¿Qué es un juggalo?

Man poops to resist arrest

Kreative Krafts

In that cold November rain

 

Liking Drawing Bears. Compendium of Domesticity.

 

 

Let's fake an execution: tell me: do you breathe on cue?

parts

I missed your

call at five

this morning. What

makes a stem

sad, all throat,

no flower. We're

a lot like we like

each other, clean, small.

A tooth is how

the mouth goes in, sharp,

then running warmth. I

might need a shiver

to keep me awake.

I had a new smell

the first time I slept

next to you. Naked

belly, a pool on your

hand. In the dream,

our house starts to

burn the first night

and I catch

the arsonists. The second,

it burns down. The third

night, we live next door.

I can't imagine

starting here again. Just

a lump in the covers

with a few little dots

of blood.

Death is refracted light,

the boy not knowing

how to clean up, how

a mountain might

fall on me.

Meteors feel last night

the curved sky,
I want you

to feel with me, feel me

feel you, time repeats,

changes speed,

stops, all at once.

Tattoo

The light is like a spider.
It crawls over the water.
It crawls over the edges of the snow.
It crawls under your eyelids
And spreads its webs there --
Its two webs.

The webs of your eyes
Are fastened
To the flesh and bones of you
As to rafters of grass.

There are filaments of your eyes
On the surface of the water
And in the edges of the snow.

--Wallace Stevens

On a small-scale rope-bridge

We walk together in a common way.
Art, like death, is brief; life and friendship long.
I do not always understand what you say.
What is, is by its nature, on display.

--James Schuyler, "Poem"

MATH

Spilt India Ink

Mushroom Drawing

Essence and accident

and if the rest sits fast, lands end,
beached, autumn seethes down
the door, call on hot or the cold
hot door of a room left dead, open,
hope it won't

call me in the way you used to cry
lots, speak, it does, is doing, dear,
it will be about reading, will it to writhe
in writing

will it away or over? orchards about now,
a crude ontology, in time we'll see the next seaport
and never learn to, never care to,
leave a slipped sheet or two, cease.

Let's be happy!

america


i

my new machine arrived today
i was getting ready for a rehearsal of japanese music or
was blind as is the custom therefore
did not read the directions
but got into it
with all the rows of pipes
around my tractorlike seat
it worked very well

now it was past use
in the dry clay fields
where a poet girl came to write

now it was chain mail
in the transfused light

it had the same proportions approximately
as my blood

how i was happy me and my machine
and now like a wounded soldier without significance

ii

while my head defined surprise
my old child man fingers were touched with new a resinous grease
an alloyed sound issued otherwise

i have spent a life time in the desert

gathering up antlers to make me a breast plate
against what
like a foot soldier who has lost his horse

light anoints me full of girls

iii

i was like a juvenile delinquent separated from his scene
on the one hand ill at ease on the other hand wanting to continue his
search for black shoe polish for his sea turtle leather jacket
or thinking of giving up juvenile delinquency

the voice told me
sudden nike gesture
the way the light folds fall
between that girls thighs
i would measure it with cambers
were i diatomaceous enough

iv

if i were to go back again to that country
how could i face the prayers in my body
when most of the time i would be alone

--Piero Heliczer

GET GUNS, MAKE WAR

A poem I done, "Surf city here we come.," is posted at Proyekto Collective.

WAD OF SHIT / 2 MUCH SMOKE

(the only picture I took in Madera Canyon)

(Ed Hardy)

(walkin' 2 work)

(DEAD KENNEDYS)

(Loaf, straight up bl8zin')

(this was in my doctor's office)

(Go Suns!)

(Fuck Satan!)

(got this at the White Elephant in Green Valley)

(can't wait)

(can't scan a mirror)