Same same but different

Surgeons big drink
Laid on the tile
After the drive here
He wetted his fingers
To take the wheel again
And go back where he came from

The road was long
With a lot to think on
With the music playing
And the crickets everywhere
And the beauty of the moonlight

He considered woman and man
Alone in a room
A room with nothing
Where stars negotiated walls

Out of a futuristic brightness
One that reminded him
Of his slicing





A long trip down the river
Produces the weight of the afternoon
Moving ardently through the deep brown of time
Splashing around in a dingy
That's really a yacht
Moving at the pace of a slow sword

Today was the first day
That he didn't fight with mom
He yelled at himself from the basement
And at the stack of papers
Like he was bleeding in a ditch
Off the interstate

In some unknown part of the country
Chomping at the bit of a particular line
That was irreparable and scary

The sharpness of a fishing rod
Covered in rusty blood
Shapes the morning of drenching




As far as the sky is concerned
Feet are covered in cuts
And the final words of commemoration speeches
Always have to do with money
And the outfit that death wears

Juice boy

Juice boy speaks again

Juice boy was glass

the white jungle to blot out the green

the locking moment

set list for security

lightning rides death in the natural caravan

juice boy speaks again

my death cult wore robes

THE KKK

the axe blade against the moon

the huge gun against the sky

worry does you no good complaining

car rides are like valuum

car rides are a brief life

plane rides more so

the scooter more than the car phone

the monk more than the offering

juice boy speaks again

Mai Tai Kah Khrab

Doin good

The Spins

“Let the conch shell tell him to go to hell, and pop that Tommy Bahama collar while you’re at it, and fix me a Cosmopolitan, frozen, served inside a pineapple with the top cut off, and a nice long pink straw, and at least two but no more than five drink umbrellas, preferably of different colors but not excessively as in not the entire rainbow, but when you cut the top off serve that with my drink please, so that I can put it back on and take it home with me, or walk with it on the beach, no I won’t get a ticket, it’s not an open container with the top on am I right? Ok and please no real fruit in the drink, other than the pineapple, I don’t need that, just frozen slush, but finely blended, no chunks please, and while you’re at it you might as well make it two, because I will drink them.”

“Right away, Ms. Kensington.”

Ms. Kensington kicks off her bamboo-and-dried-palm flip-flops with a big pink fake daisy on the nexus of each respective thong, but not quite kicks them off but rather crawls out of them on her tippy-toes, while sitting down. The flip-flops are left under the circular tiki-bar, while she lifts up her legs and curls her toes around the bottom rung of the tiki-barstool, stretching her arms straight up and then slowly down to either side, letting them hang there for a moment while the comfortably wet night-ocean air ruffles the wings of her one-size-fits-all linen shirt, magenta, and then turns her head all the way around to watch the bartender finish her drinks. She leans over the bar, although it is quiet and she is the only one there. The bartender hangs up the conch phone.

“That will do, thank you. No more umbrellas, please.”

“Sure thing, Ms. Kensington.”

“Honey, tell me why this wet ocean air is so comfortable, huh? The temperature’s so nice I honestly can’t even notice it, and these drinks, Jesus, thank you Jesus, they are--just--divine.”

Beyond the sexy halo of the circular tiki bar there is sand spiraling outwards from the planet that is Ms. Kensington, seashells caught in her orbit. Then, the outskirts of the earth that blend into the sea.

“No place, I’d rather be. Bartender, make that three. I want to drink, yes, drink, until I can’t see. You see, it’s just you and me. And that swaying palm tree. And I want you to toast, and agree.” 

She winks.

“To what, Ms. Kensington?"     

“To the most transcendent night of our lives.”

“You said that yesterday, Ms. Kensington.”         

“And I meant it! But that was yesterday. Today is a new night and it will be--the--most--transcendent.”

And the bartender hands Ms. Kensington her pineapples, she places one in front of the empty seat next to her, she holds one in her right hand, with her left hand she removes the spearmint gum from her mouth and sticks it to her pointer finger, and she raises up her pineapple and taps it to the bartender’s pineapple and they go along with it.          

The sea offers a warm breath on the back of her neck. The wood beads hanging from the toggles of her linen shirt bump and sound like a tropical wind chime, but in reality they only look like they made the sound because Ms. Kensington is looking down at them, when in reality it is the half-coconut wind chime hanging from the thatched roof of the tiki-bar. There are five in total, equidistant from each other, marking the points of a pentagram, but probably just a regular star. Ms. Kensington hocks a loogie and arranges five drink umbrellas into a mimicking sequence, stabbed into the fleshy lip of the circular pineapple lip, and then she places the top back on top because she is finished drinking it.        

The flip-flops return to Ms. Kensington’s feet and she hops off of the bar stool, taking the second pineapple in her left hand and says:

“Good Evening, dear sir” to the bartender while bowing her head and crossing her legs and removing the top of the second pineapple like a hat.

“Hello, how are you, Ms. Kensington?”

“I’m fabulous, and I must be on my way. You will put this on my tab.” And she secedes from the sacred circle of the tiki-bar into the satin sheets of night.

The night is gargantuan, though only leaving a gargantuan-esque impression on Ms. Kensington, as she has been granted her wish of blindness while walking to the hissing sea. She smiles profoundly, she pictures the tiki-bartender, Tommy Bahama shirt unbuttoned completely, flapping in the breeze, tickling his nipples, grazing against the tops of liquor bottles. She listens to the knocking of the coconut wind chimes behind her becoming fainter, becoming her pulse.

The alcohol is palpable. Ms. Kensington giggles, then sighs lovingly, then giggles for a prolonged measure of time, then gasps, then cackles, then gasps, then cackles, then gasps, then screams, then laughs hardily while nodding “no” with closed eyes and whispering something to herself like “oh, that pineapple” or “Tommy…Bahamas?” or “and that wonderful coconut!”, then sighs therapeutically, then smiles, then tears up, then starts giggling, then starts sobbing, then starts cackling while sobbing, then rolls to the ground and flops her body out like a starfish. Nothing was spilled from the pineapple so she downs it all in one go. Ms. Kensington twirls a blue drink umbrella above her eyes, squints.

“I can’t see what color this is? What color is this. Let me think. The bartender gave me three umbrellas with this pineapple, two were pink, and one was blue, I believe. I’d guess it’s gold, then.”

The groans of the sea swirl around her, sounding of crashing waves and wind, a distant flock squawking, the splashes of jumping dolphins, the mourning of a big blue whale resonating with the nothingness of it all. Ms. Kensington listens to the song of the seals. The lyrics are about spinning around forever: Forever’s just another word for nothing left to think. Nothing’s just another word for nothing left to drink.

Ms. Kensington removes her linen shirt and bamboo flip-flops. She digs into the sand between her legs with her hollowed pineapple. She uncovers the padlock to a rusty safe, blowing away some sand with her mouth, jimmying open the lock with the three drink umbrellas, skillfully. She opens the safe and pulls out her skin. She zips up into her skin and pulls out her ukulele. Ms. Kensington sings a song about spinning with the bartender. Now she can see everything, as she leans back, and says “how are you” to Big Dip, Lil’ Dip, and Orion. The top of the pineapple is her pillow. 

Philadelphia

I came home to the nowhere sun in the back of the barn.  I was staring at myself, looking hard to try and find a purpose in shoveling.  There are moveable items and I'm talking about variants of people so don't get freaked out.  I care too much.

I like to think about car accidents on rain shot streets.  I'm really mean so I resign myself to the trash can where i think someone made of stone belongs.  Looking in the drawers first, i like to suck down the things in the disposable with novelty straws and residue of half-life by the old versions of ourselves.

I'm running now due to misevaluation at the coal yard.  When I looked up, everyone was staring back at me like I was a ghost or a child or the ghost of a child.  What can one really do at the back of the bar anyway.  My trash can hole with all my straws seems more comfortable than the invite.

I'm starting to realize that I'm really a lot worse than I thought.  My robot mouth connected to my robot heart sings praise for my robot brain.  Good God--------if holidays were people I'd break down crying by the pond where i found myself for the first time.  I'm missing M & D and candy bars in the night when i wasn't supposed to.

When i see children it upsets me.  It's like holding up a sign for the wrong team at the wrong game----like a fraud.  Ya know?  

Wooden Crimes

After reading little chain and clock ticks a lot and cat meows a lot I think I need a job to dig my nose into it……..I’ve been sniffing around a lot in the back of the woodshed where my mother kept antibiotics for dads treatments, I can’t stand walking around the arena anymore without the lights on

Like when you and I used to hang outside of the carriage house- two roses under the autumnal sun.  I think about the gifts you’ve made for me and I probably haven’t made any for you and I’m so sorry about that hoss.  I can’t believe my attitude like vinegar bottle of plastic column, rice patty of brick wall. 

I’m only a dreamer man, all I can really do is hang on.