Monday, June 27, 2016

WET & WILD

PEE WEE SAYS CONNECT THE DOTS

TEXAS CACTUS MAGIC


LoVe CaVe


Yesterday's Refrigerator.


Reality escapes her.

WHEE SEES ME

She is not a Hershey's bar.
Cheap sugary melt for ambivalent tongue.
Remember the ripest peach ever purchased
on the roadside in between Fredericksburg
and Johnson City.
Texas summer so golden in your mouth.
That is where
you'll find
her.

THOSE VENUS NEPTUNE DREAMS


AWAITING THE FIX


MATCHBOX PLENTY


Friday, June 17, 2016

nothin' but big ol hearts dancin' in our eyes

"We sure are cute for two ugly people."

"You're bound to love your hard luck poet."

(please pardon the grammar.)

((( sweetest thing )))

The sweetest thing.

((( melting. )))

I'm such a hippie.

"I hope we passed the audition."

(deep in love, not a lot to say)

!!! eBuLLieNCe !!!

!!! RINGO !!!

LIBRA

PISCES

This is what true fucking love sounds like.

EXILE VIVACIOUS

James 1:17
King James Version

17 Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down
from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness,
neither shadow of turning.

I am.
I am not
made of ice
or vanilla
frosting.
This poses many
an inconvenience
in white picket fence
buttercream orgasm
world.
Sylvia Plath would have loathed me,
dismissed me as a dream addled fool.
Marry Daddy then die for him.
Who's the fool?
I'm still here at forty-three,
still referencing Sylvia and Anne
in the poems that Ploughshares
would toss out with the latte cups.
Fuck you, Iowa.
You ain't got my favorite flavor
of picante sauce.
Mira mira.
On the wall.
All my awards.
(They're invisible.)
Never worn a gold wedding band
but I've died inside four different cages.
Suffer a witch
to wail
her survival tale.
This morning I awoke from dreams of the married Christian
from a few years ago.
We sat in the sunlight of my grandparents' den
playing with lipstick.
This morning I awoke to seven text messages
from my newest distraction and spiritual kin.
Lapsed Southern Baptist like me.
Unlike Ernest Hemingway and Daddy
he shoots lions with his camera.
He sends me purple hearts.
I'll take em.
I've earned em.
I'm like any woman who still dreams and is willing
to die for another chance at the carnival.
I'm seeking him the hymn,
the one to bring me in from the wind,
the sturm und drang
and make me want to hang out there
in whatever home
we have created.
Scarred but still singing.
That's enough gold
to sate my ravenous piracy mad
corazon.
That's the only song
I know well enough
to carry to
my girl gone wild
grave.

Tuesday, June 14, 2016

WHAT ARE WE?

"Why, we are the miracle of force and matter making itself over into imagination and will. Incredible. The Life Force experimenting with forms. You for one. Me for another. The Universe has shouted itself alive. We are one of the shouts. Creation turns in its abyss. We have bothered it, dreaming ourselves to shapes. The void is filled with slumbers; ten billion on a billion on a billion bombardments of light and material that know not themselves, that sleep moving and move but finally to make an eye and waken on themselves. Among so much that is flight and ignorance, we are the blind force that gropes like Lazarus from a billion-light-year tomb. We summon ourselves. We say, O Lazarus Life Force, truly come ye forth. So the Universe, a motion of deaths, fumbles to reach across Time to feel its own flesh and know it to be ours. We touch both ways and find each other miraculous because we are One."


                                                       (RAY BRADBURY)

Monday, June 13, 2016

♫ The Most Beautiful Girl ♫ (1973)

MRS. GLASS

One day and he was gingerbread
when I was milk
and otherwise.
Obvious.
Obtuse.
The lavender essential
could hiccup.
Jupiter above the trampoline.
Jupiter above everything.
Dial Velvet.
Seymour answers.
Witches were first
and some still burn
but tomorrow
the cathedral
with incense
and panther's gleaming maw.
Safest in orchid.
Nectarine sunrise.
Nothing Tom Petty
about it.

DOOMS OF LOVE

Most don't have much to offer.
Regurgitated Twitter feed.
Garbled advertisement.
See me in front of Burger King.
See me drinking Texas beer.
See me naked in front of the Grand Canyon.
Look at me quoting Joseph Campbell.
Listen to me singing ironic Beach Boys medley.
I fuck.
I cook.
I shoot things.
I vote for the biggest possible money
covered in the freshest American blood.
I'll never rot
but until I don't
check me out
almost famous
and shit.
The usual blasphemies continue
with FUCK YOU smirk.
There's nothing for it but libraried exhaustion.
Most alive crawling with dead words.
Shining so hard in the archives
we could almost be Anais Nin
on the worst hair day
of her life.
I dig you to China.
But.
In the other room.
Someone once glamorous
is now bleeding out
her eyeballs
and there isn't anything
pretty or sanctified
about it.
Knowing doesn't help much.
Plasma.
Clams.
Pesos.
What's the currency, Kenneth?
I'm nothing but an F5 tornado
swooshing through
a Cracker Barrel straw.
Quick. Shoot me
while I'm still
reeking of "Reality Bites" references.
The aftermath
won't be
televised.