online literature since 2007

Saturday, December 29, 2007


we hitched a ride in the back of a pickup truck
inside it was an old television set
and a stereo system
i had to be careful when getting in
so as not to smash it to pieces

we decided to walk for a while
stopped and ate some deep fried crickets
that we slathered with beer
we posed with them for the camera
so we could make great facebook photos

down dimly-lit lanes and back roads
howling back at the barking dogs
hurling back their insults
cursing at the top of our lungs
before climbing onto our ways home

back into the prison camp we rode
but one of us was denied entry
because the guards didn't
like the features of his body
they were too familiar and close to home

we sat at the edge of an empty pool
at the end of the evening
quietly, for the most part
thinking about how on that night
we saw our histories change

Monday, December 24, 2007

through a window the
ambulance wail reaches me
smiling and alone.

Saturday, December 15, 2007

caesar dressing
and white american
cheese on my salad.
i am happy.

a bald figure of authority leads
underground evangelical therapy:
what should i think?
i am sad.

and a glass of cheap rum
will cure this socioeconomicopolitical downturn.
i am brave.

the mud of the soundscape
made into something
less concrete.
i am a fraid.

the noon sun grills
the snow on the rooftop.
the roads are being salted.
i am a wake.

this woman has three heads
and i am in three
different rooms.
i am a sleep.

i could search forever for a right virtue
but i could never find a right emotion.

or maybe it's the other way around.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

a pantoum for the city

Our city, a tiny tireless ant,
There is no end to the exorbitant
Our little pains make them so jubilant.
Our labor a part of it - relevant

There is no end to the exorbitant.
Is the apple of your eye appearing?
Our labor a part of it - relevant
The doges take their gold gondoliering.

Is the apple of your eye appearing?
Only if done with joviality.
The doges take their gold gondoliering.
Dull brown shit is the world’s reality.

Only if done with joviality.
Even the simplest people love a thrill.
Dull brown shit is the world’s reality.
Yet its hard to swallow this simple pill.

Even the simplest people love a thrill.
We build ourselves up in an endless rant.
Yet its hard to swallow this simple pill:
Our city - a tiny tireless ant.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

post punk allusions

I want to write like
the man in suicide sings:
scary and sad but people are like,
"that's so cool."

I need joy division. I need it.

I would love
new order
to come to my sleepy little town.

there is the talking heads on the radio.
My parents used to love them.
They must still.
I am not sure how to feel about this.

I am not sure how to feel about this.

i am jumping in my seat

what do i feel?

my heart is
malleable like skin
but can crack like an eggshell
and inside wings are being born

fluttering and springing
they try to break free
their feathery imprints
visible on the skin

of a blood pumping muscle

that’s what I feel

Monday, December 3, 2007

in the hallway

my brother was killing people on TV
when he said "eat it, you bastards"

"you bastards!!" he said again,
I was in the hallway.

I heard him killing people
but from where I was standing
I couldn't see them dying.

Later I saw my brother in the hallway
and we passed each other without talking.

Sunday, December 2, 2007

english class poetry series - the villanelle

"That kind of thing is just obscene;"
Mankind is prone to labeling.
"Let's string up this new libertine!"

The state is here to intervene
Even for mere littering!
"That kind of thing is just obscene."

We just got this new guillotine.
Justice must be unpitying.
"Let's string up this new libertine!"

We caught this man selling codeine;
He's not even worth imprisoning!
"That kind of thing is just obscene."

This dates back to Saint Augustine;
Man's cruelty is hampering.
"Let's string up this new libertine!"

Even if you are seventeen
You will face much moralizing.
"That kind of thing is just obscene."
"Let's string up this new libertine!"

our shortcomings

wet whitewashed walls
a spatter of pockmarked red
iridescent shining against the bland
brown bricks of the city

screaming obscenities
a young Philip Glass
lifting light upon the bland
pacified people of the city

the ticking of a wristwatch
a useless generation
glaring bright faulty activism in the bland
streets of the city

Saturday, December 1, 2007

New Shoes

I got new shoes
they cost $13.84

they are small
and leather

I worked the
last two days
wearing them

and my feet
don't hurt

life is good

Thursday, November 29, 2007


something covers me
like a blanket to the eyes,
but it's not sunglasses
and it's not a vis
maybe i'm just thinking
too much again,
when i should just vent this
abstraction with a pen.

venting all this steam
would take an engine,
and it would take a lifetime,
so i would want a pension.
but money is worthless,
it's just paper and metal.
i'd like a log cabin
to live and settle

i'd sit, read, write, smoke,
and drink homemade beer.
i'd live with some animals
and without fear.

right now i live
constantly afraid
that all around me is an illusion
and we haven't come far from caves.

the newspaper is something
to get interested in,
or bowling balls
and knocking down the pins.

the end:

old people flirt
in the library.
i'm writing this down
in my diary.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

i am an empty field
i am harvest-less,
i bear nothing.
i think it would be possible
to once again fertilize
should you return
should you return whole
should you return whole and warm
and enter my womb
and enter my soul
and enter my bone marrow.

i am afraid of forgetting
i am afraid of you forgetting me forgetting you
i am afraid of slipping past you
like a silk lizard on a temple floor:
part of the beauty
but estranged from the prayers whispered softly into the night.
i am afraid of floating,
floating past you;
i am afraid of floating alone.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

at the airport

at the airport
i saw the two most beautiful french girls:
i made one smile just by looking at her
and then turning away.

the snow outside the plane was the universe's massive lithograph in negative
wind needles drawing lines in the sky--
everything was perfectly, impossibly

Tuesday, November 20, 2007


Single me out,
Extend your welcome name
And give me what I want
Summer sex cryin shame

Teetotal saint
And the cherry tree wind
Someone’s going down
Lie cheat steal win

Hide in me, let me
Single out your disease
Ramble your hair
Fall crinckle apple ease

Midnight craving
Couch yellow tinkle
It can never be
ginger surpass tickle

understand her confidence
nothing was ever her fault
summon your saint
Columbian drama salt

Thursday, November 15, 2007

its like i am floating:
six swans carry strings in their beaks
strings tied around my fingers and toes
belly up.
the sky is getting a lot closer.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

a small dose of self loathing

sighs in the morning throwing myself out of bed
another day i don't want to put myself through
this dull aching feeling tapping throbbing in my head
not a pain but a sensation i'm quite used to
by now this should all have been accepted
i would be smiling happy walking like them
but instead have i only resented
all of the fulfilled people i condemn

importance of smiling and frowning

it is good to smile
so as to admit that
a pencil size joint
of cannabis and tobacco
or the female body
when it is at its greatest
is still just something that get me off

because i evolved from an ape

and not from a clam

and somewhere shallow or deep beneath the smile
is buried the brain
and an inevitable and infinite casket
and then i frown
and i am overcome by many things:
the urge to throw a dagger
at myself
in the mirror,
and breathe slowly,
and out:
my own anger,
lack of courage,

Tuesday, November 13, 2007


after awhile cigarettes remind you of kissing anyone
and living in this place feels like we're
whispering in each others' ears
so we live like we are --
and suddenly everything and nothing is big news.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

5 quick shits

the safety administration building
has kept me so safe
that I almost want to die.

we should burn all our money
and burn all our clothes.
(I will keep a view coins
that survive the arson
and a thong for the beach.)

if drugs were legal
I'd probably be dead
but who's to say
I wouldn't have died
from road rage
against a rolls Royce.

with machine guns
kill the population.
we will all be tortured
after life as in the Middle Ages.

all the children
on the public
computers are staring
at me as I sit
at a corner library table.

@ making tea

the steps are simple
boil pour stirr

blow sip burn
too hot to wait

let it steep
the flavors brew

blow sip swallow
she hates the taste

-naqeeb stevens

a message from god himself

bathroom linoleum beige white tiles
contemplating our life in the kala yuga
i won't kill myself

looking down bare feet gray tarnished grime
"what is happening," bellows the homeless man
on broadway lifting cup of loose change to the sky

i lived once among the whines of the altruistic
doling goodwill sweaters drab faded benediction
to all who would accept them the lost generation

soot stained fingernails scratch at layers of loose skin
bathing in holy feculence thwarting damnation
peeling chapped lips

nothing left but cold damp collapse
fucking and pissing and breathing realizing
everyone's shit stinks

Wednesday, November 7, 2007



She had no ink
ling that she w
as made of i
So nestled herself between the
d and b.

(Was comfy there.)

She did not stand for
nothing, he wrote.
Y: she did not stand.


She says: "I think I am torn between my two parents. Idealistically."
He says: "I think I am torn between my two butt cheeks. Idealistically."
She says: "Asshole."


everything was fixed conveniently,
with just a bag of medicine to hold.
the smallest dose
for the things i host

lift me
one more mile.

watch the basement flood with dirty water,
the wood warps and whines and the paint peels.
no change of mood
in my solitude

i will waste away
to a smile...

the dimness will creep back into a corner,
day will glaze the floor with tobacco crumbs and dust.
i'll be asleep and be spared
lying in the armchair.

just avoid moving.
and after a while,

you've arrived
just in time,
with all the right supplies
to make you

the importance of optimism

when you look outside the window
and all you see is a wasteland
an earth tinged with speckles of superfluous life

then you could be sitting in the wrong room

but i'm not that positive

two o'clock

i am drinking a beer
my first beer of the night
at two A.M.
it's Pabst.
that means that i will hate the way my mouth tastes
in right about now.
oh, now.
it's so easy to think about the past/future
and so hard to deal with the
right now
right now.

there was this little white,
hard crumb
stuck on/in the carpet
you were lying on
i could see it
between strands of my own hair
and i wondered what it was made of,
if it would crumble under applied pressure
if it would break between thumb and forefinger,
its parts scattering like the ducks you screamed away.

or would it stay whole,
like a
half-full glass of milk
on the stainless-steel counter in your kitchen
that you forgot to drink
after your poured it?

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

six o'clock fuck

i am interested in the way
you are obsessed with my smell
the way i reek
when i don't shower,
the way i wreak
when i don't do it your way.
what is my way?
my way is the way of the condor
it is the high life
the fly life
the life where i can be alone when i'm next to you;
the life where i can seethe and boil
only to simmer into a mindless puddle a few hours later,
only to be let down again
by my own routine.
when the high is over,
when i am tired,
when my clothes don't match my nails or shoes,
i think about what it would be like
to not have your clothes to pick up off my floor
what it would be like
to not have someone to remind
to do this
or not do that.

i've never smelled this bad before.
i think i will put on some deodorant
or shower
before you get here,
just to deprive you
of some stinky happiness.

Monday, November 5, 2007

Instantaneous Message

I will come with flowers.
overflowing arms of them
and I will drop them to hug you

I want to say to you that I did it,
and that there is peace everywhere. And we can go
outside and there will be the people, so happy.

People will be pouring their
money into the garbage cans too,
and friendly people will give the
homeless their extra clothes
and their extra rooms

I wish I could see this

I want to wait by the river for a boat
to come and bring me to you
i object to its presence
not its existence.

i don't object to existence in general,
but just this one time,
"i think maybe just this once," he says,
"we can make an exception

i object to your prescience.
i want to know what you know.

he says, looking everyone in the room in the eye,
"i want to know,""...""...what you know."

Sunday, November 4, 2007

just like you

overlooking the flat tops of buildings
watching the lights of people's apartments
turn on and off
accepting fully that there is nothing to be done

in this place
the gray streets go on
and on without ever ending
people walk down them in no direction

just like you
for them the skies are clear
everything is alright
content in their make-believe...


Saturday, November 3, 2007

Crying Drunk

I would like to think everyone who writes for The World Looks Better in Pink for letting me write poems on this blog.

Crying Drunk

Last night at work
after the rush was over
I stood next to Luna
I said, “The good boss
is here
we can get drunk”

She replied, “I only drank once,
with The BF in a hotel
Captain and Rum
The Fresh Prince was on
I started to cry
he settled me down

then we had sex
and I began crying again
I couldn't stop
I laid in the bed
and couldn't stop.”

“Oh. Maybe we
shouldn't drink.”

Friday, November 2, 2007

i am a vegetarian and believe in killing as a first resort and a first resort only

only i can understand

how i poop
how i pee
all the civilizations i nuke to oblivion in my mind

only you can see me
how i hide
from the muddling of voices
into some sinister prank

and everyone that sees me is a star
and everyone who cares
gives me some strange brand of power
gives me the right to take life

Thursday, November 1, 2007

Nobody Cares
I Care
I Think I Care
Maybe I Don't Really Care
Do You Want A Free Macy's Gift Card?
Oh Dear

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

it makes me sad to make her happy

Hers is not to waddle
But she walks from side to side
and when when she runs
Her elbows move her stride

And she collects scraps.
and a garage sale fanatic.
But what is in her books ,
What truly makes her ecstatic:

Her magazine cut-outs
Of all the household items she desires
What she collects:
Piles and piles of advertising flyers

Monday, October 29, 2007

laundry poem maybe

my new favorite activity is:
separating the whites from the colors,
pouring in the bleach.

every day i get the same headache,
but i've stopped pitying myself,
because things have gotten so goddamn clean in there,
it's like winter.

and i think the headache might be the season breaking rank,
or the bleach.

beyond your flowers of flaming truth beyond your latest ad campaigns

there is no beauty
in the relics of tyrants
and rats jumping ship

the flaming truth of
man's capacity for good
things is not very new

Saturday, October 27, 2007

the epic wars we never fought

is the clock that always ticks
slowly forever late saturday night
minute to minute
i would love a banana boat
to live on
so i dont have to meet the beef
in its butchered exhaustion

why else would i live
here on this species eat species planet
when i could build a spaceship
and fly to an abandoned wasteland factory house
that is white
with black and gray lining
that leaves much to be desired
but can feed a robot

what else would i do on this small ocean
of grass
of seaweed dried to a dank pulp
that smells like poop
from the next door neighbors dog
that always barks when i leave
to get in my car

i forget what model my car is
i remember it is orange
and that i drive slow when im sad
and fast when i am angry
today i was angry
and then i was sad

i took my pills

they make it seem okay

i want to drown in an epic hurricane wave

i want to fasten my seat belt
and fly in a plane

i want to eat lots of tacos
with fake meat

i want to kill grizzly bears
when they come towards my log cabin

i want to go vote on election day
but i will be lazy and hit the snooze

i want to discover the meaning
of grouping days into sevens

tomorrow is sunday
i am not going to church
the day after that is whatever
i dont care what i do that day

in the sky there is a superhero
with turbo power zooming
through blue sky and making
a cloudy streak
that other people care about

i was driving on the road the other day
then i ran into some men with pitchforks
and fake beards
i asked them if they were karl marx or some philosopher
and they gave me madddddddddddddd

their eyes are like lasers
they beam me down until i faint
into a lazy middle class intellectual
computer addicted trance

Flakes of Wheaties
Soggy In Milk
Dripping down my chin

Friday, October 26, 2007

16 titled haikus

Long Arm

the police come like

the first frost killing every

bug in the forest.

Modest Mouse

the artic sea is

not as deep as quagmires

of the blighted heart.


“it all seems very

subjective,” he said. I said

I didn’t think so.

Heaven’s Gate

there will be no march

on heaven’s gate, no storming

the ramparts of death.


you said I was not

a very good person and

I said, “yes, yes, yes!”


the draw of drugs and

devious devices is

the desert of life.


new jersey, nineteen

forty five; war done, get dead,

find a wife instead.

The zoo

my friends peruse the

catfish, but it has secrets,

just like we all do.

America 1

America is

Slavery and war and whores;

Let god cut our hair

America 2

god’s judgement is swift,

but he thinks bigger than us.

so watch out, upstart.


blood spatters across

the Aztec temple; here is



we do not all want

the same things from the world; thus

there are policemen.

Arrogance of Youth

worry away your

best years with a dumb smile

soon everyone dies.

Pompous Earth

fuck the world and its

brashness in suggesting that

I want part of it.



also known as the cause of

most of our problems.

Milk and Cookies

the milk is all gone,

the cookies; stale. All is shown

as it is; wasted.

songs for real and invented people

Sad Song for Non-Lovers

Note: I spontaneously wrote three love songs this morning, one for Fernando, one for the Rejects and one about a happy start with a sad ending. I only can remember one. I've decided to begin recording things I say because I lose so much of it to my faulty memory.

R E J E C T e d

these are sad lyrics to a sad song
cause i asked you on a date
and you refused to come along.
so I went alone
and then I cried myself to sleep
and in my dreams
I gave away
my heart for you to keep
and when I woke up
these words were in my brain
so i sang them to the empty room
then threw the lyrics down the drain.

but here they are--
as i remember them!
enjoy my words, you little bitch
because i still carry your flame
(musical interlude)
These are sad lyrics for a sad song
You made my heart hurt
I can't believe I've been so wronged

i asked you out!
and you refused me!
i know i'm pretty
so i don't get why you used me
for your silly games
why did you make me cry
why did you leave me all alone
and make me think that i should die
cause i don't have you.

but i still want you
but i still want your hair!
your silky sweater, your red dress
that green feather in your hair!
you are a dream machine:
what love is made of.
how did you become obscene,
a monster I'm afraid of?

I don't forgive you
Because you made me cry
Because you made me write a song
Because you made me think that I should die...
But I forgive you,
because your eyes-they are so pretty
because you promised me a date:
an evening walk about the city.
So its okay--you are forgiven.
I'm resigned to be alone
in this world among the living.
When I die,
I hope I find you.
I hope you wear your red dress and your grandchildren surround you
and I'll sing them
this sad song that I wrote you
and you'll smile and tell me you'll devote your
life to me
and that Heaven's home is Ours
that we'll hold hands
and kiss to pass the hours.

That is my day dream.
It is my night dream, too.
I wrote a sad song, and I wrote it all for you.

These are sad lyrics to a sad song
cause I asked you on a date
and you refused to come along
so I went to sleep and in my dreams
I wrote,
I wrote,
I wrote,
this sad song for YOU.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

were we there?

"there was an earthquake!"
"there was an earthquake!"
"the ground shook"
"I was there! I was there"

"there was an earthquake?"
"yes the ground shook"
"the dishes rattled"
"I was there, I was there"

as i lay awake
2:11 to be precise
like a wave passing under
the ground shook

"there was an earthquake!"
"there was an earthquake"
"were you there?"'
"did you feel it?"

my mother comes home
from work that day
and confesses to the truth
i had awoken to

"i saw the news,
and i heard them say"
"there Was an earthquake
earlier today"

"yes, there was an earthquake,
I told you, i was there."
"didn't you feel it?
were'nt you there?"

"I thought it was just you
that had broken through"
"I thought it was just you,
and your imagination too."

my beating eyes

my eye shutters.
thats what i call it.
just under my eyes,
in the bags i carry.

see when i look
through the camera
my intent is to
capture a momment

a momment of peak
interaction, of connection,
between them.
and between them & you.

capturing the momment
means opening
that shutter door
to let the light in.

what ends up happening
is i close the door
to mine eye
to let the light in

think of it
as a hallway
my door open
light passing through

i close my door
(which opened outwards)
to let the light pass
on to the world

so capturing a momment
means letting it go
it passes my door
that of a bystander

so what have i
sacrificed in order to
let the light pass
the shutter door

whose blood is
marked upon my door
my eyes begin to
shutter. as in retreat

and now what
is my excuse for
the pulse like beat
just beside my nose

My New Pair of Used Shoes

My new pair of used shoes is brown
I saw them on Friday,
some kid at a concert
Obsessed over them that weekend
Checked them out on Tuesday
Tried them on Thursday
And bought them on Saturday.
My new pair of used shoes came with holes
I don’t mind holy, shoes they have character
But in the rain, character was useless
My socks were wet
I caught a cold.

-naqeeb stevens

Sunday, October 21, 2007

there is a three quarters dimly shining moon

i can sit under a tree in the dark in the middle of somewhere i dont know
and there are lights and buildings and cars that i can see but i am sheltered
by trees with leaves and it doesn't matter what color those leaves are because
it is the darkstarryblackblue night.

i find it a matter of tears and galloping horse laughs that decides how we feel
most of the time. i just sit under this tree and think about how it has no wide land
to grow even a few offspring who could carry the family line on for several
hundred years and live to see my life and death and the lives and deaths of my daughter.

i plan to only have daughter and she will be one of the stars that i can see
as i walk over to a spot in the grass where all the other suns (sons) in other
galaxies are apparent and distant and then slowly gain reverent place.

Friday, October 19, 2007

june 07

sounds, not fleeting, more like
aural occupations

leftover notes from headphones
the sweet electric hum of something
your murmurs, sleeping

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

text message to a girl

i am an animal.

i have a paper to write.

how will an animal do this.

i am putting my cell phone on silence.

Monday, October 15, 2007

candy apple eyes

Candy apple eyes;
That’s what they called her.
At least until that subtle day,
Her heart began to slumber.

And yes, it was
Like any other day;
The kind where everything you heard,
You could not say.

and of course by that
I mean absolutely nothing.
And now the question is:
How often was I bluffing?

Candy apple eyes;
That’s what they called her.
On those windy autumn days,
and your hair was in a blur.

and yes let me remind you,
of that sandy mustard day,
when the swings watched and waited,
but no, you could not stay.

and as your hair comes over you
so does she feel your eyes.
and no she’s not the same
no matter how she tries and tries.

candy apple eyes;
I heard you by your locker.
On that terribly gray morning,
You were let go by that fucker.

And there you saw me watching,
Listened to my stillness.
And with your eyes you asked me
The cure for your illness

Candy apple eyes.
That’s what they called her.
and if we let you know me,
I promise you a lover

Sunday, October 14, 2007

my paper can write itself

born in the USA
doesn’t make me American
it just makes me another
easy-to-tan half-breed without an accent
that you won’t recognize as
a Foreign Subversive.

5 line poem about NO IT CANT BE

fuck i just realized that i am 20
i have been 20 since july! what the fuck!

Saturday, October 6, 2007

paper america

I had traveled eight thousand miles around the American continent and I was back on Times Square; and right in the middle of a rush hour, too, seeing with my innocent road-eyes the absolute madness and fantastic hoorair of New York with its millions and millions hustling forever for a buck among themselves, the mad dream - grabbing, taking, giving, sighing, dying, just so they could be buried in those awful cemetery cities beyond Long Island City. The high towers of the land - the other end of the land, the place where Paper America is born. I stood in a subway doorway, trying to get enough nerve to pick up a beautiful long butt, and every time I stooped great crowds rushed by and obliterated it from my sight, and finally it was crushed.

-jack kerouac

Wednesday, October 3, 2007


But should I stay and wait
for our turn next up,
or jump to my feet and cut?

But would that help what
I’ll start, we’ll part;
I’ll finish; the way we’ll end up?

It seems prudish to you?
I’m set on the brink?

Lapsing hues color your complexion pink.

Nine razor line lies;
how many times

did your mind blink?


Black is the ease that squeeze molds over matter.
Technology feasible in it’s constant growth bigger.
Wires exposed above sparking verbal constant battle.
Sound that grows but slows when the plug is pulled then
Smooth is the feel the caressing hand claims
The blame is to the fool who paid the man
Who holds the reins now in shame sitting; Cash in hand dollars gleaming.
Cooperation’s beaming, paying fractions earning feeding, gleaning, brains
in chains data spinning; Technology wars
evolving, winning. Life
and reason cased freeing; logical mace burning, seething;
Metal, plastic, electric grace; new age tactics puzzle, face;
Blind, gone as time; each rhyme now rolls better: darker, smoother, warmer, wetter.

Spins but not mechanically, I
grin, shift my feet loose:


Greater Grinding Grater

Sharp sound bright, night now officially over.
Wetness is warm, soap with slight clover hint quaffing.
Moves with might, infinity; tight skin covering

over intestines. Pressed, incidents fade to past; feces.
Happenings hammered, anvil of present presence ring.
He writes with mental pen in fated ink, faded.

Breakfast: Twice fried egg on toast; butter.
Late for first class; mental books scattered.
Answers three questions correctly.

Nazca lines carve his destiny.
What happens in a day happens eternally.

Eyes closed but watching through lids of cellophane
compounds of the future, enhancing the enhanced:
A lens curved to the impossible.

Waking he remembers nothing.

Monday, October 1, 2007

not like it has a title or anything

this is the image of new lust,
of new fat lip,
of newborn hand clutching breast.
this is us swelling,
growing towards what we need.

the unrehearsed come-on
that says loud and clear
hate and love and
fighting and fucking
all at the same time,
the fact that in our language
there can be so many words
for the same thing.

this is the image he said
was burned into him,
of the blazing station wagon,
streetside, no one watching.
this is my burning car, this is
surreal and radical,
and i want to turn off the gas
pour on the gasoline and
light a match in the front seat
so people know what’s going on.

and what’s really going on, bottom line
is that there are pieces of us we
clutch as hard as our dignities,
yet so so so much want to let go,
wanting to tell each other
about that misbehavior
that moment of wading into the ocean
while someone was drowning
and all we could think was

maybe today

I’m five years old,
I want to ride a tricycle.
All the big kids ride them.
In Two and threes.

I’m in love with my teacher.
Whenever I’m thirsty,
She gives me water,
And I say thank you.

Elementary school is strange,
But I can run around.
And no one thinks I am weird
I’m supposed to play football.

Jr high and I join the soccer team.
I raise my hand when they ask
“who here played club or ayso?”
I was leaning on that hand.

There’s an “inner-city” kid
Who doesn’t raise his hand,
And I begin to hate myself;
I can see my own eyes.

I’m in high school,
I dropped the soccer team ,
I didn’t practice between seasons,
Running was easier.

Now there are more eyes.
All looking at me.
I don’t raise myself to meet them.
I only feel them, when I judge

College comes along.
I dropped all my sports.
An MD advised it, so
I took that as opportunity

So I go back to running around,
Because now I have to.
Only, it feels like a treadmill
But it helps me sleep.

I’m outta school,
I work in the city,
I sit in traffic,
And can’t make up my mind.

I don’t want to sell my work,
I don’t much like it either.
They say the composition
Really brings out their eyes

It’s been years since school,
The reunion was days ago.
I haven’t decides if my indignant self
Is defensively jealous, or angrily regretful.

I stare out of windows,
Sometimes I think.
About what I should think.
And how.

And now I’ve got wrinkles,
And there are anthologies of my work,
But I couldn’t get myself to write
Anything definitive at all.

So I guess I gave up on definitions,
I have some sort of vague idea.
My eyes just seem to wander around,
Something between that and avoidance.

Maybe I’ll run again,
I still don’t know where to.
Or maybe I’ll get some wheels,
And drive till my eyes close

hey mister

“Hey mister! Hey mister!”
“I want ice cream mister!”
A thirty something young man
Turns from his nail bitting.

“Yea son? what kind do you want?”
“ehh…gimme chocolate chip.”
“No, mint chip and chocolate Fudge.”
“Alrighty then.”

Gloves on now,
as he turns and sighs.
one for the dream he caught
one for the freedom he let go

He had a smile for that boy,
A seven year old overall shorts wearin,
Lanky, short haired, brown eyed boy.
“hey mister!”

“yea, whats up?”
the face looked up,
and his mouth depolarized
his eyes stayed the same

Like pinches on his eye edges
maybe quizzical, maybe fearful;
maybe hopeful, either way,
something hung from them.

“Can I get some toppings”
“Well sure, what kind do you want?”
“gimme sprinkles! and worms!”
“I want gummy worms!”

“alrighty then” and back to work
he looked down at his hands,
making sure they were stable,
or at least shook in the right way.

And his face was melting like his ice cream,
The snack which he did for 6.75.
As gravity paid an extensive toll
On his thinning pale, not white, face

“Hey mister! Hey Mister!”

Thursday, September 27, 2007

(the dark)

it is not yet light

my brain's been racing
i've been up all night.
yet, with genocide
do i sleep
and awake.

the slightest second,
but only
a camera flash
of the Sun.
now I

can you
the insanity
and being
in the wrong mind
for a moment

and calculate
all the right debts
and all the
sandwiches and soup.
all the right muffins
and doughnuts

"I wont!"
whatever you are
going to do
leave me in
the rabbit hole
or fox den.

i will sit
in my blender
and make a milkshake
of my own
oranges and apples

to wake up in
The Other Mind
it can be
in reality.

and anyone can
see a futile mutual love
I can't get out of me

it is much more fun to be a son
than to be a father i would guess
nothing alike
nothing less
and i will go shoot myself in the chest
while wearing a bullet proof vest.

-andrew worthington

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

the gallopingly bad ballad of free

The Ballad of Free

In Oaxaca where weeds grow tall
There lived our gentle Free;
The wind was not so fast as he
The air was just as free.

He grew up lean and nimbly as
Strong, sweet Mexican corn;
But his parents separated
And his life turned forlorn.

He moved to California,
But found it frustrating.
He and his mom could not afford
The high cost of living.

Soccer was freedom in high school.
He kicked, he jumped, he ran.
But nights brought pain; he sold cocaine
And so the end began.

Running track freed our hero Free,
But sports could not save him.
He tried to survive day to day
But life yet seemed grim.

Till he went to Bard joyfully;
College; drugs, dance and song.
Friends abound, Free ruled his earth
With laughter he’d skip wide and long

Yet Free’s world turned tragic at once;
He loved photography.
He couldn’t pay for film to shoot
His teachers grew angry

He smoked and drank and whirled about
While his family fought.
The college put him on warning;
His problems thus were wrought

He helped sell drugs to make ends meet
But could not concentrate.
His carefree way of life was now
Caught up in his dark fate.

Security did take his name;
His troubles made to crimes.
He talked with Deans and teachers all
Yet got no help in dimes.

His grades were poor but just as bad
As sons of richer men.
So clearly money drove the school
To kick him out right then.

Against all good he was asked
To leave his bright new home.
His best of chances removed
He cried, and went back home.

-by brosephine (i think)

Monday, September 24, 2007

i am an inanimate object

i no longer read magazines in the bathroom. i hardly even take a good novel or textbook in there anymore. usually its my computer that accompanies me to the shitter. we've been together now for i'd say about a little over a year. i hardly go a day without seeing it. we will be announcing our engagement any day soon. then we will spoon and spoon like we have never spooned before.

i go to the drinking fountain and sea water comes out. i ask a man why it tastes like salt water. he says that they-do-it-for-real here. hmmmm. that's an interesting take on water. i fill a bottle full of the salt water and then tightly turn the cap closed. i will have to show this to someone. someone will marvel at this. perhaps the bank teller will. yes, i am quite certain the bank will love this!

i go to the bank and the teller tells me to give them money. i say that i didn't bring money and just want to talk. they say there is no time to talk, there's only so much sunlight, and they give me a pen to sign my paycheck that i didn't bring. i go across the street to the grocery store and buy tampons and condoms. as i am in line waiting i also decide to buy a gossip magazine and an eight-pack of peanut butter cups.

but i don't have money to pay for the peanut butter cups so i walk out of the store with the tampons, condoms, gossip magazine, and peanut butter cups. as i leave the store a man says hey. he wants to know where i am going. i tell him i don't know. he's says i have to pay for the items. i say i did.

-andrew worthington

Sunday, September 23, 2007

ten minutes too late

Ten minutes too late.
Damn I hate the bus some days.
Its hot, bums are stinking and its three o clock
Time to deal with these wanna be thugs
Aye cuz
Look at the niggas shoes
His shoes been through more shit than yo girl
Damn why they hatin so hard
Aye what kinda shoes are those besides fucked up
Aye cuz

I blink my eyes
Glance to the right
An old lady
I cant believe this old ass lady

This old ass lady is gonna cross the street
Lady, don’t you see those cars, they comin right at
You gonna die old ass lady
All your bags gonna fly up then,
Rolled over, smashed to mush

Old ass lady, old ass lady
Cant you hear those horns beepin
Those men cussin
Are you deaf old ass lady
Are you blind old ass lady
You don’t see that blinking red hand
That fast ass car, swerving
You old ass lady

I cant believe this old ass lady
She actually made it across the street
This old ass lady, done did dumb shit
But she made it

I blink my eyes
Glance to my left
These wanna be thugs
Still talking shit

Aye cuz
Aye cuz what kinda pants are those
Aye blood we just missed our stop
These wanna be thugs, just missed their stop


unforgiving wood

A little vomit never hurt anyone
Same goes with blood
But when you spew like she did
What you thought then, think again
The floor is useless, unforgiving wood
Destroyed carpets
The smell overwhelms the nose
Worse than death, if you can imagine that

Cant take a breath without wanting to
Its on the floor
Unforgiving wood, destroyed carpet
We gotta go


Sneaking through clouds of artificial fog
Seizure inducing strobes damaging my retinas for
Hypnotized by excessively bass induced music
Wipe me down, snap your fingers
Moving, jumping, screaming
Overachievers make out with each other
Girl on girl, they’ll love this
tattoos, frames and no lenses, go stupid, go dumb
please don’t put that up
she loves it, she hates it, he always wants it
show me , I want to see
can you take my picture

poem about i duno

You’ve got problems she said
A girl with no shoes and a string tied around her head
falls hard
You’ve got problems
You’ve got problems
Im gonna be a firefighter
Deep red lipstick like cherry pie filling
Give me what I want
Give it!
I love you you you you you
A girl waves everyday to a boy who sits on a curb
A burn out
Talk to me
I love you you you you

Where Do Flies Go?

Buzzing and humming and landing
On my shoulders, in my hair, and on my legs
So annoying
Why do flies decide to always fly by me
Swatting, fanning, blowing, thumping, flicking
It's gone
The fly is gone
Where did it go
Why ask where an annoying buzzing humming germ infested
fly went
I hope its dead
Smashed on a windshield then wiped on into thin air
But really, I wonder where that fly went
At night, after a long day of buzzing, humming and
on my shoulders, hair and legs
so annoying

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Dajjal Uses A Bell Curve

So I rang her doorbell,
And her mother was there.
“Hi, you must be Dale.”
“Yes, I’m here for Maryann.”

“Well come on in,”
“She’ll be down soon.”
There was a family portrait
Out on some lawn somewhere.

She was a lawyer,
Private practice and all.
Then, she officially became,
Parent association president.

“I hope I wasn’t too long.”
I change lanes, “of course not.”
“I know my mother can be nosy,”
“No, she was very nice.”

I have a bowl of soup,
And the table is round.
The waiter doesn’t bring crackers
And I’m not supposed to expect any

So the 100% orange juice
I could swear has orange peel,
And I still haven’t figured out,
Which damn spoon to use.

And not to mention the salad,
Haven’t touched it.
If you saw me there
You’d think I pissed my pants

The lady across is waiting.
She’s looking at my soup,
And her eyes are the positive
To my negative ones

The clink scratches
Of the spoon against my bowl,
The spoon I miney moed,
Are my nails on her board.

“So how’s your salad”
“It’s good, how’s the soup?”
“Fine, just fine.”
Then some more scratches.

She’s some sort of historian.
See she did art history in college,
And now she categorizes stuff;
Or something like that.

The movie was terrible,
The plot was wack,
And the artistes are all waiting
For the other to act.

The popcorn was stale,
The chairs are stiff,
And my neck is tight.
Thank god it’s the end.

We said our goodbyes,
She slipped through the door.
There was relief on both sides
Yet neither had won

So now, I really didn’t feel too bad.
I decided, to hell with it,
I will deceive them all;
And boy do I have stories to tell

An eye patch and a pen,
I will steal their opportunity,
And who cares if one eye
leaves me alone


Friday, September 21, 2007

the sunset

the sparrow above,
the stage below.
the Sun slips
from its throne.
I grapple and gag
with palms slippery as squid,
but the lid will fall
on this cookie jar.
the sparrow will see
from afar what we can't
see up close.
"20/20 vision."
thats what the doctor said.
his head should be examined.
the famine
we cannot see. lethargic
bliss.....we've learned
to piss! (a basic human
function) is that all
we learned today?
has hunger yet
gained its place in
vocabulary? can i scratch
my hairy testicles anymore?
whore myself to four walls,
a ceiling,
and a floor?
exaggerated praise
to no one.
it's the end
of the page.
will we microwave the planet
or oven roast
and toast
to goddammit

-andrew worthington

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

the sunrise

they speak in tongues.
blurred hums
that i cannot silence.
i'll stay away.
sexual intercourse
with a cyborg:
a casual routine
and pleasure.
i treasure and loathe
every last moment
before i come
out of my rabbit hole
hiding. above ground
a flood is in tide.
the admiral calls.
to dry safety we go,
until the next morning.
the sunrise: we don't watch,
but always trust.
the slightest gust of wind
will banish all hope.
our stomachs ache,
so we feed them dope.
close our ears,
forget the droning.
alone we sit.

-andrew worthington

Tuesday, September 18, 2007


this thing
this laughter
makes me
want to burst

the grin insanity wears
a trap set
meant to

they dont
know how close it is
they passed it
it was already there

i could
wrap it for them
but im no saint
i am

a different kind
of eyes
bigger than selves
am the perception

i know what you see
what you understand
but why walk on
when you can swim in

why anything
when anything else

come on now
the more i lay out
the less you

this is for you
i dont have to


Wednesday, September 12, 2007

an io of a boy

I've never seen a man such as this
dirty hair, uneven and tangled
Had i known less
i would have thought him a bum

But that expensively ragged jacket
gave him off, This was no runaway.
A private school attendee
cultured in the bel-air mentality

But this one's been abroad,
oh yea, skinny,
this one's been north
he thought he would make it

But he's not all that bad
his grey shoes were once white
and the weight he perceives
is all his own

Then, like judas before his mirror,
he jumps and dodges, vertically slithering
through an obstacle course
that i cannot begin to imagine

his eyes beg to be understood.
the voices he could not silence,
the reason he succumbed to
and the fate he fought

and in his eyes
a plea to an invisible demon.
his neck tightened
as he holds it in

Yes this one does not come often.
Having been stretched for so long
the thinness of his mask
has begun to betray him

a struggling,
barely self sustaining
young atlas, desperately
pushes it all away


Tuesday, September 11, 2007

room and board crisis for a fish

i very much desire to swim in the ocean
or even a pleasant stream or pond
but the food tastes much better here in this bowl
and it is far easier to get water here as well

-andrew worthington