitudes

and highfaluting turpitude.

I've frolicked in their haystacks

and ridden in the last seat

of their exalted caravans,

sat around their campfires

singing Kumbayah, my lord,

burn another marshmallow

on the roof of my profane mouth;

And now they smile perverse and spurn,

as if honor subsists with the snub,

the glistening snide and turn.

Repugnant repudiations,

eventually I can't seem

to hold their attention.

I chide myself, having finally

learnt the art of the shunted self.

----------------------------------------------------

Currently listening :
American Doll Posse
By Tori Amos
Release date: 2007-05-01

3:08 AM - 33 Comments - 33 Kudos - Add Comment