online literature since 2007

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!”