Saturday, September 14, 2013

Range

Rolling hills
Un-wrinkled grass
Buffed surface
Patent-leather landscape
Refined by radiation
Unperturbed grazing ground

A steer cries out
A rousing bellow
Gnashed grass in hulking gullet
Black beast with tremendous shoulders
Incensed nostrils powerful clavicles
Perspiration gluts dried blood and baked mud
Groaning upwards
He challenges the sun
Countering its deafening roar
That's traveled one hundred million miles
Booming explosion remnants as visible light
An aerial bombardment
The steer clenches
Chewing and screaming at Noon
Wandering in conflict
In the range of the sun
Stomping on a mountain
Holding his ground

The steer follows a low rumble
At twilight
Sensing the sun’s retreat
Raucous chatter
An echoing din
Inside the thanes carry-on
Drunk and complacent
Pounding on candlelit tables
The steer marches undetected
With pummeling steps
Towards the mead-hall of the sun’s soldiers
A shady barn in his range
The discontent beast
Nudges the barn door
Silhouette in the threshold
Panics the revelers
Which incites the beast
Who clobbers fleeing victims
His dark hooves stained with flesh
Wiry thatches of black hair soaked in viscous blood
Fragments of thanes spattered
On large bales of hay
Stacks of dried grass trampled
Shady barn turned red in the night

The cow rests alone in darkness
Legs folded under
Knees relieved
Preparing for tomorrow’s defense
From the unrelenting sun.

Friday, October 26, 2012

fabergé eggs and other poems


fabergé eggs

fabergé eggs
so fragile delicate beautiful
you coddle them, warm them, two hands
you've found the ones you want
i prefer rough-textured, plain-white
and you decide
they don't belong at the china shop
and stick them on the counter
of a polished dresser
near the china cabinet
behind your couch
until your grandkid picks them up
out of your ornate french bowl
and you tell them
"put that down
you'll break it
(they're not yours)"
and that ceramic bowl in the china shop
doesn't look right
until the shop closes
and fabergé eggs go out of fashion


cold showers

i was getting used to cold showers
because of my poison oak rash
soothing my pores
it closes them i hear
but the poison is still in there
seems like it must bond to your cell's receptors
isn't going anywhere
no matter the water temperature
and now i'm back to hot ones
since i can
without the satisfying but dangerous burn reaction
of urishiol (that's the poison)


waking up

teasing a sleeping person
they don't respond
you can push it a little further
each time
talkin to'em and shit
like they're going to respond
but when they're awake
with their eyes closed
they have the power
and wait for you to talk about them
and pounce on you
springing out of their slumber
all "what the fuck?"
and they're going to be mad anyway
crossing back to the consciousness
to wage war with time
who only retreats from sleep
only to outflank you
when you return
gasping
looking around to see
who's fucking with you

Friday, July 27, 2012

Monday, July 9, 2012

The Idiot: Fyodor Dostoevsky

"I had heard a great deal about him beforehand and had heard he was an atheist, among other things. He really is a very learned man, and I was delighted at the prospect of talking to a really learned man. What's more he is a most unusually well-bred man, so that he talked to me quite as if I were his equal in ideas and attainments. He doesn't believe in God. Only, one thing struck me: that he seemed not to be talking about that at all, the whole time; and it struck me just because whenever I have met unbelievers before, or read their books, it always seemed to me that they were speaking and writing in their books about something quite different, although it seemed to be about that on the surface."

Thursday, July 5, 2012

The Men @ The Smell, 6/26/12

Aaah, The Smell. Let me start this post by announcing I will not be saying anything about this dank L.A. punk rock institution's odor, or umm, stink, aroma, scent, yea it's just been done too many times. Go to Yelp if you want to read it in every review. They named it The Smell. The. Smell. It's a punk club...1+1=2.

I'm a sucker for post-punk, and The Men's Dinosaur Jr./ The Wipers vibe is too familiarly awesome for me to pass up.

Another overly mentioned thing about The Smell: no alcohol sales. They did have an uptight straight-edge girl selling Skittles and chocolate bars for a $1 like it was a high-school bake sale. There were even vegan brownies. I'm sure vegan brownies are great, but the world may never know. I did partake in the Skittles. I also really turned on the charm to get a free cup of $.50 water in a cup so small it screamed: "should be free!" I smiled, begged, and appealed to the dude beside her for damn near 6 minutes before I was rewarded with that all-too-serious 4 oz. of water.

And I needed some water badly because my friends and I jump-started the pit and were completely drained by song 3. The Men rocked, but maybe it's smart not to sell alcohol in a venue 20 feet wide with no ventilation or fans. My flask not even empty, I felt like a train had run over me, hungover like it was already the next day at only 10 PM. I spent the rest of the show in the alley-way getting a few sweaty photos before heading home early. I actually feel bad for the band in a situation like that, I don't know how The Men even finished the show.

And it smelled. Fuck damnit fuck I said it.





Opener, Zig-Zags, sweet dudes.


These bros had been coming to The Smell for years and just weren't gonna shell out the extra 3 bucks when "all the shows used to be 5". To me $8 for a blog-worthy touring band is as good as it gets, but, hell.

























This vagrant had his shit together. I told him: "Let me tell you something, I usually don't like homeless people, but there's something about you."





goodbyeee


Monday, June 25, 2012

I Got Stabbed by a Joshua Tree



I meditated under a Joshua Tree
and it stabbed me in the head.
A crown of bayonet leaves,
I even had to pull one out.

Perhaps it was meant to stay there,
like a hindu bindi,
except mine would be like a flattened torch-shaped
obelisk coming out of the red dot.
I realized the moment was transcendental,
and I appreciated the ominous symbolic significance,
but I had to do something about the blood.



If I had wanted blood, I got it.
I did not want it all over my clothes.
I let the desert wind soothe and dry the pouring wound,
so my arms and shirt wouldn't be drenched.
Stitches were a possibility. Hospital.

Luckily my skull stopped the gentle frond,
not allowing the tree to penetrate my brain.
The cut was minimized,
and I had a chance to return to my shooting party,
un-scarred and un-stained,
avoiding derisive comments
returning to four guys and four guns,
massacred by a plant.

I had left the party to gain some mystic insight by paying homage,
but this was no lotus flower.
I noticed its serene silhouette was dripping with dagger-like fronds,
thorns posing as leaves,
even the bark covered by deadly, dead, dried out spikes,
which appeared to fall from their bulbs and down to the desert floor
losing color but not acuity,
perhaps continuing to drop underneath the ground to arm the root system.
I approached the meanest, most marvelous Joshua Tree within a mile,
unprepared for battle.
This natural shelter considered me an intruder, not a guest.

Underneath the giant, it's arms bristling above,
I sat cross-legged with soft gaze,
head like it's being pulled by a string,
jaw tucked in,
back as straight as a stack of gold coins.
The open sky above, like a handle of the earth's basket,
seemed more connected to the ground,
attached at the horizon.
The sand blown by the wind and the exposed sunlight
heightening the drama, I focused on love and oneness,
but Time brought me back to ego-concerns.
As my patience faded,
and thoughts about the material world returned,
I figured the gang might be wondering about me.
I assumed the plant's shelter was benign,
but the Joshua Tree prepared for my advances from above.

What's to say about getting stabbed?
It's difficult to feel the entering.
Only the surface is sensitive,
and once the opening is made,
it returns to feeling the same as closed,
but with a neat cooling vent,
in my case three pierced receptors, labeling my guilt.
I still chased desire, had not found God,
and was susceptible to his creations.

Did my focus on the future
leave me vulnerable in the present?
Or did my focus in the present
leave me vulnerable in the future?
Like distracting thoughts in meditation,
these answers would not help me now.



The dry gusting desert winds succeeded in hardening the open cuts,
minimizing the blood staining my hands and clothes.
Allowing one force of nature to repair the damage of another.
I felt calm; adrenalized, but resigned to my fate,
the stabbing had elevated the action, dramatized my life.
I was defeated,
but I could not have asked for more from this brutal enchantress.

I stumbled through the desert
and circled around the back of our open-air target range,
slipped into the back seat of Matt's car,
and turned a bottle of water and some leftover napkins
into a first-aid station,
marveling that no one noticed me dumping water on my head
expecting Matt to yell at me for bloodying his pristine interior,
or Soren to ask where I've been.

They continued their conversation,
and I continued disposing the evidence of the attack.
As they approached the car,
I secured one last furtive wipe of the three wounds
and gleamed with pride as I shook Kane's hand,
our host,
with a firm grip and wished him well.
I thought of telling Chance and the others the tale on the way home,
but thought it better to leave it between me
and the Joshua Tree in Mojave.