Friday, October 31, 2014

End of October

night tumbles
blue-gray gently
over orange glowing
sky, facing west
sun glides burning
sinking blazing
toward horizon line
lights up what's left
of daylight in bonfire
heavenly holiness,
autumn nights come
earlier, last longer,
chilly and cool,
dark-like endless,
there's a new idea
on fallen leaves
scattering under gray
lifeless street signs,
a great void speaking,
whispered and ancient
calling after time.

Angel

There ain't no moon
                             tonight,
darling, no clouds
                             tonight,
angel, I can see
                             tonight,
love, the infinite
                             tonight,
and I'm brooding
                             tonight,
silently wondering
                             tonight,
how we're both here
                             tonight,
somehow lonesome,
                             tonight,
in all this darkness
                             tonight,
repeating mistakes
                             tonight,
and I won't hear you
                             tonight,
asking questions
                             tonight,
where am I going
                             tonight,
where are we
                                         ?

Now I'm stealing titles

tossing them on floors
with the rest of the shit
that won't stick on the walls,
won't go anywhere,
doesn't belong anywhere.
I'm stealing titles
wrecking my keyboard
tearing up the keys,

I don't type so fast anymore,
I've noticed I have less to say--

I'mrunningdry--

looking anywhere for a deeper
go-between for a score,
in the meantime I'll play
the literary break-in,
employ the thieves,

much has been written about me
in the future,

a big name--

I've seen it--

just don't know if I'll make it there
before I'm gone.

Cheers

Last day of gray skies
I'll try to make
it--but the space bar
is spent no action
from the right side
no selling my taps
bent on backspace
backspace repetition--
not much left to do
but drown in anonymity,
right? write for the finish--
I said that once, write for the
very, write to the bitter end--
there's nothing left,
nothing more meaningful
than the word--
so get fucking going,
go on--

Monday, October 27, 2014

It's been two--three weeks...

He rocks back and forth
by the curb's edge
hands clasped on his knees,
big slack jawed grin
under eyes like a blue sky,

"you know they're
injecting them with that
virus there, the C-D-C!" he goes,
"that's how they do it, you'll
see, we'll be hearing about it,
you know, the highways
are like a wall in Houston
(he shows 6 fingers) they got
a wall 6 miles--yeah--6 miles
and another 12 (he shows 10
then two more finger) miles
out--they're boxing us in!"

a guy drops some change
in his cup moving out from
behind me so I can't get a look
except for his back and the
impression of a grey tailored suit,

"you watch yourself," he waves,
"they don't want us to think!"

You too, I tell him
turning to go,
I take a look back
after I cross the street,
he's rocking back and forth
still, one hand on his knee
the other waving an old dixie cup,

there's a cop at the corner opposite,
a squad car rolling down the block,
somebody absently touches
the handle of a gun,
crowds of blank faces
multitudes of empty eyes,
the next day I pass by,
he's no longer there,
replaced by white sign outlined
in red:

"No parking 10/17 for street cleaning"

Friday, October 24, 2014

So, this is where we've ended up?

these halls are rare everyday halls
wielding pitchfork meant to stick
in our backs,
                     they draw hot, pink blood,
birth flashes and implant false memories.

this is all you
will ever be
it has been
decided.

be quick on your feet,
we operate in pockets of
immateriality drowning
each moment,

"society is dependent on
ego-protection," she
said to me, as she walked
off the platform into
oncoming trains,

the officer at the scene
told me not to think too
much about it, grasping
my wrist, doctors offered
me pills, wrote my
visions down before
devouring them.

I wiped my shoes at the front door,
faint sounds and echoes in the red brick
alleyway adjacent,
                              murmurs without time or place,
 crumpled soldiers returning from imaginary wars.

Thursday, October 23, 2014

Climbing

I.
A short
rainbow sprinkled
madness

run from
the drone
of hallucination

spy the mountaineer
in high wool socks,
shibuya boots lined
in red, heavy pack,
red bandanna,
leaning forward
peers over edge
one foot raised to peak,

"it's in your head,
 this vision."

II.
a falling pebble
clacks on cliff side
drops 7000 feet

where it lands
where it came from

there's no difference

life is life.

III.
thoughts
gouge out
circles in your
mind

indifferent glances
toward the ground

there are rocks
in your gut
emitting light

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Spam in Spam Alley

THese Are THe SPam
poems
sent directly to your
recycling bin
UNread

SOmetimes
there's a man standing
in the rain
on cold fall nights
his wife is hurling
curses, indistinguishable
words, unattainable
promises,

I wonder what it
takes to sit and type
those emails all day, or
what computer program
randomly generates
them,

a lifeless
bent shadow heads
down the alleyway
shifts suddenly, almost
sadly, disappears,

I type a hurried
response, send
without signing
my name,

a female voice drones on
into the night,
no returning footsteps,
only emptiness,
the vacuumed
spaces in between,
and no ears but mine
listening,

[Error: Mail could not be delivered]

Watch television on your phone

screens lined up,
they pace behind,
dressed in army
fatigues threads
of net neutrality,
listen! Hammer
pulled back,
click of old rusted
metal (we forget how
reality feels) slam,
a sickening life-like
sound, gun--shatters
over mute settings,
ringing fiber-
optic nightmare
one by one prisoners
lurch forward
brain matter anti-matter
spilling on granny
elevator floors,
a million tv audiences
cry out and silence,
sound travels slowly
so we all type out--

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

they've got models
living in camera-ed rooms
filling screen time,
Hollywoodland time,
reality mojo,
through inner-tube
highways broadcasting
their life force across
miles and cityscapes into
your unlit living room
everyone showing
white sad walls,

you can't help
thinking is that how
we live

but you
can't think it,

it's not allowed,
it's just sex and I'm the star she
says before she takes
out her dick
and before you realize
you've made it to the
wrong room,
made it with the wrong girl,
she's got the gun out
from behind her
cybernetic overcoat
and this window
is gone too,

the virus has evolved
language and pictures
aren't safe

the global village is a lie

it's an execution
of the soul

7,000,000,000 views
7,000,000,000 likes

click to view.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

How I intended it

all words die
on books never opened
in darkened corners
covered in cobwebs,
damp with mildew,
spilling worms,

all writers are 
meant to be
forgotten,
obscured by
anonymity 
or in fame,
poverty or
riches--

to be the 
only thing that
remains, or
to be nothing--

words 
scrawled 
on grave
stones,
slowly 
eroding
like the 
body
like the 
mind
desperately
fading,
failing

black ink,
abyss,
oblivion.

Plum St.

I've think about it,
going back there,
turning left at the house
with the teal shingles,
walking down that quiet street
and finding that little
duplex and its square parking lot
in back, stuck between single homes,
I imagine I'd stand at the
edge of the grass on the front
lawn and look up to the second floor,
into those windows I can't quite
remember, fearful of taking another
step and slipping back there
into childhood and the past,

I can see the little circular kitchen table,
at the end of yellowed tile,
wood box tv set in the corner where
my dad hid a toy he'd gotten me
in a paper bag, the tweed couch facing
it,

my big orange cat shuffles
down the hallway, the same one
he'd run so fast through that
he'd take a few steps along
the wall,

Mom is everywhere, I can't
manage one single memory
but that the whole house was
her,

I'd turn from the house,
never touching one blade of
grass and head to the park at
end of street where once I'd hit
a lightning bug with a baseball
bat, swinging and watching
his light and life trail off into
the darkness,

I am still cursed, I have
still not forgiven--

then I'd sit there maybe,
sit there alone, I'm not sure
what else I'd do, what
else I'd see,

I've grown old,
I've gone away,
I can't even hold onto memories.

Friday, October 17, 2014

Your leg resting on mine

I am awake

watching the
shadow of
blinds
stretched
elongated
deformed
spread
across
ceiling

I see an idea
in its pale
existence,
its almost-
never-there
shape,

the night is on to something,
in streaks and bleary
light, in reflections
catch the rain,

it's
moving in the
right
direction.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Evermore, Everlasting

is there such a thing?
                                  you grind your teeth as
                                         you fall asleep
                                         a foot under cover
                                         a foot out
or nothing?
                     I am naked beside you
                             hands under chest
                             on my stomach
                             eyes facing you
will it ever end?
                          milky way spiral big dipper
                                     sound in the night
                                     dark and restless angel
                                     of the far gone away
or is there never ever?
                                     holding a torch for you
                                                  burning at the edge
                                                  unburdened by space
                                                  untouched by time    

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

The Blue Line

watch blue line
on map move like
marker 'cross
cuts and daggers
ridges of stone,

tan/yellow/green
moves around
gray/red/blue
impassable objects,

line swings down
and takes in the
grand old mysterious
south, foggy in our
child's eye,

oh, those places we
haven't been!

that golden sun
bakes the earth
that dark, dark night
of my dreams,

what's out there, hey?

what's there left to find?

where the wheels go next
my body follows

down
down

ah, great abyss,

falling
falling

650 pages

the
collected
works
of
Tom
Pescatore
an
obscure
and
relatively
ignored
poet
who
wrote
in
the
early
21st
century.

He
published
nothing
of
merit
or
of
literary
importance
or
 relevance
and
died
unknown.

His
impact
on
American
poetry
is
still
up
for
debate
though
most
scholars
seem
to
agree
that
he
had
none.