couch surfing

lets sit for a minute, and i'll tell you a thing. i'm here for a week, 10 days at best. i haven't the time for the fuss and the fiddle. are you married or steady? lonesome and tired? no matter which you should take me in for a while, let me be your man for a week, 10 days at best. i can be a good lover, considerate at times, a good laugh and a teacher of a thing or two, as well. i make a good student if you have something to share, but i just don't have time to wait around to begin. i would rather have all of a week, 10 days at best. not half, not part, i want it all. and we start over drinks, old friday night, near the trains, near the cars, near the sea, we start not with chatter, but a kiss.

at least there's a train

slivering feet through the soil of 2 am, coolest and quietest night ever yet, half mile away you can hear the embrace under street lamps hellbent on jaundicing the eyes and trials of the rare gems of late night and early morning. every corner, every stop along the way is a loaded gun, barrel full of laughs and tears, recoil sent reverberating cracks through the veil of night, splintering the darkness with a thousand eyes, all of a sudden, all pointed inward. the world is a caterpillar, waiting to become, the world is a bowl full of shit, swirling around on its way into the ground, the world is my empty pocket, my empty wallet, my empty belly, my full heart. a glass of beer, a smoky room, quiet backstreet 10 miles from the trains and you could still hear. this is the magic of the southwestern, and the confidence that less than a days walk could get you to the mainline of ancient america, so that there is always a ripcord, always a way out short of jumping in front of a train, you could always just get on.

long day

staggering in at 4 am to wake up for work at 8 am still hurts, like i remember it did. i just had to check to make sure.

pooping at the bar

the funniest thing i read while taking a crap in what could be the worst bathroom on the face of the earth. no door, no seat, no tp, no air and plenty of people stumbling in to do lines on the back of the head while i squeeze out the longest shit i can remember having in a some time. snort this, bitches.

sugarland, tx

miles and miles of highway, the impenetrable wall of cars, and the largest flag, stars and stripes, draped over the burning road, the arc wire of displacement that i cannot wait to carry me on and on and on. you can feel and see and taste it, visceral, as palpable as the regulation tan bricks that make the whole place a landmarkless, remarkless, a monochrome american dream. sky broad and proud, amber waves planted in perfect, ornamental rows in tan brick boxes. the land of sweet freedom. which sport utility car to drive, mailbox black or white, 2 kids or 3, football or baseball. sweet, sweet freedom. no wonder they call it sugarland. really, no wonder. just sugar.

houston tx

drinks under a cool southern sun in the afternoon, dogs and dust underfoot and a beautiful girl at the helm. things here are the sanest they could ever be, the monster is tempered by a shot at clear blue and the leaves overhead. i am falling asleep. i am falling asleep. and i only just noticed. why are the stakes made so much higher in paradise? the dying i loved, the living i loved, cannot make sense in a hole like this. good to pass through anyhow, maybe so that a little could rub off onto my shoes, and the dust of this dream could settle into my skin and sway me to sleep now and again. after i get the fuck out of here that is....

leticia

it is funny to come to an old place with old friends and have a new brain. the cells remember, the dna remembers, the heart and lungs remember, even the toes and the touch. but all that is left up in the attic is an echoe, a glimmer, a shimmer, a pindrop in the bucket of water of mind that has been drenched and drained a thousand times scince i last walked through your door. so your kids and your life and all of the new things as well as all the old things are news to me. start at the beginning. start at the end. start in the middle. make up something new. it is all okay because i can't tell anymore anyhow anyway anyone...just an echoe that knows that i once stood here with a beautiful girl, and the sun was probably bouncing off of your eyes just like that then too.

the jewel, the city, the water....

bars and yoga studios

west alabama ice house, houston tx

bars and yoga studios, everywhere i go. they are all the same. sure the bars seem very different, in the city huddled up in dark backlit holes, and then here lying on a park bench under the sun as we soak away the hours. the studios seem very strange, as i am used to third floor, fourth floor sweat stained caverns, and i find myself here in a carpeted basketball court drenched in cool light from the morning sun. but where it's the same is where it really counts. i find myself at home in a puddle of sweat, gaze to the stars and the rythym of breath, and find my reflections in the bottom of jars, bottoms of bottles and a smoked stained moon, and too in the familiar, shakey traversal of these two boats, these two worlds, that are really just the same thing, same thing, same thing, all along the way.

finally a working machine...

thanks friends....

the ultimate ride, coursing between the rivers, silence between the roaring of the wheels, steadfast under and over slobbering mountains of glass and steel. and still, in between, we lay roots in concrete and take heart in the heartless lights and the billboard signs. there's a new meaning to me in each passing person and moment and stare, but the essence is still, the essence is there. the love gets you through...

my dick in everything.

when i say fuck the trains,
i mean literally fuck the trains,
i am making love to the ridiculous beauty of the city,
i am breathing hard in her ear as i trace the lines of
her sinewed back with my fingers,
i am running my mouth
and tongue down her neck and shoulders,
across her breasts,
i am striving and straining to work my way
deeper and deeper inside of her,
that she might take me all the way,
drain me and drench me with her
sweetest nectar,
her deepest trust,
make me wholly her
and everyone else that i see.
fuck the cars,
fuck the streets,
fuck the buildings,
i am mad in love and penetrating
the whole thing with every sense and thought,
through the mantra and meditation,
keeping myself teetering on the edge of the most
profound orgasm, the most exquisite rest,
to slumber in her arms,
way out in this fifth burrough,
under the sun,
in the park,
my bike tire as my pillow and the
grass as my bed.
fuck the park.
fuck the birds.
fuck the city.
fuck the sun.
or at least give a kiss.

to amy, spring 06

i am playing hooky today, staying at home in brookyn,
listening to the rain in the backyard,
the cars sizzling by on the street,
reading and watching movies.
i might muster up the motivation to step out for some coffee and breakfast in a bit,
but it is all already so perfect,
i am not sure that i need to do anything until i work tonight...
quiet days at home are few and far between,
they always ring of nostalgia,
of sometime when i was 4 feet tall,
drops on a window pane,
my forehead pressed against the coldglass,
daydreaming of sunny days when i might go outside and play,
cool grey-lit grass in the yard bent through the levitating water...
and  too the days when i would go out anyhow,
splashing in the puddles of murky sidewalk water,
sifting out the earthworms as rivulets of water
streamed off the back of my head and off the tip of my nose,
every drop sending concentric, circle waves across the mirrored surface,
sky's reflection bending,
ripples intertwining with one another in the ordered chaos of sublime geometry,
life in its unpredictable perfection.
i wonder which boy i really was,
which boy i am now,
and who i will remember on rainy days twenty years from this day,
with my mind reeling into the future,
rooted in the ten million past moments that are my life,
and might be me.
what memories am i writing for my next nostalgic, dead day?
would that there will be a few just like today,
kill the lights,
i am lounging in my cloudlit room.
between the green lights on washington avenue,
there are moments of silence,
i could be anywhere,
my grandparent's in denver,
my warehouse in sandiego,
i am everywhere at once,
i am everyone i have ever been,
and we might even peel our heads
off of the pillow and search of luminous liquid mirrors,
forgetting even the possibility of being cold for wantof undescribed life,
soaked and in love just like i am right now...
i hope your work finds a moment to go outside and stand in the rain;
part of me suspectsthat this is one of the most important jobs we ever have to do.

nyc puja

death cult dance,
manhattan machine,
gears grinding,
churning forth the heads of a
thousand lovers a second,
the rebirth is exponential,
the waves of soot and blood
end in blacken'd pooles that
litter the asphault and the gutters,
the only thing solvent enough
to cleanse us here
is the lifesblood of that very process,
the afterbirth of an orgy of sense
and
spending,
we have no choice but to smile about
the whole thing. 
hold the gun to your own head,
peel back the lips,
let her rip,
and you could even convince
yourself that it is fun, fun, fun. 
smile, son, smile.
remember that kali is here,
she is watching,
and if you love her enough
she might even fuck you senseless tonite,
and senseful tomorrow. 
welcome home...
welcome to the waking dream that is new york city
welcome to the sleepwalkers dance,
the naked ballroom,
the listless mother of a million orphans and her
uneasy echoes,
sonarlike waves sent across a million
miles of space and time
echoing off'o the backs of your eyes,
the bottom of your gut,
mapping,
stretching,
reaching
for a heart in the midst of this whirlpool,
this storm,
this silence,
this peace,
the quietest din i have ever heard
is the workings of these millions,
brushing up against one another. 
i thank the gods for losing my mind,
there is no time here for it anyhow.
all you have to do is kill yourself,
and there is nothing left to stop you
 from falling in love. 
i am as ready as i ever was. 
i am as in love as i ever was,
the alter is her,
her streets and walls,
her cars,
her underground,
her blessed,
her cursed,
thier faces,
the lines,
the wires,
the smokestack sky,
the lowly trees,
the hours,
the years,
the sparkling lights
of the city that has never slept,
nor woken up.
the alter is here,
my devotion is offered in myself,
my worship is every second,
every breath,
every day,
all day. 
she can have them all.

thirst

try as i might,
i search for one more layer to dream,
to eat,
to smoke,
to walk,
try as i might i find just the dregs,
the echoes,
the bending and wires left from
less innocent evenings than i have ever had,
and assuredly most spelling days,
tranced,
encumbered,
and drifted as we were towards the water with a
sickness in mind. 
thirst could be the most inadequate
word there ever was,
and for it the most perfect. 
she rolls off the tongue with a langouring,
lingoring,
residual,
wanting step,
and by whatever was left
out when they wrote her down for the first time,
by luck
or by gods hand set it perfectly. 
thirst,
for a wick of sleep,
a wisp of warm company,
or a monster truck,
so i could plow through any mother fuckers that get
in my way as i wallow homward...

need a ride???