When “Catalina Fight Song” Sticks in Your Head

pushing petals to the weekend

keep something sweet and free

pushing petals for the weekend

so you can smile at me


die every minute

don’t discuss peace

they’re high in the bathroom

their hope is out of reach


pushing petals for the weekend

so you can fly with me

I’m dying in the evening

sweating in summer heat


pushing petals to the weekend

Gonna get our kicks for free


I used to bike all over the city

I used to bike all over the city
My aunt’s mountain bike would take me places
My friend and I we saw robots at Starbucks
And monsters outside of chase
Los Angeles is a crazy world

You can see anything really

We biked past scientologist strongholds that watched out over
Paltry comic shops and comedy clubs
I fear for the upright citizens brigade-
They are too close to the source
And without protection

The stronghold may snuff them out

You see comedians are like philosophers
they point out awkward truths
They show you the city is a mad place
A world of cyborgs and silicone saints
Yet beneath it all still remains

A clouded yet very real- very human place

In the streets- if they are so surreal
I lose myself in waking
As I am unable to
In sleep.

Sonnstag Traum Journal

I dreamed I was a pale, baroque thing with thin reaching limbs so long and fragile.  I was driving my truck, my bleeding, aging, pick-up truck with my long, pale limbs so thing and fragile.  And it was terrifying.  


My limbs were weak and my truck was fading.  It wasn’t long before I found the breaks were dead.  It was night and now I was just booming on, speeding ahead and then suddenly, smack, I was dead.  


When I woke up I found my lover next to me and her cat purring on my chest.  I took solace in this if not in dreams nor in waking thoughts during what people call reality.  


And strange to me, my dreams have darkness in them.  As if someone is trying to tug at the frayed threads on the fringes of my conscious, the places where strange things alone may take hold, the place where things are generally ignored.  It is as if a malignancy stalks me and haunts my dreams with its presence but that I am so much of love that I remain out of its reach.  Nevertheless, this dark circles me and pollutes my dreams.  


Perhaps I would find out what this means and then face what must be fought?


writing these spells

I recognize

the dusk is fading

As I take wind & sea

forest and jungle tree

deep down into the orchid

abandoning the magik of death

as best I can

Death still like a swamp

a stinking smell

that lingers on


perhaps I will wash it away

perhaps I will grow strong

Bloodstains and echoing footsteps in the doors of eternity

bloodstains and echoing footsteps in the doors of eternity

I am not known

nor ever seen

my words carry dead weight

my tongue speaks dead names

I call on the vampyers of olde to rise anon

and stryke free these chains

to starlight



and immortality

across the desert

I don’t need to bleed anymore

I think I’ve bled enough already

then- If I know that-

I know this- 

I’ll bleed again

Next time and 

the time after that

Until I am paper made dry

maybe left to crumble

maybe like sand in the sun

maybe like scorch marks

across the desert

I’m playing without sleeves

Rolled up and cringing
I’m playing without sleeves
You, you’re at nineteen
I think I know
I know what you mean
Rolled up and cringing
Clinging to the ceiling
I’m not flying so much as screaming
Rolled up and cringing
I’m playing without. Sleeves.

“Traveling, swallowing Dramamine.”

Stop the Deadly Machine!

Listing to the sides the punkj soil and slide breaking down the concrete barriers to reality existence and the ultimate dream,

swearing in legions they spit and kick up dust.  Now nothing can be seen

screaming and screaming I believe in the death of that- that machine 

and so the machine died when they commanded it too

the machine was of their soul and their blood 

it was nourished by their nightmares– so too its shattered by dreams 

death to the drunk, long live the punk, stop the deadly machine!Image

When I get my jacket on

When I get my jacket on
I’ll get out the door
Walk across the ceiling
And see what it’s for

I need an editor
Every time I open my mouth
I try to talk
A sonnet comes out instead

I’m hungry but I’m naked
The radio on
Playing the velvet underground
I can’t leave my bed

Girl I need to get with you
My life is in a rut