THREATS AND NOTES

2010-05-13T16:44:00.001-07:00

"UNTITLED"

With bodies near,

the mind may ponder elsewhere.

Only capable to do so

not because of indifference to,

but because of being at peace with.

When bodies lie in distance to each other,

The heart longs

for closure nearby

restless in turning.

Whether I felt closure in intimacy,

and torment at rift

Whether I was at peace in distance,

and at loss in nearness

This, I can not bear to answer

and you may call me

coward.

My regrettable,

all I am able to offer you is this;

It is painful to break up

It is painful to keep going.

It is painful to break up

It is painful to keep going.

2010-05-13T16:43:00.000-07:00

"CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION"

The boiling tea hisses

dust dwindling

and time taking a light beat

with each tick.

And so forth.

But in the end

let’s not forget

we are the sons and daughters of yesterday’s hardships.

Sons and daughters of fields and pavements

greasy crude tools and shiny precise tools.

We are the children of the revolution.

Sons and daughters

of engineers,

doctors,

cab drivers,

and poets.

Of bloody bodies,

shattered histories.

And we continue to ponder with suggestive second,

minute,

and hour-hands

of the clock.

The samovar still hisses.

But the sugar cube has layered over a blanket of premature enjoyment.

For now,

let us cherish tales of old,

and the sound of hissing samovars

echoing away into a background ambience of bloody pavements and spring-time gardens…

2010-05-13T16:41:00.000-07:00

"MAY 1ST"

Inspector what is it that’s wrong with my head

The Antifa is echoing its concerns down throats

Kreuzberg civilians nodding in anticipation

Clenching fists on to objects

Inspector will you explain to me my emotional torment

The police engages through narrow streets towards our intersections

Riot tourists will document their trails of alcohol

Spring break blasts of a life-time

Today,

I’d rather throw a molotow into the sea then at the police.

I watch.

Beautiful explosions coat the setting sky of helplessness.

2010-05-13T16:38:00.001-07:00

"IMMORTALITY"

Offspring and creation

Tradition and continuation;

We each draft our own pattern

Thinking of a finished artwork,

A scribbled alias

A god

The hasty scratch in the forgotten bathroom reads;

‘Immortality’

I think of man’s plight towards an after

And how we come to stumble against nature

With a want for a legacy to leave behind.

A child of sorts.

One to bear fruit,

When we are not there to tend.

But in the end

The only thing that rests

A bouquet of flowers

lasting to smell tender for some hours

Perhaps.

Among endless trees of droopy branches.

The scratch reads!

‘Mortality fooled no one,

It was man that fooled himself,

Here,

At this grave’.

2010-05-13T16:37:00.000-07:00

"THE ARTIST II"

We are all really artists.

It’s just that some of us have come to acknowledge it.

While others haven’t.

2010-03-12T12:50:00.001-08:00

"THE ARTIST"

I am an artist

Not an artist follower

Somebody tell me

Who is Jeff Wall?

I am a thinker and dreamer

Not a measurer or architect

Forgive me

What the heck is a meter?

2010-03-12T12:47:00.000-08:00

"LONGING"

I await you,

and my mind empty

lies in stillness,

still like a pond.

Though my stomach

full with fire,

burns with longing,

a longing I wish not to extinguish,

but to share.

We join in arms and go round in circles.

The fire burns.

2010-03-12T12:45:00.001-08:00

"WRESTLE LIKE CHILDREN"

You have revealed:

You flutter your feet in anticipation for me.

I announce:

I stomp up and down, clonking eagerly on my wooden floor for your arrival.

But when we finally meet,

I ask of only one thing:

We must wrestle in nakedness,

now, right this moment!

We flutter and stomp harmoniously into the a.m.

2010-03-12T12:42:00.001-08:00

"WALTZ"

When lovers submit to the Waltz

nothing else matters.

As my eyes lay on you

Everything around shuts its doors

The music begins to commence

I hope we can melt in warm hands

Swirling like rafts in strong current

Round and out of control

What does it matter if you let go or join

The fall down the way is majestic

Together we will transcend

What does it matter

The fall is only the climax

Not the end

When lovers submit to the Waltz

nothing else matters.

2010-03-12T12:41:00.000-08:00

"THE GOOD OLD DAYS"

You and your old disgruntled fellowmen

How you contemplate in bitterness of today

Reminiscing on yesteryear

Pointing to the glories of the old

Crumbling

Leaning into wet chests of nostalgic dispositions

“Oh how great mama’s pies were”

The howling alerts;

The waiting Concord spreads its wings.

2010-02-08T19:06:00.000-08:00

"BROCORE"

Brocore

As I navigate through city boulevards and suburb drive-thrus

With reflection in a full-lit night

I ask what 'tis to be bro

Of cigarettes I ask

Do I smoke

Or break?

Of fags I contemplate

Do I beat

Or defend?

Of babes I plead

Do I decline

Or smash?

Ah what I would do for a cigarette!

'Tis bro not to know?

“Ney” commands the brotherhood

“'Tis to feel!”

This here is Boston, 1985

And with X’s crossed on our hands

We jump eagerly into our jeeps to gallop away

Into the horizon

Like the stubborn last mercenaries of Genghis Khan’s army

For animal rights we chant

The night,

So young

Brocore

2010-01-19T08:43:00.000-08:00

"PORNOGRAPHY" round 2

From ripe adolescence

To awkward maturity

I have learned to transform filth

With dick in one hand

And the other hand pointing at you

I touch your precious hearts

Into the arena

I swing violently

To woo and dismiss

The tool released

Rests gently on souls

The crowd goes ape-shit over this sort of poetry.

2009-12-18T17:59:00.000-08:00

"COOL WORDS"

Porno aesthetic of digital confetti

Hot bowl of salsa epilepsy

AIDS-Africa

Or how the poets of the future revived romanticist ideals.

2009-12-18T17:57:00.000-08:00

"ALLEGIANCE"

I pledge allegiance to you

and as an aged and all too common rock,

wish to bow

then join your crown of dazzling accumulation.

The reflections of your achieved diamonds and pearls bruise the eye,

which in turn hurts my brain.

Nevertheless I must reach towards that which dictates from up above,

like a pilgrim drawn unconditionally to the blinding light of his saviour,

a saviour

any saviour.

a god.

any god.

Take me away,

I am fucking yours

forever.

2009-12-18T17:53:00.000-08:00

"THE PIGEON"

Not worthy being entangled

into bored sadistic games of adolescent youths

your presence is at odds here.

While spectators document your white-winged peers

that illuminate the midday clouds over the harbor

you slowly dry up in the hot summer day of a filthy city corner

with head tilted downward

grazing at the ground.

Claiming to be from nowhere,

yet you are to be found

everywhere.

You exist in some cold shade

between goddamned cracks

pressed between crumbling fragility,

and drifting wind.

Caught in the middle of things,

nowhere and everywhere

at once.

Your stature

as worthy as these breadcrumbs

that encrust the sole of my shoe.

Here,

they are for you!

2009-12-11T18:45:00.000-08:00

"MURDERERS"

Murderers

Vandals

Swindlers

and Poets

What it is

to be sentenced

into the black barrel of condemnation

Some of us
in control of our weapon

Others
dragged around by power and lust

Some of us
droop as hopeless romantics

Others
fetch the fancy into a violent fruition

Some of us
walk with one hand cut-off

Others
to be eternally spat upon for heresy and sin

Some of us
have fans

Others
surrounded by critics and the police

Some of us
preach

Others
we prefer to commit

Murderers

Vandals

Swindlers

and Poets

No one told me
that we’d sit here past midnight

together at the table of deceit

2009-12-11T18:38:00.000-08:00

"WHEN YOU COME KNOCKING"

Tonight

I await you dear,

and when the knocking nears

I can only hope that you like sweets, tea,

and the humming of loved ones

lost at sea.

The only request I would have from you,

to wash yourself of these aforementioned expectations.

Bring a big basket,

yet don’t get your hopes up on stuffing,

where upon your entrance
you might be expected to abandon unfulfilled desires

at any given moment.

Understand,

this here is the house of the naked ones.

Disregard,

and come rushing unprepared.

2009-12-10T17:51:00.000-08:00

"YOUTH"

The smile on your face flutters

Stretching its wings

Echoing joy

Down stomachs and valleys

The sun reflects wide on your cheeks

Turning red

Spreading like a slow rise of a warm summer morning

As onlookers melt

The pearls in your glare

They shimmer of someone with great ideas

Harboring excitement and anticipation around

What shine

And your eyelids never lay tired and defeated

They awake wide open

Daring to daydream

With an optimism of the resistant few

But I must confess

For all our soft heresy

Scepticism awaits our age and weight

Punishing convicted ones of ornament and crime

In a landscape horizontal

We blossom vertically

Our faces painted with bold colors

Of the youthful and adventurous.

2009-12-07T12:05:00.000-08:00

"CHAOS AND ORDER"

Birth is not a choice.

Your life is in chaos.

What they tell you contradicts.

You step out of line.

What you experience is confusing.

You become seeker of potentials.

(College years)

What is most convenient you come to accept.

You are sheep.

What everyone else says won’t matter.

Your life now makes almost perfect sense.

What you think is a climax seems more like fabrication.

You feel unsettled.

What you reminisce on becomes blurry.

You become seeker of pasts.

You die suddenly.

Order at last.

“Come smell the dirt, dear idiot one.”

2009-12-07T12:02:00.000-08:00

"SOMETHING!"

It’s late and lonely here, my friend

and I can only await you

O creativity.

And when the light won’t hammer at my mind,

I sit numb,

waiting for something

good

say catastrophic

to strike.

Something.

Until then,

orchestrated nit-picking

will do.

What it must be like to be a fucking financial bore;

Waiting.

All your life.

And then,

just perhaps

the smell
of flesh

Nothing.

2009-12-06T09:34:00.001-08:00

"PORNOGRAPHY"

From awkward dispositions of adolescence

and off to ripe maturity,

I have learned to turn filth into poetry.

With dick swinging in one hand,

expressive and all,

and the other hand pointing right at you lousy maggots,

I touch your precious hearts with my sensibility.

The crowd goes ape-shit over this kinda pornography.

2009-12-06T09:19:00.001-08:00

"THE FAGGOT"

Your face is boiling with purple blood

Your pores are oozing with anticipation

Your ugly smile is forced like a tattoo

Even if you did lure her in

She wouldn’t be able to suck your wrinkled and nervous penis

Faggot.

2009-12-05T18:13:00.001-08:00

"THE POET" round 1

We are all born poets at heart.

Only a few of us choose to write.

2009-12-05T18:11:00.001-08:00

"THE POET" round 2

We are all born poets at heart.

Only a few of us make a big deal of it.

2009-12-05T18:10:00.001-08:00

"THE POET" round 3

We are all born bisexual at heart.

Only a few of us choose to suck cock.

2009-12-05T18:07:00.001-08:00

"THE ARTIST"

A successful artist comes up with a great idea and runs with it.

A genius artist comes up with many great ideas and doesn’t know what to do with any of them.

2009-12-05T13:23:00.000-08:00

"YOU"

Your personality is based on rigid calculations

Your research ambitions rival that of a colonial archeologist

Your research ethics rival that of a colonial archeologist

Your beard is fucking antique

Your trench coat is the authority,

not up for discussion.

You consider yourself spontaneous

Your friends like that

You’re into wordplay and clever punch-line titles

You consider yourself poet,

they see you as an entertainer

one that jerks off in public.

But at least you jerk off well

and get away with it, you argue.

You admire the look of a colonialist thief

Your beaten boots are a social commentary

People say you have a look-alike,

she shops at organic markets and wears a hand-crafted bag.

You tell them that you’ve been told that before

You judge others

Your friends like that

You are very sensitive

You tell people to loosen up

Your style is endorsed by three close friends that have a similar style,

who are again endorsed by another three friends each.

You consider yourself fun

Your friends like that you consider yourself fun

Your dirty wool sweater has been carefully selected

You like asymmetry and off-key sad songs

Your friends correct your beard off bulgur wheat,

dust falls from it.

You garnish yourself with a designer pair of jeans,

which gives your dusty look credentials.

You acknowledge others with a similar style by ignoring them,

they understand your attitude.

You see these people at parties,

and have most likely met them or looked at their blogs.

You often exchange video links of ironic material with two people

You are a curator

You like taking road trips and documenting them

You take notes in Chinatown

You have read a lot about Jean-Paul Sartre,

but never a book by him.

You find the concept of the working class interesting

Your beaten boots are irony to your trust-fund upbringing

The boots are calculated,

the irony not so much.

You’ve been contemplating for months on cautiously being yourself again

You can’t find your childhood vintage beanie.