Blogger, dude,

this is getting BORING


God Damn


10 Things That Make Me Feel Uneasy

1. Portrait of Tracy by Jaco Pastorius
2. I used to go to this all the time and I misssssssssssss it.
3. the drunkard upstairs yelling faggot
4. Basically Nov.-Feb.
5. You know, we were in it together.
6. My feet are always cold. I think they are dead.
7. Patrick Swayze isn't making anymore movies.
8. I can't paint the walls in my room.
9. You
10. Me


Most Dedicated Dudes Halloween Edition



Beware those who set out to mustache but razor their efforts in too little time; these people are fickle and insecure electric razors.
Praise those who, by FDA Regulations, may not and will not retain the warmth of a full facial beard, yet keep a stiff upper lip bristled, combed, shaped, or banged with lustrous facial nose-scarf.
I have been growing my mustache for months! SERIOUSLY.                                                    andguesswhat……… what?
It was recently noticed for the FIRST TIME EVERRRARARARSTACHESTACHE.
It’s no big deal really.                                                                                                        S’not like it’s a fascist-facial-fashion, (5x’s fast thing).


I thought
I thought
I thought
I saw some shit, man.


Taking a break

being a hard ass.
I had a cry tonight, first in a long time.
I vow to never get another dog.

My first dog's name was BuddyBear. Buddy so he's nice, Bear so he's mean. He was 150lbs of pure-bread German Rottweiler, and would have won competitions if it weren't for a white curl of fur on his cinder block chest. His nicknames included: Beast, Horse, Fuckin' Monster, Biggin', Hoss, and Big Kid, but most of all MUFASA, to which broadens his shoulders, glazed his brown eyes, and made of him a stone guard at the entrance of Hell. But he often just thought himself a bud, one of the guys sitting on the couch, drooling over the babe holding brown paper sacks, mysterious aromatic paper sacks filled with Rally's or Dairy Queen or treats or spaghetti. Spaghetti was BuddyBear's favorite.

Now I'm going going back back to being a hard ass.


Some things about something like now.

Grizzly Bear is KILLIN IT in my room right now, like FUCK.

Fall is not the same as Autumn
but they start the same time.
Autumn is a gun shot victim
heat leaving wound and head.
Fall is tattered hope and quilt.
A desperate position, starving
moans for some orange warmth.

Everyone seems so very happy, like sun warm silhouettes of kites shifting under bluemilk clouds, over safe-low branches netted and filled with a weeks walking of foliage.

I want to draw so many 3D things, like a hug,
like a lift,
like a bro,
like a high-five,
like a home,
like a kiss,
like a switchblade,
like a you.

My computer has been sent to repair, 329.95 flat fee.
If I set up a Pay-Pal account, would you donate?
Is that too much to ask?
Am I too much to ask?
Who is asking the questions here?

There was something else I wanted to blog about.
Enjoy the suspense,







from Understand That This Is A Dream - Ginsberg

When I'm in awakeness what do I desire?
I desire to fulfill my emotional belly.
My whole body my heart in my fingertips thrill with some old fulfillments.
Pages of celestial rhymes burning fire-words
unconsumable but disappear.
Arcane parchments my own and the universe the answer.
Belly to Belly and knee to knee.
The hot spurt of my body to thee and thee


Dear Cody, I love\miss you sometimes like now.

Cody, you are wicked awesome at keeping it cool, which is cool to me. I remember when you weren't so good at that and you would loud around in an evolutionary circle, scrapin' your ape knuckles. Hey, I miss your sleeping, we should do that sometime. We could sleep and dream of driving great distances on a whim or connecting lasers in the nights sky. But the thing I miss most is your clear-eyed saftey net. I wish I could still fall back on that, we all do. Try not to turn into one of those desperate people. Not one of those. They are just the worst. Keep your chin up, for god's sake, for dumbledore's  sake, for the sake of the child, and for the sake of those sweet-sugary babes.


Strangulation - My Morning Jacket


Let's not be desperate
Let's not be a desperate person
Not one of those
Not on your knees
Not like that
Don't do that
Don't become like that
Are the drugs wearing off?
Do you need more drugs?
Just don't become that
Don't become a desperate person
They are just the worst


I made a list of things to do
then it gathered under my nails like lottery ticket gray

I was supposed to say Hey lover,
the devil is  fightn' for your daddy's soul

I was gonna be some kind of Gable
with a complex stare and a hard-on for romance

Should’ve buried myself for the night
with my sweated head painting a heavy rain storm pushing 
us into a ball, our clothes becoming transparent
A capite ad calcem

Should’ve learned Latin
Should’ve made my bed and folded clothes

Now you see what a cluttered desk I am
Now I hold my shoulders like I’m thinking





ignore like
your Daddy,
- doggy - distant mother,
lens blurred state line,
conjunction relations - typing
hangnail angst.



Something Like Freshman Year

Red Pillow Case

I want to show you pictures of the ones before you
The one's I want you to replace.
See, I'll say, I've done good. 
I am good. Then you will agree.
And we will slide around in my new sheets.



S   O   L   I   D

get happy.wish granted



Cody Sean Davis is learning to live with @CodySeanDavis
Though they can not communicate openly, 
for the sake of the kids, 
they e-mail each-other 
at Cody.Sean.Davis@gmail.com
This way Cody Sean Davis 
and @CodySeanDavis  
can get things done,

Rasta this and dreadlocks that...


So I've started reading Mitchell Heisman's 1900 page Suicide Note,
seent it over at HTMLGIANT.
I feel like this tome of a suicide note might fry some circuit behind my eyeball
and result in better growing facial hair and a very dead stare.

I want this again. Bring it to me.

sesame Ahi tuna with avocado spread... and other stuff.

- Dan


For Fucks Sake

Look at him, he has no friend.


Cracked Ribs

 The Moment Before I Die

I realize the parts of my face
will be in the back of my sorry head.
And my radius will look like chicken wings
stripped of golden fried skin.
I will become a bruise on the streets black flesh
a blemish for street-sweepers to buff.



hey, hey,

at one point I did a lot of things to paper:



Tree, you provide me shade and oxygen.
Porch, you provide me prospect and content.
Together, you are my sanctuary;
you are my God.

Bums sing in apartment stairwells.
Bums barter cigarettes on the canal.
Bums stow away in elevators.
Bums collect cans because
Bums are eco-friendly.

I have nothing important to say,


Evocating Earth


The Judge

He coma swift  da chest thrumen
thu rummen.

A sleeping brrr rising from your pelvis
a yellow pressure shaking your leg

and the thrumen.

I start this blog to end it.
I have to pee.

BAM, Blog post!

I work with a man who once sold 6 oz.'s of rock cucaine t Axel Rose of Guns n' Roses.

I work with a man whose back in't like it used t be, whose hip, whose hearing, whose.

I work with a man who di time because he wa just gettin' it away from the baby, damn.

I work with a man who is hip to Vic and di the drums for Motown when it was hot, hot.

I am the KRAKEN
or some hideous monster
or I am nothing.

I think you are right
you are hideous nothing
you are a mythic. 

I have many arms 
so I reach with all my arms
all my many arms.

Good for you. and you. 
and you. 

Get on, on
on with your bad-self.






do the click on it



So here you are! 

Through time and space and web you are here!

See Look:       cosmical alliance of stars, satellites, and plane waste
the yearly expansion of the earth's orbit around the sun 

or mayyyybe you followed the link from this crazy awesome event. 

But anyways, COOOOOOOLLLLL!!

I was chosen by and get to open up for some really cool poets at BLOOF BOOKS

This is the beginning of their book tour!


Like A Cold Chill

Tonight I went, "Ahh Muncie," standing in the middle of Jackson.
My eyes were pounding the puzzle piece sky into trees and power lines.
The penniless wind lifted my stretched work shirt above my head
and through my chest I absorbed nutrients from broken glass
dried earth and rootspilt-sidewalks.
Centipedes and silkworms crossed over my feet to get where
they were going, and they found it,
1900 W. Jackson St. 



I miss

my nose ring.
(vanity moment)



time puked on.
First time climbing a mountain... sort of.

First time... well, I won't say that.
Being blind. blurred blue

first scorn. into my bruised eye.
college brawl. TOUGH.

First first divorce,
First second divorce.

First broken bone. middle knuckle
into a glass frame, red fiber optics splayed like hair.

My first earthquake. into milled soul.
Shook my peripherals, fatale.

First house.
First fence.

First yard and drive way and laundry room.
First utilities bills.

First panic attack.

The Great Smokey Mountains


You Wash by Cody Davis

Your wrist twists knife tip side
round my bone dish temple. Labotomy
drilled through soup.

My strainer brain loses heart worm noodles
wrapping numb my uvula.

In my lungs soap settles
smells like hope but thins like hope
or red hair waving the drain with a loud Shourewp!


Rediscovered land this weakend. Hollow like chocolate rabbits.

Prolific discovery
My drafts are high scribes,
med insurance info, then
an imaginary conversation
with a cop. 
Remember: Al Green
is tired of being alone. 
I once used the word maligned 
in conversation. 
But not with a cop. 


Time keeps on tickin' tickin' tickin'

into the fuuuuuture.
Space Jam bitches.

Today has been a good day.
A day I can take note of not being a bad,
or otherwise unmemorable day.
Not that today is a memorable day,
but a good day.

I have this problem with charging
capabilities and my Mac right now,
so I have not been writing as much online.

That's ok. Do not despair. I will find ways
and make holes.

New glasses soon. 'Bout damn time.

I'm going camping next weekend in Shulz, IN.
Stoked to the MAX! !! !

Reading is good and great at the same time.

I have to pee.


It is for you to know that I feel as though I might die soon.
I'm being followed by a winged ghost insect.
It can not be stopped.
It will have blood.


Oh Man.

The cherry on top.

Thanks, bud.


Praise Him In The Noon-Time by Cody Davis

His collar tips jazzed sharp as he threatened through the door. 10 fingers on two hands are gilded rings and permanent ink.

It’s the middle of the day; He has been drinking, and has shown himself to drink more. He smells like an Amsterdam café filled with failed poet whiskey and white kid weed.

His weathered black boots shovel the wood planks as he tips through past by glazed kind and eyes alike. His teeth are a confident gray and prying, tongue sharpening hollow canines.

What will you have?

He orders fire wine and sits on a stool with drink in hand, rings playing pitches on the glass.

He coughs and brings his tribal hand to his open mouth. Spit and mist shower his palm as his lungs flex and cancered cilia evacuate a dry, heavy throat.

He drinks his brandy like water, fighting a reaction, his desert esophagus being purified, bleaching curse words stuck in his throat ribs. His breath heats the air as he exalts the alcohols vapor.

He is a skeleton man filled with jelly. His organs and veins sweat 80-proof IV out of small cracks and notches in his bone frame.

He is leaking.

He is drinking.



I have officially started my career in creative writing. ha.
I've started submitting. About damn time.

Wish me luck, or not.

So you know, I'll be deleting poems off of this blog that I will be submitting. So, you know, thanks for your comments and stuff. You're neat.

There's a girl in a hoolahoop on Price Is Right, she's not a beauty. Her shirt says "Carey on my wayward son." That is funny. Her showcase sucks. That is disappointing.


My Eyes Betray Me by Cody Davis

Who poured Novocain in my ears while I slept?
My yellow yolk brain is washing in blue spit slime
that drips like laundry soap
and it feels like rain on my arms, or needles, or

My nostrils flare holocaust.
I’m killing thousands and raging war on myself.

My dad tells me
Don’t be a stupid shit.
Thank you absinthe and ecstasy.
  and Thank you absinthe and ecstasy.
    and and Thank you absinthe and ecstasy.

So I put on my Metallica shirt and I feel bad-ass.
No numb brain will show through ripped jeans and high eyes.

Except maybe the high eyes.
I don’t know why I said that.




Darlin' by Cody Davis

I guess I am the freak,
because I can’t just stand around old towns
and smoke my lungs black, or follow girls dancin’ in their yellow dresses,
or follow girls not dancin' in their yellow dresses.

My head will get rollin’ down dams
and splashin’ up prehistoric fish over pipe drains and sand beaches.
They’ll scream fuck! because they haven’t felt the sun in a long time,
and their sticky white skin will sizzle drip in the heat,
and all the water will taste like fried gnats.

Then I’ll get to stabbing.
My knuckles will run flesh mean into the concrete.

Those fish will be breathing or not breathing in the air
and their blind eyes will get big because my knuckles turning
into bright light will dry out their fish eye sockets.
They’ll start licking their fish lips because they feel a flood coming.

But In all my fury, pushing my bones, and taking vibrations,
I’ll feel sorry for the fish.
They’ve been alive a long time,
and they need to be dried out and discovered by some old man
with a brush and an alcohol problem.

So I've stopped breaking the dam.
I ain't gonna follow no yellow dress.

Though I miss it like the pledge of allegiance.
I'm hoping it ashes and mixes,
flushed with brown piss.


Inside It's Orange by Cody Davis

I am tired of all this cold
and wet and hurt.

I fill my lungs with the inside air
and hold it, warm hugging,
stretchin’ my lungs until
they shrivel from the outside’s
wind and mean.

I grip and sand paper my hands
into a ball and friction them up
into a sweatin’ ammonia.

Sometimes I sit under dry places
and kick shit to keep warm.

I see people pushing their faces
through the wind’s ocean tide
and I wave to some, and I judge at some.

I take my poison to keep warm
and I hit it hard and it greens my eyes
and I let it fill my lungs.

It weeps around pushing against my life
and I walk it out to the door,
counting heel scrapes,

and it burns good in the cold,
and it burns good in this mean.


Dirty Thoughts by Cody Davis

My mind has been clean sheets for too long.

I need cloudy teeth and smoky fingers.
I need black man chords and numbing sweet low.
I need wet dirty in my ears.
I need burning and love yous under my feet.

Push me with your Stockholm lips.
Hold my face tight between your hands
and run your thumbs in my eyes.
Pour your palms of salty sweat on my stinging feet.
Choke me out with your gray fingers
and spit blue on my forehead.

We need to dance like we did drunken,
holding ourselves off the green with our laughing teeth
and wiping the sky’s dirty windows with our wash cloth sleeves.
We need to breathe the air with snaking viruses,
the black mass breath of burning tubes.
We need to tie our tongues and hug our lips
with our eyes open and afraid.

We, we, we, need to be we,
again, lovely.


Stranger by Cody Davis

Behind you, in the elevator,
                             I talk ghost speak.
I spit milky words
Into your soft ears
                                and coo
                      As they spin and drop
Like pennies and nickels.

I swim my hands through your hair.
My smoke molded fingers get lost inside strands.
and they  thread
                                          my blue veins
and set my arms to deep sleep.

August. 7. 1976.
The kids are growing too fast and the heat is killing the crop. They play through golden leaves and hunt like stalking hyenas, laughing and throwing their eyes to the sky. I watch them from my porch and nod to the sound of the girl’s short breaths.

“But why are you leaving? Stay here with me.”
I can’t. I ha..
“Come on,
                                                                  stay the night.”

I’m the shadow behind the door.
I show myself to you
with the Polaroid playful.
I am not dust flashes
                     I am not termite squeaking.
I rub ice under your       long     pale      arms.
Cold rivers run through your gray avenues,
              Drown small
       town mailboxes
   And hospital
wrist bands.

Ghost mist mops the floor.
It tangles its thin curved legs
around your scarves long.

It leaves sweet smelling
and ash traces on your cuffs.
You are used wardrobe.


You Say I Have An Oral Fixation by Cody Davis

Don’t give me lips.
I know what they’re for.
The Devil has lips.
His lips are like any lips,
Pink and curled at the end,
the top smaller than the bottom. I’ve
seen lips. You peddler.
You fiend fatale. You 
enabler. Take your lips
and take your eyes.


Burning by Cody Davis, concept. . .

The burning in my lung paces the floor.
The burning hisses its feet
on pink tissue, and heats
The pocket up like hot air balloon.

The burning in my knuckles spit.
It gathers its mouth with thick
maroon wet and gushes it past its lips,
between my pinky and ring finger.

The burning in my knees work.
They are hot, hammering bone, grinding
to dust, and cutting ligaments. They
bang desks and hunt to drums.


The Family by Cody Davis

I think all people must have a good heart.
They sit and pray in circles,
ghosting vibrations through ribcages.

They crumble out the caked earthworms
and crab grass crowns. They hold
hands and they swim in their neighbors eyes.

And them children tumble in golden cornfields,
and they love themselves and they
love they Mamas and they Papas. . .

They must have 'em. They walk
their paths, nod to their acquaintances,
and smile at the church.


Hunger by Cody Davis

Tonight I am sloth.
I slow through sheets cooled
by open window.

I am moonlit vines,
Sun baked branches,
And wet air between.

I am winding muscle,
Flicking tongue,
And choking hold.


Find God essay by Cody Davis

I hadn’t stepped a foot in a church in over three months. I didn’t practice as a Presbyterian, but I never really learned what all that means anyways.

I’m not sure what I was waiting for.  For a moment, I thought about crying. I’d take my hair between by fingers and think of the worst possible outcome. I clenched my toes and tensed my arms, but I couldn’t do it.

I then tried to pray. I got out something of an exaggerated, “God,” but couldn’t sort out the next words. They were in an alphabet soup, and I was eating with a fork.
It’s funny to me that 10 hours after I sat in the front pew before a floating golden cross, that 10 hours after I was asking for God to speak to me, that I hear him while I am sitting on my couch, when I should be sleeping, and watching a self help telethon for public television.

I did not have some existential epiphany about how my entire life is exaggerated beyond what it needs to be, as my mom revealed to me on our way home. I did not simplify my situation by putting a Jesus mask over it, sweeping the dust under the rug. I did not have some hallucination of a burning bush and have not been visited by an angel.

It is awareness.  I am where I am in my life at this moment. There is no changing where I am; there is no controlling where I am.

Each morning as you wake up to go to class, or work, or to make a bowl of Apple Jacks, the cereal of champions, you are living a scene in a play. You play the role that you have been given, and you play it better than anyone else could. We are actors and actresses in a bohemian masquerade, wearing masks, and gowns, and smells.
"There will be time, there will be time/ To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;/ There will be time to murder and create,/And time for all the works and days of hands/That lift and drop a question on your plate" - The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot 


Thrum by Cody Davis

I have a pulse, but its hard to find.
It splits up into capillaries,
Cris-crossing like Texas highways,
until it finds its way to a vein in my forehead,
or my knuckles,
where it bleeds out a gash
between my pinky and ring finger.

It don't sound like no other pulse.
It does not push back in twos,
Or slow down when my eyes close dead.
It keeps pushin' real fast, like a drum roll,
And it never stops moving.

I ain't seen pictures of where it comes from.
Other people have a muscle in their chest.
They say it pushes blood.
They say it keeps them alive.

Well I ain't seen a muscle in my chest.
There's just room for breathin',
space for movin',
and time for wastin'.


God Damn This Tangent by Cody Davis

I'm stomping on ideas
That fly like geese in packs of V's
And shit on cars and around ponds
Then feed on swamp and clods of rock and dirt
That mix with the tar and soot
That drips like rain off blackened boots
Of steel workers ending shifts,
And starting cars,
And fucking wives,
And raping daughters.
They fly South for the winter.


Dear Heart, How Like You This? by Cody Davis

Dear heart, how like you this?
Stampede of insects,
Legs of six,
Sidle through openings
In throat and nose
Feel walls with anttena
Journey deep into pipe drains.

Patter claws across sponge lungs
High off of fumes
Dance your rhythms to brothers
Drop your waste into black tar

Slop your way through pink tissue
Jaws slide like steel blade
Push your bodies through opening
Into hollow larder

Prepare acid to seep
Through muscle and marble
Until a hollow gourd

Dear heart, how like you this?
To be stripped of your meat
And the hollow cavity
To be filled with bug shit.


Fortune Teller by Cody Davis

Your rose fingertip
Between my thumb and pointer
Rolling stem of flower
Polish your nail
Reflect fluorescent poverty
Layers of lying men
Under ice shell
Astute quill
Stave of mana 
La petite mort
Finger print etchings
Like seismic waves
Groove against
My quaking feelers


Old At Heart by Cody Davis

Heart like a porch swing,
Weak wood
like fingers down chalkboard.
Icicle chains
Through seasoned hands.

Starched creased khakis
Heeding abated legs.
Hard alloy turned slumping
Leather under wool socks.

Glasses sliding down,
Sloping smelling nose
Above bristled upper lip.

Avalanche down the sides of face,
Milky peak above the ears.
Cliffs of protuberant cotton brood
Over the newspaper.

Raisened fingers grip
Flustering pages.
Dull ink blurs.
Pictures are veiled.


Friday Night Blues by Cody Davis

I’ve led children to think that they were home
With a the flash of an ice cream cone
And the song that their mother had sung
When they were told that they weren’t better than . . .

I’ve been kind to those I just don’t know,
Given answers to questions I know,
I know.

I’m a bastard for tying your arms above your head
And touching your feet in bed
and for walking away instead,
instead . . .

I’ve grown tired,
Like when you told me you were tired,
The “Elliot Smith stabbed himself twice in the heart,” tired,
“TWICE” tired.

I’ve never been one to take a nap midday.
I woke up to someone saying they wanted to be you.
I wanted them to be you too.
TWICE tired.

How Much Of Me? by Cody Davis

How much of my body is mine?
Divide your spaces in time to faces looking content,
or aroused,
or suspicious of those around those that known their roles and outcomes.
How much harder can I spell the rhythm
Of my heart that beats quicker when with a
Set of eyes that emit barium light and
flash bars that imprison an alter ego?
I don’t know.
How much of me is mine?
Or how to tell the time
Between lines that encompass a vocabulary,
High on truth with sex with muse
That carries love in spoons,
Dreams of honey moons,
And large rooms with books where children play?
So if you say so
I’d like to know, how much should I say I weigh
When I’m measured if I’m a man,
Can I stand with my shoulders broad?
Smile and nod?
Or do I melt on the floor like a snow storm?


A Work In Regress by Cody Davis

His leg jumps like a piston,
Igniting front row
anxieties and barium eyes,
pushing fossil fuel fumes up
through thick brown tubes
in a tangled mess
that fall on his forehead
and behind his lowering ears,
dripping lead beads
That blind him
And numb his lips.

His voice is touch and go,
Love and hope,
Picking up silver spoons
Burdened by small stones.

His thoughts flee from him,
scurrying with naked feet
Across concrete walls,
And silk blouses,
And cotton sheets.