Thursday, September 18, 2014


Underneath all reason lies delirium, and drift

Gilles Deleuze, Desert Islands 

The Sayings of Twilight Jesus

Twilight Jesus got drunk
and whispered maybe I'm dyslexic
to the dark like a prayer.

He'd mix up one word
for another.

He yearned for
a transalphabet

the music of new choices, lifestyles
alphabetical reinventions

and a different kind of consciousness 

as true and as beautiful
as any god that was
ever dreamed.

Image: kn.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014


I know nothing, except what everyone knows - if there when Grace dances, I should dance.

W.H. Auden, Collected Poems

6 AM Blues

There are some things.
Brain chatter.
Clatter of mind.
The way the day
can fool me
disconnect me
from compassion
and the burning sun.
Like a wolf
eat me alive.
While the world
a billion tender heartaches
is rusting.
No center line
and raw blue winter
I'm not ready for you .


Tuesday, September 16, 2014


Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss,
silently and very fast.


It's Not All About Us

Everywhere always a crisis, but Jesus, we've got stuff to do.
The dog wants out, then water. The bills fill the in-box. 
The water will finish boiling in a few
and demands a tea bag and steep, 
a sip and a sigh,
and another day will pour out its bullets and torture.
Who has time for crisis?
We feel, briefly, 
for the wounded, 
now a quick prayer for the dead,
and the sins of the world.

I no longer ask. I just smile as the hummingbird 
comes to the feeder tongue deep even though 
it's almost October at 6000 feet.

Image: kn.

Monday, September 15, 2014

From the Fog

We are drug addicts, jesus, we are dreamers
we write poems of escape
stickier than hope
our dreams of scar tissue
We live on the periphery
with an explanation
without an explanation
Let's wait for meaning to be found
an old graffitied wall in a Greyhound bus station bathroom
an old story borrowed from a fairy tale
like how to become a badass
Blow through our dreams
like a stack of twenties
shoot em' down out of nowhere
with silver poems that shatter thoughts into fragments
and dark shapes you could live in
Let's not think about the consequences of being alive
before hearing the news about that slow gravitational suck
Let's do it as if the deep soul of our dreams will save us

Image: kn.

Sunday, September 14, 2014


Everything human is pathetic. The secret source of humor itself is sorrow not joy. There is no humor in heaven.

Mark Twain

Funny One

The Comic
or Sacred slayer,
laughter whore, 
joke messenger,
timing fanatic,
crucifixion smirker, 
frown killer,
that kind of power.
From the Atlantic 
to California promoting smiles
the forever gospel 
of redemption 
by way of the perverse, 
in our Kingdom of glorious folly.

Saturday, September 13, 2014


i’m the faggot at/dinner asking to/be alone/with the/children/tell them their/future happiness/depends entirely/on how well they/cultivate rebellion against/any structure which/does not hold their/autonomy and/creative intelligence as a priority

Poet, CA Conrad

Roller-Coaster Redemption

on wings of butterflies my small thoughts eternally shaking down everything behind everything galloping fragments omens and subtle ways of seeing things and touching both sides of things keeping on the road  intensely for years by endless cascades of transformations and the crazy sweet fruits of the void within me named one hundred failures I take refuge in the vast chasms rather than religion always loving is faith in part payment for the honey of my poor dreams a few grams of lessons in my foolish ruins half angel and my metastasized God

Image: Composite, kn.


Friday, September 12, 2014


"Suppose I try saying something. What way do I have of knowing that if I say I know something I don't really know it? Or what way do I have of knowing that if I say I don't know something I don't really in fact know it?

I am going to try speaking some reckless words, and I want you to listen to them recklessly. How will that be?"

 - Chuang Tzu

Decades of War

today I’ll pretend:
every new morning installs hope.
and we’re leaving behind the clubs, 
knives and beheadings.
Who would sing 
under a black flag?
we are getting into each other’s way.
you scream from inside your soul of squalor.
we’re seemingly serene.

with some self unknowing
we have miles of miracles to go
to see splendor.

we could all learn to live 
in different weather.

when I'm in a garden
I want to see the flowers.

Image: Composite, kn.