Monday, August 24, 2009

new poem [ver 1]

you sent me baren to the west coast
where i hid under the shadow
of the looming mountain's stare
ominous and stoic in the distance
in my mind i felt your there

i spent the year stealing some shelter
underneath the mighty pines
so high so high and so surrounding
so like a mother's flowing gown
and still so rooted in the ground

you called me back across badlands
back into this machine town
filling with oil rust and sound
of squeeling brakes and unhinged voices
and cigarettes and radio wires
and smashing bottles and running showers
and thick paint brushes and midnight walks
and softer moans and louders screams
and yoni's voice and cracking lips
all buried deep beneath the snow

and i find myself in an asian painting
in a quiet room in the mia
i am the singer su hsiao-hsiao
and i am no longer grieving for autumn
and i am plumbing the truth of my heart

Dream Journal 11

at first i was talking with my old friend kyle niskanen about how attractive desirae hoskins was. he said that she was a girl that was just normal when you are talking with her and didnt strike him as particularly pretty. i disagreed and then said that i would rather have a sweet interesting girl than a pretty but boring girl.

at this point we got onto a school bus since we were on a field trip to somewhere and i moved to the back of the bus where i was sharing a seat with jake haarstad. he had a back massager cushion that looked really great and both alec (who was sitting in front of us) and i wanted to try it out.

when we got back to school we were all sitting at a table in the classroom. whitney came over and sat at the table with us and i felt very uncomfortable. i kept trying to not make eye contact or say anything to her. she made some comment about how bitter i was and it set me off. i called her a bitch as i got up from the table and stormed away. i left the classroom and then i left the school.

i think at this point i semi woke up and fell back asleep.

next i was lying in my bed and there was an elderly man lying across a bed where my dresser would be. he was a very famous director who had only ever done two plays in his life but they were both masterpieces by all accounts. we were talking about how his 2nd play was being turned into a movie featuring George Clooney, John Liguizamo, Rivers Cuomo, Lionel Ritchie, and Matt Damon. the play was about a bunch of neighboors who hate each other or get into large arguments for most of the play.

i was talking to the old man and saying how it could be a good movie if the actors lose their egos and try to go for a more subtle perfermance, or maybe not depending on how the play was. he said that he disagreed since "it isn't that kind of movie" and when i asked him what kind it was i only heard "ehh.." which was his death rattle. apparently he had been on his death bed and we were both in a hospital. my mom came in just as this happened and alerted the nurse that he had passed away. i let the nurse know what he had said and she said he was always saying semi-profound things.

next i was living a moment in his first play. i was a black man in some department store that was trying to find a fitting room to try on some jeans. i walked to the very end of an extremely long line of rooms and found one. it smelled bad but i shut the door behind me anyways and tried on the jeans.

Sunday, August 23, 2009


i couldn't masturbate. all my sexual thoughts fell back on to how they were never realized and i just couldnt

Saturday, August 1, 2009

buffalo [v1]

it was something terrifying but also beautiful
when you and i drove to the edge of buffalo
and lake eerie peered at us with dark eyes
and the wind whipped the waves into a fury of whitecaps

we dug our beers into the sand then
you walked up to the shore and let the black
lap up against your feet

i wondered what you felt in that moment

and the clouds in the sky behind us were a deep orange
it seemed like buffalo was on fire and we were praying pilgrims
begging the water to be a savior
just once

but the rain fell away to the south eventually
and we went home and got trashed
because every suburb looks like its burning alive at night

language and blood [v1]

she loved language and the way it made her feel
like a virgin on the cross
letting ellis and bukowski drip down between her fingertips
and into her palms
like eggs through her ovaries and past her cyst

she loved her blood the rushed through veins
that flowed out of her and
onto her pages
and into me and into me
and into me
bringing wisdom and security like a tyrant

language and blood pouring from her
like the words of the clergy
and the swords of the cavalry
and they fell
into me