Apr 17

pedanticpersiflage:

When the breaking point was hit
like Charlie Brown standing on
a pitcher’s mound, we laughed like
our problems were mere Peanuts
being broken and shedding their skin
beneath the bleacher seats as a
miniature black raincloud circled
up above.  And then the absurd
boiled over into body heat, and
you and me exorcising demons
with holy incantations written
by the prophets we never bothered
to believe in even though we still
see sin as a birthright that teaches
us to love each others’ imperfections.
Because misdirection is just the way,
banging out into a wide open
nothingness, becoming more
condensed until it finds itself being
something that matters.  Like you
and me bobbing along like survivors
on a flimsy plastic raft, perhaps
we never will find the shore again,
but if we can dive bomb like
Red Barons, then maybe Linus
will share with us half of his
baby blue security blanket.

Apr 16

When the breaking point was hit
like Charlie Brown standing on
a pitcher’s mound, we laughed like
our problems were mere Peanuts
being broken and shedding their skin
beneath the bleacher seats as a
miniature black raincloud circled
up above.  And then the absurd
boiled over into body heat, and
you and me exorcising demons
with holy incantations written
by the prophets we never bothered
to believe in even though we still
see sin as a birthright that teaches
us to love each others’ imperfections.
Because misdirection is just the way,
banging out into a wide open
nothingness, becoming more
condensed until it finds itself being
something that matters.  Like you
and me bobbing along like survivors
on a flimsy plastic raft, perhaps
we never will find the shore again,
but if we can dive bomb like
Red Barons, then maybe Linus
will share with us half of his
baby blue security blanket.

Apr 14

The specimen was crestfallen like a Ronan warrior
feeling like he should take off his own head,

feeling unusual like Beetlejuice
largely unnoticed
living in a tiny plastic model of a small town,
we said his name with a confused frown,
three whole times

not knowing we were about to unloose a monster
or a demon
with the sense of humor of
a lost little twelve-year old boy.

The rim of the toilet bowl we try not to observe
until the cleaning wills itself
through annoyance 

even as the task feels like

punishment,
and the lemon scent doesn’t work as a
cover-up—

it just adds to the miasma like an exponential
on a number line trying to become
ineffable.

How many digits can we touch or feel,
how many fingerprints can we stain with ink,
how many sinks will it take to hold

all the empty glasses
drained of parachuted alcoholic drinks?

Are we somehow safer now?
And is the aperture letting in sufficient light
for the optimal viewing?

Fight for the right to watch a party
like a created word
that justifies a behavior
and confounds all the philosophers

until the examined life
can easily be referenced in
an unabridged dictionary.

gauchezine:

Hey everyone!  Just a friendly reminder that Gauche is still accepting submissions for the inaugural issue.  Any and all journalism, poetry, photography, fiction, drawings and any other forms of art work.  The first issue is themed “first times” so please have the submission related to something to do with new experiences.  Send your submissions to gauchezine@gmail.com!  And check us out on Facebook too!

Apr 08

I bit into my lifesaver searching for a spark, it was
winter after all, and the sunlight faded faster than we
had ever planned for—and now the dark was threatening
like a fast car approaching in a rear view mirror to the
soul—don’t you know that all windows go two ways, get
backed in grey—left with no access to the left lane, you
slammed on your brakes, you waited for the big bang—

CRASH—and now I’ve got this fucking whiplash—it’s
real, but the face of the diagnosis wears a string when we
put on the mask—we call him psychosis—or a flask
of old  cask strength brown bourbon from a green bottle,
but maybe the throttle was just broken, and the miles
passed too quickly when they ignored the solid yellow
line of a cautionary tale like the one about the giant

fucking whale—we called him a dick—the one that
sank our ship—along with our delusions—the thick
throbbing of our smallness apparent in the executions—
dangling like a soft angle or an argument without a
point—where horizons never end and time is like an
already smoked up joint, I’m so high

I forgot how to finish that last little bit of the rhyme,
but  it’s really quite alright because my verse is free,
and the timing’s always tight like one of seventy-two
versions of a virgin giving birth—when we went to the
promised land, all we got’s this fucking stretched out
t-shirt with a worn-out slogan—to a terrorist program—

BOMBSHELL—all of the ancients were obsessed with
suicide—unwelcome thoughts, probably just humanity
evolutionized—to walk upright and speak with a purpose,
to make sure none of our inventions are ever worthless.

Apr 05

Soporific like the lulling whisper of a CBS commentator
talking long games and short games and which club and
how many strokes under the target it will take to win.  The
Masters wear Green Jackets like Black Jack table felt.  How
many dreams have died under those calloused finger tips
pounding the places where stacks once sat like the
gavels of the men who call the meetings according to
Robert’s Rules of Order?  On the border between sleep
and the first cup of morning coffee, the alarms have to snooze
like Minutemen on the other side of a concrete wall trying
not to think of all the things that could make it fall like
a sledgehammer or TNT or a firing brigade or even a simple
political debate.  We only hate that which we will ourselves to.
Where there’s the combination of environment and DNA
giving and taking like lungs and atmospheric gasses, all feelings
will eventually pass like kidney stones.  The morphine will
help—don’t worry, it’s technically morally okay just so long
as you suffer from the right kind of pain. The kind that can
be drained from a knee or from an already drained bank account.
Sometimes, we only amount to bankruptcy like the memories
of former corporate giants.  U.S. Steel built the pyramids 
of our age, and then vanished like Atlantis and now all that’s left
is the man on stage playing a tiny violin as we yawn and gasp
for oxygen trying not to let the heavy lids fall over our eyes like
coffins housing exquisite corpses housing exquisite corpus-callosums.

Apr 01

So, now that I got this spiffy new top hat, I’ll reblog this post again.  Some friends of mine and I are starting a spiffy new little DIY zine called Gauche.  You should submit!  We are already receiving some excellent work, and are excited about what the first issue may hold!

gauchezine:

GAUCHE is currently seeking journalism, essays, short stories, poetry, photography, drawings, paintings, and any other such cultural revelations for our inaugural issue—an 8 x 5 DIY zine founded in the spirit of the punk rock culture of the mid to late 90’s. We like a certain brashness of style, a certain unforgiving tone, a certain aversion to the rules, a certain desire to just speak your fucking mind—even if that mind is an utterly inept wasteland.

The inaugural issue will be themed “First Times” so get to being all artsy fartsy and send us your best work about new experiences.

Email submissions to gauchezine@gmail.com.  We don’t like rules here at GAUCHE so there is no deadline (the issue will be done when it’s good and ready), length requirements (it is an 8 x 5 use your best judgment), or file formats (do make sure we can open it on most normal programs on a pc or mac).  Also, since it is a paper zine, it would be good to include your mailing address when you submit so we can send you a copy if we decide to publish your work.

Source: gauchezine

Mar 27

Gauche

Hey everyone early warning, but Gauche is a hardcopy zine I’m starting with some friends and we are currently seeking submissions for our first issue.  For more info, visit our facebook page.  We’ll have a tumblr coming soon!

Mar 13

Maybe it’s not a mental health epidemic,
maybe it’s a collective consciousness of a broken system gone crazy epidemic,
maybe it’s a plain old lack of empathy epidemic,
maybe it’s not an epidemic at all, but a reason to justify our collective numbing

through drug use
and/or our self abuse.

Maybe it’s that we think those things are unnatural
like all the different orifices that can hold a penis.

Baby, I’ve been banging my own head against the wall
for over thirty years now, and it’s a good thing that these stacks of money
make such excellent padding,
or else my forehead would have been streaming with blood like Jesus,
or any man who wears any crown.

The thorns just cut the deepest, the truest,
and the rosiest.

These days, we only really blush when the wine is flowing
so pour me up another cup, and make sure that shit is vintage
like seventies clothing.  It’s gonna get a little ironic up in here
like the dimples on a clown scaring all the children 

or wait a minute,

it was the big red nose,
and the loud noises,
wasn’t it,

it was the fact that he kept popping the balloons prematurely—
they were supposed to be animals, but like the kind
in cartoons, 

and we were supposed to watch them like children
on Saturday mornings away from school.

Those days are over now.
It came without warning—

one minute it was sunny out,
and the next it was storming,
and steaming.

What I’m trying to say is it was not the ideal kind of rain to play in,
but it also wasn’t so much the ideal house to stay in
because the price tag was too high like

any place that has a price tag
with any owner who has a debt

coming due.

Mar 11

For Leslie

You’re so beautiful
that it makes me
want to write
the kind of
sappy sentimental
hacky Hallmark card
poetry that starts with
phrases like
You’re so beautiful.

You’re so beautiful
that it makes me
want to further my
sentimental crimes
with goo goo ga ga guns
that rat-a-tat repeat
each stanza’s
beginning and end
with refrains like
You’re so beautiful.

You’re so beautiful
that I don’t think I
could possibly calculate
a limit to the magnitude
in which your
soul sparkles
in the reflection of light
in your deep brown eyes
when you stare at me
wanting me
to say more
things to you like
You’re so beautiful.

You’re so beautiful
that you are beautiful—
like the word beautiful,
or at least the image
that the sound of the
word beautiful creates
when I look at the symbol,
beautiful, on the page,
is an image of you
that makes me
want to tell you
You’re so beautiful.

You’re so beautiful
that I’ve used the word
beautiful 14 times now,
including just now,
if you’re counting
like I am,
because as the time
that we’ve spent together
grows like the word count
in a novel in progress,
that moves like
a struggle between
wanting to know the ending
and enjoying the wordplay
of the present page,
and always worth the
eye-straining late night effort,
I’ve found a way to fuse
my two passions
because when I say
beautiful out loud
and see my internal picture
of your face, it’s
semiotics like sex,
and the release is
getting to tell you
one more time
how much
You’re so beautiful.

Mar 07

It’s cool like a generation gap
between the window and the sill—
we keep it ever so slightly open
so the bedroom won’t smell like
stale cigarette smoke tomorrow—
when the cold wind acupunctures
itchy skin, where goosebumps
look like needlemarks and blood
still races away from deeper wounds,

we knew it would happen soon
enough, but enough was always
so elusive like speaking the same
language learned in a different
region, how we don’t understand
each other’s intonations and can’t
come to terms with the time zones
between us—now is always an hour
away, and I always get so into
whatever I’m doing that I always
miss the turning over of hands when

standing at attention doesn’t lead
to surrender the same way that
all roads lead to a way to get
somewhere, to a place where we
can prove motion or a continuum—
I wish I could continue on, but
I slept through Calc 1 because the
class met so early in the morning,
and my coffee was still too hot
to drink—in those sorts of abstract
sequences that don’t use universal
codes of symbolism, it isn’t the

math that’s the problem, it’s the
way a memory is like re-reading
your favorite book, how the deeper
themes get uncovered in the
revisiting, but the familiar lines
of dialogue comfort your loss
of the first time about as well as
sleeping on an air mattress during
the winter time brings feelings

of being well-rested, especially
if the blanket you’re nested in
has too many holes from falling
asleep with a cigarette still tucked
between your fingers—fire safety’s
important so never close your eyes
even to stop the burning in a smoky
room—and if the window’s still
opened ever so slightly to bring
in the needed relief, remember

it gets cold like a generation gap
between the window and the sill
when the fall makes you feel
like it’s been too cool for too long.

Jan 31

On those nights when thoughts of dying
swarm like cicadas—hissing, flapping,
bumping and pelting against the pane
(pain cloaked  in old dented dusty
venetian blinds) failing to keep out
the percolated sunshine burning
eyes like dried grass in the summertime—

I search for the cooler side
of an already twice-flipped pillow
wheezing from the smoke billow
recently ingested, still smoldering
in the cheap plastic Budweiser ashtray.

Led astray, somewhere along the line,
there were decisions that became actions
that produced results,
and some of those results formed habits
and hung out in boys rooms like
youth gang members wearing
bandanas like old west bandits
trying to act like the image
they had collected from the societal collage
of what it means to be a man. 

And now I am left reading the
clipped out letters from magazines,
multicolored torture sentences arranged
in judgments like super glue
to form ransom letters,
and now I am left deciding what
is worth keeping even though the universe
will find in the end that I am not.

I guess maybe love really is all I got,
and why can’t that be enough? Why not?

Nov 09

Stroll through muddy graveyards looking down
on headstones like an angel from heaven looking down
on naïve belief systems created from collective fears
of lonely deaths.  Leave legacies counted in red flowers—
placed carefully on top of green grass like permanent markers
scrawling inadequacies on poster boards soaking up
the leftovers from the last time Satan beat his wife.  This is
what it means to atone.  To be afflicted with Stockholm syndrome. 
To have bloody fists evidence willingness to not go out
silently in fights in mirrored rooms where broken shards
do not create thoughts of bad luck, just proof that certain elements
don’t perform like they’re supposed to when placed under
too much pressure.  When placed behind squats’ golden-chained
locks that couldn’t possibly survive the force of a properly placed
steel-toed boot to the midsection if battery rams run out
of alkaline, and megaphone voices remain indecipherable.
Make them take you by force, but still go fetal if the
riot-gear robots storm your inner sanctum.  It’s only noble
like the tear gas being choked on and coughed out on the floor.

Nov 06

I’ve got dyslexia like that kid in The Shining
riding his big wheels on the big screen
through the giant oligarch era of late night television.
Asking who the fuck is Ed Sullivan?  And why
is Johnny here, and what has he done with
daddy issues?  Don’t pass me a tissue. 
I’m not sad, I’m doomed like Oedipus Rex. 
I’m haunted like different versions of
the same ghost story.  I’m spooked by realizations
that all stories are ghost stories.  Spirits of former lives
with forward trajectories.  Captured thoughts bound
in super glue.  Hegemony came with a binary
zero and one, but forgot about two while I forgot
about shivering on hot nights when television
and movies hadn’t yet told me how to feel.
And yet there were always books, and romantic
crooks undressing me like a banana peel
that never even hid the bruises or the yellow
belly.  Because it’s not the image so much that’s
important, but the reaction to a sensation.  Like
starvation, art ceases to cause hunger pain when the
body goes into shock like therapy.  Like the
heresy I feel when I refuse to participate in
a fixed game plotted like a word deliberately
spelled backwards.  Distilled, and packed with
sugar.  Poured over ice, melting frozen
intentions. I sat back and listened to the booms
of Dolby digital inventions, and still there must
have been a point when it went the other way. 

The other side is alright, not great, but
alright like right turns versus left turns.
The simple pleasure of getting to go when
you’re supposed to stop.  Of breaking rules.
Of reminiscing about the old school.  Tradition
is so hard to break because it’s made out of
polypropylene, out of manmade dreams
that stink like dead bodies when they burn.
That stink like speaking out of turn when you
know you’re just supposed to listen.
We could be friends but the distance between
our experience doesn’t shift like magnets.
Like polar opposites.  It’s too similar
for me to tell you you’ll have to go through
hell.  A place designed for us by books,
but look, some of us weren’t meant to live
life.  Only to survive it.  To multiply it
with an exponential that is nondescript.  Ineffable
sadness that isn’t so ineffable when you
just sit down and write (ride) it out.

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