Wednesday, September 07, 2005
another updating ding ding ding ding (read on)
End Times (of Another Soapbox Mantra)
In these times (today) people (all kinds of)
open up (like awaken or re-awaken) their eyes
(rip 'em out their if they can’t) in a flash
of enlightenment (from the Good Book).
Events crumble under a rumble of mortar (eruption of discretion)
headlines jaunt (liberal backwash) by half hearted
individuals (9 to 5ers) over morning coffee.
Prophets (come as politicians) but their seeds
often never grow. Convert (missionary) the immigrants
all muttering about conspiracy (slant media)
no more squiggles on the wall (tick tick tock)
or discrediting notions that bite back.
Revolting revelations (ad campaign) of Armageddon
instead of writing down quotations (just disclaim).
I used to watch the old ladies
squander around in the neon of the Walmart age,
some are angry (machines outdate human skeletons)
My prophet is stammering Bukowski
wailing away on the typewriter.
My bard is Oppen (open to opinions) yelling at O’Hara
(over a bridge of course) the street whispers one name
Berrigan while (my soul) pounded into greater minds.
The light bulb flashes (ding ding) by William Carlos
(Sanchez) rapping over some jittering backbeat
smoking Hashish from Ginsberg (ignore that homo)
beat by the bongo by a drunken Kerouac (meditating, again).
Shot in the head over a poker hand (dirty pair)
by Burroughs laughing from junk. Loathing Mexico City
(Aztec design) a foreign foot race than return to
Hunter’s Owl Farm for Happy Hour (margaritas don’t mix with politics).
I keep searching for my own voice among these fools mumbling
articulate words in my neurotic stutters.
Formation of digression around T.S.’s fascist Jello mold
As salty wounds blister I did not accept or reject any savior.
Jazz keeps on playing through Atlantis witnessing the ruins
(drudge the bottom) of a culture live on CNN, emissions of masturbation
swirl into the bullshit (a fly buzzes around my head).
Get‘er Donne, please state a cultural signification
echoes of literature classes (lost in the sea of nonsense)
redemption found in no education transmission.
Skeletons (barren bone and dust) line the closet
jitterbug cackle warzone (duct tape) as the HP Settermix tape rewinds on my stereo, I still believe I suppose.
In these times (today) people (all kinds of)
open up (like awaken or re-awaken) their eyes
(rip 'em out their if they can’t) in a flash
of enlightenment (from the Good Book).
Events crumble under a rumble of mortar (eruption of discretion)
headlines jaunt (liberal backwash) by half hearted
individuals (9 to 5ers) over morning coffee.
Prophets (come as politicians) but their seeds
often never grow. Convert (missionary) the immigrants
all muttering about conspiracy (slant media)
no more squiggles on the wall (tick tick tock)
or discrediting notions that bite back.
Revolting revelations (ad campaign) of Armageddon
instead of writing down quotations (just disclaim).
I used to watch the old ladies
squander around in the neon of the Walmart age,
some are angry (machines outdate human skeletons)
My prophet is stammering Bukowski
wailing away on the typewriter.
My bard is Oppen (open to opinions) yelling at O’Hara
(over a bridge of course) the street whispers one name
Berrigan while (my soul) pounded into greater minds.
The light bulb flashes (ding ding) by William Carlos
(Sanchez) rapping over some jittering backbeat
smoking Hashish from Ginsberg (ignore that homo)
beat by the bongo by a drunken Kerouac (meditating, again).
Shot in the head over a poker hand (dirty pair)
by Burroughs laughing from junk. Loathing Mexico City
(Aztec design) a foreign foot race than return to
Hunter’s Owl Farm for Happy Hour (margaritas don’t mix with politics).
I keep searching for my own voice among these fools mumbling
articulate words in my neurotic stutters.
Formation of digression around T.S.’s fascist Jello mold
As salty wounds blister I did not accept or reject any savior.
Jazz keeps on playing through Atlantis witnessing the ruins
(drudge the bottom) of a culture live on CNN, emissions of masturbation
swirl into the bullshit (a fly buzzes around my head).
Get‘er Donne, please state a cultural signification
echoes of literature classes (lost in the sea of nonsense)
redemption found in no education transmission.
Skeletons (barren bone and dust) line the closet
jitterbug cackle warzone (duct tape) as the HP Settermix tape rewinds on my stereo, I still believe I suppose.
Something new finally...
7:08 a.m. bad side
Follow a sort of schedule
more like an inkling to do one or another
decisions are hard to make in such
a foggy condition--
to walk to a toilet
or turn over
for 5 minutes half awoken
By the fuckin’ sparrows.
Joy to this
shit the mirror
over the sink
smudged with prints
mine, possibly.
One rapid glance
I see the generations of many
great (some not so) staring
at my red eyed observation.
Fantasies erupt of every man heroes,
brass balled soldiers, blue collar steel workers
definitely no poets.
No grandeur is set in these hands
callous and bruised thickness.
A hero poet not one with an ear to the street
the foot steps of others ignored by most
words dislodge my throat
sticking in the back of that bouncing thingy
words that often have that odor
like the one pair of shoes
walked too many miles in the rain
sticking to your foot
leaving soggy footed,
those are my words mind you.
I scratch myself and chuckle
choking back description of a dramatic narrative
more concerned with minute earth shattering details
for example, a discrepancy of choosing Capt’n’Crunch or toast,
oh the struggle of modern livin’.
Follow a sort of schedule
more like an inkling to do one or another
decisions are hard to make in such
a foggy condition--
to walk to a toilet
or turn over
for 5 minutes half awoken
By the fuckin’ sparrows.
Joy to this
shit the mirror
over the sink
smudged with prints
mine, possibly.
One rapid glance
I see the generations of many
great (some not so) staring
at my red eyed observation.
Fantasies erupt of every man heroes,
brass balled soldiers, blue collar steel workers
definitely no poets.
No grandeur is set in these hands
callous and bruised thickness.
A hero poet not one with an ear to the street
the foot steps of others ignored by most
words dislodge my throat
sticking in the back of that bouncing thingy
words that often have that odor
like the one pair of shoes
walked too many miles in the rain
sticking to your foot
leaving soggy footed,
those are my words mind you.
I scratch myself and chuckle
choking back description of a dramatic narrative
more concerned with minute earth shattering details
for example, a discrepancy of choosing Capt’n’Crunch or toast,
oh the struggle of modern livin’.
