Friday, April 17, 2015

To afternoons

big sun up on hills
over my imaginary
sandcastles put-put-
puff-smokers on the
balconies of the past
huff and spill smoke
on bowed heads laugh
for some joke dead
long ago no connective
tissue to the current
gray be-speckled
reality I scratch whispers
into the filament saying all this
saying nothing each mark
a pencil gash on my notebook
page each gash a woman
I've loved each gash a'
sailing into universal void
oblivion each microscopic
ash a truth fading away

oh quail egg sky

you're a thousand years old
you'll never change

you'll never go on and die
          you'll never--
                    never--
                                will you?
                                will you?

Wednesday, April 15, 2015

University Yard

workmen in navy blue
t-shirts navy blue hats denim jeans
hoist hollow aluminum metal scaffolding
with thin white rope, cracked dry hands
in the afternoon in-n-out sun pull beige
tarps over heaving calling one-two
pull on two breath on one repeating
one-two-one-two until metal rungs
jam on the line and foreman untangles
going hey hey wait wait okay okay
now one-two again one-two and it's over
and covered and now sits like little A-frame
houses, colorless carnival tents and
blue workers scatter silently off to
further work zone problems and I
am there reading on a bench facing
whole scene 2:15 bells leaning
elbows on knees skimming prose
solid immobile phantasmal
taking down lost moments
depositing them here.

Monday, April 13, 2015

Old Glory

a horror vision of Old Glory
flash front in my windowed agony
blaring red white red blue whipped
o'er my tinny head, clang of rope
on sheer metal drop, fills my lungs
hallowed howling into coming night
a sign of death's head agony

I am scrambling back

thin hiss of compression breaks
rabble of rabble of voices
on the shores of fallen south american kings
african kings world kings
jack boots ground beef faces underneath

all this on my dying bed

fading spring sky thinning blood
tearing at the tears running from
wasted veiny dry eyes sandpaper eyes
stumbling stammering washed out
in gory gory grays of twilight horror

a hell america a demon banner
a stalking army a lusting flag

Sunday, April 12, 2015

At night you're not real

at night, in purple hued gold ribbons,
transformers play catch
atop telephone poles in
animated unrealities,
I imagine they say:

"these things you are writing are not unique
but they are life they are frozen sad bits
they are left to static belief they will be
forgotten long after you are dead."

possessed, I am, and feverish,
can't feel the air hissing and
shouting and knocking through
my window, against the soaking rain
the blinds rattling,

it's there, it's there--

my view is a painting on a backdrop
my fame will never come before old age

I am caught in a foolish race

and the sounds
the sounds
god, the sound,

I don't understand why I have to listen--

Typewriter heroes

a thing the typewriter had going for it
was that it was probably harder,
tho not impossible, for a cat
to sit on it while you were writing.

Saturday, April 11, 2015

Columbia river pk. st. rd.

'ey kid these fingers work too
fast to worry about which comes 
first g or n or what thought makes sense

corner coffee shop
side of columbia pike
buses pull up at regular intervals
16H 16J 16X rundown 
character wait on saturday 
head for part-time shit-time jobs
at the other end of the pike
maybe skyline city whatever 
that is of where I don't know

Barista tells me his just
found some books and records
he'd lost, been lost for 15 years
that's a hole in the heart
too think to imagine--I think
of my copy of A Farewell to Arms--
still not sure where the damn things gone--
coffee breaks my reverie his triumph

spring wind wails woutside where
wallowing well I walk to the car can't
stomach the microwave mecca masterpiece
of Bob n' Edith's shit slop spectacular
calls itself home cooking in the atomic age,
tv dinner relative reality neon orange vomit cheese
masquerade. I can't even turn my head disdainful 
I just wretch, but the coffee helps the ice the blue sky damn
just fuck it and blow the red, no cops no yellow no light
I don't stop I don't give a fuck, I can't stand that rotten smell

coast on home sailor squid down the hill
tunnel under 395 cars swish silent saturday swell
I'm almost relieved at the stop, I take it in stride
bus' break sput sput swush psssssssssss
I'll be taking that gig come monday
either way the world ends--putz--I got a book 
waiting in this here mailbox, a cat at home,
coffee in hand--Now I wonder,
ya know, I'm thinking, just about 
what some of those lost book title were.

Friday, April 10, 2015

Plaid Shirts

and this guy stands up
reciting from memory
the last paragraph of a book
to a book called a book named
on the road, and Joe looks at me
taps me on the chest with his
finger taps me on the chest
and i lean in lean in to hear
what he has to say leaning in
to hear him and he goes
he taps me on the chest and
he goes hey can you believe
this guy he says can you believe
this guy what the fuck and I laugh
not sure yet if this is a real memory
or a dream memory or if either is
either or if they are any different
after you dream them and the
guy keeps on going until he trips
up on that line that line about God
and Pooh Bear he trips up on the line
saying and wouldn't you know
and it's not and wouldn't you know
it's and don't you know he screwed
it all up and there's a sense of who cares
but we laugh anyway laughing
in wonder why are we standing there
or how we got there and who is
this guy and what's his big hang up
he seems to be hung up and reciting
but for no other reason but to recite
and it's like that argument between
memory or melody in a song by
Billy Joel and I still think it's memory
I'm pretty sure it's memory.

Thursday, April 9, 2015

Look for me, I'll be out THERE

those vibrant greens of georgia
snake and wind around fresh
cool rivers, bubbling springs,
manmade bridges, creaking &
flimsy under heavy foot tread,
those green fields cut by
wire fences, shrinking barns
lead right up to foot of sprawling
brawny mountain ranges
stretch from here to here and
from the corner of your eye
to the end of the earth,
those colors of the high hills
and nothing like it as cars wind
on winding roads a silent
rumbling slumber of easy
curves and dead man's curves
and drops and rises, steep and
rushing elevations, battered trunks
and faded rucksacks in back

how many lands have you seen, hey?

Look for me, catch a flash out thy windowpane,

I'm flying along, breathing it in,

here and now, foreverbound.

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Saints

There were three saints lined up against a brick
it was old brick, cracked and decayed, and they were standing there

a bullet was fired at each, from three separate guns,
they were facing away from the wall, facing at the shooter

the first saint was struck and died instantly,
he died with a strained look of acceptance on his face

the second said stared back indignant, nostrils flared,
he struggled on the ground for hours, chewing and spitting dirt,

the third bent to shake his killers hand,
he fell like rags and withered on the floor at death feet,

three bullets from three guns held by three hands recoiled
against same body same hands same steel

three body bags dragged into the gutter
blood like rainbows follow the trail

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

Night Light

typing naked by my window,
keyboard covering genitals
I wait for rain or the whine of my cat

he is somewhere under bed,
the rain is moving slowly east,
he is silent, sleeping, dreaming,
the clouds are heavy, sinking, bitter,
he wheezes, exhaling, purrs,
the night is humid, dreary, long,

sky dark, wind gust,
my cat sleeping soundly, still,
ignores the coming storm.

mountain whispers

wet mud
white squares
650 miles
13 hours

a sinking valley
smoke colored
strewn in washed
blue/gray/green
vibrant flashes

frozen stems
of dew reaching south
turn along the
mountain's edge

three thousand and
some feet up
crack of boots
and slop of trail

southern terminus
out swinging gate
an arch among the crag
a door upon the mount.

Friday, April 3, 2015

Nothing ever happened, not even this

-Ack I'm continued
from the last strain single
last puzzled thought of night
drip drop drooping oozing
to inarticulate mass
hallucination, what's behind
our refrigerator doors?--but
same old stuff--same old
slattern shit--hang man hangman
what's it gonna be? this is all
a dream anyway, dig? this poem
is last stanzas of a bridge before
of a poem underground of
some mish-a-mash of words
you haven't all but have read--
this preternatural whisk, this demon's
door, this horror drawn 'cross time,
this sad lost, lost happy memory
eulogized, all that has
happened, all time and the universe
has been leading up to this
moment, like birth, like crystallized
embryos shattered and reaching
from out explosions died
aeons ago, died and archiac,
gone and gone and gone
and never-ending, never-here
never-where, in this dream
never-finished, where
there's no one left
to save, no one left
to wake up.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

Connected

scratch that permalink
for the smell-O-vision
mark up-poison-tipped
shortcut for the next
internet reality next
one thousand minutes
and lost goes our day
for tits and dick in hand
waiting for the perfect cum
shot goes sunset midnight
early morning what's been
gained but there's so many
days 'gene so many days
not as many as there used to be
but still but still my sonny
soon there won't be more ahead
than behind and without and
within over darkened rooms
and just as big as you please
computer screen lights
glare out rainbow strobe lights
tag our mind to the clock
same odd dangling fear
of yesteryear
off go the lights
blank goes the porch
broken blue-back underlined hi-ways
click click clik cli cl--

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

The Mountains were his masters

For Mike Gabow

Appalachia, come freeze on those ancient mountains
with me,

Appalachia, come drain the green blood
of the green fairy's nose,

Appalachia, come puff thick clouds of smoke
sent steaming into chilly air,

Appalachia, come sleep one last night before
I go,

Appalachia, come dream another dream
of where you'll know,

Appalachia, come climb the rusty hills of
georgia heading north,

Appalachia, come dawn the oaken branches
and scarlet birds will sing,

Appalachia, come dusk the footsteps and the
struggling fire will fade,

Appalachia, come spring on the
trail led by rains,

Appalachia, come summer and rolling fields,
fleshy green meadows,

Appalachia, come fall I'll be home again
flush and fresh faced in the great white north,

Appalachia, come winter I'll be gone from you
and your endless white summits,

Appalachia, come 'round the mountain
to sing your haunting songs,

Appalachia, come with me all my life,

Appalachia, Appalachia, I am yours.

Monday, March 23, 2015

Never bring the book from the writer of a town you're going to see

strike through that valley
like five flashes of lightning,
like one,
in a car you've never seen,
down from the bottom,
south through the top,
past those old smokey
mountains, hidden towns, &
golden diners, by the sun's
rise, those ancient rays,
hit the tail of georgia
the sulking, brooding south,
in the appalachian hills,
leave a man behind, to walk
2,300 miles home, we'll be in
Maine come september, we'll be
welcoming home.