Tuesday, January 10, 2012

"Strikethrough" by Brad Hamers

cop canister to the head
cry me an aluminum funnel
oil me a sharp but slippery sentence
stop me before ‘demands’
crop me out at the creamery
grab as many free condiment packets as you can
police beanbags to the head
the media was (a) hit (late) bruised and changing color
smoke makes the best protest
the medics form a line
at the grapevine all the way back from the telegraph
arms stiff from holding up out-dated math (and symbol)
rubber bullet to the head
runner full of what he said
(the vine) pulled a capsaicin on a starting gun
(we’re)bummed down to standing up
no-vote first through the bottom line
really, put my socks on my hand ?
okay the river wants to vote for the damn, half the creek only makes noise because it won’t give in,
where clinton lands capital letter first through the support beams, like lobbyists ain’t sunlight,
(and microsoft word can really read the bible) or both sides ain’t the same coin,
red line under my name, pig blanket over my head, cry me an oil drill,
both baskets are in it to make money,
kiss me a wallet, show me receipts
one flash grenade to the chest
two words away from a sound
a thousand steps back
and another country later
molotov breadbasket to a cop
every tear to my head
this puddle of rips
forms a pond
and swamps
every ipad afire
tear gas canister to the head
be dead on a bright light, the vacuum on a camera, attract all the moth you can,
until you lose your clothes
then farm
a hundred riot police later, when we become immune to pepper spray
some white-shirt scarecrow still hold their perch
as if they wasn’t just props
as if thanksgiving weren’t only dinner
i ate 3 states and a southern half of another
threw up like a parachute over Cayuse territory
landed like scotch tape on a rip in the dollar
thrown off the Blue Mountains
white flag first
red and black after that
linguistically independent
no one understood
understand my face to the ground
the blood read back like a paperback novel, played out
dodge the end of the stage
exit trap door left
(single-file)right-minded and dyslexic (tap emotions, all from the same pipe)
cry me out a legible map to an actual alternative
(all babies in the head)
had em at conception
dragged em back from passenger plane in the room to it’s only gas pains
long lasted scare, 767 scars and original sin
bury the guilt in its noose , with the tree it came in on
have the slaveship ride its (owner’s) saddle back to freedom
Liberty st. to the head
cop-out’s knee in your back
camera got your ignorance and optimism
editor got your tongue
body out the bag
zombie politics and watches set ahead
head to the hard facts
broken system in the bag
cry me a warm bath
sweep me a dead Indian to sleep in
lion out the bag
sound cannon to the head
only heard the choir
then the cook’s bell (wearing a planet’s ring)
aggressive kiss to the head
we’ll never hear this exact pitch again
(audible cries come later)
this sleep-walk is a dead dream, a posthumously put out album
(bottled up & sold) broke the taboo over our head
best possible worlds spill out like ears and ripped off hit songs
corn in the cherry on top
sat like a hard hat
obliged to think about the alternative
corruption wasn’t the rock or hammer falling from one bad decision
but the building itself
tool belt around our head
like flies over overkill
road underneath, swatting at demands
keep the flag around your neck until it frees you
trust the cameras to show every cut and drip of blood
uninvolved opinion forms a line
(like the equator, tourists flocked to it, as if hotels)
(taking up room in the wave pool)
(how to say goodbye to what’s been ingrained in you)
the bandaid aid (pulls hair&) rips up skin
the cop forces one to resist arrest
funded wound, all star cast
protecting the broken system
playing the roots for a sap
every last word in cuffs, like dog by leash, to tree, thru sidewalk (by way of building)
the shrubbery with fence in hand
stick up through the dirt
raise your hearing aids to the voice
our echoes talked back
brought down history
then sat in caves until they collapsed
will any of us be able to speak firm and over all the rocks
will the rocks knock us into bricks
will you hit the 47th floor
will that be good enough to fall from
missing sky to the head
cloud in my hand
fog in the rear-sight
storm in my heart
words shaky on the trigger
.pdf bible
all the way back from smoke signals
shackled in their rings
cop baton to your middle passage
figurative night sticks in your head
allegorical shadows require sun
but the puppets protect the cave
twelve string guitar tied to my ends
(it takes six strings alone to hold up this head)
if we have enough hand in the grasp(fist) we can slap the about directly in its face
at least long enough to bruise
and show (‘our’) color

Saturday, October 1, 2011

Dust On Snow (Brad Hamers & Frietboer) - You Were Murdered As A Kid ...OUT NOW!!!

Dust On Snow - You Were Murdered As A Kid (2011)

Dust On Snow is a collaborative musical project, an agitated and frothing monster created by poet, musician and collage artist, Brad Hamers and beat-maker/producer, Frietboer. On this 8 track debut EP, Brad Hamers (Phlegm, Two Ton Sloth, New Police) provides the words and Frietboer (Frietboerism 1/5, Fiks, Fris & Dood) supplies the beats. Created back and forth over the internet (between The Netherlands and Portland, OR) in the course of a year, You Were Murdered As A Kid is 25 minutes of heavy, hard-hitting, head-nodding mayhem. The EP is AVAILABLE NOW for download at: http://dustonsnow.bandcamp.com/album/you-were-murdered-as-a-kid …for ONLY $2.99 (WITH THE OPTION TO GIVE MORE IF YOU DESIRE!!). Proceeds go directly to the artist. The album comes with all the lyrics (each poem in its own Word document) and all the associated Artwork (done by Brad especially for the project). READ ALONG!! And ENJOY!! ...(digital release only)...

Thursday, December 2, 2010

New Solo LP..Post No Dreams..by Brad Hamers..Finally OUT NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Over 3 & 1/2 years in the making, Brad Hamers second official solo effort is finally here!
Post No Dreams is Brad’s most conceptually cohesive and accomplished work yet.
Capturing what wasn’t taken to the zoo before it was freed, this album is a snapshot of the (in-fashion) chains we find ourselves in, a hole one can only dig themselves out of. Most songs were conceived out of an unshaven and wholly keyboard with its heavy heart caught in an amplifier, rotted and humming; and recorded onto a computer from the last ice age with buboes. Layered with shit drums and cassette fuzz, almost all of the album’s 13 tracks evolved out of old keyboard sketches and then grew new body parts and extra clothes from there. It is sooty and astral. It is lo-fi and fizzes. It is for the pensive and the head-sick. For the sleepless and the sleeping. For the myth-less and the mixed-up. The album features some accompanying instrumentation by Big Pauper (the other half of Two Ton Sloth), who also mixed and mastered the album in its entirety. And as with all of Brad’s work, this album is best listened to while alone and reading along with the lyrics.


Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Brad Hamers & Jennifer Griffo in ART OPENING THIS THURS.(9/20)

"I am, therefore I think #4" at the Goodfoot (2845 SE Stark, Portland, OR). It is part illustrative memoir, part social commentary show. There are over 75 artists with over 300 works, and a variety of mediums (etching, painting, drawing, photography, collage, etc). Opens Last Thursday of the month (THIS THURSDAY), Sept 30th from 5-11pm. Show stays up until Oct 26th. Come and check out some of the latest work by Brad Hamers and Jennifer Griffo.

Monday, July 26, 2010

grandfather clock (the history of bells)

every five minutes he needs to be reminded that she didn't leave him
the gun is so well hidden someone hopes it goes off
pills are like doors only someone else has the master key to
she can't tell him it's not a prison
they haven't spoken since she bent over to pick something up
it's been physical therapy (since)
every audience member with a wad full of silly putty
every piece of newsprint faded from the photocopier's light
each day the sun became closer to being a Canon
the moments became more like counterfeit currency
every five minutes he needs to be reminded she's in the hospital
the nurse-bell is so well hidden no one knows it's a special event (or commemoration)
he doesn't know the person in gloves administering his medication
she can't tell him (we) hope he dies soon
they haven't spoken in over fiftyfour meals
some bells were invented for war and just burning things down
each day was another layer of sun
one more copy of the copy
no one can tell him what had happened 2 weeks ago
some bells lasted two&ahalf centuries (the audience clapping out into infinity)
we were tourists in a museum
tongues like bells behind glass
ziggurats to-be bell-towers counting the rings in our ears
the clock can be heard over long distances
the origin was a tree we carried from house to house
the roadrunner-clock left in his condo was a 78rpm record
every time it hit twelve
something no one could carry for too long on their mind
every five steps produces five more to climb
some bells
were too large
were (built) clamped mouth down (stuck inside a fire alarm)
the gun might as well not even exist
pills were seven more pieces of mail to open
each day he seems to lose himself a little more
(she can't tell him who he was)
a photocopier becoming obsolete
(less need for actual pieces of paper)
they haven't spoken in over fourteen signatures on prescription notes
she couldn't write out a schedule for his pills anymore
the audience keeps showing the stamp on their hand
everyone showed up because no one could bare to watch what they would become
the cannon he was shot out of was lit
(with a flame that was struck) possibly decades ago
and the cloud of smoke it produced lasted many days
many of us forgot how to count the years
he was another man when it came to dying
midnight on a compact-disc going off in a bell tower in the center of our now
how many pills does it take to hit 90(something)
they haven't spoken since sometime in the early thousands like they had in the 50's
and may not speak
he needs to be reminded how much he loves us
the war is so well hidden it doesn't even have death
or anywhere to hide itself
we sat upright (or slouched) in a mass grave
washing stones (like blabber)
to build another rock wall
another discovered emotion that knows its own borders
one day we will walk over it all
far from now
in arms and walkers
i die every time before i walk into a room
(every dream out on display behind museum glass (like the next round of pills)
it was like one could actually prepare for being woken up
the rooster was a recording of a bell going off in bumblefuck idon'tknow at hell in the morning
maybe pergatory is alzheimer's
incurable life
"a process of purification or temporary punishment"

the house had too many stories
the sun could never speak over it
the moon jumped to get out of the way of us
his body wanted to last longer than his mind
it was a race
of pills
down his hoarse(dirt-road)throat
to which could hit the bottom (the last house) first
her mind was well equipped to outlast her body
it was a matter of utilitarian choice
"no instinct goes extinct without willing itself too" (somewhere in its cells)(somewhere in its cages)
the row of knees and o(a)rs says from a water cooler on the sideline
the only cheerleaders were angels
(and everyone knew they weren't real)
it was always easier to complain
faking dancing was much harder than actually doing it
do we wish he would have remembered where the gun was (when it was possible) (and mattered)
does years off your life take years to live out (years of living it out)
where does the cuckoo(roadrunner)clock run out
of road
and highway
we sat waiting in the middle of the road for a late and mysterious bus
death only showed up sometimes
most nights it was just simply remembering
most visits i was never there
so how could i really say
where in the road did i sit
when did the cone in my eye become obstacle
where does the last place he remembers seeing her sit in or on his mind
with only three legs
and running
when was the last time he really saw her
when did the wood, the scrap and the nails and welding equipment(really)run out
it must have happened many years ago
she left him every day
every five minutes
it was the gun he could never find
it was the right car to take off out of
this bulk train(now even bulkier) this bogie or locomotive's been running longer than the amount of
stops it's made
where did it start
(what's its coal) (what's his relation-ship to it now)

he knew his pill started somewheres in a bottle
every five minutes was a new ocean
to throw himself out over
he'd known he was going
only sometimes
in the clear moments of seeing himself
the belltower was a campfire
none of us could sit around
but still talked about
and felt burning (us) somewhere in our soaking-wet hearts
somewhere doused in immolation petrol and labor callouses
his mind had lifting blisters
five minutes of work in four hours worth of time
that never existed
the clock is so well hidden it never goes off
the roadrunner never runs over to the next hour
the Sprint still costs us
every memory counted with its licked thumb through the dollars
every door told you how much you were worth
his keys were now windchimes (hung from potted flower hooks)
seeing as though he now never had the right to go out
we could only hope
the wind kept blowing
or maybe that it would stop
which is less cruel
dying aware of one's own life lived
or dying long before you're really gone
and can't remember
no one could count the weeks or the amount of week he'd gotten
or has
every clock in the house fallen over
i couldn't help
but think maybe i've got it wrong
i could've been anything
to him
but this wasn't about me
the origin was a tree with a bird in it we carried from home to home
via email
on a cross
he dies in Times New Roman over a getting home from work cigarette stuffed thanksgiving inna slack jaw
the (obvious) metaphor was the first thing that came to mind
(but happened to work and consume like clockwork)
his pills went off like bells commemorating the dead
and gone
i feel sadness like the yoke of the bell reaching for the mouth
ringing for my father
for it was
his father
he had to house
like a garden
for going blind
in the sun
how many meals are worth eating
if you can't taste them
or if nobody can recognize their origin
what is life worth in this era
on the bottom line which keeps it alive
it was instinct to make a bed out of wallet
it was out of capital we paid for these i's
and i can't say i'd done any different (myself)
after-birth of after-birth we splash around the clock all we can
every ten minutes he'd needed to be reminded of
what he was now living
it was tough for the guns that had to tie him up
for the rough water that they needed to dock him
a concrete ship already half buried in sand
every involved finger left unoccupied
was counting what was ours
and what it divided down into
i can only point upward
i can only build (and bull-y) myself up with the tools left within me
she can't tell him they may not see each other again
and even so he may not even remember being told
or if they did
ever see each other
will he remember dying
did he remember dying?
when was the point he forgot where the gun was
when did she stop telling him she couldn't tell him where the gun was
how many pills does it take to hit 90(something)
how many lives does it take to forget living
does each bell remember its last ring
do we
actually stand in
each ear
we hold up
to the
next day

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Art Opening Tomorrow in Portland

Jennifer Griffo and myself are both showing some New Art in an Opening on the evening of Friday July, 2 2010 in SE Portland, OR (SE Stark & 15th)...come check us out!

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

wide blade

a shovel was needed to move forward
the only way out was down
the conversation was
whether the cake his gramma left in the oven was what killed her
or did she die while baking
nothing was left without fire written into it
nothing in our dialogue jumped high enough to break earth
we couldn't get any closer to dieing than we already were
all of us tried
some of us with pianos and moving straps
some of us with boxes of wood and nails
the rain was paint thinner on Pine st.
all the scuffs run
jumping off planks
into the gaps (and under cups)
we were flipping coins
trying to pick our candy (how much sugar to put in the machine)
the only way out was in
we stood tongue and groove
talking our way around the security light (in each of us)that each of us shone
mine was strobe
having a fit on the lawn with a burglar mask half on
we were each openings
cut for different size tongues and eyes
for different amounts of breath
we would each die at different times
each only using up so much air
a shovel was needed to move forward
the only way up was down
the talk was mold on the town was growing in the ears of every last corn popping safely in its pan
did she die because the cake caught fire
or did the cake burn all the evidence
because there might have been something worth keeping inside
we talked mostly like night-lights
never coming unplugged
talked around the sewer openings and manholes into ourselves (by believing our steam was poison)
by avoiding ourselves
i found me for a second shouting from a balcony of memory
fleshy parts of the time that stuck
we were all gum under ceo's desks
chewing every last piece of paper closer to the bottom line
trying to eat our end(s)
every flower in the room was in 4/4 timing
every chair sat facing the question
closed shut and embalmed
every flower had a credit card receipt (never signed)
we sat down with our eyes somewhere else
we each held death in ourselves
some on a tire swing
some in handcuffs and moving straps
some on several tied together bungee cords
the conversation never jumped from its branch
we were all the same brand bird in one tree without leaves
each a different amount of sky away from flying
each an open question caught up in its clouds
like fishing net
like stock on the next hot selling breath
like the next most attractive moment
we each held our tags out
like what amount of this conversation is wall is fortress around the topic
where do we get off not dieing with her
where does all the system (of doing this) that burns us melt
(the car runs like a candle) (the exit's coming)
we get off
shooting around gas money
shaking ourselves upsidedown for a way to get there
and suddenly it happens
our cake starts burning in our ears
the rings around our eyes tell our age
we were born head first facing up into this long dirt road toward everything
they called it nothing everywhere else all the same
it didn't matter how his grandmother or my grandmother died
it was what it meant to those still alive burying their death
a shovel wasn't around
we rendered it no longer needed to move forward
our slowly poured tap milk on ice melts
and backwash becomes sustenance
we all hold each others breath together
to get off
(only death can come)
going only towards what can make us come
i walked toward a box on a corner with free written on it
the american dream was something to sleep in
an empire queen bed with a mosquito mask
i jumped as high as i could into the shovel
and broke earth
wallet under my fingernails
today's color sugar under my tongue
i sit plenty with death stuffed full of living
the cake says try harder
the chip on my shoulder yells dip
i die face first looking up screaming without a word
(they slapped me to see if i was birthed)
the shovel was used to cut me out
we reached the right shape to finally put it in the oven
we all walked away thinking a thousand miles of dirt road out
every unspoken word now had handlebars (with streamers)
to ride straight down a mountain
the cliff we each question ourselves as
i didn't know if i was holding on or on firm ground (holding them)
(or some variation of myself)
mostly it jumped back and forth between both
any way is really the way out
any way is really the way out

Thursday, April 15, 2010

New Interview..with Me

(click on title of post to read)

Sunday, January 31, 2010


she had a small house she kept inside
her lawn had a pear tree that was now cut in half
they did everything for the amount of time it took to taste the fruit
(for the amount of rings they could fit under their eyes)
if it didn’t happen right away they would spit it out
they’d rather stand around in their pigment (color) than run
i’d rather drip in place right over a spinning wheel then puddle in my intention
flash flood in my water bowl
my goal’s the high water mark i made with my happy tears
i’m my own goalie my own take cover duck duck goose and down feathered catcher’s mitt
my own signal for the speed at which i drip
the speed at which the wheel runs me over
over and over and over again we’re lazy we’re lazy we’re lazy
like i didn’t build my own tears
out of the wrong fluid
oil would have been better
considering all the synthetics
easier to supplement the day
add myself to what’s already completed
money makes money predisposition makes the obvious
you think it out i’ll shotgun the couch take a hit without ever being touched
doubt on the dial don’t touch the flame
they’re all scared to touch the flame the temperature at which they were fired(burned)
burned and skin running off in thousand different directions
like a lost tongue feeling its way around on the walls
whichever corner gets me fastest to my own tendency and weaknesses
whichever cut gets me fast enough into a groove
lay the knife down (lie to a handgun) put the needle on one
forget your third eye dug out like a sponsored sports game’s warm up bench reaching for the seventh inning stretch all the way out
inning number 28 i can’t remember my birthday they said it was the year of myself of the new pig
pigged out on itself jersey number was a series of onesandzeroes -(binary code)
a way to remember misinformed
full of bullshit and RAM full of flower and power steering fluid
maple syrup all over my head
butter shoved up under my skin color you can tell by the school you were given
chase your fears (pulled out feathers) or your dreams
you choose and chose to sit eating the tuffet you were scared would give you spiders and mice
four mouse attached to my 24inch flat character
i was all attachment in every email
all clenched teeth and equipped with a shield for biting down
they all spoke an hour a minute i held out my 24hour mouth guard
ahundred megabytes deep into the mold
we made pretend to compare our green tending to our green
it’s not what you do but what you are
he was always eating while he was doing it
always nothing but what he took
objects in the mirror may be closer than they appear

she always had skyscrapers in her house
a thousand headed south birds in her sky
her (nervous) break-down was a ghost commune no one lived in
a bomb that kept teasing to go off
but we squatted in
her outlet like an extension of our own walls
we all talked like sledge hammers and wrecking balls
all swung in each other’s sleep
every tooth hanging out every shoe with a foot
we got nowhere (but in our own mouths) but where we wanted to be and could see ourselves
you bought the to-heavy-to-move furniture and slip cover lie down on it
be all the can good that you can be
make cereal of your corn
numbering your coin flipping for which dead eye to cover first
buy you into heaven
every breath (taken) -a mugged old lady
a security camera crying in the street
she holds back what she sees
she keeps it like an ocean holding back its tide
washed up in its own bleach
harpoon through her ink forgot it was used for defense
tried sticking (with) it through the time
like sentences made of metal weighing down their word (their words were all ankles)
but who was counting
who was cutting off fingers and chopping down stilts
she made couch of her greatest height
slip cover out of her insecurities
we all sat down
the backs of our minds (top)heavy
the floorplan never big enough
i need enough room for the whip on back too
enough space for the cream
jerking off in my pocket
under the table (burnt on taxes) dream
we chase after
each other like chained dogs chasing crumbs
the next dinner table on the food chain
under hypnosis on me
get your rocking chair off
go get em get it rocking yourself to sleep
skipping like a stone over a stream
for the record i was a river
or the ocean it was leading to
number2-pencil-lead heart
always breaking at its point
she strays from her own ideas like light from a bulb
never returns
we grow old like light on a wall
like night is gray hair on day
as the day pops
and shatters out of us
how many times must i hit the “here” button
how many times can i multiply the past
me divided by myself by myself in a room with too much light
they thought i’d say the opposite (with too little light)
no police on my blocked up sidetracked mind
no new thoughts over this too easy (circular) street
she pulls day out of her like it was scotch tape
each moment to the next
right angles at every smile
bowing to the amount of target we have
closed curtains as eyes
i said i wouldn’t talk about my eyes
she said they were old
and growing the parts of her she couldn’t move
i said just blink
she said breathing in would make her drown
i try to have sympathy
but the water is all i am
so we drown together (as one)
but separate
believing in different boats
or the same one but by different name (or pronunciation)
or out of context in time
like armadas for Indians
even though the name came after the realization
we pretended we didn’t know ours
so as to we could learn to breath
trying to forget we’re under water
flash flood in my hard drive (by usb) (used to be)
bleached flag crashed up on its (most vacationed) memory
we once hit the moon only digging for comfort food
his talent was a(n individually wrapped) snack
something he indulged in after work and between naps
she sleeps in the vending machine she bought her lunch from
a (break) broken off piece of herself that’s easy to chew
i brought mine (brown bagged) but still never ate it
worked through the breaking bones and bell like time
we carved dinner from the wild satellite we saw ourselves as
hawks circling smaller circles selling our highlighters for crayons
cold hard cash written all over the walls
an eagle in the ant web every lost hair in the net inter-changing value for debt
she sat on her dreams (inspecting her eggs)
the mirror that made her question herself most
the belief that we all were who we thought we were
i said as long as we’re doing it
they stayed cross hearted and limp legged
nothing jumped at (or like) the oil we had
to keep drilling for
nothing pumped faster than the hearts we swore by
and she was killed (b-flat) roadkill on the freeway
if her car was a metaphor it would be the skin she covered with make-up to meet the day
wore her clothes like tax like something extra she had to say
over top of herself
we hung ourselves by the belt that held our pants up
that kept us deep breathing
i belted out cake crumbs and backwash
a bunch of frozen together tv dinners all playing at once
now they’re re-runs
furniture covered in plastic
they’re own grandmothers smothered in nap pillows
trade in your tongue for a walker
your begging-sign for a slave wage
your tap-dance for black paint (like stars through space)
nursing home heart
she looks to the person next to her to be unplugged
and recorded
we all woke up sound asleep
only some of us kept dreaming
i played my next move by each facial expressions she made
while turning over and over in her sleep
employee to the american dream
bald easel and uninspired speak clean
and whistling through our fingers like loose teeth and time
whistle while you’re not working whistling each waged moment
sand in your whistle
rush hour train in your gut
but you’re never getting off
keep tugging on the (never) stop cord
whatever let’s you off at now
how’s the lemonade and chasers
the mold and window pain
she stayed
sitting in the glass
waiting for herself to break
kept counting on others
to sing in her place
duck the high note
grab the overcast sky (and all the goose feather in it you can)
ski pass yourself all the way to the bottom
whichever line feeds you first
whichever motivation leaves you unhungry
whichever thought stops short
whichever motivation leaves you unhungry
whichever motivation leaves you unhungry

(i hope you’re hopeful chewing it down)
(i hope you’re happy eating yourself out)

(a hundred overdone dinners on me)

(and because of that
on you)

(like your old house and all which/what it represented

in the spirit of us)

p.s. you is me

other possible titles:

“lower middle beauty”
“a gallon of milk on beauty stamps”
“low rent beauty”
“disgusting beautiful”
“groceries on beauty stamps”
“funhouse mirrors”
“collecting unemployment and beauty stamps”
“ghost towns”
“ghost projects”
“stuck up ugly”
“mouth wash”
“pretty nothing”
“kicking god while he’s down”
“racing a dead horse”
“parking tickets”
“shooting the mirror” “holding up a mirror”
“don’t feed the birds”
“love letter”

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

NEW Two Ton Sloth album - siphoning dreams

PZ(big pauper)and I are finally releasing our latest album...
..Siphoning Dreams...FREE for download (with suggested donations) at
...it should be available within a few hours.......more on that to come!

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

(sugar mill)

i kept sugar under my tongue while we pecked
out each other’s eyes like bags of seed - bread for ducks
and (i) always thought of you (as if)..in a butter dish (from goodwill)
hunched over and melting
but keeping form
they kept their arms up like score cards
like anti-satellite weapons (like choking victims) (mouths full of hour glass)
this vacationed beach this popular mud puddle and pond swamp support no moon
no sky to duck under
he pulled out his money eyes
they were full of green-mold and flaking
each thing he said - different
from what he’d heard (piling up like snow (like blood in a pile)) (fall flat on the tissue)
memory was like scab on fresh incisions (cleaned with alcohol)
divorce cut all the sofas in half covered the piano with bandaids
the music was the place (the amount of floor) in between each sixteenth note (no one danced in)
(we’re only fresh meat on the hook) about to fall off
beat the money to the chase to a bloody pulp (to a pile of skin) to a fiction
knew we were always sleeping dreams made of skin and bone
(falling from my fork)
like an always shot one way pistol or germ (domesticated)
like boils on the cook
butter under his skin
he pulled out his choked up deer
explained himself like he was still in the headlights
words were full of gum were like candy falling out of their wrapper
held his tone like bags of seed (like his adam’s apple was held by his throat)
we held our own like butter melting out of a lopsided dish
like sugar not mixed into a luke warm mug of tea
full cup of face we sat sharing steam rent on the grill
ready-made-morning from a can take my plans out of the freezer (choreograph my twitches)
she makes my smile frost-bite my meat well and my sugar crystallize
before ,i chewed it raw slept with a cane ate with a sign
cardboard and peanuts i said it all like i was talking in my sleep
didn’t really say it
i slept with sugar under my tongue my mouth and all my teeth under the pillow
like surrendered pistols -only ever shot at heaven -only ever held up the clouds
with my head awoke well under the ground (swept under the debt) they color green (and mow)
i’m mold on the bottom line
muck in the eye on the moon
bad judge on the brix and trash on the separated clock parts
working for the sugar mill slacking off on the job
like clogged pipes
under the foundation

plunge like kisses
sound like clogged sinks

a few collages from 09

Thursday, November 26, 2009

clean cut

clean cut silence (suit color: room)
his mouth was most sharp shut
rusty unused pack of razor blades
cardboard and packing tape
every thought -an overused dulled down box-cutter
another arrow in the haystack another milky eye in the (whistling pot and)gray-matter
i wore targets as eye-glasses had bulls as hands or rubber gloves to grab the most green grass
my horns in my mouth i take the pill by the tongue bull-shit lazy eye sleeping with its lens to the chalkboard
(social moth(or butterfly) jar sleeping with its lid up against the ice)
ice tray shaped silence (radio-frequency: refrigerator)
stove and cigarette smoke
his mouth was most itself in a loud room
rusty bike in the rain
down and poor
strongest muscle: shovel
the plate in front of me
the drink sweats like fat and swollen feet too high in the elevator dripping down my sleeve
ice on my dreams head on my shoulder pads fold in my white flag flush in my suit
bullshit and deception in the upperdecker cleaning out my teeth with a radio antennae
or with a feminist’s broom brewing in the brown out power was handed out in bank-account order
outside of taking it with my face as a mask
with my hands as hard drives my mouth a money bag in a walk-in closet collecting dust and dated stamps my tongue was obsolete postage won’t make it through the express box
counting ponies in my cardboard sleep head full of fences i mow on one side in straight lines making circles
his mouth was most whole closed
shelves stocked with the greatest candy never sold
rusty box cutter in your (packaged)sugar
(bony)eyes digging through the doggy bag
like razor blades through packing tape
every thought -a re-used box another packing-peanut
(another elephant in the room to feed)
another elephant in the room to feed it to
loud as a well dressed man in a church his loud was pale a starving elephant
no tale ,only bank to tell only stacks of words only layers of dust
only dead and gone ideas only furniture for it build (up) on
his loud was the newest chair the most recently bought book end or chase pillow
covering its head the ceiling was my hands ticky-tacky as jacket rope was my tie
To tongue, Dear mouth,
we wore this yesterday and the word before that
i’m talking about how i can’t talk
i’m talking about how i can’t talk
teeth in a collar gums on the bottom of my shoe
foot on my fork (hasn’t been washed in over 4thousand miles)
knife to my silence
the chicken to my neck
i scream all at once
(into a beaten pillow)
at the frozen computer
(as if i was a microwave on thaw)
(his mouth was most itself on the stove ,in oil (with other meat)
to tongue, dear mouth
i’m talking about how i can’t talk

with this reverb (with this echo) in my mouth

(suit color: nude)
(suit color: anatomy)

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

shell in my egg - me in my wonderment

the banks paid upfront for the deluge
she talked to me like i had box seats
the memory pays upfront for its debt
wishes it still owed something on its first kiss
carries it like a hole in its pocket
or paper-cut in its wallet
snap-shut shutter-mouth - a cat-house and dried-pen
dog-face for the break-bell - put it on frozen steak
knife in my computer case - swelled up helmet and memory space
recycled information - charged upfront for the refund
five scent deposit -all down on what i owe you
the values we held paid for themselves with their own debt and obligations
dark-matter keeps her smile curved like grades and still-learning on-ramps
the traffic and floods paid for fema by us and our exhaust - her tired muscles were
smoking - a wet camp fire (an on fire manager – pink slip in the sun)
a lobby in heat -won’t pick his umbrella -i fell asleep thinking about the sleeping pill i
climbed into like a foreclosed on clay-roof shack scratching its shingles digging toward
the memory -an extinct form of gas fossil
horsepower wings and pig-pen bank-vault-heart with cribbage-holes counting itself in
my memory taps its donkey-shoe - the customer snapping for a saddle - knows what to expect
money only in their head - money only in their head
here comes the s©ymbol (open blouse-and off hat) slurring into the one ,like still high in
the morning -open hat and head bleeding all over all the donated blood
i didn’t pick my heart rate
or blender setting
she talked to me like i didn’t pay for my seats
the banks knew it too
she talked to me like i knew what i was doing to myself
butter knife in my calculator
alzheimer’s on my arithmetic
dog-house on my wrists
memory in the rain-gutters
keys in my throat
measurements of stomach
no run-off
no right shaped roof
no sewer grate that looks right on me
i talk with it all in my mouth at once
every thought paid upfront for its twang
10% juice drawl and additives - grape-drink - powder-flavoring packaging like it was
my parents - signed to a label - me in the stitching - shell in my egg
my memory pays upfront for its incubator
can’t speak - still blue and too free range for the air outside its box
,with plastic/or latex hands ,she talked to me like i didn’t pay for my seat
prayed on her knees like preying on her god
me in my wonderment like it was my empty wallet with papercut-scabs
shuffling around for a comfortable seat
and the right letters on the key
board -ed up satisfaction - kissing-booth stomach and return drop - my emotions parachute
out of me each morning like
abort mission - evacuate dream -emergency fire in someone’s shrubs (working for)-
pruned god -right as a rose red under the ears wet on the back running out of poors and
riches - only so much gold for the tender only so much feeling in the clock
for you
and for me
under a sand-
bag /or castle
the memory pays upfront for its debt
wishes it still owed something (11% interest) on its first kiss
carries it like nothing like a hole in its back-pocket
or purchase-receipt in its wallet
with a bad back (spanked)
and kids screaming
and car alarms barking
the fireworks tonight sounded like the streets of Baghdad circa(insert popular war-
stricken-Afghan-village-here) (with cut-off power and (all our) arms in the air - rocket-
launchers in space - white(and well off) flag in the moon - her firework stayed up
in the air (the longest) -effecting the tides - going off, looked like male-parts (extras)
paid-for-rifle-routine -flipping through the impulse -like a bill of rights -right on her taste
-all over the wood floors -we bought rugs like we were shopping for new tongues –new
ways to say the old -new words for nothing to say) the fireworks tonight went off and
came down like the banks and the levies
the police lights and
all the ambulance caught in one traffic-jam (all the sirens blending into one) -too many
notes in one belt hole (too many bodies in one rope) i went to work like renting out the
holes in me as golf course -kept on my t and cross-eyes -every part of me independent
as blouse- selections (,civil war premises) and fourth’ finales
sounding like the banks falling
(our vision) like levies supporting the crash
and s©ymbol when it’s explained to us
each car alarm sounding different
each dog crying different for its food
pays upfront for its dog-tag
pays upfront for its rebate
no firework i look right under
gunpowder in my hair and hair in my safety-deposit-box
bad insurance in my lungs and license-plates in my chest muscle - dead-bolt on my: “it’s-
really nice outside”
it all sits out there like debt
like everything on me i haven’t done
like what i owe to myself
like what i owe you
the fireworks over miracle-lane -i’ll have my employees start handing out hearing-aids
overcompensating in my whistle while thrusting up into the air
here’s for my vacant eyes with a letter out - my prostitute-stomach (eat off you) - my
Ethiopian-info-mercial future way too long on the be right back don’t touch that dial
keep spinning the barrel only one shot
my memory looked nothing like the doubles i got from walgreens on my debit card
that disposable was great no evening left i put it all on back-up on the external hard
driving drunk into a crash-symbol -a crash-test-dummy crossing the street
asking itself why
i sit around like debt in the riddle
cracks in the cooked eggs

shell in my egg
me in my wonderment

Thursday, November 19, 2009


images..words..and sounds...by brad hamers
coming soon very very soon