lookbehindu …and the pregnant way to carry an art text book


the wrong way street her memory in a back room playing dusty records next to a window
without a view every painting on the wall is a landscape she’s never seen
the post card collection in a box with baggage claim tickets and family photos of passed down smiles
and eye colors she’s never met her false memories enjoy wire splicing and taping journal
entries to furniture the day waits to die sitting in its barstool waiting for the red head
to fall asleep before it lets go the 18 story drop the book series written in window fog
the glass building with its face in a magazine
sometimes she jumps off the roof just to reread the 13th chapter
to every man stuck in a see through office filing papers and rewriting writing coffee stains
the world gets drunk on weekends for you the newspaper stand with it wonderful beach view
complaining about its leg pain the escape plans of a dreamer
written on dinner napkins and part-time pay stubs
irony swinging from the pick me tree the full moon only looks that full from your small window
typical in a new outfit just gets dates without pick up lines and free alcohol
i’ve been painting chasing the running colors in my epic piece for the last 3 full-time years
dada in an art book school pictures the one day you chose look different
i’ll remember you by the accident on your face the day your smile took the turn a little too fast
watch the bend in the street and don’t forget to pick up the pieces of yourself on the side of the
highway the grown woman pulled over crying on the shoulder of the road
a man bending to see up the dress of the double parked car standing in the street blinking
record life the playlist of the vacant radio station that no one’s ever tuned into
the old metal speakers left screaming in some soundproofed room
the fat lady’s been singing for ever and the show still hasn’t ended
it just no longer has a conscious audience
another aspiring artist whose never touched a brush the development meeting in the halls of your
brain the planning party let’s toast to the ideas apple picking in the off season
the direct route to tomorrow without stopping over in poorly lit rooms empty with dripping
reverse is a direction also times times two only puts us here with a pinch of yesterday
seasoning for the bland chicken pieces we overcook each night
who cares if it makes sense its someone’s brain with its tits hanging out
and not asking for a necklace enjoy the shapes the geometry the circle doesn’t always
have to fit into the circle my memory plays golf with hers every two weeks
we bet on how many holes we each can find in our similar pastimes
the mispronunciation of fore the video tapes have a better memory than you
sit on the photo albums lap and ask for a bedtime story the wrong way street
she’s back at the window again writing love stories backwards in the window fog
an artists who’s never shown her work who watches the award shows
and cries during acceptance speeches
singing herself to sleep
drawing the curtains and
singing herself to sleep




psychedelic scarecrows

words music nervous drums cracking knuckles
thoughts run out of breath full of noise spilling speaker
i gave my heart a haircut

and i only write to spend more time with myself
more than just weekends and holidays
i’m a pot hole filling up with rain that sometimes need to spill
the words are synonymous to their $6 beers and
i get myself drunk
so drunk she threw up her turning signal
changed lanes left the village to head downtown
and i’m machete chopping bushels of wheat for a handful of berries
safari strapped with a shotgun poking holes in sunshine
two scarecrows hungry for a hug
fingers made of straw -bent toothpicks
she lit my hand on fire and we had a quality candle lit conversation for a good 3 hours
before i completely burnt down to nothing