1. |
The Glove Story
01:45
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Latex gloves snap,
split open in the sunset.
Chain link fence.
Orange rust.
Make me a fireplace
on your bathroom rug.
Feed lathe-cut wood
and palette splinters.
Faces face down flat,
shoulders slouching over
stained ceramic mugs
in damp, smoky nightclubs.
H is for
hot spaghetti splashing
your picturesque, rugged jawline,
your own brave face.
How could you face what you found like that?
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2. |
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The urban jungle is a cultural wasteland.
Every animal sound is a notification.
My seed bomb is a Cosmic Brownie wrapper
when I climb up on Garbage Mountain.
When I pave-over sacred ground,
I raise the Season's Greetings banner.
When I traverse the side-yard weeds,
I become a bramble pincushion.
Loneliness is freedom from invitation.
Urban renewal is a urinal cake.
Here comes the Here Comes the Neighborhood storefront decal.
My growling stomach startles the squirrels in the attic.
I know I'm not the first whippersnapper
to piss in the ceremonial washbasin,
but whenever I kiss the ancestor-face,
I hemorrhage social capital.
Now I am opening another new window.
I am alienated from my own feelings.
Despair is a donut with a nail in it,
and I have one for every beer can in the John F. Kennedy Forest.
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3. |
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I would wake up the street with my plastic comb,
my nonsense language,
my fluid nonsense persona,
with fat folds swathed in wind-swept cherry print fabric
underneath well-worn yarn.
The plastic rain jacket somehow stung so hard.
And having finished the job,
I would yelp to you like this,
remembering spears of water from the cheap shower,
remembering time fluid with ribbons of fat,
plastic bottles of water and fresh cherries in baskets,
where “Free Onions” milk crates haunt the yard.
Somehow that was five hours away in reality,
down the road and across the street,
beside the House Road road sign.
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4. |
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Early one morning, look in the glass.
Drag a string of floss across your scabby lip.
There's an oozing orb below your cheekbone.
Your cheek is an orchestra pit.
Your torso in the glass is a plucked chicken.
You can scarf a leaf of cabbage.
Hang your ego on a murder ballad.
Gird your temper with glissandos.
Put your hands up - up around your heart
was the answer to the question you forgot.
You forgot the night before.
I heard you were on the second floor.
I heard you were measuring on a desk.
You thought some cleanup crew would fix your mess.
You even buy your own excuses.
C'mon you gotta listen:
Fold along the dotted lines around your eyes.
Your name is not your name.
This razor blade is cut with what you criticize.
Crack your smile wide awake.
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5. |
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I trusted you
your terry cloth throw
you opened the wasp nest
your shoulder blade tickled my nasal drip
the six foot tick braided my terry cloth throw
I am
I am scratching myself
your wasp nest has claimed my terry cloth throw
I am coughing cabbage from my throat
I am looking for you
I won't find you
your six foot tick
your wasp nest
you
you can't see your shoulder blade
1. the wasp nest (you)
2. the hanging dread (the large ant)
3. you (me)
4. you (me)
5. the hanging dread (you)
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6. |
Nightmare Bug
01:44
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This is the nightmare again.
I could be anyone wearing a baseball cap.
With shaking hands
in my pockets.
My lips were open.
I recognized an omen,
a bitter aftertaste.
So I bent it out of shape!
I threw a tantrum.
Tornado sirens and thunder.
I ate an apple from the gutter.
Now my lips are numb.
I saw the number on a tear-off flyer.
Blinking eyelids.
My head is empty.
This is a warning.
Blow-up, burning roof.
Chances are, don’t understand...
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7. |
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Dirt is alive.
All the bugs
eat our fat
after we're gone.
Five years look for me
in a tree,
astride an amber escalator.
The cat will mew.
This is Yin Yang.
This is looking
in a mirror,
in a hologram sticker,
in every plastic acorn piggy bank,
where tiny pinecones jingle.
I saw hay bale straw
on a muddy County median
and beside the ornamental frogs -
a polyester watermelon flapping,
where golf cart spit
swaddles waxy wrappers.
This is bad and scary,
when wafting ammonia coughs,
when any wrinkled timebomb
can drool with impunity.
I saw the large red moon
regard the complacent can.
I saw the moonlight
absolve every tan line.
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8. |
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slumped across a greasy vinyl booth
clicking on a picture of someone
dreams are always stupid
that was the dream, this is the lesson
like open doors open doors
but only with my glasses on
habit seduces when inertia is stronger
oh but my blood curdles
I met a coward outside the party
stinking in his rumpled duster
nobody so smart as
the brass knuckles necklace he clutched
he said this is the dream, this is revenge
and I might have shared my arms-length spread
oh but the bloodrush squeezed my fingers purple
and no one watches when
when you’re walking
and you look over your shoulder
when something stirs your memory
opens ugly words
opens ugly words
I tore my ticket open
I said it wasn’t me
within the crowd, I succumbed to panic
within the giddy scene, I saw red
red eyes with wide pupils gleaming
someone said to me, what does that mean?
I said I was counting birds
I was only breathing steam
anything to keep my blood pump working
and no one watches when
when you’re walking
and you look over your shoulder
you hold your nose, surrender
your warm position
admire the cold dirt
ah, what is the word for “soft touch?”
what is the word for “soft touch?”
what word?
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9. |
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lyrics by Noah Marmalefsky:
camilerri, au contrairy
why not an erotic chat
from strangers you don't know
i left something on the stovetop
probably a quesadilla
its crusty and burned
sebastian was writing
we were destroying
DESCRIBED BY THE POCKMARKS ON THE WALLS
pieces of records, pieces of treasures
six month old cheese
beer bubbling over its due
i left something on the stovetop
let me just grab it
my house is burning
our love is churning
sebastian was writing
we were destroying
the truck was stolen
from the front of lawn
so alone, belong to no one
six month old cheese
beer bubbling over its due
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10. |
Under My Nails Please
01:41
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your veneer ring, your plate
water from the water can
under my sleek table
pitchy, the pitched roof
my ornamental wall
fall under you
into light
I walk a smiling dog
you were under my couch
I hold your pink hand
your granite tops, loose hinges
when your friend is my friend
you wait, you grow impatient
I am the black tooth
the bruised fruit
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