...Hugo wrote that “a creative-writing class may be one of the last places you can go where your life still matters.” And one of the first, I suspect, for a sensitive, poetically-inclined Montana kid, which makes Missoula a natural magnet for him and many other dreamers, misfits and malcontents... Take 24-year-old Travis Sehorn. Born in Wyoming, he’s spent the last 13 years in Missoula. A lead singer for various rock and folk bands, Sehorn’s also the author of these unpublished poems...
----Linh Dinh from the Poetry Foundation website
Old Love's Dead Dog's Sad Nose Song, the REAL book is ready and will soon be available for purchase or barter. Spring 2019
-Yolas at metropolitan again-
( I order three chicken tacos (soft)).
new york city can make even georgia
o’feeffe phalic in her images. Two erections
are the brooklyn bridge. I smell of wood.
Mitchell says it’s good. Now mix
In christmas plastic, guacamole, hot
sauce, citrus and an empty lonely
feeling that is this darkest of days.
-Christmastown 2016-
a man such as you, elves
in red surrounded by the forest
of their choice, I know a place
where no one cries, not in our castle
in the woods. The death smells
that creep out of the holiday sculptures
pooey green clouds, the garland
of the blood colored bannister
to hell. Elves straddle that slide,
their tiny stinky crotches sliming
the trail to the afterlife party.
Follow the pinecone turd trail.
Follow with no more reason for living.
-to the baby hiding in the womb- nov 23
the baby won’t come
out of the dark dark
womb. It clinches its fists,
furious that it must.
My friends, the parents
are waiting, nervous?
I am waiting to see
what kind of world
it is too. To crawl out.
To come out of the darkness
that is your birth
into the darkness
that is your death,
is not much light.
The living in between
is a golden flash.
But now life is darker
still. Gold with a dim
glimmer. Please baby
come into the glint
and don’t hate us
for it. Hate.
But direct your hate
to the white sheets
of power. Hate baby
hate. Hate baby
hate. Breathe,
concentrate, hate. Hate
those that dim the light
with unending fury
until that hate lights
their sheets on fire.
-day two of darkness- nov 10th
There is no color
in the sunrise this morning.
It brought a death back
to my eyes. This morning
I went to the well to pump
some water. The water didn’t
want to come up to the earth. It froze
somewhere in the darkness. Smart.
There were gunshots nearby in the woods.
Surely they are hunting deer, it is the season.
But, that death sounds like practice.
The death came back to my eyes - I’m afraid
it might hold me somewhere in the darkness.
But I’ve never had the good sense to stay there.
-it is a weak and poor feeling when the dead are right AKA the white sheets of power- nov 9th 2016
It is all over this morning. Finished
the beautiful words. Felt finished
myself but knew I was soon to wake
from the nightmare of the story. Now
I am no longer watching
the clock without hands.
Time is now
moving in every way
and I feel my flesh
crawling along,
hooked and drug
behind the hands.
I hear the words
out loud. But I want to hear
the sigh of death,
the last compress
of the lungs
under the
white sheets of power.
-Pastime- oct 6th 2016 (working for eric on kingdom rd in montville maine)
wapping oak acorns
with the crooked wizard
finger branch. the stick
ball game of cool
weather.
It’s curled
and beckoning tree ovums
to get tossed and thwacked
into the autumn fields
of dewey rays.
Im supposed
to be working, chop-
ping arms of an oak older
than my name
but what kind of weird
being would I be
if I wasn’t stickball-
ing on the clock?
Teddy, a sad magician – sept ’16 chebague island
Wear that shirt of fish
that belonged to your dead
brother. You are so sad
that you want to kill
yourself. But for now,
you don’t. You make jokes
out of nothing. A magician
of hiding the dead,
of burying the pain
with alcohol poured
over your friendliness,
strained through dead leaves
of the island cemetery.
A shirt covered in fish draped
over the astro van hearse.
Driving like a child heaving
bricks back and forth
across the graveyard.
“Watch closely folks!
For I will make myself
disappear! Before
your very eyes!”
And then he was gone.
Jan? train ride to new orleans from nyc penn station
There is a place, it is real,
I swear it. For I have seen
it from the train in Alabama,
Birmingham going forward
to New Orleans. (before the singing
brakeman of meridian)
There is a field of large metal
tubes – pipes for shit? All stacked pyramids,
rusting away. Two fires burning,
smoldering and one lonely watchman
reclining in his lawn chair. Watchman
over the fiery hell
that is southern nowhere.
Belfast coin-op laundry june 2016 (the 3rd visit)
It’s that special time of year,
Laundry day!
Time to shake the mouse
out of the sock,
clip the bat wings
from the sheets
and play slot
machine with
the change dispenser!
$1, $5, $10, $20 BILLS
Ting! Ting! Ting! Winner!
The witch of suds
awaits my coin… BUT!
She is not here!
Oh my!
Eye of newt!
How will anything be
(clean) again!?
July 9th 2016 portland maine
Snow piled up on the bar
stool. Jaw popping goodbyes.
Oh my.
Dear hand,
stay away
from the soft harmonies
you hear in your friend the ear
as you plunk the keys
to your saddest pop.
Oh my lordess,
her lips just ate my lobes.
Let it snow,
let it snow, oh no.
Zero for conduct
Banging out a cheerful song
the little devils in chorus sing
“La la la la! la la la la!”.
Climb aboard this night train
i’ll show you a trick or two!
Play a little tune on my trombone!
A bouquet of flowers pulled from?
Let us light our cigars together
and smoke this dead old man
out the boxcar. “Lets get out!
It’s old tight ass again.”
The dead old man’s alive!
A magician under a nice hat
As the train pulls away…
This dorm we are assigned
is like a hospital. Row after
row and coats so long, standing
guard while we sleep. A ghost
and fairies visit and lead us out
of bed, away from dream
To the dawn.
Penguin time - 11:42pm Friday march 18th 2016
Time has just been
flying by! Like a bird fly-
ing with its wings flap-
ping!
Up and down with feathers,
or science demonstrating the miracle
of flight! If the bird is old enough to fly,
that is. Or it could be a bird
that does not fly.
It could be that
time is a penguin.
Coin-op laundry at 23rd and 6th ave looks like 9/11. gainesville fl March 3rd
Those alive people
soon dead, leaping
into the air to free
fall their last bit of life.
Looks like tumbling laundry.
Is that funny? Strange
to think how similar the two
actions are. Meaninglessness,
in a world where life is not
worth living unless it has meaning.
Jumping to die is not meaning
and cleaning your clothes is not
either? Im willing to say maybe death
is meaning, only if cleaning is also mean-
ing.( But I think the meaning is somewhere
between those things.) Between death
and cleaning is where living is.
Walt Whitman’s Tomb at the Foot of the Bed of Patti and Leonard, Watched Over by Joan
The mouth of your bed, the lace
of your tongue. The mask over
head, and the watcher
above. Tucked in to their robes
on a Wednesday afternoon.
You surprised me in the museum
over a dainty cup of tea that was your fathers.
Your bold horse face and longing eye.
Take this longing, take this waltz
up to chelsea. You both loved it there.
A young poets sheets,
rumpled and flowered.
The bed, it looked like Walt Whitman’s tomb.
A cage to keep out, or to keep in.
A photo pasted of your skin-
(new york muscles, a stronger woman)
Joan of Arc - who hasn’t loved her?
Wanted to love her, to be her friend.
In the fire, who by fire?
The cross will bend. Metal rings
of your dead lover.
The shining mirror.
The ghostly slippers, under your bed.
Your children lie down, on this tomb
and collect the flowers, you’ve written
there: An old tattoo, a star, a cane,
old paint-brushes are stiff
and stained.
Throw them in the river east…
Out the window, feel the breeze.
And hear the bellow so low, so deep.
A breathy whisper, a chelsea queen.
Tombstones of many, the garden green.
Lovers entangle, may one have wings.
How to be, how to stay a we.
This long road, we walk there.
Skip over puddles, seasons in hell.
We can sit quiet, until the end.
Sit down on my tomb, my only friend.
Smooth out my wrinkles,
pull back the shade. This is the nothing,
we used to crave
and now its cresting.
I see the light
but its more like darkness,
hold-on-to-me-give-up
unanswered big questions from the ocean floor - Sat morn 5th dec 2015 (3 mins later)
That last kiss in Brooklyn,
Those last kids lost –
Im thinking of lily
This warm winter morn.
I forgot that this Brooklyn,
That this Brooklyn was the bed
Of our last affair…
Before the digging
Of the atlantic
Grave. To kick
Us down in.
To sink us down.
When we lose
Someone to love,
And we still love them,
Why is it too painful
To see them again?
I have no
Answer down
Here. Sunk
Down, the last word
From the bottom of the sea.
destroying brooklyn Sat morn 5th dec 2015
The weed cloud
Eddies
Against the ginger-
Bread walls
Of my house
When the M-train
Cuts the sky
Like melon slices.
Like putrid melon
That oozes pus
Over this wasted
City. Brooklyn
Is like no other –
But is just another
City now.
Why to we destroy
The best of everything we love?
Christmastown 2015
My golden panties,
Spires down my legs
Uh oh
It’s christmastown
Again. Beer
Spilled on my elf
Clothes. Cold seep-
ing every hole
uh oh
It’s christmastown
Again. such a rancid
Crotch o’ gold.
“getting paid $10 an hr to write” aug 29th 2015
purple tattoo
on his sleeve. Tears
in his eyes.
We took his dog
Cast iron and dumb
Looking. Sold (his favorite
Thing) for $25.
“goodbye old friend”
he said as I packed
him away. I guess
nothing matters at all
to him. (who are these dumb dogs?)
“waiting for skip at his daughter’s house in portland on her bday – getting paid to write”
aug 29th 2015
chipped my tooth
a week ago, fuck
my mouth!
Down south
Dentist fucked
My mouth up.
Free, is
Never.
Now I eat
Hot flowers
And tepid fish.
a sexy photo from a forgotten trip Aug. 29th 2015
Dreams of pouting
Brow, curled
In an egg,
Wearing pink ruffled
Panties on the motel
Bed. A photo
Of your nipple
So close up it looks
Like a pool toy. Tight
And blew up. A water
Wing in my mouth.
Whiffffffffffff………
i already have a poem called "moon sex" Aug. 29th 2015
When will I spray
My loins down
With a heavy dose
Of blood?
A moon hose
Pulling me in,
Reeling me by the pubes
Till they “twang!”
Like the strings
Of my heart.
a beautiful moment of work Twitchell hill aug 13th 2015
Through the V of my crotch
A dark candy
Cloud. My head
Boucing on blue-
Berry pillows.
I may get flung
From the truck
If I aint care-
Ful enough, but I don’t.
It’s a farmer wage
And im happy with it. Don’t know
No better.
the thinker in the woods
The tree’s bulbous butt
Perched on the rock by the stream
At the edge of my morning.
30 minutes later some morning
soup sent me into a coughing fit
that brought on tears.
Coughing through the tears
And pain, I was still thinking
Of that humorous tree
and its big thoughtful butt
and the sun split
between a puffy mess in the sky.
I smiled with tears in my eyes,
On my cheeks and walked back
Into the woods. There I found
A goose and its gander,
A very long spouted watering can,
A hatchet,
An oil lamp half full
And a good length of rope.
What a funny tree sits out
By the stream all day and night!
On its big thoughtful butt!
(april 17th 2015, first morning in the cabin)
spring past the bones -waldo me 6:04am april 11th 2015-
Listening to a deep-sea
Ghost. I could not sleep
This morning. Bones floating
To the surface of water.
And outside my cabin
The first robin of spring
Fat looking and jolly
Tick-tocking its head
To the beat of dripping
Snow from the eves.
And the baby coos
As it is
Pulled from death’s
Vaginal depths.
ydal gub
A lady
Bug diving
Board into
My bloody
Drink. Color
Blind but still
I can spot
The little quakes
Ruffling out
To the jar.
Are you drunk?
Little bug,
Are you?
henry miller's bathrooms -march 2015 waldo me-
Why h. miller’s shitter
Inspires me throughout
My life, you’ve got me.
Intercourse of ideas.
A sick man but
His mind runs great
Distances, long jumps,
Shot-putter of shit
christmastown
pine smell of a sleeping elf
in human skins.
slinging trees
two city blocks on my back,
chapped and water no-
where to be seen. dog
shit and sparkling
lights on a needle
and junky bed. the walls
breathe the cul de sac
wind - a dead end-
broke my back
for a few dollars more
and no gritty fame
just a few dollars
and the boss
singing a serenade
to my broken sleep
and pissy pickle jar.
woke up, piss shiver
curling under royal
cashmere over a fresh
bed of balsam
needles and velvet
red ribbons. "i'm leaving
you here alone. watch out
for the angry man or some-
one looking for a needle
of their own." in this house
everything just hangs
and kissable clouds
billow from every orifice.
i piss and fill one party
cup to the rim,
another half full.
shot of love -DEC 11TH-
found a .22 caliber
casing on the floor
when you left. hollow,
you can wet your lips
and press them to the cold
and blow. blow. blow.
whee-eet! whee-eet!
hank was right about
everything im sure
that lone-
some whistle blow...
like the dog
whistle for hearts -
high, soft.
blow. can you hear me blow?
blow. im blowing. blow.
what im up to these days
1- dallas and his ginger
friend swapping spit
on the rocks, little bad falls.
2- wake on an island of brack-
ish waters to shuck
a breakfast oyster.
3- throwing salt over all
shoulders, in every crevasse
and somersaults to boot.
4- watching old TV in my truck.
5- dodging baby porcupines.
6- nude with baby otters
on the flat rocks.
7- spooning strangers on rotten
logs i met on the internet.
8- hundreds of pages read
9- lying
10- thinking of beautiful bodies
11- drugs to make busy
minds and quick sleep
and bloody mary morning.
12- sarah crying in the bar
over bad whiskey, canadian.
13- 8x8 gingerbread house
in the dead forest of brooklyn
14- kimchi stinks on my desk
15- planning my entire life out
and it might be great.
16- also my life could
be a mistake
17-wishing for someone else
18-killing with snapping death
19-mistaking my life
there are other ways of living
more than skin.
more than poetry.
what will it take to get my ratty
body out of bed in the morning?
love is what i dream
and when i wake,
what is left of it?
a life i knew and rejected
for this...lying high
in my creaky loft in new
orleans - the snoring of cow
dogs and diamonds
on the couch, thinking
"oh love, come
soon before i waste"
and still i can't stop
my wasting. for the wasting
away is also the living
hard, the living i love.
how could i have it any other way?
looking for the haystack
the brown backs of beer
boxes tacked up to the wall,
covering the holes in the lath
board to keep those damned dancing rats
out of my bed. the hum of mosquitos
outside the blanket pulled over
forehead while i sweat out last
nights hell. rolling around in the muck
and sting of new orleans till the sun
come up. one month disappears
with the bat of an eye
deep slow climax of morning
is spun around the finger
till you can't recall much
of anything else. and i love it.
and it will kill me.
and i love it so much i might let it.
but not now. death comes late
to those still trying. and im trying
my hardest to figure it out. where is life?
tiny satans
aha! smashing skeeters on richard
hugo's collected works -
living on gifted quilts, reading
a manual on fire protection
in the self built home
-pause-
to kill two more! where are they
getting in?!
smithsonian magazine stuffed
into every crevasse
of my truck bed. tiny satans
flying through plexiglass, steel.
im lonely but not this lonely.
ill sleep you away
just like the rest.
imagination is the most painful friend -montville me aug 6th 2014 - in the back of my truck-
pissing on my side, lying in bed
filling two empty tea bottles
(well, half filling the second)
during an afternoon rainstorm
thinking about my lover, no
ex-lover, having sex with a person
i thought she was sleeping with when we were
together. is just about the worst
feeling. no, i take that back, i feel really, fully
bothered but i feel
very much
alive. the rain may not
ever stop. they might be fucking
as i write, but i feel more
alive and loving it. no
hating it, but very much living it.
hand pump -sunday aug 10th 8am montville me-
one boob! pumping water this morning
while i read... who is this pumping
water from the silver phalic well?
shaking their hairs wildly
and like a single long
piece of wheat alone in a field -
the rest of their body shaking
wildly after them one single
boob dancing
and how this excites! how beautiful!
alone it is!
but not alone - it has its equal
wondrous not-boob
beside it - probably also dancing
a wild shaking. so perfect
together. i wish
everyone one boob.
and one not.
-disappearing your magic, belfast coin op again-
"welcome fall" the aged witch
is worn like a steelie brown
bag in foggy weather.
she can still levitate
brown trees,
pasting their skins
above the dexter computer dryers
and above all this death,
the rules.
rule #8 no boat sails,
items with chains or metal.
i am breaking
number 8. washing my chains.
and will forever
feel the hex. but no longer
do you surprise me
with moths. sad.
you are rinsing your magic
away. poof! do you even know?
wild king
I.
the war is not over, but a battle
is won. at dawn a bloody
explosion between my thumb
and forefinger. an end
to panic dreams of no sleep.
those dreams of repeat
start, monotonous all night
fight with the middle of sleep.
but dawn i kill.
the chorus of waves
applauds the finale...
II.
the sun plays timpani!
as it rides
an escalator
from Italy,
to show my weathered face,
wrapped in woolen
chain-mail. a battle
won. perpetual
fun in this
wild kingdom.
(outer banks sunrise 22nd oct 2013 beach north of hatteras light house)
moon sex
the moon,
the most consistent suitor.
pulling back the sheets
from the dry waist
of the beach, lapping all night
long, heaving
itself atop in rhythmic pulse,
a feverish want.
after sunrise the pulling,
the moaning
at each grain of its body.
for hours until exhausted,
sheepishly, deadly slow,
replaces the sheets
to the beach's navel
and cries
the way we know the moon
cries. the sun
now voyeur, master.
soon the moon
will insist on pulling
the sheets over our heads,
until we all suffocate away
from our rhythmic
love affairs.
(outer banks sunrise 21st oct 2013 below nags head)
bone flotsam
tide wink-
ing, crush-
ing in. nudes
floating in
the bay, arms
outstretched,
eyes closed,
sun on sloping
breast. churn-
ing of under-
current froth-
ing up
sealife
milkshakes.
one day soon, these rocks,
this very rock i sit, will be
the ocean floor.
the ocean, it's mighty
laugh, will tickle
us to death.
(beavertail beach, Rhode Island oct. 2013)
i mistake a young girl for an old man
roundin country road by bicycle,
a red square in sunflower.
i wave, the field waves. the old
man, no wave
from him, the red block. still like
a pillar red, on a yellow wall.
i pedal the lump
of road, pass the silo, coming round
the barn and there!
hop, hopping! rabbit footed out
of sunflowers! a girl
not even sixteen. smiling the day
long. she's running for a closer
look at me! but i at her first!
my feet blur
like hurricane windmills
to her!
her face turns red
as her shirt when she sees
that i've caught her...
well smile
away the rest of the grey
day, you have caught
me fully.
(the border of maryland and pennsylvania oct 2013)
full moon, low tide, black slugs
the girth of blood
sausage, these black slugs
risen from a salty cave
beneath the atlantic highway
waves.
four AM they rise.
some with wooden legs,
others making sex acts
right on
the beach.
this is what the world has shown
me. i take my "goodbye
to the coast" ride through the ghost
of the beach.
a glorious pounding
farewell
from the surf!
trumpets of conch,
castanets of crackling
shells beneath
my exploding body.
yes, i feel i might
explode.
the ocean as womb.
these primordial black slugs
will soon cover the beach
like flies on a sweet carcass
imploding under the health
of the sun.
so i dismount my bicycle
and curl
myself around the neck of a child
one. its slick body includes me.
(sunday morning 4am outer banks below false cape cycle down nc coast. 20th oct. 2013)
if they don't win, it's a shame (my sporting past pays me a ghostly visit)
sneaking into the home team
dugout, my house
in the hamptons. i was
settling, leanin on my bike.
swipe my hand along
the splinter bench,
inspect the dirt,
for chewing gum,
or spit seeds.
a figure dark
against the lone street
lamp. slinked behind
the snack-bar, or maybe where they keep
the bases...
is this my match?
a night sandlot
with hovering black shrouded
ballplayers,
hurling curves
through the darkness to my pine
pitch Louisville...?
the black mass lumbers
towards me, two large bags.
oh, i am in his home.
he is the home team.
root root root
for the home team.
i say, "ill be leaving, didn't know
it was yours"
to his, "it keeps me
dry"
yeah, home is a place to stay
dry.
i slept
in a nearby field,
musta been a practice
field, no dugouts.
i guess i just won't know
if i'm home
or away.
(hampton, new hampshire baseball field)
young potatoes mirrored in old potato faces
old home bums
must look
at others of similar age
and think,
as i do, "what
are these folks doing, carrying
around sacks
of potatoes
with tiny human faces,
rolling push
carts of cute gobblers?
how do they deal
with the pain
of living?" then looking
back at the home bum
and back to me,
i realize, oh. potatoes
with faces,
or potatoes alone.
(belfast maine co-op sept. 2013)
belfast coin-op moth magic
the dentured laundromat
widow. pressing
suits for bygone
suitors. she's coming
at me! with a broom!
i lift my feet. poof, flutter
flutter, a moth!
oh, i see.
she is a witch
producing moths
from her magic
broom! hoo! hoo! look
at her go!
folding towels. she is so sneaky!
does anyone know?
( I order three chicken tacos (soft)).
new york city can make even georgia
o’feeffe phalic in her images. Two erections
are the brooklyn bridge. I smell of wood.
Mitchell says it’s good. Now mix
In christmas plastic, guacamole, hot
sauce, citrus and an empty lonely
feeling that is this darkest of days.
-Christmastown 2016-
a man such as you, elves
in red surrounded by the forest
of their choice, I know a place
where no one cries, not in our castle
in the woods. The death smells
that creep out of the holiday sculptures
pooey green clouds, the garland
of the blood colored bannister
to hell. Elves straddle that slide,
their tiny stinky crotches sliming
the trail to the afterlife party.
Follow the pinecone turd trail.
Follow with no more reason for living.
-to the baby hiding in the womb- nov 23
the baby won’t come
out of the dark dark
womb. It clinches its fists,
furious that it must.
My friends, the parents
are waiting, nervous?
I am waiting to see
what kind of world
it is too. To crawl out.
To come out of the darkness
that is your birth
into the darkness
that is your death,
is not much light.
The living in between
is a golden flash.
But now life is darker
still. Gold with a dim
glimmer. Please baby
come into the glint
and don’t hate us
for it. Hate.
But direct your hate
to the white sheets
of power. Hate baby
hate. Hate baby
hate. Breathe,
concentrate, hate. Hate
those that dim the light
with unending fury
until that hate lights
their sheets on fire.
-day two of darkness- nov 10th
There is no color
in the sunrise this morning.
It brought a death back
to my eyes. This morning
I went to the well to pump
some water. The water didn’t
want to come up to the earth. It froze
somewhere in the darkness. Smart.
There were gunshots nearby in the woods.
Surely they are hunting deer, it is the season.
But, that death sounds like practice.
The death came back to my eyes - I’m afraid
it might hold me somewhere in the darkness.
But I’ve never had the good sense to stay there.
-it is a weak and poor feeling when the dead are right AKA the white sheets of power- nov 9th 2016
It is all over this morning. Finished
the beautiful words. Felt finished
myself but knew I was soon to wake
from the nightmare of the story. Now
I am no longer watching
the clock without hands.
Time is now
moving in every way
and I feel my flesh
crawling along,
hooked and drug
behind the hands.
I hear the words
out loud. But I want to hear
the sigh of death,
the last compress
of the lungs
under the
white sheets of power.
-Pastime- oct 6th 2016 (working for eric on kingdom rd in montville maine)
wapping oak acorns
with the crooked wizard
finger branch. the stick
ball game of cool
weather.
It’s curled
and beckoning tree ovums
to get tossed and thwacked
into the autumn fields
of dewey rays.
Im supposed
to be working, chop-
ping arms of an oak older
than my name
but what kind of weird
being would I be
if I wasn’t stickball-
ing on the clock?
Teddy, a sad magician – sept ’16 chebague island
Wear that shirt of fish
that belonged to your dead
brother. You are so sad
that you want to kill
yourself. But for now,
you don’t. You make jokes
out of nothing. A magician
of hiding the dead,
of burying the pain
with alcohol poured
over your friendliness,
strained through dead leaves
of the island cemetery.
A shirt covered in fish draped
over the astro van hearse.
Driving like a child heaving
bricks back and forth
across the graveyard.
“Watch closely folks!
For I will make myself
disappear! Before
your very eyes!”
And then he was gone.
Jan? train ride to new orleans from nyc penn station
There is a place, it is real,
I swear it. For I have seen
it from the train in Alabama,
Birmingham going forward
to New Orleans. (before the singing
brakeman of meridian)
There is a field of large metal
tubes – pipes for shit? All stacked pyramids,
rusting away. Two fires burning,
smoldering and one lonely watchman
reclining in his lawn chair. Watchman
over the fiery hell
that is southern nowhere.
Belfast coin-op laundry june 2016 (the 3rd visit)
It’s that special time of year,
Laundry day!
Time to shake the mouse
out of the sock,
clip the bat wings
from the sheets
and play slot
machine with
the change dispenser!
$1, $5, $10, $20 BILLS
Ting! Ting! Ting! Winner!
The witch of suds
awaits my coin… BUT!
She is not here!
Oh my!
Eye of newt!
How will anything be
(clean) again!?
July 9th 2016 portland maine
Snow piled up on the bar
stool. Jaw popping goodbyes.
Oh my.
Dear hand,
stay away
from the soft harmonies
you hear in your friend the ear
as you plunk the keys
to your saddest pop.
Oh my lordess,
her lips just ate my lobes.
Let it snow,
let it snow, oh no.
Zero for conduct
Banging out a cheerful song
the little devils in chorus sing
“La la la la! la la la la!”.
Climb aboard this night train
i’ll show you a trick or two!
Play a little tune on my trombone!
A bouquet of flowers pulled from?
Let us light our cigars together
and smoke this dead old man
out the boxcar. “Lets get out!
It’s old tight ass again.”
The dead old man’s alive!
A magician under a nice hat
As the train pulls away…
This dorm we are assigned
is like a hospital. Row after
row and coats so long, standing
guard while we sleep. A ghost
and fairies visit and lead us out
of bed, away from dream
To the dawn.
Penguin time - 11:42pm Friday march 18th 2016
Time has just been
flying by! Like a bird fly-
ing with its wings flap-
ping!
Up and down with feathers,
or science demonstrating the miracle
of flight! If the bird is old enough to fly,
that is. Or it could be a bird
that does not fly.
It could be that
time is a penguin.
Coin-op laundry at 23rd and 6th ave looks like 9/11. gainesville fl March 3rd
Those alive people
soon dead, leaping
into the air to free
fall their last bit of life.
Looks like tumbling laundry.
Is that funny? Strange
to think how similar the two
actions are. Meaninglessness,
in a world where life is not
worth living unless it has meaning.
Jumping to die is not meaning
and cleaning your clothes is not
either? Im willing to say maybe death
is meaning, only if cleaning is also mean-
ing.( But I think the meaning is somewhere
between those things.) Between death
and cleaning is where living is.
Walt Whitman’s Tomb at the Foot of the Bed of Patti and Leonard, Watched Over by Joan
The mouth of your bed, the lace
of your tongue. The mask over
head, and the watcher
above. Tucked in to their robes
on a Wednesday afternoon.
You surprised me in the museum
over a dainty cup of tea that was your fathers.
Your bold horse face and longing eye.
Take this longing, take this waltz
up to chelsea. You both loved it there.
A young poets sheets,
rumpled and flowered.
The bed, it looked like Walt Whitman’s tomb.
A cage to keep out, or to keep in.
A photo pasted of your skin-
(new york muscles, a stronger woman)
Joan of Arc - who hasn’t loved her?
Wanted to love her, to be her friend.
In the fire, who by fire?
The cross will bend. Metal rings
of your dead lover.
The shining mirror.
The ghostly slippers, under your bed.
Your children lie down, on this tomb
and collect the flowers, you’ve written
there: An old tattoo, a star, a cane,
old paint-brushes are stiff
and stained.
Throw them in the river east…
Out the window, feel the breeze.
And hear the bellow so low, so deep.
A breathy whisper, a chelsea queen.
Tombstones of many, the garden green.
Lovers entangle, may one have wings.
How to be, how to stay a we.
This long road, we walk there.
Skip over puddles, seasons in hell.
We can sit quiet, until the end.
Sit down on my tomb, my only friend.
Smooth out my wrinkles,
pull back the shade. This is the nothing,
we used to crave
and now its cresting.
I see the light
but its more like darkness,
hold-on-to-me-give-up
unanswered big questions from the ocean floor - Sat morn 5th dec 2015 (3 mins later)
That last kiss in Brooklyn,
Those last kids lost –
Im thinking of lily
This warm winter morn.
I forgot that this Brooklyn,
That this Brooklyn was the bed
Of our last affair…
Before the digging
Of the atlantic
Grave. To kick
Us down in.
To sink us down.
When we lose
Someone to love,
And we still love them,
Why is it too painful
To see them again?
I have no
Answer down
Here. Sunk
Down, the last word
From the bottom of the sea.
destroying brooklyn Sat morn 5th dec 2015
The weed cloud
Eddies
Against the ginger-
Bread walls
Of my house
When the M-train
Cuts the sky
Like melon slices.
Like putrid melon
That oozes pus
Over this wasted
City. Brooklyn
Is like no other –
But is just another
City now.
Why to we destroy
The best of everything we love?
Christmastown 2015
My golden panties,
Spires down my legs
Uh oh
It’s christmastown
Again. Beer
Spilled on my elf
Clothes. Cold seep-
ing every hole
uh oh
It’s christmastown
Again. such a rancid
Crotch o’ gold.
“getting paid $10 an hr to write” aug 29th 2015
purple tattoo
on his sleeve. Tears
in his eyes.
We took his dog
Cast iron and dumb
Looking. Sold (his favorite
Thing) for $25.
“goodbye old friend”
he said as I packed
him away. I guess
nothing matters at all
to him. (who are these dumb dogs?)
“waiting for skip at his daughter’s house in portland on her bday – getting paid to write”
aug 29th 2015
chipped my tooth
a week ago, fuck
my mouth!
Down south
Dentist fucked
My mouth up.
Free, is
Never.
Now I eat
Hot flowers
And tepid fish.
a sexy photo from a forgotten trip Aug. 29th 2015
Dreams of pouting
Brow, curled
In an egg,
Wearing pink ruffled
Panties on the motel
Bed. A photo
Of your nipple
So close up it looks
Like a pool toy. Tight
And blew up. A water
Wing in my mouth.
Whiffffffffffff………
i already have a poem called "moon sex" Aug. 29th 2015
When will I spray
My loins down
With a heavy dose
Of blood?
A moon hose
Pulling me in,
Reeling me by the pubes
Till they “twang!”
Like the strings
Of my heart.
a beautiful moment of work Twitchell hill aug 13th 2015
Through the V of my crotch
A dark candy
Cloud. My head
Boucing on blue-
Berry pillows.
I may get flung
From the truck
If I aint care-
Ful enough, but I don’t.
It’s a farmer wage
And im happy with it. Don’t know
No better.
the thinker in the woods
The tree’s bulbous butt
Perched on the rock by the stream
At the edge of my morning.
30 minutes later some morning
soup sent me into a coughing fit
that brought on tears.
Coughing through the tears
And pain, I was still thinking
Of that humorous tree
and its big thoughtful butt
and the sun split
between a puffy mess in the sky.
I smiled with tears in my eyes,
On my cheeks and walked back
Into the woods. There I found
A goose and its gander,
A very long spouted watering can,
A hatchet,
An oil lamp half full
And a good length of rope.
What a funny tree sits out
By the stream all day and night!
On its big thoughtful butt!
(april 17th 2015, first morning in the cabin)
spring past the bones -waldo me 6:04am april 11th 2015-
Listening to a deep-sea
Ghost. I could not sleep
This morning. Bones floating
To the surface of water.
And outside my cabin
The first robin of spring
Fat looking and jolly
Tick-tocking its head
To the beat of dripping
Snow from the eves.
And the baby coos
As it is
Pulled from death’s
Vaginal depths.
ydal gub
A lady
Bug diving
Board into
My bloody
Drink. Color
Blind but still
I can spot
The little quakes
Ruffling out
To the jar.
Are you drunk?
Little bug,
Are you?
henry miller's bathrooms -march 2015 waldo me-
Why h. miller’s shitter
Inspires me throughout
My life, you’ve got me.
Intercourse of ideas.
A sick man but
His mind runs great
Distances, long jumps,
Shot-putter of shit
christmastown
pine smell of a sleeping elf
in human skins.
slinging trees
two city blocks on my back,
chapped and water no-
where to be seen. dog
shit and sparkling
lights on a needle
and junky bed. the walls
breathe the cul de sac
wind - a dead end-
broke my back
for a few dollars more
and no gritty fame
just a few dollars
and the boss
singing a serenade
to my broken sleep
and pissy pickle jar.
woke up, piss shiver
curling under royal
cashmere over a fresh
bed of balsam
needles and velvet
red ribbons. "i'm leaving
you here alone. watch out
for the angry man or some-
one looking for a needle
of their own." in this house
everything just hangs
and kissable clouds
billow from every orifice.
i piss and fill one party
cup to the rim,
another half full.
shot of love -DEC 11TH-
found a .22 caliber
casing on the floor
when you left. hollow,
you can wet your lips
and press them to the cold
and blow. blow. blow.
whee-eet! whee-eet!
hank was right about
everything im sure
that lone-
some whistle blow...
like the dog
whistle for hearts -
high, soft.
blow. can you hear me blow?
blow. im blowing. blow.
what im up to these days
1- dallas and his ginger
friend swapping spit
on the rocks, little bad falls.
2- wake on an island of brack-
ish waters to shuck
a breakfast oyster.
3- throwing salt over all
shoulders, in every crevasse
and somersaults to boot.
4- watching old TV in my truck.
5- dodging baby porcupines.
6- nude with baby otters
on the flat rocks.
7- spooning strangers on rotten
logs i met on the internet.
8- hundreds of pages read
9- lying
10- thinking of beautiful bodies
11- drugs to make busy
minds and quick sleep
and bloody mary morning.
12- sarah crying in the bar
over bad whiskey, canadian.
13- 8x8 gingerbread house
in the dead forest of brooklyn
14- kimchi stinks on my desk
15- planning my entire life out
and it might be great.
16- also my life could
be a mistake
17-wishing for someone else
18-killing with snapping death
19-mistaking my life
there are other ways of living
more than skin.
more than poetry.
what will it take to get my ratty
body out of bed in the morning?
love is what i dream
and when i wake,
what is left of it?
a life i knew and rejected
for this...lying high
in my creaky loft in new
orleans - the snoring of cow
dogs and diamonds
on the couch, thinking
"oh love, come
soon before i waste"
and still i can't stop
my wasting. for the wasting
away is also the living
hard, the living i love.
how could i have it any other way?
looking for the haystack
the brown backs of beer
boxes tacked up to the wall,
covering the holes in the lath
board to keep those damned dancing rats
out of my bed. the hum of mosquitos
outside the blanket pulled over
forehead while i sweat out last
nights hell. rolling around in the muck
and sting of new orleans till the sun
come up. one month disappears
with the bat of an eye
deep slow climax of morning
is spun around the finger
till you can't recall much
of anything else. and i love it.
and it will kill me.
and i love it so much i might let it.
but not now. death comes late
to those still trying. and im trying
my hardest to figure it out. where is life?
tiny satans
aha! smashing skeeters on richard
hugo's collected works -
living on gifted quilts, reading
a manual on fire protection
in the self built home
-pause-
to kill two more! where are they
getting in?!
smithsonian magazine stuffed
into every crevasse
of my truck bed. tiny satans
flying through plexiglass, steel.
im lonely but not this lonely.
ill sleep you away
just like the rest.
imagination is the most painful friend -montville me aug 6th 2014 - in the back of my truck-
pissing on my side, lying in bed
filling two empty tea bottles
(well, half filling the second)
during an afternoon rainstorm
thinking about my lover, no
ex-lover, having sex with a person
i thought she was sleeping with when we were
together. is just about the worst
feeling. no, i take that back, i feel really, fully
bothered but i feel
very much
alive. the rain may not
ever stop. they might be fucking
as i write, but i feel more
alive and loving it. no
hating it, but very much living it.
hand pump -sunday aug 10th 8am montville me-
one boob! pumping water this morning
while i read... who is this pumping
water from the silver phalic well?
shaking their hairs wildly
and like a single long
piece of wheat alone in a field -
the rest of their body shaking
wildly after them one single
boob dancing
and how this excites! how beautiful!
alone it is!
but not alone - it has its equal
wondrous not-boob
beside it - probably also dancing
a wild shaking. so perfect
together. i wish
everyone one boob.
and one not.
-disappearing your magic, belfast coin op again-
"welcome fall" the aged witch
is worn like a steelie brown
bag in foggy weather.
she can still levitate
brown trees,
pasting their skins
above the dexter computer dryers
and above all this death,
the rules.
rule #8 no boat sails,
items with chains or metal.
i am breaking
number 8. washing my chains.
and will forever
feel the hex. but no longer
do you surprise me
with moths. sad.
you are rinsing your magic
away. poof! do you even know?
wild king
I.
the war is not over, but a battle
is won. at dawn a bloody
explosion between my thumb
and forefinger. an end
to panic dreams of no sleep.
those dreams of repeat
start, monotonous all night
fight with the middle of sleep.
but dawn i kill.
the chorus of waves
applauds the finale...
II.
the sun plays timpani!
as it rides
an escalator
from Italy,
to show my weathered face,
wrapped in woolen
chain-mail. a battle
won. perpetual
fun in this
wild kingdom.
(outer banks sunrise 22nd oct 2013 beach north of hatteras light house)
moon sex
the moon,
the most consistent suitor.
pulling back the sheets
from the dry waist
of the beach, lapping all night
long, heaving
itself atop in rhythmic pulse,
a feverish want.
after sunrise the pulling,
the moaning
at each grain of its body.
for hours until exhausted,
sheepishly, deadly slow,
replaces the sheets
to the beach's navel
and cries
the way we know the moon
cries. the sun
now voyeur, master.
soon the moon
will insist on pulling
the sheets over our heads,
until we all suffocate away
from our rhythmic
love affairs.
(outer banks sunrise 21st oct 2013 below nags head)
bone flotsam
tide wink-
ing, crush-
ing in. nudes
floating in
the bay, arms
outstretched,
eyes closed,
sun on sloping
breast. churn-
ing of under-
current froth-
ing up
sealife
milkshakes.
one day soon, these rocks,
this very rock i sit, will be
the ocean floor.
the ocean, it's mighty
laugh, will tickle
us to death.
(beavertail beach, Rhode Island oct. 2013)
i mistake a young girl for an old man
roundin country road by bicycle,
a red square in sunflower.
i wave, the field waves. the old
man, no wave
from him, the red block. still like
a pillar red, on a yellow wall.
i pedal the lump
of road, pass the silo, coming round
the barn and there!
hop, hopping! rabbit footed out
of sunflowers! a girl
not even sixteen. smiling the day
long. she's running for a closer
look at me! but i at her first!
my feet blur
like hurricane windmills
to her!
her face turns red
as her shirt when she sees
that i've caught her...
well smile
away the rest of the grey
day, you have caught
me fully.
(the border of maryland and pennsylvania oct 2013)
full moon, low tide, black slugs
the girth of blood
sausage, these black slugs
risen from a salty cave
beneath the atlantic highway
waves.
four AM they rise.
some with wooden legs,
others making sex acts
right on
the beach.
this is what the world has shown
me. i take my "goodbye
to the coast" ride through the ghost
of the beach.
a glorious pounding
farewell
from the surf!
trumpets of conch,
castanets of crackling
shells beneath
my exploding body.
yes, i feel i might
explode.
the ocean as womb.
these primordial black slugs
will soon cover the beach
like flies on a sweet carcass
imploding under the health
of the sun.
so i dismount my bicycle
and curl
myself around the neck of a child
one. its slick body includes me.
(sunday morning 4am outer banks below false cape cycle down nc coast. 20th oct. 2013)
if they don't win, it's a shame (my sporting past pays me a ghostly visit)
sneaking into the home team
dugout, my house
in the hamptons. i was
settling, leanin on my bike.
swipe my hand along
the splinter bench,
inspect the dirt,
for chewing gum,
or spit seeds.
a figure dark
against the lone street
lamp. slinked behind
the snack-bar, or maybe where they keep
the bases...
is this my match?
a night sandlot
with hovering black shrouded
ballplayers,
hurling curves
through the darkness to my pine
pitch Louisville...?
the black mass lumbers
towards me, two large bags.
oh, i am in his home.
he is the home team.
root root root
for the home team.
i say, "ill be leaving, didn't know
it was yours"
to his, "it keeps me
dry"
yeah, home is a place to stay
dry.
i slept
in a nearby field,
musta been a practice
field, no dugouts.
i guess i just won't know
if i'm home
or away.
(hampton, new hampshire baseball field)
young potatoes mirrored in old potato faces
old home bums
must look
at others of similar age
and think,
as i do, "what
are these folks doing, carrying
around sacks
of potatoes
with tiny human faces,
rolling push
carts of cute gobblers?
how do they deal
with the pain
of living?" then looking
back at the home bum
and back to me,
i realize, oh. potatoes
with faces,
or potatoes alone.
(belfast maine co-op sept. 2013)
belfast coin-op moth magic
the dentured laundromat
widow. pressing
suits for bygone
suitors. she's coming
at me! with a broom!
i lift my feet. poof, flutter
flutter, a moth!
oh, i see.
she is a witch
producing moths
from her magic
broom! hoo! hoo! look
at her go!
folding towels. she is so sneaky!
does anyone know?
bike tour to fool nice animals
almost tricked a horse
my blue sky
japanese steed, a cornucopia
of hobo jewels,
glittering in his pond.
looks up from munch-
ing his greeny
hills. never raised
eyes to the speeding
cars of labor
day weekend. garbage
all of them.
but this!
strange wheeling horse!
oh no. it is only a machine.
neigh, oh death,
neigh.
(the coast of maine between portland and belfast sept. 2013)
almost tricked a horse
my blue sky
japanese steed, a cornucopia
of hobo jewels,
glittering in his pond.
looks up from munch-
ing his greeny
hills. never raised
eyes to the speeding
cars of labor
day weekend. garbage
all of them.
but this!
strange wheeling horse!
oh no. it is only a machine.
neigh, oh death,
neigh.
(the coast of maine between portland and belfast sept. 2013)
again, at the new orleans art museum
feeling sexual in a glass
house flying above the bayou.
it's all these nudes,
everyone makes nude
art. i paint dogs
in the nude. swans
of the swamp, nude too.
having serious
crisis days, oh god
what have i done?
one more trip to the art
museum. to the store.
to the bar. to the cemetery,
past the school.
over again
and again, im just embarrassed
to find the purpose
of living. everyone still
alive is.
purpose of living,
a bad joke. or something.
a cave in idaho
the parted lips
of an old groan-
ing felled beast.
chilled by fire so hot
it'll freeze you bone-
deep, leave you croak-
ing on its night glass
cheekbones. if i crawl in,
i may never get much
further than the back
of your tongue
because i'm scared
to death
of death.
of that darkness, dew
that wets your face
til you feel like drowning.
been wronged
i am a wrathful god. god
i am an asshole. with thunderous
weather i assassin the peoples
i meet. none spared. none
as wicked as this lonely god.
hitching a ride from dillwyn, va to richmond, va
rode with a man, dead.
free thumbed
ride into richmond.
virgina, where
you gotta kick rocks
or the cops
get down on you. 20 miles
on foot til
the dead man seen me walkin.
he got miles
of scars where his body used
to be. he been
twelve-hundred
feet in the air,
then near six
feet below. a nice
easy ride
from a drug stiff.
little squeaking roommates of 914 jourdan, new orleans
the mice nestled, snug behind the wall,
talking tiny voices to each other
but i can still hear them.
there are so many it is hard
to sleep. worse when they dance
in the kitchen. in every pot,
every pan, picking between
their toes with every fork
then exhausted, fall
into sighing sleep
in the soup ladle.
how to win friends
the excited pulse pounded in sex
voices before the group disrobes.
friends are now schooled in flesh
of those who were close but closer
now. friends that have massaged
the insides of their friends,
felt around in their guts, brains.
first remarkable sight in allamuchy, new jersey
blackbirds like inverted
maggots flung
from giant varicose veins.
flying away
from the abandoned chapel.
not even singing
maggots want to hang
around new jersey
for long.
nip at the fermented
berries and be
flung to corners
of arteries unknown. a wild
game of avian checkers.
the birdie maggots
caw caw and swoop
in for the win.
three dog poems
I. cold dogs, hot wants
one glove awol, i'm bundled
winter wear with all my clothes,
lower 9th ward again. one year ago
i was awaiting someone to love
and here i am still waiting
for anyone to care. oh boo
hoo. i am still here. awaiting,
what exactly? forgiveness
and hot romance. ive got
growling dogs and frozen hands.
II. settle for dogs
blubber lipped
dogs kissing
on my bed
in the sheath
of poverty
and its dark-
ness. i'm green
envy. wishing
for fur
on this chill
night and one
or two good
dogs to lick.
III. dog jokes
suffering from the most
delightful fear. fear of believing
myself to be alone. alone
with two dogs. and while making faces,
faces of human-to-dog joking faces,
someone walks into the room from behind.
the person is aware of me, my furry friends
and of our peculiar business. they say,
"what is it that you find so funny?"
swimming in bed
on entering a room, not ours
but one we shared, i see
you star-fished
on your belly. your face
to the left, legs dangling
off the right side of the bed.
i looked up from you sprawled
there, buck naked, to the window.
revealing the sun.
sunlight on a brick wall.
i looked back to you lying motion-
less, stranded in the tide.
duvet and sheets frozen
in waves around you.
i said,
"what are you doing?"
(while laughing through some anger)
you said,
"i don't know really."
the wave unfroze and the tide
came in and out until we swam
out of bed. but i suppose
we both might have drowned.
twilight stroll to the cemetery
shuffling through tombstones
"excuse me, excuse me, pardon me"
incessantly but silent.
i realize i must always
say this or never again.
for tombs are everywhere.
for now i am still alive.
walking on the dead, balancing
on what they've laid before me.
onesies bounce
fabulous cheek
hang out, flop,
pull it, drop it.
booty pop. sat sat
saturday. i put a hard
one on a glitter-
suit. i say trashy
to big grins.
ass like curtains
and i'm pulling
the shades.
like clover
a holy sign is a perfect flip
on the first small couch
of a tryst. trysters twitch
and then we're face to face.
a flick of the loin, big spoon,
little spoon. the dead arm
between, a limp fish, or slip
it somewhere magic to make pins,
needles. needles and pins uh,
over and over like crimson.
jan. 1st 12:01 am 2013
jailbait hung out the limo, it's new
years in new orleans, it's a war
zone and we're winning. the popo
cower in the cruisers as the rockets
fly under their wheels, making cops
beautiful for the only time ever,
on technicolor bonfire. the two story
bikes and the coked up spindles
up top waggling their legs to go.
the crying, the wailing, the slobbery.
it's a war and the first of accidental
grace. so fast it cuts to slow-motion
so play that fiddle and i'll recline
to watch the world stop from a crumby
foldout couch in no-mans land.
getting to know you
blood river trickle
over my elvis pucker
lip. sponged by stranger
pillowcases. an "M"
appears in my palm
but i swipe it gone
cause i'm afraid
of absolutely everything.
everything except you
in the late night,
early morning drunk,
telling dark skinnys
to each other. queerer
sights have been seen,
but i'd like to see
this get real close.
but close,
i'm afraid, i'm also
afraid of that too.
i warned you at least
you fear crushing
emotions under
my fist, well i do
too. why do you think
we cling like moss,
growing slowly,
beyond microscopes
view. under blankets
of hurt feelings
and strange needs,
you can see small
parts of us crawl-
ing into each other.
symbiotic for now
but i can never
really keep going.
one of these days
we will stop hold-
ing so strong.
then nothing
but a fist.
Sleep-end
every night is a torture.
to discover the same sleep
happens at the end
of every day. and then to wake,
pretend that tonight
something will change
only to find yourself falling
asleep again in some strange
room. dreams lie
there waiting for your eye-
lids to drop like a palm
around a phosphorus orb.
body of fame
it's a famous man
sitting on my couch.
it's me.
and my fame
is actually my body
surrounding my guts.
fame is
knowing exactly
how you feel
in this world.
in this horror
film of life.
my body seising
around the audience
of my mushy entrails.
going ghost
i was
the kid that talked
with his dead friends,
and some ghosts i only just met.
i became sick with fear
and everything went from
me. and the remains
were the devil.
and that is me now.
silenced voices
living inside the kid
and the kid becoming
his own ghost.
the kid that talked
with his dead friends,
and some ghosts i only just met.
i became sick with fear
and everything went from
me. and the remains
were the devil.
and that is me now.
silenced voices
living inside the kid
and the kid becoming
his own ghost.
one morning in brooklyn
you spit my children
into a pot. the plant under
watered. it was a warm
spring in brooklyn.
that was our last. some must
have been left on your tongue,
your lips, your teeth.
my never children.
what does it taste like?
you may already
be forgetting
my never child across the sea.
the last, swallowed
into your stomach, resting
next to chinese food.
into a pot. the plant under
watered. it was a warm
spring in brooklyn.
that was our last. some must
have been left on your tongue,
your lips, your teeth.
my never children.
what does it taste like?
you may already
be forgetting
my never child across the sea.
the last, swallowed
into your stomach, resting
next to chinese food.
when love won't die
for our third year apart
i hastily cut my throat.
the bleeding was short,
i cut my hair
and walked away
from the mirror
feeling much better.
i felt like a leech
on a heart
i hastily cut my throat.
the bleeding was short,
i cut my hair
and walked away
from the mirror
feeling much better.
i felt like a leech
on a heart
always ends
i've bitten many fist
departing window
filtered sun on puffy
aureoles, a blonde halo
of soft spires, rising
falling with my almost
touch of pouted lips.
its over now
sweetheart. no more
mornings that are after-
noons.
now pierced drums
pound out odd familiarities,
songs i've known
and hated.
mail i cannot send,
refuse to swallow.
it's hard
to understand. always
warm and ready to take
off. life is fucking
great. a real high leg
kicker. until the evening
your mother dies.
you send for your only
black tie. no amount
of head holding will
reduce the pressure
on yer gullet.
asleep standing
and all the porcelain
figurines grandmother
passed out
go crashing
through the lacy blankets
they faded on. shards
of piglet tails, snouts
pink strewn. across
the funeral parlor.
then fighting nude.
to escape the dead
woman's stench, you
must empty the house
and cause a fire.
a world of filth
turned into the weather
of the down wind
village.
departing window
filtered sun on puffy
aureoles, a blonde halo
of soft spires, rising
falling with my almost
touch of pouted lips.
its over now
sweetheart. no more
mornings that are after-
noons.
now pierced drums
pound out odd familiarities,
songs i've known
and hated.
mail i cannot send,
refuse to swallow.
it's hard
to understand. always
warm and ready to take
off. life is fucking
great. a real high leg
kicker. until the evening
your mother dies.
you send for your only
black tie. no amount
of head holding will
reduce the pressure
on yer gullet.
asleep standing
and all the porcelain
figurines grandmother
passed out
go crashing
through the lacy blankets
they faded on. shards
of piglet tails, snouts
pink strewn. across
the funeral parlor.
then fighting nude.
to escape the dead
woman's stench, you
must empty the house
and cause a fire.
a world of filth
turned into the weather
of the down wind
village.
i think i lost something
something worth
living for
is hidden for-
ever. a terrible sick-
ness all children someday
catch. and never
lose. pox invisible,
all their friends future
and present, afflicted.
to live for.
this disease misdiagnosed
throws at the child
teenage fits, floppy,
slobber and foam rabies.
which burns through
fever, all ghost sightings,
vanish! those permissions
of youthful phosphorescence.
that light that sings
opera under water,
it disappears.
no doctor can make
house calls. only will
prescribe quiet and more
quiet.
until you hear
the sound of nothing
at all. nothing.
living for
is hidden for-
ever. a terrible sick-
ness all children someday
catch. and never
lose. pox invisible,
all their friends future
and present, afflicted.
to live for.
this disease misdiagnosed
throws at the child
teenage fits, floppy,
slobber and foam rabies.
which burns through
fever, all ghost sightings,
vanish! those permissions
of youthful phosphorescence.
that light that sings
opera under water,
it disappears.
no doctor can make
house calls. only will
prescribe quiet and more
quiet.
until you hear
the sound of nothing
at all. nothing.
mexican independence
dear put outer, or sometimes
sunshine babe,
-i make you secret-
from rooftops i danced
in high mexico, perhaps
i kissed a girl
there by the hamburger
stand. she was so
hungry. searching
for that twin, that repeat gaze.
sun after sun. an accomplice
for my unbearable
appetite. eat, eat. my dark
hand on yer strong spot.
again i accompany her
to the hamburger stand.
she swings me
in the streets. independence
day fireworks. pistols
firecrackers daylight?
like singing in the rain
she's swinging me
through mexico.
we kissed, no?
these bullets shot
through all of my guts.
wake head to toe
in blood. good blood
keeps you alive. it runs
down yer leg from the strongest place.
sunshine babe,
-i make you secret-
from rooftops i danced
in high mexico, perhaps
i kissed a girl
there by the hamburger
stand. she was so
hungry. searching
for that twin, that repeat gaze.
sun after sun. an accomplice
for my unbearable
appetite. eat, eat. my dark
hand on yer strong spot.
again i accompany her
to the hamburger stand.
she swings me
in the streets. independence
day fireworks. pistols
firecrackers daylight?
like singing in the rain
she's swinging me
through mexico.
we kissed, no?
these bullets shot
through all of my guts.
wake head to toe
in blood. good blood
keeps you alive. it runs
down yer leg from the strongest place.
the winding up of gears
legions of young ghosts,
anonymous inventors
in dawn glitters.
leaning on cultural
memories.
wishing they could pray.
pray they could live. live past
the falls. a shroud of poets past
and future. hustlers and gods flippin'
coins around. mouth sharkin',
"get you a small handful
of simple failures, real cheap!
come on now!"
with that fistful, the young,
now fearless, paid in full,
wave gold leaf pinwheels.
anonymous inventors
in dawn glitters.
leaning on cultural
memories.
wishing they could pray.
pray they could live. live past
the falls. a shroud of poets past
and future. hustlers and gods flippin'
coins around. mouth sharkin',
"get you a small handful
of simple failures, real cheap!
come on now!"
with that fistful, the young,
now fearless, paid in full,
wave gold leaf pinwheels.
i've been painting
everyone talks.
i can feel it.
it's sorta heavy,
like even a flower can be
heavy, some weight.
this weight is an art.
and we must not attack
the existence of art. no
way.
i can feel it.
it's sorta heavy,
like even a flower can be
heavy, some weight.
this weight is an art.
and we must not attack
the existence of art. no
way.
my shortwave radio speech
this is the rev speakin. whatever's in yer heart,
it will be exhaled today. an' begin
to wonder. traveling on the back of the glass
cat, you, we, will along the Banks of the World
line up and demand to, "not be counted." to be
"seen and held," that is our demand.
touch my hand you rotten suit. put yer hairy tongue
in my soup kitchen. give me yer sad child.
give me yer sad.
under fireworks of sadness, give it to me.
in postcards of abortions, give it to me.
in waking from ex-lover dreams, give it to me.
death is the ender. give yers to me.
it will be exhaled today. an' begin
to wonder. traveling on the back of the glass
cat, you, we, will along the Banks of the World
line up and demand to, "not be counted." to be
"seen and held," that is our demand.
touch my hand you rotten suit. put yer hairy tongue
in my soup kitchen. give me yer sad child.
give me yer sad.
under fireworks of sadness, give it to me.
in postcards of abortions, give it to me.
in waking from ex-lover dreams, give it to me.
death is the ender. give yers to me.
a great singer
yer a dream-
ing. now in this dream
yer alone, lonely.
you might be a tree.
one wood nickel.
you might be a crowd.
then, yer mouth like syrup
dripped on an empty white
plate, til the mahogany stick
fills to the brim, yer mouth opens.
opens at this sunrise drip.
and the sound suspends
waltzing round. lifting even
coyote dirt to a wind promenade.
to write the oceans words.
the fire's last song.
all that, and yer
not even asleep.
oh sweet dreams awake.
ing. now in this dream
yer alone, lonely.
you might be a tree.
one wood nickel.
you might be a crowd.
then, yer mouth like syrup
dripped on an empty white
plate, til the mahogany stick
fills to the brim, yer mouth opens.
opens at this sunrise drip.
and the sound suspends
waltzing round. lifting even
coyote dirt to a wind promenade.
to write the oceans words.
the fire's last song.
all that, and yer
not even asleep.
oh sweet dreams awake.
death in the park, comfort with satan
six bullets ring
i'm pavement face
but that poor kid
he's dead. not poetry.
what can we take?
clothes cop, take life.
i'm only glad to have new
hands to hold. to wave "so long!"
to. knowing i'll see them soon
somewhere. sleeping free,
smiling, tugging each other
to wake and read aloud, you my
friend, give me a home feeling.
"sweet dreams" in czech, "mademoiselle",
that's french. and my fingers comb yer mane.
you fetal in the morning with satan.
i'm pavement face
but that poor kid
he's dead. not poetry.
what can we take?
clothes cop, take life.
i'm only glad to have new
hands to hold. to wave "so long!"
to. knowing i'll see them soon
somewhere. sleeping free,
smiling, tugging each other
to wake and read aloud, you my
friend, give me a home feeling.
"sweet dreams" in czech, "mademoiselle",
that's french. and my fingers comb yer mane.
you fetal in the morning with satan.
claire banjos on saturday night
night light banjo. "plink! " flicker
the heat crying candles. all the stiff
fingers growing short, as the song
"plink plonks" along. a measure
of different minutes, southern
blackout time. nearer the horse
head, trusted by the rings of saturn.
the heat crying candles. all the stiff
fingers growing short, as the song
"plink plonks" along. a measure
of different minutes, southern
blackout time. nearer the horse
head, trusted by the rings of saturn.
9th ward moat
many days i'm cut
off. a canal between
my abandoned home
sweet home an' the world.
and night under red
beans and illuminati,
kids bombin scrawl
and this concrete bird
bobbing its ancient
head up to salute
whatever moon exists
and "ring ding a ding"
flashes red. i'm happy,
hoping i don't get mugged
waiting for the road
to exist in front of me again.
off. a canal between
my abandoned home
sweet home an' the world.
and night under red
beans and illuminati,
kids bombin scrawl
and this concrete bird
bobbing its ancient
head up to salute
whatever moon exists
and "ring ding a ding"
flashes red. i'm happy,
hoping i don't get mugged
waiting for the road
to exist in front of me again.
cat lunch my breakfast
cat shadow's not
black but old tooth
grey bone colored
and growling taller
as it pats away
from velcro licked
sardine can, leftover
from my breakfast.
black but old tooth
grey bone colored
and growling taller
as it pats away
from velcro licked
sardine can, leftover
from my breakfast.
sorry eastern europe
shithead tent kicker, i brought the west,
yes. this silver dome is west. but see!
im sleeping here, late, cause i have
it in my blood. i'll hook a worm for yer rod,
cast it off deep. im sorry. i am the west.
so laugh and kick my tent, i know its all
the relations we can stand. maybe one day
i will laugh and kick yer tent along my fishing
banks. maybe the west will not be. and we
can laugh together. fishing and kicking
in the tents of others, laughing cause
there is no reason. no west. no east.
just tents some places, fish on every line.
yes. this silver dome is west. but see!
im sleeping here, late, cause i have
it in my blood. i'll hook a worm for yer rod,
cast it off deep. im sorry. i am the west.
so laugh and kick my tent, i know its all
the relations we can stand. maybe one day
i will laugh and kick yer tent along my fishing
banks. maybe the west will not be. and we
can laugh together. fishing and kicking
in the tents of others, laughing cause
there is no reason. no west. no east.
just tents some places, fish on every line.
black sea veins
whoa thurm! whaa thurm!
even and steady inland on the danube
delta slow boat, seven am. dodging
the ticket man, shrugg shoulders
at his call for tickets! tickets!
cause we don't know no better,
we don't know no romanian cept
thank you, yeah, no. move along
soon, south. bulgaria. inching
through lands, growing fear
of the truth, to answer "where are
you from?" um, forget those screaming
missles that missed. forget those that didn't.
camping. no. tenderfooted to land mines.
fear grows wants, a home. i have none.
and nowhere feels safe. well only in dreamy
thoughts. those cut into by the acid of rain
or the ticket man finding you out. when will
my feet be safe to step
my song loud and welcome?
even and steady inland on the danube
delta slow boat, seven am. dodging
the ticket man, shrugg shoulders
at his call for tickets! tickets!
cause we don't know no better,
we don't know no romanian cept
thank you, yeah, no. move along
soon, south. bulgaria. inching
through lands, growing fear
of the truth, to answer "where are
you from?" um, forget those screaming
missles that missed. forget those that didn't.
camping. no. tenderfooted to land mines.
fear grows wants, a home. i have none.
and nowhere feels safe. well only in dreamy
thoughts. those cut into by the acid of rain
or the ticket man finding you out. when will
my feet be safe to step
my song loud and welcome?
roma kind
the pickers of romanian
watermelons know well, bone
and marrow, the hot sun.
one motherly, come to stare,
to smile and wave and oh!
comes to us sweltering roadside
with watermelon crowns. half one
each. hesitant like giftless children,
then sticky water lines running down
my goozle and stone seeds popping
out through my grinning puckered lips.
walking later a man from a tour bus
gawks and laughs, "a crown! a crown
for yer poor little heads!"
watermelons know well, bone
and marrow, the hot sun.
one motherly, come to stare,
to smile and wave and oh!
comes to us sweltering roadside
with watermelon crowns. half one
each. hesitant like giftless children,
then sticky water lines running down
my goozle and stone seeds popping
out through my grinning puckered lips.
walking later a man from a tour bus
gawks and laughs, "a crown! a crown
for yer poor little heads!"
where the youth are
chat through communist teeth,
how well the beard is trimmed
with age coming on. hiding bananas
behind church organs, young east-
sider berliner with his ear to the wall,
static stones for boys, pop beatles, paul
for some, others creep along the wall
for john, in come up punks holding
church for hip ones, long hairs alike.
some went east, some went west,
it came down karl, it came down.
holding too many eggs over treacherous
barricades, some fall that way, some
the other. that can be called music.
how well the beard is trimmed
with age coming on. hiding bananas
behind church organs, young east-
sider berliner with his ear to the wall,
static stones for boys, pop beatles, paul
for some, others creep along the wall
for john, in come up punks holding
church for hip ones, long hairs alike.
some went east, some went west,
it came down karl, it came down.
holding too many eggs over treacherous
barricades, some fall that way, some
the other. that can be called music.
rotterdam is hell
on arrival 20 slugs down and family woes.
sad faces covered in snot. snotty nosed
high players grumbling on sparkled pave,
no it is not the sky, we do not get it. we don't
hardly even try. fools on banks of canals
of the world indeed. yes, we are but can you
argue with such dumb sad joy?
sad faces covered in snot. snotty nosed
high players grumbling on sparkled pave,
no it is not the sky, we do not get it. we don't
hardly even try. fools on banks of canals
of the world indeed. yes, we are but can you
argue with such dumb sad joy?
old vic actor
stood by a ghost
no, walked be-
hind him from
the old vic theatre.
mallet to the skull
three times. he looked
like a nice man, an old
dead actor.
no, walked be-
hind him from
the old vic theatre.
mallet to the skull
three times. he looked
like a nice man, an old
dead actor.
for marija & her friend
the sky surprising
in messy fruits
churned across frothy
horizons ever-coming.
to wince a smile and count each blessed loved one
with each receding growth of my chest like ships
turning into phantoms curtained by see-saw waves.
i have no rational fear of death this morning but still
here i sit bleary eyed wondering on it. euphoric weightlessness
to relieve lead in the heart? i heard while rolling myself
to sleep, sounds of climax which made me giggle and curious.
but it was not joy. slow like sunsets at the end of the world,
i realized it was hopeless sobs. a friend through the wall
had lost a lover to the breathy wind and ecstacy of death.
through the wailing tongue i heard no sounds of peace.
fishhooks in eyelids pulling blood from the salty
sockets amid the deafening shrieks from bodies
completely shredded, each flailing appendage
falling boneless to smolder amongst firey carcasses.
morning is now here though. the cross-walk lights blink
outside my window of crystal flaked leaves twisting in eagerness
of the coming day. so i think again of death. of it's sense of time
and i don't worry. i go back to counting. counting loved ones
with each breath. it fills my head til it's heavy. too heavy.
so, i lie it down
in messy fruits
churned across frothy
horizons ever-coming.
to wince a smile and count each blessed loved one
with each receding growth of my chest like ships
turning into phantoms curtained by see-saw waves.
i have no rational fear of death this morning but still
here i sit bleary eyed wondering on it. euphoric weightlessness
to relieve lead in the heart? i heard while rolling myself
to sleep, sounds of climax which made me giggle and curious.
but it was not joy. slow like sunsets at the end of the world,
i realized it was hopeless sobs. a friend through the wall
had lost a lover to the breathy wind and ecstacy of death.
through the wailing tongue i heard no sounds of peace.
fishhooks in eyelids pulling blood from the salty
sockets amid the deafening shrieks from bodies
completely shredded, each flailing appendage
falling boneless to smolder amongst firey carcasses.
morning is now here though. the cross-walk lights blink
outside my window of crystal flaked leaves twisting in eagerness
of the coming day. so i think again of death. of it's sense of time
and i don't worry. i go back to counting. counting loved ones
with each breath. it fills my head til it's heavy. too heavy.
so, i lie it down
at a party later in the evening, derick remembers something else i said
when derick & i wake up in nyc, he remembers something i said at a party
you go to a party. someone has worn
the same outfit. this embaressment hurts
no one here, this party is outrageous!
derick says i then said "i get in a way
and i cannot get out of the way." how
very true this is. redfaced? not this party!
the same outfit. this embaressment hurts
no one here, this party is outrageous!
derick says i then said "i get in a way
and i cannot get out of the way." how
very true this is. redfaced? not this party!
young pray
knee dropping prays at the moment of life.
fighting with teenage prayers - teenage
prays of flying no flags, of free dances,
of no need to sleep!
it is always this dance of fire, smiles
flashing the morning on itchy old rugs,
ah! the rasberry from this teenage lust.
fighting with teenage prayers - teenage
prays of flying no flags, of free dances,
of no need to sleep!
it is always this dance of fire, smiles
flashing the morning on itchy old rugs,
ah! the rasberry from this teenage lust.
philly to new york, $8
the flyin' train!
punched tin cars
below the river.
"make way for parking"
bye, bye birdie,
no home here. sun mirrors
of snow, tree shadowed pools,
midnight toast, no named men's
brigade, trans moans - bella!
always a swift exit
to endless graces!
punched tin cars
below the river.
"make way for parking"
bye, bye birdie,
no home here. sun mirrors
of snow, tree shadowed pools,
midnight toast, no named men's
brigade, trans moans - bella!
always a swift exit
to endless graces!
rise up
sun salute faking, i crack
up my vertebrae "click click"
my eyes flop up to plucked palm
tops weaving the minimal clouds.
up boppin and "ah man!" til dawn.
"oh man! what childs hidden cigar
box treasure is found!" and now here
topless, i gaze to the bay, beyond heroic
battles being fought, free of armor, flagless
saints picking miracles up, tossing
them smoking back to the hands
of the winged devils. we soon will lie
in fields of divine future.
up my vertebrae "click click"
my eyes flop up to plucked palm
tops weaving the minimal clouds.
up boppin and "ah man!" til dawn.
"oh man! what childs hidden cigar
box treasure is found!" and now here
topless, i gaze to the bay, beyond heroic
battles being fought, free of armor, flagless
saints picking miracles up, tossing
them smoking back to the hands
of the winged devils. we soon will lie
in fields of divine future.
will love be this way again?
fly away stung jesus, the fish-
net slung boobs of puerto rico
are the divine wins to my visions.
ten thousand miniature histories,
all with the same "here's you" expression.
will love be this way again and again?
colorful cities, priests praying
to a smart camel, the small fishermen
dance, hand coral reaches high to finger
the whipping flags of winter, rabbit men
drag airplanes through cool sand, a barber
cuts entire generation's hairdos at once, blankets
are hidden mirrors, the prickly llama yelps aloud
in the dead day joy, lousy pickpockets turning
thier cloth out, the police bicycle is a loud radio,
shepards cane the ground to milk the boob, fruit
lady raises a brow kerchief to mouth as the funeral
march wails, "bring us more ham! more newspapers!"
the fiddle whistles, the steam engine passes a goose
that "honks", baskets of wooden tops spin to the trot
of the bread loaf on the floor, the swinging trapeze wining
the spools of thread yellow, suprised nude lovers hear
a cockfight in the street, the twenty heads of the gate
keeper clacking its fourty hooves together.
white blooming my eyes wider now, yes!
this must be love! entire families of dogs
nuzzle me awake in a field of brass excitement!
with low hung clothes we dance! dance when fish
smile and this miniature world is graspable.
this love will be flowery.
this love is a coyote racing
across the sky with a tail of fire!
net slung boobs of puerto rico
are the divine wins to my visions.
ten thousand miniature histories,
all with the same "here's you" expression.
will love be this way again and again?
colorful cities, priests praying
to a smart camel, the small fishermen
dance, hand coral reaches high to finger
the whipping flags of winter, rabbit men
drag airplanes through cool sand, a barber
cuts entire generation's hairdos at once, blankets
are hidden mirrors, the prickly llama yelps aloud
in the dead day joy, lousy pickpockets turning
thier cloth out, the police bicycle is a loud radio,
shepards cane the ground to milk the boob, fruit
lady raises a brow kerchief to mouth as the funeral
march wails, "bring us more ham! more newspapers!"
the fiddle whistles, the steam engine passes a goose
that "honks", baskets of wooden tops spin to the trot
of the bread loaf on the floor, the swinging trapeze wining
the spools of thread yellow, suprised nude lovers hear
a cockfight in the street, the twenty heads of the gate
keeper clacking its fourty hooves together.
white blooming my eyes wider now, yes!
this must be love! entire families of dogs
nuzzle me awake in a field of brass excitement!
with low hung clothes we dance! dance when fish
smile and this miniature world is graspable.
this love will be flowery.
this love is a coyote racing
across the sky with a tail of fire!
weather with donkey
ass like a vulture
shadow tower above
our weaving van. "what
say you hee haw?" "i fancy
rain storms. firm handshaker
lives up the hill says watch
for water soon. ants and hoppers
know its coming too. desert
storms keep the dust outta my mane
and cools my itchy hide" " ya ya, as i
stand atop this sage brush, in my wrists
i feel the rain is coming soon"
shadow tower above
our weaving van. "what
say you hee haw?" "i fancy
rain storms. firm handshaker
lives up the hill says watch
for water soon. ants and hoppers
know its coming too. desert
storms keep the dust outta my mane
and cools my itchy hide" " ya ya, as i
stand atop this sage brush, in my wrists
i feel the rain is coming soon"
dogs and ruins of new mexico
penny schnapps tossed like bread crumbs
reveal the path home. penasco new
mexico cold sawdust air spread thin.
littered too are bottle caps flat under
tread, chalk stones flung into lizard skatter
brush. keepers of this high town, the dogs
are blotched tree looking yelpers howl howling,
noses dry, slipping under ancient fences.
reveal the path home. penasco new
mexico cold sawdust air spread thin.
littered too are bottle caps flat under
tread, chalk stones flung into lizard skatter
brush. keepers of this high town, the dogs
are blotched tree looking yelpers howl howling,
noses dry, slipping under ancient fences.
texas land
miles tread til lubbock, lead
hammers of past recollectionplunge
the amber prickly pancake land
and sky. texas shaped windmills
pointing us along boiling yolks of high-
ways with rising tan clouds, tributaries
to the vanishing west. churn-churning
spicy butter of evening light, spinning rings
around haloed winter silos and drums tower
above the desolate twigs and strung lines
hung for the laundering of open eyes.
hammers of past recollectionplunge
the amber prickly pancake land
and sky. texas shaped windmills
pointing us along boiling yolks of high-
ways with rising tan clouds, tributaries
to the vanishing west. churn-churning
spicy butter of evening light, spinning rings
around haloed winter silos and drums tower
above the desolate twigs and strung lines
hung for the laundering of open eyes.
closed on sunday morning
joy is salt
shaker snow
on me and hobos
hopping around,
waiting on warm doors
shaker snow
on me and hobos
hopping around,
waiting on warm doors
the library by our old house
you will never finger
the pressed flowers
i hid in audubon's
blue footed pages.
the pressed flowers
i hid in audubon's
blue footed pages.
waiting for peace
hell, i wonder, do you have such a hard time fergeting me as i do you?
i'll be anywhere, from prickly desert hilltop, outskirts Shangri La,
coyote pups 'whup whooing' the moon - middle amerika high mountain
thin air clumpy clouded teary nights, sleeping on the roof of a car - shiverin'
in the dome of a cathedral in london, 4 am swaddled in furs and the daily news
still sparkling - lying hot on pissy beaches of france in champange headlumps.
there you are in everything - with the damned stars and rattlesnakes
i wear you in charms, pressing the sting to hide my crying from waitresses.
i'm holding doors for you, waiting to embrace the blessings of this weight lifted
i'll be anywhere, from prickly desert hilltop, outskirts Shangri La,
coyote pups 'whup whooing' the moon - middle amerika high mountain
thin air clumpy clouded teary nights, sleeping on the roof of a car - shiverin'
in the dome of a cathedral in london, 4 am swaddled in furs and the daily news
still sparkling - lying hot on pissy beaches of france in champange headlumps.
there you are in everything - with the damned stars and rattlesnakes
i wear you in charms, pressing the sting to hide my crying from waitresses.
i'm holding doors for you, waiting to embrace the blessings of this weight lifted
fooling who?
stoney fox, eyes rolled like dolls
on interstate side, nebraska. lying
large under homestead memorials.
radio says, "ain't that amerika?"
i never really can tell.
on interstate side, nebraska. lying
large under homestead memorials.
radio says, "ain't that amerika?"
i never really can tell.
leaving the transendental capitol of the USA
lady bug window.
whips of wheat.
lonely mountains,
like old jewels.
on other earths,
the hills creep on.
whips of wheat.
lonely mountains,
like old jewels.
on other earths,
the hills creep on.
winning a loss
mystic sufi wins, draw
my thoughts away from
too young curly heads.
life love only in page
is no suitable comfort.
puffy lips, doe eyed
next time prescribed
what old man am i?
my thoughts away from
too young curly heads.
life love only in page
is no suitable comfort.
puffy lips, doe eyed
next time prescribed
what old man am i?
what madness here
serious madness, head holding mumbling sort.
always comes in middle amerika. shortly after
leaving the coast, the shiny lover i'm always visiting
but keeping for later - after madness - it's here, in this
madness i think wildfire smoke rings. madness that life
reaches for, caresses not. it smothers as a sweaty lover's
breasts in ecstacy takes in breath and replaces it with racing calm.
always comes in middle amerika. shortly after
leaving the coast, the shiny lover i'm always visiting
but keeping for later - after madness - it's here, in this
madness i think wildfire smoke rings. madness that life
reaches for, caresses not. it smothers as a sweaty lover's
breasts in ecstacy takes in breath and replaces it with racing calm.
pittsburgh cats
trading cat paintings with cowboy
booted kiddo. how many cats? how
many positions? how hard is it now,
to write with a fuzzy hairball massaging
it's face, cuddling my pen? whiskers
in ink. some wild animals kill,
others nudge. little kitty kneads
my hand to stop my nonsense.
sleep she claws, sleep!
booted kiddo. how many cats? how
many positions? how hard is it now,
to write with a fuzzy hairball massaging
it's face, cuddling my pen? whiskers
in ink. some wild animals kill,
others nudge. little kitty kneads
my hand to stop my nonsense.
sleep she claws, sleep!
love art
i piss in henry miller's big
sur turly. i see patti smith
in the sky, a life of paint
i never knew. drip bird
noises in water running
below henry's house.
i read hafez. out on
the road, lily says
"i'm leaving, i love
you more." what
art is this? companion-
ship is this lover's
highest held art
sur turly. i see patti smith
in the sky, a life of paint
i never knew. drip bird
noises in water running
below henry's house.
i read hafez. out on
the road, lily says
"i'm leaving, i love
you more." what
art is this? companion-
ship is this lover's
highest held art
blue
yeller rude blue boys, rough
up the kiddies after school, "i
didn't do shit" baby boy says
to the glass gravel hat, porkpie
jerk, why you gotta be?
up the kiddies after school, "i
didn't do shit" baby boy says
to the glass gravel hat, porkpie
jerk, why you gotta be?
lily says "write a poem about kurt cobain"
i know the songs goes
bum bum bum bum
ba da dum dum ba da
dum dum dum dum
and i hum it under
his childhood
bum bum bum bum
ba da dum dum ba da
dum dum dum dum
and i hum it under
his childhood
i go to cursed beach, la push washington
sage bundled weeks before fatal
new moons, slow burn away that toothy
grin. on this beachy drift wood, i am that.
floating ashore bare of amour , hardened
more wise glowing, i'll burn you off in rhythm
of fire. be away with yer nasty linger. never
have i felt better than now - taffy smoke rising
in naked curling under a full moon coming.
new moons, slow burn away that toothy
grin. on this beachy drift wood, i am that.
floating ashore bare of amour , hardened
more wise glowing, i'll burn you off in rhythm
of fire. be away with yer nasty linger. never
have i felt better than now - taffy smoke rising
in naked curling under a full moon coming.
lily says "write a poem about yer food"
fraidy bird why
don'tcha peck free
my window full
jalapeno beef
leftover sog bread.
at the waterfall's
top, i saw only
sand witches.
don'tcha peck free
my window full
jalapeno beef
leftover sog bread.
at the waterfall's
top, i saw only
sand witches.
little girl on an outing
a wave half done cause fear
of me, wildman. pink sleep
clothes are this child's beach
comb suit. clutch that ratty
feather when yer crisp folks tell
you to leave the flea ridden thing.
it's more than they'll ever know.
of me, wildman. pink sleep
clothes are this child's beach
comb suit. clutch that ratty
feather when yer crisp folks tell
you to leave the flea ridden thing.
it's more than they'll ever know.
naleans bird
greeny parrot? what
you doin up there, flowered
ivy perch? flocks in the sky
you come where sweat beads
gather. your head a knuckle
spin round. looking north
i'm off bus bound tamara'
where i can wear my chinese
coat, colorful, think of you.
you know this done, fly off
to bury in yellow bosoms
you doin up there, flowered
ivy perch? flocks in the sky
you come where sweat beads
gather. your head a knuckle
spin round. looking north
i'm off bus bound tamara'
where i can wear my chinese
coat, colorful, think of you.
you know this done, fly off
to bury in yellow bosoms
some thoughts
here the compassed arm in frozen pleasure
church, let my imagination begin again.
a temptress will draw blood and you wake ugly.
church, let my imagination begin again.
a temptress will draw blood and you wake ugly.
traveling tough
how far must we go to suffer in glorious
love - our will, a true pistol, forever taking
us along the banks of the bayou, the world
love - our will, a true pistol, forever taking
us along the banks of the bayou, the world
40 oz on the steps at dusk in naleans
hey cock a roch
im barefootin'
you too? cool.
im barefootin'
you too? cool.
nola sculputures
duck on duck on train
track in the sculpture
gardens we nap. water
too hot, i babble on my lips
the weird clear. and those
ducks ran off. my sis look
dead there near the loungin'
polygon lady. next i stare
at a nearly hung out bottom
of a gal young walking her pit
bull round the art museum.
'sigh', turn my head back round
to play like i been lookin' at this
statue. this is no nose squat man
killin' his third rooster for art.
recently read art is companionship
an' nod nodded my cooked head
like a gal i dig pertendin' she here
agreein'. alone is sad, sanity much
worse. like who took all these beauty
gals arms off? stop surrounding me
with yer stubby hair legs men!
track in the sculpture
gardens we nap. water
too hot, i babble on my lips
the weird clear. and those
ducks ran off. my sis look
dead there near the loungin'
polygon lady. next i stare
at a nearly hung out bottom
of a gal young walking her pit
bull round the art museum.
'sigh', turn my head back round
to play like i been lookin' at this
statue. this is no nose squat man
killin' his third rooster for art.
recently read art is companionship
an' nod nodded my cooked head
like a gal i dig pertendin' she here
agreein'. alone is sad, sanity much
worse. like who took all these beauty
gals arms off? stop surrounding me
with yer stubby hair legs men!
new orleans art museum on bastile day
washing machine arms
o' open toe sandals
strewn aboot the photos
patti smith's heros.
even here, round da
corner these Nuba wrestlers
an' sgt. peppers band
all grins at this strange
twisting. how the old
get down i say! george
washing machine! watching!
o' open toe sandals
strewn aboot the photos
patti smith's heros.
even here, round da
corner these Nuba wrestlers
an' sgt. peppers band
all grins at this strange
twisting. how the old
get down i say! george
washing machine! watching!
wish wish
two lives, love takes in sweeping embraces
awake from slumber, to find the world changed
whispers of snow on the beach, what colors!
they change & who gives? those two lives
caught far apart - one tearing through his body
praying prays to his nogod for strength in his fall
alone now & wish wish on that lucky gal, she digs
she is my sunshine, wish wish this is not a veil
she sends me holy blackout, hope thought. now why?
i don't wish to stand alone! decend bright staircase
& hold her up for me to go wildman!
awake from slumber, to find the world changed
whispers of snow on the beach, what colors!
they change & who gives? those two lives
caught far apart - one tearing through his body
praying prays to his nogod for strength in his fall
alone now & wish wish on that lucky gal, she digs
she is my sunshine, wish wish this is not a veil
she sends me holy blackout, hope thought. now why?
i don't wish to stand alone! decend bright staircase
& hold her up for me to go wildman!
shippin off to war
eager in their baldness
who are the young ones
piling their splotchy bags
high in a paris airport
endless they come
i wish these soon ghosts
strange luck or disappearance
who are the young ones
piling their splotchy bags
high in a paris airport
endless they come
i wish these soon ghosts
strange luck or disappearance
american accent
mystery my only
last mistress
why i didn't i cup
you when you wanted
friend i missed
being close or even
being at all
last mistress
why i didn't i cup
you when you wanted
friend i missed
being close or even
being at all
whooo
i come and go
no one knows
where i've rolled
who i smooched
where i be, who
no one knows
where i've rolled
who i smooched
where i be, who
don't write poems about the moon
all these gals
and i'm the fool
my breaking
heart couldn't
fool the moon
and i'm the fool
my breaking
heart couldn't
fool the moon
wildflowers
trembling i smooch
that twinkling gal
i wanna - in a fort
of our own make
over and over we
can never sleep
the list of graces
grows, unending
paper flowers unfold
that twinkling gal
i wanna - in a fort
of our own make
over and over we
can never sleep
the list of graces
grows, unending
paper flowers unfold
what?
how hard love
holds hands quiet
holds hands quiet
morning dew
fools at battersea
park we fumbled
ran screaming
laughing under
our enemies
colorful bombs
park we fumbled
ran screaming
laughing under
our enemies
colorful bombs
the names birds have
remember this i won't,
on clothespins tocking
on the line, a blue tit
calling weeoo, alex's sis
supposes it foolish to believe
this bird her father -
if it is this one or not
in any case her father
is a bird somewhere singing
on clothespins tocking
on the line, a blue tit
calling weeoo, alex's sis
supposes it foolish to believe
this bird her father -
if it is this one or not
in any case her father
is a bird somewhere singing
twice this happens
scrolls surround, bacon
again peering from the wall
leonard before my eye
where have i been here
before -- this chinese
cup, this sickle world,
her mothers house, no
more her fathers, only
lonely possessions, too
many chairs, no photos
even hold -- her cat
won't chase my lilac.
here in this room where
they would sit with cheer
help each other with love,
i stood here before
somehow, in her mothers
smoke - the table trembling
future crystal orbs pointing
on their toes, away smoke
blows from the chimney
settle on the noses of children
again peering from the wall
leonard before my eye
where have i been here
before -- this chinese
cup, this sickle world,
her mothers house, no
more her fathers, only
lonely possessions, too
many chairs, no photos
even hold -- her cat
won't chase my lilac.
here in this room where
they would sit with cheer
help each other with love,
i stood here before
somehow, in her mothers
smoke - the table trembling
future crystal orbs pointing
on their toes, away smoke
blows from the chimney
settle on the noses of children
poet
wooden woman naked
with ashtray head
at my side on the morn
beyond the cheery wake
at late eve waste, i find
happiness only in a boy
drunken beyond, a cross
grin only he is safe
from gloom. i choose
stillness, near death.
quickly copying poems
i'm caught. the party comes
in again, i can shoo
it away --- she says
"i like the poems"
i don't choose stillness
with ashtray head
at my side on the morn
beyond the cheery wake
at late eve waste, i find
happiness only in a boy
drunken beyond, a cross
grin only he is safe
from gloom. i choose
stillness, near death.
quickly copying poems
i'm caught. the party comes
in again, i can shoo
it away --- she says
"i like the poems"
i don't choose stillness
watership
in search of a high
lonely place. my friends
and i can be safe.
my nerves are all shot
shadows talk talk
lonely place. my friends
and i can be safe.
my nerves are all shot
shadows talk talk
rocks
what is it
these stones
are looking at?
it seems i
don't turn
mouth awe
dropped enough
these stones
are looking at?
it seems i
don't turn
mouth awe
dropped enough
tarot on the new moon
when talking to the deck
alone, i pull star woman!
alone, i pull star woman!
puff eye
her father
has stopped
living
has stopped
living
morning
photo photo
aonghus smoke
shoeless sun
on his face
grimace cause
he gotta work
aonghus smoke
shoeless sun
on his face
grimace cause
he gotta work
i will send it
unsent postcards
is my great
sin. i love you
even though
the post is closed
on sundays
is my great
sin. i love you
even though
the post is closed
on sundays
beauty soot
volcanic ash sun
rise over the roof
tops. are we gunna
blow--sure is
beautiful though
rise over the roof
tops. are we gunna
blow--sure is
beautiful though
rooftops of london
high stove pipe
london rooftop me
who's chim
chimney, who's
the luck dragon
chim chim cheroo
i likes what i dos
london rooftop me
who's chim
chimney, who's
the luck dragon
chim chim cheroo
i likes what i dos
wonder
what sunday
mornings are
like around
the world
mornings are
like around
the world
spooners
sleeping four
wide, magpie
alex, aonghus,
me. all touched
aonghus so sweet
hand around
my fat arm
wide, magpie
alex, aonghus,
me. all touched
aonghus so sweet
hand around
my fat arm
one up
rooftop coffee
sweet aonghus
dead london
sunday morning
beat that
sweet aonghus
dead london
sunday morning
beat that
passed away
alex's father will die
when- i dream marriage
to patti smith, he
shows life signs.
her name on my
undies, afraid to take
them off - my
dirty prayer
when- i dream marriage
to patti smith, he
shows life signs.
her name on my
undies, afraid to take
them off - my
dirty prayer
fruity
what i call these
cakes of poems - no
poem knows - wonder
wisdom my thievery
of life. what melon i am.
cakes of poems - no
poem knows - wonder
wisdom my thievery
of life. what melon i am.
what
does i matter
and what do i
mean - im not
direct, im draggy
and what do i
mean - im not
direct, im draggy
upper street, london
never soon will i
go to sleep, i hear
sweet aonghus pluck
plink the harp,
melon thirst, talk
of the play we
will play, we so
cool we cold.
go to sleep, i hear
sweet aonghus pluck
plink the harp,
melon thirst, talk
of the play we
will play, we so
cool we cold.
nice in france
morning rake men
seaweed into blue
bins on my beach
i sleep my sand
i rolled in wine
splendor smooching
the gal i ain't oughta
seaweed into blue
bins on my beach
i sleep my sand
i rolled in wine
splendor smooching
the gal i ain't oughta
all my poems sound the same
first robin! another! pork
and beans, six beers sardines
in oil, thirty two papers, small
cheese, a broken heart, sun
shiny, must be spring!
and beans, six beers sardines
in oil, thirty two papers, small
cheese, a broken heart, sun
shiny, must be spring!
demon town
i looked up
mountains beauty
over yer city
i think of you
i throw up in
my mouth
mountains beauty
over yer city
i think of you
i throw up in
my mouth
sweet gals
a tickle fight
on the train
grown women
ends hoop ear
to hoop ear
all entangled
on the train
grown women
ends hoop ear
to hoop ear
all entangled
make up
i see only an arm
no face, no stupid body
putting mascara on
no face, no stupid body
putting mascara on
oakland train lady
map of the rainbow
trains of fog bay
above headless
woman on her
way to visit no
kids. ears pop!
trains of fog bay
above headless
woman on her
way to visit no
kids. ears pop!
four blocks thoughts in oakland
count goodbyes strange
then i walk to trains
whispy peak blowin
whistlin tunes of last
suppers. songs written
in slumber. forgive being
the plead. go unheard
by her pointed ears.
will she be my best man
then i walk to trains
whispy peak blowin
whistlin tunes of last
suppers. songs written
in slumber. forgive being
the plead. go unheard
by her pointed ears.
will she be my best man
my luck with the moon
gone from the hole
ten nights - the new
moon showed me
it's god. she was a child.
ten nights - the new
moon showed me
it's god. she was a child.
cab fare for a girl
my money given away
kindness feels awful
when you are hungry
kindness feels awful
when you are hungry
in bookstore on 16th & valencia
saw birdman feeding
lamb to "bird", a fallen
pigeon. they are easier
to raise than starlings
he says. only meat
and fresh bread til
he gets old. then no
more babybirding.
lamb to "bird", a fallen
pigeon. they are easier
to raise than starlings
he says. only meat
and fresh bread til
he gets old. then no
more babybirding.
morning, oakland to frisco
asparagus from the garbage
was the better. the piss
i drank steaming my eyes
while folks believe im dead
on the train below the pacific
to the city. down here, nothing.
was the better. the piss
i drank steaming my eyes
while folks believe im dead
on the train below the pacific
to the city. down here, nothing.
longing long
love is dangerous
the most i know.
like white on a knife,
a taste and i'll cut
my tongue. never
will i live beyond
the most i know.
like white on a knife,
a taste and i'll cut
my tongue. never
will i live beyond
to every girl i've loved before
i miss her
seeing folks around
suprise its a beard
nursing on sour beans
i know you somehow
nursing on sour beans
i know you somehow
mission street
saw a man spit
in anothers hand
a new drug deal
in anothers hand
a new drug deal
sad on the roof again
sip sip, out on the roof.
a hood over me huffing.
tough crying over
something i've never
said. if i was dead thinking,
what would be. young ones
thoughts but sour tears
falling, my cheeks shaking
to flick 'em off without
wiping. spenders stuck
holding me on the snow
roof. laughs inside cool
me a tits. i wish for
a rag over my mouth.
a hood over me huffing.
tough crying over
something i've never
said. if i was dead thinking,
what would be. young ones
thoughts but sour tears
falling, my cheeks shaking
to flick 'em off without
wiping. spenders stuck
holding me on the snow
roof. laughs inside cool
me a tits. i wish for
a rag over my mouth.
spoon
am i married now
to his name, bop
a loo? i ain't gunna
do that. i'm a prayin'
for a morning save.
someone to slip one
hand over my cage.
to put their chin on
my forehead & breath
deeply, strangely
waiting for the next
shift in my sleep,
to react perfectly to.
to his name, bop
a loo? i ain't gunna
do that. i'm a prayin'
for a morning save.
someone to slip one
hand over my cage.
to put their chin on
my forehead & breath
deeply, strangely
waiting for the next
shift in my sleep,
to react perfectly to.
woke up in brooklyn
face down on hard.
maybe dead - woke,
said goodbye
skipped to the bus.
maybe dead - woke,
said goodbye
skipped to the bus.
talkin'
any talk
a prayer
a prayer
fall but warm
a thought shooting star,
a speed twist oak
leaf scream, its warm
it is home & warm
a speed twist oak
leaf scream, its warm
it is home & warm
going home for holidays
two tens left
two thousand
miles left
two thousand
miles left
she said no
i asked, marry me once
my stomach lump
my stomach lump
good friend
soft slumping tit of my
friend, in my sleep hand
this is how i help heart
break, barely nipple touch
friend, in my sleep hand
this is how i help heart
break, barely nipple touch
bird is the
baby bird me
champagne, nose
kisser biter. why
can't i kiss
when i wanna
champagne, nose
kisser biter. why
can't i kiss
when i wanna
different mornings
coming up the stairs
up all night
with no groping,
brown bag of groceries.
ashley is there going
to breakfast. i put
the guava & eggs
away. fall asleep
in my bright clothes.
up all night
with no groping,
brown bag of groceries.
ashley is there going
to breakfast. i put
the guava & eggs
away. fall asleep
in my bright clothes.
sleeptalk
in the young bed
in her sleep
i heard, enjoy
your dinner
in her sleep
i heard, enjoy
your dinner
might drive to san fran
toe sock tying
die lights. all drinks
gone along. ragtime
fellas, gals - what tune.
gold buttoned goner
forever baby bird
quit off too. san fran,
i got it! it ain't sad
i got it all.
die lights. all drinks
gone along. ragtime
fellas, gals - what tune.
gold buttoned goner
forever baby bird
quit off too. san fran,
i got it! it ain't sad
i got it all.
a good song
the babies pissed
on - accordion out
all goners on a day
past the sabbath.
hallelujah! my funeral
will i sing? velour
green under down.
out ! i've heard
the open mouthed.
close the page,
its sea of love.
on - accordion out
all goners on a day
past the sabbath.
hallelujah! my funeral
will i sing? velour
green under down.
out ! i've heard
the open mouthed.
close the page,
its sea of love.
mountains offer
sitting sleepless on the roof
is it rain or crackle leaves?
so lovesick, wine, friends
are no help. debby asks
about my suffering, laugh
it is rain for certain
is it rain or crackle leaves?
so lovesick, wine, friends
are no help. debby asks
about my suffering, laugh
it is rain for certain
thanksgiving
in the wilds of time
the weeping maples
steadfast pines consuming
vines and thorny bushes,
we are many we are one
we embrace, let go
remember, forget
but in these wilds of time
we are radical,
we are dangerous
because we love
we endure - through change
in suffering, through greys
bursting oranges maroon
fogs and draggy peaches
we are many in love
we are one in love
we declare on this day, thanks
giving - many and one
that above all, in spite
in praise of our universe
our nothingness our death
our birth our sex our art
our voices our fuck our grins
and grimaces - below it all too
to love
the weeping maples
steadfast pines consuming
vines and thorny bushes,
we are many we are one
we embrace, let go
remember, forget
but in these wilds of time
we are radical,
we are dangerous
because we love
we endure - through change
in suffering, through greys
bursting oranges maroon
fogs and draggy peaches
we are many in love
we are one in love
we declare on this day, thanks
giving - many and one
that above all, in spite
in praise of our universe
our nothingness our death
our birth our sex our art
our voices our fuck our grins
and grimaces - below it all too
to love
one year ago, redcoat, means more
a red coat hangs on the wall
the man who came before opening my door
i woke alone, late and alone
my window rattling, thumbing my guitar
a silk string danced above white sage
pots and bells around the finches sing
a midday lullaby is my pounding room
a wayward bus sitting on my pillow
music from the morning of the world
silver blues from a small voice crying
the sun out side, i don't care
inside the old paint and silk stains
a hum in my carpet, a touch of leather
maps of our way, we never looked at
my suitcase emptied, my music banned
weaving grass, rolled on my floor
broke and pains from every sky
a chant and waving arms to the winds
trying ribbons out and failing
white lines lost in my throat
showing the veins on the fingers
a drink cooling on my case, im writing
my hair is falling out, goodbye
my friends are falling out, goodbye
and october friday, redcoat redcoat
the man who came before opening my door
i woke alone, late and alone
my window rattling, thumbing my guitar
a silk string danced above white sage
pots and bells around the finches sing
a midday lullaby is my pounding room
a wayward bus sitting on my pillow
music from the morning of the world
silver blues from a small voice crying
the sun out side, i don't care
inside the old paint and silk stains
a hum in my carpet, a touch of leather
maps of our way, we never looked at
my suitcase emptied, my music banned
weaving grass, rolled on my floor
broke and pains from every sky
a chant and waving arms to the winds
trying ribbons out and failing
white lines lost in my throat
showing the veins on the fingers
a drink cooling on my case, im writing
my hair is falling out, goodbye
my friends are falling out, goodbye
and october friday, redcoat redcoat
burvoorum!
wrongly, i'll say it was our first date
blueberries under the table, dripping along
i wanted to bury myself right away
deep in your legs mumbling burvoorum.
loaded, i only held your hips from behind
waving along. in the sun later, pissing
behind your shack, i looked between the slats
of the neighboring fence - the dumbest
dogface peering into my eyes - i shook
uncontrollably - i saw my face in his -
i stand there pissing still,
wonder about love
blueberries under the table, dripping along
i wanted to bury myself right away
deep in your legs mumbling burvoorum.
loaded, i only held your hips from behind
waving along. in the sun later, pissing
behind your shack, i looked between the slats
of the neighboring fence - the dumbest
dogface peering into my eyes - i shook
uncontrollably - i saw my face in his -
i stand there pissing still,
wonder about love
remembering, worst pain
weeks loady after my surprise return
crawling back to yer bed knowing
it was hot. i was two men, days wild -
you kissing me - you told me
you didn't think i was a good man -
before, when i left for my other life,
you told me the same- to be told
to only love one is to be told not
to love - i love you still
crawling back to yer bed knowing
it was hot. i was two men, days wild -
you kissing me - you told me
you didn't think i was a good man -
before, when i left for my other life,
you told me the same- to be told
to only love one is to be told not
to love - i love you still
shell comes for a visit
laying out in the breezy massachusetts attic
pains in my heart deep, as my mind plays future
thoughts - one, you coming to visit, my children
crawling on your lap saying 'hello' as we hold in
pain, laugh at them. maybe they ask you to join
in their game. i'll watch you as you would have been.
we'll have tea in the noon sun gorgeous spring
say, 'nice to see you' - then my children will play,
i'll sit with the pain all day in my chair watching them
pains in my heart deep, as my mind plays future
thoughts - one, you coming to visit, my children
crawling on your lap saying 'hello' as we hold in
pain, laugh at them. maybe they ask you to join
in their game. i'll watch you as you would have been.
we'll have tea in the noon sun gorgeous spring
say, 'nice to see you' - then my children will play,
i'll sit with the pain all day in my chair watching them
perfect morning
a kiss on the cheek
while lying
on my chest, arm around,
a kiss on the cheek
a kiss on the cheek
while lying
on my chest, arm around,
a kiss on the cheek
a kiss on the cheek
another baltimore
sweet rumbling morning night
the soft grinning i roll
on my back rain on the tin
sleep on feathers, the tiny
room i live today in charms
alone, crows feet finding
my eyes in beats a still love
the soft grinning i roll
on my back rain on the tin
sleep on feathers, the tiny
room i live today in charms
alone, crows feet finding
my eyes in beats a still love
plans
a fall burning
bush of puffed
birds talking over
when to leave
bush of puffed
birds talking over
when to leave
four pouems from the ritz carlton, orlando florida
I.
silk podiums
of laughter - finger
lifts of hatred - milk
floors, curled loungers
forever no ones
supporting forever
no ones - phony
party for service
saunters with tennis
racket hand, arm of clean
clothes. a suit for the suit
a lamp for the world
to read in unison the words
II.
with the heros of another
the dull becomes a glass
top table empty of drinks
lost in riches - second star
wishes for love drowning
in the squeals of poverty
carpets forever lining
the party to the parlor
III.
thinking of one
an orange walking
missing the drunk
i love - for the rich
mans love ain't clouds
or mists - in a world
of dollars and drinks
each dress a copy
to cross, dogfaced
wagoneers, potfillers
in the tomb
of lace and palms
IV.
the richies and thick kids
richies waddling in the kiddie
pool - the kids stacking
blow up checkers
on the lawn
with tetherball faces
in the sand
silk podiums
of laughter - finger
lifts of hatred - milk
floors, curled loungers
forever no ones
supporting forever
no ones - phony
party for service
saunters with tennis
racket hand, arm of clean
clothes. a suit for the suit
a lamp for the world
to read in unison the words
II.
with the heros of another
the dull becomes a glass
top table empty of drinks
lost in riches - second star
wishes for love drowning
in the squeals of poverty
carpets forever lining
the party to the parlor
III.
thinking of one
an orange walking
missing the drunk
i love - for the rich
mans love ain't clouds
or mists - in a world
of dollars and drinks
each dress a copy
to cross, dogfaced
wagoneers, potfillers
in the tomb
of lace and palms
IV.
the richies and thick kids
richies waddling in the kiddie
pool - the kids stacking
blow up checkers
on the lawn
with tetherball faces
in the sand
two LOVE poumss
I.
to take on
dangerous
love, endure
II.
love changed
hope out
the window
to take on
dangerous
love, endure
II.
love changed
hope out
the window
---a series of pouems from nyc, mostly on the subway---
I.
tried to kill
a creep bug
became afraid
of death
II.
a perfect crib
drunk on the subway
sway sway
III.
swaying on the one
uptown, a drag
queen affording
nothing, swinging
the pole for dimes
IV.
a sweat gathering
from years of drinks
in the armpit
that conceals
my pint of tonights
V.
66th and i'm
drunk flying
smooth and happy
VI.
a woman talking to her hands
wears a purple sweatshirt
noticing my purple trousers
she momentarily stops
her madness
VII.
i love the wobbling
of the trains, married
for seconds alongside
one another and then
gone away each way
VIII.
huevos rancheros
at yolas
metropolitan ave
brooklyn
IX.
feeling the weight today
the sweats - crouched
leaning on a subway
post - pacific jazz
the only sound
X.
sad to see couples holding
each other - every train
i ride - i pretend to fall
asleep the same way
on the laughing girl
next to me, i smile at her
because what we got
its better than two gods
XI.
hole up in the penthouse
of the wet eggplant in nyc
smack dab squished
with wrinkled nosed
columbians - shivers
in bed reading love
letters of a woman
who lived on this block. dreaming
of garlic, beans
a home i don't have
tried to kill
a creep bug
became afraid
of death
II.
a perfect crib
drunk on the subway
sway sway
III.
swaying on the one
uptown, a drag
queen affording
nothing, swinging
the pole for dimes
IV.
a sweat gathering
from years of drinks
in the armpit
that conceals
my pint of tonights
V.
66th and i'm
drunk flying
smooth and happy
VI.
a woman talking to her hands
wears a purple sweatshirt
noticing my purple trousers
she momentarily stops
her madness
VII.
i love the wobbling
of the trains, married
for seconds alongside
one another and then
gone away each way
VIII.
huevos rancheros
at yolas
metropolitan ave
brooklyn
IX.
feeling the weight today
the sweats - crouched
leaning on a subway
post - pacific jazz
the only sound
X.
sad to see couples holding
each other - every train
i ride - i pretend to fall
asleep the same way
on the laughing girl
next to me, i smile at her
because what we got
its better than two gods
XI.
hole up in the penthouse
of the wet eggplant in nyc
smack dab squished
with wrinkled nosed
columbians - shivers
in bed reading love
letters of a woman
who lived on this block. dreaming
of garlic, beans
a home i don't have
the birds of baltimore
twiddle puss birds
brown and flicking drizzle
rain from their wings. fleet!
fleet! bing! above the bouncing cardinal
red bows and raises his point. bopping
along the high fence. bop bop
a loo bop
brown and flicking drizzle
rain from their wings. fleet!
fleet! bing! above the bouncing cardinal
red bows and raises his point. bopping
along the high fence. bop bop
a loo bop
shell
a shooting star, rare!
and its daytime. i saw
it i say to her, though
im half sure i didn't.
im in love with you
but im leaving you she says.
im sure she didn't
notice the moon wink and throw
twinkling dust down upon
my sparkling halo.
golden spikes spinning threads
better than a god. still im sad.
Bristol squats
a drunk bitten
blister. one thumb
middle and index
rasberry brown plum
burnt around their pinches
blister. one thumb
middle and index
rasberry brown plum
burnt around their pinches
selling gas
cracking laughing
gas on the hill
phony bobbies
snicker at the flat
cider i nicked
off the table
in shambles i
laugh without
the gas
gas on the hill
phony bobbies
snicker at the flat
cider i nicked
off the table
in shambles i
laugh without
the gas
i hear elliot get up in brighton
mumbles three floors
above, good morning
to miss the sun
rise in order to slouch
in bed, tummy talking
above, good morning
to miss the sun
rise in order to slouch
in bed, tummy talking
dream sex
a five pence hole
scuffed in my poor
stacys ive seen
the dream sucking
myself and her
timidly licking
my bottom
scuffed in my poor
stacys ive seen
the dream sucking
myself and her
timidly licking
my bottom
after two days
poppers up our noses
poisonous cupcakes
tits pulling, its friday
still and we're naked
snapping flash
photos and hard
laughs, dizzy
from the poppers
now morning i can only hear
alex in the shower washing
and the wind in the chimney
poisonous cupcakes
tits pulling, its friday
still and we're naked
snapping flash
photos and hard
laughs, dizzy
from the poppers
now morning i can only hear
alex in the shower washing
and the wind in the chimney
on the River Thames
a pleasent wake
but a crooked neck,
a blanket of bunnies
white holes turning
vanishing into furry bottoms.
the midnight lamps
reflecting still
in the River Thames
the sky gone
lakes showing
lakes back.
swan ghosts singing
happy birthday
to you. a boat skipper
has pointed me out!
pack my pedal horse
go nowhere, for the hobo
is everywhere, movement
is the breath of a passing
morning flock, pushing
through their throats
last waverly morning
dripping down the thighs
me... daydreaming a lady outside
widening her eyes for fun.
inside im writing a poem
a reindeer with a bell
around its neck guillotined
by the curve of the rocking chair
with a yellow raincoat shawl
draped on its top. red blotched
on borneo and tilted as a plane
would fly - i can hear the border
collie smacking his draggy
lips around in a nap
but can't see him. i need
to pack my things and go.
Diary: flight
All the brutal days throwing around my wish to stay in control of the visual part of my brain.
coming out, she threw it against the brown word and talked about the dating life.
“i was shot with love from the bathroom. it was a conspiricy." a sensible pair makes sandy teeth forever with mean habits. comfy mean.
now welcome to empty times. two nights of my life are bearable. I’ve experienced one that i remember and it was rusted.
it is spread out on my neighbor’s ghostlimb beach. and in came the surrealist years. me and volumes; I had been dressed but away she came, in a fist of love.
I could BOOTLEG this. sell it as the opposite of eating.
and her arms were beautiful. she is young so her skin was soft. where are the charming nine messages i imagined her whispering into the telephonebox? that i haven't figured out yet.
what it means.
Meadow Shuckers
I'm still in my infancy
There is the future
and I am finally the founder
the prophet in a style that says
musicians are Birds and beers and dedicated God-damn meadow shuckers
somehow I saw all your hair
and wild wino dreams
are squeezing shoulders
until they crumble under the touch,
of us winos dreaming about buttons
floating in the ocean
the buttons whispering "One Red tingling clit on skid row."
through the crashing of the waves
the night is roaring dutifully
and our coast is spinning around
like the horrible grace of my lungs
and the only door of insistence smells like a gang of caterpillars
bang, bang the door
Feel and Flick Hotel
I feel myself at twilight
it kills
it kills me but how did I? I thought to myself
I have a lot of one kind of love: one machine one booming necktie
can the dollar from November continue talking
to our prophesying friends? I'm looking for my mantra
it's a shiny red button. the sweet night wrote to me,
"wino, the brothers repeatedly tell me they know who you are loving- so?"
the king once had it all. his face lit up
when the queen came. the kindest coo turned
into a wailing sound like snapped crickets.
when will we start talking like Richard Brautigan?
sooner than later, I hope. my sitting position must accommodate my dick
and each generation it gets worse. be drunk all the time! I'll give you snaky directions,
think gleefully of that first morning
but it's a shame cause I can never
give an accurate account of fairly nice face similes: this is the only party. this is the party.
There is the future
and I am finally the founder
the prophet in a style that says
musicians are Birds and beers and dedicated God-damn meadow shuckers
somehow I saw all your hair
and wild wino dreams
are squeezing shoulders
until they crumble under the touch,
of us winos dreaming about buttons
floating in the ocean
the buttons whispering "One Red tingling clit on skid row."
through the crashing of the waves
the night is roaring dutifully
and our coast is spinning around
like the horrible grace of my lungs
and the only door of insistence smells like a gang of caterpillars
bang, bang the door
Feel and Flick Hotel
I feel myself at twilight
it kills
it kills me but how did I? I thought to myself
I have a lot of one kind of love: one machine one booming necktie
can the dollar from November continue talking
to our prophesying friends? I'm looking for my mantra
it's a shiny red button. the sweet night wrote to me,
"wino, the brothers repeatedly tell me they know who you are loving- so?"
the king once had it all. his face lit up
when the queen came. the kindest coo turned
into a wailing sound like snapped crickets.
when will we start talking like Richard Brautigan?
sooner than later, I hope. my sitting position must accommodate my dick
and each generation it gets worse. be drunk all the time! I'll give you snaky directions,
think gleefully of that first morning
but it's a shame cause I can never
give an accurate account of fairly nice face similes: this is the only party. this is the party.
babydog
I.
awakening breathless into dawnlight paling
my lifeline palm weighted in the jade leaf
of your back burning bright
but painless - its hard to forget or ignore
a bedwife an appendage or a portrait
or my fingers cupped this way, against the small of your back
maybe a slowly
pulled curtain of imaginary living.
you're not just a grinning
passenger or a generous child. give
me a peach or else
iron me flat.
II.
standing in this rain again
only now its jade spoons soothing
my palpitations
the wind is dropping whistles
(now) and the swelling avenue is flooded,
making all light veiled like an untouchable
concubine.
I'll needle you forever my own. not twins but bound
by great waves of blues and burgundy silks, across spilling
years or autumn embraces, forever my own and you forever
sound
III.
to be loyal and smiling is lost in a curdled second - wait until the light is lost - scream a doctor's cold shoe horn whore. I've lost my mind but I've lost worse - smiles are not similes this time. get the hill and for awhile the second part is wild but not ethical - soundless and lights out when nature hears the laugh of dying breath - a swerve - chung! - lantern swells and kills - some dumped, some feel nothing for old friends - on the page of turning off. constantly perky and wailing for a quick release and pleading for forgiveness. that is forever unforgettable - processed burning body, its me and its you and we are the lucky ones - go now to the empty grounds - don't feel the way, just go - its so easy; just feel forgiving - its love and its unforgivable - my name, its yours - bombs keep dropping - you give to me and I feel the rocks that fly - violence, its unheard but children know it well - the drugs are quick, love is taller. wheels of transparency, wed one to the other - matrimony - an idea and beyond fair chase, the feet between generations are good intentions and beats familiar conversations, unfueled by the impossible distance - the answers are found in -------------------- wine! unfamiliar is lord - aderall(drug) or mine! lower and tread is great - swallow the larger of the two - work - no, heres the way - everything is psychedelic white lines - far, far from the way i was then - again across the generations the body feels the forgetful function but still the answer is on the road - turn off and harmonize - stay up or stay gone - harpsichord - you - you know - that could drown a girl - she could - the wheels on edge, on for days - the impersonating of those who are already there - faking the age and the smell is even there - feeling for those you despise most , thats the entrance - the beauty in the embarrassed and drained - fire without the burn - forever feeling satisfied _______ nothing is up or down, the visions flow in, not out - years of snakes and tradition found in one weaving parasite and white lines overcome anything. the acceptance of the body - the power of something that is real pain or perhaps its better off with the dead - the curling smoke is a decision of love not witch doctors - vinegar blood and words that are painful - hail words that are true! here its o.k. to fly at night - hay stacks - smirks and the attempt to stay lethal - palpitations - on pitch - oh - the night brings - hail! - street lights and dreams of jack on the rock - lion witch and the wardrobe - the lion is him - he is sacrificed - he was nothing ---- just nothing - its the end - he's pushed to death - the feeling is lost when the threat is made of fear, pain and sadness. the lines made through the plinking gorgeous hum and warm vibration - the light holds - the light burns - the cancer holds but i swallow it down, moonlight - i know you in brief but like the one i know, i know you better than most. the folk tale number is a feeling told before but undescribed until the invention of the real word to replace love, the world shuddering in friendship with those hums, those sunrises, those oh... your body, well your ribs, you're unsure and that makes me want you more - the air is unknown, its only the buzz, the hum of attempted love -- circles! its o.k. to write in the circle; to write in the dinner plate of your foremothers and fathers - mothers, fathers - dinners and something without the power - lumps - ignore - oh - my mother did her best - father just like her-___________ after so much love, so much throat clinching and tango, there is still a plethora of love sounds creeping wowo.... the sky will bring the metal, breath curves one endless and not ever mine... too warm without the feeling of knowing the meaning - ba ba ba - love goes on - give away your love ------------------------ the body can align with old friends but the friends feel that the worth of the actions does not equal the weight of the actions - using your body as much as she does - the milk, the feeling of all the wrong things of one generation - expelling the feelings and beliefs - one feeling.... the beliefs of the wrong generation - your mother brought to her knees, to her knees - shackled but normal and therefore.
awakening breathless into dawnlight paling
my lifeline palm weighted in the jade leaf
of your back burning bright
but painless - its hard to forget or ignore
a bedwife an appendage or a portrait
or my fingers cupped this way, against the small of your back
maybe a slowly
pulled curtain of imaginary living.
you're not just a grinning
passenger or a generous child. give
me a peach or else
iron me flat.
II.
standing in this rain again
only now its jade spoons soothing
my palpitations
the wind is dropping whistles
(now) and the swelling avenue is flooded,
making all light veiled like an untouchable
concubine.
I'll needle you forever my own. not twins but bound
by great waves of blues and burgundy silks, across spilling
years or autumn embraces, forever my own and you forever
sound
III.
to be loyal and smiling is lost in a curdled second - wait until the light is lost - scream a doctor's cold shoe horn whore. I've lost my mind but I've lost worse - smiles are not similes this time. get the hill and for awhile the second part is wild but not ethical - soundless and lights out when nature hears the laugh of dying breath - a swerve - chung! - lantern swells and kills - some dumped, some feel nothing for old friends - on the page of turning off. constantly perky and wailing for a quick release and pleading for forgiveness. that is forever unforgettable - processed burning body, its me and its you and we are the lucky ones - go now to the empty grounds - don't feel the way, just go - its so easy; just feel forgiving - its love and its unforgivable - my name, its yours - bombs keep dropping - you give to me and I feel the rocks that fly - violence, its unheard but children know it well - the drugs are quick, love is taller. wheels of transparency, wed one to the other - matrimony - an idea and beyond fair chase, the feet between generations are good intentions and beats familiar conversations, unfueled by the impossible distance - the answers are found in -------------------- wine! unfamiliar is lord - aderall(drug) or mine! lower and tread is great - swallow the larger of the two - work - no, heres the way - everything is psychedelic white lines - far, far from the way i was then - again across the generations the body feels the forgetful function but still the answer is on the road - turn off and harmonize - stay up or stay gone - harpsichord - you - you know - that could drown a girl - she could - the wheels on edge, on for days - the impersonating of those who are already there - faking the age and the smell is even there - feeling for those you despise most , thats the entrance - the beauty in the embarrassed and drained - fire without the burn - forever feeling satisfied _______ nothing is up or down, the visions flow in, not out - years of snakes and tradition found in one weaving parasite and white lines overcome anything. the acceptance of the body - the power of something that is real pain or perhaps its better off with the dead - the curling smoke is a decision of love not witch doctors - vinegar blood and words that are painful - hail words that are true! here its o.k. to fly at night - hay stacks - smirks and the attempt to stay lethal - palpitations - on pitch - oh - the night brings - hail! - street lights and dreams of jack on the rock - lion witch and the wardrobe - the lion is him - he is sacrificed - he was nothing ---- just nothing - its the end - he's pushed to death - the feeling is lost when the threat is made of fear, pain and sadness. the lines made through the plinking gorgeous hum and warm vibration - the light holds - the light burns - the cancer holds but i swallow it down, moonlight - i know you in brief but like the one i know, i know you better than most. the folk tale number is a feeling told before but undescribed until the invention of the real word to replace love, the world shuddering in friendship with those hums, those sunrises, those oh... your body, well your ribs, you're unsure and that makes me want you more - the air is unknown, its only the buzz, the hum of attempted love -- circles! its o.k. to write in the circle; to write in the dinner plate of your foremothers and fathers - mothers, fathers - dinners and something without the power - lumps - ignore - oh - my mother did her best - father just like her-___________ after so much love, so much throat clinching and tango, there is still a plethora of love sounds creeping wowo.... the sky will bring the metal, breath curves one endless and not ever mine... too warm without the feeling of knowing the meaning - ba ba ba - love goes on - give away your love ------------------------ the body can align with old friends but the friends feel that the worth of the actions does not equal the weight of the actions - using your body as much as she does - the milk, the feeling of all the wrong things of one generation - expelling the feelings and beliefs - one feeling.... the beliefs of the wrong generation - your mother brought to her knees, to her knees - shackled but normal and therefore.
way
Sincerely your phantom,
except for your hollowed bouquet, I can't smell. Everything is touchy and with glad eyes. I must be verging on the edge of the rainbow bed. My sheets are all flying and your smell is too weary to cling on. It will be lost and with it your short story. The kissed time, we had little. A stench owl spooked and whoosh, I'm rolling, waving around the rainbow bed again, so close to the edge.
I'm the kid pilot now. I've got nothing to prove but that I can fly the rainbow, smell or stopping smell. The wind is rising beautiful sheets of air strung pearls. The rainbow waves back and I splash around with scentless orchid lights, shooting stardust into my velvet lined eye. I arrive inside out so that I don't have to breathe in, just out.
Vacancy smell, I've beat your crawling way. Dear little stink quiche, I've got you there. The smell is still a phantom limb, you think its there. I know about rainbow beds and about losing touch without losing. Losing you when I don't need to, that's a phantom.
I'm boasting but now that I've got those tactile colors, I want your bouquet in my head again. Come sink me again in the rainbow and nothing will be touching my eyes. Your spiced drag could anchor me back and save me from losing the only thing I have
the faint pinch I have on our,
rainbow bed.
except for your hollowed bouquet, I can't smell. Everything is touchy and with glad eyes. I must be verging on the edge of the rainbow bed. My sheets are all flying and your smell is too weary to cling on. It will be lost and with it your short story. The kissed time, we had little. A stench owl spooked and whoosh, I'm rolling, waving around the rainbow bed again, so close to the edge.
I'm the kid pilot now. I've got nothing to prove but that I can fly the rainbow, smell or stopping smell. The wind is rising beautiful sheets of air strung pearls. The rainbow waves back and I splash around with scentless orchid lights, shooting stardust into my velvet lined eye. I arrive inside out so that I don't have to breathe in, just out.
Vacancy smell, I've beat your crawling way. Dear little stink quiche, I've got you there. The smell is still a phantom limb, you think its there. I know about rainbow beds and about losing touch without losing. Losing you when I don't need to, that's a phantom.
I'm boasting but now that I've got those tactile colors, I want your bouquet in my head again. Come sink me again in the rainbow and nothing will be touching my eyes. Your spiced drag could anchor me back and save me from losing the only thing I have
the faint pinch I have on our,
rainbow bed.
constellations
I.
pennies in arms, playing goodbye
can't out-rain morning wonder
home you're on your way
/all the merry clouds
girls, you're my tree
scrap-booked all up in goodbye clothes
/drinking outside my house and never
standing, strolling motion
one beside you, you're shining the glue
/avenue finds love again
bells like love dominoes
slow the eyes for your time
never loving, the sweet boy
and the room kids go home
and this sweet champagne
you waved on the street
never hedges a bluer goodbye
/and as sweet, in the hall
my down lovers sat
sitting so slim
then I'm steel
and just again
the one thing
when on leave
wet has you looking well
/saw the way you cherry
somebody standing old
and home you could whisper
love and rain ringing high
remember and wonder
breathe the drifting beach
was no ballerina
/drink standing up
will make you leave home
get love's glance, a star
constellations of your lovers
fly your hand like ribbons
born into dancing, street stars
you conquered my arms
the night, childlike and walking
/lovers found sandy love
eyes in wonder like fields sweet
and the bells sang broken rhymes
born into tomorrow, our wine passed on
before the train put you on the street
would you catch the crowd's eye
and grow, and walk through summertime
/the mountain, it's wrong
the land in wet dreams
keeps seeing wonders
a face of wonder ventured from the doorway
and in the still morning below the eyes
fly right into your silence in time
a sleet of water ringing the right tune
/you gotta take wings
and take your darlings
down to my mansion avenue
and never will the rain turn time
high and wheeling, your arms fly
falling back to the station
falling through the white to you
catch the stranger in your clothes
rhyming and arresting your little bridges
your lantern on my hill burning bright
/down where the bells ring in the back-street
nighttime and the time for wonder music like you do
I'm bold with goodbyes, but I cant get by you
stepping every time she comes for a kiss
I got it once and I got white like you
we were on sweet street, the avenue sweet
the one we both dream, and say I love this
/I say you're young, I'm a rain felt on your face
the wind wall spraying the window goodbye
you are the wanted and they'll try the whole night
go inside with me and the snow will be our wonder
then you can count the sun coming up slow sliding
I'm your boy but my rainbow is dying
just as I'm trying to say goodbye
all the lovers looking cold
please, never say that's you
catch me in the back-street
by chance and a goodbye will say
the time shakes and the ride is faster than wine
twenty two and the sweet past comes to me
through the lightly kissing rain like re-born
with little around for the world I first knew
these streets are a dream for you and me
/ moving back for you, young love, the darling
sun ring all around you, light ballerina
be your own, the sky will play time-chariot
but remember to see me, young and standing
step up wonder street, the avenue as a story
behind the white wall, return barefoot
I will be there always late
on the street and in the rainbow sky
II.
/ you're a wall of rain
shaking on my sandy street
and I never want you again.
I'm cherried.
\somebody sweet!
to stare out the window with me
to share every drifting part
wonder, no. it's standing
in the rain in your best goodbye clothes
/ it still will hurt for a while
and I'll try to sting the stars
and you, you just start dancing,
like you don't remember the word.
bring me pennies
and the wonder I had will drown.
we lightly say a dream rhyme.
you weren't born to say anything
but around, over and over.
your whole life will be filled
with these lightless lanterns
and each time you say goodbye
it hurts worse and your arms turn
into shades of the sun but don't move them,
you might make a love sound like rough ribbons.
\ no, you wont even give goodbyes,
you stand tilted in the street, wrong and you
take the goodbye, make it sound darling
and you make the music I love
turn into a stale morning
/ still champagne can make you soft
but you only choke me with your ribbons
/ born again I thought,
bells take the stale morning
you gave me and turn it into
a gift of cracked half-wings.
sitting in your rain, I hate this night.
/ go slim
these streets once wanted you,
now you've lost love's white felt
you can look into waves and remember
me but through all that light,
I'm the one that you'll never be.
/ can one as broken as you
catch my goodbye from the bridges
catch my bedside morning clothes
III.
/the wine sang the tune
/ you strolling;
you will grow, girl tree
I scrap-booked you, right on my wall
/ I saw you burning. the dying
kiss in the back-street,
nighttime eyes, like a ballerina
/ drink on as the old chance boy
goes shining,
he sprays on his story,
gets behind in the book.
the last page says
goodbye to the standing ballerina
/ see me, past the sky.
like star
constellations
high and scrolled
on the wall; lovers bright
and ringing
/ slowly I passed your hand back,
kissing it bluer through the ringing cold.
please, the way you kill me,
its slow and I count the wings
falling this summer
IV.
/the avenue
can still be loving! a goodbye
can open our iris'
and fly through the night. the ringing of its attention
opens all everyone's ears. time might even slow.
I'm still sweet too! the rainbow is still standing!
I can still step in time with my choice chariot!
I don't ignore the bells of tomorrow, rocking me barefoot
in a love field and out into the hall
of white rain. cant two young kids
become lovers? its not girls on the beach
and boys strangely walking on hot stones,
its lovers sweetly flying in orgasm flower-beds.
/a falling feeling, like trying to spike your arms and hitting
your chest. a pain that ends the rest, its always bitter-sweet
and I always catch you tasting that.
I'm your only station
pulling into your arresting silence
caught up in your hammocked clothes.
our pulses are rhyming each other
and breathe the sun to feed our world dreams.
/whisper.
love me, I want you,
I'll touch you back, always returning in the morning
so sweet shining through the window of your room.
re-born
with the wind warm
and twisted with wine,
twenty mansions of my love are there playing bold
roulette with our flowered fuck.
pennies in arms, playing goodbye
can't out-rain morning wonder
home you're on your way
/all the merry clouds
girls, you're my tree
scrap-booked all up in goodbye clothes
/drinking outside my house and never
standing, strolling motion
one beside you, you're shining the glue
/avenue finds love again
bells like love dominoes
slow the eyes for your time
never loving, the sweet boy
and the room kids go home
and this sweet champagne
you waved on the street
never hedges a bluer goodbye
/and as sweet, in the hall
my down lovers sat
sitting so slim
then I'm steel
and just again
the one thing
when on leave
wet has you looking well
/saw the way you cherry
somebody standing old
and home you could whisper
love and rain ringing high
remember and wonder
breathe the drifting beach
was no ballerina
/drink standing up
will make you leave home
get love's glance, a star
constellations of your lovers
fly your hand like ribbons
born into dancing, street stars
you conquered my arms
the night, childlike and walking
/lovers found sandy love
eyes in wonder like fields sweet
and the bells sang broken rhymes
born into tomorrow, our wine passed on
before the train put you on the street
would you catch the crowd's eye
and grow, and walk through summertime
/the mountain, it's wrong
the land in wet dreams
keeps seeing wonders
a face of wonder ventured from the doorway
and in the still morning below the eyes
fly right into your silence in time
a sleet of water ringing the right tune
/you gotta take wings
and take your darlings
down to my mansion avenue
and never will the rain turn time
high and wheeling, your arms fly
falling back to the station
falling through the white to you
catch the stranger in your clothes
rhyming and arresting your little bridges
your lantern on my hill burning bright
/down where the bells ring in the back-street
nighttime and the time for wonder music like you do
I'm bold with goodbyes, but I cant get by you
stepping every time she comes for a kiss
I got it once and I got white like you
we were on sweet street, the avenue sweet
the one we both dream, and say I love this
/I say you're young, I'm a rain felt on your face
the wind wall spraying the window goodbye
you are the wanted and they'll try the whole night
go inside with me and the snow will be our wonder
then you can count the sun coming up slow sliding
I'm your boy but my rainbow is dying
just as I'm trying to say goodbye
all the lovers looking cold
please, never say that's you
catch me in the back-street
by chance and a goodbye will say
the time shakes and the ride is faster than wine
twenty two and the sweet past comes to me
through the lightly kissing rain like re-born
with little around for the world I first knew
these streets are a dream for you and me
/ moving back for you, young love, the darling
sun ring all around you, light ballerina
be your own, the sky will play time-chariot
but remember to see me, young and standing
step up wonder street, the avenue as a story
behind the white wall, return barefoot
I will be there always late
on the street and in the rainbow sky
II.
/ you're a wall of rain
shaking on my sandy street
and I never want you again.
I'm cherried.
\somebody sweet!
to stare out the window with me
to share every drifting part
wonder, no. it's standing
in the rain in your best goodbye clothes
/ it still will hurt for a while
and I'll try to sting the stars
and you, you just start dancing,
like you don't remember the word.
bring me pennies
and the wonder I had will drown.
we lightly say a dream rhyme.
you weren't born to say anything
but around, over and over.
your whole life will be filled
with these lightless lanterns
and each time you say goodbye
it hurts worse and your arms turn
into shades of the sun but don't move them,
you might make a love sound like rough ribbons.
\ no, you wont even give goodbyes,
you stand tilted in the street, wrong and you
take the goodbye, make it sound darling
and you make the music I love
turn into a stale morning
/ still champagne can make you soft
but you only choke me with your ribbons
/ born again I thought,
bells take the stale morning
you gave me and turn it into
a gift of cracked half-wings.
sitting in your rain, I hate this night.
/ go slim
these streets once wanted you,
now you've lost love's white felt
you can look into waves and remember
me but through all that light,
I'm the one that you'll never be.
/ can one as broken as you
catch my goodbye from the bridges
catch my bedside morning clothes
III.
/the wine sang the tune
/ you strolling;
you will grow, girl tree
I scrap-booked you, right on my wall
/ I saw you burning. the dying
kiss in the back-street,
nighttime eyes, like a ballerina
/ drink on as the old chance boy
goes shining,
he sprays on his story,
gets behind in the book.
the last page says
goodbye to the standing ballerina
/ see me, past the sky.
like star
constellations
high and scrolled
on the wall; lovers bright
and ringing
/ slowly I passed your hand back,
kissing it bluer through the ringing cold.
please, the way you kill me,
its slow and I count the wings
falling this summer
IV.
/the avenue
can still be loving! a goodbye
can open our iris'
and fly through the night. the ringing of its attention
opens all everyone's ears. time might even slow.
I'm still sweet too! the rainbow is still standing!
I can still step in time with my choice chariot!
I don't ignore the bells of tomorrow, rocking me barefoot
in a love field and out into the hall
of white rain. cant two young kids
become lovers? its not girls on the beach
and boys strangely walking on hot stones,
its lovers sweetly flying in orgasm flower-beds.
/a falling feeling, like trying to spike your arms and hitting
your chest. a pain that ends the rest, its always bitter-sweet
and I always catch you tasting that.
I'm your only station
pulling into your arresting silence
caught up in your hammocked clothes.
our pulses are rhyming each other
and breathe the sun to feed our world dreams.
/whisper.
love me, I want you,
I'll touch you back, always returning in the morning
so sweet shining through the window of your room.
re-born
with the wind warm
and twisted with wine,
twenty mansions of my love are there playing bold
roulette with our flowered fuck.
tracing Mr. smith
i am tracing the postcard that hung on the back of ginsberg's toilet door, where you lie and paper-punch, punch-cards and clock in and clock outside.
i am tracing the nose of your striped friend and doing it again, over the first because I see that there are two here but every time I see one the other appears.
i am tracing the sickle through your blow-hole cause if the silence is any louder I'll try to scream and the film will start, all shaky man and woman and ray.
i am tracing the cord that makes the circle become a triangle that, when turned sideways is a buffalo wafer with tears and photos of tears dangling from a flower.
i am tracing scratch and dance, trying to find the end of the swirling rings and thanks a lot, I think we'll hit it off if I be the blue and you be every other color.
i am tracing the beginning to the beginning through a loop and the end can never come and this is the way I decided to get rid of this fear of sinking or falling or sitting.
i am tracing the fears I still have back to the beginning, the birth so the death is the only end but it wouldn't become a u-shape maybe just a red dot again, showered by white enemas.
i am tracing the white rain to the pixel and the absence of the shape when you look everywhere but directly at the bow and the counter-bow of the spectrum fireworks.
i am tracing the explosion of the color bow and the space of jailed stripes and how I will end the circle but placing the rails of green, yes green and connect it with cord.
i am tracing the pathway to the outside clock where, within the spokes lies the cords and the punch-cards that subtract the clock in and make shapes appear again and again.
i am tracing the shoulder blade around to the stars and ivy of your back and your neck actually ends under there somewhere so
I am going to back up the clock in to see where I'm at,
blade dangling white so a silence buffalo falling outside the cord.
i am again paper-punch, tracing the way to the jailed toilet where ginsberg's of the flower.
i space beginning every time and it am red ivy so I will maybe become or try and back your rings where never have shapes under the sickle begun swirling and hung everywhere to see and end and shoulder the the the because the that that, the green two that sit still with the other and decided their lot, where they subtract tears from the spectrum again, tracing back time.
I've got tracing to do, I've gone outside.
I am hit again.
i connect pixels to the tracing when tracing in wouldn't appear.
i back up my tears but get rid of the beginning, I will clock with a striped absence.
actually the fears are seen placing blow-hole rain at a man, a back tracing is green, tracing through I am a woman, the neck dance, the over enemas.
i clock the film turned to the u-shape and shaky doing this, I become this again,
i lie at the end of the clock, the cord loudly tracing the dot of white am punch-cards blue and the lies find triangles and pathways to the first fireworks.
i appear on color shapes and at the end, I bow to you, tracing your sinking beginning end can somewhere be sitting.
i think that the photos of cords, clock clock stars, tracing showered postcards, loop the punch-cards and I begin tracing the ring within your color.
i think death makes you directly fear and scratch and the rays say yes in the a.m. birth.
from start to start, I think I am the circle explosion at sideways scream and the look counter-bow. the circle spokes come to me but I'm only
hung outside.
i am ginsberg's ivy under paper-punch, that neck shoulder lie clock you see blades got you there somewhere in, i'm up to where tracing clock and clock and the punch-cards back you, and i sent you a postcard back the back actually to the toilet of so and so's door, to the stars and around ends where on tracing,
i am only trying to trace the beginning and the end.
i am back tracing the where back somewhere ginsberg's lie and clock in got the outside.
i am paper-punch, of the neck to see hung around and ends stars up your toilet.
i am in of that so I've to and punch-cards back where to clock and the tracing actually on my door, at under your shoulder there and postcard ivy clock blade you am.
i am a blue ring.
i am tracing the postcard and still shapes appear again and again.
i am tracing still and still and still and still and still and I am still.
i am tracing the nose of your striped friend and doing it again, over the first because I see that there are two here but every time I see one the other appears.
i am tracing the sickle through your blow-hole cause if the silence is any louder I'll try to scream and the film will start, all shaky man and woman and ray.
i am tracing the cord that makes the circle become a triangle that, when turned sideways is a buffalo wafer with tears and photos of tears dangling from a flower.
i am tracing scratch and dance, trying to find the end of the swirling rings and thanks a lot, I think we'll hit it off if I be the blue and you be every other color.
i am tracing the beginning to the beginning through a loop and the end can never come and this is the way I decided to get rid of this fear of sinking or falling or sitting.
i am tracing the fears I still have back to the beginning, the birth so the death is the only end but it wouldn't become a u-shape maybe just a red dot again, showered by white enemas.
i am tracing the white rain to the pixel and the absence of the shape when you look everywhere but directly at the bow and the counter-bow of the spectrum fireworks.
i am tracing the explosion of the color bow and the space of jailed stripes and how I will end the circle but placing the rails of green, yes green and connect it with cord.
i am tracing the pathway to the outside clock where, within the spokes lies the cords and the punch-cards that subtract the clock in and make shapes appear again and again.
i am tracing the shoulder blade around to the stars and ivy of your back and your neck actually ends under there somewhere so
I am going to back up the clock in to see where I'm at,
blade dangling white so a silence buffalo falling outside the cord.
i am again paper-punch, tracing the way to the jailed toilet where ginsberg's of the flower.
i space beginning every time and it am red ivy so I will maybe become or try and back your rings where never have shapes under the sickle begun swirling and hung everywhere to see and end and shoulder the the the because the that that, the green two that sit still with the other and decided their lot, where they subtract tears from the spectrum again, tracing back time.
I've got tracing to do, I've gone outside.
I am hit again.
i connect pixels to the tracing when tracing in wouldn't appear.
i back up my tears but get rid of the beginning, I will clock with a striped absence.
actually the fears are seen placing blow-hole rain at a man, a back tracing is green, tracing through I am a woman, the neck dance, the over enemas.
i clock the film turned to the u-shape and shaky doing this, I become this again,
i lie at the end of the clock, the cord loudly tracing the dot of white am punch-cards blue and the lies find triangles and pathways to the first fireworks.
i appear on color shapes and at the end, I bow to you, tracing your sinking beginning end can somewhere be sitting.
i think that the photos of cords, clock clock stars, tracing showered postcards, loop the punch-cards and I begin tracing the ring within your color.
i think death makes you directly fear and scratch and the rays say yes in the a.m. birth.
from start to start, I think I am the circle explosion at sideways scream and the look counter-bow. the circle spokes come to me but I'm only
hung outside.
i am ginsberg's ivy under paper-punch, that neck shoulder lie clock you see blades got you there somewhere in, i'm up to where tracing clock and clock and the punch-cards back you, and i sent you a postcard back the back actually to the toilet of so and so's door, to the stars and around ends where on tracing,
i am only trying to trace the beginning and the end.
i am back tracing the where back somewhere ginsberg's lie and clock in got the outside.
i am paper-punch, of the neck to see hung around and ends stars up your toilet.
i am in of that so I've to and punch-cards back where to clock and the tracing actually on my door, at under your shoulder there and postcard ivy clock blade you am.
i am a blue ring.
i am tracing the postcard and still shapes appear again and again.
i am tracing still and still and still and still and still and I am still.
august?
Ohhhhhhh, to love someone in this fortieth revolution of summer. No, its leftovers are lusting death.
(be polite to the time station)
summer's hot and imitating. I miss my friend shell. switchblade, promise me a better grave, be a lot like love.
like a tack that holds a snakeskin to my white wall. execute me on the
bed. Bringing Love all back home to my house, so that she can hold on to my crotch fire.
lay down on the window with me. its stronger than you think. get me.
I'm really down, so you can smile like a quiche, spinach teeth.
i'm accepting puppeteers without any experience. my strings need some repair. i've tried simmering
them at night in the snakes oil you mailed me. but the chimney only produces quarter owls.
clarity
nearly inside I was boldly just leaning, looking nothing like thirty-two would you record her somehow, privately floating by the offices I can recall smiling in my old boyish way again, I got plastered at the monastery without her I was sweating my body framed by her palms and now my friends are numbered birds, and they are all You didn’t come, you couldn’t. you were draped and went swimming embarrassing but you let me see on purpose I stood still on the shoreline, I held your book in my hand I know its not the 400 Blows I took a look, Oh Kafka sure aren’t you wide and dead? the dove shows us beams pure and like her birds catch all my questions is she a girl of passions but don’t tell me, I like to guess sometimes drop your curling cowardness, remember books aren’t written yet you can’t have every autumn and the spring you can try suspending your protection into thin empty air, your stripes are shed where is the violet lobby that we need? my muscles are entwined in yours this is a hard affair we’re working the rue for feeling better has left us crying sleepy in our rooms she is towering love up higher the eye can see it but the tower will fall if a wind can blow a feather as it falls don’t steal the stones or your vision will become undone the day the boy trembles in the air scared again, I’m finally understanding what a friend can really be flickering in the wind or burning bright aware of the heat and the light I pressed my face against your chest you acted like you wanted to but I can’t touch you the way I want I can live with two rings on my hand I paled in the afternoon your body liking me, you said It feels good as tears dribbled off your chin I sang a song for children you sang a song for the wind we sang a song only for us I ask you to be true out of mind, I cant hold you didn’t you say always in the end whoever said we both can’t win didn’t make it but lets try again could you hold on to my wavering hand you’re the girl that I hum for and whistle tunes I wrote to you I wrote on the moon, I want you two strangers can imagine staying all night, until morning comes on like the steam from a cup of tea.
-This Might Be Cinema-where-Paul and Jeanne are Nameless-
banana colored
light burning, framed by iron bars.
A time
piece peek. A telephone
call with false teeth.
a piss colored telephone
call. A creeping
phone wire.
Water damaged walls,
Light turns
submerged.
Broken, draped
mirrors,
fur-
coat,
Paul: Grab you by the crotch. Tear off your stockings
Fuck you still and standing. Cradle you, swing you
against the shutters. The single curtain light-
ly against our faces.
Through the blood stained pane
A bacon portrait.
A pain that is addictive,
Jeanne: And lovely.
This is cinema.
If I kiss you,
that might be cinema.
light burning, framed by iron bars.
A time
piece peek. A telephone
call with false teeth.
a piss colored telephone
call. A creeping
phone wire.
Water damaged walls,
Light turns
submerged.
Broken, draped
mirrors,
fur-
coat,
Paul: Grab you by the crotch. Tear off your stockings
Fuck you still and standing. Cradle you, swing you
against the shutters. The single curtain light-
ly against our faces.
Through the blood stained pane
A bacon portrait.
A pain that is addictive,
Jeanne: And lovely.
This is cinema.
If I kiss you,
that might be cinema.
midwest food stop with june and shannon
fat guy in small
car goes slow
eating wendys
car goes slow
eating wendys