The Stark Comma

Grifted from the madness of it all.

bixby burnin

bixby burnin mad. peculiar
thought metropolis. harbinger?
to repression or noir or nude
renoir; salad nights.

there are pirates and
devils swarming streets;
midday parade play, a social
pocket watch delirium:
red blouse tremens. there is
not a pathos
out. this play based on
valerian day after day
catchy one night stand


with foam. patron to foam


Bixby is burnin, they all
chant in
quiet alarm clock glow.


shelled out a few greenbacks at
a los angeles estate sale
while back. snagged a brass
aviation barometer from the
deceased in the hills.
doesn’t work.

I keep it though, mostly
as a paperweight for my sheets;
stack in the wind on a deck, edges
flap but stay in place. I think this
will be one memento that
I keep until eighty. There’s something
about this piece that speaks to
that thing inside of me.
28 stormy
29 rain
30 fair
31 very dry

yes yes

I am pan am: or aviator: or broken.

in heat

we are all just
shadows humpin’
yellow lines and
gravel. tall, thin with
trenchcoat- breeze
give those camel hair
flaps flutter brush up

and like a sonofabitch
in heat, I hump because
I don’t know what



I tore through dumpster
street by street- brisk
strokes. The tortoise blue
blur heaved nothing

at me. Entered teahouse
triage and took a
barstool bath as
chamomile pressed all

it had. Mexico City
just sits there man-
a fuck you to caballero
clown grit, what

a strop. She, being my
sister, prattled on too
much about prattling on
too much or if the nod

I gave. Chinoise oolong
ceiling looked like self
putty; putty knife traced and
looked up for a spell. Why

am I an asshole?

[ ]

Chin wobbled as I go
bald; tortoise.

the seven wonders of a poet’s world

that bar just off main.
that becoming blonde in summer dress off.
that breeze circuit cricket sun dive.
that empty bottle of gallant red.
that conversation with self on honeydew mattress.
that full sheet genius cooked up under three at three.
that humanity sprawl spool where ideas always dye.

and the tourists come with bulbs
dangling to snap a few and ruin
what turns all into ruins

highlands nurture

let the ills get carried away all
the ills carry themselves away.

fear none. pressed gently in a
cabernet cloth mixed in heedy
warmth. highlands of father and
mother warmth. lap white crescents
against algae slip; the favorable
wooshing that washes over like
milked serene you the king you
the queen of all that exists when
eyes close and ills dim.

cherry tomatoes

toothless with teeth- toothy
toothless bum sitting like
gum under some kitschy
60’s lamp listening to some
50’s song grumped out at a
40’s milkman. the

garden in the front only grows
cherry tomatoes, what a
sin. cherry tomato sin in the
morning- what spectacular
folly can we follow up with?
what choices will we make at
high noon- bet there’s a
juicy one once at rise of
the super moon. why do
we trample ourselves in
vicious choices?
a cherry tomato opposite of
what we need: sage or starch.

and in a grand cherry tomato
mirror moment, I
followed into coffee house an
old man book in hand left
leg left limp plaid tucked
in with brown penny loafers
and such a lonesome wrinkle


cane the night goes. A
syrup towards the end of its
blown sand; to
know what awakes to:
palpitation pity
thump thump

but, hey, simple the night
goes with lime wedge and
feelers feelin. two flashes of
flavorless soda and a big
neon drudge demoiselles. grainy
at best 19th century sucker
soul stoic

I’m not nearly a man; wobble
towards the big redeem reveal
this being with grace. night
goes like this;

splash of sour mix in the
fearful of all even if
it’s so goddamn brainy


alabama apron drop

cooked some blood toast
in the early hive of east
rise. drank cowboy coffee
in an alamo get-up. sat
sumatra with native
dangle. the mohawk
mosaic of life. spread
out through the mist and
spied freshly cut, freshly
planted, freshly constructed
watermelon seed see
through. where is my
being? has it gypsy’d
to alabama, dropped
split at a pancake apron
drop? I

bear witness. I must be crazed
in some way to believe all
will not die.

and the mudder is conned

there are women, yes

attracted to;
as a high cheekbone demure
playfully teases your brain. there are
women out for dignity lust- with a
toothbrush coupled tumbler dip
within days. don’t be
tempted. these ones
come across as pleasant to
waiters or charismosa with
friends. dark humor
sprinkle sarcastic love
of my fucking life. but alas,
the usual, as smock gets dirty
prepping canvas or
fish or a combination of

during wintry mix of pale
skin and lack of sex, you
begged for pale hand on tan slender
neck just below a fringe
drop earring- sex now
a constant. she’s death. she’s

the paratrooper of death. drop in
off Moroccan winds into fresh
spring. romance!
oh and she

fuck, she reads obscure shit. negotiates
with the record store clerk,
entranced by her beauty, we leave with
half price player. doesn’t
bat an eye when I suggest an
antique store walkabout. when
she sleeps; when she sleeps,
the bulbless room gets a
hue. when

she imitates; when she
imitates, the thought of
racetrack dampens the
mudder but you are
mudder aren’t you?


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 382 other followers