The phone wont ring
I cant call.
It’s only momentary. Isn’t it?
Time drags like a chain with a Stanley lock on the end.
Waiting for my torn insides to mend.
All the kids out gathering chocolate. Real thin triangular touches.
That didn’t completely suffer in the sun.
The nights melting, all tears and rain
Candy’s running in the pumpkin
Limber burnt orange.
Bonds slipped, stiffened
Waiting for gabriel’s trumpet’s blowing
The end if it all
Equals
The beginning of it all’s future.
Everyday is Halloween
10/31/2008
Friday, October 31, 2008
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Brothers of the A.M.
A purple click slicked as the rain falls.
The bmv 750 shoot off the roads like yuppie wildfire. We all know
You shouldn’t fucking punch it when the oil hits the water hits the road.
My phone’s blowing up. My brain’s shooting up possibilities.
Scattered. A wildfire. North of Rutherford. North of Yountville mental.
I got 6 cases of wine in my room.
Like I’m going to drink it all. (I will eventually)
The knock on the door is my liver.
The texts illuminate the ’84 Celica gt. It’s a blush bluish white.
Dodging the traffic north from SF. Like these fuckers have never seen rain.
There’s another. This time a Mercedes. A white one. Drive slower my brother.
A race machine doesn’t make you a racecar driver.
A giant cock doesn’t make you a fucker. Giant ears don’t make you a listener.
There’s a ringing. Resonating.
Someone missing.
6:50 are every morning some poor bastard starts his jeep Cherokee
To go to work.
5 times a week I hear him. As I go to work. Aren’t we both fucked?
I wish I could have a moment with this guy and listen to his problems.
Brothers of the a.m.
Brothers of the a.m. 10/11/08
The bmv 750 shoot off the roads like yuppie wildfire. We all know
You shouldn’t fucking punch it when the oil hits the water hits the road.
My phone’s blowing up. My brain’s shooting up possibilities.
Scattered. A wildfire. North of Rutherford. North of Yountville mental.
I got 6 cases of wine in my room.
Like I’m going to drink it all. (I will eventually)
The knock on the door is my liver.
The texts illuminate the ’84 Celica gt. It’s a blush bluish white.
Dodging the traffic north from SF. Like these fuckers have never seen rain.
There’s another. This time a Mercedes. A white one. Drive slower my brother.
A race machine doesn’t make you a racecar driver.
A giant cock doesn’t make you a fucker. Giant ears don’t make you a listener.
There’s a ringing. Resonating.
Someone missing.
6:50 are every morning some poor bastard starts his jeep Cherokee
To go to work.
5 times a week I hear him. As I go to work. Aren’t we both fucked?
I wish I could have a moment with this guy and listen to his problems.
Brothers of the a.m.
Brothers of the a.m. 10/11/08
Kel
I’m thinly soaking the sun off the concrete
Talking to my friend
Drinking in her pain, it’s a bitter coffee.
He’s sun beaten down upon her red hair. Curls in her rear view.
He don’t wanna work. He put the lack in slack.
I listen and feel slow syrup leave her lips.
Driven from the 2nd chance state to a greater fate.
While keeping it like ray charles said ”Georgia on my mind”.
The smell of the morning @ 5am is sweet like magnolia.
The drive alone to the gym is no use cryin.
When I hear her voice with pain, I pain. She’s been the steadfast pillar.
But even pillars have to crumble a bit. They can be fixed.
But, as she said “it takes time”.
I always thought that statement was bullshit. To an extent it is.
We are all born into a different queue.
I just think her bounce like a superb all waits for a sunny day to hit the ground.
Kel.
10/11/2008
Talking to my friend
Drinking in her pain, it’s a bitter coffee.
He’s sun beaten down upon her red hair. Curls in her rear view.
He don’t wanna work. He put the lack in slack.
I listen and feel slow syrup leave her lips.
Driven from the 2nd chance state to a greater fate.
While keeping it like ray charles said ”Georgia on my mind”.
The smell of the morning @ 5am is sweet like magnolia.
The drive alone to the gym is no use cryin.
When I hear her voice with pain, I pain. She’s been the steadfast pillar.
But even pillars have to crumble a bit. They can be fixed.
But, as she said “it takes time”.
I always thought that statement was bullshit. To an extent it is.
We are all born into a different queue.
I just think her bounce like a superb all waits for a sunny day to hit the ground.
Kel.
10/11/2008
Sunday, October 5, 2008
it always stings
yeah.you always write a love poem.
find yourself in the other person, and lose the moment in the ether.
it's never set in stone,
the recognition of the expectation.
it's real easy to find yourself bentbroken like a spinning hubcap.
then why, do you keep doing it?
hope.
find yourself in the other person, and lose the moment in the ether.
it's never set in stone,
the recognition of the expectation.
it's real easy to find yourself bentbroken like a spinning hubcap.
then why, do you keep doing it?
hope.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Love is a Fog
Love is a fog that burns with the 1st daylight of reality~
Charles Bukowski
Sonoma- New Apartment 2008
Yeah, I agree with bukowski..Love IS a fog.
A fog that slips out of your tiny fingers, without gloves.
Condensation on the windshield as you 1st get into your car, I said.
When you try and wipe it, it cries.
And slips whispering ,cutting a hole in the fog.
It never really all burns off. Even though it might be 90ยบ in the shade.
The next morning, it's there again.
Against all hope. Smoking in your dreams.
Lying light past the moonlight.
That's when love can whisper into your ear. Love.
Love wants to borrow a 20. It'll give it back in the morning.
Love wants to borrow the keys to your car.
The sun over the mountains wakes up upon a grey love.
Did you ever notice how some people spell "grey" and the others "gray"?
Wonder what the hell that means…
Youre driving to work under the fog that is love.
Through the mountains and rolling hills, with the 40 mph turn signs.
The fog of love is rolling slow overhead, like molasses.
Roadkill love. You dodge it coming around a turn.
The sky's swirling now, fog's got a tangible touch.
It looks like it's going to fucking storm like hell,
But it'll all burn off by 10.
Then all you can see is the bright blue sky. Not even a cloud.
Says something about love, now doesn't it?
The brazen fog returns around 6 or 7. Crawling like a slug .
Over the very selfsame mountains that I just talked about.
It looks like smoke.
It looks like a brush fire.
It looks like the whole world's on fire.
Come 5 the garbagemen come to cut through love.
To pick up the trash.
The trash of love.
Love's not even really awake yet. Hasn't had it's morning cuppa coffee.
But love's got a job to do. A job to go to.
Silently leaving the house without a key in the lock.
You can hear a dog barking somewhere in the distance.
Probably at love. Love in the distance. It love's the distance,
Sometimes.
Finger of love pokes you in your ear when the alarm goes off.
Your torn shirt repels it's advances.
It's easy to do when love doesn't have you yet.
Love's not sure what to do when you are solo,
It only knows that you long for it.
S
o love's gotcha.
Right now. right now, as I type this, love's circling
Waiting for a way to get in.
I have a fan on to repel it, at least for now. that is,
Until I shoot sullenly into the morning fog.
Where love lies. And lies.
You tell love you'll call
As you shuffle it out the door.
You hear love's car pull away,
And you laugh. For a moment.
Just for a moment.
Knowing you're one up on love.
Charles Bukowski
Sonoma- New Apartment 2008
Yeah, I agree with bukowski..Love IS a fog.
A fog that slips out of your tiny fingers, without gloves.
Condensation on the windshield as you 1st get into your car, I said.
When you try and wipe it, it cries.
And slips whispering ,cutting a hole in the fog.
It never really all burns off. Even though it might be 90ยบ in the shade.
The next morning, it's there again.
Against all hope. Smoking in your dreams.
Lying light past the moonlight.
That's when love can whisper into your ear. Love.
Love wants to borrow a 20. It'll give it back in the morning.
Love wants to borrow the keys to your car.
The sun over the mountains wakes up upon a grey love.
Did you ever notice how some people spell "grey" and the others "gray"?
Wonder what the hell that means…
Youre driving to work under the fog that is love.
Through the mountains and rolling hills, with the 40 mph turn signs.
The fog of love is rolling slow overhead, like molasses.
Roadkill love. You dodge it coming around a turn.
The sky's swirling now, fog's got a tangible touch.
It looks like it's going to fucking storm like hell,
But it'll all burn off by 10.
Then all you can see is the bright blue sky. Not even a cloud.
Says something about love, now doesn't it?
The brazen fog returns around 6 or 7. Crawling like a slug .
Over the very selfsame mountains that I just talked about.
It looks like smoke.
It looks like a brush fire.
It looks like the whole world's on fire.
Come 5 the garbagemen come to cut through love.
To pick up the trash.
The trash of love.
Love's not even really awake yet. Hasn't had it's morning cuppa coffee.
But love's got a job to do. A job to go to.
Silently leaving the house without a key in the lock.
You can hear a dog barking somewhere in the distance.
Probably at love. Love in the distance. It love's the distance,
Sometimes.
Finger of love pokes you in your ear when the alarm goes off.
Your torn shirt repels it's advances.
It's easy to do when love doesn't have you yet.
Love's not sure what to do when you are solo,
It only knows that you long for it.
S
o love's gotcha.
Right now. right now, as I type this, love's circling
Waiting for a way to get in.
I have a fan on to repel it, at least for now. that is,
Until I shoot sullenly into the morning fog.
Where love lies. And lies.
You tell love you'll call
As you shuffle it out the door.
You hear love's car pull away,
And you laugh. For a moment.
Just for a moment.
Knowing you're one up on love.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
2940.5 miles
next to the river
Warm pain, razor radiated light.
Beautiful sadness in the way
The black-haired beauty looked at me
Running barely from conversation
Caught on a hook, cut out of the mouth.
Well corrected wind, cycle by iron gates
Shelled with lunacy, bathed in blue fear.
There was,
A moment when it was
Caught-
Warm pain, razor radiated light.
Beautiful sadness in the way
The black-haired beauty looked at me
Running barely from conversation
Caught on a hook, cut out of the mouth.
Well corrected wind, cycle by iron gates
Shelled with lunacy, bathed in blue fear.
There was,
A moment when it was
Caught-
A fool smells the dirt
ten shells i sent to you
Ten shells I sent to you I pierced them from the sullen stream That ran in back of my house When I was a boy~
Ten shells I sent to you I pierced them from the sullen stream That ran in back of my house When I was a boy~
The pennies on the train tracks
The hiding behind a tree~ so we don't get nailed
Duck motherfucker,
I can hear, my ears to the steel.
I can see the oil next to the tracks;
I thought I was a millionaire
16yrs old and high
The girls waiting for me at the garage tomorrow.
Tell me why
I have been tired and fooled,
I imagine things that make me a loving tool, as I elate.
Laded and in a state.
The passes into the memory
Tell me what is due to you and me,
I should have known time before
That my white stone made my feel slide.
I woke up @ 5am
I'd had a dream that the train was coming in
Looking at the sky.
Wake up and hear the morning
Take loose and throw the moorings
Float down and let the river take you where it wants it.
Fuck heavily and live heavy
Blow back the smoke that hits your eyes
The cellar's nice and cold.
I can sleep there when I decide to stop.
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