job

sleep is the carrot
dangling
precarious
at the end of the stick
at the end of the week.

employement is the cross
dangling
precarious
where i hang
my coat
arms
time
love
life.

good livin'

first surf under warm rain.
full spectrum rainbow like i've never seen.
sunburn.
can't feel my arms.
soggy shorts.
tired to the bone.
starving.
never even fully caught a ride.

couldn't be happier.

floating

Flight 9

At 30,000 feet
200 souls
scream for
something
to alleviate
the tedium
except
for
something
too
exciting.

happy easter.

traversal of the last days on the continent,
back and forth out of wholesome backdrop and hearty laughter,
the ground slides backwards from under foot
as the perfect oceanic recedes with her own waves
into the pinprick of light that is this distance.
the day after easter is for my resurrection,
staying sleeping,
staying dead for at least one more day.

i have been married, and too a conjoined twin to a bottle
we were separated at birth,
but the pull was always still there.

now back to the familiar,
which has somehow become alien in my absence.
some how stretching myself into the world
of fathers and mothers and the apple pie of the others
has left me
shuddering,
soaked
and frozen
in the arctic circle of my mind,
which is where i awake, i stand, i shake, i fall.

home, sweet home.

hard work

i read a box bottom at the bus stop
that had been cut out,
and used as a sign.

any help

could have been a question,
but really i think
it was
a job.

old town

the day in the valley is quiet and still,
save for the long distance rumble of the interstate,
the mainline,
the coursing soul of southern california.
crows in the palms rustle from time to time in their midday slumber.
ocean air surrounds,
thick and cool,
somehow able to set a chill to the bone,
even at 50 degrees.










days in san diego are spent,
winding against sublime inertia,
i remember it well,
it fits like a sweet smell
and the last second of calm that settles around your ears just before sleep.
years here were a dream of becoming,
and in the same way,
seemed so tangible upon immediate exit,
as solid as the trunks of trees,
as clear as water.
but the years since have seen a drift,
to different waters,
currents pull and tides and swells rock the sorrowed hull
back into and off of the jetties and shores,
bent against wind,
anchor long gone,
never a moment to rest at the helm
or a second to take the eyes off the horizon
for want of a glimpse of the ends of the earth.
reason held that we were just circling the globe,
but our hearts said that if we did it enough times,
we could unravel,
unwind,
the heart of the world
and set us all teetering
into the space
that is left in between the cracks
when it all falls apart...

things get better, which is fine.
things get cleaner, which i have heard is necessary.
things get safer, less and less happens,
which keeps us alive and well save for this.
the magic walks hand and hand with the grit.
reason works.
sense is fine.
the grit is better.
it makes more sense than sense anyway.
the grit has possibility.
nothing could happen.
so could everything.
bricks and fences can only hold up for so long.
when they give, the grit will come tumbling back in,
angels and devils will have back at thier war and sublime embrace,
and the reasons will evaporate with the ghosts,
sense will run like a man on fire,
and we will dance and sing with the gods,
as the whole thing comes to a screaming halt
shot out the end of a cannon.
oh, what a fine mess it will be.

rush hour

cool chill creeps in,
the early morning,
same as us,
dwindling midnight,
as most cars plan
to trade places with each other
in the most
exquisite game
complex ritual
and grand farce
that has ever been seen.

everything on the menu, please.

my eyes see, they want to,
my ears hear the same way.
desire is my eyes,
and my ears and too my taste and smell,
and all of the things
that make me real in this world
and make this world,
this universe,
real in me.
desire is the arms that i rip my heart open with,
and make it so i can fit more in,
more in
more in.
there is no end to my desire for more,
in this city,
in this room,
on this table,
in the chair,
in my guts,
all the way full,
all the way emptying,
always for more,
satisfied by this insatiable hunger,
and the knowing that it will always be there
if i want it to. if i want.
settling in this time
over the square brown city,
under yellowing skies
and the haze of this feverish drift,
shuffling drudgery,
anything could be here,
the last dance of the discontent
as they are squeezed off the streets
and into the city buses,
with the spark and rustling of something,
anything more than
this place.
this plan.
this girl.
this car.
this day.
anything more.
freedom from desire is to be desire,
to enter into the house,
and make her your jacket,
make her your shoes,
your feet,
and walk out the door that is no longer there,
it is in your back pocket,
in the gown of a madman and saint and fool.
eat, drink, look, listen, feel, dream.
show the gods by being a god,
the god of desire,
the god of rage,
the god of love,
whichever,
pick one,
if you want.
but only if you truly want.

dogs in the morning

sleeping dogs
in sunshine,
dust already sparkling
on its way to the heavens,
in the early light
a thousand splinters
spiraling with the flies
and tilting with the passing cars
that lull us to sleep
every day
all day
for as long as we can remember.
los angeles sings in the morning,
even the hangovers
are smoother and calm
as the ocean laps like a toungue
at the toes of sparkling mountains
worshipping this city
alongside the bums
and lovers
and preachers
and dogs.

sketches from today.

the full moon is the bastard eye
that sets the whole of the city to a raging silhouette.
--------------------------------------------------
not the southpaw,
but staggering just for a half second,
half night,
enough to make me feel
mortal
godlike
full.
--------------------------------------------------
lumbering
300 lbs, in flip flops
the black
scaled
skin
of this evolution
has eaten itself
into oblivion.
--------------------------------------------------
with the state of dismay
disarray
one could ask,
why?
a family?
a house?
a shop?
with the state of dismay
disarray
one could ask,
why not?
--------------------------------------------------
the best things
that are under your nose
are never found until
you break down
fall apart
lose control
and land
flat
on
your
face.
--------------------------------------------------
last shards,
shred red plastic,
tattered
hanging on
to sooted leaves and sticks,
the tree as lonely
in the concrete
as the brilliant
the precious
the perfect ones.
--------------------------------------------------
buildings and billboards
block out the sky
what is left
is swallowed
by the haze
and
the eye spent magnetic field
that assures that most gazes
search the concrete
for clouds.
--------------------------------------------------
low slung
chrome spiring,
pipes in eternal belching,
blasting
sunlight bent
like halos on demons on fire
as the sonar waves
bend around warehouses and trees
and scream...
i am here.
--------------------------------------------------
hard times for the guy. he lives in his shades and shadow and cloud. no matter how fast, it all just moves with him. his shades and shadow and cloud. from bus stop to bench to park to table. his clothes and hair are still worn and dusty like the day.

coast highway

under the canal,
over the trees,
chasing chain links,
drinking the breeze,
river's sound comes from cars and the wires,
the nature the same,
always rushing, always flowing,
endless coursing,
all in a rush to relieve the pressure of being contained,
captivated by the passage on the way to release,
birth and waking,
bleeding,
crying,
screaming and streaming,
into the old mother,
old lover and death,
her embrace and chase,
lapping at heels,
pulling us home,
into and under and drinking the sea.