August 2010
1 post
September 2009
4 posts
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NisCkxU544c →
“You’re so fucking smug. You look like you’re having the time of your...”
– Ulysses Calvillo’s sister. Holy shit this was funny.
I have a poem...
I have a poem
just for you and
your polka dot dress,
with your favorite heels
dangling from your fingers,
standing there in my doorway.
April 2009
1 post
Pulp
Your pale face, blue-lipped, starving eats the bleached paper, swallowing written word and a numbered edge to satisfy a stomach ache, lusting for the jet black ink of thought, jotted down on the facade of lined paper. By now, the whole notebook is in the cheeks of your mouth. Your molars, crushing the paper into pulp, and your tongue, shoving the soggy mess down the opening of your throat....
January 2009
6 posts
Poise and reckless propositions.
this knot in my stomach. a stone sitting on my intestines. it’s strange how there is no physical solution to this physical feeling, but an emotional, invisible solution such as language or thought that will grind this stone to gravel then dirt then dust. shouldn’t i know how to grind that stone? this isn’t the first one to pressure my guts and make my day uneasy and anxious....
Was that not a round of applause?
my fingers are quills, tracing the nape of your neck; the arch of you back. this novel, my memoir, my poetry, this entry, flow and sprawl on your skin, staining your body like pages absorbing ink. i feel you chill and suddenly, i’m the blind reading your flesh’s sensitivity. the metaphors, living and breathing on your chest and in your hair and inside of you, even making kafka jealous....
Mother Theresa, your dress is aflame.
i think i need to sit down. bang on this keyboard until my hands hurt or the neighbors wake up. until the buttons fly off onto the carpet and to that mysterious world where you lose things and they never come back. my stream of thought is stuck. i feel all of it backed up by some invisible dam’s stone walls. overloaded. i have so many things on my mind and so much more emotion to shove down...
Listen
Oh love, my eyes scream like the stars to your...
a paragraph with the power of a thousand times the explosiveness of the hiroshima bomb. a punch line at crunch time hitting you after brunch time with a fist and a beat far greater than this rhyme. even the mime and the blind read the line, teary eyed, ten after nine, sublime, seemingly making all ignorance a crime and the inability to speak or see a thing of dreams and one’s imaginary walls...