Monday, September 22, 2014

I let go

And on the edges
like paint chipped
old and lead weighted
colors ancient drip
from cracked ceiling
cracked reality cracked
walls, flood of color like
love and the universe
staring through so much
I reach my hand in blinding
ooze of light and shape and
shadows some being beyond
the rim of understanding voices
like flashlights out into the sea

there comes and end to
everything and becoming
nothing is the next step

I let go

but not long enough

walk along the hard brown
shore listen to the hum of the
river the drowning wind
recall you've heard all this before,

only once

and that was moon
hanging overhead
overheard

what shape?

pull the rift closed
wipe running paint clean

it dries up again
it is lost
there where there
is no heavy drip
where the paint is sealed

there was never a hand
a body a reach a pull

only a funny dream,

Brother

Id like to sling tht ball through galaxies/
past gulfs of time/
into my brothers gloved hand/
hear tht satisfying POW of leather oil n skin/
scuffed with dirt/
off-white ball of displaced memory/
quickened by the long tears/
sadness grown from growing old/
in fields of calm green/
swaying gently in super nova breeze/
a golden star smiling/
film of dirt over mouth eyes/
taste of earth and daring and gods/
Id like to wait for him to toss it back/
to start all over again.

Friday, September 19, 2014

All these things

A current trend
is when I no longer try
spend all my time
pulling dead bones
across the floor
my dead and dry bones
grind and ache
draw lines of cocaine
sigils on nylon carpets
spit and torn on
coarse fibers
lie on back
eyes glazed over gray
follow movement of
ceiling stuck still
unwavering hours like
clouds drifting aimlessly
and fading into still-life
distance of day feeding
night and crickets blaring
heartrending songs earth
depressed sinking into
itself etched by hard
scrawl of my sagging
flesh pieces wearing
unrecognizable i cough
i wheeze become unknown
to even myself
I am without a reflection
there are no mirrors.

There is what is to be said

so many things

I scratch my face

SCAB crumbles
sticks in under my
NAIL

bite it out with
teeth
taste fleshy

chew and mull over

NOW

there is what is to be said

I say it

wipe spot of invisible
blood
invisible to my EYES
dot on cheek
rough skin

curling waves
thinning hair

I watch for movement
out my window
from my perch on sill
I see all
pretend nothing is
going

return to bed

don't forget the light
but I haven't
I never even turned it on

water rushes gurgles
cleans the skin
makes new for further
scaling

moon beams light
waves casts beckons

I twist and turn

remove my clothes
bathed in darkening night

I await the morning

Spiders

spider crawl in
corners on edges
skirt past my feet
hanging from legs
that rest on chair,
a body begins to break-
down? maybe. Not as
tight and fit as it used
to be. Arms dangle arm rest,
spiders have 8 mechanical
creaking limbs put one in
front of the other
children hide their faces
there is no light under the bed
but many webs
which belong to which?
you'll never know
webs belong to no one
they are like thoughts
once thought are gone
and can't be weaved
again caked with dust
and grime and skin flake
one thousand dreams
in the night all alone
moving silently rise
and heavy fall of chest
mouth open in grin
eight flashing eyes
darting breathes
inhale exhaled,

Thursday, September 18, 2014

Poet on Ode St

kind of irony

poet on Ode st.

cool fall morning
autumnal sky

like gray coals
on blue background
slivers of golden
light

plays tricks on
eyes

hands pull at grave stones
in feather caps
locked in your mind

Keats says,
"fuck it,"

words are viruses
paraphrased from
old bones Burroughs
dead and gone

this is neither that nor
this preternaturally
speaking preternaturally
knowing
*wink**wink*
like you're on to
something I'm not,

is it all those things you're
thinking at once?

my guess--

my guess is also
young flesh is beautiful
old is learned
with age and wrinkles
is like paste like
napalm that won't
rub off--

I am a cleft lip
hufffing spitting dreaming

writing about death is
writing about life
is stepping out into the cold
afraid

you have to be afraid
to jot it down

or else it don't work.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Everybody Read this Poem!

Everybody read
this poem!

it's come a long way
          *
it says less than
I want it to
but it's more
than I thought
I'd be able to say
          *
SIGNED & Dated
          *
a skeleton man
smokes a kief pipe
mutters about
hashish
got a friendly
robot by his side
arms raised up
into the air
feet are caterpillar
tracked
          *
they're both washed out
          *
they both wasted
          *
they dig this poem
quite a bit
'cause it's about us
says the robot
skeleton makes
no movement on
hearing just puffs
puffs
          *
puffs
          *
I drop an apple core
on the ground
for birds
they nibble away
watching me out
corner of black
eyes
          *
I write novels
sometimes
as poems
on paper
or plastic
recycled
          *
I misplace
the ending.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Left Alone

well
there's this sound
like gurgling brook
and gentle rapids
clean mountain
spring, my window
at night
street light
seeping in
half moon
lazy turned up on
it's side
dandelion
butter cup
shining silver
jets streak in black
sky crack silents
generator hurls
last bit of life
water still running,
feel it in my fingers
drilling sound through
my ears, clock ticking
and I am thinking to
no one is sleeping house
all full but empty
no words before breaths
no open eyes
but mine reddening
yellowed and tired
and old now
something that
shouldn't be,
cleansed by invisible
fountain, I'd like to
find my youth and innocence
and most of all ignorance,
my connection to
the still world outside
in here I listen to phantom
sounds, mysterious oasis,
questioning if what
I'm hearing is real.

Monday, September 15, 2014

These little rain drops

These
           little
rain
drops

pink flashes

break through
powder blue
clouds

hold onto
nightscape

indigo
edges

shadow

sunlit
reflections
in flourescent
sky

ruby blazing
crystal glare

awash
the globe
in scarlet
threads
memories

of the
morning

birds singing
radiators humming.

Friday, September 12, 2014

She says high to the back of my head

fall mornings
sun lazy on horizon
burning red
cloud cover drift
air is light
rustles sunflowers
at the corner
a squating cat
in tall grass
follows my gait
an empty street
vibrant colors
crisp autumn color
sweet smell
of calender pages tear
drop and torn
a sweet voice calls
like whispers between
sleeping trees
whithered leaves

Thursday, September 11, 2014

Take a Lesson from Tolstoy

what's the harm
in dashing off
short novels
when images
spike,

titles stir
and spiral
stair to cloudy
heavens
turn,

I glance at
sky
expecting rain,

sun alone,
pulsing,
day after day,
and soon
another week,
another month,
gone,

I need to find the lock
and pound out
the keys,

why can't I
get this pen going
when I've got
the damn line?--

A Spinning Nowhere

I've bled into toilet
bled onto page
wiped stench of puss
and broken zit on
monitor screen

a spinning nowhere;

footprints from metro
line--follow prey

aged accordingly

locked away in
cool, damp cellars,

fungus and green
smells--wretch
and cough

wheeze;

pack your lunch
trudge up cliffside
peer off the edge
focus on moon
gravid with orange
hue and night

sinking low--

call out and echo

no ears
within a
thousand
miles
will
hear.

Tript

it's that come dwn
mmnt

stars explode

black space

hand ovr eys

light and moon
overcast
              shadows
feeling

empty focus

seeing

thoughts bleed
into single strain

hole in head
filled

that mmnt b4 sleep

same running thoughts
bubbling over

I stand on the edge of great expanse
there is no other side

just oozing blue evermore

pulled bck through
stationary

time no longer spinning

listen to my own breath
still and soft

night wanes
starry

night
sky

night

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

17 minutes from here

I'm cleaning up
draft poems
that are half poems,
stilted thoughts,
unrealized musings,
most are shit, believe
me,
      
        I'm up here
trying out words,
rewriting rhymes
until there aren't any
left,

        and it's a bonus
if they make no god damn
sense.     

Mail Absurdity

1
If found pl-
ease re-
turn to sender,

shipping
not guaranteed;

see, we've got all
these stamps
piling up
and
nowhere to
send them,
nothing to send
them on,

so you'll have to pay,

don't worry
whatever you send
won't ever get there
can't be traced

because we'll say
it doesn't exist,
we'll shake our heads,

2
There's a small opening
in space painted silver
fed on time

3
this poem is haunted

4
Remember we
never gave you
the right address

5
Send along your soul
anyways