most recent edit, i think...maybe.

 The End of Shot Clocks

My heart is single occupancy.




Sometimes, there isn’t room for me in my own heart when you make our bed and sleep in it, and when you leave your socks balled up over the vents, when you string your underwear along the northernmost rail of pictures to cover our faces, when you turn all the blinds down, when you turn all the frames face down into oak, into maple, into deep hickory, and finally into bloody cherry; when you exist in my room with me smiling, then frowning, then furrowing, then burrowing deeper, to be buried alive eternally under the covers … after we lie in the bed we made from the wood we chopped, from the wood we sanded, from the wood we finished, from the wood we nailed together: I awake to singed half-brows, to frayed topless winter hats, to scalded rawpink scalps, and to our charred heart.



My heart is single occupancy, and, sometimes, there is not room for me.

running rampant round late autumn trails,
through memories of the breathing, the still here
and the not-still-here, the vanquished, stone divine

this is a prediction, this is a beautifully dug entrenchment;
this is a scalding habit, this is a carefully drugged patient;
but, now:
now, enthrall, now, withdrawal;
Now, NOW, tighten the blinds!


it's too, far too, bright, and it's August 23rd.
just stop it, man.
dont't let the narrative narrate;
remember the living undead:

this is a prediction, this is a beautifully dug entrenchment
to lie in when the dogs are near, to exit when the clouds are clear;
i don't have any more will, more will to hemorrhage here;
grab the pen: grab the shear! grab the pen: grab the shear!

the sun shadows your skull

blazing on, elevating

the alright and the fabulous alike

do some wells store and share

while some merely drink

the scraps from our forks

feed our people's families

feasts for the gods but

you disappear into the crowd

down, down, down, drowning 

the best love is homeless

you can't find it on google maps

youll only see it in the street

but sniper blimps seal our fate

the adults will kill us all

words wont win badges here

only time can send the wind to move you

only the world can show you our beautiful stars

again amid the deep rank scars of blah

drowning your waves ashore

this, my greatest fear

that you have forgotten

how to look at me

with arms for me

with arms for you

a child's love is homeless

you can't find it on google maps

youll only see it in the street

but sniper blimps seal our fate

the adults will kill us all

smile at me
and ill cry
cacophony
desperation

pat me on the back
tell me i did alright
and ill well
and ill well
cacophony
desperation

rest your head; it's ok
i remember my friends
and i cant forget
there's a better way



smile at me hard
i need you now
i need you now
i need you
now
now
now
now
now
now
now

cuz shes rushing through dirt
screaming tearing soil to mud
her words awash
her words run

ill love you forever
ill love you for always
as long as im living
my baby youll be

held in my parents palms,
below calloused fingertips
in the trough between
mountainous blister ranges,
history's rough etchings;

i was raised gently,
away from time and place,
hair unshorn
heart never forlorn

cycling through tabs,
there's a moment's hesitation.
the present becomes
the past unfolding still,
unfurling your mark like a past ally,
now bitter rival,
inversely proportional

cycling through tabs,
the letters of five different e-mails
run together,
forming your icon
in my dreams syntax:
your name is afire
on all the billboards,
on all the highways.

Straightened these slumped shoulders,
And filled my heart up again;
Sent smiles through chambers,
Where atriums housed echoing laughter:

Slide your hand,
Trace my lifeline,
Into your land:
Breathe into my lungs

Slide your midas hand
You will not  err, err, err, err
You will not err, err, err, err
We cannot err, err, err, err

We'll hobble into posture,

Past the pasture and pens,

Through my mother’s darkened barn,

Up away
Up away
Up away
Up away


Give me your hand,
Give me your hand;
Take off your glove:
Our fingerprint unlocks our heart.

the terror that terror brings
is infinite and without regard;

the terror that terror brings
has a divine scope.

terrors give me trembling hands,
shaky thumbs approaching
dirty off-white keys
as i am within the largest
most unsettling hug;
terror's arms are huge.
terror's hands are calloused
catcher's mitts, broken in with hate


i never really thought of death
as something real,
as something permanent,
as something that happens to real people,
and, now, its glaringly obvious
that death is the only reality,
that life is the fiction we're creating
when the sun is up and when the sun is down,
that it is in everyday life where the battle for power
takes place, and it's your narrative
against my narrative:
who will persuade or coerce us
"This is Reality."
... but it will really, always, never be 'this' or 'that'
but 'this and that and this, this, and this and that, too',
and then thisthisthisthatthisthatthatthatthisthisand that, too.

i am afraid
i can't think of you, mom.
for to think of you
is to later dream of you
of how id like my life to be,
of how id like your life to be,
and thats all i want for you,
to speak of you, again, in the present tense.

i cant help but see your eyes
softly glistening in the moonlight,
running far from sheep, holding tight
upon my pillow running free
from your grasp and screaming

each day is wasted that i
don't solve the world's problems
up with a nice bow in the middle
of two longs strings, at the
vertex of four ninety degrees angles

floricide, vaticide, hopicide, and other epistemicides; or, the vole in our hearts

seated, ill-fated and faded,
spinning on top of a top
at the tip top of olympus mons,
swirling down to sewers,
wet, wild, thrown into the cellar
where charon beckons forever . . .
but we may yet scale the mariana trench,
out of the ocean and up onto land,
arriving, safe, sopping, sound

where i will parabolize your mouth,
upside then down;
i will bring your hunched shoulders
to the sun then to the soil;
i will emblazon your sky
until you stub me out
amid plates clashing
the range will form
our peaks hemispheres apart,
and i will terrify you


my heart is two sizes too big

on a plane from columbus, ohio to chicago, illinois, after the wedding of my best friend; after the wake, funeral, and burial of my mother; after years of personal ethics-zeitgeist collisions causing a general lack of success, i.e. happiness

sitting, slumped in my airplane window seat,
unsure, unwitting, and unwise,
your head appears, swiveling,
as long curly black ropes, pivoting
my pen towards your well of ink.

searching for a seat for your body,
it is plausible to see you seeing
yourself in the mirror and smiling
with tangerine abandon and clear content.

i already have neighbors;
my row allows for no more.
fate has put you there;
you have put you here.
and i have only these words,

blown round my imagination
for a minute of stirred whimsy,
everyday life’s salt
against slick monotony.

what would it be like to dip my pen in your inkwell?
how would you feel after dipping your pen in my inkwell?

could we save each other?
can anyone save anyone else?
are rested heads on shoulders mere
heroin and chasing from dear to dear?

but possibility seems concave, bland and sterile;
i am satisfied with my words and will . . .
and nothing but disappointment.
negation leaves only the boring?
or will i always want the can’t’s and the hasn’t’s?

questioning the efficacy of past action,
declaring potentiality,
constructing imperative theories . . .
writing poetry keeps me present,
writing poetry is ballast.

as it is, i'll surely be stuck in a cumulus before breakfast.

the possibility of possibility amid amor fati

my mother died,
and the breeze
in my step left.

my mother died,
and the breeze
 in my step left.

but i lived on,
still,
while her chained heart
sank to the depths.

your heart still beats;
i almost mourn you more
since you are human
and prone to reason,
while death will not be wooed away.

i have the faith
of the dogmatists' i hate;
ressentiment divides
the self of my own fate
into a million negatory mirrors.

death is not just the end;
it's another beginning.

Radiohead's 'Frozen' (featuring Charles Bukowski and Steven Lazaroff)

ye olde prologue



radiohead's 'frozen'



epilogue (a)

Bukowski's 'Bluebird'



(rebuttals and alternative endings)

epilogue (b)

Bukowski's 'The Laughing Heart'



epilogue (c) 
Lazaroff's 'The Girl and Her Door
 

can survive with anyone
long as ya have enough drugs around
people are laughter
people are bodies
can survive with anyone
if you have enough drugs around

when i feel the warmth
rushing through my brain
feels like i'm striking every last frame
feels like i'm rolling a 300 game
in sunny bumpered up alleys
the porcelain here is cleaner than god

there's no distinction
you cannot make
there's no person
you can't explain away
there's no heart
that isn't beating
no cloudy souls
when you have enough drugs around

dancing in crowds
looking around
seeing all smiles
the best place to look
is just up up and down
ooh, ooh
if there's enough drugs around
ooh, ooh
if there's enough drugs around

forget your heart with every turn
i dont wanna run
i just really have to burn
do you, do you have some drugs around?
hey man, you got somethin to cop?
i sure could use something for these memories

when i feel the warmth
rushing to my heart
feels like i'm striking every last frame
feels like i'm rolling a 300 game
in sunny bumpered up alleys
the porcelain here is cleaner than god

there's no distinction
you cannot make
there's no person
you can't explain away
there's no heart
that isn't beating
no soul vacuumed when
you have enough drugs around

when i feel the warmth
rushing to my heart
feels like i'm striking every last frame
feels like i'm rolling a 300 game
in sunny bumpered up alleys
the porcelain here is cleaner than god

you're always late
i'm always early
first thing to learn is
always gotta wait

letter to a future love

dear,

sitting next to her in bed

thinking of the woman and mother she was . . .

she mutters now.

mumbles, stutters, babbling

off in a language, in a world

she only senses and does not know.

“now – here’s where it tells you everything.”

i hope she is talking to God.

i don’t believe in God,

but i hope she is talking to God.

for a breath i assume His Transcendent Existence,

but run away cursing

his bleak, everyday

manic depression.

still, her smiling face shines my memory:

i see her look down into tangled covers,

reminding it’s time to go somewhere cool,

and all i want is to be there now,

and not here,

watching her departure

through sagging skin,

through inane smiles,

through lost thoughts.

i wish you could have known her,

aside from my salty floods,

aside from my paragraph home movies,

aside from my smile in profile,

and what it does to my nose.

i wish she could have seen you

smile at me smiling at you smiling at me,

and i wish she could have seen

the battles we wash off our necks,

like she did cake off my lip corners.

i wish you could have known her

before triple-negative,

before metastatic and inoperable,

before incurable,

before cancer coursed,

and these words became the Himalayas.

love of mine,

lover of me:

what hurts most

in The Time of All Encompassing Heart Hurt

is that you’re not here yet,

is that i am all alone,

and you’ll never know

my other best friend.

yours,

me

there's not much light outside
except for wet soon to be water ice,
reflecting the moonlight despite
my sea of oak branches dismembering

this short tortured bright lights enough
of our shared space so that i may
understand for a moment, a thought,
my own plaintive whispering, lightly, a transient

yy____ on sunday morning, getting high in wisconsin
cooking breakfast with your mom in wisconsin
____ monday evening on lake wisconsin

____ in wisconsin

running after that ball
that wind blown beach ball
it went into the water
lead us to that
wonderful sandbar

feeling you grabbing the back of my skull
feeling you gr

brushing hair out of your face is all i ever wanna do
brushing hair out of your face
brushing brushing hair out of your face is all i ever wanted to do
staystaystaystay
stay
stay
stay
stay
staystaystaystay

just stay
dont run
but dont forget things
that cant be undone

i didnt think dying would be like this, too.

how am i marginalizing myself?

DUMP6/20100116; 23:26

i just finished "the road." never been so intensely moved by art in my life

on earth, the possibility for life as we know it, and the probability that we should know life differently

20100930 12:07 p.m.

The world's closing in
far and wide in wraith diners
     red with bash,
     hiding behind redwood reeds
atop
     a baroque flowerbed
straddling
     raw chafing rivers bulging,
throbbing
     tense filled canoes.
It is the beginning of the end of it all,
     in the beginning to the beginning of it all,
     and can we stop?

stop> as blackbirds descend from sky>look up>tilt left shoulder thirty degrees>look up, swat blackbirdoff neck's posterior triangle>wipe your neck>blackish maroon>syrup finger to finger stick  > kneel and swat,

<  terribly late for something

. . . i have to . . . like,

. . . i can't . . .

. . . i don't know how to . . .

how to . . .

sincerely, knowingly, want to

experience someone liking me

more than i like them

. . . anyone

jus'eed fo dollahs

g'some food

my'daughters n me

jus'eed fo dollahs

lil foo'fo'daye

hey man!

can you spare some change?

i hear your pocket jingling

SURPLUSING

my guys got that epidemic H

round there and

round there and

round there and

'only ten'ollars'n'seveny cens shote

------

\you gotta cleaneedle?

I don't say anything, really, in our 'normal understanding' of 'say' or 'anything.'

I speak to you
not in request
not in demand
but in lieu
but in lieu of.
I speak choice
but under the monolithic sticky banner
one choice looms: 
(inherit)competepurchase
and report to me.
I'll see you on the 15th.
I'll see you on the 30th.
I'll see you on Wednesday.
I'll see you at the new Gap @ The Sphinx.

We need to bomb them.

Their land's

material'n'spiritual

'n'strategic advantage.

In seventy-two hours

operation bloody hymened crescent 

shall rush forth over whosevers banks 

so choose to lie against our jagged tide.

I am my neighbor

I am my sister

I am my mother

I am my fourth boyfriend

 I am my sixth grade 

I am a goddess

I am a slut

I am a liar

I am

I am a cunt

I am a goddess

I am an empath

I create and destroy,

but I am your eyes

It's easier down

. . . it goes down easier

   tobeyouandnotme 

fuck.

you.

'for real',

fuck

you.

im not gonna do that.

im not gonna 

i wont

ever

pick at those apples

under that sky.

i wont ever.

the world seems waning again,

but it's morning - again

see the smiling girl stand
in the city's penumbra.
left arm in a sling,
blood underlined eyes
like linebackers of yore.
three-pointed towards . . .
run to her as she runs to you.

DUMP2/philosophy for children

20101119 8:05 p.m.

[human being] places their finger upon a vein of [human being ]'s thumb/index finger region and traces the tributary to the nearest neighborhood tributary vein

[human being] places their finger upon a vein of [human being]'s thumb/index finger region and traces the tributary to the nearest neighborhood tributary vein

[human being] places their finger upon a vein of [human being]'s thumb/index finger region and traces the tributary to the nearest neighborhood tributary vein

DUMP 1/half-birth (under a microscope); an autonomous citizen of earth (from a blimp)

20101111 3:30 p.m.

what are you doing tonight?

almost certainly saving my life.

what does that mean?

i will certainly save my life tonight.

the chicago parking meter situation: a clean clean mayoral bottom asits

Initially, much of the proceeds from the meter deal were targeted to benefit Chicago over the long term - in capital infrastructure projects, rainy day funds and so forth. Shortly after the deal was signed, however, Daley found himself with an unexpected $400 million shortfall, and - not wanting to raise taxes or cut services in a recession - filled the budget hole with parking meter money. Whenever the capitalization of an asset occurs, citizens should be wary if city hall devotes proceeds to filling operating deficits. After all, the structural deficits do not vanish, but the ability to monetize the asset again does.

http://www.governing.com/columns/mgmt-insights/Chicago-Parking-Meters.html