. . . . .
On the jukebox Johnny Cash casts his love sadness.
Night Rose in the window, the petals black and tender.
This evening In my lovelessness I search for a pair of green Meridian's. I buy a black rocker coat and a pair of purple corduroy's and a blackandpink Japanese surf shirt instead. Goddamn it nothing fits me but my fucking tightie whities, and it's all boutique and I didn't know it then, but NO EXCHANGE, NO REFUND, those fuckers at Wolf have all my money. It's the waste of it that hurts me, not buyer's remorse, but the self-destruction of commerce when I'd rather be getting naked to destroy myself like a fake rockstar. World of beautiful devastations, I distract myself with poverty and In the end I end up broke and here at the Red Garter alone.
The bartender takes off his shirt to show us some tattoo
and a canary pink nipple.
Oh Detroit, you sent us your man angel.
Paulina screams from the otherside --Mike, you're my Mangel!
Oh Paulina, do another bump.
Me with my coffee and a chocolate donut, texting Hugo.
FRIM looks through jpegs until he sees the the pic of my privates.
Night is the thorn attached to the rose.
I'm drinking from the dark window, where the print of the rose is
drinking from my absence.
The rose is Hekabe and the death of Polyxena:
"you will have to watch
at the tomb
and spray red blood
from a blackbright hole
as it opens her throat wide."
Today I had a thirst that destroys. I will end myself and sleep.
"Down to the blacknesss below
where corpses lie--
I shall lie!
. . . . .
This is a an imaginary diary of facts, confessions, or messages. This is a notebook of working but broken ideas, lines, images, notes on books I'm reading, writers I admire, and brief fantasies of language. Here unfiltered all mannerings pseudo-private, publicized, ur-. Here I am art and unrevealed: poetic, political and pop. These are my moonlit rough beginnings and should not be taken literally, directly, truthfully, reliably, and none of it is legally binding. These lies are all choreographed, but only haphazardly. Beware.
My work has been awarded the Katherine C. Turner Prize from the Academy of American Poets, a Swarthout Award, and has twice been nominated and shortlisted for the Pushcart Prize. My first book, A Book Called Rats, was selected for the Blue Lynx Prize for Poetry (Eastern Washington University Press 2007). I'm curating editor for the online journal of poetry: PISTOLA and my poems and reviews most recently appear in Massachusetts Review, Beloit, Ploughshares and RAIN TAXI. I currently teach writing and literature at Santa Monica College in southern California.
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- ► 2008 (28)
- ELYTIS THE FRAGMENTS BEFORE SPRING
- CRUEL DIARY OF THE MANSUCRIPT
- THE SPECTACLE OF A FANTASY
- THE ANGELMONSTER OF SYNTAX AND SYNESTHESIA
- A KIND OF LISTENING SEEMS TO BE ANSWERING HIS SIGH...
- A NOTE FOR THE BRIEF EXCEPTIONS
- MY NIGHT JOURNAL AT THE RED GARTER
- GREEN IS THE SWORD TO DRINK DEATH WITH
- PURE DAYLIGHT IS THE STONE
- ▼ January (9)