the year 2012

08 + 23 + 1981...ive grown enough to shoulder the weight of words...when worlds turn ill be bringin the tenth tribe home, son...

2012 but in a new age way, not a new-age way.

to think i was the strongest staying the bongedest was improper english but now im on this. homme. finally. drop days like florida has everglades, plug a glade, to mask the smell of turkey bags, and gettin' paid. on the stream tip, consciousness, sick of weak shit, two tjds two no stems no seeds,... and drunk homies that spray like they mean it. i mean, i know they mean it when they dream it but lack of action has me questioning the scene to zine mentality. i woke up with hope up, two years later i know theres no emotion one cant smoke up, so toke up....burn trees, praise jah, break laws and reappropriate the consequence as justifiable to the revolution. my life is mine at the beginning of the eighth revolution. 28 years and four times a new human. human pestilence/consciousness disease, christmas presents and easter guilt/greed. i confess that confession to god and his mouthpiece could bring peace but i need my eyes no matter what i need. by that i mean mentality of mortality and poverty over greed. now bleed the blood green, breathe deep seek peace, on my knees the sky seems closer to blue than gray. I don't prey where I play, I pray to my life, my love, my creation, my day.

Within a few configurations
you'd be wiped away, completely.
Mouth and mask face legs.
Assumptions undergone
and a routine desire perpetuated by
nuisance.
How would you like to meet me
around the corner
form our favorite haunt.

Didn't think so.
Couldn't even quite remember how you existed.
Flesh and bone, of course.
But minds, much a fate of faith.

So call me next time.
Wel'll meet up next time 'round.

I'll remember your gesture.

sample. repeat. it's inauthentic. it's stale. it's
wrong.
it's warm and satiable. it's wire and brindle
a bridle of twine.
twisted around this time of mine.
it's a mediocre contrast of inconsistencies.
medieval (which i still cannot spell) and grotesque
baroque, at best.
gold and filigree and blatant promotion.
embedded in stone and gold.
so, please.
someone take note:
embed me within a eulogy of memories you remembered.

how much life can one spine take
how much weight until a back breaks

the moment quicker than a poet's tongue
flightier than the damsel flies mating above our heads
in swarms
in fact.

we fall down stairs like barrels on hills
speed and sound the musical notes of days so fast
can't stop
can't.

mnemonic

breathing patterns
cut from dotted lines
outlining your lungs
muslin masking mine

i'm in lust all over your summer skin
shed around me like a snake shake your face that sin inspired grin
wince at the light that wakes us from behind the blinds
the piece of glass pivots, catches us off guard as it hits our eyes

bodies and brine, a modern day mummification
wrap ourselves in each others shedded skins
purification from the depths
steal the rubies and emeralds to fashion our beating hearts, gleaming eyes
gold and rust, the markings of elegance and age

i hope we grow old under a grove
because we both know.

He sat next to me.

He lived next door from me. Across the street, in fact. He live 5 states away. It could have been closer. The timing was all wrong.

When isn't it?

He lived in my head.

Fingers, slender instruments humming the tune only out of pitch.

But that's between you and me.

I sing the melody in my quiet moments, to keep me company. To keep my thighs light. And keep my shoulders upright.

Annie said it would be forever. It would a be life of fighting recollections. Not sure which one to bet on quite yet. And quite frankly, it's not a fight I want to watch. Let me live in my head. Problem with that is that your head lives alone in a quiet house. He lives with me in loud moments of passion filled precision.

It's not like suicide was an option, ever. But it never wasn't, either. I'm a happy person. I'm content in the day, in the night. I'm satisfied, I feel validated. Either way, something isn't right. It's the ultimate unwanting: it's the essence of living in the moment. It's like this:

You have the sensation to want to sneeze. The tickle, first comes from somewhere in the chest that you've never quite traveled to. It moves upward into your face. You know it, then, as a need to sneeze. Something happens. The hair on your arms stand up and it's like the sneeze is a word resting on the tip of your tongue; it's a dream you can't quite translate into words; it's a sensation like no other. It moves. It's fleeting. They say look into the light. Bad advice, if you're dying. Ring around the rosey. It all makes sense - it's death in small doses. Incremental. It subsides. You're left, upset. Life, as you know it, resumes. Then, it comes as a wave. As a colosal tidal dream of the ocean you can recount each and every step of. The smells, the voices, who was there, and, most importantly, why you are there. You sneeze. The hair on your arms raises again, differently. Suddenly. Some say orgasmic. I say it's the sin of the century. It's hedonistic. It's natural. It's you in the moment. It disappears.

So, why is that no one ever dreams of sneezing?

Anxiety Translated

And it happened
and, well, I followed too, of course.
And you said it
and, well, naturally, I said it too.

That leaves us here
marked by the damned desire.
A frivolous tumultuous concoction like you'd make with your friends and dare them to drink. A tincture so toxic it would kill you in large doses. It is so strange how the most interesting of ingredients can become insipid suicide in an instant. We must manifest belly aches in order to maintain our own neurosis.

The Secret Lives of Love

It started by an accident. Compounded with a lifetime to follow suit.

inner monologues the new forgottens
fantastical timing and a world is new again.

tumbleweeds, the tangled mess of strangers rolling through the night.
I'll remember this place by the shadows cast.
and you're alright because we're here tonight
and nothing is going to stop this rain.

we sit and smile at the fire for hours. no moonlight, but that's alright
I't s a one way street with a dead end here
and I'll remember where we came from
because it's easy to follow the sun.

drain the bottles dry in the starless skies of winter nights
hope for the spring and fear for the summer
everything ends and you'll be with me there too
because when the birds sing
the bees sting.

Like Spitting in the Wind or Splitting Hairs for that Matter

This silence moves (kills) me.
Words are forgettable.
However there are two
that I can't seem to shake.

I asked someone for a partial
lobotomy of just those
two words.
I was about to compromise
with offering to sacrifice
an entire sentence.
I couldn't find the strength.

I couldn't find the strength
in me to lose more than
what's been taken.
Given.
I can't tell the difference any more.

This indifference
overwhelms me.
Your moves seduce (kill) me.

I reached my hand out
of my bedroom window
to grasp a handful of wind;
have you ever tried grabbing
at air?

Just in Case I Forget to Confuse Myself More

Split the knife
split lip,
I am a lover in my sleep.

I trip over you
you are 5 states away,
I falter around local corners.

You probably stumble
around streets too,
but it's not because of me.

The wounded heart. Such an easy pet to keep. It seems to find the most inventive of ways to feed itself,
water itself,
pet itself.

I've tried to leave it on the porch of a neighbor. It has an uncanny sense of direction, always finding its way home.

I kicked it, once. It wimpered a little, but like any slightly broken beast, it came scampering back and coiled its tail beneath its legs and lay at my feet in repose,
in a pile,
in submission.

I called the number on the box, hoping it to still be under warranty. I was left disappointed, for the company only doles out refurbished replacements. And, the replacements, they say, come with no warranty at all.

I keep my days short, in hopes the nights grow long. I heard from a consumer report discussion thread that the wounded heart likes to heal itself, in the dark.

It's a great thing being an artist
filled with imagination and despair
The world can crash around you and
then you paint it like it never happened
like it was all a dream, to begin with.

I always found it odd that I never found the people I thought about
and all it took was going out
I never see the faces I used to anymore
and it's because it's my own face that doesn't make it out the door.

people are doing the same things they always have done in and around town
I've been shackled in hibernation in a hole in wall
in which I will call an apartment
I never see myself anymore; the only mirror I use is to brush my teeth before bed.

I always blamed fate for running into people in bars, coincidence, serendipitous
the world can give you shoes but you have to tie the laces

I never see the faces I used to anymore
and it's because it's my own face that doesn't make it out the door.

Twins: Issue #1

I made a zine of poetry. You can buy it from me for $2 or trade or donation.

email: stereoke@gmail.com

if you wanna...

Fucking Hurricane: Catagory 4

When it rains it pours they say. I've been sleeping with a lot of women lately. A lot of women. If the vagina was rain, I would say, I'm in the eye of a 'fucking hurricane'. Outside, watching the sky roll and curl like a fresh bruise. The wind turning me sideways, blowing me round. The rain begins, slapping me in the face, pounding my body, drenching me soaked. Running, out of breath from fear and thrill, dodging limbs and darting debris. The earth bends, the ocean lurches and seizures, levees burst. To safely come inside with barely enough time to tape up the windows. The smell of rain, while delicious, does lose its allure. Long dark days and nights, cold, wet. God, I pray for sunshine after awhile. Though like every storm, this will lift and push on.

If this apartment is rocking. I'm masterbating.

A Massive Amount of Nothing

strainer and ladle and spoon
what to make of all this mess
I think I could make do with a
entire tractor of less
clear a pathway of nothing with my back actor
plant a billions seeds and reap a benefit of without
with my combine of void
shoelace and coat and hat
keep me cold keep me warm
keep me divine
but I could do with a
parking lot of less
With a lot of less
I could park anywhere, I'm sure.

Broke II and Too

Being broke is like having your breasts pressed against the glass window. For free.

Broke

Being broke is like having your penis nailed to the floor. It's inconvenient and hinders your ability to bang.

Before the next after the storm

Looking at the back yard, your at the store.Back door open, I'm on the step.July's temperature makes the garden slouch.Soil we mixed together.Little feet still echo in the sand.The sun made the grass smell so sweet.Deep breath, you come home, I exhale.September came too soon, who knew August would kill it?I came to burn it down.By October we were coals.I buried my heart in that back yard.There's a new small seed in my chest.I'm afraid it's from hell.I suppose I've killed enough to fill its shoes.I do not aim to make it proud.

summer shorts. summer balls. summer.

summer time is best for not showering and showering when its too hot and so forth.
summer time is mine and yours but not yours because its mine. this is the nature of summertime. ill give winter to lovers and spring to those who want children. i love fall and the way scenes play out in scenes and out of them and the scents that accompany boys bringing their jeans out and girls with their genes out because soon it will be too cold to not hide under turtle necks and layers and face hunting scarves and jackets. fall is almost mine but really not because it doesnt happen from may to september.

these summer's balls are dangerously close to the frayed edges of shorts just short enough make me laugh every time i pedal the five short blocks that make up my universe these days. never once did i think by limiting the space i breath i would feel so free. bums with the same stories break up the time between streets and four short stories to the two down comforters making up my bed that used to keep me warm in the winter time.

a man stands admiring his sprinkler system
a woman watches her trash clutter up the gutter
the bus goes deep into the suburban
to emerge as a corporate work house
the man and woman to be experienced in the dark
when i emerge again as myself at my downtown doorstep

Apples

I've been eating a lot of apples lately. At least one a day. Every time I eat an apple it reminds me of watching The NeverEnding Story. Particularly the part where Bastian is reading the book and eating an apple. Motherfucker eats the entire apple, core and all. I've always wondered how the hell he does that.....eat the core of an apple? Kid's crazy man. That has to fuck shit up. Maybe, if he ate some dirt an apple tree would grow out of his ass. That would have made that movie so much better. So, I've been eating a lot of apples lately....

lavender tea
is what she be
beauty like the sea
come home to me

Follow the leader

It sure is tough to align ones self while someone is shitting on your face.

roughly 150 days after the fact.

im sorry...i was desireless until now. tomorrow ill wake up and make coffee and smoke cigarettes and probably weed cause i dont have to work until six

Seas

I looked into the eyes
of some blade of grass
crush me Isabel
I won't be your last
time won't stop for
a blade of grass
but you
like you always do
like cats biting shoulders
throwing you on the couch
wouldn't stop the spilling
that creates
a blade of grass
beneath the flood
swaying like the alligator
who swallowed
your nanosecond

Prairie Yellow

A magnificent pause into reason,
And the wind (like foxtails) touching you.

Trades, or: Eggs and Milk aren't the Only Things up for Trade

Splinter
as you speak in offered fragments
of a judgement we rushed and
sometimes it all feels plastic
and wraps around lungs and we go under
lights flashlights lightbulbs headlamps streetlights stoplights
Almost real
Opaque satin almost surrounds this moment
and just when we all thought the plot had thickened too rich
For this wallet constructed by barters no one could keep
Because someone has got your might in the grasp
Of what we all should have been

Exceptions

Smoothness, but who are who? and the qualities of Howness, but you say that doesn't exist.
for you and you are
not your arms
Don't make me swing. Maybe your relationness to where I stand is perceived as you are next to me.
you are to the right but the crowds can see through and there behold the embarrassment.
What is the redness on cheeks or the accent on which becomes Spokenness?

Meating

I know you. I fucking know you. Oh, I've seen you before. Somewhere between a grizzled steak and a pile of shit. That smile peeks around a corner of hell and hair. You like money. The greens remind you of folks, the white sand beaches, bacon in the waves, a brother only fake tits could love. And weed. You've waited for so long.....

I know him too. I've seen him before. His head made of soft pork, shaded by a white rimmed chromosome. Breathing via le mouth, mumbling through dix, touching you on the way to the tanning bed. Maybe I'll stop by the gym....

You coward.
So am I.
Rubbed in sour pine. Sap seeped.
Burned.

I know you. You are made of meat.

erotic history of botany

juniper berries to gin and past, we've begun.

we call it history because it's long since past.
we've got history and we know it.
sweet as the sun, it comes in cycles like a moon.
rearranging furniture to make our history fit into a modern novel.

oh sweet conifer. sweet leaves, spines against teeth, needles to the vein.

sheep in the wolfs den.

he got in!
a sheep in the wolfs den.
he gave them a sweater.
they offered him a cigarette
and had him for dinner some days later.

words hung like horses

saved words burn holes in pockets.
spitting, flowers erupt on porcelain and
cracked pavement a reminder of summers
gone. tossing rocks in puddles to pass time,
watching waves made from flat stones that
bring bacteria home for supper.

its even sunny when it rains.
this island turnstile
where gray is the most vibrant and beautiful shade
in a place filled with lush greens
and the bows of rains end.

missing waiting wanting to be here and there,
then and now.
with a heart twice devoured i pray for you to
keep preying for me.

dark matter death

circumambulation of each other's bodies
foley artists replicating the gestures
of our movements in time
space with sound

cruelty beyond cruelty
we stamp our feet in fear of retreat
romance
modern brutality
only allowed from time to time
discerning eyes
watchful ploys


it's a terrible thing, when you remember what you wanted to do the night before the morning after.

.

Notes from outside the conservatory

Oh, the smell. The scent of a woman. Different ones buried into my senses. Unearthed from time to time. Designers making memories. Forcing me to relive time. How many lovely hearts smell like Calvin Klien?

One fork. One spoon. One plate. One cup. One knife. One pot. One pan. One man.

All the pretty girls pass by. The ugly boys sit and stare. High fives and tongues their mothers should have long since cut out. Oh pretty girls, stay pretty. Laugh in your coven's. Don't mind the corpse's, their fishy smell should make it simple. Find a pretty boy, tell him you're dead on the inside.

Dine alone. Wine alone. Drive alone. Sleep alone.

Fell into a crowd. Someone buzzing in my ear. Buzzing, so happy. The crowd buzzes so happy. My age is honey from my pores. Flew out to bright clean air. Bees and flowers, desperate for pollination, I leave you to make your love.

In your mind, don't pass me by. I don't pass you in mine. We visit and laugh. Sometimes make love, like teenagers in fact. You have the softest hair, you know how I love hair. Cold between my fingers, calms my bones. Day after day. Year after year. Make the bed in the morning….I never did before. New year after new year. New day after new day. Make my bread, dry my tears in your hair, in my mind.

Welcome. Bienvenue. Bienvenidos. Blah Blah

Here lies a page for posting. Let's get to making and shaking.