Archive for category Prose

Untitled Reading List: Becoming one with the Tao de Frack

Mr. Constant makes it                                                                                                                                                         Clear                                                                                                                                                                                    Not to care ‘bout                                                                                                                                                      What is there                                                                                                                                                               T.S. Eliot had no doubt That choice was illusion                                                                                                     Turned inside out                                                                                                                     Angel Island Poetry                                                                                                      Reminding me

people suck                                                                                                 &no one’s free                                                                                                                     Troia brings me to my knees                                                                                              I’m writing my thesis on Tariq Ali                                                                                                     lately it occurs to me                                                                                             I’ll never be Carolyn Cassady                                                                                           me and Ms Cowen Have too much in common: not just Allen


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The Snow Man by Wallace Stevens; a multimedia interpretation of a sentence, by LaLa

original paintings Acrylic on 8X10 printer paper w ransom note style courier new font; Video filming, production, directing, reading, editing by LaLa. Sentence by Wallace Stevens.


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Gypsy Rd,photographic illustration and poem by La La

Gypsy Rd, photographic illustration and poem by La La

rainbow colored warnings
on a crescent moon rising
Distances spread wide gaping yawning
branches bare wet black …
On this mad, fruitless plain,
We Say “we would hold his hand,
count the days
of hopes and dreams”
Sunlight moments across a cheek
Our boys when they were a shiny eyed peach
…Before the pitch of frostbitten plum heaven,
we could catch our breath,
our hearts from beating too fast !
Maybe this is days to come;
sensing the work of the detritus
what short work they make of us …
be still for now ?
No ! — yearning,
let the absence in, let hollow winds to seek out
what is lost be found again
We have no end µ
So November I forgive you.

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Departmentally Ecclesiastic

The Burlington Hotel, Port Costa, Ca.

The Burlington Hotel, Port Costa, Ca.

“We all have our own demons,” you say, even though you don’t say it.

You say it.

Once a day some scrap of those inferno, dog days of summer – come yapping at my heels, – or they lick my face with their panting breath. If you know what I am talking about,

— why — (I only want to ask you), – why – are you still reading my words?

I knew better: Diving into the shallow end of the pool could paralyze.

Scorched and tumbling earth, he was no angel. He was no muse’s favorite, he was as common as they come. But love is blind.

Our insanity coinciding on the back road, a dirt road, a path both led far astray upon – it was : Spacious and stony, forever and intolerable, we grew irreconcilable, no, we always were.

Our faith abaft. Our hope misaligned. Our northern star misidentified.

I thought you probably knew how to make a silverpoint.

I thought you would draw us a new map.

I thought we might modify the present just enough to outrun the past.

Acquiescently the sky cried down like rain.

I dream, it’s anodyne. But I awake and you’re still gone. And I can never come home. And I will never go home. Viva. Alleluia. Aneuch!

My attempt to dandle madness through.

Unready waning moon may witness the opuscule, I’ve stopped.

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Sanges, Tea and Sestina



I took your tea
To you.
In a bone china cup, painted pink and gold, mesmerizing shining, numbered,
one piece of a large collection

A chocolate donut that had bright blue melting frosting and puddles where sprinkles had been
On a white napkin, that had seen better days.

We sat in the front yard and the heat sat on our laps,
Whispers we meant to share stayed inside our overcooked brains some more

I felt sorry for the dog who couldn’t raise her head to bite the flies

Not even creaking from the tire swing rope rubbing the limb clean, today
I took your tea
To you.
In a bone china cup, painted pink and gold, shining, stamped, numbered, and
a chocolate donut that had bright blue melting frosting and molten puddles where sprinkles had been,
On a white napkin,
You thanked me.


Lady Gaga by Teaboat

Lady Gaga by Teaboat

Moodus, Vogue, September 2009

Moodus, Vogue, September 2009

I am trying on all of these clothes for a man I’ll never see again.


Marcos Sanges - Home at Balthes-  1998

Marcos Sanges - Home at Balthes- 1998

So she is undone. And her hair like stomped spiders.


So she has come straight to you
tears streaming


You did not answer the phone
Like she was a stranger

a stranger
did not recognize the caller

The caller


Marco Sanges - Late Afternoon - London, 2001

Marco Sanges - Late Afternoon - London, 2001

The table is laden and all things there are waiting and waiting, for you and for me.


Marcos Sanges - Dinner is Served, 2002

Marcos Sanges - Dinner is Served, 2002


Marco Sanges -  The Forest Surrey - 1998

Marco Sanges - The Forest Surrey - 1998

the pond is ice
it is black glass
beneath the thick blood, all things there are still and waiting, waiting
one last elegy for all things cold;
i knew you from your silence
one must have a mind of winter* wind

the wild winged ones glide upon the wind
they say the angels gaze grew to ice
when God made them, grew jealous grew silent
stripes of bloody hope and shattered glass
blood runs cold

a man waits
for me
* smells my perfume on the wind
his kiss will not be cold
he is glacier ice
clear as glass
strong and silent

and you neglected me with silence
kept me waiting
would not even let me peer in through the glass
blow away in frozen, burning, arid winds
you turned my heart to ice
my bed is bitter cold

on the hills, ruthless cold
black birds search the ground, silently
peck the ice
soothe yourself waiting, waiting
for the spring wind
to crack the infirmary’s glass

drawing true-love-always and hearts on frosted glass
sucking on our fingers when they get too cold
trying to warn the others about the changes in the wind
soon it will be gone, it will be vacant, it will be silent
i will not come, but i want you to keep on waiting
frozen as ice

your lips are ice. your eyes like glass.
for you I have waited. i have grown cold.
you remain silent. i howl like wind.

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“Death is a skipped meal compared to this”

I know I shouldn’t and I can’t I can’t just sit and write all day

With the sun shining like the tail feathers of the male peafowl I can’t just


First, first a little doomforthegloom so they won’t be so lonely, the wraiths walking the railroad tracks up and down looking for redemption

Because redemption don’t give a shit

Yeah, it is just abyss after this

If you don’t have now, you have nothing, let alone REDEMPTION

Redemption was the fingernail tracks that stung as the cold air dried the sweat on your back

And remembering redemption doesn’t bring it ‘round again. Because if you don’t have now, you have nothing.

So I can’t sit and write all day

I won’t.

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 “The sweetest cherry in an apple pie.”: Take one.

She stood with her back to the whiskey crowd. Wings, on her arched back; glistening feathers beneath the flickering purple haze of the black light. A doomsday angel snuffing a cigarette before the curtain is called.

Fingers reaching out to touch her soft skin as the lights dimmed. All the yellow eyes searching that shallow pool at her back, twitching fabric aside like they had the right. Peeling the layers. The skin deep beauty an eternal river of blood and sweat, veins for the needles and a line of cocaine from the stage to the back of the toilet in the men’s room.  

One more night. One last dance.

One time on your knees, for cash, too many.

Bending over…slowly…slowly…music throbbing. They all know her in a carnal way.

 Minds break for lesser things. Most people die because they’ve run out of love. Demons slide into the shadows when the sun goes down. If it never comes back up, they stay. There’s just no safe place when the shakes come. No place to hide in a black room where everyone sees in the dark but you.

Junkie oblivion, sweet metallic smell, they all burn their lips, they all jab their arms, they all search in vain. Her daughter stands on the side of the road, watching. The sun washes down on her rosy face. Through the trees, she glimpses the clouds, she clutches the doll too tight to her chest. It wets on her.

“Get in the car.”

 “Where are we going?”

  Straight to Hell.

 Only one way to answer. Silence and more silence. This won’t be on the news. No police scanner will pick it up, no computer will take notes in a quiet gray room, running sin stats in a whisper…angels turned their backs. Only the bums on the street took note, shattering their vodka bottles against the wall; If only to drown the noise. If only to put it out of their minds. If only to have taken a different path somewhere along the line; if only there was a choice.

Every night beneath the black light, a different song, crawling along the stage, begging for her eyes to be glassy, to be dead so not to see the faces with their angry stares, their needy fists clenched with the dollars that she rolled up carefully on her porcelain altar, forced to her knees in worship to the masters that enslaved her. (And there’s only two kinds of people in this world.)

They all called her stunning, praised her nightly to each other as though she was not even there. High, clear cheeks, a pouty mouth, that’s what they said. She avoided looking at herself in the mirror.  She was a princess in a castle on a cloud if she looked at the picture just so. If she tilted her head low enough to snort the coke she could make out that she was one of the lucky ones. She always told herself she could get out if she wanted to. She could always leave. Just once last dance. Just one more.

Another little girl lost, slipped through the cracks, turned vacant eyed vampire girl.  Can’t pay the check; soul’s already been sold, so she works off her debt in time. Endless time.

Just waiting to die. Waiting to be burned, by the sun.

They didn’t know who she used to be and they didn’t care.            

“It must be worth losing, if it is worth something.” : Thoughts about a girl.

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