Dubious & Wilted

Losing control of the brighter things
that sit and smirk at me as
the twilight immerses itself
in the faint glimmers of reality.
Hold that fractured frigid shock
to myself so tight
it breaks and shatters
vomiting sterilized pom poms
laced with chocolate sticky kisses.
Struck me, Lick me, Luck my
humble circumstances as they dance
on the roof of my mouth
chilly strange deadly
turns to muck in the shmuck
at the corner of my brain.
In one moment I’m there
the next, I’m insane.
Minutes switch by slowly as the
natural drugs kick in
enlightening my sense of well-ebbing stretches
into a glass of string.

Systematic Heartfailure

There’s a time in the heart
where all things go to rust
and forget
is not the path
to forgiveness.

When one hand claps
the world falls down.
Little strings of

old sheer tissues lob off and peel away
creating a raw clean mess
that can only be healed by a new love.

So for now
the heart only feels what it wants to feel
empty as a plastic cup.

Clear Cloudy Calamity

So far away is the future
murky as the waters that puff in the wind
away they go
singing out into eternity.

Stains

Rip wretchedness
torn socks, stained by
sweat and sludge.
Rip the soul
right outta them,
drape across
a canvas wall
like an animal pelt,
stitched by
shrieking hands.
Let the stink of filth
lay, gutted,
on the crisp, pristine wall.
Oh shut that door ‘cause it ‘aint workin’ anymo’
Socks like
little guinea pigs
gutted.
Slit that slut until
the sweat spots drip.
Use little white thread,
not red, to patch
the sore pads up
instead
of gawking like little
itt-bitti gremlins.
Rip rapture right
through the cracks
of this entrapment.
Conjecture. Contradict.
All fuzzy cotton, rubbed raw against
the clear white frame
of flat perceptive pieces.

This art stands out like none other.

It is a dirty trash heap
strung up for the whole
world to see. It crawls
up the wall, to seek its own
distinct deformity.
Rip it all to hell.
The outlined sock soles
show wear and tear
and do not know
of how much they smell.

Do tell

me how they reek, as watchers
frown to find
what is disgusting, yet kind
of like a Rip into their
sinister souls to know
what they know. Rip it and stitch it up
like the punctured lung of a deflated bowl.

Dorm Window

Sounds of street life,
Oakland, cars and shopping carts
go by. Giant trucks squeeze
by, city busses travel at
the speed of light.

Sounds of nature, next door
to a black asphalt juxtaposed
the green to grey to burnt
umber houses with dark red roofs.

Sounds of birds that cheep!
In the trees of Oak and pine,
Eucalyptus sublime sends off
A scent only trees can find.

Sounds of fan, also green,
with stickers on its shell next
to a street of people who
live and people to meet,
Oakland, bugs and bees
fly by. Giant sun beams alight
the hills outside
A room outside
A dorm room outside
A college dorm room outside
A beautiful mind that breaks
(in due time)
the barrier beyond the city life outside.

Spring Bright

Sunny day
Sunny sway
See the green weeds thrush
hear the warblers and Chestnut
Striped Chickadees chirp.
Feel the equipped hush
of bright Spring’s push
to uncover anew, if only to know
like knew the new leaves, green
as they speak in sunlight
as it drifts, in peak, in song
so swift. Smell the hot sun
gallop, resting on blue sky
as wise as truthful lies.
Grasp shadows streaming off
gleaming off, preening off
Black-eyed Junco’s
call that echo in the in the
outside field, so yield
and breathe such nature
as it believes to crouch in,
crouch out, near road,
near sound. White budded
Baby’s Breath tickles the
green field, green earth. So
covered and fresh. Flowers
so sweet they choose to
peek out of the grass
and weeded leaf.
Sunny day
Sunny sway
Pine trees chuckle
in the blowy, breezy heat.
Never in their own defeat
but capturing carbon dioxide
(unlike wheat) letting pure
oxygen seep through thudded
bark, so brown it shells
their delicate rings. The clouds
dissipate to cornflower blue
so intoxicating it fills the
street, next door, with
glistening light or heavenly dew.

The Deconstruction of Books

Is there an easy path to this?
Is there an easy pass to this?
What’s done is done
(with a whole lot of fun).
But meaning to squander it
on diamond rings and puns
scratches out any meaning of it.
When every limb aches
toes bent to equate
pads of feet liquidate.
sore swollen pink pads
of sour hate
can barely stand or walk.
The power to get up
(in the morning)
is the power of will.
Is there an easy path to this?
Is there an easy pass to this?
Bound from stuck book binding heat.
Let the pages come loose and steep
with melting spines, let them unbind.
unwound like an 80s cassette
tape or knotted earphones.
Lie to work as words
are written down in lyrical sound.
Scrape the edges of the page
as nearness begins to wave.
It is so HOT in here
(like a fiery gin)
(or flames wreathing within)
Is there an easy path to this?
Is there an easy pass to this?
Ridges under shoe pockets,
the once white soles
turned to russet dust
or pasty cream from wearing them
too damn much.
(take a hint?)
Form that sweat into slush,
watch the book glue melt,
not burn as the hot sun
beams across its faded paper.
A list, so crinkled by time.
A dollar, so thrashed,
it disappears into the grime.

My Metal Man

I never got to know that man; I never got to meet him.

There we were in a crowded place, now, how shall I begin? He was a jaunty tall fellow with a crisp black shirt. Bright blue eyes, alert. He smiled at me, right through the sea of dressed-up people. He was wearing a black bowler hat, brass steampunk goggles strung around his neck. Put them on to see through green, he looked like a mechanical wreck. Black buttoned-up shoes with spats and brown hair, so slick. Straight and agate, I almost did trip into his slender arms (but I didn’t.) I never got to speak a word. We only talked through eyes. In that moment. In that dim but crowded room, curiosity took me by surprise. I lost him in the crowd, leather gloves and all. Clean-shaven face, so striking and yet something was off and I couldn’t stop staring. But the, as the concert closed to an end, he came to me (by pretend) or maybe not, for if it so my heart just shuttered. I thought, does he know? We smashed into each other, accidently. His gangly look was quite—dainty? He helped me up off the hardwood floor, with gloved hands, wanting more. I stared at him, dumbfounded. He wouldn’t keep his eyes off mine. It was sterilized sublime.
I noticed, then, as we pushed through the crowd, hand-in-hand, still quite loud. On his neck protruding were metal cogs. His face had broken its once fleshy facade. Peeling it off, I saw that he was part robot quite deeply underneath. We rushed to a clearing under the stars the night was cold (wherever we were). He took off his goggles to look at me once more. I stood still, like a bore, trying hard to ignore how I felt; enthralled. Engrossed, alarmed. His gold belt buckle shined in the dim light and I noticed his cheeks were etched in copper streaks like a shell of shiny metal. He told me, asked me if I recognized who he was, and I said, no. then shrugging away, he left to go. Hey wait! I called and almost heard his metal legs clanking whenever he turned. He looked my way, once again. Leaned down, real close, and seriously said—You know me—Some part, Somewhere—and then he ripped off his mask completely and underneath the rubber skin I saw who he really was.


A metal man; robotic steed. Quiet, but hearty for my poor heart to lead. Every alloy shined, every cog glimmered. Oil sheened where his long hair differed. I squinted close, to see that his hair was actually thick dark cable wires stuffed under his round topped black bowler hat. He removed his gloves to reveal shimmering silver/gold hands, so smooth. Each finger carefully removed and placed together so effortlessly. He swung his neck and faced me then, struck a match within and—kissed me.

My mouth felt all tingly when metal touched mine, a spark was made, with hot steam lips mixed breath brigade. I broke away, aghast, amazed. And there he left me, a crazy daze. I wandered home, stuck in a haze. A Steampunk man got me so crazed. Now, in bed, I toss and turn. All I do is yearn and yearn. For the blower hat man and all his shiny tricks. Was he truly a robot, or was it all just a gimmick? My real heart leaps out way out-of-bounds for a robotic person I saw one night in town.

I never got to know that man, I never got to meet him.

The only thing I have is the ghostly taste of metal in my mouth. He had a surprisingly cold steel tongue. Will I ever see him again? My Metal Man…

What Is A Man?

To me, a man
Is a robot man.
With fingers, so shiny
And a neck full of rimmed chrome.
A beard made of coils, a mouth of solid steel.
To me, a man
Is a mechanical man.
With eyes, blinking lights
Orange, so bright.
Wrists and arms
Clink, with sound.
Sturdy brass legs
Mixed with silver alloy.
To me, a man
Is a metal man.
With a heart of gasses and steam
Encased in glass,
Sort of seems…
alive.
To me, a man is a future man.
With a mind, so vast
Cogs will last
For centuries on.
Hold so close
But fixes so strong.
To me, a man
Is a clanking man.
With a voice
As sharp as paper
Is when cut by knives
On a chopping block.
Every nut and bolt
Shines gold like a clock
Or a pocket watch.
Rust caught hold
But oily down below
The metal man
Sleeps, he even dreams.
Tinkers away, cheek bones poking through.
To me, a man
Is a robot man.

Humanity stretches only so far…

A Poem By A Robot

We can never make mistakes
We can never flounder
We can never tell time
We can never ponder
We can never see the sunrise
As it’s rising in the east
We can never feel alone
We can never feel at peace
Day always breaks away
We can never feel at ease
We can never hear our hearts
We can never learn to play
We can never really die
We can never be apart
From our technology
We are always here to stay
We can never birth a child
We can never show emotion
We can never be worth wild
To a cherished loved one
We can never learn to write
We can never really hug
We can never live with spite
We can never really love
We can never see ourselves
The way we want to be
We can never really know
The means of being free
We can never paint the stars
We can never be apart
From machinery. What it is to be
Not human. Us, life force,
A teeny tiny speck.
We can never kiss another
We can never be so close
We can never just stop working
We can never even boast
We can never tell a lie
We can never change our shell
We can never be alone
We can never cuss or yell
We can never really see
What humans are to me.
We can never individualize
Except for just one “guy”
A robot, not the usual
Who wrote this poem
Just to show
How diligent I am.
Apart from all the rest.
I try to break from rhyme
But it seems to say the best
Of who I am.
A lone ranger
With metal skin
And metal hands.
Chrome, Nickel, Brass.
Stainless Steel
Just comes last.
We can never BREAK
We can never BREAK AWAY
From who we are.
But, we can choose to change
Our original status.
“I” will always be a part of “We”
Us robots tend to only see
Ourselves as a part of the whole
And just so you know
I do not want to grow
Into my own skin.
I want to be human;
I want to begin.

The Dancing Fembots of the Bolted Burlesque

See them clink
metal on leather
straps, and then sink
deep into the circus tent
striped white and red.
But, at night it turns
black and majestic mechanical
stars shed their light, inside.
See them entrance the still
audience with their shine.

Are they human, or not even alive?

See them leap off
from ropes and poles steel limbs strapped
with leathery grins.
Faceplates, nameplates, chestplates, fameplates.
Each dancing fembot rickshaws around the grave.
Each dancing fembot attracts the audience’s gaze.

Click, Clack, Clink.

Will be talked about for days.

Once a year, this event is praised.
So many people some to see The Bolted Burlesque
let the robots display and the adults be dazed.
(not for kids, they say.) When a robot displays
her intimate parts, each cog is tightened, only for play.
Deep in the darkness, the brass and gold breastplates shimmer,
round buttocksplates glimmer.

A Show of the Ages.

Come here! Come now!

See the dancing Fembots amaze! And wow!
The crowd just goes crazy.
All glitter galore.
All greasy knobs and copper coils
popping out to show.
All smooth metal edges, silver screws, hidden jewels.
Nobody should know where they came from.
A delectable bunch.
At the Bolted Burlesque Circus,
gears have never been so much fun!

Oh Oedipa!

(Inspired by the book: The Crying of Lot 49)

Conspire me, Tristero

Let me toot your horn

To let me know
W.A.S.T.E.
Wanting
Atrocious
Shit
To
Eat
A waste of all the pleasures combined.

Oh, Oedipa!

Oedipus is calling your name,
Dear sister.

He killed his dad
and now is in retraction.

Tristero follows me home.
It’s I.A. (innumerable atrocity) that only scores
the meaning of this book that fails to
explain anything.

Oh, Oedipa!
Your husband does not love you.
Go bathe in one of Hearst’s famous swimming pools
adorned in his castle of jewels.
(do the outside one, dear, it resembles ancient Rome).
The Tristero
stamps its way,
tattooed across
layers and layers
of clothes that smell
like plum perfume.

Oh, Oedipa!
Let bygones be bygones
and sing your sweet little song.
Forget about your paranoia
and sit and talk to me
for a while.

The big brass horn will
call your name later.
but, for now, just relax.

The Forest Dweller

Homeward bound,
our souls align
entering on,
shrinking down.
Two souls of kind upbringing
washed into the river
like drowning tubs of sorrow
lift up!
The forest dweller never sleeps
because he only dreams of
leafy things.

Key Knight

Blanketed full of keys, dress, it shimmers.
Throat that sucker on.
clasp the back, it glimmers.
Like roof tiles layered down and back,
zip it up and walk
a mile down the city streets.
Clinks as it sways; my armor, my release.
Walking down the street
in a dress made of keys.
Each door I walk past
I try each lock
to see if it will open for me.
Gold, Silver, Brass, Copper.
These little slices of metal dangling on my skin
rattle as I fail to open any doors,
and yet, the hope snogs me, caresses me, gently,
wind pouring through the trees
as I let the keys stay on my body.
I feel the sharp metal sting me.
Chill me. Cold me shallow as a sway.
One long crusted rusted two-pronged key rests
between my delicate clavicle.
I tear it off the collar of the dress and roll its dull copper exterior
between my inferior fingers.
Two-pronged. Old-fashioned. Out-of-date.
Then, spotted between two fantastical Oaks, is the house.
Black rimmed, white slats painted grey as my irises in bright light.
Just the edges. I walk up, key dress clinking.
Feeling like a knight in shining armor, I waltz barefoot to the door,
a hulking brown wooden barrier. Not even a peephole.
Only a knocker shaped like an owl’s head.
Silver as one of the keys dangling over my breast.
I knock. No one answers.
I slide the rusted, two-pronged key into the slot and turn.
It clicks, and I enter.

Stuck In the Gutter

Take my heart out of the gutter and shake it ‘till it bleeds.
That lonely mother-fucker can’t breathe
unless the sinews stitch back together
like the veins of leaves,
all smooshed by heels and debris.
My heart can’t see.
Laying in that gutter; it could only believe.

BIKE

Greased wheels, I knew you once.
I loved to balance like a child.

Roaming the paved streets; riding is like flying.

I knew you when the store held you back,
and I chose you from behind handlebars with purple streamers.
Your tires silently carried me to classes,
each brake stop signaled that we were close to our arrival.
I sat on your worn black seat like I was on a throne of sorts.
Even though that seat is tattered with one rip on the side,
all I saw in you was my own damn pride.
Spokes, I knew you once.
I played your tune each journey that we went on.
No hill was ever tall enough, no road was ever too bumpy.
Gears, I knew you once.
Click, Lock, Click
sometimes you were tight and never let me ride
sometimes you were loose and my feet went flying ‘round too fast for me to catch
what you were doing.
I knew you once, when time was young.

The Rock

The ocean crashes and I dodge jellyfish
carcasses, bloated, white and bloody like
loose spittle, drenched across the sticky sand.
I hop over this dead thing, so limp, so fragile.
Then, I see it. A black shine. A giant pupil.
Turn it ‘round in my hands and the rock is
smooth as plastic feels when wet.
Black, contrast, battered soft and hard
by the tumultuous waves that had
birthed it from existence into a sandy, shallow grave.
Oblong, like and oval smashed,
I slip the rock into my pocket,
sinking pink toes into mushy
wetness as the salty water laps at my thighs,
chilling them.

Glasses

Square planes of glass separate me from the bristling trees,
as tall as they seem,
bursting from the ground the glasses flicker,
then gleam.
Striped like the thick rings,
they sing they sing they sing.
Hiking in Oakland, the Oak
Land of lands,
by myself,
gazing at clean air and a sense of free fall.
See the bay across the way.
Let the greenness seep into my weary clothes
and now I know
how these square planes of grass see.
(Through me…)