One More Time: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

I’m just about on that edge.
please push me.
let me drop…

People talking just to waste air and ideas.
No one gaining anything from all the noise.

Yack Yack Yack.
Buzzword bullshit
I want my time back.
I’m going to hold my breath.
quickly turning red
my brain is choaking sweetness
its starting to feel all warm and fuzzy
cottoncandy blanched and rotting
I think my mom is putting the dog down.

and I need to hear a soothing voice.
somewhere out there.
a missed connection.
third and market
cell phone charger
beatnick black guy hat
need to pay his bills
dred lock phone number
subtereinian computer store
crippled escalator with polio braces
i need a map
to blank media nap
and check out obsured by things and bad lighting
be still and they won’t notice
I feel trapped on an island
passing messages to the outside world
you know that H word
seeding music
plants perfection
insideout growth like nightmare socks
the beanstock castle mage of glass and anger
god sits in this space
on a phone
with a PR agent
“murry” god exclaims, “they are fucking it all up in my name.
What can you do about this?”
I wake up.

More dreams
my teeth are black in the dream.
I scrub, scrape the teeth are getting smaller
the rot is never gone.
i rip at the gums
the death will not come out
like stains on my sheets
i am crying
i am frustrated
a million things
and i cannot focus on one
i need an echo
i need some light
i need a hammer
maybe just some nails?

(Monday, August 07, 2006)

Missedspelled Phonetic Nightmares: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

Harbor theses intentions
so criminal a container
so thirsty the desire
to take everything that
is not nailed down
in this room of unsettling dust
creating friction, electric, the air igniting
movements so quiet they cannot be seen
but look farther, child
behind these fish eyes

Can you not smell the storm
carved out on distant horizons
to blow it all away

So far that distance cannot be measured in lifetimes

Dreams smelted down
their weighting gold ingots
sparkling at the bottom of the ocean
the sun reflects defiance that
populates each breath of the game of life
dice, hard 8, crossing fingers and
magic things, seen in the dark
when you are alone
or just a lonely fish
in a bowl never remembering
tail reflected in you home
a prison on both sides. security
from colliding wet friction
warm to the smell lingering on
but not for much longer
the sun is going down and a mother
calls for their child off exploring
open worlds feeding imagination
the fruit of growth delivering
salvation’s fine print
no one dares to check

Off to the land of left socks
and sweet fathers missed
I have taken the lords name in vain

Gratitude the armor

Protecting the innocent

The eyes view
across the yard
my lover sits
green gardens wet texture, blue like moisture
the chair of iron
gently grasps each curve
she dances in flame
i breathe it in
in my guts

The audience is watching and
the time is still trickling
outside these walls
an ark is being built
of Barbie doll crotch fantasies
and green men melting
sticking to concrete
and marsh mellow animals floating
on the ocean upside down reflected
infinite bending the upside down optics
the beauty unraveled

(Tuesday, July 25, 2006)

With and Without Cords: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

So, you know we are dangerous
for each other right?

We sit here
and open up
with the language
of ourselves
exposing the tender
raw bits.

Here are my insecurities,
here is my doubt,
here is my fear,

Here is the everything
I haven’t had
respect enough
to share, but
it doesn’t mean
that I’m not

All of this
wrapped up tightly
hand delivered
two hundred miles away
on a silver platter
of trust.

We dissect these
little badges
of wax and shame.
Expose them for
unneeded weight
while choking
in the sea of life.

What is left
are diamonds that
were once in the rough
you know diamonds just look
like ordinary
rocks without being

(Tuesday, July 11, 2006)


Morphine: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

Since I liked it.

Once a body in motion
The everything has ceased
Clunk, clunk, silence
The meat machine whistle blows,
but the guts are quickly back to work
The lungs like billows expand
The spine shutters electric
Up the base of my structure
Upwards and outwards
Like cooling water drops
The brain erupts
Remnants of video
Fire sucking backwards
Creation of your smile
On the back of my eyes
All this from letters
Formed into words
Stitched together
To make a poem
The spotlight fades
For the next act
The curtain closes

(Friday, July 07, 2006 )

Notes from the Dead Letter Office. Sunday, April 09, 2006

Wake up and join the race that has already been run. Catch up to what has already been finished. Or pull the covers back over your head and suffocate. Dilute yourself in the flow of a raging technological overload. Become a product not a person. A cold number on an unforgiving door.
Buy houses, toilet paper, oscillating sexual aids. Consume at a rate that can only be measured by the rate of the universe expanding inward on itself. Buy love, and sell death on every street corner. Worship false gods and bits of colored plastic. Simple men become heroes to weak-minded animals of a functionless mass for using coupons.

Tell the world you are sorry, and that it won’t happen again. Be the lowest bidder of the lowest common denominator. Function, yet have no worth. It does not help to put yourself into anything because it will only be crushed under the blind foot. Dysfunction is now the new functional, every day madness.

Don’t leave you dwelling, and sickness might not catch up with you. Cheat death. Be used by the system you abuse. Want more and never be happy. Happiness is for the week and the unproductive, and we all don’t want that. Do we? Nature lies outside our windows, but we only see that on smoke breaks and on our rides home form jobs and malls we don’t much like. Forever safe in our expensive cars. Killing small animals in rush hour frustration.

The duration of life is what we make of it. The ability to go on, do the wrong thing, and get paid for it. Run up bills that we have no intention of ever paying. Going to jail and getting married. Have ugly kids, for the tax right off purposes only. The sex was good, and oh, the check is on the nightstand. There is no room for love the second we are born. We all need to get something done that can never be accomplished. The price of gas is killing the little guy, and somewhere pockets are getting bigger.

I can’t help it, it’s all McDonalds fault I’m fat. The excuses keep coming. Verbal sewage flowing like drunken angry vomit. The coping or the lack thereof ebbs from each and every one of us. Art does not pay. The bleeding heart only dries out, eventually. Not to mention the stains are a bitch to get out. Chemical additives in our food are used to genetically alter us into better consumers. Face it. Work longer hours. Get something done for the other guy. Nothing will get done in the long run. You will die unfulfilled.

Have a heart and give. Like leftover fish, this smells funny. Understand the unexplainable. Wash behind your ears, or you will die alone in a dumpster. Eat your peas because if you don’t some one  will be out of a job, Its one less person that going to need peas. No market in it anymore, so why do it?

Defecate where you live. I know I do. I can’t go take a shit at my neighbor’s house. Cut out your tongue and send it to Tipper Gorre. Play Dungeons and Dragons; worship the Devil. Watch Saturday morning cartoons with a head full of acid just to remember what it is like to be a kid. Sell drugs to nuns. Lay down concrete to keep the soil from getting dirty.

Imitate everything. Be different. Wake up and never know what’s going on, or how long a furlong is. Populate the world full of nonsense just to make sense make more “sense”. Sell real estate in insanity. It’s a summer home. It’s a nice place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there. How long it this to last? How much is too much? Well, I guess when your brain explodes and your heart stops. Two seconds ago, when you were alive was the limit to be set. By who though?

Walk in my shoes they won’t fit, and they don’t go with those pants, but what the hell rebel. Against what though? It’s getting old to rebel against your parents. How about friction? Defy both friction and heat, I’m sure you have nothing better to do on a Saturday morning. Show the world that there is no chance in anything we do. It is all planed in the script. We are the greatest joke. Understand that you have to go to work, you have to buy, and you have to sell. There is no choice. You must be the poster child for the working class asshole. With your nuclear family on the road to happiness. Eating the family dog because at least you know where it has been. Forget what they told you, but remember what you found out for yourself. Imagination ran off with the vital parts of existence. For instance the prices of gas once again are going to cause the average Joe to sell crack just so he can drive little Timmy to soccer practice. Oh, by the way it all ends here.


Maybe I’m chemically predisposed, I don’t know.
I’ve never really got that big cosmic joke, but why do I always feel like I’m struggling?
A state of friction of a plan, a tempo, direction.
Did I not get invited, do have something to share?
Maybe, I’m just old and tired?
Maybe, I’ll sit back sedated and smile.


It’s like I’m a crazed idiot in a sinking ship.
The other passengers pull out their iPhones and record.
Experience nothing in the moment, shared for prosperity.
I’m grabbing a can opener, and supplies.
Why are you so angry they ask?
It’s because I’ve sold your hopes and dreams, and
replaced them with endless hunger.
Your soul will die empty, and I’m in the works to land a deal to profit on
recycling those little fuckers, soon.
Out loud I say nothing of the sort.
I babble on.
Sometimes I’m just scared.


Shouldering the sins of youth.
Well youths.
Like the things that surround.
Circling overhead.
Waiting to chew on my bones.
I’ll make a good broth, consumed, then expelled.
Sometimes I wonder if still be there to enjoy it.
Drowning in fire.
I ponder things, down the rabbit hole.
It calls, invisible to everyday senses.
Energy, mass, breathing, organic mechanics, operator, and
the life and death to give it all a stage.
Perception and judgement give way to completion and power.
The infinite grasp of flawed perfection.
For what proof do we have to behold, irrelevant.
The question, so is green your natural hair color?
The man asks.
The answer, yes.
As I return to urinating, slowly glancing down, making sure I was not aiming at my shoe. Sometimes this is reality.
The best character in this story is one I can only describe as
an obnoxiously clean park restroom.
Am I an extra in fight club?
Am I a neo noir concoction.