bed bird bed

2005-10-20T12:32:00.000-05:00

The bed is ugly
In a beautiful rusty way,
As if someone had neglected it,
Had failed to shine it,

Had failed to rub oil on it,
The bed has red hurt patches as if
Skin rash of rust,
How can we rub the red-brown

Rust off?
Will we need sandpaper
hands? The rust has built up like
a skin upon a skin

like a poem where you typed “skin” but
an elderly lady with white hands full of veins
typed “sin”
there goes that poem, icky

now it contains allegories, icky
white hands like cracking paper full of veins
The bed is ugly
In a beautifully rusted way

With all kinds of
Encrustations
As if paint dug into its pores
And thickened and filled up beneath

2005-10-19T01:25:00.000-05:00

2005-09-20T12:27:00.000-05:00

A teddy bear made of
Lava and raspberry jam,
lukewarm lava,
very hot raspberry jam

Eric cuddles his
little bear, beneath
covers like hoods of lava,
low roof of his cave-bed

The lukewarm lava
has congealed, sealed
ceiling. A teddy bear is
somebody’s heart,

somebody’s heartbeat dropped
from a very hot
place down, chilling under
covers in the low caves of the bed

Heartbeats under
Fur and fuzzy
crises of nostalgia,
sealed heart of lukewarm lava

Who’s heart is it?
If it was yours,
you would know that you had
dropped it, right?

Is it hibernating
in that fur?
It would be terrible
to treat a bear so

emptily,
to take your heart out of it.
Justifiable, yes, but
Poor fuzzy-wuzzy-wuzzy house

poor fuzzy-wuzzy-wuzzy house

2005-09-20T02:53:00.000-05:00

2005-09-17T12:51:00.000-05:00

“Hello bed,” Eric said.
“You’re a faithful bed.
A little smudged and smeared
But your dirt is good dirt,

Who says dirt is always
Dirty anyway?
I love your good clean dirt,
Which is my skin-cells rubbed

On you to clean myself.”
Having said that, Eric threw
Himself down on the bed
For a nap. As he slept

Sebaceous craters bled raw puss,
Which colonies of skin-eating microorganisms
Sucked up for lunch, and then
Deposit acidic waste in Eric’s pores.

Every pore was a flower-pot
Filled with tiny monsters gardening,
Eating and regurgitating flecks of skin
Reshaped by microbe saliva into

Huts where microbes love to live.
Eric woke and showered; handfuls of
Lavender soap in his pores killed
Many. The busy bed buzzed

Constant invisible industry of Earth

2005-09-13T00:10:00.000-05:00

2005-09-11T13:51:00.000-05:00

The bed has become a shopping cart
with a bag of brown fruit in it
Eric has to push it, but ice
stuck to the sidewalk shines

The sun has begun to
melt Eric’s body. This morning
when he rubbed the corners of his eyes
crystals of ice like icing sugar

When he blew his nose, ice-crystals
When he brushed his hair, ice-crystals
Eric’s skin is covered by this frost
Except where he cut himself shaving

He has to move his cart
11 blocks, before the wall of ice
forming like a stalled storm-front
solidifies at the corner of Hope and 1st

Hope Avenue
is slippery; the cart goes
any direction, and Eric has no
traction on the sweating sheet of ice

2005-09-09T20:26:00.000-05:00

2005-08-31T13:55:00.000-05:00

Those who writhend blow
Above the bed
The nippled cherry-blossoms
Release red specks

That pause in a wind-current
Over the gray bed
The color of an office-worker’s shirt
Except for where blown pollen stains

Have been ground in
Have been ground in
Those who writhend blow
The nippled cherry-blossoms

Eric hangs around; he lies around
His life is simple
The color of an office-worker’s shirt
But close your eyes

Those who writhened blow
Above the bend
Release red specks that
Pulse behind the eyelids’ curtain

2005-08-31T00:36:00.000-05:00

2005-08-26T13:33:00.000-05:00

A mouth full of dirt
pressing through
a shower curtain
a transparent shower curtain

A mouth full of dirt
A soggy face
A soggy life
pressing through

A mouth full of dirt
A transparent shower curtain
A sexual maneuver
A sad transparency of dripping dirt

Soggy dirt
A climax full of soggy dirt
A heartbeat full of dirt
A mouth full of dirt

A transparent shower curtain
liquid dirt
sad dripping rags of dirt
flesh in the form of dirt

flowing in the drain’s
the drain’s direction
Eric was keeping something
perfect in his mouth

like a stone
like a stone in the shape of a word
like a stone in the shape of a word
“ROSE” or “LOVE”

“DIRT”
the stone word dirt
fell apart into soggy
fragments, membranes clogging

full and wet
can’t
drain out

2005-08-25T10:42:00.000-05:00

2005-08-23T12:38:00.000-05:00

Eric pushed himself up through some layers of snow, some layers of frozen sand, some layers of frozen soil. He put his hands on the sheet of the bed. The sheet was cold, and his hands were hot, so the sheet began to defrost as he touched it, and he found himself looking through it, as if it were a windshield of a moving car. The landscape approaching was so weak that Eric could not believe it could stop his sheet’s motion. And indeed, the sheet demolished the landscape as it sailed through it. The trees fell apart, just at the moment Eric thought that he would die smashed into them, die with his flesh jumbled into tree-flesh. The trees fell apart into matches the color of salmon in the earliest light. The sky felt apart into wet flakes of morning, each one thick like a sponge, like a loaf of air thickened by sunlight soaking into it. The weak light of earliest morning soaked into landscape but failed to make it real enough to stop Eric and his sheet. Eventually, he traveled through it all, the orchards, the clouds, the houses made of off-white paper, the air full of bridal soot. He arrived in a place with nothing but summer light and rising dust. The light went deep into him and he wasn’t frozen anymore. And the soot rose up around him and cut the light in half, in half again, in half again, in half and in half and in half until the only light left was coming from inside of Eric’s mouth, from the place in him that remembered the taste of light. And something fell out of Eric’s face, something that gave off light. It was a little blue bed, hand-sized. It was blue and white as if it had been squeezed from a tube of frosting to celebrate the birth of some tiny lucky angel who would curl up inside it and close his eyes, looking so unreal, serene and simplified, as though squeezed from a tube of frosting his sweet self.

2005-08-22T12:05:00.000-05:00

2005-08-16T12:24:00.000-05:00

Black little toads, black wiggly nematodes
slither in the open on the moon’s white face.
Eric hides in his pillow and hates them;
he has hidden his soul in a fluffy pillow,

he has hidden his pillow in the chalk-hard bosom of the moon,
in the dry chest of Moon spilling
white dust, like dandruff or powdered milk or
dehydrated racism in a snortable pure form:

you do a line and then visualize the white goddess,
with her deep dark wrinkles like caverns in her face;
caverns full of nematodes, slithering and spoiling
making the areas they’ve crawled through gray,

smudging all the ice-sheets with whispery motion,
leaving little grains of gray
like eggs that drill pores into the white and form sub-lunar
cysts and imperfections to be squeezed out

like the Thai beauty ladies
steam your face and then
individually extract each blackhead
leaving the face temporarily red, as if pain ashames

2005-08-16T10:39:00.000-05:00

2005-08-08T09:06:00.000-05:00

Starlight of the swirling night is hidden in the bed,
Light is a bright white gas like
super-heated milk
The yellow of advancing sunlight

and the blue of air
mix in the bed’s stomach full of night
and the bed has two arms,
one brief and day-tipped,

the other very long and lassoing blood.
Around the bed, carpets of
Smoke and milk, as if cigarettes
dropped curds and whey into a bowl of foggy grits,

a saucerful of opaque mist.
Starlight super-heated yellow air of blue
Night stomach, within
Milk smoke carpet mist

2005-08-07T13:51:00.000-05:00

2005-08-06T11:26:00.000-05:00

The spirit of joy and of love
cannot exist in day of today
its known and displayed firm
ly in heart can ll eat and
nourished

Magicians just want to get born
in spiritual robes stained
by fires arraigning through
aura bruised like a sunset simper
nourished

A black pineapple sits on a
man’s lap and quickly colored
flames rain out of sleeping man
The spirit of joy and of love
nourished

Pink thin vapor tickles try to
get back in to the pores they
snuck out of but the ducts of
the pores are plugged from in

Sleeping man magician is a
big mushy stain of ener
gy in heart can ll eat and
Eric is grin at ll his friend

cannot exist in day of today
pineapple black and withered
Magicians just want to get born
after they parchment up their

pores after they plug up their
pores after ll squeezed into
mushy squash that spoiled
into
nourished

2005-08-06T01:42:00.000-05:00

2005-08-02T21:32:00.000-05:00

The beauty of the three-holed mask
Some holes are deeper than others
If I were a betting man
Flecks of pink like discarded sprayhair

metabolize unworldly intensity
with the blasé fact that factories can and possibly should
produce pigments with a power that
lapses as the eye gets used to ANYTHING

but it’s all for the best,
because Eric and I and the tri-orifii
of the opened Trinity of raw pink mask
and our other assorted blasphemies, which we admire

we need, we require
ANYTHING
in self-defense, even if it has to be produced by anti-intellectual cash-boys;
they have different, but equally pressing, reasons

for wanting to kiss and poke
unlicensed idols
(Art)
they plan profits; we plan

a strict morality
of beauty
Love revolving
like a cash-poor nebula of pink pearl-stone

2005-08-02T20:43:00.000-05:00

2005-07-30T14:04:00.000-05:00

The eyes of the visitor were actually
loops at the end of strings hung around
nails in the wall
to hold his face up

The mouth of the visitor hung from his eyes.
The strings from his eyes to his mouth were tears.
The tears from his eyes to his mouth were black
from industrial make-up melting and pouring down

The thick carbon clogged in the motion of each tear
becomes a sturdy string,
residue of another fiery process.
The meaning of everything clogged in the moment of ignition.

The meaning of the majesty of sunlight clogged.
The meaning of our power is who must take waste products
loops at the end of strings hung around
nails in the wall keep up

2005-07-30T13:16:00.000-05:00

2005-07-29T11:44:00.000-05:00

The bed is a wound; the bed is raspberry sauce on cake.
The bed is black forest cake; the flesh of the cake is
Moldy in the places Eric has eaten out of.
Eric has eaten very dark

Torn flesh out of the cake,
Excavated by his eyeball,
Held in his mouth like a breath
Full of petals of stale flesh.

The topping shimmers like a used surprise;
The raspberry sauce of new love
Is thick. The bed is heavy jelly on a wound;
is no ointment

is no lotion is no ointment
nauseous little fingers
piggle wiggles is no
don’t be scared it’s not moldy is no it’s really good

2005-07-27T02:44:00.000-05:00

2005-07-22T09:56:00.000-05:00

Eric has fallen asleep and dissolved,
in cream sheets full of fingerprints,
soiled identifying
fumbling with the knots of tourniquets

that hold Eric’s full heart,
as the examiner pulls apart
clots of identifying marks,
Eric fears to learn all he was was those

fingers
trying to pull off his
blank white page, leaving such heavy
clumps of

ingers
ying to pull of
lank white pa

ing such he
ps

2005-07-19T10:27:00.000-05:00

2005-07-19T09:20:00.000-05:00

The bed has turned into a morgue,
a blue drawer of icecubes with no
passion looking up from in them,
all the passion is in a molding file-folder now

with a sick expression, like a shark about
to barf manila folders.
The drawer of hammerhead manila folders,
the icecube of barely blue dreams,

rest on a paper sheet that
sprouts red filaments.
Something is burrowing up from under this
Pause, the very hair of which conducts bright blood

2005-07-18T00:40:00.000-05:00

2005-07-15T11:23:00.000-05:00

Eyes encircled in kohl and barbed-wire
droop full of blood-loss to sanded sheets,
Frankenstein stitches are the boundary markers,
The military base is shacks on the sand as wind

carves inaccuracies into the image,
heals petty ghosts by warping panes of glass in photographs,
as Eric droops and listens in
the invaded bed, the sandpaper shack scrapings of the desert irritate

and pollute sleep with wire superstructures,
transmissions that hang human eyes above a wounded landscape.
A Human Being is told s/he is responsible for everything
but has no power to change anything without an immense expense of will.

2005-07-14T13:21:00.000-05:00

2005-07-08T14:25:00.000-05:00

Three pillows levitate between us and the bed:
A puffy and a fluffy white one with sky-blue blood inside,
A red one with a pink patch like psoriasis,
like a skinned knee where Eric puts his head

A narrow black one with gray swirls of dreamed snow
circulating in an imaginary night where
the entire body of a dream squeezes into a scene
where prayer and confusion are the only narratives:

Eric leaps from pillow to pillow like
a toy-doll-eyeball-body with enormous shoes the color of each landing,
blood-red shoes with shaved pink raw patches where pinch,
shoes of midnight stained with bits of Grandfather Time’s dandruff,

white shoes with dingy white-blue veins in them that spoil the clouds.
Below the pillows, long depths of indefinite fall
down, down, down through mid-air clumps of grass and finger smudges
into some sort of nowhere where Art matters more than Love.

2005-06-18T14:03:00.000-05:00

2005-06-17T13:44:00.000-05:00

A dolmen or a standing stone
Made out of old-men flesh,
Subcutaneous hair
Makes a mistake on the way out

The follicle
Gets a cramp and becomes
Enlarged, and the skin’s smoothness
Is squeezed between new ridges like

Thumbprints emerging from
Points of tension, cramps, knots
In the sheets, where a dolmen
Or a standing stone waves prehistoric

These hairlike filaments invading standing rock
Are proof that life-forms evolve
In the tip of a pastel pencil
Colonize paper first and then change and spread out

2005-06-16T12:41:00.000-05:00

2005-06-05T14:13:00.000-05:00

The bed glares at itself,
A place in the bed that is angry judges
a place in the bed that is calm.
These judgments fill invisible pure white veins

with carbon filaments that sludge osmosis.
Visibility is a river of
pencil lead migrations
through previously empty and transparent sacs of calm;

it’s true love
of the bed for its sunrise
which emerges from a black eye,
a glare, outlined by outrage, like a beady jewel of blood.

Osmotic smudge.
A little pink glaze
where passions graze.
True love for the quite deep wound

from which anger herds the ruins.
Rains
heard embers
rune.

2005-06-01T10:17:00.000-05:00

2005-05-18T12:13:00.000-05:00

Out of the bed springs a rascally devil,
its head a bright red quacking,
its body a burnt blood log,
every flavor of fire mashed together as a bruise

Energy, by the time we know to see it,
embers
And the heat makes the bed pour
away from us, falling like Niagara

Energy, by the time we know to find it,
falls
a vast waste, large enough
to vanish megatons of excrements

Dissolved and distributed
flames on falling water
The bed, by the time we nose to eye it,
spreads all identifying marks thinly throughout

2005-05-18T10:24:00.000-05:00

2005-05-16T12:30:00.000-05:00

The sun and the sea and the jungle
sand-crabs wearing rain-drop armor
puddles opened to absorb a tear
In the shadow of the jungle
In the shadow of the clouds
On a beach where trails meet
empty shells abandoned by the past
shoes with their plush ankle-supports
the hikers and on their heels came lovers
And the pieces flew into a rage
And the rage calmed and became
The indestructible and the day became so full
One piece of seaweed abandoned by the sea dried
details straining to be located

2005-05-14T10:31:00.000-05:00

2005-05-10T10:36:00.000-05:00

The bed has been tucked in.
Its rotten-green
Dissolving comforter
Smoothed down into a bubbling

Pot of boiling figments:
Wings of a cockatoo for legs,
Carapace of roach-black plastic
Round a phallic protuberance of ice

Melting from inside
As it tries to saw through
A firewall of red ants
Spilled by a corporate security icon

That is the eye of solar wrath
Like a V for victory with
Cancer pulling E and M from it,
While the skylight of an elite apartment

At the bottom of a frozen sea
Allows a silver light to wander slowly
Spilling a blue vein that flows beneath
The broad back of the prone bed.

2005-05-06T09:45:00.000-05:00

2005-05-04T04:59:00.000-05:00

The bed becomes a meadow; the meadow is lived-in.
A troll with a green beard of meadow grass
Fills the entire meadow with his face.
His eyes bleed a little bit of blood which is smeared around

And might be mistaken for a coat of flowers.
A blue cloud-brow is wrinkled as if worried thoughts
Float through the meadow
Changing the look of things in ways you can’t figure out by

Sight. When something changes, without
Leaving a mark. When a lack of information becomes
A form of knowledge, all of a sudden, all
By itself . . . It could make a person get religious.

It could make a person feel they
See
Trolls, satyrs, elves.
Religion is when people fail to acknowledge

They’ve put
Themselves
Into
What they’re looking at, Eric thinks.

2005-05-03T10:22:00.000-05:00

2005-05-02T17:41:00.000-05:00

We are US Americans used to our freedoms.
We use US as a filter through which to understand the world.
We take liberties with liberty: we use it; it uses US.
We are also a smaller group terrified of US, because we don’t feel
like we have a sufficient purchase on what moves US.

We don’t have a sufficient grip on US.
We don’t know if we have a high enough sale-price on US.
We look at US ourselves like a zombie looks at a free person and sees a zombie
like a free person looks at a zombie and sees a zombie. US
is a privilege, an army of privileges, wearing US a mask of rights.

The right mask uses US as a libertine uses a chance,
a chance to engage in liberty with a wild, wild smile for US.
We US admire the unfree as the necessary opposite and
natural extension of US.
We want to extend our freedom into the unfree and become an unfree US,

and then free ourselves like a fountain of US.
Or maybe we just don’t know what it means to be US.
I feel I have been invaded by US,
and trained to feel the way it feels to be a part of US,
and I fully embrace that privilege of feeling US,

so that US can never take me out nor single me out from US.

2005-05-01T16:09:00.000-05:00

2005-04-30T13:48:00.000-05:00

The rain is made
of falling masks,
masks like the faces
of bats, swashbucklers

carried in
on a wind of colors.
Eric is
gotten all dressed up

doesn’t know who dressed him,
some little Mommy
sent him off
the colors are crashing like

cymbals,
decibals,
flower-shouts
from floral throats,

algal blooms,
kaleidoscope blossoms
Eric hits
the colors with his face

His face becomes
a head-like
hollow
humanoid-esque

volume
full of colors
raining and
exchanging flames

2005-04-30T10:36:00.000-05:00

2005-04-29T13:31:00.000-05:00

The bed has decided to become a pretty picture,
and now the picture-frame has become politicized.
Some sort of squirrel or other burrower,
raccoon hedge-hog mole

is trying to eat its way in through the corner
(bottom left)
while the frog has hopped in, with his
kingly hop

to look at the fairies floating in
their party gowns of mosquito
sleeve (the fairies kill mosquitos and
dress in knits of red-hot innards

that the frog looks up at, dreamily;
if only he remembered how
to open mouth)
Eric is in the frog; waiting

for the sparkles and the show,
the rippling gossamers,
the almost incandescent organ-meats,
to realize they’re Dead and rain sad fruits

2005-04-29T10:16:00.000-05:00

2005-04-28T14:18:00.000-05:00

A man made out of the burnt worth of matches
leans back on the snow. He draws a white sheet like
a face that has been beaten
From the snow and tents it over his burnt lower body

Like a bandage of snow
Like a white pair of pants
With a hole torn in it
And the char of smashed-up ashtray blackness showing

Through the hole.
the man made out of ash-tray wealth
is suspended from a white sky
That meets the earth throughout the picture.

He is suspended by
Bleak strings
Of ash-tray stuff
That guide him like a puppet

Smearing the fire-stuff
Pulling the fire-stuff
useless
residue, of Mind and Industry

actoss the
snow of Clouds
Clouds of snow

2005-04-28T13:24:00.000-05:00

2005-04-27T12:30:00.000-05:00

The bed is occupied by a lake.
The lake is a missing person.
Who is the missing person?
The missing person is the bed’s mouth.
The head of the missing person is the bed’s nose.
The bed’s eyes are the bedposts.
The bed’s cap is the satin pillow, red like that.
The bed’s mouth is open.
The bed’s open mouth is a lake.
The lake in the bed is what the bed has tried to say.
It hasn’t worked.
The bed has not said the missing person’s name.
The nose of the bed is a hole.
The hole in the bed is the missing person’s head.
The lake in the hole where the head is a nose is cold, cold, cold.
It is a cold shape with shoulders.

There is some ship or waving vagueness sinking in the lake.

2005-04-26T16:20:00.000-05:00

2005-04-26T12:28:00.000-05:00

A birthday cake of creeping silence
crawled toward Eric with its frostbite
icing biting at him. These kind of kind of gifts
Keep being born and wrapping all around me,

Eric thought. Eric tumbled in a tussle with
the frosted sheets. He got up, and when
he’d gotten up, he had always been up.
The bed leaned like a tower of loose cake.

Eric was pretty sure the back-side of it
had all been eaten and was gone
already, but it turned with him while he walked
Around it, so he could not know could not catch

Up. A birthday cake of creeping silence
crawled toward Eric while he
circled it, like a wary groom. Did he want to
Marry cake, and grow up to be

Big, big, big? And maybe it was only
an empty shell, half-shell, of cake
sprinkled with miserable soot-powder
From the industrial processes that cored it

2005-04-26T10:23:00.000-05:00

2005-04-25T15:27:00.000-05:00

The bed has become warlike
With a spear, a bloodstain, and an eye that roams,
An eye that circles like a searchlight
Looking for the next morsel to invite

The bed is lonely in its creepy veins!
The bed is lonely in its carapace of hardened sensitives
All the blood is too near the surface
The nerves have lost most of their power to conduct

Transmissions, but they’re still just nerves
Even though they’ve learned to imitate armor
Like a butterfly
Might learn to imitate a fortress

Like a hole in the ground
Might learn to imitate a mouth with teeth
But it’s still just a vacant, still just a flutter, still just a
Little thought engorged with bloody feelings

Monumental, like Napolean’s shame
Ready to leap
With its blue veins like lakes of wounded.
Countries have fallen back to sleep, forgetting they were won

2005-04-25T09:32:00.000-05:00

2005-04-20T05:44:00.000-05:00

Sometimes a shrimp loses its shell
And is wrapped in a book of quilts
Such monstrosities wait like grandmothers
In the open-air vascular system

Where every color of blood floats gently in mid-air
Like grandmother’s dreams wrapped in her quilts
Page after page of exciting quilts
Like plot summaries

Of a heaven where sex continues
Into and through the infinite year
And the eyes of a grand old mother
Sitting on a dusty couch

In a realm of dust
With handfuls of blood climbing up through her
Limbs to adjust the pages
Eric realizes he has just become

His grandmother
And simultaneously
Been peeled
Looking at a mirror

2005-04-20T01:25:00.000-05:00

2005-04-17T13:55:00.000-05:00

The toucan on top of the glacier
Has shaved all the ice into feathers
With its nose like a hatchet
With its eye like a dead mess of fluff

And an man made out of the burnt worth of matches
With the self-esteem of something that’s been burned
With the limited locomotion of the martyr
Has declared himself the futile cross on Eric’s grave

Eric is kept from his grave by his eyes, in this dream
His grave in the glacier
In the stuck-together fluff-and-feathers
Where everything adheres to everything because ice sticks

His view-point is smushed up against
The surface where the scene is stuck together
A few pink distances are trying to warm up
The merger where peeled eyes

Wet gets tighter touching ice

2005-04-17T11:25:00.000-05:00

2005-04-14T13:20:00.000-05:00

Suddenly Eric was seeing the bed from a new angle, because he was falling off of it. On the way to the floor, he found a place to pause, a snapshot where shock caught and caged his perception. It was not far to the floor. But he was not there yet. Then he was on the floor, like an infant barely hurt (hurt by the surprise, only) with his shoulders on the phony mammal stuffing of the ratty carpet, full of flakes of dandruff, grains of soil, loose ends of hair. The phony mammal stuffing of the ratty carpet almost overwhelmed him with its pseudo-living scent. It was one of those shocking moments of being embraced and adored by an imitation, one of those moments when your soul is rolling around loose and you might find yourself with a new used soul by accident. This new used soul would be new to you but would have been used by someone else. Eric’s old used soul would then be swallowed by the carpet, which would be one way to escape the bed. The bed was full of souls, as beds can be. Even chastity betokeneth such privileges in the open-mouthed and gaping realm of souls, which is why nuns must be carefully trained against the nocturnal entrances of demons. “That’s a load of bull-shit,” Eric thought. “I live in the fucking real world,” Eric thought. My soul isn’t going to disappear like a sign through a carpet of artificial fibers,” Eric thought. “Shit like that bull-shit like that doesn’t happen doesn’t happen,” Eric thought. “I’m dreaming and I’m still in bed, I’m dreaming and I’m still in bed, I never saw I never saw myself I never caught myself off of it,” Eric thought. Suddenly Eric was seeing the bed from a new angle, because he was falling off of it. He was still only halfway to the floor when he found a place to pause, a snapshot where shock caught and caged and cushioned his perception. A cradle of shock. The bed was at a halfway angle, as if his sense of his own position had not been adjusted yet.

2005-04-12T09:38:00.000-05:00

2005-04-10T14:38:00.000-05:00

The bed is playing itself like an outraged juke-box
Full of Johnny Cash being rubbed up against silent headaches
Guns N’ Roses swallowing an infinite spearmint hotdog
That pools on the floor of telepathic cubicles

The bed detonates like a Rubik cube in a ten-year-old
Geek’s mind. All our chickens will be headless
All our sheets will be running through the market
Proving that we were virgins, again and again

And the aunts will cluck and consider our gallons,
Whether or not we bled enough for decency’s sake
Spermicide pools in the cerebral cortex
Deep deposits of dust that sneeze off vinyl memories

And the streamers, pink and blue, and the hairpiece
Of algae and the jack-in-the-box unjacked
And the phone line in which the cubicle is imagined
And the sneeze and the cortex and the decency’s lost leg

2005-04-10T11:48:00.000-05:00

2005-04-08T12:59:00.000-05:00

Someone with a very wide, squashed-flat head
And a very large bellybutton (that might be a chest wound).
Spirits look weird, because they don’t have to conform
Entirely to the normative appearances of people.

In the background pink and yellow-jello colored
Gunk stuck to the walls like bubble-gum contours
Chewy as the cellulose of tree-flesh, another
Indestructible, viewed through the indestructible

Blue-veined transparency of spiritual flesh.
God invented bodies because he hated this liquidity.
And the square shoulders of the soul as if
Squared-up for execution, and the eyes on stalks

Sprouting high above the head like escape-routes.
Hello. Are you ready for the bubble-gum ride?
The belly-button porthole leaks
Sad little blue-veined rivers that can’t face

2005-04-08T11:38:00.000-05:00

2005-04-06T13:15:00.000-05:00

Eric, left with three rocks and a pillow.
smudged and rumpled, sweated, drooled

Leftover traces of the bed slept
Passionate without performance of their passion
In an open place in the room

Nobody wants to be
saintly (invisible)

In the black furry space that
Waits to be hatched from
his body, like a tooth

Each rock was a part of
the belly of a
bed had disappeared

The pillow was
Everybody wants to be

saintly (invisible)
Pack in as many as you can

Always room to fit
However much
Folded-up space

2005-04-06T00:51:00.000-05:00

2005-04-02T19:27:00.000-06:00

Eric paused. He was feeling in the pink, half-way through the nature area, in the part where the Brillo flowers spun webs. They spun the webs by rubbing the red rust of their rusted molecules on the air. They rubbed their rusted molecules on the air so hard they stuck. Leaving dirty impressions lying around loose, while the free flowers ran around at angles to the picture, undepicted, by virtue of having no commerce with the air, except for dumping husks. The husks they dumped were webs of denatured molecules, hanging in the air impersonating nature. The Brillo flowers themselves were therefore very skinny like ideals. And further back was the castle, the pine-tree, and the bridge made of blue lakes. The husks they dumped were webs of demobilized molecules, caught in their positions, giving up their probability to become past events. The pink stage like a belt served the landscape as a proscenium to frame the top half as a depth leading away from the near place of the bottom half, so Eric was in two places, he was near and he was also far in that the presence of far gave him intentions and a motion that meant he was already speed-reading himself out of here. He was in a perpetual state of pausing while speed-reading, a dizzy placement in a moment that is barely there and probably not very worthwhile. “I’m here and there and near and far at once, with no time to enjoy any of them, since the moment I’m in is totally encompassed and consumed by an awareness of the relation between those states.” Eric never said or thought that, because one constant about the place where you are is you cannot be able yet to express the way yet that you are yet being it yet. Eric paused. Caught in the act of giving up their probability to become past events, moments got caught in the act there and stacked up.

2005-04-02T14:55:00.000-06:00

2005-03-28T12:12:00.000-06:00

There’s a blue sea lurking somewhere past my broken heart
With a bib of spilled cartoon soul candy
Stretching like a grove of wounded gauze
Across the broken table legs

And oh the pale blue and the deep blue of
My shallow and deep spring-times
Full of a roaring kettle full of birds
Whose twitters and tweats are friendly colors visiting

My friendly universe
With the sizzle and the scratch-scratch and the clots
And the paralyzed charm
Of yesterday’s downpour in a jug

Butterflies assembled from the jitters
Imitate explosions
While spilled thumbs
Collect in a fungus of rolled mass

2005-03-28T01:24:00.000-06:00

2005-03-19T18:21:00.000-06:00

A grasshopper-fog-legs-fiddles
Bedding-tearing-thorax-heal-split
Horizon-line-seismograph-split
Healing-fizzles-power-fiddles

A million tiny fingerprintlets like
Tiny empty bags unzipped and our tears
Made a way on tiny little see-through
Winglets buzzing-purring-vibrating-see

The ant has been tucked in his supplied
World; the grasshopper through his
Healed-split fiddles, fog-lenses burn
Off like mist as sun invades wet worlds

A thousand empty signals like
A whole brain abandoned in the middle of
Receiving transmissions from a self that moves to
Fast to focus eyes on and betrays

The solid-wing-case-tightened-oiled
Specificity-of-function
Machine-wing-oiled-tight-solid-case
Half-breed-tearing-horizon-thorax-split

2005-03-18T11:29:00.000-06:00

2005-03-16T23:16:00.000-06:00

A wolf with a few red petals in a square snout
Barks from a throat like a sphincter like a fan
The blades whirling and releasing grey fog
While a black VCR in the background chews the time

The time is a small dog frisking on the wolf’s nose
Sort of like a brown scorpion with its tail up
Meanwhile a frail X carved in the fog
Spills blood through its south-west quadrant, from a wound

In the map produced by creating it
Whenever they organize something, it just traps
Some non-combatant in darkness, on the disconnected end
Of a phonecall to utopia

And the sun doesn’t rise, it just leaks in
In some goldarned hideous form that makes us blush

2005-03-16T12:05:00.000-06:00

2005-03-14T21:14:00.000-06:00

The essential colors, because they are the only colors, always adulterated, always replaced by versions of themselves, sometimes submit to blue and blank and get driven down into the loin-cloth of the computer, a black plastic shell like the hull of a digital column. Like a condom the computer wore in a green blink at the assassinated bulkhead of the hull of shell, the essential colors, because they are the only colors, always finding kinship with every other color because of spectra shared and because of their loyalty to the artist who wants to mix all of the colors in order to create the sweet idea of adulteration on which art depends, the essential colors, because they are the only colors, colors that we cannot see are the subject of the art stuffed into our cum by aliens, there’s more to life than heroic children, let’s hear it for the motionless of circular today.

2005-03-13T14:08:00.000-06:00

2005-03-12T17:02:00.000-06:00

One day all the rays of light hidden in the bed began to pour straight up. It was as if a rainbow had been hidden in the bed’s puffy bladder, and began to be pissed out through a lot of tiny holes. Like a rainbow being snuck out through some pinholes. But the beauty of the rainbow is confused and cannot rejoin unitary archness. The beauty of the rainbow is retained in tiny strings like omnivorous spittle of all light hung out to dry upside down like little lost stalactites of the spectrum. And the bed like a fish out of which all the ingredients have snuck. The bed lies down on the sea-floor and becomes the pool chair where the gray age of forgotten starlets grows, like a gray moss of the background, eclipsing the vitality of washed-up vessels (the unlimited exuberance passes us, having done us, as individuals, the good it could do us: my gray coat surrounds my infant starlight on the seafloor, as forever as forever as forever bubbles up.) I said, “I am the starlet of the spectrum, and my radiance surpasses vast.” I was only kidding, though: the flipped-over bed is camouflaged to match the sea-floor of the paper-stock.

2005-03-11T12:04:00.000-06:00

2005-03-08T13:11:00.000-06:00

bed.
wed.
said.
fed.

What are unions? Who are two?
I am perfect. I begin. I end.
I begin. I end. I bend.
I bend. My thumbs are eggshells spilling rock’s blood in the river.

Roc’s blood. bed.
Color’s scalpels. wed.
Blue posts and circuits. said.
The creation of union in ingratiation. fed.

I be an end.
I we an and.
I say of hid.
I free of head.

My thumbs hatched parasitic colors
Blue amoeba darts.
The least essential of creations.
Extra tongues that wrap like licenses around

words. Roc’s call blue shun.

2005-03-08T10:26:00.000-06:00

2005-03-04T13:34:00.000-06:00

Sometimes in the middle of a dream the bed you’re on curls its vague smoke and folds and unfolds to assume the form of an antique Model-T Ford. In a basic black antique Model-T Ford cloudbank, you are rolling then through a serene piece of paper with nothing but your own charcoally thin emissions to show you’re there. Certainly you’re looking for a green oasis where carbon is retained amid a little splendor, a little chlorophyllic charm. Just because you’re flammable doesn’t mean you have to be dry and scratchy, and indeed the classy way is to mix a little damp amidst your sparkability, you know, keep yourself tamped down. Sometimes though the only color you can muster is the tell-tale smear-away-to-gray of something that has been burned till it hath no fire to give. “Ashen” they call it, in the catalogs. So, in an ashen antique Model-T Ford cloudbank straight out of the catalog, you are rolling then through a flammable place without the power to incite anything. The simplest expression, “Hey” for example, runs into you and becomes a puzzle. “Hey” is for horses and they burn it in their bellies full of spanking acid. You have no incitements with which to begin the process of taking fuel from “Hey.” It would require a catalyst. It would require you to inject a catalyst, so the molecules on the outside of “Hey” would begin falling off. So they could fall into your saucer where you could lap them. So the molecules would become fuzzy and solitary and fall into your saucer of serene paper, flammable as milk, through which your antique ashen Model T-Ford cloudbank rolls. Folding and unfolding like an adjustable sofa-bed with a jaw with piano wires inside. A jaw with piano wires and braces and contraptions folding and unfolding in its midst in a bed which folds up into a classic ashen Model-T Ford cloud.

2005-03-03T21:25:00.000-06:00

With Apologies

2005-03-03T15:49:00.000-06:00

Oh rosy empty how I wouldn’t dare
Oh rosy empty how I wouldn’t dare to
scratch you with an unclipped fingernail
some places you have to clean yourself before you put your

Before you let your thumb-troughs cling
to the all-smooth wall of what wants
to be unwanted. But empty potential is our
bribe, it’s why we want to live, to invent it in the middle of history

fucking colonialist settler shit-heads’ll kill anything to invent wet
dreams before they gasped on the gluey tailpipe of animal sewage
Stupid beautiful fictions with their worded anus
how they wouldn’t dare to with a tool or a breath begin to

with an ink-drum hush

2005-03-03T12:48:00.000-06:00

2005-03-02T17:23:00.000-06:00

A fog-bank
full of furniture
full of fires
in suspension

smothers the bed
in surprises
too many possible
motions collect in a dense core

as if fire and smoke
compressed became
terrains of a few planets
patched together

quilts like anything contain
fires in potential
densities smoldering
casting out

creeper-vines of sparks
wound like DNA
in granny-knots of
shoelace dissipate

2005-03-01T12:50:00.000-06:00

2005-02-22T00:00:00.000-06:00

A mosquito sitting on a swing
bleeds boredom from his upper half and blood fumes from his lower
blood fumes that are almost fire
dangling nonchalantly from the lax geometry

A mosquito with a head full of quiet dust
trying to restrain any hint of social buzzing
trying to seem asleep. Because immunity
takes a long nap in the powerless age and then leaps up and combs its

chest like a slow precipitation of car-exhaust
into the face of passionate pink and red quick knots
which were never meant to prevent the whole flow of blood through the organism,
even if it’s bottom half is a blood-theft.

2005-02-20T15:57:00.000-06:00

2005-02-11T04:30:00.000-06:00

A powerful and domineering
gentleman of heavy boxes
which is the bed with a mustache
dripping like dehydrated passed-out

The icecube of the bed has
dark veins in the center as if
bluer water
and silly little curlicues buzzing brief outside

My motive is to be a
part of the major form,
a speck or a bit of random
debris for which the mind left chilly

pockets, as if the design were hollow
in order to accommodate all
uselessness internally
as if having an overview could validate stray marks.

2005-02-09T10:07:00.000-06:00

2005-02-04T13:37:00.000-06:00

Some kind of insatiable piano fell from heaven
In a room full of hot-pink fumes
of course there were complaints, but they shattered when the air did
such prickly little panes of glass

Some kind of violence too obvious to echo
carried on two hooves, trot trot trot
hanging in the middle of the air pink slobber
from the did I mention the piano’s swollen lip?

blue lines open where they weave like wicker
in a bed-rolled ocean meat of ferns
in a bulge-eyed bed-face geometry spilled
from a rolled-up nausea

thumbprints like abandoned rocks

2005-02-03T21:56:00.000-06:00

2005-01-10T13:46:00.000-06:00

Confronted by the stern sign of the stars
Their intractable blaring shining
Eric rode a red animal
To the reservoir. His friend
Was the reservoir. He
Referred to rope-lights
In a strained bunch
As if at
No point
Tomb

Tune
Pawn nail
At infant ands
Strengthened inside
Lights grope to remove
His friend, the reservoir,
A red animal, a growp
A grow-up, told him “Eric, hold
My hair and you won’t fall when I go
Fast as the all-cold signs of the all-cold stars.”

curtain of lights

2005-01-10T02:22:00.000-06:00