Saturday, June 30, 2012

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Six Plus Ten: Now, Wake

When I was young I used to sleep and wake up again.  Sheets would glow between sun and me, but then there was a delay. Pause. It was enough.

Radiohead played, and it’s complicated. The relationships, they are complicated. 

A riff. Okay, just one day. It was the best of funerals. White, as Greene would have put it. 
And I was sixteen. They only love you when.  

Don’t you think I, at least, deserve an explanation?
Very well.

I wore an X on my hand. And red over my mouth.

We fucked against the urinals in Masquerade until the band died away.
So I could never figure exactly how again. 

Loud Like Clapping

Your body bounces on pavement
we keep secrets to ourselves.

Smile, it is innocent. 
Look me in the eyes.


I can only you like image, like without a voice.
Like no doubt you’re female, but faint isn’t the sound.
Beat. You trace walls like mohawks , like. And turbulence.
Fingerings like waterfalls.
Stalking steps and platform cogs.
Beat. Snaps. Beat.
Gyrospheres of clothing tiers, like around ankles: really, really small.

Falling All Over

It’s pretty sloppy, isn’t it?
Happens, anyway.

Distance Makes Me Want To (White Girls Can’t)Hump Someone Else

When away, that little string between dissipates,
amnesia, like a stroke, one-sided
happily dancing on the gravy train
gold-digging-whores do it best.  

Walmart Eyes

branded cheap gems
braided in a plated gold
dull pitch intensifies the sense
that makes one question discourse at all