hour after hour

13 ways of looking at a preference

taxifree — Wed, 19 Aug 2009 04:10:03 +0000

blinking bulbous unburdened
babies
must know more than we

for, feeling hunger,
every infant cries

i want. i want. i want…

this is premature…

taxifree — Mon, 18 May 2009 00:31:55 +0000

daring in the perfect sense-
machinery. the myopic lens, we
flux and flow like wet cement.
if ever real is evident, it is
drying inside cells and the design
-ated pathways for our salty swell
-ing feet and the bane of my

salty, welling
eyes.

this is premature

taxifree — Fri, 15 May 2009 02:35:11 +0000

surfaced depravity is inconsolable -
once you’ve seen it, i am sure it’s
the lives of crumbling tenement waste
revealed on the dailies. then it’s the
anguish melting over nature and it’s
hard not to

(i am thinking of the toast and cheese
my aged grandmother demands;
her fickle stomach allowing no other)

taste.

grade school sold the melting pot -
and each mention would bring the
same image: bearded men, and pregnant
post card brides, melting grotesque like
dali clocks into a sea of burlap and gingham;
uncle sam stirring with a giant flagpole
while aunt jamima chopped fruit for
a sunday

(my mother wonders why spaghetti
stopped being edible after 85. my
grandmother pats her lips deli-
cately with a printed paper napkin and
inquires, “cherry, or apple?”)

pie.

Intermission.

taxifree — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 03:23:01 +0000

would they (that would render)
make it swift – accuracy over
pertinence – and permanent.

god-like the ancient trees might
whither at the thought. our fortresses
exist only through the sacrifice of his aching limbs

god-like the patient seas might
dry with the knowledge. we own only
what we afford to leave alone; we are destitute.

god let us like the waning moon
clear the stage for a new rendition.

we are on it, but are not the world.

_ _ ____ _ ___:

taxifree — Sun, 26 Apr 2009 19:09:01 +0000

let it bare
its claws and dig its teeth into every
unstable interaction between every insecure
friendship. let it mend rather than divide – let it

like truck stop phone calls twist
those fraying ends and quiet every
repugnant pondering.

__ ___ ___ __ ______ ___ _____,
_____ __ ____.

taxifree — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 06:50:24 +0000

it is the diabolical quandary.

if every advantage were to lead further from
righteousness. it is not the right word, but suffices
for the state of pure being. pure perception and pure
life. were it not a question of filters,
what colors would i see?

…

taxifree — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 02:49:10 +0000

they know better, but ingrained in each
consciousness is the command:
liturgy of lust is selective and
compulsory-
our father forgive them, for they know just
what they do. banal and exploratory,
they’ve made a mockery :
(and kissing is simply a circumstance)
traded it for glory- the slipshod fervor of hands
groping and groaning for truth
(but settling for a nipple).

taxifree — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 16:24:15 +0000

but god,

if man is to be made in your image,

let me never meet you.

it’s progression, or else it’s not.

taxifree — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 00:33:03 +0000

the ripped jeans approach to growing up and finding a reason for existence beyond the cheek pinching affirmation of loved ones: college is a four year tribulation period where tolerance is tested for alcohol and anthropology 101. some will skip through as student-saints, storing up for themselves internships and job interviews in post-graduation heaven. some will be given away to drunkenness, irresponsibility, lethargy, and the purgatory of pizza delivery, declined cards and late rent. but college, the actual time spent in the pseudo towns and shifting cities of universities, are pragmatically considered insignificant beyond the accumulation of recommendations and passable averages. The college socialite must feel the same type of liberty as the christian s.u.v. pilot. With sights set on heaven, pollution on earth cannot matter. With sights set on graduation, environmental disasters in college filial associations matter less than a pair of shoes.

taxifree — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 04:32:16 +0000

the pock marked adolescents

growing into their faces,

and the hunchbacked

matrons with sagging tits;

the coal-eyed damsels made up

like breathing sex dolls;

infants wailing for the secrets

of life and death,

cannot know.

every maddening search for

absolution or unquestionable

truth keeps a crumpled map

with outdated street names

and a cross eyed compass as its guide.

meandering, meaningless,

through foreign alleys and up and down

stairwells,

unquenchable, anxious and wrought

with questions and quandaries

and contradictions pacified

by beer and full bellies and marketing schemes.