Meditation on a Lamp’s Reflection

photo (4)

Sandpaper tin reflection
Alternate lines of age and waves
From what optical cauldron,
	of cold correlative connection,
Three sisters of sanitary sane wage can weigh.

Drums do disrupt the aural presentation,
particle collision,
Of tan ten point game (Blood trickles
		like from a spout to
		funeral cup
	Or black and blue Jack genteel,
		In thee ruined
		sometime buried, brazen,
				cordial waveweepy
						(Will never
						know skill
					vicious, venereal,
					tornado, flaccid,
						and Always Divorcing

This is a game.
Surely looking it the direct opposite of
Fire Smell,
	Angry Open Mouth
			(Cavity: another poem
					another time
			But a solid memory:
					Your lips that
				some... times,
I may convince my infertile soul,
	Is just the rancid battery acid
					burning, bitter,
					of my own desire to control,
But surely I hallucinate.
The drugs will always be my friends on
	the battered bow of my brow
	bucking and baying in the balkan wind
		where memory as a function
			is an afterthought
				and thus
					s on 
And Carol once told me,
	(Or did she show me?
		(Was it	Discourse
That cards and chips, drugs
					and die
Do not make the casino spin,
	the doors invisible / dividable,
		the theory, obviously
					but obviously Everyone's
								Mine ('s),
Are ineffable.
As you blow cornered cat kisses
	into hands that only
The only coin could possibly
			would be
Love / Digsust.

"Face it, Carol,
This could go either way."

The felt is actually a mirror
	and the world is green,

The mirrors you sing into aren't
of vanity
		but portholes
			peering headlong into
	is what you make it
is the constant perversion of the inverted
is the correct answer
is reality unwrapped
is rejection
is hope and dreams
is what you finally decide
is the color of
		your home
		your child's eyes
	the color of your lover's
is Charron's copper paddle.

"Carol, this can go one of two ways."

Have you ever crossed a river?
	is my response.


He guides you,
	tells you cooly:
		love, Ha
	just Hope.


	He'll be here to hold your
			hair back as vomit
		erupts from your teeth,
	but those lucky fucking teeth
	But,		Fucking
							Butter, Mister.

Only a buck fifty a stick,
	Useless when its hard, Ha
	But, Don't


now, it'll melt soon enough
		you can worry about
		what you'll be baking, boy.

The room's spinning
	there are no reflections here
	but rice paper walls
	with violent shafts of
	blue gloom screaming
Here it comes again,
		the hand is shook

You're hearing colors.

"There are other things in life like butter, Carol."

Does it stick on the wallpaper,
	like melting glass
		marching on their backs
			similar to tears
				but slicing furrows
				The Wallpaper
And drip down in shots of deep run blood
Everytime you manage to remember a thought

	Spray starch is your Mother
		ironing her wallet.

	Sylvester drooling spittle like the Sirens'
		eternal wail
		is dementia at seven.

You began young and look where
	it dropped you off,

Ass bleeding,
	bazooka joe, melted chocolate and
	semen smashed silly
	into your toothless twist of a

"Listen Carol, I don't think this is going to work out."

You never win.

Snakes don't have synesthesia
when you close 
	your eyes
		and scream,
		until you scream.

The Siren's Eternal...
	What was it?

A cackle?
A dream?
	did it echo?
	did it shoot craps
		and loose sleep?
A bible?
A book?
even A page?
A page of music?

That's It!

"Carol, sing that song again.

"And, Carol?"

"Don't ever stop singing."

Untitled 07182013, second draft

I don’t give a shit
About the jungle
Or your long trek
To profitable madness
As I sound out that place’s strange name
Sweating, mosquito-thick, blood green
Impossible to itch
An incantation
The machete blade
Turns to coin.

Reminding my shrink of this story
He hands over a live freshwater trout
I really can’t compete.


untitled, 082620120512

keep yr both heels lifted
high above yr head

work is, we’re all sure,
a poor excuse for rules

mercy pockets burglar tools
but stalks from door to door

hopeful wields a rented ford
and searches for a little more

in spite of the police reports
neither will be seen or caught.