mechanical …and stuck in a downpour

large world small world i got my head stuck in a bottle : the letter without an address
when she died the tv was on in the next room all this for just a small fee of $19.99
thirty second sitcom skits the connections that always end up fuzzy we both wear the same smile
until it gets too uncomfortable in public photocopied emotions pasted to blank expressions the
bulletin board of chores never accomplished i wear myself out and get compliments on my frown
from strangers who might play the guitar in their snare time help the crippled guy cross the
street help me cross the typos off my facial reactions wrong punctuation the question mark
growing cancerous i connect the dot dot dots at the end of each thought and picture nice pictures
to glue to my refriger ator ice box brain frozen in place a film reel on a treadmill
out-of-service jute box love-letters hate-mail the city from a zoom lens glitched out mind
sketchy art gallery the scrap book that’s scared to die

moments glued together my ball of string brain my fading sweater my zipper-down soul
poured out like puddles gone bad rich pockets full of yard grass wasting away in a tank
dieing cigarettes smoking houses firemen rescue glasses pole-dancing jesus tips and dip i
want a better view of the canyon snapshot family life a photo album dancing for the relatives
the puppet show without strings or percussion off-beat anatomical heart learning to write raps
more bass i want the empty houses on summer days i pass to seizure in synchrony
an after-school death practice class
people all cry the same just got different reasons to water their plants
static electricity and people in a nuclear world atom bomb eve blow up doll with a fake
personality the old ash tray with war stories from 1939 these new jacks don’t know how to die
right humming air conditioner whistling kettle singing cd player old thoughts feeding tube
i quit living cold turkey my visions jump from the blurry windows two floors from the top
dreamless television built-in vcr memory playback
the out of focus pictures misdated moments old songs the world forgot how to dance to the
hard to breath gray woman with a colored television large box small box i got my head
stuck in the tv self addressed letter never sent out the dieing light in my dusty corner




she left with yesterday in her hair
packed the bags under her eyes
the on road moving funeral show
an old painting in black and white
a bunch of same brand clocks all staring at one dead watch
wondering if his house will still smell the same in thirty to forty years
right before their batteries go dead
loud flowers and laminated dreams
the paper dares me to key its car
cigarettes are clouds raining upwards
he cries every night just wash the dirt from the cracks
no one likes an expected sidewalk fancy me with food in my teeth
he thinks about her when the scent of dinner is still stuck in the room 2 days later
the gray fuzz my tv keeps leaving all over the house
she likes to count rain on the window
watching the sunset from a hand mirror in a train heading west
the woman with a stapled face trying hold herself together and hide her holes
you’ll meet dreams in the darkest parts of your bedroom at 1am
with the lamp screaming dully from the other room she’ll keep the world in glass jar on
some shelf her memory built 8 years ago after a pair of flowers promised her forever would come
easy just forget your head and let intuition take control the petals move and kill
themselves off one by one on their own she knows your heart in a blue sweater not she loves
in four/four time signature the easiest rhythm to catch a head nod off of let your feet
move and keep your eye-lids away from the top of the window ledge but remember to develop
picture perfect pictures of her while the lights are out because she won’t be there when the alarm
goes off to help you grab things out your burning house or to kiss you good-bye from a
crack in the bedroom door
die out like a television hit the button and fade to static stomach drop
the park ride people wait on line for for hours


my light bulb buzzes for the cordless phone on the counter that rings once a day
out of nail biting rituals and greeting kisses are cards that always seem to say more with their
mouths shut the ideas count but nothing adds up to be much outside black suits
and wood boxes we’ve all got somewhere to go the cemetery waiting list club membership
your life insurance won’t save you there’s not enough room to write on small paper = the problem
with jail cells he’s three meals a day a movie for tv special not one frame in this place has a
single picture the blank pages in the back of a text book his laughter grew up to be the kind
of closing bell we all wore shoes and handshakes for because he always made his weeping wear the
color of laughter that never matched the tone of anyone’s conversation
even if rain was in tomorrow’s forecast
no one likes a magnifying glass in popular shoes and custom made family reunion shirts
he always referred to her as the book he lost somewhere just before he finished reading it
and stores don’t carry the pages with personalized noted and highlights
-likes 3 spoons of sugar in tea
-hates the static on radio
i wonder if the sun poses on its way out knowing people behind cameras perform heart
transplants to its closing credits the lowercase folks with their sharp words
cutting conversation down to hand gestures and lip syncing in perfect synchrony
the swimming routine that always wins the smile of a girl with the sun in her eyes
the same song - we all just prefer to sing it differently
and audience always matters
even if you write for yourself
keep your small world small
i wonder if art existed long before the word