SHORT POEMS
89-A
Southwestern turquiose handmade jewelry case
sad proud humiliation on the roadside.
A BROWSE.
Thank you
Nod head quickly
look her in the eyes
keep walking.
OF PHOENIX.
Hot air
baffoon lives
we lead,
miscellaneous
drab.
TALK RADIO.
The sound of a drill
rotating on high speed
through my ear drums
grinding the brain
Free FM
Free FM
Free FM.
KS PORK EATING 2006
Kansas city's pork contestants
chew like vicious rabbits
with something to lose
Monday, July 31, 2006
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
The other night I was talking with my bandmates about the will or the want to get up in the morning. Furthermore intense, we pondered what makes people have the will to live, or the will to move about through life. While some people get up in an hurry, or travel from place to place with an idea or an expectation, others never ponder the fact that they have the power to change their own life by doing it themselves. It's easy to get caught up in the "standard" way of living, we as americans know. It's easy to be in that world of suburbs, strip malls, fast food eating, large corporate shopping, driving the car everywhere, working 9-5, watching too much television, getting lazy, losing the vision to your heart and soul, your passion, your spirit. Maybe it's easier for these things to cloud your life if you have an unhealthy relationship with your mate or your family or your social scene; if you excess on drugs or alcohol; if you've never had drive or goals for your life. Maybe it's just that all of the "standard" things I described above turn you into this drooling, lethargic american that is so sadly everywhere. Lets consider an alternate way of living; one that employs your creativity, one that keeps you in touch with your soul and your spirit, one that supplies you with warmth to your heart, blank.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Ladies and gentlemen, there's something behind your neck that smells oddly like mustard gas. Or is that sulphur? I worked at mid-level market research firm in Seattle washington in 2003. I talked on the phone to different people continusly for hours. I asked them about their health. I asked them about their employment, about their ethnicity; their income; their insurance; their martial status; their mental stability; their diseases; their sexual preferences; their sexual behavior, but never their credit card. Up on the 3rd floor we were all generally fucked up. I met some oddball folks working there.
Len was a giagantous, curly-orange long-haired, bearded, intensely freckled, 43 year old, lunch box carrying ex-convict; recently released. He wore shorts that were affendingly small and tight that skinny, young bicyclists would wear in the seventies. Usually they were aqua-blue and he would wear an aqua-blue, red, black, and white stripped t-shirt. He rode his bike to work and wore those damn shorts even in the dead of a rainy, washington winter. His skin was harmfully tan in the summer. His fuzzy, matted beard was a mixture of brown, gray, red, and white wires that had no equaling length. He talked with a moaning drag at the end of every thing he said; which was likely to regard sci-fi B movies, particularily the ones directed by Fritz Lang. Het ate the same thing every day; sardines with Tabasco sauce on bread. Every day. At the same time listening to something on his pocket radio and looking out the third story breakroom window. If he spoke during his lunch, his words were usually followed by sporatic flying bits of food.
My cubicle was aside a very large, warm, carismatic black buddist women's named Simrajah. My working space was always very stark and cold because I never wanted to mentally invest myself in my job and the time I spent there because it would quickly turn me into a depressed monster. I had to separate my life outside of work from my life at work so much though that I wouldn't decorate my cubicle with personal flair. I enjoyed the feeling that I was always on the move and could have another job, or live in another town without notice. I believed that if I put up a bunch of pictures and brought stuff from home, then I would turn into the same zombie dead-end man as the people around me who had been working there for twenty years.
Len was a giagantous, curly-orange long-haired, bearded, intensely freckled, 43 year old, lunch box carrying ex-convict; recently released. He wore shorts that were affendingly small and tight that skinny, young bicyclists would wear in the seventies. Usually they were aqua-blue and he would wear an aqua-blue, red, black, and white stripped t-shirt. He rode his bike to work and wore those damn shorts even in the dead of a rainy, washington winter. His skin was harmfully tan in the summer. His fuzzy, matted beard was a mixture of brown, gray, red, and white wires that had no equaling length. He talked with a moaning drag at the end of every thing he said; which was likely to regard sci-fi B movies, particularily the ones directed by Fritz Lang. Het ate the same thing every day; sardines with Tabasco sauce on bread. Every day. At the same time listening to something on his pocket radio and looking out the third story breakroom window. If he spoke during his lunch, his words were usually followed by sporatic flying bits of food.
My cubicle was aside a very large, warm, carismatic black buddist women's named Simrajah. My working space was always very stark and cold because I never wanted to mentally invest myself in my job and the time I spent there because it would quickly turn me into a depressed monster. I had to separate my life outside of work from my life at work so much though that I wouldn't decorate my cubicle with personal flair. I enjoyed the feeling that I was always on the move and could have another job, or live in another town without notice. I believed that if I put up a bunch of pictures and brought stuff from home, then I would turn into the same zombie dead-end man as the people around me who had been working there for twenty years.
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