"Looks like its hot for good."  said the obligated and fatherly weatherman, tucked beneath my arm.

Cold mornings and cold nights bare the apropriate signiature of a month with so much "Im sure." attatched to it.

Hot mid days strangled by the seatbelt-jacket paradox seem to find a way to discomfort the driver until he wrestles the sweat off without clogging up the 5.

Post work parking spot...

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They asked me to tell the Whistling Cowboy to stop.

And so I aproached and took of my hat.

He whistled down at his drink.

I reached out to pat his shoulder, to get his attention.

He bent a note and cocked his head.

He couldnt see me, and the bar was loud so he couldnt hear me.

'Quit whistlin'' I said withdrawing my hand.

He hit three staccato notes, all the same.

'Listen th...

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Sometimes theres a guy and he totally sees it all right,

Alright.

Sometimes theres a guy and he totally sees it all wrong,

Alright.

Sometimes theres a fridged air,

Missing the mark cause it's pointed nowhere,

Sometimes your totally wrong,

But alright.

Alright.

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Spectacular to some,

The crowd who can't cum,

Not for a shortfall

But just cause they're bummed.

A joke for the jester,

Who cant help but laugh,

Not by wit or by humor

But for things cut in half.

A page for the author,

Who cant write a word,

Not for lacking at trying

But for missing his herd.

A song for the singer,

Who bends every note,

For ...

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Pen to the paper asshole,

Prints to the keys,

Smoke two packs more

And then laugh while you wheeze.

Eyes on the screen dick head,

Mind in the past,

Make what came first

Be the most tangible last.

Feet on the brick shit head,

Pain in the ass,

Drink yourself silly

And then stomach the gasp.

Thank those around Fucker,

Kneel to the mild,

For the bed in your mi...

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Every day I push myself through this world

Bending and creaking

Ejecting splinters so small 

Not even I can see them.

Every month I pull the wiry wigged head

Of humanity's shine to its own bastardization 

Closer to my breast 

Hoping its nuzzle will be less coarse. 

Every pay day it feels soft,

For a moment 

Then looks up at me with wooden teeth

And coughs...

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I have a hope,

A feeling so specific it can't be named

The shape is a border

Of its definition.

When my employer owes me a check,

Or two,

There is an anger more accurate than

The fruit of frustration.

This well cooked and repeated hatred

Grows more fragrant with each day the pay period

Has lapsed,

Until the vision of passing a check across the counter fucks off

...

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thinking about doing an after school thing at my old high school to get kids into poetry and let them know how important it really is. Any tips?

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That Road dont come

From the end of the barrel,

Of a gun.

That road dont come

From the 

"Get down"

Before you run.

That road dont come

From the Nigger who lost his name,

To a color.

That road dont come

From a fenced off,

Narrow place assigned to you,

And not me.

So look at the silly walls,

Through dark eyes, in a dark face,

And look at your own body,

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See what you can do.

Pull it off and dont worry about the dried,

Almost iron adhesive

You left behind.

Not as an adhesive,

But as an unshapeley statue crafted in honor

of your laziness,

And lack of fore-thought.

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He took out his pen,

He put it to paper.

He ran out of ink,

Writing his name.

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In Not So Many Words

I apologize for the poetry about poetry,

The writing about writing,

The waiting for the sake

Of waiting.

But isn’t there something in the broken punctuation,

Of words un-written,

Erased without hitting the glow we now consider the page?

The clash of pride against an ancient stone of:

“This is how it is.”,

Breaks with an obvious rhyt...

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Touch the fucking stove again,

I dare you.

I fear the burn my dear,

For you,

But I salivate at the thought of your knowing wince,

Your tearful eye,

Your red white and blue being hung out to dry.

Just do it already,

Lets all just agree,

Let the jester be king so the blind can then see.

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It bit

It healed

It's itchy not bleeding.

You fought

You yield

Your desperate

And pleading.

"Goodness my boy! you’re wrapped up in trouble!

Let me tend to that wound, take a knee by this rubble."

So you angled your limb and you opened your mind,

To a man who seemed simple, and honest,

And kind.

"It doesn’t hurt much but it itches instead,

Inconvenienced, anno...

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Show me

to my sick

sweet

dark cave.

The cave where dreams stab at the clumsy waking mind.

Where the wounded and forgetful sleep crow is welcome and not mauled,

by the growling brown beast of perceived consciousness.

In the day I walk-

Strut-

confident in the ground beneath my feet.

Falsely sure of the surrounding wood, predictable and ancient.

When I...

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I fucked up and you said it better.

An idiot with the hard copy

I've spent so long trying to print.

You fucked up and looked into rumor.

An open mind without the screen door

you worked not so hard

to avoid.

"Thanks for the ride."

"Take it easy man."

Thanks for the poem dummy.

Thanks for the fare white boy.

He knew what he was talking a...

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Now that Iraq is over

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You're a bloodthirsty hedonist 

Mocked by your work

With your toil aboard

And your pension to shirk 

All the blood thirsty thoughts 

That now occupy head

As you quantify living

While praising the dead. 

You pick up a hammer

While dreaming of booze

With two nails in your teeth

You're not ready to lose

And the tighter you bite

The more brittle they grow

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Voices from our own throats never tasted old enough.

Voices from our past never felt warm enough, or anything less than dead and respected.

Voices from the maw of a peer never felt heavy enough. It was still on the air, floating without the gravity of backwards corporeal consequence.

But now we're older.

Not old.

Not wise.

But older.

Wiser.

Maybe these half young throats si...

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The mountain poet who climbs hills,

The Buddhist poet who cant sit still,

The writer who types as little as he can,

The boozehound who drinks beer.

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Heading down 395

With a head full of gold rush stories

An eye full of mountain ranges

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Help me oh please help me

I havent lost my mind

But tell me oh please tell me

Why it is so hard to find,

I havent fallen off the truck

It crushed another man,

I know the training perfectly

But never met the sand.

A lonely man you'd call me

But you are to blind to see,

Im married to a wealthy wife

Who's tied me to a tree,

The branches shake above me

And t...

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Dreaming of funerals 
Dreaming of death
Dreaming impossible 
Daydreams of theft.
Thoughts not unhappy
But hopeful and proud
Driving too slowly
Singing too loud.
Why is it sacrifice leads me to joy?
The heavy heart dragged 
By the arms of a boy.
Why is it sorrow somehow leads me to laughter ?
The dreadful, dark ending
The what that comes after.
Why does the prospect of loved ones abou...

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theres a weird pride

in your freinds voice

when he asks you not

to post

a poem

tonight.

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Are you the vessel?

The vein?

The path?

Are you the fuel?

The impetus?

The drive?

Are you the moral?

The whole point?

The final punctuation?

Are you the fuse?

The chasing ?

The whats next?

We wish we were the whole thing,

Beginning to end.

But we all have our place.

Point.

Burn.

Incite.

Land.

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In the company of honesty, a fellow I've tried my best to keep close throughout this tale, I cannot remember how this story began. I know exactly how it ended, exactly where it gained its tittle, and the experiential DNA in which its loose and confused morale has been drawn.

So for lack of a tittle sequence, I'll start where my booze soaked memory saw fit to begin recording:

Monk, ...

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Oh I've left you fucked then?

A wingless bird in its middle age squaked to a chick with eager wings.

Never pitty the flightless ones,

The fucks cant fly!

But when Grav-bound wings throw shit into the sky,

The Icarus worshiping pride trash like me cant wait,

To fall dead and burning.

I lost in your book,

But in mine,

I was born to be a missile.

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Stumbling with great form,

As ready and stable as any other hungover,

Willfully sick step could be,

I caught a terrifying question 

Posed to no one.

"What if this is all real?"

He was a toothless mess,

Wishing he could feel as bad as me.

Longing for the self defeating luxury of excess,

And stuck with piss stained slacks,

Feeling the true bad I thought I was complainin...

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there go those days

washed away just like we wish they'd be.

just like we feared they'd be.

washed away just like we prayed

washed away with ignorant youth and sick greed.

"were at the crest!" we'd shout in the forest, on drugs.

"this is the gut of truth!" we'd spit with yellow teeth and bellies full of our parents booze.

"oh wisdom! teachers of the past!" we wo...

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Cabs in Los Angeles are a joke to the Natives

A luxury to the tourists

Unknown to the kids

Blasphemy to the drunks with wheels as true as the night theyle never remember

Too expensive for the East side trying to reach the West

Unnecessary for the West side to reach the East

Too rare to hail

Too much hassle to call

Too expensive to justify alone

Too cowardly to suggest in...

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In the immortal words of an unborn bullshitter,

I present to you:

The broken hammer handle.

In the drunken prose of a friendly stranger,

I pour on you:

Contents of an empty glass.

In the stuttering tattoo of a brain-dead philosopher,

I attempt to explain to you:

Once everything was nothing,

And now,

Nothing-

Is everything.

Bent,

Then straighten...

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To be read listening to: Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-Flat Minor Op. 23 - Allegro non troppo

When you used to love me,

I thought loved myself.

On teenage stomachs we kissed,

On old friends sheets we stabbed one another.

One knife bent and lost in a concrete river,

The other shining and clean.

Upon entry,

And retrieval.

When I used to love you,

I wasn't who...

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7 beers deep, sweating that good july sweat on a friends porch.

Redwood planks kissing the leather souls of my second hand kicks.

4 hours of fire works, illegall yet accepted pyro launched into the space between Mt washington and echo park.

We cooked these bombs up to show thanks and respect for those who gave their lives in order to make a home, a new country.

Fun ...

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It wasn't the sound of the train,

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Who the fuck could run a marathon?

What kind of psychopath does it take to remain in physical motion for so long?

My limbs have never been as strong as the rest,

As far as endurance is concerned.

I can lift

Operate

But the idea of a marathon is bullshit to me.

We run because we must.

Limits are fun to break

But some leave no v...

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For a hunchback loudmouth with a laptop and too much to say,

Superstition is the hat

the idiot I hate

Is alway wearing.

Practical and as dictated as it can be,

Our written language can only guess

At how impractical

The Typist can be.

And how aware

And unyielding

The dumbfuck in the

"Im scared of the nothing something"

Hat

Can begin

Can continue

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We didn't have enough money to live in a cave at the top of the hill. Up high where the waves didn't crash. Where the exhaust foam didn't break upon the sidewalk shore. Where the sand-crab-ass bottle and can hoarders were too tired and hungry to climb for the bounty of a holiday party or a tuesday night's unwarranted yet ever welcomed celebration of our ability to purchase even count boxes of beer...

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Theres a happy sad,

And some people can sing it.

Some people can paint it,

Sketch it.

Some people live it,

Not because they can,

But because they are cursed.

Because they do.

Some people learn it,

And still,

They never feel it.

Some of us feel it,

Wrecked for years,

Smiling with tears on our cheeks,

And never learn it.

I have fe...

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Show me to my sick sweet dark cave. The cave where dreams stab at the clumsy waking mind. Where the wounded and forgetful sleep crow is welcome and not mauled, by the growling brown beast of perceived consciousness. In the day I walk- Strut- confident in the ground beneath my feet. Falsely sure of the surrounding wood, predictable and ancient. When I hunger- For nourishment, ple...

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