(psychedelic fish.)

one fish
two fish
we’re so damn
let’s try
i’m sick of
that’s just
left us
for change

one fish
two fish
we seem
to the
way this
could be
let’s applaud
the strange

one fish
two fish
on your
is a
with this
of us

what we could be
where we could go
what we have been
before we lost sight
let’s bring it back
right now
right here

don’t tell me you’re broke
i won’t tell you i’m ugly
demons aren’t afraid of priests
but they can never break through
prayers shared on holy lips
let’s kiss
we’ll feel god at least

throw your wallet in the wind
fold your insecurity up
like a sheet of paper
eight times over and flick it
into the cosmos
forever floating endlessly
far out of reach from your hungry eyes

one fish
two fish
hands that
scoop this
dirt beneath
our feet

one fish
two fish
we just
blew this
but let’s not
blow this
new day
swim through
fish bowls
break the
glass and
make your way through the air
like the psychedelic fish you are



02.2013 is a twenty-eight day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE


i tried calling
you didn’t pick up

where have you gone to, America?
i can’t find you under my bed or in my closet with the other monsters
you seem to be everywhere all at once like you’re imitating God, but maybe you’re just photocopying yourself until the ink turns to white like your flag on the moon
where have you gone to America?
when I go down on you, you never return the favor

where have you gone to, America?
your model homes are empty
your desks in your schools are empty
your teachers are just praying for tenure
where have you gone to, America?
are you in Central Park with those cast to the corners?
are you in Brooklyn with the rappers who reside in check out counter headphones?

the Dodgers are in Los Angeles now
the Lakers are in Los Angeles now
how come she always gets whatever she wants?
where have you gone to, America?
your youngest daughter still needs you

where have you gone to, America?
your unwrapped gifts are stacking up under the Xmas tree
your churches have walls to expand for the holiday rush

where have you gone to, America?
you left the groceries out on the table
you left your poor friends out on your San Francisco doorstep
you left your children at school with a gun
and you want to blame the trigger for the finger that pulled it

you want the television to babysit us
while you go out drinking with strange men

i tried leaving you this message, America
but your mailbox was full




with the recession
we had to sell the summer home
now i can’t decide
whether to vacation
in the caymans or
the keys

i’m far too stressed
i couldn’t get
overnight shipping on my
organic sleep mask
so i’ve been fairly cranky
as of late

evelyn says johnny is
a wreck because he didn’t make
the fencing team and
next time i’m out with her
if she orders
one more half dry
half wet martini
i swear to jesus
i am going to hit her
in the head
with my non-stick
frying pan
that i got
at sur la table
last week.
(damn thing
wasn’t even on

the compute broke
so i had to do all my
online shopping
on my ipad
while this foreign man
from dell
spent several hours
trying to fix my
computer before finally
accusing me of
spilling raspberry mojito
on the hard drive.
the nerve.

i turned on the
television today.
apparently something’s
going on in
aurora, colorado;
apparently something’s
going on in
the middle east.

i had to turn
the damn thing off.

i just sat there
in silence
waiting for my nails
to dry.




there are these mannequins among us
constantly filming their biopics in their weasly heads
they talk like channel surfing
they make babies like they’re told
they point finger guns at the coppers
as they go to the astroturf universities for criminal justice
i wish they’d swallow their tongues
how the resolution of the digestive process thereafter would gracefully mimic their former speech patterns
cookie cutter rock stars
they used sugar instead of cocaine
apple juice instead of whiskey
they mock the labels of movements
that never wanted to be labeled
in expensive t-shirts
in canvas bags that will always remain unpainted
as profound as a coffee table
but nowhere near as conversational
they speak into microphones wired to headphones on their ears
on the importance of recycling
they steal, they plunder, they take what isn’t theirs
they leave their cerebral play-doh out
until it dries up and isn’t fun to play with anymore
weekend poets
“i can’t protest tonight, i’m getting my hair done”
cowards in lion’s costumes
princesses in burlap bags
whores in onesies
i lament the death of their individuality
not even
their very being
suffocating in an air-tight room of wandering
they dance like dead people
they make love like divorcees fuck
they sing other people’s songs
and forget the words
they follow cars
they spray-paint golden people the same shade of bullshit that they are
and print off equality flags
their rear-view and front-view and side-view windows
are covered with bumper stickers

they kiss with their lips
their hearts in a coma
they sing with their throats
as sirens shipwreck inside of them
tame tigers
ugly beauty contests
elitist religions
the open-door policies of bomb shelters
come-as-you-are black tie events
there are these manicans among us
with black market jackets filled with
imitation heartbreak watches
they give absurdity a bad name
as they watch other people play the victim
on high definition television screens
in their cars
as they drive through nature green and life-like
to bullshit towns
that they overpopulate
with overboiled ideas
and al dente emotions
holding hands
listening to the radio’s bleeding ears
as bullshitters
translate truth into
electric folk songs.




you’ve got ash on your leather jacket
yellow in your grinded teeth
and a shit stain on your soul
you’re drunk again
and while you’re out parting knees
she stays in saying prayers
for you and your quickly fading cigarettes
you’ve never been the type
to step in line
even at easter service
you stay lazy-seated
while the body and blood get old
your dinner’s getting cold
and you are what you eat
but you
are not innocent, young, naive or sweet
you’re burning up, whiskey man
and no one will cry at your funeral
not even the miscarried children
you could have carried if you wanted to
but you’re too busy kicking rocks
too busy stealing complacency from plants
you drink in your water
while the desert streams run dry
the tumbleweeds are off to work with ties and briefcases
while you stumble in the wind
the sun warms your bride’s face
while you set happy homes on fire
you take what you desire
you are a whiskey man
the world will never forget you
disaster fables scars wrapped up in the butt of your
coffin nail
the world will never forget you