Wednesday, March 31, 2010

$ex Cells

    so, i am serious about this erotic poetry collection.  and, i would like to edit the final chapter, as a sort of collaborative collection. anyway, i am including a little sample, so the spokenviews and poetry universe doesn't think i am blowing smoke up skirts.  check it:

the sound of her screams seems
like the sonorous insemination of jet streams,
incantations of past relations packaged
inside of her moans and ejaculations,
stress's is no longer manifest but my 
hand prints are impressed upon her chest.
she's lost in far-reaching gazes that 
beseech love live beyond the moon's many phases,
and, nothing fazes me or amazes me
quite like the way she falls back lazily,
with her arms out-stretched in praise of me,
abandoning far-fetched ideas of chastity,
yes, lose yourself in abandon, 
let's take a ride in tandem,
as questions fly at you at random:
what lies beyond those clenched-eyes and bitten-lips?
what pries open clenched-thighs and birthing-hips?..

...just a sample, now keep writing and keep loving!


2002 Winter Olympics, Salt Lake City, UT, Late January.

     here is another (mostly) true story.  the names were kept the same to incriminate the guilty:

They look like mythological creatures,

Stout faces burned by time and the sun,

Their eyes shine like a trash-filled cauldron

Burning at the end of an expansive snow laden lot,

They have the mouths of a carp,

Slowly aspirating in rhythm to the inflation and

Deflation of their corpulent bellies,

Which are contained by faded plaid shirts

Stained with BBQ sauce and whiskey

From misplaced sips from the bottle,

They emit an ungodly odor

Vaguely reminiscent of urine and bile,

Their matted hair hangs down from their foreheads,

They bounce on the train

Like hooded figures swaying in tandem the Southern breeze,

Suddenly one grumbles, a surprise on my part,

As he move as though a stone figure has become animated,

“Gimme your shoes, honky!” says the drunk Indian,

We are alone on a the train that’s headed toward downtown,

Just we three and the two drunken Indians of mythological lore,

The comment is directed at Drew and his gray Chuck Taylors,

“Gimme your shoes, honky!”

I know that to fight these drunken Indians would be a losing battle,

Not only do they have tree trunk arms

And pissed-off expressions that twitch in a fumy cloud of Jim Beam,

But, we are all beginning to feel the effects

Of Psilocybin invading our collective conscious,

Only minutes earlier I was telling my buddy Paul:

“These shrooms are making me gassy, man,

I think I’m gonna puke that Margherita pizza from earlier!”

I was saying this clenching my belly

While Paul looked at his fingers, which had become

Flaccid as wet noodles and were swirling as though in a sea before him,

“Gimme your shoe, honky!”

This time the drunken Indian attempts to stand

When he says it, but he sways like statue unlocked from its base,

He tries to right himself but his grain-soaked brain

Still thinks that he is sitting down,

Suddenly the train comes to a halt and the Indian topples over,

The doors swing open and we dismount the train 

Leaving the two Mythological creatures to rot in their mobile tomb,

The world outside is just as hellish

As the one we’ve just departed,

There is something weirdly chthonic

Implicit in the environment outside,

Hoards of empty-eyed pedestrians stumble about

Like the walking dead with their mouths agape,

Office buildings tower overhead

Like the ominous tombstones of fallen gods,

A once verdant and overgrown park

Is now littered with skeletal trees and ashen snow,

And, at the heart of it all, at the Galvin Center,

Lies the Budweiser Beer Gardens,

In which the multitudes shift in and out,

Mindlessly filling their plastic red cups with a sort of golden death,

At the entrance to the beer gardens are monolithic columns,

Celestial spires or ziggurats

With corporate sponsorship that read: King of Beers,

It is like the gates of heaven, only instead of St. Michael

There is a DJ spinning the most unbearable house music,

He is like some long forgotten general from the Third Reich

Reanimated so that he can once again bring havoc upon mankind,

Who wears a headset whence he is seemingly

Receiving telephonic messages from Satan himself,

And, the most horrifying part is that the crowd just loves him,

Or, maybe they are hypnotized by the pulsating drumbeats,

Will these lemmings follow their leader to the precipice? I wonder,

But, Paul wakes me from my reverie

Handing me an Anchor Steam

That he has just wrestled from my backpack,

The beer will calm me down, I think,

Perhaps, retard these fleeting notions,

I look up to see the group has proceeded to march on,

Check this shit out, Paul says, motioning toward

A giant picture of a figure skater draped over a skyscraper,

The city has draped many similar enormous

Photographs over the buildings downtown,

From a distance the appear still,

But, standing underneath them now

I realize that a bit of air separates them from the building,

And, a breeze dances just below it causing the

Ice skater’s figure to wave and ripple,

Suddenly a notion dawns on me: the closer you get to

Any still object, the more you realize that everything

Is in constant chaotic motion,

This shit is really tripped out, says Drew,

And, I feel no words better articulate what I am feeling,

We trudge on, going through Anchor Steams like

An Escalade goes through unleaded fuel,

We roll joints laced with Opium,

And, blow clouds of billowing smoke into a crowd of missionaries,

We are lawless, we are vigilante, and we are stoned as a mutha,

We get locked into port-o-potties, and ogle beautiful women,

We offend young children with our crass tongues,

And make little girls cry with only our grimaces and pig-snort laughter,

We have fire burning in our eyes, and make demon-possessed expressions,

We talk endlessly, our subject matters cover the

Width and breadth of human knowledge:

Metaphysics, Epistemology, Ontology, Genetics,

And, with each passing word the world becomes

Even more harrowing and less familiar,

Suddenly, Paul and I are staring through a window at

A lithograph of an old couple, titled: The Lithographer and her Husband.

And, staring through the window into this ad hoc art museum

 I realize that this is what I want; what I’ve been searching for,

To be re-rendered, to be recreated; reborn…to be made a work of art,

And, so I wander away from the group, bewildered,

And, in my Psilocybin-laced thoughts I think

 I must move on, but I know not where,

And so, I meander onto the street, walking toward the train tracks,

My arms are raised in the air,

My friends are yelling at me, telling me that a train is coming,

The lights form the train trace my figure,

And, this moment becomes frozen forever as I stand on the tracks

Like a life-sized snow glow,

Marvin, the fucking train!

But, I my mind wanders on, transfixed on something far beyond,

Something just out of reach,

Snow swirls around me,

But, I look on,

The train’s lights paint

And everlasting picture in the minds of my friends,

But, I look on,

The train honks and flashes its raging lights,

But, I look on,

Overwhelmed by something that burns dimly over the ash-dust horizon. 

Thursday, March 25, 2010

the sleeping baby never weeps
even with the wind howling
his serenity is quite deep
wrapped up in his warm blankies
as i inch in to take a peek
his sweet face is dreaming
i will let him be
in his momentary serenity

Pour the hope in my soul.
fill it up with the gold of the earth
and when i break free of the ropes that hold me down
i will emerge from the depths of the oceans and fly through the endless galaxy
hoping that you will be right beside me


Monday, March 22, 2010

So, as it were...

...So, as it were lying on top of a symmetrically sound system of mission statements, we missed the latest disrespectful taste test, conducted by the fuck heads who seem to be loveless., now that we've identified an enemy, we can rectify the symmetry with our own tantalizing taste bud stimulating tea party.
...except tea tastes like shit to me. I foolishly prefer highly caffinated coffee. But, you know what I'm sayin.'

...I'm sayin' Kiss my nuts, you punk motherfuckers, chuckin' a bunk over-stuffed muffin' full of nothin' worth mentioning, but hurled strong enough to wreck our scene. Mess with me and my crew again, and we'll bless the breeze with our energy. We got some shit up our sleeves that y'all can't even see, and come summer, we'll be up in your shit with our pleasantries.

See, you all fuckin' pissed me off. So I'm gonna come at you with eloquence and grace and a fat load of nut for your face.

...k, maybe not the skeet, but we'll take to the streets. You will experience defeat. We will spit freshness through our teeth. We kick knowledge to beats, and empower the weak. We created a scene and our leaders shine clean.

oooh wee ooh, y'all done fucked up now.


Wednesday, March 17, 2010

what they want is...

we spoke our views and included the few that wanted to be clued in as to who was holding our voice for randsom. they want more cash for our talents to pass their cirriculum cooperation compression disorder. they want more of us to hush and walk past and nulify our rights to speach, freely. freely we stood to take a stand and still sequester these jesters to ground themselves straightfaced with a point in case beyond the calculated value of our souls in their pocket books. now they think us weak, but we be strong. so strong we took 2 hours to make a song. people sang in poetry and breaths we've taken as souls were shaken about the doubts of freedom in our city. should we run and hide away our emotions at the bottom of bottles incandescent in essence to present a lack of presence. should we forgoe that which is supposed to be innate and negate the correlation between body and soul...soul to mine these fields of chil'en seeded in deep within the community of pundits who spun shit so fast their eyes became glass...cause they work with the sand man and he helps them sleep at night and they connect the irrigation tunnels to funnel monetary values higher than family values and community. they capitalize on the grants and take percentages of scantily clad fads that flaunt too often around the sound and so conscious. obnoxious noxious gases cascading contiuously, corroding the caverns we've carved out of these desolate times. they want no voice to be heard and we...we just be.


Monday, March 15, 2010


loose yourself in these words please
find calm and comfort so sweet
lean closer to love


Reno Haiku (7-7-5)

that last blog was pretty lame
I need to be positive
Reno is still weird


Reno Haiku (7-7-5)

Some crazy fools piss me off
and some of them don't at all
Reno is straight weird


Thursday, March 11, 2010


the tweakers and their keepers,
are far from quiet sleepers,
probably mumbling.


You’ve been dressed well tonight,
little shell that sold herself to see the light-
See how the light has left your eyes
Blank face, and your jaw keeps moving,
Your mouth streams fallacies and your eyes lie fallow,
the organic matter of truth
became the fallow fields of ignorant dreams
Unceasing movement from which your subconscious streams,
That began rotting early in your youth.

You see, they’d rather dress you well,
Cover the patches of dirt with what they want you to be,
Tuck flaws under tight jeans,
Insert credit cards where there might have been meaning,
Then admit that what they are taking
is more destructive then what they are replacing.

Still, her corpse was half price, and you dressed her up nice,
Took her out for the night, and danced with mannequin hands
Until the patches of dirt under her skin began to hurt,
And she is layed in fallow lands, the fields of failures and dreamers
who could no longer refrain from haunting the empty eyes,
And return to the land where thoughts have been banned,
Collected, canned, and kept in whorehouses
for the next narrowly escaped apocalypse.


Thursday, March 4, 2010

Reno Haiku

i want to break the mold now
in an effort to change things
we must be steadfast


Tuesday, March 2, 2010

In the style of Reno Haiku

One more year older I am.
Twenty-Eight on this planet.
A little more wise.


Monday, March 1, 2010

remember the moments when the rocky mountains drifted by us supposin' we would never meet again. across grey skies and night rides watching the moonlight dance along ridges and state line signs. showing us the wonders of the dark. we watched in amazement fighting the sleep that bated our bodies against cold glass with cheeks pressed snugly. the starlights guiding our imaginations longitude and lattitude, stretching our thoughts into the spaces lost in the shadows forshadowing the proceeding moments in succession. the process of life unfolding with a beautiful pace against these skies that turn blue under black with white and yellow spots pokadotting the rhythms of the universe. yet another turn for the search from worse to ok to better to best to blank mindedness settling on the sun dripped sounds of the evenning skies loosing themselves to the pitch black bound to fade into the nautical. somethings sings to me in these moments of memories amounting to the sublime remembering a bus ride.



we are
the pushers and sluggers,
the muggers of indifference
towards inactivity.
spitting, vomitting, expulsing poetry
through every pore.
to say you can't live wealthily on writing
is one poor statement.
it is my food, drink, pillow at night, hands
that hold in cold weather.
i watch over pages and pens, seeing you
getting up for your 9-5
while i write my 9-5 pages
of movement.