Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Fox News, Rupert Murdoch, and his Talking Heads all gave campaign cash to lunatic right wing senator Rick "Man-Dog" Santorum. Surprise, surprise...

Monday, February 27, 2006

That number is just maddening;

Saturday, February 25, 2006

Poetry; The Autoerotic Asphyxiation of Michael Hutchence

-for Andy Nicholson




Oh my gawd, you’re...sunlight but
backwards...ask
the gutter punks to scoot
down just a bit. Life carries us
like an old timey bicycle, a papier
mache stiff and wet when
it’s still in the womb --
we’d honestly make greater innovations
if we played this fast
and loose, ten pounds,
keep saying it,
ten pounds, the prospect of home ownership.



The pie cooling on the prose
windowsill misalignment, singing,
staring blind into the eclipse bookcase;
boarded up bomb shelters and pirate gold.
Carve your tongue “censored”
sides of lonely cows
licking short buses, brushing
pudding silhouettes across window shades
(voyeurs) and trees asking reasons --
trees can’t talk about fine breakfasts and Dada
is dead and I still consider myself very likable.



Today’s compromise as an institution:
they’re called Moai, I think,
those Easter Island heads. No
Michael, not Grace Jones. The signs
saying something like “Wake Up You Fucking Lemmings.” Shout - shout -
shout at the Devil. “Michael, I swear
if you say halcyon one more time...”
That man with the duffle bag is suspiciously
and by the bicycle. He is staring
at his cell phone like a car radio, regretting
sophistry. Living. Better. “Patrick,
seriously, ask for it Quebec Style and see what she says.”



Our moods are illustrated open
windows where soup, in its bowl, is King Ghidorah-like
in every way. String theory has been blown out
of proportion - wait -
the pelvis bones. The nude body is here reduced
to an oil spill on the garage floor, a cushion
of Oxford stripe fabric. We have the misplacing of anger
here in small town America. Hold on one second
the Braves just loaded the bases.



Photographs of the nude body as a topographical map.
Photographs of the human heart as wallpaper.
I lost her to a guy with,
of all things, an ironic mustache.
Rather than argue, the bus driver
returned the fare, responded
saying the United States leads the world
in championing human rights. Amy suggested
wearing fog as clothing,
I suggested it would be hell in winter.



A warm thursday coffee shop drum
beat, sound of spoon parting liquid cash
register. Denim. Sunglasses. Ceramic
on ceramic. There is a bird
with assorted annuals growing from its beak.
The sound of grinding. A woman
looks closer. A man mentions
something to do with Waylon Jennings
and different shades of the same
shirt. “Espresso please.” Picture
hair. Jon (a painter I know walks
by with a forty in a paper bag) and
an older French man pronounces “civil-
ee-thae-scion.” A woman dictates
it to her mushrooms, her gown Saturn
and fire, dust, cymbal crash. Emphasizing
a hand gesture. Too skinny. Too skinny. Nice pants.

Who better to clean up government than government?

Friday, February 24, 2006

In retrospective...

for one month's cost in waging the war in Iraq we could have blanketed every square mile of the Muslim world, from Egypt to Thailand, with loudspeakers blasting "One Nation Under a Groove" on a constant loop...

Thursday, February 23, 2006

I suppose it isn't somewhat shady that the Treasury Secretary, the guy who pushed this through, has a huge financial stake in the UAE company either;

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

This is going to be appealed to the Supreme Court, that's their whole damn game;

Monday, February 20, 2006

A society in Malaysia claims to have scientific Bigfoot evidence

The Bush administration is also retroactively secretive;

Sunday, February 19, 2006

Checks and Balances

If memory serves, article three of the United States Constitution says that if the executive branch breaks the law, Congress should act in a reasonably expediant way to legislate and legalize said crime. I think Jefferson called that Congressional oversight.


White House Lobbies to Avoid Wiretap Probe

Poetry; "Stick Figure Robot Dance"

Late spring Boston hot sun
pavement days cold ocean wind
night walking through a crowd
of thrift store jackets and ties
with my headphones on,
wondering if I’m part of this
if for only a second, wondering
why there are never ball point pens lying around the sidewalk
like pennies or cigarette butts.

The rain was sober
for the first time in fifteen days. I
wear socks and alcohol to bed
because it’s too cold to sleep if I don’t and sleep
with a stuffed bumblebee
because the illusion has to suffice.

This is all true. This is an apology
to a girl who makes me feel like my heart is a balloon
filled with jello
hitting a catcher’s mask.

In grade school
they never taught me how to seize opportunity.
Like a diabetic boy in a gummy bear factory after hours
and the only thing left to do
is sit on the floor
and try to remember how to finger-paint.

The crowd talking about kickball
and what bands are playing the party tonight,
I think, I don’t know, I can’t read lips
that well, headphones on.
My New England
is the scent of burning oak logs; the asphalt steam
of coffee cups and potter’s soil.

The sky is a tide pool
a slide show
a cord with knots tied into it
every inch or two. The dead
rising from the ground on escalators,
the living trapped in the sound of unmoving tires.


A Short Aside:

Your sins as lotion
into my skin
like silly putty pressed to the false
and fantastic sky at midnight.
There is a half empty bed and boy
who thought about kissing you last summer
just to say he got slapped
or something to do with imported beer or pirates.

It's a terrible idea that makes me heart stung and quiet.
Your eyeliner frames
your imperfections;
some people call that art,
and I can hold my own with anyone. I know this now.
I've drawn women that don't exist,
but the reality I met with its messy hair
and scars is so much more.


Shoulder to shoulder in a crowded bus
face planted into a book wondering
if I am even part of the crowd,
even riding the bus. Arms shift from pockets to knees
eyes shift from knees to every space where no one in a crowd is looking.

Out the window a tiny Kool-Aid sunset
a human aquarium
sans the little kids and souvenirs,
more shades of red
happening here than in a kindergarden crayon mishap,
more fashion
than has happened on my body over the last twenty four years.
Even PJ Harvey turned in her black turtleneck and boots
for new wave hair
and a yellow Elvis print dress.

This is all true. Later. Balmy spring Boston on a bench
by the Charles River behind Commonwealth Ave.

The river reflects the sky
in submerged neon -
the sky itself an eraser-marked sheet
of sun-faded construction paper.

These are days when nothing sounds so ugly
as church bells in the hot afternoon; hunger
a perverse indulgence
of gluttony.

Twilight wound around beer
and small talk.
Orgasms -- grass roots blues concerts
playing down our spines.

We were quiet then.
The night pinpricked
and held against a white bulb
for only as long as it would not catch fire.

This is all true. Later. Passing by bistros
art cafes art school
waitresses smoking cigarettes on break,
headphones off thinking I’ve tried too hard
to be part of that crowd
set to the sound
of a man with no fashion sense
playing guitar
for people who see fashion sense as out of style,
who don’t see themselves
outlined by wet cement or paint chips.

This cool muggy air a metaphorical red-haired girl
whose scarf is the wrong shade of empathy.

This is all true. Flowers blooming headphones off
riding another bus west on Commonwealth Ave
wondering just for a moment
I am not part of this crowd. Someone muses:
“eating wings hand grilled by Elvis.”
passing through a part of the city
where people spend the bulk of their waking lives
waiting for public transportation.

Later. Harvard Ave and a car radio
wafts audio recordings
of famous paintings,
and I see window displays cascaded with lamp lit mannequins
and yellowed library books stuffed in boxes of animal crackers.

Sitting on the sidewalk with an ice cream cone,
headphones on
a crowd of Red Sox jerseys passing by spring
evening Boston and I wonder if even for a moment
I am part of that crowd.

Ice cubes are all that separate us from the apes,
men are wrapped in hardwood floors wearing throw rugs
as hats. This is all true. God is a stock option
in a buyer’s market
and luxury is drowned in char and snow
when no snow had fallen the night before.

When I was little I made a crayon
drawing of myself on a tomato
and ate it
so no one could ever see it.
I stood in the backyard after school,
eyes closed, gargling the rain
because somewhere in my stomach
was a self-portrait
that wouldn't digest.

The Fucking Ocean @ The Elbo Room

Le Museum Mechanique

Poetry; "Dead Leaves and Tennis Shoes"

Dead Leaves and Tennis Shoes

Swarming flies is cold
water, idle
on the page. I’m not sleeping
well. I’ve had girl-monkey dreams. Turn
to yell, “locked in trains”
and an animatronic angel
is taking dollars for photos. His wings
are lived in. “Eating ashes --
the cremation --
to spite a smile”
a homeless man yells rain runs ink
my train of thought
buying a happy Hell.



I keep cupid in a formaldehyde jar on the table in front of me. This, the same shade of water as the shawls of three women waiting for the bus. The sound of diesel engines and espresso machines a desperate white noise to flamenco riffs from a free air gym the Samoan kids at the youth center use after school. Now and again, a bicyclist, a girl in a thrift store sun dress or some combination of the two, pass in the late afternoon, in that hour when the sun is a bruise on the horizon.



New Orleans. Poor folk walking
the knee deep streets
as Governors and Governments
fingerpaint on the national canvas.
No food. No water. Children.
Dead leaves, caramelized
and ringed in Olmec. Half
a coconut in a cupboard nailed
to green. A maroon
star dripping white along the edges.
“The sun
never sets in Ohio.” I think
Frank O’Hara said that. Someone:
the chalkboard is bleeding blue
brunch and hot sandwiches.



A boy in a trucker hat sporting an eighty dollar punk rock tank top is glaring at me. He’s jealous of my coffee or sideburns or something. The older couple at the table next to me are talking at each other. The husband is yelling about Faulkner and drinking, the wife mumbles something about pork chops and Groucho Marx. I heard on NPR today that more people die each year of suicide than of war and murder combined. People talk, stare, drink. Coffee is poured, shoes worn out. My mother is three thousand miles away waiting for the results of her CAT scan. We’re both thinking about snow.



A homeless man to himself:
“I can’t help
who
I
who I
love.”



“He’s five foot ten, “ Andy said, “but he composes verse like a man of at least six foot three.” As poetry approaches the speed of light, time, relative to the poem, remains the same but those tagged black walls are brickstrong and what’s a man to do after his sixth bottle of beer blonde spilt over old Slayer t-shirts. This is when denim skirts go horribly right.



Drinking coffee and considering
Ted Berrigan. Her skin like the water table
in southern California, hair
spilling brown from a glacier
over rocks, over curves
like Colonial era train tracks. Nabakov
for a toothpick and eyes
a sunset over a wave of ashes.



A woman lives underneath the Cesar Chavez overpass in a homeless encampment between the Mission and the warehouse district. Every day she sweeps the sidewalks in her three block area clean, brushing glass and garbage with hands as frail as the broomstick they clutch. Some mornings city workers ask her to clear out so they can do routine maintenance. Some mornings she trades coffee for haircuts, mostly from one man with a large afro gone white with age, or from two braided men who strip found bicycles and haul heaping carts back and forth from the recycling center.



“I wish I were skinny”
“You are sk--”
“--er”



A bad morning, an “I woke up to find my cat dead and the Sox down 3-0 to the Yanks” morning. Pluck - twang. Old Irish having at it like sea farers, like nose rings going downhill in the fog at twenty five miles per hour. “Heraclitus, he was sort of a preSocratic string theorist.” Braided hair. Banjo. A plastic pumpkin suspended twelve feet above the crowd on a fishing pole. Pine needles shift and shudder to the piano keys. “I used to, well, but now I’m sitting on old chipped blue bleachers, inside the sounds of cold and coffee.” Neutral colors.



Justin heard me out, threaded a string
through the old gods. Cars
passing by on the left. “What are you
reading?” Telephone. Misengraved
myself. Hands plugged directly
into wall sockets;
they can’t clap
under their own power.



“I love bad puns Katie,” I shout through the bathroom door. Fourth floor salon window, smell of bleach gone lavender and white wine. Critical mass. Cops on motorcycles. Chain grease. Hollering. “I knooowwww Patrick,” she shouts through mirror. Skeletons in top hats are dancing in that blue stuff all barber shops have, the stuff I used to think was my uncle’s secret stash of blue raspberry jello.



There are days when I,
the underside of an unfinished coffee
table, the corner of a red window
in the light is three shades
of brown. As I walked into the street to pass
a group of police officers blocking off the sidewalk
I heard a girl no more than six ask,
“Mommy, were there five shots or just one?”



Everything today smells like pasta fagiole. My father’s fifty-and-over softball team just won their second league championship. Mom used to say, “Well, it just goes to show ya.” After thinking about it, yeah.



A man
on the fifth floor
has been shouting threats
to police
and gape-
mouthed
onlookers.

They have nets
set up
to catch him.

I don't want to go that way,
the crowds and all
but it might be nice
having
that kind
of security.



“Consider how they interpret the Book of Revelations in Latin America.” The western sky is offering a pasta strainer of constellations to us and our water dish mouths, our pass/fail Nostradamus of a war effort. We have mapped out our failures in flares driven into the black painted ceiling of prophecy and public address. The President told us we have won the war. Months later he told us we are winning the war. Months later he told us we will win the war. Months later he told us we must stay the course. Men and women both, in provided suits stamping damp white letters across Old Glory. The water. All around us. The stairs simply disappear into it.