What Is Life Like For You?

the spacemen are landing
let’s take them out
to lunch if they’re up to it
the one admits to
having kept on
one underwear
for a month straight
his pants probably
smell like trash

hunger rain pours down
the superintendent brings
me a bottle of wine
his way of making
it up to me
for letting my cat out
mistakenly the other day
to fix the spigots
very nice of him
and unnecessary

we complain about silly things
my stomach bleeding
is bleeding
put ya hands up
down low
too slow

a dog barks at
the rain
a subway car stops
a rapper writes
another diss
a rambunctious student
at the tournament is
turned out
sent off
made to do quiet time

I hang my fire
emotion in the tree
to dry the t-shirts
hanging on the line
across the way
it does a fine job

I’ve got nothing
to wear today

they hire a girl to
mimic a video game character
she does a pretty fine job
standing there
to be oogled
answering the most basic
questions like Who are you
supposed to be and
Where’s the restroom?

fine lines
thick line
straw that breaks camel’s
back
needs to be interviewed

what is life like for you?

don’t we all wanna be
asked such things
and for a listener

to be there?

Advertisements

War and Mett(a)phor

I know all of the seven deadly sins at my core—lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, pride—and I tend to them mindfully. And when I don’t, I notice that. I notice me saying that. I’m standing in an infinity mirror. I notice myself noticing and the whole thing with the mirrors, me saying that, me saying that I’m saying that and so on. How on Earth do I have a productive day like this?

The paragraphs are sinister. The depressing thing is depression itself, overlooking all else, failing to descriptively write out the positive and just… appreciate.

Discipline is key. Don’t let the negative shit (or the good shit) spoil it for you—and remember, your smallest actions, when in peace, are performed for the benefit of all living kind. The trick is to live mindfully and compassionately.

{Pierce deep down to subtle reality and as a poet invent unique language to describe that reality—not to be known as a poet and impress people, not even to call it poetry.}

When you really see, you can’t help but to be filled with compassion but it can quickly be turned to grief.

The act of chewing food in itself is beautiful. How you are perceived means nothing if you do not have powers of perception.

In metaphor we are the animals we admire—in mood, in courage, in war I am a tiger, I am the lion, I am mastering self.

Awakened, we touch the Earth for real, the writer touches the page, the page expands to make more room.

Kalika quietly washes
pats her tiny
front paw to her face
hardly anyone is looking
and her knowing this
is the solace she needs
to go on

Bananas over cereal staring at the walls so incredibly happy I begin to count all the bubbles in my orange juice and laugh to myself. A world harsh and awful, complicated and hard, is back there, up ahead, waiting to test me to the limits of patience, just like is available here in the hall, in the pagoda, and my room.

“That’s my yellow Porche in the parking lot. Live big ya’ll. You will be after this.” Oh, Vipashyana… I think some exaggerate your true essence.

Some Bloodspill

up late
layering words
down as to
make sense
of what I’m thinking
this is now
the age old tradition
of many
and why
for the life of me
I go on explaining it…
I suppose
I just get all
wordy like a narrator
and mostly besides
the need in it
there is also
a joy in it
and when you
write it
you can really
go on for quite
some time

throw it
out to sea

confessing that
all is not
well

Continue reading

Incantations

She’s Hardly Recognizable Now fires off at the mouth today. Grab on.

The new book—Terra—pieces Herself together with Tibetan incantations, sweet intonations, as a M-trip conference devoted to planetary restoration, as New York shouts down to Philly passing off to B-More onto DC—plodding west until the back tire comes loose—reminded: we find ourselves stuck wits’ end in the township of Pasadena, detecting a bad smell. Kept quiet ’til Houston, Terra is a sudden sexily-bold alternative, bright, upright in speech, good-looking, good lookin’ out—rightfully proud.

Soon She shall make Her debut. Timing is just about right.

The Small Moments

sweet waking up
first words
this into this, what means?
hello?
what is this gibberish?
I find myself
talking such crazy garble
and I make
no apologies for it
we all ask
how many have you had?
just one
just none—no beer at all
I’m naturally like this
or I’m unnaturally so
it is a nice morning
to wake into
the coffee pours on
I load up my radioshows
to listen to for
my work shift
and once again preparing
to bus on out
since the car is “dead”
Hitch’s Birds come on
the cats’ ears are spry
my first words add
to the detail of dawn
Hitchcock had
big dedication…

Continue reading

The Rink

the rink is covered
by your icy remarks

any excuse
a query
something wrong

but could not move
then got itself moved

we often forget that
we are right at the beginning

and it’s just like that
we’d rather believe the taunts of others
and beat ourselves to death
savage/modernity

is it the name or
the thing?
is it The Thing?
is it IT itself?
is it self, is it fake-self, non-self
empty-self?
is it not worth it?

Continue reading

Mice Deserve To Be Heard, Too

I’m falling asleep on a couch
remembering and writing
feeling good about myself
seeing many angles to
get to a deeper truth
to wait to see to calm
the fuck down and
motherfuckers don’t listen
still are self serving

I remember my eyes burning out. I think it happened on a computer monitor in a Department of Energy building where in the mall downstairs I unexpectedly found Ed McMahon in a bookstore signing during one of my breaks. I would break away and walk as far as down to the water and look out until my boss figured out this was happening and told us we had to clock out via email from that point on. I think I broke away still and maybe at that point I was wanting to be normal like everyone else and break down like them and indulge in seafood that just flew off the fisherman’s boats like it was nothing. It made me remember the one time my dad took us to a business lunch, the house of a very rich man, and for my first time I ate crab, knowing no better.

The first time I read Diet For A New America I stayed up with it deep into the night and shed tears. It’s harsh what animals have to go through just so we can push on tradition and be comfortable. Fuck comfort.

I was told that I am helping to erode a fifteen year tradition that is Houston’s poetry scene that is now starting to lose itself because of people like me who get drunk and mouthy at the bar while the poets try to read on stage—as if the microphone+skill does not have the final say. I was disappointed by this since I initially felt that maybe this was someone I could turn to for some deeper insights. Now I realize he’s more for harping down one subject at a time, prone exclusively to self absorbed subjects and criticizing others endlessly like a little bitch.

If you wanna hear a pin drop, go to the Taft Street reading, yet still be bored to tears forever and ever. If you wanna get on stage and fight a boisterous crowd at Notsuoh, anything but scholarly, it will probably hone your skill.

Poetry, admittedly, is not about performance, however, and… admittedly, I have crossed that line more than once and cannot blame the man for being upset. Mice deserve to be heard, too. Watch all action. Watch all egoist action. Come to refine.

A writing session on memory. You can do it if you try. It’s funny telling people about the one hundred hours of meditation. It exposes a lot in them. I get everything from Wow, that takes a lot of courage I could never do that to Well anyway, what was I saying?…

Thursday Thirst

green tea kinda evening
shortcut your
way thru

oh I write with
my eyes closed
a good part of this

I don’t period the sentence
here in this little
note taking realm
this falls out of
the sky
in a stream
and into a stream

a write session
here in humble abode
quiet low lit
air conditioner on
as a sort of insanity-staller
one hundred
degree days driving
us all
to our doctors’ offices

Internet as
second brain
two brains are better
than one
and the one we have
can always
be enhanced

a scientist
explores the
astroid’s true meaning—
they hit us
in the past—
altering everything
within seconds—
it
can happen again

upon impact
the shockwave spreads
a fire blankets our cities

our petty upheavals
are are erased
a Good thing to keep in mind

but until then
until the extinction of our species
even the pettiest of
struggles have their validity
they are very real to us
there is a root problem at the base

we owe ourselves that…
getting down to the base

to see what’s happening

it takes
courage
respect, patience, compassion

Breathe

Breathe.

Breathing can transform your life.

If you feel stressed out and overwhelmed, breathe. It will calm you and release the tensions.

If you are worried about something coming up, or caught up in something that already happened, breathe. It will bring you back to the present.

If you are discouraged and have forgotten your purpose in life, breathe. It will remind you about how precious life is, and that each breath in this life is a gift you need to appreciate. Make the most of this gift.
Continue reading

The Base

the eyes are a deep ocean,
with whirlpools and violent winds,
and shadows beneath the surface
and sea monsters deep within.
my boat is sailing in mindfulness,
I vow to hold the tiller firmly
so that I do not drown in an ocean of form.
using my conscious breath,
I am guarding my eyes for my protection and yours.
so that today continues to be a beautiful day,
and tomorrow, we still have each other.
—Thich Nhat Hanh

Saturday Night Writ

shotgun chat
too much makeup on
lost interest fast
driving a premium gasoline’d convertible
bad listening span
visiting fam

nightguard in mouth keeping some from great grinds
layoffs at the graveyard send reeling workers home axed
unfinished grinds

wary of the prick glued
to business calls
all thru Virginia
and chides the kind woman
for her stumbling
set to pothole jitters

squirrel stripes on
a rock
like three
and asking how
by natural elements, events,
storms, ground under a door,
a bang, impersonal

the art of friggin’ yrself
in yr mirror while
ya visualize yr happy
place f’eva
sibblings are checkin’
in on voice mail

hi emptiness: I keep
trying
to
fill you
you keep
expanding
still
I
keep bleeding
on
everyone
in
my
church

testify!

grey answer
roped back down to earth or left
stranded to skill
acquire the ‘self-rely’
roped in trunk
calm yourself or surely die

he called em ‘culudz’ & solved
the jank’dest rainbow cube
to amaze me, ol’ dad on mom-side
she’d buy shoes and type the story down

polish unrecognized irony till trapped dull
licking these internally
all saltish
rethink this visitation for a network
then work it, girl

origination in the other thing
an’ can B traced with a hamster dam all jammed
me bright
A-Z pride
write
for 4 hours
smoke a hashtag

young once
now I’m youngest & young ones call me youngin’
any reversal evident
denied
filed
ahem, shredded
tha time bomb of psalm

eighties canon
clown drinking fountain
70 dives
one miss
sink
canary note
favorite tree
monster scares boat
help u remove yr dress

Spacely was a short man
George under heal
Jefferson deluxe laundro
Cindy rattle brain
Jack fakes his stay
why bother?

emotionally charged
slide yr card
Hamburger Helper hand gets picked on
help!
buys gun
walks thru wall like the Kool Aid tank
begins

put your pain pants back on
thought my typo was paint pants
but I mean what I say
mostly
and I mean pain
and u were going to anyway

the storks that think they know human babies
the forks that shove in
in the dark there are bent spoons
left to soothe a doubt
mind flickers

ahold of tightly aren’t you ready for shifting
fond library mems
snack memes
themes
Houston scene creamers stand still as trees

Yarned up and batted around the room
I am your moth that breaks the lightbulb
surprise
water to fire in its middle
it stops at demise, yep

aging rapid & rabid
the fanfic has a dead engine
what happened to authors who used to have fun
pay me
I’m at the beach and high

traces
neon one
heartfelt
buy u objectification
dedicated
always scream
smart, he is a smarty
smack off a smile from a fake face
partly

an event passing
gone
logged
ticket price of silence twelve clicks
sorrow folding sorry laundry
a stalling stale catalyst of red laughs

burn the world up with an eyebrow
and go to town on them deadbeats at the tracks
all clocks set back
watch ’em fly back turn & backtrack

concern of a thousand grandmothers combined
eat this up thin young man
these tests of time in the
secondhand grains of sand

cherry twine bent up in her mouth
hyperdrive stolen dismal kiss
bring the bag the closet the skeleton along
change currency over to space

she pierces tip of thumb for me
baby cat brain notched, smiles, shamanlike
a milk forgotten out spoils
friends move marry factory
postcard

The linger pain bit not quit not quite
digested sought an India
but settled for Americas everywhere
Fran Chize sits beside a pyramid

Communicative key mashed to potato form still
razor edge sled hidden and slid under there
fitting the lock to turn this burn cold

Attention

I vow to always try

we damage each other
and ourselves
with
ourselves

vow to always pay attention to
the potential damage
that can be done with words
and try
for the opposite

apologies cannot always
repair

I can only go on living and go
on trying

it is late and night and time to make some dinner and put things behind me and write the sentence to its end and see what is left over from there. a dad sadness hangs in the room. so turn the AC on, okay. stove flame up to burn pasta and worry over finances and dhamma talks which soothe the worry. as I bike to the store, kids from the car yell at me with a megaphone to pull over, and when I don’t… he shouts at me: ‘use yr signal next time.” he approves as I push on, giving him a thumbs up, like a Thumbs Up Cola, India. and my large friend is what?… getting married on Friday, to a burnt up… mound of crack or?… and when I stupidly asked him who his best man is going to be… I am bound again. and forced to be my best. isn’t that what I insist from others around me? the world goes on despite desperation and hard times. nothing lets up. get over that. we are being laughed at.

the most tender
of moments in a
Houston sprawl
sometimes you
don’t realize how fast
everything all flies
here in the little H
concrete wasteland

think I need to go back to
up early sitting

in the end
silence for your neighbors
silence for your friends
silence for your enemies
silence for your “superiors”
silence for the ones you loved the most

peace to them all