super heavy day to round out so much industry as in HEY RICH COME NOW as if i could compel and entrance instead i saw a rooster try to cross a busy road flame-red comb and a stance that had as much of brando when asked in THE WILD ONE what you rebelling against and he says what you got that when i think that the medium is the message i wonder why my inner tv set gets so much snow
before i could learn to surf the summer heat wave of a friday night 10:30 pm it happened again. stroll thru the parking lot toward safeway supermarket and see what you get. so there i was amid the hipsters, drunks, the hospital workers on break on the nightshift. i come out of the store clasping my purchase with very tired hands. i hear a voice, a man who’d been mumbling to himself as i went in, sitting outside the exit door. he says, hey man, anyone ever tell you look like richard gere? naw man, i answer, never heard it before. oh shit, he coughs, it’s richard gere!!!! i heard him as he continued to guffaw those three syllables as i reached my car and i think that if this happens again i’m gonna have to write to hollywood and see if richard gere can start composing poems with my name.
'I'll tell you about fucking life in the golden west, literary life in the golden west. While we're downstairs sitting zazen someone got in here stole everyone's wallets out of their jackets. There's no literary life in the golden west. That's fucking literary life in the golden west!'
quoting philip whalen in the poem 'On Time' by michael rothenberg
sitting down to watch the terminator  and the after-effects of the cold war might be still invisible particulates hanging in the air of all we wished for to come out on top just to see those towers explode then fall as if they were a scene from the film but no such luck they were real and the cyborg became the guvanator of california as we emerge blinkered and blinking in the cold dead light of these new dark years
go outside to see where my heart leapt no more like exploded like a cannon from my chest search static buzz if only if only to repossess and reprogram the brain the circuitry misfires again search below above i forget which find the hammer nails the tongs to pull out the soul hoping for that ufo alien abduction find instead hanging among stars the white flare of the searchlight of the police copter
a family of mourning doves had made their nest at our home the momma and poppa tried to fledge their one young took apart the nest and made him fly out
it was too early and the young one huddled in the garden we worried he was injured or sick so when i took two steps toward him he flew to the other side
while momma and poppa hovered nervously on the overhead phone lines later the young one took off in a burst of flight but in panic at my second approach
we made an artificial nest out of a wicker basket filled it with the twigs and branches of their old discarded nest and hoped for the best
tonight we returned after a long day at work then shopping to find both momma and poppa and their baby on the overhead phone lines as she fed her young one
we took a few pics then they flew off to the night
last night nicholas and i were walking home. our usual route involves a stop at a local gas station so i could buy a soda and nicholas can pick a treat to eat on the way. the street we walk is very busy with lots of foot traffic, street people and vehicles hurrying on their way. between the gas station and an adjacent parking lot is a dirt meridian that is home to a fire hydrant, and a couple of gas lines. nicholas likes to look at the steel pipes. we stopped, i took a sip of soda, when nicholas asks me, what is this. i look down and see that he is holding a hypodermic syringe. my heart almost burst out of my chest. i snatched it out of his hand and fling it to the ground. the syringe is old, dirty white plastic. i don't see a needle. nicholas tells me that there is a needle. i poke at the syringe and sure enough at the tip is a tiny, bent needle. i nearly choke in fear, grab the boy by his hands and asks him if he was poked. nope, the kid says. are you sure? i look at his hands, fingers and arms and find no prick of skin or any blood. i then check myself too for any pricks. i find none. i look at the syringe again and surmise that that was a junkie's tool that finally broke and was absently thrown away. i've seen a diabetic's needles before. i've seen a junkie's cheap works too. i walk home almost dizzy from relief and fear.
for the past few days this song's been looped in my mind. i think it's a summer song. it's so laid back and chill and catchy. i can't shut it off.
Don't expect miracles; you may be both a boy and a girl. --tom savage
Get the new pink Go try on wedding dresses When asked who you gonna marry Answer why not everybody & if this is poo-pooed Tell them that they're too realistic Too sour & that cupid shall never Sniff out their tail & never bite them on the ass Not answer the poem Or take a bead & shoot between the eyes
k visited today. told me about a trial where the accused stood before the bench scratching his ass, looking blank. he was never told the charges against him. think i’ve heard this one before, i sd. ah, k cooed, but how this one ends will be a doozy. just glance at the news & you’ll find enough guilt to go around. at that he laughed, shook a pair of handcuffs, & helped himself to another beer. then i showed him the door.
woke up this morning the usual way -- if i still smoked i’d have lit up -- instead -- rather -- thought of you & yr poems & wondered if you knew what or whom you were writing for -- yr manuscript had been purportedly lost for hundreds of years -- not that you knew that or even cared -- it is easier to graft my own self to yr poems -- is that the nature of translation? -- & say that the that we are writing for is the large unknown -- i think you’d laughed yr ass off at that -- still i am writing to you -- o horny one -- in this -- our -- continuous present
at the end we wondered what to call his work we clasped it with giant paperclip and settled on naming it the collected good even if the poems were cranky and more than a bit uneven for we could not separate finally the life and the work
this doesn’t mean the end of the line is the end of the mind duncan mcnaughton
watching the wachowski bros’ the matrix i can’t tease out why if the machines wanted abundant btu’s from live bodies as their prime source of energy they didn’t just plug in cattle who might not need a matrix at all to control their minds to achieve passivity
or if cattle do need an active mind and a purpose the machines could make a simple contruct of sunlight water and pasture
even if the machines insisted on humans as batteries [hero neo is called a coppertop, natch] why didn’t they just cauterize
the wiring of the frontal lobes so that humans would not need a purpose to achieve passivity but rather kept intact the brainstem for the body’s involuntary functions such as heart rate blood pressure and breath
thus the machines would come to signify the flower of flesh and blood
fascinated by the unseen what is here is is that death is every where a construct where the construct transforms a reality what is here is is i look for cryptids watch the grainy super 8 frames of an alleged monster in the pacific northwest rather instead like those meddling kids from the tv show i find reality is a plural is is the construct again grounding the continuous present
driving hwy 80 to sf you could find roadside vernacular architecture almost everywhere e.g. a 76 gas station in dixon with a 20 ft concrete t-rex pitted to the parking lot a lure to get you to stop CALIFORNIA CRAZY as one book tells it but long long gone to find neon vernacular nowadays you’d need a thesaurus and a treasure map to set your course
this will make it the third year in a row where i write a poem a day during the month of june. splatter poems were first instigated by derek motion as a way to clear the build-up of poetic habits and utilize ginsberg's notion of first thought/best thought and o'hara's i do this/i do that poetry. certainly these are not original ideas. but what of it. i had debated to begin today but i think the exercise of writing a poem a day with little editing would do me good. i invite you to do the same as well. splatter words, images and thoughts. go ahead. sometimes you've got to say, what the fuck.
to dive like the mockingbird as she did this morning past my ear to protect her young
i’ve read they pick their threats carefully it was me she hated on sight fuck to be so singular
and focused driven by instinct instead i’m habituated by shaky hands and fumbling steps without enough grace
either for clown school or star in my own dumb show O Ornery One to you is my treasure entrusted
you who yap and want me killed to you i fuck up and fall