California was unification in my mind
genetics sculpted by television signals
or these are family planning models
your hands held my wrists
oh eucalyptus trees on high over the
gray skies to sweep the ocean
so many sadness made tears
mornings as neglected children
plastic cups and plastic bags down the
sea shorn fields
our lack of eloquent civilization
these things are no coincidence
this is our fear of love
we live forth of symbols
not love forth of heart
Oh, the scent of her fall
cream, sweat, and deodorant
by the dark bedroom shadows
or morning living room sunlight
by the calls of our heavens
were lovers and deviants
breasts carved for spaceships
eclipses of planets
asses and shape shifts from
the young to the old
her crow’s feet aside her eyes
by porn star eyeliner
by the vestibule of my biological
I want her like the sunrise
until I die
or one of the middle age actresses
on “Designing Women”
these impressions are permanent
neural tissues or the Fountain
We were able to talk once
Looking on the street, it
Someone wanted hugs, did
someone want a hug
The landscape of the moment,
an orange mountain
Has turned to shadow
where the old ones with
leather and wood
kept talking as humans
Yet in the morning
with their children
they hold computers
amongst the silver bridges of
We have gone down to the
but it is gone now too
I come close to the set where
the television actors are,
but I don’t quite make it.
There’s a sign on the door that says
so I do not enter.
I’d like to know what’s inside.
Somewhere beige-walled foyers are,
with clean terracotta tiles,
the sun shines in on a brilliant perfect
Southern California morning,
but I do not make it.
I’m not there.
Their children are, not mine.
I breathe in with blood in my lungs.
Then I cough and hack something up.
My children are passing glances at doors
I saw Larry Hagman go bye-bye behind.
This is the alcoholic’s diet of unborn children
Yes, that’s right
Their parents aren’t perfect but wanted
Turning into walls
You didn’t say that sentence properly
Be quiet, you’re giving me a riot
There . . . ghosts!
They live everywhere, even in between the minutes
before watching television
I meant the alcoholic’s diet of unborn children
Not me, not my problem
I don’t have them
Oh just go kill yourself
You drinking again?
I don’t respect you
the TV talked and it said
you’re not good enough for me
it said instead
another woman was
then pointed me in the direction
of billboards and magazines
there’s more over there
they’re better instead of these
inside my head
there’s something even better
than these fantasies
that is what the TV said
that is what the TV’s saying
something better than you or I
Can we play celebrities please,
today, when it rains?
Will there be gift baskets
that we get,
courted and made to feel special
for at least an hour, maybe more than an hour?
For them to give us something meaningful
so we can go home and reflect on,
open our mouths at a later point
and say what we did, where we did it,
how it was done and who it was done in front of.
Can we talk?
Were you talking to me?
I was talking to you in the foyer.
You weren’t talking to me.
Now is my time to tell you what is important,
it is about me.
You don’t have anything to say, do you?
You never do.
This isn’t why we rolled around on the carpet,
this can’t be it.
This isn’t how we play celebrity.
You need to have breasts.
These blondes are pretty cute on TV.
They place them in nice dresses.
They follow their contours.
You know what it’s like
to be placed in nice dresses
and have your contours followed.
It’s a delicate world of vanity we build.
It helps us in our head.
It’s delicate and tender the touches
in our heart.
All of them are. All of them are.
We build. We build.
You, I and God know
this is what those nice dresses do.
Let’s place more of the blondes and
brunettes like you
Go down to church, new shopping malls,
Our thinking will be good for teenagers,
millionaires and tycoons.
Our thinking will be good.
Molochs of masculinity.
Messages from New York City.
Silk blouses across breasts.
Steak dinners times ten.