Here’s a poem I wrote back in, probably 2003-2004ish. I find it odd to look back on something I wrote and not recognize the voice… that’s not completely true, but it’s so different from what I’d do with the idea now. Anyway, I thought it would be amusing to post some ancient Alexx scribblings… enjoy?

I suppose this is untitled:

Philip K Dick was smoking tremendous amounts
and fell off the stool, the floor
received him like a drunken whore
of a mother, getting deep-dicked
by a smarmy man with gold chains driving a broken down
Porsche. Picking up Seventeen year-old’s fresh from 8th period French
and drinking himself into believing
that life is sweet once you’re off from work.
The game on

the wide screen television flashing messages from across the empty bar,
sublimating thought into a Phillip K. Dick moment where the poet
stumbles in, and shares the corner with the garage worker,
guffawing at the game, giving dissertations on sweet pussy.
As a thinner man sits and scribbles away notes, a larger man
who glares like a predator, offended by the hint of work
in his place of quiet meditation on the fine points of date-rape.

And he is annoyed, the other growing uncomfortable.
In a moment where two divergent life structures
occupy the same space, a vacuum formed,
the universe slides ekpyrotic,
a slobber-drenched writer

rises up from a bar room floor. He has already lost possession
of what caused him to lose balance.
To see the space between moments like the space between universes,
he knows there is no first or second:
A does not come before B—
the ordered pairs that constitute reality are really triplets
with a lost sibling. The separated one is wandering
havoc and misdemeanors— bus pulls up— and a man stoned
out of his mind stumbles out onto the curb, vomits and re-erects self,

looks into the streetlight and sees something
that has gone missing recently. Some concept of faith or politics,
that will go unnoticed until we see the siren of Hollywood
off on some Buddhist rant. And the ghosts of the creative dead will
laugh as the idea is sodomized—

while a lawyer is happy with the
box, child will slip on some ice,
crack it’s head and see the past—
while he bleeds, robotic turtles have become sentient
and taken over the world in a Phillip K. Dick moment.