Chad Deal (Poetry)

in faded plaid

its the way it curves, the endless vision. an impromptu invocation, impossible geometry tearing us together and you in 1800's saloon dress dotting away in boxcars, always there, always wide-eyed and smiling. curiosity burns buildings and leaves funny notes in unfindable places. colormad parades of bachata dubfunk fuzzworms premoting time blip in pineal lovesoak fissures. the future rushes in imposing odd thought regime and we stand by laughing, oblivious or aloof to the pain, the noise, the madness. other times we kiss wildly in a strangers kitchen, fog looming thick through the front door. with two of you, at least, and just as many mes, could the thrill ever be exhausted? the simple insanity of skin on skin. out of context herenow pleasestate. eyeshot convex. heres how. please stay.

samara son

It was love right from the gecco - electric mango sunset framed with guanabana palm tree sway - shoreglow strawhut cabiñas flicker to life - wise-eyed old man chases sea foam, creates galaxies, with the gushing cosmic OH of a didgeridoo - quetzal end all, iguana monkey round - shinewaves hum good vibes all day - got my papaya on you - starlite poi girls breathe Scottish gasoline diction, lady luna still grinning like a croc - ocelot longer till a cuppa coati, all according to plantain.

Chorotegan ghost warriors
cast jaguar shadows,
dance on old curtains
with banana bones.

Pura Vida
en la Vida Sueño,

coconut kisses
from the moon.

Some Words of Encouragement from the Void to a Saddened Supernova

For you, right now,
life is a black hole,
cold, indifferent, and dead.

Love, you've forgotten -

We are here to

shatter silence,
animate the void,
invent context beneath
the somber autumn night,
be fucking weird,
discard the norm and
explode while doing so,
scalp all fears and
expose them as farce,
balk at death and
hot-wire fate,
do what we were
warned against,
think for a change,
draw dreams down
to daylight,
grab the serpent by
the tail, laughing
madly at its
rubber fangs,
create anything for
no reason at all,
make love in dangerous
locations and leave behind
boxers, braziers as
clues, reminders,
pick fights just to
loose them and pick
them again,
mock all humanity and
even more so ourselves,
taunt the bull and
tear down the bleachers,
sing nonsense songs of
adoration to our enemies
-do we have any?-

You are beautiful and
I am empty.
Nothing is owed us and
we've nothing to prove

Noumena Arecaceae

Suddenly and for no apparent reason,
a subtle infinity of concealed
life behind the rouge, adolesent
charisma of a palm tree

- shimmering and jagged -

an extradimensional afropick
swaying in evening sun. ple insanity of skin on skin. out of context herenow pleasestate. eyeshot convex. heres how. please stay.

Hey, Amoeba

Remember that night on
the water tower –

how city lights reeled on
Humboldt Bay like
memories of the carnival,
half-forgotten.

We shared cheap wine
& expensive cigarettes
and when we should have
kissed I said:
“I have a girlfriend”
and you said:
“I have pneumonia”
and city lights
carouselled below.

I took a piss from the
top and you laughed
wildly at the sound of
droplets in a puddle
far below, saying:

“Maybe that’s like
us, you know, all
drops from the same stream,
all fragments of the same thing,
and looking at each other is
looking at ourselves.
Is that what makes love
feel so good?”

“Maybe,” I said,
and, smiling, climbed
the rusted ladder
down

wondercurrents&triptides

the motion behind
every slightest thing

makes the iotas of existance
static snow on reality

creates and destroys atoms

dictates the dance of chemical
romance

organizes cellular revolution

concerts organs into organisms

compels us to make love
make war
make the best
or make due with it

the motion behind
every slightest thing

plots the path of planets
and moons

decides solar give
from singularity take

spins galaxies like
egg whites in soup

creates vast realities
only to destroy them

ensures all that remains
is

the motion behind
every slightest thing.

i will never really know why
you wore that stupid jack-o-lantern
vest as you hurried past,
but for one split moment, the
beautiful sadness of you,
was mine.

Unmailed letter for Michelle

Ok, so the song of the moment is End Theme by Zero 7;
visions so immaculate words are null, chakras aflame in visceral oh...awe! Every ugly notion rendered a farce only sunshine tapioca daydream forever with the red of wine & cherry on top. oh! Tiny dancers on make believe stage; little pantomime lithe twirls under phantom muse spotlight Broadway or My Way baby and ride the dream queen beaten horse. Filtered stagelight of decades immortalized by fading edge-curled photographs lifetime reel of film all chipper-ho developed plot just right for buttered popcorn yum-ending.

George Berger Stole my Girlfriend

Beauty now fuzzy never metcha before the future stretching long, but that son of a bitch George Berger seduced you with wit and free spirits now everything ass backwards confused disembodied arm still functions in the hot wings but the manager says just fine cut up cover up happens all the time they say their friend lives in cartoon house and yr all animated far as i see playing on the train tracks and flirting with death herself here come the once in a million happens all the time locomotive destroys intersection bobsled autowreck on a green spring time hillside son of a bitch carnage behind the carnival.

the spectacular three day hangover

somehow we thought it was funny, nailing our girlfriends each into their own wooden crates, chuckling and slapping salty high-fives, all the while dancing mad irish-esque jigs in the receding sea foam as they sunk between churning sets of storm-gray-blue surf. all fun and games, all trifles, to be certain - spirited young bucks we are - but you haven't popped out, all cold soaked and ruffled.
the much-needed punchline plain trapped in there too.
impromptu camp counselor mediates all the rage, spouting: lord knows, a hah, i've never been one for the rules.
sure, and us neither, but they never came back. the joke hung half-open. they never came back.
and it hurt.

an arcatian apocalypse

It's a static sensation - rhythm-hip noise blob, insect-eyed nobot (shiny, tubes) matte black fiddles a steel-ringed aureole replica - implied algorithms ponging is and isn't - hermetarealistic fuzzy navel alternity teardrop close-up in gods-eye panorama - pastel dreamgone girls uncensored blow bubbles at the sun in January - forgotten lovers explode in rapture in public in nothing but no thing to stop us and why not - long dead no-body moans eerie lonesome cyberdirt graves from outskirts of town - BIOS unbiased invoking hushed freezeframemidnight pseudo-sunrise burns bold in the south sky, sam&amber arm&arm for the show. dave, spontaneously my neighbor at a Villa and 11th duplex, assimilates on the porch in an occult manner. ole friends here to transcend together, shifting densities like second nature. music drifts from tinny speakers in my somehow lonely-but-not living room. we gather together in a comical, wide-eyed sort of huddle like degenerate back-woods types exposed fresh to moving pictures. the not-sun object in the sky burns and writhes with itself, getting bigger.

i remember the meteor due to pass the earth at a scathingly close distance on January 29th.

well, i think to my dream self, i guess this is it.

pabst canada afterlife

It's a static sensation - rhythm-hip noise blob, insect-eyed nobot (shiny, tubes) matte black fiddles a steel-ringed aureole replica - implied algorithms ponging is and isn't - hermetarealistic fuzzy navel alternity teardrop close-up in gods-eye panorama - pastel dreamgone girls uncensored blow bubbles at the sun in January - forgotten lovers explode in rapture in public in nothing but no thing to stop us and why not - long dead no-body moans eerie lonesome cyberdirt graves from outskirts of town - BIOS unbiased invoking hushed freezeframe riot, please-me-punch subsys notions and all - not entirely un-entity necessity for pinpoint sonic precipitate subdivision - fucked up funk sock arpeggio archipelago rephrase - slow fade souldirt refrain.

Mamone Sapiens (dream blurb no. 1023-7)

In a mid-western gas stop three pair of twins Scandinavian smiling holding hands in church clothes - ex-love still love ya appears furious counting the ways its no fun - you would leave, wouldn't you - Chinese child say Pa read the coupons divines one day I come break the Camel Chain and smiling - I feel Fate conspiring as I disappear into night, a cosmic lone ranger on a toy microbike.

Traumen mit dir

in dreams, our lips
bound higher dimensions

pink puckered love slugs
wrestling with tactile tummies

damp drapes
dancing on the face
like
quixotic teenaged mouth gypsies
in heat

a nebulous David Wilcock
appears in wrinkles

and we materialize
momentarily
at the Last Supper

which was held at
Hometown Buffet.

the river

the dreams come like a bukowski book - short lines, bleak. smutty- sweet - occasionally poignant and without pretense. i cough up a medium-sized slime mold mucilage creature. it writhes on a cut of cardboard. i prod it with a toothpick, suddenly sensing that my role is not to disassemble the thing, but to nurture it. perhaps it needs a name, money for college. what shall you be called? there i am, sitting on some fuzzy stairs in new york city with a slime-child on a piece of cardboard and i can't decide what to name the damn thing. the scene splits down the middle and i'm at the river. the river. of course, the ole river. my favorite spot to take a load off and make awkward love to a faceless stranger. where did you come from? what is your name? why are we doing this thing? are you my snot baby? a parade shuffles by, embarrassed. the mayor says something from a pulpit but nobody is listening. we are making strange love by the river. ah, the river.

Asterra Nova

When circadian rhythms go
downtempo
and heart breakbeats a
fill

Your smudgy fae-sized high-top
sneakers
surface in a scenery of
potato salad

Because life, its like a
4D ferris wheel
some sorta spiraling
eternal return

And in dreams old
benevolent poetry professors
discourage free love behind
closed stalls

All I can think about are
those dirty converse shoes.