You’re supposed to write a poem now because that’s what you’re built to do…

Hunker down now

With the molecules

Don’t let them know the face you’re making

It’s getting too dark to taste the water

So find a new naked self

You’re not going to find a better guitar in this lifetime

So play like the sound is real

Envelope envelope

Walking till the hairs grow thin.

Alienation #2

Eliot and I were convinced
That there was a time vortex
To the 1990s
At the Target on Ohlen Rd.
There was some weird energy
In the freezer section
That extended out to the street
Where you could feel that
Just on the other side of
Some cosmic membrane
Tupac was blasting
From low riders.

We went to investigate.
For some reason we went to
The Arboretum
To get money
And then we bought booze
From the Twin Liquor by the HEB.
We bought wedding cake flavored vodka
Because it was on sale.
We needed the booze to properly
Investigate the vortex.

Eliot was going on about gemmatria.
He said it was the secret to everything.
But it sounded to me
Like a way to drive yourself mad.

We found a patch of woods
To drink the vodka.
It was a beautiful spot
Next to a creek.

He was a very sad man.
I was not as I used to be.
I was living with the woman
I live with now.
He was battling literal demons
In the forest of the green belt
Where he lived.

We drank the whole bottle
And never made it to
The Target
That day.

Soon he would accuse me
Of conspiring with the spirits
In his head
To try to kill him.
I never heard from him after that.

Althusser Dancing on the Head of a Pin [poem]

A communist philosopher storms into
A psychoanalyst’s conference…
Have you heard this one?
He storms in
Claiming divine right
And claims it is
The analysand
Not the psychoanalyst
Who is the proletarian –
The worker –
Of psychoanalysis
He says
The brain is a factory
And we its workers
And it’s the psychoanalyst
Who is the boss
He says we must democratize
The process
He says
The workers of the world
Must own the means of cognition

Althusser looks to Lacan
Expecting the latter to agree.
He says nothing.
Althusser is rushed out of the building.

Millennial [poem]

I, 15 years elder the century, weathered the broke-brawned shelter of millennia.
The diamond dust which glistened the middle 20th, now micro-incisions the skin and teeth, makes rags of lungs.
Colonial, they say we were better. But now post, we look at the masses, zombie-tired, broodbloods’ eternal shuffle.
Nostalgia for sickly things permeates to a time when future existed. Rotary phones and VHS grain stipple YouTube longings.
Feast! Feast! Ye hungry eye. Ye huddled mass! Yearning for 30 day free trials!
The end of history came too soon.

a poem about mozart and poplars

The cat investigates the phonograph
She can’t decide if she likes Mozart
Sniffs at the rotating record

I am reading Kenneth Rexroth
And marveling at his detail
He remembers everything that happens
At his imaginary parties
And like most poets
Talks of poplars

there was a period of time
When all my friends wrote
About poplars
I would say
“You live in Texas.
There aren’t any fucking poplars here.”
But they thought it sounded literary
And indeed it is the most literary tree

I shoo the cat away from the phonograph
She meows in disapproval
I tell her she can deal with it