Sing to Me, Man

about rosy toes and eskimoes, all you know on damsel doe

The in laws saw my tiny Boy Scouts

The tiniest Boy Scouts started a fire in my mouth
They spent days looking for dry brush in the moistness
Taking breaks only to fish for cavities and flopping plaque trout
over my tongue’s bud boardplanks

the Dutch oven really exploded when they used some Pam and flintcake,
they made a small stick teepee
and blew its belly as if it were a young cousin
the lives of the scoutmasters’ newspaper kindled and became ashes
like Poprocks backed by pop rock

it’s so symbiotic,
they get warmth,
I get flare

when I shout wolfs or whisper genuine
When I gab at parties
When I give stately addresses

Now, with their fur capped help
I smell distinct
like a righteous,
crumble-cookie smoke

babes and baked potatoes

the last time our family was together under one roof
I wrapped the babe in pruning aluminum
while he held a TV antenna in his fist
magnamous and magnetized
hoping for mothership to answer his waving
and take dear tintin back to baby planet

where rivers of formula feed
a sparse jungled Floridian key of baby greens
where the presidency is won screaming
and every single thing is pacified

yes from the angle of the musty couch,
smelling like relatives,
our baby looked quite the baked potato of hope

If you shoot a psychopath while he’s in the middle of a murder, does he at least die doing what he loved?

—One police officer to another

suitcase hatching

Could I hatch through this suitcasing of
ungrateful socialness
that scares me from exposing a suffocated meat

My space is a ravaged and caps locked rib
but I’ve broken through the leather,
now I’m digging into plastic

I can feel the plastic on my skin like I’m on NCIS
I can talk and hear it on the plastic
And taste my words as they vibrate back to me
sick as this boy-sized bag

A kind of Man-to-man in the mirror
that works as good as any to repeat back what I dictate
in between tabs

texts to the passenger’s seat

Driving a bad map’s grid’s worth
we hunted for a good view of the moon
like hunting for water,
just a glistle
just a white russian’s glob full
and even that much is rote and awful

The car smells like Chinese tilapia and a burnt cook
A bad ankle and sandle pushing broken gas
Your loose chunky malt of clothing,
you bitchy sage astronomy major
rote and awful

I can bear the smells
The dead air,
The mum of the radio host
The dead ghost you,
that past you in the backseat passed out

I can bear it if you’re serious with me:
am I an infant with binoculars over my eyes?
a boring brute?
moonsick with a journal
and “moon” inside of it?

bad shrinks

bleeding all over a 5 dollar medium in poofy pants
rips through them glazy with cracked crystal
arches and toe rings all solar systems and star children

The same depression you get from an eight ball
Can be found here
Soaked through the Persian rug

lazy fortunes wrapped in a toilet roll like computer paper on her wrist
she smells like wood drugs and sex on pine needles

bleeding along my palm lines
Jesus Christ I think this is helping
Call it garbage dump therapy,
But I think it’s helping


Tangible Media

MIT’s Tangible Media is coming along nicely,

"Almost like a table of living clay, the inFORM is a surface that three-dimensionally changes shape, allowing users to not only interact with digital content in meatspace, but even hold hands with a person hundreds of miles away. And that’s only the beginning."

(via sagansense)