satan gave me a taco

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When I look through this blue blob bit

(a melancholic glass pebble I picked and paid for)                            

I see my grandmother cooking white fish golden

With a singular iron key hanging from her floppy neck

That image will stick through centuries and eternities

As it nestles in my palm, friendly and obtuse

The gentle contours of my time machine

I hear the sounds of my uncle in the next room

Coughing and kissing of a nine to five man

The beastly sounds of love echo

In my ear canals all over again

Again when I look through the translucent

Color of endless polar nights piercing

It takes me back to blue hours of my youth

As I carve a warm hole in the old mattress of coconut strings

I sink in, watching old new cartoons racing and bouncing

The stray cat thieves in through the rails

The ghostly TV levitates and scares him away

The room turns blue and bluer with every channel flipping

Until everyone is gone and it’s just me

and sweet humming of the fridge

With cold custard and cough syrup keeping me warm

My furtive crepuscular activities changed me

All the kids sleep while I stay awake

Watching troubled women kiss

In the morning the dam will break in the shower cubicle

Death doesn’t stand a chance to my swelling lips

Your dark quivering edges

And deep mellow centre

Mirrors the perfect emptiness inside me

Reminds me

Nothing will ever change

"Love is holy because it is like grace–the worthiness of its object is never really what matters."



Moby- shot in the back of the head


From Azerrad’s book, The Butthole Surfers at CBGB’s in 1986.  Gibby Haynes, and I think the bassplayer is Jeff Pinkus, and I think that’s Kathleen Lynch and not a blow up sex doll, but it’s kind of hard to tell

James Dickey and Robert Lowell.

"I fear the end of a happy dream"

Robert Lowell- Skunk Hour

One dark night,
my Tudor Ford climbed the hill’s skull;
I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down,
they lay together, hull to hull,
where the graveyard shelves on the town… .
My mind’s not right.

A car radio bleats,
"Love, O careless Love… ." I hear
my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell,
as if my hand were at its throat… .
I myself am hell;
nobody’s here—

only skunks, that search
in the moonlight for a bite to eat.
They march on their soles up Main Street:


Pilgrim Turkey No. 5
2006 & 2013
woke up, was bored, made this