dream of yesterday. recall

How else could i possibly have fallen asleep in a total stranger’s bed in a strange house on the edge of a railyard? in a town i never before seen? in a world much too much for me. in a lifetime searching several lives? in a timeless universe? on a spinning blue marble. in space without nary a sound. in the whistling wind under the cut of saturns rings. encircled by an audience of jupiters moons… under the auspices of inevitable swallowing by black hole… in the confetti of blown stars. in an infinite cosmos. grounded by home roast sumatran, and 8 track potential! and spiritual comradery! and witness to new friendship! under the weight of noonday sun! and our work here, just begun…

K ORIGINAL MUSIC. A SONG

K.IS.S

this one dedicated to Frank Ramon

Fear and slush piles

Fear was seven feet tall and genetically predisposed to hate. His father’s great grandfather was an Original Hater. His great aunt on the other side, modelled for the Queen of Spades. They say she gave the axe to Lizzie Borden.

Fear hated my poetry. His corporate monster nearly broke it’s neck iron trying to get me. Fear let his arm extend just so I was a chain link away from the snarltooth snout of a traditional heavy in the publishing business, who just caught the scent of a self-published success story in the making.

Lucky me, I had my kindle on me. Tucked in my waistline, cool comforting my skin. I quickly drew it upon my enemy, Fear and his rabid corporate extension. I opened and swiped the screen like Zorro at the top of the Z.

The blazing light of my E book cover blinded the bitch, who fell back on her nub of a tail. Fear began to howl at an impossible pitch, like all the writers ever burned by rejection, in unison.

I held my forward stance Warrior #3 asana, for the longest. Whipping back fear and the blue-blooded beast. By the light of my novel let out to the world. Shining as dreams coming true always do.

What was left after the fire, you would not have believed! No trace of Fear or his dog… just a sparkling pile of golden slush, for every manuscript ever heaved.

controlled

damn the darn thing
went the wrong way
again

no no no
you know not there
where to go

damn dog owners
put it on a leash
i am judging you all
until my friends commit
reality on me

oh but you’re not like them
do not be mistaken
do not
do

what i say

damn my mind
in wanting meditation
thoughts you go
you go
where i think you thoughs
should

damn there’s something wrong
with me
my head exploding need
acetominophen
quick release
quickly

tabbing scrolling
edging up to the table
throw my arms around
air

grasping for the controls
with mad future
mindedness

my blind spot is the whole world
telling me how small
i am

not in control of
nothing not even this
damn poem spilled out
upon this pixelated canvas

sailing away
my sanity
step on me now
ima diluted relic

sell me on the broadband
market cause after years of holding on
i make a fine
exploitation