Like an Upside Down Lawnmower
Scattering the Squirrels
and Scaring the Kids
mixed up cake batter
inside my bowl.
not sure what to do anymore.
gotta keep from feeling too safe and secure as
comfort can lead to laziness.
gotta keep from risking too much as
risk can lead to vanquishment.
can't fall into repetition,
yet can't live on a whim.
mixed up cake batter
inside my skull.
it's not a cake yet.
it tastes damn good from the swipe of a thumb
but too much batter leaves the taste buds numb.
the city is being sand blasted by tiny chips of ice
and i can hear the shards seasoning my windows
like ivory dice,
or wedding rice,
or tacks spilled across a table
and the wind is blowing stiff across the vinyl siding
and rubbing the shingles like braille
spinning rooftop vents
into circus tents
and winding chimney smoke to sable
the Earth fell asleep on its side tonight
cutting the blood from Autumn's limbs
just like video snow
or cold cookie dough
or trollies frozen to the cable
oh my goodness
how i love it when the leaves are sitting quietly in my yard
and just as i step forward
they run away from me,
scattering like prey.
it is cold outside
and the gasoline colors of fall have begun to
BUURRRN away
a river of hickory smoke has risen into the sky,
from the soot of the steakhouses.
it's as if the world is suddenly hanging in mid-air,
asleep on a wooden feather,
quixotic,
soft and welcoming.
with each exhale, the fog of my breath reminds me that my heart is still beating hard
and that my coat is keeping me warm.
and it's times like these i feel the electricity,
the GRAVITY
of being alive.
There are unhinged minds, coming from one direction specifically. And I hear them speaking to themselves every night as they pass along the west perimeter wall of 1610 North Gatewood Avenue.
Currently, I sleep in a tent, inside an ancient, decrepit, industrial building on the periphery of the worst slum in Oklahoma City. It is a large, empty hanger with four, thin garage doors. It is a variable ampitheater of a warehouse. And you can hear everything in there: the pitbulls, the addicts, the helicopters, the gunshots, the fights, the prostitutes, the gangs, the sirens, and perhaps the most disturbing of them all...
the men the courts have ruled "non compos mantis" or...
not of sound mind.
There are too many to count.
And their voices come in through the cracks, the boarded windows, and the gaping holes that pepper the rusted, metal roof above my bed.
Once these voices enter my building, they are amplified.
They eclipse all my distractions.
They riddle the metal and blur the concrete.
They carry jars of rusted bolts in their broken hands.
They smash beer bottles against the curbs and
they punch the solid brick walls with closed fists and ground teeth.
They want in.
And they want attention.
We keep a loaded gun nearby.
For there are nights when they whisper in my ear
while I am asleep.
I tell you, they can be unspeakably violent,
unflinchingly sad,
or worse...
show no vestige of emotion at all.
When the voices pass by my front door, I hear them twice.
They are captured by the directional microphones on
the security cameras mounted on the perimeter wall.
The voices then emerge, inside, on a pair of small monitor speakers along
with soft bursts of uncommon static, which sound akin to
the tearing of tissue paper or the brush of a corn husk.
It is an old system and the audio has a slight delay.
The result is such that
a horrendous echo of madness can be heard
between the live audio feed on the inside
and the actual world on the outside.
This is how the voices whisper into my ear every night.
They are a horrific yet beautiful cacophony of lost dreams
and discordant sounds.
Headless screams and static.
Mindless cursing and despair.
Everything doubled over into a repeating echo,
like a mirror gazing in upon itself
and casting aspersions onto each reflection.
These voices are the inner monologues of the schizophrenic
swinging desperately at unattainable peace,
lost among the dross,
unknowingly whispering
through the 3 inch speaker grill
of an old black and white television.
Each passing voice marks the
last remnants of a functioning mind.
The songs of failed bodies and failed lives.
The songs of humanity.
And although they fill my chambers each and every night,
and although I stand prepared to defend myself lest their
mental mutilations manifest themselves inside my home,
I will always fix my eyes on their actions with an almost childlike wonder,
as if I too may one day grow up to be
truly psychotic.
a lone businessman with a broken candy cane
stirring a cold volcano
in a sterile, steel bar with no patrons.
it's a modern and clean place.
the drinks are priced high but
he likes upscale joints.
mostly though, he sits there because
he doesn't know where else to go
after work.
he's doing well at the firm and the guy on the second floor
is going to set him up with a date next week.
he hopes she's pretty.
his drink is empty.
the room is empty.
should he go home now?
or should he wait and see if
any potential friends will
walk through that door?
the air conditioning kicks on.
it's cold outside.
like polished chrome.
for a moment he thinks about the Christmas lights
he wrapped around
his mailbox.
for some reason, only half of his lights
are working.
and for the life of him, he can't find the bulb
that ruined the strand.
and you get older.
and what used to take minutes suddenly takes days.
and your schedule fills up quicker
and the world becomes a blender
and lives get mixed in
with each other
and then strained out.
and you forget everyone's birthday.
and you suddenly remember
your first pair of shoes.
and you fall in love with your old favorite
colors again.
and you lose all your digital pictures.
and you finally accept that it's time
to replace your favorite
pillow.
and the others just aren't as soft.
you suddenly enjoy the foods
you once despised.
you still sing
though your voice is gone.
you enjoy sitting outside
and doing nothing.
and you grow old,
all the while,
you grow old.
and in the end
you leave with a little gasp
just like a quick breeze
through the foyer.
just like that wonderful autumn breeze.
just like everyone else.
WHEN PREDICTING THE WINNING TEAM in a battle between dinosaurs and cowboys, there are many variables that one must take into consideration.
1. How many cowboys are there? How many dinosaurs?
2. Do the cowboys have guns and ammunition?
3. Can any of the dinosaurs fly?
4. Can any of the dinosaurs understand a topographic map?
5. Do the younger cowboys have a curfew?
6. Are the cowboys emotionally fragile?
7. Do the dinosaurs fit into the upper income tax bracket?
8. Do the cowboys own any sharp objects?
9. Are there indians hiding inside the dinosaurs' mouths?
10. Are the cowboys extremely tiny?
It is important to be properly informed before attempting to predict the future.
trace the skin
around the top of your head
with a sharp knife
and feel the thoughts
seep down your temple and tickle your cheek
like silent lava or
hot, crimson tar.
like the cages of a poultry plant
where prisoners have been locked up so long that
their skin grows around the bars
there is a dividing line.
there is a line that marks the day a prisoner,
with all his regret and suffering,
can no longer be confined to his cage
because he's ultimately become
the cage itself.
Recently I just finished posting a shoot I did back in July called
A KIDNAPPPING IN DREAMY LLAMA COUNTRY.
This is the first photography shoot I've ever done using what people in the fashion world call a "model". At least that's what I'm told. I thought they were just called "hot girls that make your pictures better without you having to do anything". I guess they're called something else in the fashion industry. Though I tend to lean more towards the marred and scarred side of life, the use of this "model", also known as Angela Renai Comer, represents a vast departure for me. Due to my lazy eye, missing teeth, and hook hand, I am usually forced to resort to photographing old abandoned structures, the rats in my tent, or men of questionable motivation.
it's 6 degrees below comfortable
inside the house on Shoulders Hill.
the air is icy enough to slide through the fibers of my shirt,
slip through my sweater threads,
and snip my skin.
nibble, nibble, nibble
little frosty canines
bite, bite, bite
last night, i stepped into a cold, shallow puddle
on the cement
wearing socks
flop, flop, flop
little soggy sheep
squish, squish, squish
the curls of my pajamas are filled with crushed slush
and while I'm asleep
my joints clench their jaws
my nerve endings shrink,
my lips become raw,
and my fingers, steel.
i want be warm and dry and joyous
like that impossible Snuggles Bear
but tonight
security is a long way away.
she's a gong of a woman.
and no matter which direction she swings
-----forwards---> or <---backwards-----
she is generally
MAKING ALOT OF NOISE.
there's always a space in the middle...
of the house, the hallway, the room.
next to shelves filled with tiny fingerprints
next to dustbeams and wooden canes
a place where the draft neath the door cannot reach
a place where the warmth of the grill does not touch
a place where the music does not play
and words crease the aging, leather chairs
as old hands motion silently...
to sit instead of stand.
How To Repel Kids
in a robe, i stood in my front yard and smoked, watching loose aluminum cans blow with the leaves. then i heard spokes. rhythm. flickering spokes. bicycles. kids approaching. that's no good. something must be done. i smoked. i leaned against the chain link. i nabbed the lawnmower. i ripped it. i started it up. i flipped it over. i flipped it over on its back. i smoked and coughed with the motor. it staggered. bolts scraped the concrete. i watched its blades spin sharp. second hands stirring dirt and dander. sucking it all in. sucking my exhaust. we smoked together. sputtering. screaming with bloodshot eyes. sputtering. choking. screaming. "this isn't a lawnmower anymore. this will kill you." the upside down lawnmower. chopping squirrels and scaring kids. fighting, spitting, and scratching the pavement all in one jerky, violent, rusty, mechanical seizure. until finally... fuel flooded the engine and in a puff, the awkward struggle came to an end. and the kids were gone.
yes. the kids were gone.
in the classroom i will shape their young minds,
but after 3:00
fuckers better stay away from me.
things aren't right here.
America,
it pains me to admit that
out of sadness, madness, and boredom
I've taken to reading a fanciful bit of literature entitled
"Expressions! 334 Treasures for Everyone on Your List!"
which is an expired Christmas catalog for old women and aliens.
Here are a few of the items listed in this catalog, in no particular order.
I find that they're even better without pictures or descriptions.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Granddaughter's Keepsake Pillow Sword
Jewel-Dazzled Penquin
Ooh La-La Dog Prints
Darling Companion
'Trash Bin' Sweetener Service
Good Clean Fun Tissue Dispenser with Two Secrets
∆
l
l
l
An atomic bomb of true desire on every page. Nothing but time, sadness, and madness to attract us to that circus of wasted freedom. Don't stand too close, or you just might believe you need a monogrammed mushroom cloud of crap.
everyone's got their own little world that they're fighting in.
and it's hard to find the people you deem truly genuine.
my fellow specks of dust
how many do you trust
and would you die for them?
This afternoon I was driving in the country,
and there came a moment when the world was even,
the east and the west,
each side echoing the other.
Two level fields, with virgin winter wheat, equal in height
to my right and to my left.
There was an early moon hanging opposite a purple sun
and the same hackberry trees lined
the brim of the horizon line for miles.
The land was windless and there I was,
perfectly placed in the center of it all,
open
and effortlessly traveling down the division line
slicing the crisp skin of the world
like a pair of
fresh, sharp scissors.
there is a tree on this Earth,
a living spruce tree,
that is estimated to be over 9,500 years old.
and there are people on this Earth,
living, smart people,
that actually believe they know where they're going.
The family that lives next door to me,
which consists of two young girls, a mother, and a father,
keep a strict regimen of trampoline jumping every day
at approximately 6:00 PM.
They jump on their backyard trampoline
and they do not take turns.
They all jump together
like happy balls of fat, pink rubber.
When they do this,
all the squirrels gather around
and S T A R E.
Though I want to believe the squirrels are conducting research
on the behavioral patterns inherent within
American nuclear family rituals
I am to inclined to believe that the real reason these rodents gather
to watch the official bouncing family of The United States of America
is to investigate the high pitched squeak of the trampoline springs.
Perhaps the springs are speaking squirrel vocabulary words
or even mentioning names?
i often look for a foundation.
something to drive rebar into.
and although i do love to f l o a t,
i sometimes find that i'm at my happiest
when i have something to anchor to.
something
my brain can trick itself into believing
is vastly important
whether it really is or not.
it doesn't matter.
there are also times in which,
my brain loves to humble itself.
do you ever experience that?
when you're own mind
rips down the willow trees
and lines your guts up
with the center of the crosshairs.
for me, it happens a lot.
and it often takes a whirlpool of energy
just to keep it from traveling
to the abandoned strip malls of civilization.
those places were desperate mirages of meaning
once stood strong
and my sense of purpose had enough fuel
to push my body through the day.
the usual.
the god damned usual.
but...
and there IS a BUT...
as i get older... i seem to become less and less worried
about purpose and meaning
and i've found that the matters concerning such dense subjects
generally just
f l o w b y t h e w a y s i d e.
and when i scrape away the poetry,
and the shell,
and the drama,
and the glasses from which i view my surroundings
it becomes clear that the only thing i really want out of life is
to watch the world move, peacefully,
and enjoy my brief moment in time
with the people i love.