Sunday, December 11, 2011

A Set of My Poems

I Couldn’t Stand

As mortifyingly WONDERFUL
            as all my past relationships
                        have been
with their stiletto knife tears
            ravaged voice boxes
threats of being committed
            (to an asylum and each other)
the locked door cage matches
                        broken finger pointing
guarded litanies of EXCUSES
after evening reports
            of who what when where WHY?!?!?!

I’m taking my jealous
and crushing it to pulp
I’m burning the red-flags
            and all the obnoxious
            YOU CLAIM TO LOVE.

Agreeing with me
            IS NOT
a precondition for my affection
Your day job is not
                        making me happy
Your night job is not
            constantly considering
my needs
and hoping you don’t
            do something inadvertently
                        TO PISS ME OFF.

That’s not what you were doing
when I fell in love with you.

It pleases me
for you to go right on
the you
I couldn’t stand
                        to be apart from


Fucking Sisyphus

O I’m gonna tell you
what really turns me on –
it’s someone tapped into
the lost art of a lost cause
someone giving up
on the whole lousy world
and then choosing to go on
knowing there is no reason to do so
            but the doing.

Fucking Sisyphus, man!
Nothing gets my panties wet
like a man or a woman
heavy lifting some god-forsaken
boulder up a mountainside
watching them chase it down again.

This is not the same
as tripping over the same stone.
I like deliberate futility –
going in with eyes unveiled
to the purposeless purpose.
Sisyphus had his eyes wide open
he didn’t trip or fall,
I know. Because if he had
I’d been sure to be underneath
him when he did.
His eyes were open, and seeing,
he knew his path all too well.

O if you want to woo me,
tell me about your apathy
how you woke this morning
with a choice between
a shower and a suicide
and decided to get clean,
opened the windows
to let the morning air in
before taking yourself
            up the hill again –
and I’m in.

You, shaking your fist at the wind
hollering at the fall leaves falling
putting caterpillars into therapy
telling them they don’t have
            to change
writing poems on torn napkins
and asking me to
stuff those words down my pants
anything useless, outrageous
that asks too much
and takes too much
and I’m all

Fucking Sisyphus, man!
That’s what I’m thinking about
alone in my bed tonight
with my left hand
between my thighs
and my right hand
            on this pen

getting off on this poem.

No Name

To call this intersection
of paths
is like calling the ocean
a storm cloud
we do not name things
for what they could
or will be
we name them
for what they are

which makes this
            whatever it is
something unnamed
because we are inventing
it as it emerges

I have my terrified moments
I write secret notes
and slip them in an envelope
with fire and magnets
addressed to you

I have my pleasures
thinking of your green walls
and I know you’d rather
see me dolorosa
but you awaken me.

with you I have two hearts.

I will not call the seed
a tree,
nor the tree a house
I will not call the fire
a destroyer
or a candle

I will not name this.

The idea is

you get your ass
by killers
who worked
on chain gangs
who can open
beer bottles
with their teeth
and gargle

They get you
on the ropes
with a 1-2
a right hook
they break
your nose, then
they make
you get back up.

The idea is
you get your jaw
knocked to the floor
you get to offer
no excuses
you put your own
teeth back in
the blood
and walk back
on the job
the next day
with your chin

You look those
in the eye
and say

I’m ready.

The idea is
that if you
take your lickings
for being a dumb-shit
and keep going
back to those
brighter, tougher
learn enough
to stop


Even though I love you telling me no

My panther of the yellow eyes
and cagey pacing,
when your black body
stinking of meat
leapt back into bed
next to me
with your kamikaze purr
and then
when your huge paws
wrapped me in tight
to the lank of your body
teeth so very near
but no, never touching
the neck I always
leave exposed for you
and you told me
you wanted to die like this
gripped in a savage cat’s embrace
face to face
with whiskers and fangs,
I wondered about the surety
of not leaving this life alone.

We both know
this is the kind of question
with no answer.

How do I prove
I love someone?
Is it true my body
ends at the skin
and the wide, starry void
is separate from me?
How do you know
I’ll keep my promises?

Let’s stick to questions
with answers.

Are you here right now?
Am I in your feral arms?
Do we dream?

Yes, panther, yes.

I let your claws open me.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

A Poem by Hank

Just finished reading "The Last Night of the Earth Poems" by Charles Bukowski ... here is my pick

air and light and time and space
“–you know, I’ve either had a family, a job,
something has always been in the
but now
I’ve sold my house, I’ve found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I’m going to have
a place and the time to

no baby, if you’re going to create
you’re going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
you’re going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you’re on
you’re going to create with part of your mind and your body blown
you’re going to create blind
you’re going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment,
flood and fire.

baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don’t create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses

Monday, December 5, 2011

The New Name

Perhaps you are wondering, what exactly is a self-abusing wondershow?

In short, I think it is you.

But not the polished, presentable, practiced you. I'm talking about the you on your deathbed, in the emergency room, flailing on the floor crying for your lover not to leave, raging against an injustice done to you, snarling at the person who cut in line. The one that springs up unexpected and suddenly takes over your actions as though you were a marionette.

The you you regret, apologize for, put away in a special closet deep in your mind and try to forget. The you it gives you anxiety attacks to think about. The part of you that makes you say, 'well, the good outweighs the bad.'

This self at the raw of yourself is where are all your wounds live. When awoken, you are powerless to your own will because that damaged you needs to be bandaged, needs attention, needs healed. You fling yourself into a haze of acting crazy to try and mete out some justice for your injured self. You sling arrows, you say things you do not mean, you scream, anything to get that other person to listen to what you need.

This is self-abusing. And don't you act like a wondershow?

But, this is not the only self-abusing we do. Also, there is the abandonment of your dreams, the settling for what life gave you, the giving up on being an artist. Perhaps, when first we betray ourselves we cannot help but feel betrayed and used by everyone around us. Which makes us lash out, do harm, be angry.

Can you admit this you is inside of you? This impish, sabotaging devil comes out to wreak havoc every now and again, mostly when you are hurt?

We are all self-abusing wondershows. It makes me happy to come right out and say it about myself, I am not misleading you: I will act the fool.

Please, when it happens, laugh.

Sunday, December 4, 2011

Suffering Suffering

Are love and suffering constant companions?

It seems the windmill of what's passed on from generation to generation might be a story of how we all suffer at the hands of those who claim to love us. We're told, "I only do this because I love you." We are taught that people make mistakes and that forgiveness is divine.  We must forgive and forget because family is the most valuable thing in our lives. This is what we are told.

We perpetuate this paradigm, turning on our friends and families and children as adults. Drama ensues. Think about most of your fights with people you love, they seem years later to be practically incomprehensible to have started clan wars over, to print up Team This Person and Team That Person shirts over. We say what's important is the lesson learned.

So what exactly is that lesson? That to love and be loved is to make others suffer and suffer yourself? Give up on love if you want autonomy and happiness? 

There will be no abandonment of love, but is there a way to mitigate the suffering?

The next time someone you love irritates you, hurts you, try something different. Instead of being mad and angry, asking for explanations and justifications and waiting for your opportunity to be cordially forgiving, decide that person does not need to be sorry. Decide there is nothing to forgive because you love that person and are going to keep doing so either way. This is not to demean a genuine apology. Saying you're sorry is a powerful gift and perhaps a necessary element of our being able to move on, both in the giving and in receiving.

Not needing to forgive a person means that you are not angry. So you must focus on how to not be angry with the people you love. The solution centers first around yourself, if you can relinquish the sense of entitlement you feel you have over another person's actions, truly allow them to be themselves, then it is my theory that the anger will fade. The people you love will no longer be able to hurt you because you cannot be hurt by them.

I can't imagine being mad at the people I love right now because I know that what I really want is for them to be themselves, and for that to be ok.  I want them to know that they can be with me without walls or judgement. I don't expect them to adopt my mores as a precondition to my love. They still have their own needs and expectations, and I respect that.

Now, as a self-described self-abusing wondershow, you might argue that I like being hurt and discount your own ability to forgo your anger. I say that it is precisely my masochism that has taught me how to truly love another person. Because being hurt hurt me less than other people, I analyzed and delighted in my suffering, I was able to give my sadness a depth of thought most people avoid. I was able to put aside my ego long enough to see my part in the relationship drama, and attempt to stop making those who love me suffer. In doing so, it also freed me from the particular pain of being disappointed and hurt by the ones I love.

 I learned my lesson: the best gift is loving a person for who they are.

Jayne Deserves Special Attention

This girl is fantastic and deserves to be famous. I made a webpage for her. Jayne-saw

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Manifesto of The Modern Absurdist

There are ignored senses in the American Culture: a sense of humor and and sense of minimalism. People are conditioned to laugh on cue at sit-coms and punchlines; people maximize all things. The Modern Absurdist is for these ignored senses, to remind the busy world that there there is deep meaning in a simple authentic laugh. These become our memories. This is what the conversation will be over later, expensive, seven-course dinners.

The Modern Absurdist is against stoic, upright conditioned behavior and against the densely populated barrage of identity through things. This person is a mooncalf, refusing to take seriously the acceptable world. Not to rebuke or destroy it, but simply to question whether or not the way things should be is the way things should be.

Observe your day closely, notice every label in your path throughout this day.  Each of these product icons represents either something you bought or are trying to be sold. Consider that just perhaps, in light of the evidence that mega-advertising surrounds us constantly, more than just our name brands and good cars are being sold to us. Consider that, just perhaps, our whole idea of what makes us happy was sold to us by idea men looking to make a profit. That these many labels are thorns in the briar patch, and you have to be Br'er Rabbit to escape unscathed.

Your best memories rarely include any of these labels, these products, you already know this is true.

The Modern Absurdist has an agenda, too. But it's really less of an agenda and more of a prescription for the state of depression and angst present in our society: the medicine for modern apathy is to engage the actual human beings around you. Go out and be an inventor of life again. Remember, like what you did before it all turned into chasing tail and impressing people?

Each of us is rich with imagination, think of your dreams, think of every inside-joke. This is the minimal life, an absence of propaganda and an abundance experiences with people. Be creative with your friends and family, don't be ruled by conversations about labels.

The absurdist's profit is the chance to encounter you. An actual you, with no screens between, no pre-packaged programming. When we meet the secret greeting is a quote from Neruda, "I don't give away thorns, and I don't sell them."

Either that, or "I, too, am a self-abusing wondershow! I see myself in you."

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

lay my head down

I collect pillowcases. Used pillowcases. I want yours, if you are missing one, I probably stole it. If you gave me one that you had used for many years, I cherish it. Pillowcases are where you tossed and turned, where you dreamt, where you cried and recuperated. They might be the most intimate inanimate object in our lives.

So, I decided to make a pillowcase this week. All silk on one side, laying against it is ephemeral. And then on the other side, well ... me. I didn't think this through, I just well hellbent into headlong so to speak. But about halfway through I realized that this pillowcase is asking someone to sleep with me, and now I don't know if it's more bizarre to keep it or give it away.

anyway, more, less creepy pillowcases to come ...

Sunday, October 9, 2011

on unconditional love

What is love?

Of course, there is the arbitrary, age-old question of what kind of love? Let’s skip all that and move onto just one type: unconditional love.

I believe in it, I feel it, I believe there are those out there who feel that way towards me. But why? And how do you get it?

For those I love unconditionally, they earned it in some way. Some way that allows that to not be a condition. But, over time this adoration developed because that person shared their essential nature with me, they took chances, they fucked up, owned up, asked questions I would have never thought to ask myself which in turn exposed truths to me I sometimes didn’t want to know. Their being revealed myself to me, inadvertently.

There are common factors amongst this group of people. They are not family, I met them along the way. I remember the first time I ever laid eyes on them. Mostly I loved them from that first instance, irrationally and completely. They are not my lovers, they can handle me. They are hilarious, they don’t take the world or themselves too seriously, they are philosophers. They are afraid, but not too afraid to go ahead and do it anyway. They are all artists.

I would do anything for them, forgive them any trespass I can imagine them committing. For me to rescind that love, they would literally have do something so out of character that they were no longer themselves. Part of why this epic love came to be is because of the solidarity of their character.

I don’t know if unconditional love is real, I could shoot a thousand holes through my arguments here if I so chose to. But, if I’m to have faith in anything, this is what I choose to have faith in. I believe in these blood brothers and sisters, I give them my soul and my heart. I pledge to them to always have their back, to always love them for themselves. I thank them for my nourishment, and for my sense of what is real and mythical. 100% or nothing at all.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

since no one is reading anyways

margaret atwood:

This is a mistake,
these arms and legs
that don't work any more

Now it's broken
and no space for excuses.

The earth doesn't comfort,
it only covers up
if you have the decency to stay quiet

The sun doesn't forgive,
it looks and keeps going.

Night seeps into us
through the accidents we have
inflicted on each other

Next time we commit
love, we ought to
choose in advance what to kill.

Monday, September 26, 2011

intentions, actions and consequences

Scenario: A thing is thought, in your mind, it is good. The thing is done. Then, catastrophically, the thing you thought was good is terrible and you are blindsided and unsure of whether or not you are suddenly in a sit-com. Then the clean-up ensues, apologizing, maybe rebuilding trust. Hopefully the audience will giggle without the laugh light blinking on and off.

Now, you knew your intentions were good. Maybe you were lying to yourself, maybe your honest heart did mean well and you were just being selfish and not thinking about how the other person would feel. Does it really matter? The facts are that when thought became action, the consequences were not good. The facts are that that hurt person will question your intentions and wonder if you are telling the truth about having meant well.

The fact is no one but yourself has access to your intentions.

Just as you have no access to other people's intentions when the scenario is reversed.

Intentions are an ephemeral wish that live only in the mind of the beholder. They are as intensely personal as any thing in our lives, and utterly unknowable outside of total blind trust in another individual, which is the rarest of things. If not a unicorn: imaginary and only told of in storybooks.

Therefore, I claim that intentions do not actually matter. To say "I meant well" is vapid. However, to do well is very important. Actions are facts. Everyone has access to facts, and relationships can be built from them without the perpetual wondering of what was really meant and is that person being honest. Actions are the real vehicle through which trust and love is made.

But more important than actions are consequences.

You intend, you act, but it is the consequences of those actions that inform you of whether or not your actions are in line with your intentions. The consequences reveal yourself to you in a way no hiding from the world ever possibly could.

Therefore, consequences are the most important of all three.

Sunday, September 25, 2011


paintings from the rabbit hole:

acrylic on canvas, 2' x 3' ish

Saturday, September 24, 2011


the words are funny
funny like the smell
of rotten food
or funny
like a good joke told right
something inalienable
or correct
or a way to turn
like a stomach sickening
or going from facing me
to walking away
which leaves me stunned
perhaps because
you were stunning
a breath of beauty
once lost and now
I’m shattered
(figuratively, not literally)
you retreat
which is both a giving up
and a sanctuary at last
last like the end
last like never ends

poem: I Would That I Might

I would that I might
be the water
that splits the mountainside
and scours the land
which cleans the body
and might still drown a man
undertow, airborne
rising from the ocean
and feeding the garden
raised by my own hand
would that I were
so dangerous and generous
which spills over eyelashes
when the heart sojourns
joy and loss and defeat
to be the water I drink
the storm above
dancing with the moon’s cue
ebbed and tided
to be so necessary, timeless
to take the path
of least resistance
but in the mirror
of the lake’s placid repose
is an animal, wild, mortal.

I am that Imight
let my desires rule me
eat when I’m hungry
take what I want.

When you are thirsty
you can’t drink me
and when you shine
your light upon me
I don’t evaporate.

poem: In The Small

in the small
of my back
is a pain
where I slept
too long
I fell asleep
of you
next to me
my head
over your
your hand
on my cheek
from the
and the pain
of old houses
and the songs
once sang
faded away
under closed
and holding
you close
and being
by you,

I slept
too well
not wanting
wake up

Monday, September 19, 2011

The Anti-Ego Poem

This is an invisible neck tie party
I model a collar
4 inches wide and 4 inches deep
made of buffalo leather
with alligator teeth
on the inside 
to bit me with
when I think of doing
the things I think of doing
and I have to jerk the chain
and say "bad dog"
to myself.

O yes, I have that kind of self-control
I spent years of self-flagellation
so I wouldn't have to apologize
so fucking much
and I keep that leash taut, bitch.

except, except ...
well you've prolly seen it
I become goddess
of the furrowed brow
teeth clench
feet tap
I try to look relaxed
do that desperate looking
around the room
for someone seeing
what I'm seeing
so I can hand the leash to them.

But not a soul, and wham
I'm picking up lost kittens
whose owners are looking
for them and making
them mewl for freedom
I'm shoving that baby cat
in the face of the person
telling lies to me
and calling it poetry
to show them what
honesty sounds like
this little furbag has more guts than you
and now all I want to do
is shove it up your ass
till your intestines
are lacerations
from a clawing beast
who's actually interested in freedom

"So go ahead and tell me 'bout your bad day"

snap. snap.
two jerks gets that leash taut
and now
I'm sitting
in a 
peaceful repose.

except, except ...
That beautiful girl is throwing herself
at every piece of man-meat
willing to buy her a drink
and begging her to meet his mother
which is what he calls his cock
and she's gonna fuck him on sunday night
because monday is trash day
and that's where she'll end up
with the shrimp tails,
cantaloupe rinds and junk mail.
She'll dig out her new shoes
and wipe the jism off the toes
before stumbling home
so she can wear them next week
singing: "I feel pretty
oh so pretty"
and I get out the straight razor
catch her on the sidewalk
shave her head, break her mirrors
and wash her face clean
make a fertilizer bomb
and blow up her make-up drawer
her wardrobe
and make her walk naked
for three days

It's too hard to be yourself.
Even I have this collar and leash
because otherwise I'm cliff diving
into limestone
toasting to clean living
with a bottle of turpentine
rebuilding broken eggshells
into whole chickens
and pretending I haven't walked
on those eggshells
until my feet were bleeding
and the shells were soft
as ancient river stones.
Because I'm always telling myself 
to stop talking
spreading my legs
for a certain limp member
being a fling
that believes she's loved.
I'm useless as a broken straw
cool as your shirt 
tucked into your underwear
I have no round squares
and I don't believe 
I actually exist
in the absence of change
and that makes me
more masochistic
makes me
want claw marks
and razor blades
and fertilizer bombs
for the cavity
I call
my chest
my heart

snap. snap. snap.
bad dog.
relax, baby.
slow your roll.
regain the blank slate
go watch Oprah or some shit
take a fucking chill pill.

except, except ...
I'm hellbent on headlong
I'm giving myself away
like you're all winners
on a game show
parceling out parts
of myself
trying to get empty

trying to get empty

trying to get empty

trying to get away
from my self-destructive ways
when I know I was born 
to annihilate this life
and what you see today
is a sand castle
I built for the beach to see
and the ocean to destroy.
These busy hands 
are in allegiance
with surviving, not me.
Hence the collar and leash,
hence the absence of knives.

except ...