cola ;

soda’s a sin, i know, sir –
acidic orgy on matrah bile,
strung out sugar high on the blistering stream,
212 degrees of bullshit keeps the liver clean
+ wild! — aspartame ecstasy! drug with liquid smile!
reflux fireworks illuminate esophagus boardwalks
below the breath of all that is bicarbonate,
talk like burp and blah,
man-o-man, cola is quite intimate,
my thoughts now illiterate, wow,
and my piss is oh-so insignificant.

the fern on the wall.

the sun scarred seven in the evening
on the wallpaper’s white, a shade of willow
crowning my skull with a pigment haze, umbrella pales
+ all –
i took suitcase pain to the evening dream
and rolled with it, rolled like parget on
victorian rotary walls, –
rippin me renewin me and paintin me
synesthesia, rimbaud oriental visions of jazz
along fern of spine with the
weeded green on the window sill
and the visions held in the nightingale claw –

i flew away, melted into the air, and danced
over the earth with liverpool and the
first songs of civilization — and they sang to me!
meandered in roots made of harpischord strings,
mammoth ivorys, hominid grunts, and gibson electricity! –
there and then gone.

and eventually i awoke, young, lifted,
with my fern flat upon the bed bug crop,
straight, calm, there — with the
shade of willow hovering + growing
restlessly within the wartorn wall
where the illuminated air continued its
ceaseless repairs,

and the song flew back into the pale sound.

Vowel (for Allen Ginsberg)

(There is a very specific formatting I have created for this piece, but I was unable to incorporate it into this text box, so hopefully this poem does its justice, nonetheless.)

saw my generation slouch with backs bloated like naked starvation;

hunchbacks by age 20, hands welded to boxcars projecting the new America like the Sante Fe Transcon against the backdrop of an HTML evening,
images reeling in static propaganda from LA Times to Chicago Tribune, where we stared for years at the hollowness of the road behind us,
unaware that we’d reach home when our consciousness became Facebook advertisements or a tweet that was followed by mother –

We cemented our thoughts into the lingering echo of this train’s harboring yowl that trampled down the 50 steps of Congress like a slinkie whose ego is mightier than its gravity,

a grotesque wing that has turned our winds into tar, our suns into sulfur, our skies into embers of blue, our souls into cruel poems, brevity a stutter in the smog of this chugging train, ticking like eruption, tocking like breath, rolling like eyes into the next span of attention

where the howl of 1955 was the wind that stroked Eden in identity and now pulls at the ears of government-run unease,

where flies are richer than single mothers, who are forced to eat food stamps like LSD, and live the hallucination of the bread line in a Wal-Mart parking lot beneath a trembling summer noon,

where Magna Carta is sent to the political morgue with Manning, and Assange is made to hang from an embassy window with the plaque of America digging into his molars like pumpjacks, but still finding no trace of a corrupted tooth,

where Detroit looks like an angry Motown record, preaching apocalypse beneath the hypodermic needle of a heroin laced turntable in the rubble of a home whose plot has climaxed back into the boiling dust of eternity,

where marijuana is emancipated on the roof-crops of apartheid Native American gardens on top existential madhouses in Middle Western purgatories, burning its way through the American inferno with paranoia and laughter and liberty,

where the white collar lynches humans with Brooks satin, turning oxygen into cigars that ache like fireflies in the blackness of a starving white fleeting suburb in a Babylon alleyway that melts within the labyrinth of life,

where the children of Nazareth kneel on ant hills to possess the stinging crucifixion of youth on the carpenter’s playground of tomorrow,

where love no longer sounds like the tip-toe of connection, but the drunken plunge of completion in a race that is only promoted by the necromancers of contemporary romance in the vacant motel eye of Sauron’s abysmal cock,

where apartments are coffins for the soul, and materialism the plastic rose that is clutched between the metallic gloves of capitalism, gagging the ten tonsils of this corpulent palm in ten penny unison,

where heads are simulated in pill bottles, expressionless and routine like the pharmacist’s sold out signature — permission is now required to collect your daily Prozac fix, I dare say–;

where I’ve committed suicide a thousand times over in order to dance with the overdoses that fled the straitjacket of society so they might sleep with energy in the everlasting orgy of the cosmos,

where you can only masturbate to the ideal of humanity in madness and gaze blankly into the last inch of life as the sunset street fades into an ebony looking glass of this highway universe,

where the earth is just tumbleweed spiraling within our deserted stardust, twisting and tripping and stumbling through the cosmos, trying to find the hidden humanity beneath the uranium fossils of civilization,

where I can only see the water shiver as the earth whispers of wars wars wars in the whoosh whisps whys of the wind –;
as I listen
I could hear Hum Bom!
parading out from the whispering typhoon of time
where words meander through the hollow glass of existence
into my mind so tired so weary so closed so corrupted so gone
and cool me with mystic visions and ethereal epiphanies, your
sacred songs!
That erode these welds from the boxcar vision
with words that only a human can instinctively unveil.

And were you here with me,
hands held with Kerouac and the poets’ ghosts
against the rusting veins of this redwhiteblue industry,
the rope of dissipated currency failing to tie us down to the tracks,
as we cry, ceaselessly, in vowels that have tinted the tongues of our roots,
and their roots, and so forth,
I’d align my back upon this intimate earth
and know, with certainty, that the boxcars will halt,
and flee! like sad iron owls, for the wings of smog cannot fly
when the wind has finally howled.


These waters I witness are but a rippling mirror of your eyes,
and I sit on this shoreline musing o’er its purest form:

Indeed, every gull that swims here is blinded by the vision,
for they’ve found the next closest thing to those blues of morning,
greens of evening, and browns of nightfall’s glow.
(and I know at least one will find its way home,
whether through the traveler’s pain or the slumber’s loan) –

Their migration is like my memory of you — never
finished — almost instinctive, and true like the beauty
of these waters that shy away from my wonder.

I know you feel the mallards tickling your eye-lids –
whether through the wind, rain, or dewy day.
There are hundreds here — and I hope
a pleasant vision takes you into the
Apollonian storm, for the waves here
move through the tune of your soul, and
not through this song of those many forgotten days.

“Ignorant of its own emptiness” (Draft)

clouds are chariots of mist,
gently parading past the
twisting turnstile of time,
surrounding the sacred valleys
on 5th street where paladins
observe omnipotent mimes
pulling atmospheres out of
the wellsprings of some lucid

I wandered
this valley like tumbleweed,
shaking hands with Fitzgerald’s many gin bottles,
and serenading Keats with a nightingale’s scream
that resembled Wilde’s echoing, Ireland wit;
unsure of my cause, but willing to travel,
for I saw my wanderlust queen on top the moon’s saddle,
and I knew she approved of this Plutonian dream,
for women bow down to
interim grit.

Huck Finn was there too;
wearing Dylan Ray-Bands
and all-black attire, painting
America on compost mounds
that glued themselves to Taliban spires,
bruising shadows of redwhiteblues
on top this graveyard’s combustible pyre
that reeked of embers green and counterfeit.

Bush mows the sand there, I confess,
and Moses, in rags, fears the afar,
so he climbs the valley’s hills to peak at the stars,
but sees only drones that twinkle, like death,
o’er the valley’s never changing wave of prophets
and the alley’s ever changing rose of bards.

I stared for a moment,
then was plucked by the moon,
and the wind melted me back
into Shakespeare’s last swoon,
that sat in a jar on top the
114th president’s nightstand
where his heroin longed for
his destitute wounds.

“Where the hell did I go?” I wondered,
striking a match to illuminate this bard’s snow-globe.
The light ricocheted throughout the sphere
and blinded each actor who unwittingly crooned:
“Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.”

I met Ophelia here, a junkie now with uranium laughter –
hair like ice, dreams like fire, and hopes like pot-holes
sinking deeper into sulfuric snows.
She sang me a song of ever after,
and Scottie Joplin played a typewriter there –
It stuttered syllables, scribbles — iambic, didactic,
and possessed my ears with its smooth strung out tones,
like a spliff’s misty dance in your ballroom of air,
or my Eckleburg eyes with their subtle green glow.

Forlorn was the feeling, a sort of remnant of her heart,
and I felt required to appease this purgatory with my own
understandings of pain and dearth and prize-less art,
so I read her Hamlet, over and over, till she found her soul.

A light year passed, the globe’s glass dissolved into sand.
I crawled out of the dust with my hungover hands,
and walked amongst rubble of a post-Orwellian world
that was hardly digital, and built on divided gold.

I stood and gazed upon this realm,
eyes starving for earth, or her lush curly hair,
then I peeked at the moon, that astronomical bell,
and saw her weeping there, waiting, as
I maniacally swooned back into the
lucid abyss beneath the chariots of mist
where humans breed hell.

As She Peers Into Your Mind (Part 1)

Her faint voice extends its withering palms into the heart of the skeletal wilderness, peering into the legends painted upon the segregated leaves, questioning its tangled separation with a dusty mutter: “This tree is twisted in a chaos that cannot be bent about with whispering ease.” She peeked into the sinking skin of the blooming chaos, and what she saw was a world where figures, dim, swirled about in an eternal dance that spoke of yesterday’s morrows and the rewinding brain’s uttering whim. There, quotations upon a hallway wall sang in harmonies of our freest clutters and our addictive wrongs—and duality screamed as her voice began to hum this mysterious song. The unclear colors of this world fell into the scream, and, possessed by some cosmic dream, she whispered the colors of her world into the erupting nothingness. — Nothingness: something that can be observed universally, but is always misrepresented. – This world, in nothingness, was unknowingly reinvented, and she fell, like Newton’s apple, into the palms of this world. Her discernment stood before the mirror of her mind; stemming dreams were inhabited by the colors of her own understanding, and the angles of her own understandings determined this world’s natural lines. She walked along this world, pining for nothing, and living with spent intention, content with herself and the wind’s running rhymes – existed indefinitely within the wilderness of her internal planning and assumed immortal signs. Producing what she knew, draining what she thought, and animating perception till her brain softly rotted with her creations – much like the world our ancestors sought.

On a Blue Balloon Floating Through a Corn Field (Sonnet-esque)

A blue balloon skips through my stover garden,
where the spur of dreaming yields in its slumber;
and I ponder its blues with thoughts that harden
like the corn that sunk into this spilt lumber.
The morning’s skirt waved across the horizon
As the world danced within its resplendent grip,
And I, like toes, held its weight – like glass to gin,
Whereas the balloon went free, for skirts do rip.
Is this balloon a symbol of a free earth?
Are its blues a sky that comfort this garden?
Will I float with its truth and sink with its mirth,
–Or remain a stover without its pardon?

We are chained within the earth’s abusive toes
That dance the dance perfected by that blue glow.