shampoo bottle falling off a fingernail

You Will Wait for the Rest of Your Life

o wishes, o fruitless sic ascension and sawed rope:
           god is the shoe that stays on in the rain.
                              god is the the that stays.


"Why does my cat constantly lick its leg to get Nazis removed?"

You've already watched it. If you haven't, you have, because it already exists at your pleasure nucleus. So watch it to instigate that nucleus. Kasey does this theatre-boy proud, yessuh.

Yeeeeeeeeuh boi.


get hot things from the oven

New Voxtrot songs in the blogosphere. This is a safe band that will not increase your cultural vocabulary or turn your heart to pencil shavings. Their lyrics are pop psychology for Saturday morning. But they bounce, friends, they bounce and hum and sing choruses with steamy I-III hooks.

Rock Insider
the new music messiah


Waking up in a drawer where someone has spilled a bag of M&Ms

One More for the Sunday Cab

Home is where you don't own the right-of-way.

I stole my cues from all the pretty songs --
but friends will handle you like a board game,
a novelty for rusty afternoons.

My thrift store cowboy shirt balled in a taco bag,
a song like go on, come on, hide from the shade.

Home: I'm coming back to Benny's crawlspace?
His Jewish father squishing in the kitchen.
Too many jokes I wanted to hug.

Let the soccerballs drip from the schoolbus.
I got catgut burns on my fingernails
to scrape what the train brushes,

another song for the Mars bar,
for the meat barn. Gone train, flat
Willie with his clown shoe hair.

Simple misses, simple override.
She can't get her dog to pose.

Volkswagon bus crimped in the sycamore
basketball pole like a watermelon salad.

Ira owned his basketball like a hot moon.

Now: no stairs left for me or undone belts.
Why not me inside the slow car?

No more stories of Taco Bell? Jesus.


Half dreams like creamsicles under your fingernails

Friday lies the day of jubilees. I am not in New York, but one of my favorite professors is. He has a soul patch. Does he doubt the idea of a soul? That's a private concern. Too heavy for a day that smells like sneaky rain.

Last night, cold and attempting to fall asleep, I felt strange and happy, like a child injured in a perfect way, like the Victorian word queer. It had nothing to do with thoughts or translating my body into other situations -- it was all blankets and two cocked windows. Weird shit, yo. Friday fun day.

I cleaned up my site, chucked a bunch of crap. Here is another old poem:

Phil From Hawaii Sees His First Snow (At Eighteen)

In a world this white, nothing can burn.
No attic can soot a bucket of old Barbies.
Headaches I limped through last night on
MSN Messenger, as we both shirked truth,
are erased in favor of Amber by the elms
in third grade, little pecks for who gets the
soccer ball first, a recess that strips any
concept of bells. The eight million aches
of eight am are erased by drapes that part
like the first skirt I convinced to faint.
Outside in the hall, a seven foot Hawaiian's
like a teddy bear hopped up on lollipops,
singing for something he's never before seen:
"and since we've no place to go, let it snow!
let it snow! let it" on and on and down the
stairs, and suddenly it's as though there
are still uncharted oceans of my own skin,
my own hair rising white as sails across.


The Oregon Poet Laureate

He's a nice guy, but he's making us write haikus. For Christ's sake. Somebody's gonna Google this and slap me for disrespecting my elders and betters. But dude: haikus. These aren't haikus, senryus or tankas in any serious history of those forms, except in Basho's mundane advice to circumvent the rules or whatever. Some are hybrids and all are dumb. But yeah, yeah, disposable poems, etc.


Local carnival ride:
feet brush Wal-Mart,
pat down the moon.


Two trash bags
in the backseat --
stolen apples.


I dropped his ugly raincoat
in a drainage ditch,
and my father sighed.


Old friend with a bad tooth.
I cover my bright wrists.
Please: let me know less.


Bus back from the hospital.
I had a brother once,
for seven months.


Cinnamon rolls
are good cold?
Well. Well, alright.


Hot seventh grader
done square dancing.
One for the road!


Only ugly girls
know ten dollar words.
Sexist conundrum.


Cabin for sale
and redwood fog.
Our pancakes giggle.


If a dinosaur swallowed
the skating rink,
I would still hold your hand.


Sun came through like an overdriven G chord

If the sonnets of the Weakerthans confuse you, listen to the summerlust glory of Hanalei. This makes it sound like I don't actually like them, but I do, I do. They're somewhere between The Postal Service and The Weakerthans, like custard is somewhere between pie and cake. Except for a few songs, like "The Hand" and "Beacon In The Distance," which sound like Calexico.

All these names. Things have names. Shit, it's not my fault. Blame God. Blame the phonebook.

Songs from All Things Go blog
Songs from My Old Kentucky Home blog.
Songs from I Guess I'm Floating blog.

I'm seasonably alright -- I'm seasonably okay (rain on a tin roof, rain on a tin roof)

I have poor taste in subject matter

I have disallowed myself to write any new poems until everyone in the multiverse reads all of my old and as-yet-unpublished bunkum.

Superduper Very Lots

(she'll get over it if I change the subject)

Tyle dryhumps an obelisk of Michelobs,
smeared with door light from Beale's fridge,
but no one will call him a homosexual.
We trust his thirst to the fainting point.

(i bought her these infamous headphones)

Kill's girl was just up here for him:
she had a ratchet set and a CD. Things
need to be firmed and heard. Men with
aviator glasses couldn't put it better.

(she was never awkward under dock gulls)

Case is drunk, running round in boxer shorts
and a Santa hat. We've arranged this
homecoming party: a pedestal's involved.
I'm always between saviors and Slurpees.

(i once thought she was better than cereal)

I pass out in the shower stall with a
me phone and the confidence that next to
me someone is wearing a tutu and around
me people are expecting superduper very lots.

(like anything, we are small and rarely upright)


Up to Bat Against It All

We shall sully forth to stare at carpets and wet wrists.
Note: that line requires an English accent.

So, instead, I took her to see a whale eat itself.
He used capital letters and spectacle cheese.

Afterwards, naked, her ear acquired expectations
heavy as "do you like my mother's homemade x?"

Here is the shame of it: I don't say anything.
My throat lilies are illkempt enough
to depress my mother's tennis hats, and
my every hose will fail to stripmine cliffs.

As the whale kept right on and on,
a blanket strung itself behind my teeth,
so to talk through it I needed a flashlight
and a children's book, something overly sly.

im sorry im stupid and churlish
I later told her in an email.

Jesus, she thinks, now with the right words.
And Jesus says hellz yeah, that fucker. more mustard?

It's just like me to grope for the stage door.

My tennis team required I acquire certain skills
before I tried to beat the German blonde.
Instead I took him to drop shots and bad calls.

Meaning: he said out! and I said whale!
He said what? and I said milky things sifting
water-rocked. Water-rocked? Water-rocked.

Really, I drove home half-drunk, in complete
control of the song selection.
I stared at swingsets.


What is this strange land of fruit and fruit related shillings?

I like the conversation and love of poets pushing poetry into pOeTrEEE or other new forms thereof.

But I seem to write and craft poems everyone could (rightly?) call mundane and SoQish and full of hatred for the Grander Experiments.

I don't understand it. Somebody remedy or shoot me. Or tell me to give up and just write fiction.


Bill Knot makes me smile.

The title of the post and the title of the poem both reflect my California birth.

You Are All My Friends
suite of short poems

Smoking cloves is like smoking
Christmas, but for your lungs,
like that bad December
where your parents shake.

Several million tricycles
by yellow apartments,
cinderblocks, a town train,
not quite night, the smell slips
of burnt banana pudding.

Free cable.

Right after the flood,
a rocking chair on the
power lines, far after
the flood, no town to
speak of, street flakes.

MySpace: flea market
of "personalities"
(of small shirts).

Your weight in tobacco smoke
looks out the window. We somehow
wait for candle wax to reassemble.

A boy removing a rubber arrow
from his friend's back, from
his friend back then.

When the power goes out,
we seal the freezer. When
the power stays out, we
eat all the ice cream.

If your father starts a
LiveJournal, then you
repair the cooler.

When your hand;
yes: knows.


Sad Endings are Unreasonable
~~Mike and Bryan

You moved to a bathtub near Fort Bragg
after I sent someone to inspect your bed.
Certain trends allow my lack of an apology.

But here I am, saving the best and last.
They have outlawed conversations.
I refuse to bow to swagger, and sag.

I hear your arm operating the faucet and
think of attending a concert concerning twists.
Old chairs and dogfood cans nullify the shore.

And for these reasons I am corporate.
I slouch, friends, because these reasons
are taped to carcasses everywhere.

So maybe you're right and all these post-it
notes and scooped chests remind you of procreation's
less nifty conclusions. You fault finder!

There is no vivid imagery in an eviction notice.
There are no tempered feelings in postcards.
I sense a revolution, like dogs sniffing earthquakes.

And you're only making things slow, for
eventually we shall confiscate their furniture
and then start in on the signatures.


Thinking the Face into Mars

I stutter through millions to name you.

People keep leaving their shopping carts.
None of this rain is actually sad.

That street kitten will never drown,
because you are off for a motel
in a town that is only yours

if the factory fingers own the shoe.

Do not bring tape measures and binoculars
down to the indoor pool.

Shapes with forks behind windows
don't know your recipe for lasagna.

Please stop remembering my features
or the names of movies we mentioned.

Why should the pedestrian wave?

If they could build the hearts of chainlinks
or the aftertaste of cotton candy,

they would then attempt to claim that
a lawn chair was lonely before

we left it, that Christmas bulbs
carry awareness of money or March,

walk into K-Mart and know of their own
steady and impending sale.


I'm not a judge of suitable

from http://mike.noojournal.com

Several Years Since Darin Quit Smoking

We shush out after dinner to put gas
in the old Ranger for next week's trip.

Candy bars -- but they wreck my stomach.
Who keeps at this amazing Christmas

crud. Electric icicles, dancing candles?
Santa inflates and someone whistles,

which implies somewhere else
a faint shrug or frayed pillowcase.

Why does every big white truck
care that I drive twenty-five

home, past dog castles, decrepit
sirens, boxes from epic ez-chairs.

I don't much care for television,
despite its swim around my scalp,

and I'm driving for a little now
again. We've got gas. I forget that --