Tuesday, September 8, 2009



Been a minute since I've written here. Let's see:

Same house.
Same job.
No money.
New lady.

Does anyone read this thing?

Also. Anxiety abounds. Behavioral changes. Must be real. Want to share. Why can't I?

The end.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Monday, June 15, 2009

Autumn crisped sweet dripping Indian summer

Dusted the shirts on our backs

Oh Colorado-

The rolling patches

Wheat, thirst bread, fills

Like smoked remains of honey

A plumage; watercolor rust

Blues and dotted reds

Making love in the sky on melting mountaintops

Our muscles filled with acid halfway up

And we summitted, submitted our

Bodies to the wild-

Forestation, ancient language

Molds of a tribe,

We are the natives
Wood. Hard stone electronic circuits

I am the passage of your youth

And the skin beneath your fingernails

Grazing over bulbs and flashing screens

Abright underbelly, character of telegraphic wire

Constant time, use.

We’re connected- copper soldered to empty sockets to assure

a more perfect union

where the brain and the fingertips

intertwine we camp out for hours

teardrop mechanics on sunlight

human motherboards widespread intercontinental consciousness

speaks for our use like a careful person

with a pretend bandage

still barely sticking to skin and metal and bone

we might be further apart than we thought.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Petite Sarah

Download brian R. Tucker - Petite Sarah

Few Presidents

Download brian R. Tucker - Few Presidents

Collab w/ Jon

High quality drinking surplus cardboard, metal
flesh, shining exposure.
Bulbs burst with jealousy as the homeless
Man behind your stretched face tonight
rips his corduroy pants to expose an erection –
The facility, a useful member of society
dared dark rooms waiting spoiled light shrivels upon
exposure the leftover negatives of a post-life moment
in time. Existential proofs considering pre-reality, flash
points to live by. It was framed perfectly adjusted balances
and we shuddered shutters in 1/3 the time –
blasting emulsion from our ink stained fingertips covering
each other’s throats and mechanical parts with sticky
ever-altered unloving cells basking in the glory of the
yet-to-be. Spoken moats, ever-collected remnants
estranged. Idyllic siren melody ringing like stray cats
fighting over the last scrap of skin in the back dumpster
while the neighbors watch porno at a cosmic volume –
Let’s do this – let’s take the few snapshots remaining
and burn them, send them into the atmosphere to
the Brazilian woods where, while we can never
speak of it, they will wait there until the trees
are cut down and turned into Polaroid paper.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

these words are not mine these lines are nothing but lies the paper which this is printed on is soaked in blood the ink is gathered from dying children in one of those shanty towns far east of here or west and the letters which construct the words you are reading are dreams of dead men that mean absolutely nothing you want something recycled I beg you to begin here at the quarks of the written word a miniscule vocalization on the page represented by some arbitrary character an utterance a stare that could only be expressed with an elipses or projected on and off the page with strategically placed line breaks and stanzas this isn’t the only way you see when you really think about words and feeling and emotion and physical perceptions the letters break down and the words become components to the greater story it is in effect Nagasakian by the logic of several dead American men this writing is greater than the sum of its parts.
Bowing out along slippery
green blades swinging severed
limbs drenched in Sento and
Sonnets and the blistering gamots
of an uncertain shaking anxiety-
we forgot the book again
we forgot to read again.
It’s yellow outside, but we are all red.
And not all read, by shear virtue
we spend our nights in the company
of cigarettes and silly forgettable chatter,
neglecting perhaps an orgasmic
chapter or two, or maybe a just
listening to one of the many Prophets.
Let’s chug along anyway
let’s get to work sometime.
Yellow crusted over yogurt dripping from sliced wounds, or the balls we thought were in play sit blankly underrosaries of hanging jungle vines wrapped around an inferno of technological orgy sizzled fuck spread left impressions of our Lord on bedsheets left behind buried next to the bones of a dying distant planet only to be kept awake, adrift from the rain falling outside tonight across plains of leftover beer cans and condoms this is the electric sex pot encrusted sheets stuck together under your family’s old quilt and left to rot under the sink of the farmhouse’s broken mirror under it we lay all night and sang whispered prayers to one another until our muscles fueled with acid burning worth it we cried out when morning came and we remembered the night we did covered in straw and love and DNA like a mirored vortex a cat in a bag never existing but never caring.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Run from yourself, run from the police.
Run from yourself, run from the police.
Run from yourself, run from the police.
Run from yourself, run from the police.
Run from yourself, run from the police.
Run from yourself, run from the police.
Run from yourself, run from the police.
We lie all night in the concrete prairie.
Bus stop fires among winking eyes.
Then drive on down to the cemetery.
Gun shot riots ash shaking thighs.

Our home is Mexico.
Our home is nowhere.
Where the Kentucky grass grows,
through your dark red hair.


What am I up to nowadays? Nothing much.

I've been writing some stuff with sound in mind as of late. I've gotten to the point where I feel like my writing needs to be read aloud or performed. The last short poem here is an a cappella jingle sung to something that resembles a traditional American folk tune. I think I'm subconsciously summoning the old bards' ballads from the days of yore.

New place, same cat,
same face, red hat.
That is all.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

This is whatever you want.
This is whatever you want.
This is whatever you want.
This is whatever you want.
This is whatever you want.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

spinning reapers mowing brown grass. blackened grass. if it’s gotta be good, it’s gotta be good. crumblies always make the better choice when downhill darlings sigh ‘oh god’ when their spots are taken. it’s too light, he said. take it back, show me all you got he said. show me all you got he said. i’m conscoius of all worlds he said at least those that i’m conscious of he said. thank god in heaven the neighbors flushed their radiowaves properly this time. stop coughing he said. adjust the speakers to face in. face in, adjust them face rightly. rise over run he said. sprinkle out the mushroom dust over the receiver, into the receiver. not too light. if there aren’t any clean socks by morning i’ll have your head he said. it’s gotta be good, it’s gotta be good he said. i can feel the mosquitos he said sucking me off. mosqiutos sucking me off. they’re sucking me off he said. thank god in heaven he said, because it’s if it’s gotta be good, it’s gotta be good. i felt the sweat the sweat above my lips he said. i felt it hit my tongue and explode he said. oh god. the blackend grass he said the blackened grass my nieghbor fired shots they all exploded he said. exploded rightly upon my tongue. it’s gotta be good he said. there’s gotta be rage. there’s gotta be love of country he said. take a blind eye. take a blackened eye but butt horns with everyone he said. oh god. adjust. face in he said. adjust in to face rightly he said.

Saturday, February 7, 2009

“Fish” the prophet spoke.
His cracked lips curled like his fish did.
“Brothers” he spoke again.
Fish brothers. We wondered.
We prodded our spears toward the prophet’s fish, some
more successful than others in sticking one.
“Star River” flowed from the prophet’s mouth
as we put down our spears, our nets, our hammer
and nails- we shuffled, scuttled out quietly
leaving behind the empty shore.


“Allow me,” the Doctor said, catching the flavor
dust falling from my crispy lips.
Grabbing the scapel, he drew open
the chest, removing organs, memory and sinew-
“You see, you need to make a clear incision,”
he ruffled as the dust stuck out from his wirey folicals,
“forget the blood-
tear out the heart-
fuck it until your patient can feel it
beating in the empty space.”
I took the heart in my hands
stabbing it instead
with the scalpel.
Cold steel fucking beating flesh.
I felt nothing. I returned it to its cavity, sewing along the way,
precisely stiched.
I felt nothing.
Absolutely nothing.

Sunday, February 1, 2009

All my friends are
made crystal. Their lights
dance on their eyes around combs of dirt-
they mound more graves. This dirt, atop
their heads, stir melting ice cream ponds
dripping against the stiffed frailness
of crystalline coney island sparkle. Mounds
and mounds, uncharred by time’s bitter tounge
or the 25 years at the factory by their daddies
and their grandaddies. They’re buried
upside down, their souls rooting beneath
evenly and logically spread earth.
I remember the sparkle, 1,000 years
since its grace bled me dry and salted my veins- back when the cold
forced warm bodies together, and we were there, our hearts pumping
ether dripping sweat
beading on our wrists. And we’d taste eachother
until the call would come to join
the others braving arctic, tear-freezing bliss. Hours would pass
by without the thought of death, the terrordread
of everyday, everyday, life.
Not here. Here, we’d make believe
that summer would never come, that the crystallized
starlight on our tongues and under our boots
would never abandon us.
Not anymore. What used to be
in our eyes has only dimmed this winter,
our friends hardnened by stone icicles
having no interest in our old game. They buried themselves
away from our house, miles away from our house, heads facing Earth’s center,
feet reaching for blue sky
but, but, finding only grainy earth to squish between toes.
No more sparkle. No more sparkle. We’re crystal now.