Saturday, September 8, 2012

kicked in the eye

the wounds elevated
comedy and tragedy
resurected
and we as well,

by some gesture,
I think Proustian
a sentimental song
it was a surprising song,

we cracked under the pressure
of the atmosphere
the dead end
the kid with the black eye

you curse the ignorance
all this talk about Denver and Saint Louis
the muddy Mississippi river

your boat stuck against the rocks
the victims are all victimized
by the possessor

prodding me with your finger
trumpets and trombones
the book turned upside down
she put the republic away
back to it's place on the shelf

sigh and fondle
inside your leg
elusive thing
perfect lucifarge
he should be muddled
a bloody stain about the head

I don't know why
I only hear bits and pieces
I did see the master mix the letters together
in an old soup can
what do you mean?

he poured them into a can
and then, he stirred
mixed and mixed a gain
like shuffling
trying to cling to life


the practical is the wolf
how they behave in the penthouse
rolling the lumber
more caps for their pistols

extended travels
rattle snake handshake
looking for home
friends and family have gone
and the girls running after cows




a body in motion

you speak,
authored and second chance
the agenda tucked
tumbled
unique voice and intelligence

awakened the powers
you make it more intense than it need be
step back,
hold the shoulder
let blame fall

scurry behind the door,
under floor,
under the covers of the whimsical
could you?

and what of this, ... we

these things are not hidden
by putting them in plain sight,
we turn them into the mundane
and they are easily ignored by the masses
seeking to be entertained

denying the existence of the boundaries
according to your terms
my weakness and my power
to be left on the roadside
by the vision

a cosmic exile
yes and yes,
tell me more

once a self, ultimate
these frantic desires,
deceiving
my motives are only superficial

you were afraid to show your weakness
to pretend,

I was all you had,
even if the pretending made you,

... less, human


Friday, September 7, 2012

in the jungle

turns,
budding shoots,
no, not a turnip

the arms of the breeze
my old fan rotating
in the hum

fandango
thunder bolt and lightning

the ideas are more important than the things
i could not bring myself along

the pines
and the hunk of meat
the pink turning grey

a fucking tiger
sweet, are you still?

to justify their reality

i would not call them  cautious
the livig still vibrate
behind the walls


and you wanted your words to embody your convictions
strange pictures on these walls

shouting and stamping
mechanical assisted

the damsel in distress calls and I must go
off to write your death in stone
pin cushions
rosettes

Did I see you turn back?
and jump in to the deep end
 quicksand
pelicans

disturbed by the life you encountered
a room full of girls
begging for candy bars
through hell

with teeth and excrement
a life of blindness


this is america

being lost,
this is what we know best
to expect something and receive
something
totally different

a loss
I used to joke about god
and our foolish attempts to make plans

what does this reflect?
hardship
totalitarianism, maybe?
nationalism,
reginonalism,
a wine glass voice????

why should we sustain the crucificion metaphor?
what does this say about your morality?

sweat, sperm, saliva
I loved a world from each one
it was an empty mirror

the realness,
the cpacity to affect me
far removed from dancing feet
you want to hear more of the fool
and how he became a prince

how magic hung upon his breast


that was for a different time
the fool now sits on his front porch
selling crack cocaine
to white collar workers

everything a swindle
I can see the loss in his eyes
no one believes in him any more

angel eyes
naked and drugged
bleeding on the floor
looking stupid

skull warriors
popping pills
wall street terorists
hanging tombs

this is America



when love comes

abandoned devils
they, serve no self
no climb
the bowl that once contained rice,
is empty

to wrestle with the notion
that life could be overcome
not abandoned
in a roadside ditch
lolita

the means to a drug
mortal body
and divine universe

there is no self
only the primordial

my obsession
it keeps me
sorting the potatoes

high on mescaline
wandering to the nonesense
the musing of crickets
and bullfrogs

to fall into that well
instictively drawn

infantcy
the cry and moan
to pinch and tickle

they called her fancy
the best minds
no longer pulling the wagon

when love comes
there are no bargains
no repeal

she moves bleak

....

Carnival

the lies in your bedroom, spanish harlem
to communicte with the unknown
the unseen
unspeakable

tread upon
each soul's

hallucinating hallways
in the midnight

speak, oh jezabel of your bustle
summoned the dead
leaving us uneasy
moving between worths

I saw you somewhere outside
it was lunchtime
a mutual surrender
to speak the truth of the future
of all futures

pecker check
with pliers
cherished scraps in their drawers
that you can't decipher

a snowy landscape
unfiltered by the mind
just stark and bare
new minds

we will soon have to corrupt them
make them usless for their mothers
wearing out their shirts
in a room

the clock ticks
hands and knees
to race out the door
with tears stinging their eyes

saying their prayers
a little town main street
it once was a forest
a home for squirrels

popular tongue
stainless steel
errands under blue skies
fish jumping waters
bumble bee wings

run Esmeralda
seek that which you cannot find
with your wild hair
and bony legs
all mare
and no nightmare

to the crimes
rust polished off all my instruments
the love letters
and fat cigars



Tuesday, July 10, 2012

You soldier yourself into  corner, wanting to count the ways and means. Welcome home was all that you could hear against the applause It is all about what has been here before. There was no seam to be taken in.  I will remember how it is that your heart beats. This stream of being moves on past us. It curls right up next to the stranger. I will be there in the last.