Hashtag Tucson

They caught Dillinger here-

still wild, still west

now it’s crowded with the

unwashed hipsters’ beards

the sunglasses hanging on V-necks

the “like likes”, the “YOLOs”

the instagrams of barefeet in sandals

navigating the 4th Avenue  train tracks

tattoo parlors, burlesque fliers

and Fanny Galore out on the sidewalk

with bums checking the trash cans for remnants,

reminiscent:legislating, discriminating,

but still gay, still  bustling

the storm is calm

just before the light turns purple

The Mountain is on Fire

It’s breathing and I’m raining;

tasting creosote in my soul.

In that old abandoned building

down town by Ronstadt Station

your pop punk band would play:

Chuck Taylors, candy colored beaded bracelets

and chick pants.

I miss those summers:

the De Anza drive-in,

Gates pass, Fruit Rollups,

above ground pools and

boom boxes.

Running barefoot over wet asphalt,

my jeans would cling to my thighs,

my red tank top soaked to my chest

we'd splash in the greasy rainwater.

Now it's July 4th

and the mountain is on fire.

Sixth Street Station

This jazz

is frantic.

Not for any reason,

Loud, squawking, baratoning, atoning,

twinkle tweaking,

guttural resonating- but not resigning-

certainly not

This jazz

said my poetry is real jazz

It's didactic

Poets are obsessed.

I told you

I'm frantic

in this smut punk subterranean Bohemia

where words did howl-

an echo

led by Beats in Berkeley in New York,

and on and on into the city lights

of this saxophone, sounds like a traffic accident

and I wonder if it would talk to the train

this horn to it's horn traveling through

time- away too long

but

still coming- my fingers on it’s lips

And in it’s mouth

quiet, confessing,

waiting, wanting,

this is why I have been writing.

But

Lyn Hejinian and I both agree

it doesn't matter.

Le Sigh

But I can’t breathe

What with Ginsberg floating foggy there in my peripheral

So far beyond the-

I need something French here

He describes that feeling in your mid chest, that need to

Let the air out and to describe that sigh

Le sigh

And the lady Marmalade lipstick I put on is lying

Beneath this text are the words I wish

I could say, and in between

Pauses-

Pas de bourree one step forward two steps back

Only to turn round and round,

And down I went busting up

My elbow ends up in this awkward position

And then you don’t want me any more.

Isn’t that how it is? These circumstances you say

It turns out you’re not good enough

Just now-

Well inside there’s this pressure, to

Scream and let all the vermilion sex dreams

I own seep out.

But then it-

I would be.

Voice File

And they read this.

Muffled voice,

extended

final phonemes

rolling

so

slowly

Plossive stops,

Built in the city.

My poems:

Clicks and fricatives

that bleed

Each pop pauses with each place

Of articulation

With sounds sputtering sentient

Pick Pop Lick Ipicac

stop

I do not want to hear your

Rolling vermilion violence

so

soft

And please,

only

stop

It’s been too long

Since I’ve had your hand

down my pants.

Something About Onions

Something About the Onions

And something about the onions

Made me think about that hostile-

That night you disappeared parking

And I worried you wouldn’t come back.

I bought these new skinny jeans

Just to wear these new boots

They have a button down fly

Instead of a zipper

Like those black jeans

You had

The ones I tried to undo

One handed

While I kissed you

And let you inside me

But you never let me in

And I wonder if your atoms

Are still on me even after

New Selected Poems:

When You Didn’t Call on Saturday

The din of wood against beer
In the place between
Time and you
Wouldn’t tell me your age
Or if you could still taste my pussy

After dinner and two more
Glasses of wine
Beside the fire pit
The nicotine tarnished the air
And snuffed out the smoke

You showed me the scars
The red on both wrists
Young women smoked
And we ordered shots
Of Blue Agave Tequila

In some blur
We became part of the bar
High on bar stools
I licked Margarita salt
You paid over two hundred dollars

Our bartender was a bitch
With a great ass
You told me that one time
You accidentally
Took too many pills

When you didn’t call on Saturday
Sunday I knew you were dead
When your sister-in-law
Called on Tuesday
I thought I was going to be sick





I HAVEN’T LISTENED TO RICHARD CORY

Just outside Ithaca,
The rain beats the foliage

Just inside the Denny’s
There is florescent warmth

Speckled brown ceramic
Cups of hot chocolate

Teenagers in groups of four
Their neon bracelets clash

We sit around the table
My aunt Carol, my uncle Fran,

My mother
My dad, and me.

I order a glass of milk
And a bowl of oatmeal

My Uncle Fran
Wears square glasses frames

He looks just the same
As the last time

“How did Mike do it?”
My mom asks.

I try to move my chair
Catches the carpet

“He shot himself
In the head

With a shot gun,”

I haven’t listened
To Richard Cory

Since I found out
How you died.



SONGS NOT PLAYING

I’m now lying
On the carpet of the
Living room floor having just
Masturbated.
I see the
Fringe of this
Green and maroon afghan hanging off
The coach in my parent’s

House. It reminds me of
This story about my
Uncle Tim who was
Told to toss the
Afghan
Down the stairs, but he
Tossed the ventilator instead.

He just knew it was a
Thing with a
Funny name.
And like a
Platypus
I feel awkward being in
My parents house, my old

Home. As a Quasi adult bearing
Young things with
Tiny black duck bills. And
I sit with the Afghan in my
Parents house, my old

Home. And I listen to
All of the the Songs that my
Mother should know.
And
All of the
Songs not playing.



(Poets)

They are obsessed with:

Syntax, quater moons,

and the adjective metalic. Long lost religious wars.
Fuck, Cunt, and various dirty words in disconect

and
The defraction of light against the clouds, defining
God, pretty
words, anomalies
And flesh between Conversations.

They are obssesed with science, silence,

and the langauge lacking any sense

They are obssessed with time, loss,
Buddah, Jack Kerouac, and Ginsberg-
(Though they won't admit it)
Nipples, the mouth and the
word didactic origins of parataxis
dappled by centrifigal force.
Crisp sounds in asphalt like ipicac, pop, stark and
Stars,

They speak too much of the ocean and sea
too much meaning in waves
against the mirror

They are obssessed with abstractions
and avoiding them with
Concrete objects and metaphores, like
cars called Galaxy.
They are obssessed with
Teeth
and broken Things
We expect too much, they are Poets not actors.