Month: April, 2014

how am i supposed to write with you looking over my shoulder

april 25th

averting glances across tables.
there should be a swinging bulb above their heads –
interrogation of psycho analysis.
except this can be escaped, walked away from or
dealt with via pints and pints.


april 26th // 27th

slow moving time
fluffed up with conversations normal people don’t have.
boundaries undefined in the brain, not translated to language. 

off to another bubble. I venture between them,
permeating strange veils with grace yet hesitance.
to find myself sitting in a dark room of cautious Midwesterners. 

they clap quiet and cloy over the three hour cabaret.
the rain hasn’t stopped. a passerby mentioned only tourists
carry umbrellas here. but I am malevolent to the damp night. 

the next morning brought waterlogged cars
strange smells flowing in and out my nose, origins unknown.
I’m becoming less sensitive by each second. 

flatlining – but, then,
it’s nice. we make our own rules. play Frida Kahlo
and traipse after desires a bit willy-nilly. 

branching out to empires beyond this one. 

productive things to think about besides men

“I am awake and feel the ache.” – Regina Spektor


your memory is like
the book I pulled out from the shelf last week
flipped through some pages until
I remembered that the language was buried too deep in
propositions of a future that was never set to come.

written or spoken, words couldn’t do it.
touch couldn’t do it.
we sure as hell
couldn’t do it.

your memory is like
the dance we learned from bluegrass
spun around in circles and taught to the neighbors.
everyone needs a little muse until
it consumes, it eats away all else but itself.

inspiration that stands alone
is nothing but a bubble you can’t pop.
beauty isolated from all else –
is nothing but a twitching butterfly (wings half broken).

your memory is like
Power. I want to tell everyone what it’s like
to stand beside a magnet of repelling forces
I’m not afraid to write that story.
I’m not afraid to tell girls
forever is not pressing
when the present can be realization.

youth is an excuse
but only for so long.

your memory is like
one that hasn’t quite happened
and not even on the brink.
your memory is the future of
all my thoughts
all my rage
all my criss/crossed letters and
every twisted turn down this road.

on the other hand –

your memory is like
that bridge I’ll never overpass
for I know better
than to give up memories
for invisible self.

The past week

I’ve been slackin’. But I caught up. The beautiful part about poetry month is that each poem serves as a snapshot of that day’s feeling, images, and thoughts. So here goes. Of course some days are more inspiring than others. I wouldn’t call any of them fully fleshed out, but then again, NO DISCLAIMERS ALLOWED (aloud).


april 9th


in addition, you wore a peacock feather vest
and told me the guitar was for attracting
folks who can play guitar. the sun was gone
and the people were going and everytime the wind skipped a beat we thought –
what is that warm current? we all gasped. just a silent one
it was
like trade waves cursing down the ocean
like a piece of some such warmth could grace us.

and it was simply the still.
the horizon was crooked and
the neighborhood elegant and
the sun was gone. 

april 10th

(this is a song I am trying to collab w my brother on. I’m still trying to figure out how to embed audio onto wordpressss.)

it’s better with the light on
whatever else thought you can try on 

I can’t stand these lesions in my brain
makin me think makin me go insane

routines are pickin’ up quick
it is what makes me sick

pictures framed of all our dreams
everyone looks like kings and queens 

april 11th

there are old friends and then there are older. time is relative to space to awareness of body to awareness of gender to the personal to the political to plateau.
there has to be a plateau.
il doit être un mot de plateau.
there is.
il y a.
there has to be.
sight became blurrier and blurrier that night.
we drove home fast – faster than we should have.
it was never confusing. simply the same old story.
in a different room, paintings moved around, drums sitting dormant in the corner.

some friends mate for life, i’ve decided.
we slept in the same bed, no walls between
some phrases passed through half sleeping ears
it was warm, i remember. i hung onto 
the morning oncoming. and when it arrived,
it was as if the night had never happened.

april 12th

i ran around the day
in productive circles
until I swirled around and mixed in with  boiling water and artificial flavoring
and whatever it’s all a metaphor for.

this house is one planet
we orbit and peer out earthly windows.
spilling our thoughts out into puddles before one another
and no rage comes. just acceptance.

and back and forth on the same streets
I end up in a living room with crisscrossed legs
a morphing loop that bends and curls
depends on who talks to who and what drink is drank.

up too late again. 

april 13th

dazed of feeling and
days of people – I’m reeling
on the notion that something must be right
something’s gotta
                   but I don’t bother hold my breath anymore.
if it comes it comes
the mailman only delivers once a day
the same time, every day.
and if it comes it comes.
either way, I gotta sleep.
I gotta
to sleep. 

april 14th – a graveyard shift for the lunar eclipse

routine. phrases I wish I knew beyond the
bubbled fish tank reminders
steaming pot of tea reminders
knot in the upper back reminders. 

push it along.
– the process is bigger than the context.
it should all flow like one continuous creature
of knownth. 

change the process. keep the context.

april 15th – I’ll scratch your riff if you scratch mine

the progressions of the song i’m writing with donnie

It’s better with the light on
Whatever else thought you can try on
You can keep your eyes off
If it’s a deal too, we can sing songs 

I can’t understand these flares in my brain
Makin’ me think, makin’ me go insane
About the people that we used to be
All our wishes on the windowpane

The years are pickin’ up quick
It’s what makes me so damn sick
Pictures framed of all our dreams
Everyone looks like Kings and Queens
Pictures framed of all our dreams
Everyone looks like Kings and Queens
(We aren’t featured in a single thing) 

I can’t understand these flares in my brain
Makin’ me think, makin’ me go insane
About the people that we used to be
All our wishes on the windowpane

can’t stop numbering my poems

1.we talk through
bubbles of conversation.
she says “my body is
punishment for my mind
its haphazard math equations –
for sense-making

2. we ask for advice.
waiting, waiting for all other
tormented souls to help.
shame. shame on all who
walk their high roads
talk to us with glazed looks.
but who is any better than the fool?

3. we commit to love.
it’s all that’s left when we are
alone at night.
hit out the lights
eyes open
mind floating
pull out a fright.
serenity is not found in the dark
just new color schemes
invented dreams
trying to make their mark.

4. we assuage pain in
another glass. and
of conversation.


April 5th


open the windows
for watery eyes.
(it’s all I have)

we need lighthouses
beneath the sea
to see the merge
of the tides.
the east and the west
the tired souls
(sunken musical
notes from the
pointillated by
pulses of light
heeding warnings

we need mouths full
juicy pears
waxing summer
all down our chins
the up and down of
jaws (& eyelids)
talking through
the dusk.

open the windows.
shut the blinds.

Livid, chauvinist, anomoly

April 4th

1. Discolored

2. My volcano erupted this morning.
You wouldn’t have known
had you peered up
at my second story window —
I stood in front of
the light while it
began to explode.
But you wouldn’t have
known, had you peered.

3. The bruise on my leg
has either
been there for months
the exact same spot
(back of my thigh
just out of sight enough
to forget)
keeps harboring the
blue circle.

4. After the eruption, I
looked around
at my space
I didn’t recognize it
any longer.
It looked exactly
as it was
but I couldn’t put my
finger on what had changed.
I took off my glasses.

5. The cast away cigarette butts
will soon emerge
after the snow
and we won’t be able to tell
the difference between
frozen water puffs
and piles of little white
stamped with camel.

6. This whole experience would have been better
in iambic pentameter
I thought
as I gathered up the bits of
smooshed pennies and
German buttons.
What was the volcano?
Did the animals flee?
Did my mind become lava?
I began to gather
what was left of my psyche.

7. Days like anomalies.
Monotonies of anomalies.
At least we are kept on our toes
as we go through the motions.

8. The fire burned for some time
that day. It was methodological
and somber. And no one saw,
as deep as they looked.
I could feel it sustaining
The ash smoldering my bones
My hairs retreating into
singed disappearances.

April 3rd

Response to Lora’s poem on 4/3


Lora says “i’m tired of writing
to lost lovers”
and ain’t that the damn truth.
Tired of spreading thin
these memories that have seen
more replays than a pop song.
You can make anything real
in your mind
in your words and stories.
But truth? That is not
created, and still not known.
Even electronically speaking –
Computed /  Calculated.

I am only concerned with
wrapping my mind around
fermented thoughts – drinking them dry
and culturing a new moment,
to turn into new circular

An observation

creamy skies
burying us & melting
burying us & melting

commonalities don’t make it any easier
to cope.

listening to the words spoken around you
waiting to speak
into bicycle spokes
everyone else’s monologues
are spinning spinning
in front of your face
you puff out little phrases –
a leaky tire.

what are lines anyway.
guidelines. you are stubborn.
you know not your flaws.
you love, but what
over all else? the pre-blazed path
which you have trotted along.

Song for my Ten Circles

Inspired by “Song for my Twenty Loves of Desperation” by Carlos Dobal.


Also inspired by a long conversation I had yesterday with a woman who told me it is good to think through which circles each person in your life resides in. First, second, or third? I took it a bit farther, but I definitely learned something about myself.

The center. Is me.
My mother always said
“you think the world
revolves around
Each think the world
revolves around themselves.
And it was the rightest
she’s ever been.

Second are lists.
Scraps and pages piled
that go nowhere
that say everything.
Luke said to me
“stop writing about
writing. No one likes that
but us.”

A tall girl is third.
She stands back to back
with a shaman poet.
They do not know one another
but they know
As much as the first two
circles cannot.

The pieces of me which
are not connected
to my body –
the family of Hicks & Funks.
The three of them
scattered minds.
They are also my third.
Infiltrate the decisions I
make – the risks I
try to take.
A brother who borrows
my words and sets them
to chords.
A father who is a
bird. Hands covered in
grease and washed
away with lava soap.
A mother who I become.

The fourth circle –
sustains. It is bacon
wrapped asparagus
tuna crudo
pork tacos
breakfast in bed
and olive oil.
It is my most simple love.

Extroversion perversion.
Fifth. A disorder.
Lora and I used to pine
over introverts
we thought their solitude
could accomplish more
than our bouncing paths
and talks and interactions.
This is why the fifth
encompasses all loves
big and small
train cars of friends
spanning decades and
space – the whole
country covered with
the empire.
Distractions lead to happiness lead to fatigue.

Sixth. The monkey sphere.
Humans. Some people think
you can make any relationship work.
But not every puzzle piece
can be mashed
Still, the sphere is big,
though cannot be everyone.

Then comes memories.
Then comes the past.
Then comes what I
read over and over
and laugh and despair and
want to burn and want
to feed into a letterpress
that will print these
histories on toilet paper
that can be wrapped
around our world.
At least once.

Eighth is trees. Eighth
is the mountains and
lakes. Eighth is Ada.
Eighth is the double arch
in Utah which the Belgian
man wanted so badly
to photograph for himself
(void of tourists)
even though
you can buy the postcard
in the gift shop
because eighth is the
eighth wonder of the
world which is looking
at the world.
Eighth is the story she
tells with outcrop
rocks on House Mountain.
I try to pick out which
have fallen
out of place and
which just go
down all the way
but Donnie the
geologist says I get it
wrong every time.
Eighth is the rocks I
cannot understand.

Next are hands.
Hands used and hands idle.

Tenth is the other side.
Ten is even and round
and even when death
is neither of these
things – death is ten.