when beef was wild

when beef was wild

cowboys were real. they jumped on

their truly broken horse

and threw dust in the air.

they stuck a knife in between

their teeth and gutted the shit

out of their dinner. they spit

blood and mucus out on the grass and

rode from lightening bolts and His great

thunder. when beef was wild

cowboys had a job. they had women

who made cornbread proper.

cornmeal and water. none of this

extra shit. spoils the flavor.

they sat round a

wagon wheel table and

spoke of indians and gold. they spoke of

building fences to claim what was

rightfully theirs. they shot

people who stepped on their ranch.

they got up every day ready to do what they had to.

they went to bed full and satisfied.

wyoming

wyoming

clouds look like they're on interlude.

we could reach up and pull each one apart

like it was cotton candy. each particle separating from itself

but not wanting to let go. stretching and tearing.

they move across the sky,

following the bus like

an old ship, fierce and majestic. their shadows hit

the rocky fields and

mountains acting as spilled paint causing

anyone to feel small.

and as the bus turns into wagon hound rest stop,

i wonder when i'll be home.

Red Lipstick

outside of the quaint café

we throw in-tact fox

skull's for our little

domesticated troop

while sipping on

sophisticated potations

spiked with evan's finest.

he applies his red lipstick

while she barks orders

at pup one and pup two.

i cover my ears in frustration

for that fox skull is

too pretty and broken

too perfectly at the jaw

to become a toy for

an inbred chihuahua.

(i feel that she is always taking control)

and the lipstick he puts on

makes his lips look

surprisingly thin which vexes

me further.

(those lips were so kissable once)

strange parisian man

comes and invites us to the gardens

and with a decision made

we are there arguing about

trips to france and the re entry into school.

trips to france will not do if one is

serious about school! trips to france

helping with lighting when one know's little

about lighting.

the dreams of an anxious young lady

demonstrate paranoid anger and loss

and usually leave a cold sweat on said lady's

pale smooth forehead. the lack of control

on anxiety stricken dreamy nights that one might feel

is completely part of the process of

figuring shit out

and must run it's vicious course on the

left and right side of the brain.

(mostly right, she can tell by her headaches)

Hannibal

Cannibalism, shnannibalism!

I'd rather eat some brownies

stuffed with weed,

or hey fuck it! Mushrooms!

Then I'll march down some hip trails

and look at the clouds turning

into paintings and out of reality I'll go!

Yes, and when the nausea kicks in

and I think of Hannibal the real Cannibal

I'll let out some ridiculous scream and laugh

and start down some crazy spiral of tears

swollen eyes and basic hysterics.

I'll stand in the middle of some parking lot

and watch a car wait for me to move,

and I'll feel really brave, like I'm stopping this car

from making any progress. Any progress at all! Yeah!

Until the person gets out of their car

and shouts at me to move! And I'll just run away

like some deer who only eats grass,

praying that no one will eat my brains!

18'' x 8'

doing breast examinations

listening to the talking heads

on a bus

with levon helm's crew.

slippery people in my ears.

the engine is making my spine vibrate.

drums

guitar

keys

electric synth

VOICE!

shake yo hips,

lady! go! go! go!

Praying Mantis

when i wake up

i see spider monkeys wrestling on my ceiling

with bunches of golden hay in their furry hands.

as they pull themselves together

and stop tearing apart at the yellow

curly dry grass

they begin to weave webs

and add old trojan wrappers

and movie ticket stubs

and leftover sushi

to their tangled mess.

as i look closer at these mad monkeys

i make out chunks of golden greek curls,

soft and lifeless.

and that becomes my only proof

that you were ever real,

that i had a good night,

that i had a delicious meal.

jazz

i’m out one night to see some smooth jazz. and this is real exciting because i like jazz and it doesn’t come around these parts too often. oh and this band makes your knees rock and shake and sort of sway and bounce in a real fluid sort of way. and it makes you say ‘yes, yes, go, yes!’ as if you were some beatnik in 1950s san francisco or something. and i’m watching this group go, with a jazz goddess on vocals in a smooth low cut dress. and all of a sudden i’m real sad. i can’t even shake it; sadness that is completely inevitable only i don’t realize that until i’m in it. cos this lady singing away makes me jealous, she’s so perfect and she’s doing all the things that i wanna do. only that’s not really true; i never wanted to sing with a jazz group or any group, i’ve just been drinking too much at this point and think that i’m a sad nobody, or something. but this girl up there is singing away and i think, damn she is just perfect and all i can’t be and i’ll bet ya she get’s to go home with the only guy in the world that would make me happy, and he’ll just love her and lick everyone of her inches of body and i’ll get dog hair on my old stained sweatshirt. but than this girl does something. she’s in the middle of some high sweet note and she starts fixing her dress, but not like some sex machine or someone flirtatiously adjusting some invisible bra. she more grabs at her chest area like she thought the dress wasn’t even there anymore, like the dress had fallen down just a smidget of an inch and exposed some little cute mole that she’s really embarrassed about. and she thinks that everyone notices something that only really a person whose body we speak of could see or care about. like when you think you’re having some amazing hair day or something and not one goddamn person says a thing, cause everyone’s watching their own reflection. and she get’s all antsy about her dress for a few seconds and i think, oh phew she’s as nervous as me. and then the whole narcissistic world comes crashing down on me and i try to drink my ego away even more, but that only fills it up more of course. and i can’t even be out anymore cause the whole mess of jazz lovers around me just reminds me that no one in there really cares about jazz, they just care about looking like they care. and it’s a mind blowing truth that makes me sort of sad. but it’s an oh well kind of a place and well shit, look at the bright side, at least you like her dress and at least you wanna shout ‘go! go! go! jazzy lady keep on going!’