Me Bathtub









there is no sun and there is no moon
just the light of a thousand stars condensed
into one giant phallic beam
that illuminates the grassless carpet
and the songless day
and the songless night
and the wake up get dressed head out the door
and the get home take your hat off masturbate
and go to bed

rinse and repeat
in the situation that you find
in the situation that you find
that you are trapped on a feedback loop
(feedback loop)
and you cannot exit the zenless circle
squeaky hamster wheel
in the situation that you find
water cooler conversation
sit and please remain seated
and face the faceless electric void
the empty fanatical empire of garbage
and type
at a minimum speed
and type
at a minimum speed
(feedback loop)
of sixty words per minute

and wait
just you wait
for that coming morning
when you open one eye
afraid to hear an alarm screaming in your ear
but it’s not there
it’s just you and bed and sun and life
and day off and breakfast in the aFternoon
and conversation over steam in the late late evenings
that turn into mornings
boiling with smiling regret
boiling with smiling regret
and a sweet little mason jar
waiting for you on your doorstep
filled with sweet, sexy freedom




when i lay
my head down
against your
bare stomach
i can hear
worlds turning
within you.

the way
shells contain
distant and quiet
is the same way
that you
provide for me
free radio
free justification
of every life decision
that has led me
and more specifically
my ear
to lean
against your stomach
like we are
pieces of fruit
in a still life painting
as the art museum
burns down around us.


elevator music.


We made out in an elevator for seventy two hours straight and it took us until 48 hours in to realize that the elevator had broken down. I spoke orange juice and you spoke gasoline in a diet cola world and surprise, surprise we made napalm. We made intricate solar vibrations of trash can drums beating in your empty room of a womb. Feminine claw against masculine skin. Angel dust and devil’s food cake and grandstand bandstand orchestral chords of symphonic orgasms splayed out across the starry night paint smeared and transient as oceans in wind. You throat punched me in the heart. You brilliant manifesto of bitch. You beautiful garbage disposal of fantasia. You sickening amount of whiskey spins and vodka breath and then existential hangover. And then the hangover from the hangover. And then the awkward silence. And then we’re sitting on separate hills looking out at different reality mountains and then the elevator doors opened and we got out.



there is a dog in the yard
on a leash that is tied
to a tree
and it’s trying to get away

the sprinklers are running

there is a white fence
there are cars driving by
and there you are
behind it all
staring out of a window

staring out at the flies dying
the concrete heating in the sun
the bicycle tied endlessly
to a telephone pole with one tire
never to be rescued

you are staring out at the birds
shitting on your driveway
and the dandelion poofs that just
float on by
the ones that don’t give a shit about you

and you are still sitting there
behind that window
behind that prison of a window
where you just do nothing
just wait for the mailman to stop by
with a big brown box
and inside of that box
is the dream that you ordered
when you were a twelve year old girl
and it fits just right
red and slinky and crawling down to the floor
it fits you
like it was tailored perfectly to you
and you deserve it
for all your hard work
all the days you’ve put in
all the tears you’ve cried
and the sweat that you have sweat
this dream is yours

don’t wear it in the rain
it might shrink
it might get dirty

do you even remember how to jump in puddles?
do you even remember what a mistake tastes like?
do you even remember how sexy a voice can be
when it is hoarse
and dry
and thirsty
for someone
or something?
do you even remember what it feels like
to taste a cake that you baked yourself?

you just dance on the roof of this house
that someone else built with their hands
with your dream
your pretty red silk dream
amongst the white cotton ball clouds
and the bluest sky you have ever seen

the bluest sky that you could make from scratch

if you look there
across the way
you’ll see an apartment complex
and on that third story there
in the window
is a man sitting exhausted
at a computer screen
crunching numbers
his eyes swollen and red
his fingers moving like legs
on a thirty day hike to survive
do you see him?
or is he an invisible ship
crashing onto your shallow shore?

he is looking for the right algorithm
he is putting pennies into the machine
hoping that the copper can form pipes
pipes that can send water
where water is needed

he is ticking away
like a time bomb
he just moves on
to the next sentence
and you are so pleased with yourself
congressional medal of honor
for the way you sat at that window
waiting for life to come to you
shrink wrapped
bubble wrapped
preserved on ice
but never fresh
never raw
never wriggling in your soft hands
just served on a silver platter
that someone else made




how’s it going?
i don’t really know you.
i think i missed just about everything
that you ever did.
i’m working on getting caught up.
but right now.
i’m just listening to your ambient stuff.
it’s become an archetype really.
the band musician who goes on
to make the kind of dreary music you hear
in the background of artsy films.
trent reznor must have gotten the cue from you.
not to assume.
i mean
maybe he has no idea who you are
and what you do
but that seems very unlikely.

please don’t get me wrong.
i’m not insulting you by any means.
as a writer especially
i appreciate the ambient stuff.
so many artists just want to cram agenda
down your throat.
personal agenda.
definition of love agenda.
political agenda.
existential agenda.
i know.
i’m a poet.
i’m a hypocrite.
and i’m guilty of having agendas.
i think it’s impossible to be a poet
and not have an agenda.
even not having an agenda is a bit of an

i think it’s impossible to be a poet
and not be a hypocrite.

it’s hard to not be a hypocrite
in general.

did gandhi ever have a cheat day
when he was fasting?

that was rude.
you don’t even know me.
now i’ve gone and made some terrible impression
on some bald artist i don’t even know.

it’s okay.
i’m bald too.
us bald guys got to stick together.
this song of yours has wind chimes.
very clever.
no, seriously.
i’m not making fun of you.
i’m just jealous is all.
i have to try to capture moods with words.
i can’t do anything musical.
i had a short stint with a guitar
but it ended like a lot of my relationships;
i got bored and just forgot it ever happened.

ever just have a day where you just don’t
answer your phone?

i think i’ll have one tomorrow.

is eno really your last name?
seems too perfect.
like lana del rey.

but sincerely.
i like your stuff.
i’m curious why MGMT wrote a song
about you.
i’m curious why you’re so famous.
curious being the correct word.
not confused.
i just know you did something important
but i don’t know what.

i was watching a documentary
on national parks
and they talked about teddy roosevelt
and i realized
that i never realized
what a badass he was.
he basically was president
and spent the whole time camping
and reminding this country
that we were the western western world
and that we should just try to hold on to this.
make some effort to not screw it up.
human nature, i guess.
wait for the last opportune moment.

but anyways
my point is
i never knew.
teddy roosevelt.
now my favorite president.
maybe you’re my favorite musician
and i just don’t know it yet.
i’m looking forward to hearing
what you have to say, brian eno.

now it’s your turn to talk.




i hope you’re happy
i can’t go to sleep because of you
i can’t even close my eyes because of you

i can’t dream because of you
i can’t reset my soul
or digest my day
or forget the moments of terror because of you

i can’t shake these grasshoppers in my jar
i can’t shut off the rush hour traffic in my head
this red eye flight seven-thirty-seven
crashing against the wall of my skull
i can’t float down this night river because of you

i can’t sleep with the television turned off
i can’t sleep with the television turned on
i can’t god damn do a thing but type this god damn
this stupid fucking poem and my eyes are so heavy
and my neck is so soar
and the nightmares just float on the ceiling of my room
and the ghosts of my ex-girlfriends lay starry-eyed beside me

it’s all backwards
someone left the fridge open
i can’t get out of bed
the house is so god damn cold
i can’t stop thinking about you
i can’t forget this adolescent reckless rock opera
that i spewed at you as if i could carve you into loving me
with the sound of my voice
and this was ages ago
and who you are is ambiguous
even to me
nothing is clear
i’m just living inside of this heckling
cumulonimbus cloud
this cumulonimbus cloud that just fucks with me
and i’m drowsy
nyquil drowsy
driving on coffee fumes through utah at night drowsy
less than a quarter tank of gas
and it’s running out
the belligerence in requiem form
i can feel it running out
but my old bones in my young skin still ache
my old soul in my battered rib cages still coughs
and sits by my fireplace heart
and rocks in his cliche rocking chair
and why won’t you let me sleep?
i just wanna sleep
i just want need to not be in this world
for a few hours
eight or six
i’d even settle for four
to help me remember how much i love this world
to help me remember
and to provide the eulogy
for this ugly cloud
this stupid cloud that just thunders
and never has the courage to lightning




my heart is a vintage typewriter
the keys stick like stubbornness latching onto old bad memories that helped so hard to define me
the ink has run dry like dreams of an ivy league school in far, far eastern states
but still i pound away at these keys like landlord knocks on a basement apartment door
like neighbors fucking through the wall when you’ve got to get up at i hate my life o clock
when you have to get up at where the hell is the sun o clock

my heart is a vintage typewriter
and the space bar has rusted
where now all the thoughts jam together like california traffic or heroin dreams
or the toxic symphony of the two combined

you, dear reader, dear lover
are a sheet of scrap paper
blowing around in a dust bowl at an old train station
where i pray the demonic forces of god blow you through my window
and into my reel
where i will dance upon you like a river on rocks
like a beautiful bright locust plague on the nations of your body
like a great sharknado manifesto
and the ink curdles the page and i crumple you in my brittle hand
and throw you into the waste bin
but the white dust of you remains speckled across the shoulders of my vintage typewriter
and still i pound
like an angry stomach that craves something but doesn’t know what
like a toddler tantrum on wooden floors
like a great kettle drum in red rocks amphitheater beneath the black sky and your eyes blown up and scattered across the everywhere and the anytime

my heart is a vintage typewriter
and this is my letter with just barely enough postage to get to you
in some spots the ink has worn off and in others it’s too heavy to read
if there is a mistake there is no back button
if there is a mistake then
please, pardon my honesty



we walked slowly into
the mouth of the snake
hands tied together in one giant fist
we walked parallel strong stupid
saying “hey, we got this”
to one another.

funeral marching past the totem fangs
onto the cotton tongue bed
we didn’t want to stop
although we knew
it would take months to be digested
before we came back out
into the still hot desert
mangled piles of the angels we once were
separated but forever mangled
or maybe just reborn
with resin of venom on our broken breath
blisters blooming beneath high heels
as hopeful flowers retreat into soil



my skull is the cage
dunked deep in the water and those sharks are circling
blaring siren warnings shotgun shells turnstiles burning
as line form into crowds
and crowds form riots
and riots blaze amazing fires of momentous output into
the air.

smoke signals.
damaged parts.
ugly underbelly of this american dog.
a culture stuffed with rape,
organized by blind men
and defecated on by the buildings
that think they can look down on us
simply because they are taller
than we.

what they do not know is we are angels
that choose to move amongst
the alleys of hell.

we are angels that choose
to turn tricks for dollars
and un-shove dollars into gas tanks
and recreate fossil fuels by moving our dance steps
in reverse.

what they do not know about us
is the way that we can rearrange our bones
to make ourselves awesome towers,
less of babel,
more of clear concise speech
and we reach up to heaven
where we deny the clown of thorns
that has been strategically placed
in this game of thrones
and we replace him with our own angel.

an angel who sees in kaleidoscopic color.
an angel who will close her eyes and
put a white paranoid man in one hand
and a black child in the other
and determine which soul weighs more.

and will determine if blood should be a color on a flag.
and will determine if these colors truly don’t run
because here we are.
a generation
of a million little jack kerouacs
scurrying the nation like proud field mice
amongst men with shotguns
and egos the size of
television news empire.

we hold these truths to be self-evident:
we are at war with ourselves.
a cancerous country that smokes a cowboy on one hand
and a camel on the other.
we are throwing punches in the dark
when we could attempt to stand on each other’s shoulders
to reach for the light.
we want to live.
we want liberty.
and we could never be denied the pursuit of happiness.

the bald eagle.
our hair line receding
let’s not just give up
step inside
and eat crackers and soup
from a lounge chair
watching the ol’ wooden chaos box
with a beer in one hand
and our nuts in the other.
yellow bracelet around our wrist
pink ribbon over our chest
we fight disease like a never ending cold war.

we are not the country the world thinks we are.

we are millions of people lost under a false identity.

we are the girl next door whose been made to dress like a slut.

we are Teddy Roosevelt using his presidential power
to sleep underneath the yosemite sky.

we are francis scott key’s second cousin thrice removed
who chose not to write about the bombs the bombs the bombs
or the fireworks
but about that fading green light
and the ever watchful eyes
and the year is 1984
and the year is 1776
and the year is 1863
and we really should stop procrastinating on these things
we really should put a fresh coat of paint on this old model t
this old identity
that has indentured us to be
something that is centric to who we are
from sea to shining sea