Friday, October 21, 2011

nothing says amerika like a camo kilt

it's karaoke at the corner bar, friday nite.
i've twisted and turned you far
enough that you lost you your sense
of direction down by the river so yeah
let's sing.  you disappear after buying
a pepsi. the mic is manned by captain
and tenille (no relation) and a pool
game's going between the kilted man
with a red stripe on his head and a   burnt
out x addict in the add
on lean to . marge at the bar  serves
beer and wine and a glass of ice for my soda.
there's a hall to the men's room
you say
that's about 6 foot high, i had
to bend down i'm six three and
when you go down it you see this strange
metal texas chain saw
massacre wall in front of you and you
don't see the other door
till you're right up on it when i did
i said i hope this one's
the men's room , cuz i'm not goin
in there. it is  and the dooronly opens about yay wide
just  enough for a urinal .
you  look
around, take in the blinking disco lights
the flaking black tile ceiling, red brick wall
three thick girls in flashy club gear
one with a tiara on her head  say
i dunno how long this place
has been here but they built it
around whatever that thing is
a pool table
and her.
you nod toward the barkeep, i would
love to sit down and interview her
ask her what's the most interesting story
you can tell me about this place
then let her go -ten minutes later
you'd have a book.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

imagine now she grabs the weight, pumps and puffs
on a cigarette, feels the muscle burn. on her bed
an old photo of when she was 38, worker bee'd fat
fatuous fake smile behind glasses tries to hide  the distance

from the baby boy on her knee and in her daughter's eyes
she wants to find someone now who'll keep from her that again
the giving mom, the sacrifice, the fatted calf and then the knife.
she wants to find a different life.

is that you, she wonders, as she looks into the man
across from her at dinner, his card and hat in hand
i do make an awesome mate, refernces i cite
are all my exes who would entreat  you   do her right.

even her ex husband would say   after the pain.
she never wronged him , always fair
and she did try a lot of years to stop the marriage failure.
but when she falls from love, she never fucks you again.

 a wise man understands  her
thoughts, the wise man does
the choosing, for if by her
you're caught
all the world is oozing,
like an acid trip of sex she snares
then demands your heart
but she's completely fair for she gives
hers at the start. the secret
to the way she fucks is all of this, in part
the wise man understands
that   mystery keeps the start
restart the wise man understands.
this, the wise man wants her heart.

waltzing with the tissue paper ghost

--title: anne sexton

thanks for the call and the bong
im smoking from it now i
miss what we had for that short time
but i'm also afraid of roller coasters so
i think i'll just stay on the ground.

and i spose the best present you can give
me is your continued silence and the money
i think you owe me. it does me better
than any declarations or ridiculous dreams

it seems i finally drove you away
you didn't answer what i had to say
and anyway, that's just today.

lies, it's a  broken harpsicord
that makes me play rhymes that don't match
what i have in my snatch see
there i go again, lettin it in despite the empty
ness i feel then.

another bd without you here and i wonder
if ever dear you thought of how i gave you
all, whenever you were near, i'd fall
and hope that you could catch us both
but you were falling too, so nope.

i should stop this stupid game
but i won't, and it's a shame
that so many do, and don't
believe that all it takes is won't

give up. love's always just a little pup
shaking hungry cold and scared
longing  for a moment's supper
windy blown and almost there.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

not america, generica

the malls line up, discounts
branded, with predictable periodic fires
heating the irons. banana republic cows
and starbux pharmacies, i'll take
the next best thing to a transcontinental

cocktail. by now you know she's
on to the next town, flying attendence
to another crown. rolodexed rolex distribution
on seventh ave, psst hey  genuine swine

flu vaccine, it's a  good   solution
stamped made in usa. oh generica
how are ya, knocked off by knock ups
gimme a clone for my  phone
it'll do till i get some glue
for my pockets like
wall street's cool lockets
from taxpayer hide to bennigan's pride
closed last cycle, the numbers slide
fast as mcbride from the barstool all sockit
to me now baby with a twist and a fist
from the occupied. 


you hadda do what you hadda do
you know by now she's fucked ten other men
she never says "when", all down in the dirt
you like her in flirt, showin all that
now you suddently hurt, but that's just
the short skirt making you pant
on the long side of a rant
in pointy mexican boots
kicking ass with the jute,
wrong and right
on one side of the fence
talking mute .

Sunday, October 16, 2011

zombie jazz fest

if something's free
is it worth less?

at the jazz fest
the  polite crowd
in lawn chairs

nod  their heads
while da funk plays on
you'd think
zombies would be voracious
biting little children
and slow moving seniors
but no, the whole crowd's already infected
best not be detected, lay low
and if you dance, dance slow
you don't want
to be the next to go.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

dear blog

where is  my old page?

i hope that new design is just a hiccup

so i finally figured out why i am so reclusive
it was when the sharing thing on the boards
became a battle of possesiveness or maybe it was
when i realized that the possessiveness
was really not an aberation but standard operating
procedure, after seeing it pinch our asses, like,
a thousand different times. it was not even that the voices
sounded alike, it was that people got jealous of the resonances
they didn't like the harmonics, the pings, the spreading
into cliche and commonplace bon mots of certain authorship

i always liked the chorale implications of   group,
obviously, the way a writer  can take lead
for a while, then fade out and other soloists would
emerge, a jazz of poems, riffing off each other
like centaurs or peacock women. there's a mythological
creature that should be more popular.

i do not see that on fb. j's still doin his thing
but everyone wants to know etymology
did you write this, what is the author's name
who did the mpg, who owns the goddam copyright?

maybe i'm wrong. i should read more people.
that peadon woman is funny. good writers on there
some of them my friends. or
 it's the format. i don't like it. 
i'm so old skool. but it seems less about the word
than blog. more about self promotion
but maybe that's what poetry has always been about?

or not. author author. no, a poem is in the giving.
then it becomes the readers, the listener's. only then
does it take on new life, and grows in each new mind.
the author is not the point. the duende is.

ive forgotten my meds too many days now

what you have is toska
she said to the wall she hit
  you look at her from
the front seat of your borrowed car
face like gogol's lover,fire

gaaahhh. begin again.

toska, a burning, an emptiness, a vague
restlessness, a longing without object, an object
disappearing into a memory
dredged out of ten years and a   trip
to places i never  belonged.

this is what you gave me
in articulate sadness
for years until the writing dwindled then ceased
rifted   by anonymity and motility
the unparisienne accent y mental parochial particles
  a longing for an object
that became the subject
that wanted to be everything
this life was not, a sudden
well into the fifth decade of "wait, what?"

and no, i dont think this writing's the thing
it was a while ago, and yes, my neck
is bothering again, and no, the dishwasher's
on the verge of being used against its will
so don't soak the silverware, just load it
close the doors and push start.

you've left me all saudade, in portugal
as it splits from the iberian pennisula
you on that side, me on this of a divide
no one can explain, though some saw it coming-
most notably, you.

i don't know know why, and anyway, that's not
the important question is it, but i don't know
how it is you come to me in these guises
that i can't translate, being all wabi sabi on the subject
of masks. i can't keep up with the mental ten k 
not even if i walk and blog's having issues
with save n pac. stuttering a bit behind what i'm able
to transcribe even so it's all stop motion memory.

there's a picture of you gagging on your dinner
here's one of me, twirling on the blue ball
a peripheral cameo of your gray presence
the color of your aura sunday wouldn't reveal.

you should avoid loud noises and the blogs of former lovers
in the throes of saudade. i have made you all into one
an alchemy of distillation, a tincture of love's loss.
how can it smell other than a wilted rose?

let's move that into the new lexicon because baby, it's rampant.
loss is love's opposite.

you have what is known as ocd. it's not full blown
only evidences itself  in periodic addictions or in the case
of societital approval, certain religious practices
or professions such as accountancy and technician.
if you recognise the patterns, can you break them
and remain functional? sane is a matter of opinion.


there is the listost you found yourself in
the abusive husband, the distant nagging wife,
the bratty princess child, the drug addict son,
the trashed potentials due not to society's shortcomings
but your own. you are your own misericorde.
relax the rules
dispense from fasting
forgive yourself it was
all your fault.

now take the weapon
  slice open the veil
this is the season
dead tell tales.

Saudade “refers to the feeling of longing for something or someone that you love and which is lost.
listost   a state of agony and torment created by the sudden sight of one’s own misery.

Sunday, October 09, 2011

two lizards tales

shads wastes away
like she has your spirit
in her. if true, then she's
the portrait and you're the one
shooting heroin and fucking
young blond russian girls.
or maybe boys. or maybe both.
(come on, it's a side you
prolly should explore

hey, at least i'm letting you have sex.
you always liked seeing yourself
 in writing but weren't sure
which was you, or if any one was.
trust me when i say
they all were, especially the ones
i met before you.  
if anyone heard the poems
i brought to read that night
 it was a miracle composed of
two assorted lizard tales, quick fr:ozen
on the worst christmas ever
and a pinch of confidence
leaving me holding the leftover
appendage between my fingers
while you make your escape again.

Thursday, October 06, 2011

familiar with these shades

so then i remembered
what the numerolgy new age nurus
tell us. you are god,right?

the vibe you put out is   what comes back to you so
rhimwes. that's my vibe. rhimwes. oh yeah babe
let the past go it's all flow it's magic time for those who know


i think you were
left over from the magic universe


i might be , but i can't know it.


you really think not?


it's my postulate ~to not know~

some days i have to work very hard
to sustain the ignorance.



is that what happened here?


stages and states

acceptance, that's one of them
so's sad.

today they announced the death
of a former plant supervisor and i thought
he's still alive? well, ummm, no.

then i'm removing a triac from a board
and all the sudden it dawns on me,
that i will never again
 feel your touch  and
  i've been holding on to a tension

that isn't there,a string that was cut a
hug that's only memory. so i guess
the tears are all about understanding
the nature of death, and what it means
to the ones left behind and i dunno bout you

but i'm so  tired of the pain
i wish there was a way to cremate
memories , use the ashes to dry my eyes
then scatter what's left to wind's twelve quarters,
let this whole damn state be love's grave.