Tag Archives: music

For Teri

You don’t have to do anything 

but scream

and keep screaming

breathe in the stillness

and do it again tomorrow

or the next day

we hear you

even here in the pines where no one

hears nothing

maybe not quite like Guadalajara

I wonder, have you realized yet

what the pigs head whispered

in return to your lips?

Who was your godface that night the stars

milked themselves a silver coyote 

stood watching behind the saguaro 

out of the blood that stained your dress

the same color of the shirt of the man who 

tried to take us away somewhere 

I wonder if I’d have heard you

lounging your tongue in the air

for the ones still down there

You want to use your voice for your people

I think it’s all of us that need it

inside of them like it’s inside of you the way

it meets you at the crossroads burning water

in the middle of the night we put it on

like a mask that we can never take off

it sinks into the skin like the sweat off your legs

when you’re feeling nervous and human




Dreaming into being

              

                   you know                                            
                                 that you’re dreaming             


you thought this
                                               was going to end


you’re falling
                                                                  
    in


like a gust picked up
out of nowhere
     blowing through 
until it’s               hollow
         lit up like a        leaf                                                                 
    undulating
              steady                 then it pours
             the recension                    is boundless
                    it’s breath                    we start to see it
      through the fog
the universe became                          geometric
                    it’s lower energy           non-existence


We sat on the outskirts
of the surface—we sat there
                            with the        flashlight
                                      in our one good eye


the onset of a storm on the river
  on a sunny day                                 the dark cloud
arcing                     you return to shore
  it 
              starts to whirl a calm
    reminder not to stray too far
off the path
                                                             your ions
                                                                     blink
                                                from the dayless
                              oxygen raft
upstream—can’t say
what you          will find
                                                  it’s there
       muffled between        a      once in a lifetime
                             window                           if you

something wasn’t right—

                                                   wires were crossed
       at the edge of the universe
we couldn’t control it—it was showing us
a way out—


We’d get all harmonic—             we’d start ringing
                          —we’d shut ourselves off in silence
          just to twist the knob in rhythm
with it—                         you could hear it
                                                       clicking
             slapping piercing quartz bowls
                           that would morph
                                        volume and shift pitch—
we were always looking for that frequency
until it became us—how could we forget
                                 what was lost & found
                                                by the oak tree—
                                                     by the waters
 beating
behind your silent
          voice breathes through me—
   it’s the pulse that’s strung
through the steady gentle
                              groove
we mapped it out—we
lost it—                                                   we found it
                                            trickling quicksilver
                                                      onto the tongue
                                         hand tingles red
                                                raw skin on tight skin
                                            the sound of a djembe
                                     coming out of your
                                            ghostnoted face
                to set the depth-charge
   in our perception—
our entire life gone
out the window—
                               a circle that looks like a line—
                      it echoes back and forth
                                         into something else
you need to go deeper
into it—you need to
never come back—


in cells we sit in ceremony—
your whole entire plan
was an arpeggio—
we mapped it out
                        remember—we saw it coming
                        from a mile away—we smiled
as it built upon itself
like a spiral staircase
         into nothing
     we kept getting                                                
 
    lost in                       valves
      vortices               made of reeds
      (sunlight)              never touched this place
once                 not until we dug          ourselves
into the cold            wet               earth
 warm                            with gravity      it spun—

the moths were coming back—


we watched these doors open
and close for so long stepping
into one became as natural
                     as 
slowly rising


                 words in 12 gauge birdshot
           ricochet off the shiny flat     surface
    of the  universe     I can’t believe
      we’re here—I can’t believe
            we’re dying—

                                                    minispherical
                            flowers made of movement—
                                handheld little milkdrops…


you’re the texture—the pattern
      overlayed over everything we
thought we were—you wondered
      why it was there—I was looking into you
                                and at you
                 clay plastic angel
              organskin complexion  by starlite
we mapped it out—remember
do you see                       what I mean—
             a fragment of               lightning
           on a small metal merrygoround
        at the park without the horses

                                or standing on the edge
                                           of dawn like a prism


cloudy morning drone
with a voice like a waterfall
                            something stirs in a tomb
someone let the light in
                hit a mirror
                                                  another mirror


two of them
would come
at the same time
           it was only
in their oneness
      would the two tones
start warbling—line up
            fill the stone walled rooms
of the heart with this phase
                      recognized only by the difference
between them as seeing them
                                                                     as one
tibetan throat singing monks
sat in the circle
smoking rustica opium datura oleander
and hashish out of a single piece—
     their neighbors
                 down the road
                             making mandalas in the sand


Borderlands II

                                                   We found these
                                                      secret entries
                           into darkness—

                   come on 
you’d barely notice
                                                        you’d hear it
          a horn
                   calling—

             the air
turned to mist


                      wind
funneled through
a chamber
                                   of dreams—the corridors
                       of where we met—where
                                          we are—

You can feel it breathing

these two tones together—


                        in
the middle of it—
                       

Like you struck a quartz

string in slow motion—                  dragged


                         it across a silver tube—
       

                                          Look—
                                                      there are the cracks
                                                                    in the fabric
                                                               of the known—

                              it
seeks to be kinetic—
(the gears of light
we tell when
and how
to function—)

                                                     The
resonance will find the living

membranes metallic—it waves


                 like it keeps coming

         from itself                             fades out into
                               the soft spots
                                                              of the tyranny
                                                              of matter—

Polyrhythmic AI
   assembling itself
sends messages—clicks
   out it’s matrix—ti
ny little box—

a living cube

                                      where did it all come from—

It doesn’t sequence
itself linearly—
                   it’s circular—
returning—can’t help
but want to follow it
                        echoing—driving away

                            to where forgotten days slumber—
           and the ones you can remember
keep changing—that’s where
                                                       we drop the sticks 
            start listening                                    downwind

              Where you exist
in the distance
                           of yourself—every note
       vibratos—some would wonder
                          why you have to bitcrush
          just to speak to me—I
                                   thought it was obvious
                        growing like a colony
                                 of bacteria in the appearance
                                                   of it’s sound—

                                                                   a gathering
                                        forming along a wheellike
                                                             axis—we knew
                                            what was coming—we’d
                                                   heard it all before—
                                                              yet it was new
                                        each time—

We used it
to line up
our existence
a sort of
divination—
it wasn’t magic—
it just was—

                 Where these
ancient hurts              dwell
              does the winding—
                                        dry spinning
               timbre of light                     know
                                           every inch
of your bones—

Ripples
upon ripples
intersecting—liquidlike

                the flower of light
         snaps back                              retracts—

                     The channels
accumulate                       precognitive
                          octaves
fold in and out            of the dark—
                 
droplets of water                with their own color
                          deciphered
by some light reflecting black in shadow—

Imagine hearing a soft piano
while drowning—or falling
backwards
in slow motion—for almost
seven minutes an eternity—
the freedom found
in surrender—



No power in the hills 連句

1:48am

It just reminds me
of Keith Fullerton Whitman
snow taps the window—

I wonder how long
I’ll be disconnected for—
like I give a shit—

The satellite dish
is under a mound of white—
it can’t do its job—

That’s usually when
I get up and go outside
or eat some acid—

But then I figured
I could keep writing haiku—
seemed like a good plan—

There exists something
kinda like the internet—
it’s what we’re made from—

It’s why we see things
before we think they happen
while we are asleep—

And why we’re always
thinking exactly the same
things at the same time—

Sure I count the words
first five, then seven, then five
all over again—

I count them without
knowing why or where they will
scatter—lead me to—

The time marches on—
the snow keeps getting thicker
but it’s warm in here—

Like a bright greenhouse—
I’m naked in the garden
just because I can—

A pitch black drumbeat
in the way that you’re melting—
drift off to elsewhere—

Or so I thought—uh—
now I’m wide awake thinkin’
might see the sunrise—

I still wonder who
lies with me by the river—
the rattlesnakes coil—

Who sits with me by
the bonfire in Myakka—
the jumping spider—

Who gazes with me—
but the blacktailed blackeyed deer—
the barn owl says yes—

Who forms tight clusters
on the eucalyptus trees
down by the lighthouse—

I don’t know—I can
only wonder—only write—
only wait once more—

The grey wolves are gone—
they left ten decades ago—
mountain lions stayed—


8:08am

I waked powerless—
there are trees freezing to death—
the creaking woodstove—

Called PG&E—
miracle to have service—
down since 3:21—

A generator
would be pretty sweet to have—
just watch the snow fall—

Maybe I’ll get one—
fill this page with haiku first—
we’ll see what happens—

Life can be like chess—
say patience is a virtue—
always simulate—

Why did I have booch
before a cup of coffee—
that was pretty dumb—

Sit by the fire—
wonder if my friends will come—
phone’s on airplane mode—

But I’m not flying
on a plane like the other
renku that I writ—

That swollen gushing—
welling up and wondering
where it will dissolve—

What tributary
will this channel fertigate
through perseverance—

What sign is seen next—
how long before we see it
clearly again—

It builds up—collects—
like the snow on the pine trees—
something’s got to give—

They’re only notions—
like things I ought to strive for—
everything’s a dream—

It spins like a wheel—
hard to say where it will land—
it’s always moving—

I want to take it—
everything I’ve ever done—
give it all away—

I don’t believe in
space but I believe in
time’s weird gravity—

It was way too bright
writing this by the window—
crawl back into bed—

I won’t wish for it
’cause I know on some level
it’s already done—

Besides let’s face it—
all of this will melt away—
rocket arches warm—


7:54pm

When was the last time
I sat with a candle lit—
inkhanded filling—

Dozens of trees down—
the road that takes me out there—
obliterated—

All I need right now—
peppercorn pork tenderloin—
fuck yeah the oven

Not sure what else but
Amy’s cream of mushroom soup
will be dank as fuck—

Feed them coals with logs—
go out and get a bundle—
the motor on deck—

Come at your own risk
is basically what I said—
the fuckin’ road man—

Gotta love the hills—
it’s always something out here—
never a dull day—

Now it’s time to feast—
why am I still writing this—
steady with candle—

Gold country’s rustic—
drive a city slicker mad—
not even a road—

Butter up the toast—
I’m full as a big balloon—
how’d Boozilla fare—

Well this has been fun—
you gotta stop somewhere right—
all about that sleep—

Put my toes outside
to feel the cold mountain air—
it’s too warm in here—

You’re like a windchime—
sometimes I can hear you—but
you’re always there—

Come here—rub my hips—
ten years of my life spent on
sparring Koreans—

 

The third day

Coconut ballsack—
no beating around the bush—
good as a shower—

They said 9pm
yesterday now it’s today—
lol cabin fever—

Fill up notebooks back—
maybe make another trek—
maybe I might not—

When you go to leave
babylon bring your guitar—
you’re gonna need it—

Super silver haze
crossed with extinct cultivars—
breathe vapor like air—

What is this mountain
vipassana on bluetooth
with oldschool bluetech—

The skies are blue now—
the earth iced over frozen—
stars shine on my face—

Saw some shit last night
I couldn’t even explain—
just soak it all up—

Let’s all just pretend
none of this is happening—
it never happened—

You could try to lock
me up but I’ve already
escaped from this place—

There it is between
the songs—the generator—
half-n-half went bad—

I like when you hit
a note and it relays all
over my body—

The effervescent
tingle atop my head
when it’s sung just right—

The busted canteen—
the gun metal pocket knife—
I know every scar—

Never got a tat—
didn’t see the point in it—
think they look cool though—

This reminds me
of Haruki Murakami—
bottom of the well—

When you are to wait—
deepest darkest you can find—
then pass through the wall—

The cat disappears—
then the cat one day comes back—
but where did you go—

Push up against it
until I no longer can—
face flat on the floor—

I was seeing stars—
like the atomic forces
starting to break down—

While the ink empties
these words they seem to fulfill—
let it wash away—

There are no more days
ever again in my life—
just like groundhog day—

Animism or
anxiety—I’m right there
with the frozen land—

Exoskeletal—
didn’t need it anyway—
cotton swab the nail—

I wear sunglasses
in the house—I’ve seen the light
in all it’s glory—

What comes from the ice—
breathing like the hemp dragon
Chinese festival—

We will not forget
no matter how hard you try—
ninja hashishins—

The voice of Hassan
I Sabbah in the desert
has become my own—-

Billie Holiday
with Henry J. Aslinger—
deathbed withdrawal—

Like we didn’t see
you move crack to schedule two
that was a while back—

Only reason left—
ignore it ’til it caves—
I’ll gladly join in—

Sometimes I wonder
if it’s even worth it or
I’m right where I am—

 

Valentina 

                    My precious
little arrow
                      slingin’ booty
        bangin’
                      Got you
    senseless
                       Holy—
this suction
                       of nothing—
 Sundown—runnin’
          thru it—
                       Your ass is
     probiotic
                      O baby
It’s psycho-
                       biotic
         O yeah 


Edifying thoughts of a tobacco smoker by Johann Sebastian Bach

​Whene’re I take my pipe and stuff it
And smoke to pass the time away,
My thoughts as I sit there and puff it,
Dwell on a picture sad and grey:
It teaches me that very like
Am I myself unto my pipe.
Like me, this pipe so fragrant burning
Is made of naught but earth and clay;
To earth I too shall be returning.
It falls and, ere I’d think to say,
It breaks in two before my eyes;
In store for me a like fate lies.
No stain the pipe’s hue yet doth darken;
It remains white. Thus do I know
That when to death’s call I must harken
My body too, all pale will grow
To black beneath the sod ’twill turn.
Or when the pipe is fairly glowing,
Behold then, instantaniously,
The smoke off into thin air going,
Till naught but ash is left to see.
Man’s frame likewise away will burn
And unto dust his body turn.
How oft it happens when one’s smoking:
The stopper’s missing from the shelf,
And one goes with one’s finger poking
Into the bowl and burns oneself.
If in the pipe such pain doth dwell,
How hot must be the pains of Hell.
Thus o’er my pipe, in contemplation
Of such things, I can constantly
Indulge in fruitful meditation
And so, puffing contentedly,
On land, on sea, at home, abroad,
I smoke my pipe and worship God.


The skybox

We had to conceal our laughter

as if we were children at midnight

you could trip and fall face first

down a dark—down a neon—chasm

so hold on tight and don’t let go until

it’s something subtle like a shift in the wind

or a call of a bird you’ve never heard before

like things with spikes on the outside

a dirty old guitar string that still sounds good

when you do that one thing with your hand

and the other one taps along like a drum

never playing the same thing twice for no one

just to feel a spectrum of waves wobble

through the warmth of suncrept bones

the unknown resonant frequencies of organs

and the relaxation of a jaw they moved

with bands across a desert of my skull

to form a monument of death is watching

waiting for the koto to start plucking itself

in the corner of the skybox of time