Buddy, let's be Dinosaurs, on the condition that you stop picking "chicken" or the types that never existed. The price we pay for laser eyes. Fine then, knights in a kingdom, in awesome tin helmets-- steel helmets-- produce carts were made for our knocking over, damsels, damsels everywhere! for saving! Okay fine, I'll see you your knight and raise you a Caveman, who's got the heavier club, who's got a knack for fire. Stop with the cave paintings already-- no one has the time for that. Good. Now we're spacement farrrr into the future and all these robots may know how to fly a space ship, but it'll take real flesh and blood to teach them about --- two minutes as rugged explorers and we're already sick of eating squirrel. cowboys? We can do that. Ropes and ropes and steers and guns and lots and lots of blood in the dirt. Did anyone ever walk into a saloon without a record skipping? Were the barmaids always so world weary and could you get a 9 gallon hat for che-- Jazz listening private eye guys! I love calling chicks dames! There are so many tall buildings, you can be the informant that-- Buddy, what's that disco? All there is to do here is dance, man, not even a dance off. And all these shining lights, getting so close to the things I muscle away from.
Still. I guess I could keep the suit.
Thursday, 16 April 2015
14/30! Jokesandsighs! 15/30! Nu Diner Life!
A note from my manager that in the two days
without phone access I've been fired and
replaced by rookies or robots doesn't
surprise me much.
I crossed ts, dotted is, tacked posts
in necessary places and crossreferenced
plans in the hope of a getaway but these
are no match for wind, treachery, or just
bad luck.
This is a joke he's made before, and my
response is quick and jaunty, the parry,
but still, I start compiling a list of spots
to turn in the resume I start updating,
take my leftovers
home.
15/30! Nu Diner Life!
Any new taxidermy must be approved:
first by the manager, then the health board.
Dinner party punk and post-washboard, pre-
beerbelly stomache in brief shirtlifts.
No sweat in the cosmos.
No beard in the food.
A planetary refrain from too-loud laughter,
save the blue corner table rattling all glass.
The waterfall in the center of the room-- unplanned.
What do we do about that?
without phone access I've been fired and
replaced by rookies or robots doesn't
surprise me much.
I crossed ts, dotted is, tacked posts
in necessary places and crossreferenced
plans in the hope of a getaway but these
are no match for wind, treachery, or just
bad luck.
This is a joke he's made before, and my
response is quick and jaunty, the parry,
but still, I start compiling a list of spots
to turn in the resume I start updating,
take my leftovers
home.
15/30! Nu Diner Life!
Any new taxidermy must be approved:
first by the manager, then the health board.
Dinner party punk and post-washboard, pre-
beerbelly stomache in brief shirtlifts.
No sweat in the cosmos.
No beard in the food.
A planetary refrain from too-loud laughter,
save the blue corner table rattling all glass.
The waterfall in the center of the room-- unplanned.
What do we do about that?
13/30! Define "hurt" I guess, Or, Not "Those" Sorts of Cops!
and the hashtag starts almost as soon
as the news flips on, the #notallcops
the whatabout, whatabout-- my uncle, twenty years on the force never hurt anybody/your cousin, sweet kind, artistic, just out of training, never hurt anyone/folk's church friend, shines his badge while he volunteers, never hurt anybody/pool-playing neighbor assures on his Christmas card that he's
never hurt anybody/or
everyone so ready
with this list.
fine/so.
every morning I slap
some water on my face and
check for weather, concerts,
Swans scores, and how many fresh
excessive force casualties
always black, often men,
and if maybe this time
the killer gets caught
and I walk up to every cop and:
Can you PLEASE JUST go through the entire day
without killing someone?
I'll TRY MY BEST TO DO THE SAME.
in my head. the whatabout-- the man just crossing the street, who never hurt anybody/the girl sleeping in her bed who never hurt anybody/ the kid buying a candy bar who never hurt anybody/the community pastor who never hurt anybody/the the
the
way this country will forgive you
quicker/if you're holding a gun
in crisped trousers/than if you
walk away.
every night, passing stoned
I get pulled over and flashlight shined.
but it's always over quick;
I'm always off with a warning.
as the news flips on, the #notallcops
the whatabout, whatabout-- my uncle, twenty years on the force never hurt anybody/your cousin, sweet kind, artistic, just out of training, never hurt anyone/folk's church friend, shines his badge while he volunteers, never hurt anybody/pool-playing neighbor assures on his Christmas card that he's
never hurt anybody/or
everyone so ready
with this list.
fine/so.
every morning I slap
some water on my face and
check for weather, concerts,
Swans scores, and how many fresh
excessive force casualties
always black, often men,
and if maybe this time
the killer gets caught
and I walk up to every cop and:
Can you PLEASE JUST go through the entire day
without killing someone?
I'll TRY MY BEST TO DO THE SAME.
in my head. the whatabout-- the man just crossing the street, who never hurt anybody/the girl sleeping in her bed who never hurt anybody/ the kid buying a candy bar who never hurt anybody/the community pastor who never hurt anybody/the the
the
way this country will forgive you
quicker/if you're holding a gun
in crisped trousers/than if you
walk away.
every night, passing stoned
I get pulled over and flashlight shined.
but it's always over quick;
I'm always off with a warning.
Sunday, 12 April 2015
12/30! On The Nose!
Tips for successful tourism include: not being a tourist
not caring if people know you're one. I'd rather get directions
than wander lonely as a cloud, I'd rather sit in the spot
that everyone drawn here like flocking voles sits because
it's worth it, even if it's not secret, I'll get it.
Like how I tell folks to check out pike place if they haven't.
The things a city owns that belong to the world, and the
things that belong to the neighbors--- I am a local at my
locals, and running numbers everywhere else.
Or I am a local everywhere, but only trust my fellow
locals at the spots I've worn in with elbows.
It is hard to share joy without sounding like namedropping,
it is hard to namedrop without ruining joy. I will glide
across these pavements I've not known before,
I will take all the pictures I need
but I'll try not to be an asshole about it.
not caring if people know you're one. I'd rather get directions
than wander lonely as a cloud, I'd rather sit in the spot
that everyone drawn here like flocking voles sits because
it's worth it, even if it's not secret, I'll get it.
Like how I tell folks to check out pike place if they haven't.
The things a city owns that belong to the world, and the
things that belong to the neighbors--- I am a local at my
locals, and running numbers everywhere else.
Or I am a local everywhere, but only trust my fellow
locals at the spots I've worn in with elbows.
It is hard to share joy without sounding like namedropping,
it is hard to namedrop without ruining joy. I will glide
across these pavements I've not known before,
I will take all the pictures I need
but I'll try not to be an asshole about it.
11/30! A Scene We'd Usually Avoid!
Neckerchiefs. Cologne. Muscle relaxers-with a scent/how?
The grease in the hair and the grease in the thighs and the
grease the guy in the misfits shirt managed while sliding into
his pants. The one girl/guy couple, hottest in their near shirtlessness
by the window, attribute traffic to that.
We think the doorman suspects.
These lines of traffic-- we've come blocks just to
not get in. We are wobbling hard toward a club with
the right backbeat, we only want a slice and don't
care where we get it from.
The new city stomp, the old city hesitate.
The happy lipstick party inviting only half
of us. The crowd churned down Polk street
flying elbows, jutting knees, too much scent,
too much dirt for any where we'd go if--
but get the cameras right and
all you need is the rest of the
room and all you need is one good
picture, to say I've been here, I've
swung my fists, this is everywhere
I've been adult but so much worse,
better
The grease in the hair and the grease in the thighs and the
grease the guy in the misfits shirt managed while sliding into
his pants. The one girl/guy couple, hottest in their near shirtlessness
by the window, attribute traffic to that.
We think the doorman suspects.
These lines of traffic-- we've come blocks just to
not get in. We are wobbling hard toward a club with
the right backbeat, we only want a slice and don't
care where we get it from.
The new city stomp, the old city hesitate.
The happy lipstick party inviting only half
of us. The crowd churned down Polk street
flying elbows, jutting knees, too much scent,
too much dirt for any where we'd go if--
but get the cameras right and
all you need is the rest of the
room and all you need is one good
picture, to say I've been here, I've
swung my fists, this is everywhere
I've been adult but so much worse,
better
Saturday, 11 April 2015
10/30! Ashbury Heights!
"what's that flaming cathedral in the distance?"
this road winds like yarn. triangles and spirals and
houses clustered like apartments, apartments spread
like ramblers. Ropes around a narrowing hill.
When we talk about the city, we talk about The City.
Everything I know about this place I learned in
documentaries about Jefferson Airplane and
the film Basic Instinct.
"you went to the mission and you got
tacos?"
a thick film of glass when we get over the
bridge from east bay, and the way that
everyone says "east bay" like a sentence,
after the show that starts awkward and ends
triumphant, the uber driver says "the city"
and the entrance feels like one
like it should, no long suburban
depression trailing into density,
too tired and building weary to
recognize.
This is not a poem about
san francisco,
it's a poem about knowing nothing
about it, but the hill, the
sillhouettes at midnight after
Oakland ends for us. It's about the imprint,
the "in a few years will Seattle seem--"
the new space forever,
frozen pizza thawing, the smell of
burning pepperoni spilling out into
the bay.
this road winds like yarn. triangles and spirals and
houses clustered like apartments, apartments spread
like ramblers. Ropes around a narrowing hill.
When we talk about the city, we talk about The City.
Everything I know about this place I learned in
documentaries about Jefferson Airplane and
the film Basic Instinct.
"you went to the mission and you got
tacos?"
a thick film of glass when we get over the
bridge from east bay, and the way that
everyone says "east bay" like a sentence,
after the show that starts awkward and ends
triumphant, the uber driver says "the city"
and the entrance feels like one
like it should, no long suburban
depression trailing into density,
too tired and building weary to
recognize.
This is not a poem about
san francisco,
it's a poem about knowing nothing
about it, but the hill, the
sillhouettes at midnight after
Oakland ends for us. It's about the imprint,
the "in a few years will Seattle seem--"
the new space forever,
frozen pizza thawing, the smell of
burning pepperoni spilling out into
the bay.
Thursday, 9 April 2015
9/30! Going Cronenberg! Going Scott!
Give me an Existenz afterlife, so I can plug, unplug eternally.
That squirming, spirting tentacle, all ooze and grit and
eventually just wanting to be put down. Of course we want
masks here, of course.
I saw a TV show where people got their make up done,
piercings shrined and implants to look like cats, or dragons,
or the devil. They called it extreme, I call it trying too hard when
all anyone needs to do for assassination
is program a GPS in question into oncoming traffic
like that episode of The Office
we all laughed at for being
unrealistic.
Give me a car crash orgasm, so I can sync with explosions.
Somewhere between the caveman and the
robot porn, there is
a caveman jerking off to robot porn.
I'm no expert on these things,
vast expanse of flesh,
and plugs, and re-routes.
Laying on my collapsed futon
late night, falling asleep to sirens,
waking up to jackhammers,
reading a friends panicked e-mail about
more
bill boards
more drones
I'm too entrenched in Blade Runner's LA; it was a lot of things,
but never boring.
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