Tuesday, December 28, 2010


Drawing the molecule
Over and over again
Methamphetamine .
A hammer-to-anvil sense of the world 

that brought us misery

casting syllables from the bunker of failed civilizations  
Loaded into a pez dispenser, like a clip
Dropping red-eyed, hating bodies into a chemical euphoria
They don’t fire from guns, they don’t explode

we're safe, man.

realizing that justice is another ideal  
rooms of shadowy figures loom overhead
towering specters that cast the spell of words 
with their shrapnel-laden
Seasonal Affective Disorder.
Sculpted expressions designed to lift themselves up
devastate those who trusted their benign surroundings
Forgetting that; though the ocean is a magical place, taken lightly, you can still drown
I think of those figures in the rolling waves
the far-off oceans  that mountain people imagine

collectively forgetting human worth

Friday, December 24, 2010


Your words fall like meteors from some ominous sky
Hurled airborne by the catapult
Of your immeasurable disgust  
Standing stark and unforgiving as gallows
More than ready to let battle be joined
As am I
more than ready to spread my wings against you
as the dragon of my ire
unleashes the infection into every-fucking-thing
Like all of those loves you put the chainsaw of your words to
Where in the moments of cheap vanity
You chased all of my dreams into a corner of some forgotten playground
& eviscerated them… one-after-another-after-another

In the drone of incessant lawnmowers
The wake of gasoline
As whalers become soldiers
 & their flags fly
At shopping centers
& the counter-culture remains anonymously paralyzed
Marking them like the ignoble scars of circumcision
Ink-stained hands
converting the powerless into copies of some sick perception
gripping them like waking drunks
laughing manically at the permanent wound on their psyche
as the dead become brandished with pride   

This is the hell-
Where they stripped me of my wings
casting me down into this disease of lies

with the imaginative façade that sterilizes everything
the empty space of projected illusions permeating
that irreversible viral load
an ominous reminder that hangs lifelessly
that my wings can grow back

Thursday, December 23, 2010


Through the many dimensions
I saw your face in my dreams
I met the damage inflicted upon me
In kind,
Where hurt placated all my thoughts of violence
And I became gangrenous  with the damages of your action
 brought down in in a thick swamp of your cowardice
Enraptured in the tar of your sick world
In boxes, in a cage, entrapped
Where the tainted shroud and mask became everything I had left
as though going through the motions remains everything  
As time passes, I see you for what you are
Recalling through the many verses
The vacant words
The vacant look of your treachery
Packaged up in the same boxes that I placed my eviscerated eye
those same boxes reused as refuge
where you have hidden for so long.
the world is filled with sick, disfigured animals
because of creatures like you  
where you cast me into the infected
corruption bathing my heart for years
I am of pestilence
As I ride half blind into the dark
The single tear you shed will never be enough.
A sick compensation,
For an attempt to bring light to this dark place
A tear in the ӕther that nothing can repair  

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Los Amsterdam

I am sick
Sick of them showing up in white blouses
White slacks,
And their pale Dutch skin
Making the world that we are a part of
Look like the fourth circle

It is what it is
It’ll be what it’ll be
I have seen the canals first-hand
In that land beneath the sea

At it’s core it is brilliant
beyond robotic and the same
the organic breathing life
that takes away our mundane
across the six dimensions
this schizophrenic town
burns as a cauldron on the hearts of everyone
and every dream 

we are the exploding volcano
we are the breathing ire
in this dragon city
that stands burning at the pyre

lily pads and mushrooms
brown bricks in the rain
the hookers walk in daylight
the macabre becomes plain
art becomes the royal business
of the queens domain
enthroned on the kingdom of fungi
textiles of our fleeting woven world

It is what it is
It’ll be what it’ll be
I have seen the canals first-hand
In that land beneath the sea

With the stale headlights that stare
The wyrm runs on forever
into the forgotten life that rots
the tangled dance of the commercially clever
the lives fall in ashes
skies that never rain
the frame burst into wildfires
and the world becomes the same

we are the exploding volcano
we are the breathing ire
in this dragon city
that stands burning at the pyre

I am sick, sick of their cheap words 
Posing as if they had ever struggled
 tormented souls falling as trash
 on golden roads where dreams have crawled 
to die.    

It’ll be what it’ll be
 As we are the breathing ire
In that land beneath the sea
that stands burning at the pyre


Tuesday, December 14, 2010


They are the roaches
Or something akin to it
We convert them into; with our piety

I saw a phantom
A thin specter of the friend I grew up with
And felt the hurt, of his body

You fell as the walking dead
the drug put you between both worlds
It feels more and more like your there

I don’t know what Aichmophobia really means
never believe in hierarchy
because of our mutual footing, I call you brother

Monday, December 13, 2010

of nature

On the far side of the river
As the sun falls in the sky
I seek to know your process
And the shimmer of your eye
The dirge of our lives
Sung low when we die
The flowers of our being
string we’re seeking to untie
Plain as vile vectors
infect us with their words
the venom of this existence
taking flight as dark birds
As a rising, flowing, rift
That dissects us into thirds
We dreamt of greater things,
Than a lifetime made of words
Recurring so repeatedly
The cycle is so small
Repetition of the inadequate
With emphasis in the scrawl
They’ll devastate us surely
we must construct a wall
to hide away their ignorance
from the fragility of it all
corruption is so deft
seeking not souls, nor desires
our people’s world burns
in any type of fire 
the stones of the fortresses
powered by casual liars
placing some strange value
with a fear they mask as pyres
we must pick our heads up
be kind to them again
lashing it all together
with the might of our chain
that binds the flowing ӕther
seeking hopefully to obtain
 we are as the running river
 we are the falling rain

Monday, December 6, 2010


palms towering overhead as bars  
they vanish into the crimson sheet
the sun dies out beyond the ocean
city lights plastered over the stars

snow crunches beneath bare feet
deft little steps that lead us home
I peel the wallpaper from my heart
to repaint the walls in fresh hope

claws that sift through loose earth
searching for blessings buried in the past
losing these things is their synthesis
permitting the volta of which they came

I wish so many things were different
Blooming into colors that carried no connotation
A semblance of déjà vu that lingers
In the ketamine whispers of your mind

Eternity’s haunting embrace enshrouding
Compartmentalized into distraught ideals
The hyper-snap of shattering lights
A jagged wake of phosphorescent glass remains

Though Stripped of the necessary tools
I think of it in the rolling waves
Like the glass and steel cages
coming to mind when contemplating freedom

Tuesday, November 30, 2010


There was a time in my memory
That holds no weight
Battles were waged with purpose
Claymores rose and fell into crimson rivers of carnage
Those days have died
And we have fallen grey
In the incessant evening
It was a memory that I was never a part of

Cars rolling along aimlessly
Some of them with their lights illuminating the road
…Many more without
ambiguity remains dissolved in constant smog
Exhaust seeps into the cracks of every fortress ever constructed
And they stand as ominous figures upon castles of paper
Claiming each was a paradise scribbled in ink

Carrion-eaters refuse to gyre in the sky
Preferring to indistinctly saunter in our circles
Waiting for the mistake to fall like freezing rain
The excuse that they cower behind
in black-on-white automobiles that illuminate the already lit world
in the haze of flashing blue
willingly, they all lack headlights
outward exerting a blatant exhibition for the inner, vacant core

waxen molds whose hands gesture wildly
if only anything could grasp the matte in their frozen eyes
they could not understand the voltage
that can be expressed in the moist caves that man inhabits
as they wander incessantly
for a place called “home”

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Hope in low-doses

In front of the spraypaint counter
someone from my old life
called by my vandalicious
As I buy fuchsia in low-pressure cans
barter about the difference between German and Spanish
because I have no idea 
Remembering my clock that hangs with pride
the keepers of my pieces held in high esteem
musing  about  faces plastered all over paper
the arts college falls under bureaucracy’s dissection 
the cats that fought so hard
can never be euthanized  

“you have no idea the impact you had.” He said.
“I did my best.”  

Friday, November 26, 2010


The pomegranates split open
Anticipating the coming rain
your soft eyes smooth razors into river stones

the words overexerted, as juveniles of masterful predators   
molting zealous carapaces, carried for far too long 
still fragile, cautiously inflating their wings

the morning’s lustful bite
taking away the fangs we were born with
treasured, if only for an instant

an iron core eroding in fragments of confetti
scattered in the wind over jagged terrain
where we will soar in time

as the molten begins to shed
condensing into an alloy of sorts
that knows of no limitations

Thursday, November 18, 2010


She learned to play piano
through two sad creeks that bled mascara
bought a djembe with drug money
& tapped at it with her fingers
emulating the strokes
she once hated.
Evacuated the anger of her forgotten dreams
Into the spotted skin of a zebu
where every circle took flight with ire
landing gently in a meadow of bass.
another piece of mismatched furniture
in the same garden
where her artwork
died under the Brugmansia
eaten by a fungus that never fruits.
in a warehouse she dances as a phantom
elegantly weaving the invisible
through lights & noise
electronic drums removing all human error
contemplating the imperfections
of her own helix.
a clock that is kept as a reminder
the disease inherited from man. 

Wednesday, November 17, 2010


Treating the world like it could burst into flames
at any conceivable occasion
I was there, to watch, to stand
As your ambassador and liaison
you arsonist and child of treachery
fought as a warrior without a banner
I became that serpentine flag
And grew within you as a cancer
rotted out your flesh and bones
brought you to a knee
they have all forgotten your face
it is my eyes that they see
though you were torn
it was nothing like the shredding you have done
in the battlefield of naked corpses
what was it that you won?
You rode the horse of pestilence
Dark into the dream
Where similar creatures awaited  
to open your inner seam
you pushed them down deftly
under a mighty claw
and ignited them in the flames
from a well-trained jaw
but between your scales
there was an ache
a frost was seeping in
something there for me to wake
so that we may live again
the torment you have suffered, the ire you’ve released
could never be equal to myself
though I can be appeased
and you set fire to your realm
dependent on my love
that simple force you could not overwhelm
plainly how to make you undone.

So what then, when all your glory fades
Upon the return to your forest
Where none speak of sharp blades
Their songs enchant your carapace
They ignite the passion of your mind
And fill you with a reason to be
Something that you return in kind
Because they need you to see
And they need something akin
To last for many more years
To forget what you have suffered
And devour all their fears
where the trees will still call to you
and speak your given name
where you are needed most
in this world you must reclaim
old friend I am here for you
and have grown thick inside your mind
we will be forever changed
to remain still undefined.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010


The falcon-faced woman
Digs tiger pits
To trap the unsuspecting
Winning them over and pulling them under
With Jammed sentences
As though-
The two people inside her
Are trying to speak simultaneously
Always interrupting one another
…and everyone else
She whips her feathers
All over the room
Stirring up little vortices
To bear her beak out at the gray world
Screeching about hidden powers
Secret colors,
And other powerful birds of prey
Flapping her mighty wings
Into the frenzied storm
Against the grain of consumer culture
As lightning cracks
Through their hearts
Raptors turn hard wings to the cold
As the doors open they take flight

C/1995 O1

The comet ignites
Into a fantastical blue
In the presence of 
the release of
pure energy
Then vanishes
to who-knows-where
in the frozen dark
becoming forgotten

its power is such that
People are willing to
End their existence
Seeking to be
A part of it

Wednesday, November 10, 2010


Sad creatures


out of her


empty dreams

weights that trail behind

fraying out

the organized life-

my friend

since when do you

listen to the voices

in the heads of others

since when did


become all that you knew

since when did your


become so quiet.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Ode of patience

I suppose I should say thank you
Something gracious, something huge
Fantastical, beautiful, glorious and new

But you did nothing that was not already there
Enjambment of my words as we spoke manically
we are both of the kind that likes to share

perhaps I was not thinking, or had nothing there to say
to someone so vastly superior
that, randomly, gave me the time of day

and look what we have become, and I wouldn’t call us friends
perhaps something more, or less?..
ill figure it out in the end

but on this day, the adrenaline courses where I stand
patiently you have taught me a great many things
and for it I am a better man

Orchids and Oysters

Crushing clams under the tremendous bite
Because they are each so distinct
And for whatever reason,
seems to remember them individually
Unlike the days
pissed away in drugs and excess
hedonism dancing thorough life
leaving a tracer of chemicals
that glistens as the ribbon
on the gift of something cheap and disposable
the life of an orchid
made friends with a cactus
leeched life from everything for decades
surviving on nothing
and vapid expectations
manipulating the ants
guarding its flowers
the only worthwhile thing
as we all synch up
and I shout at you in all of my dreams
because I want to wake up where you are
fuck you like you deserve
as there is only one thing that orchids can do really well.
Aside from holding on
Pick out the pearls
taste the ocean
And carelessly flick their shells like coins
Because what I value,
already became a part of me
as somewhere in a dense jungle awaits
the colors of a flower
I have never been able to fully recognize
that shirks me as a disease
with an allergy to shellfish    


Grinding in the rusted old gears
When they snap into release
machine lurching forward
Igniting the innermost  caprice
To extinguish all those forgotten tears

As we appropriate the meshing inner accord
Surely it can Fuse into something
More or less what’s calling
Though it’s not what I was hunting
 With this deficient prize I can easily afford

The lights fled outwardly sprawling
For the decadent dance
of the phantom
in their absent trance
their dreams remained falling

although their hands traversed the chasm
their human form spelled ire
in the tide of exhaust
the gargoyles upon the pyre  
vapid voyeur s enraptured in tantrum

where the currency of the day is the accost
the rabid mind will have to rely
hoping  that more appears
behind the fantastical wandering eye
the fourth dimension of where our lives crossed

Sunday, November 7, 2010

the frost

The footing  traversed
Deep within those frosted canyons
I carried each stone; one-at-a-time
Where I built as a castle
And lost in the blowing snow
infinite self-reliance
may be impervious to the cold
But not to the depravation of poor decisions
The echoes of a wolf’s teeth
Will never sting as much
lingering ache of the frozen iron
the harpoons I taught you how to make

Thursday, November 4, 2010


Nothing seems to get loud enough
In the filth of this sphere
The songs of more adjusted people
Whine away their air time
as quickly as they can
failure seeps into the fractures of my glass heart
-Because the arson of you actions turned everything to ash
Drowning out all the creativity
That was tediously set up like the countless dominoes
Loving each ounce of energy that dissolves in that repetitive sound
"Why yes, we’re friends."
friends in the way that a clear-cut forest regrows.
We are friends.
-in the way that we heal but never forget
As the treble of your distraught voice
screaming out against the rising desert sun
that instills the schism 
where my diligence burned the sky
scorches the earth
bringing the darkness asunder in coils of hate
-to the effect that, I followed the trail of feathers
to where that ethereal creature carried our bird
After some kind of forced seduction-
And found nothing but death
-the truth is; I hated it
 with pride and shame
from behind the mutual mask we have shared
in the dark rooms where the phantoms dance without restraint
where perceived evil is the masquerade
hiding an utterly malevolent psyche
-because I want someone that has burned inside as I have
Who knows the power of their own hands
And is not afraid of exercising the might of their heart
-because I thirst for it more than anything
But cannot make the first step in any direction
As she has fallen barren and is not sustainable without
Fame. and wealth. and power. 
Clawing at herself telling everyone to let her out
-what I mean is that the apathy is suffocating
a void that cannot sustain or collapse
And reverts into the lithopedion that it began as
Nothing can be the same
people put an end to the charade
                -to the effect that I am sick of being surrounded by disease
As they play up their self-worth believing that they have anything like what you and I had
                -what I mean, is that I miss aspects of everything but would never want any of them back 
taking solace in the ability to more through the dark the future gets brighter and brighter in the setting sun 

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

One-thousand Words (or Less)

There is not enough room on this page
For any institution, anywhere
To judge me in 1000 words or less.
One thousand words is simply not enough
Wouldn’t you like a photograph instead?
Would you like me to preform fellatio?
Perhaps you would like burlap sacks with dollar signs on them?
I could be eviscerated in front of you
In white lab coats and hard hats
judge me like a piece of meat
Mark me up like the hanging carcasses in a slaughterhouse
As we ponder which cuts are ‘prime’
Should I tell you about poverty?
Should I tell you about fame?
I can tell you about injustice, and how I have overcome it
How someone crawled out of Chino California
Picked up a pen
And rewrote their own future.  
Honestly, I’m terrible on a horse
But excellent on a tractor.
I can tell you all about the macabre Los Angeles Streets
How the ‘lowbrow’ artists scratch together their lives
For that moment that culminates
After hundreds upon hundreds of hours of work
So that strangers can stand, awkwardly, before their struggle and announce:
“I don’t get it.”
I could tell you all about Raymond Burr’s orchids
The amazing international musicians I have met
The Incredible Street artists who willingly sacrifice everything
to make their world marginally less gray.
I could tell you about friendship
And what it is like to know mediocre is not good enough
In the eyes of people that love you   
unequivocally I return their sentiments
Who have lent a strong hand
to pull me out of the depths of myself
more times than I care to admit.
Perhaps you are interested in philosophy,
we could share a Jungian discourse like a sundae.  
Or get really chummy over a glass of scotch
 And talk about ‘other things’ in ‘other times’
as though I care about the prestige more
than I care about the adventure.
Let’s talk of æther
The substance between us the ancients called ‘upper sky’
And why my self-reliance permeates everything and
everyone I come into contact with
I could tell you all about that fluorescent pink substance
That I have learned to weave as the fabric of everything and everyone
That my life comes into contact with
And how you’ll see it flow all over the place, 
if, I were standing in front of you.
I don’t like talking to people if I cannot see their eyes
Because I live to see character within people’s eyes
Perhaps more than anything
give me a fucking chance
And you’ll see what I mean.