Sunday, October 22, 2006
stream of consciousness
Subjective Paranoia
The corner house always has the lights on
My neighbor stares outside
I find it unnerving so I never stare back
But often feel his stare down my back
With my hands full of clothes
Food and books he just pierces me
All I see is his shadow
No eyes or facial details
I often have a fear of being judged
Not neurotic but rather unnerved
By the feeling of not succeeding
It’s my monkey I carry on my back
As a failed educator I feel responsible
For molding a generation and my own at times
But what can I pass on some head in the clouds
mystic revelation I decoded from scrolls
Alas my desk has no sand script
I often dream of not finding things I need
Jim Carroll is usually on my ipod
Talking about all his friends that aren’t there
I got a book from the library on how to write
Trying to find the right rules to break
The lady I interviewed with had two moles
She reminded me of Cindy Crawford but younger
She told me needed a fast thinker on their feet
A person who can devote long hours to fruitless projects
Do you have a calling for advertising
She told me to sign the paper and my soul will be owned
She asked me if I had a problem with criticism
I lied and said no that I had a tough skin
But I also hate the editor that asked me to write more “Hip”
How can you capture something no one can define
I am pretty sure I will not get the call back
Especially with my condescending talk
I also rolled my eyes at the inane waste of time
Working without making a real difference
My friend said I was too ideological
But I want my voice to infect the global community
Only on my terms which I seem to be in search for
But I sit there mumbling nonsense occasionally typing
Old Rain Dog
Shot of bourbon poured
slam a cracked whiskey shot glass
down on the bar.
Shreds of flesh ripped
I look down and see a red river
natural healing, a Christ-like intoxication.
Walking home with a bloody rag
catholic guilt standing in the way of public drunkenness
tripping over the empty wine bottles.
In this hallowed street, a whine baptizes me with sauce
from a brown deli bag the bottle communes with my dry lips.
In the alley I meditate as the others walk
smoking cigarettes in a drunken hallucination.
No use for sleep when you are born to lose
dreams are for the 9 to 5 fools not prophets
but in the end you see the light on your apartment
realizing the mess you may be in so you go up.
The Holy Mother lies in my bed she the whore
slips into my pants cupping balls.
Her lipstick swirls like a prostitute, her crotch burns
the depths a man will sink -- a sacrifice
people make to live righteous.
All night I lie on a worn mattress listening in silence
to the trains rattle the walls, play tough always
recalling my Catholic upbringing every Sunday
standing on the altar next to a nameless entity.
Going through a routine of a motionless ceremony
the blasphemy burns regret in my chest
the rosary sits on the oak dresser – an antique.
The first time smoking weed with the other altar boys
after mass one of them pulled out the joint
cough and smoke burned like incense.
Visions of dooms haunted me whenever my eyelids shut
so the lack of sleep keeps me in a state of sharpness
sometimes words haunted him.
Rodents
When I write poetry I hear the mice crawling in the ceiling
When I take a shit I hear rodents playing and talking and eating
They speak bad about me criticize how I write
Think they know more about writing than I
I tell them I can hear them than they just start squeaking
Fuckin’ bastards the cruelest critics.
They hide from me but wait when I am watching a movie
And crawl in front of the living room to interrupt
They wait until I have a date to crawl on the table
Or when I am unpacking groceries they crawl out of the bags
Fuckin’ bastards the trickiest tricksters.
They help themselves to food I keep in my fridge
I still have not figured out how they open the door
But now they are dead because I called the exterminator
That will show those fuckin’ bastards
The corner house always has the lights on
My neighbor stares outside
I find it unnerving so I never stare back
But often feel his stare down my back
With my hands full of clothes
Food and books he just pierces me
All I see is his shadow
No eyes or facial details
I often have a fear of being judged
Not neurotic but rather unnerved
By the feeling of not succeeding
It’s my monkey I carry on my back
As a failed educator I feel responsible
For molding a generation and my own at times
But what can I pass on some head in the clouds
mystic revelation I decoded from scrolls
Alas my desk has no sand script
I often dream of not finding things I need
Jim Carroll is usually on my ipod
Talking about all his friends that aren’t there
I got a book from the library on how to write
Trying to find the right rules to break
The lady I interviewed with had two moles
She reminded me of Cindy Crawford but younger
She told me needed a fast thinker on their feet
A person who can devote long hours to fruitless projects
Do you have a calling for advertising
She told me to sign the paper and my soul will be owned
She asked me if I had a problem with criticism
I lied and said no that I had a tough skin
But I also hate the editor that asked me to write more “Hip”
How can you capture something no one can define
I am pretty sure I will not get the call back
Especially with my condescending talk
I also rolled my eyes at the inane waste of time
Working without making a real difference
My friend said I was too ideological
But I want my voice to infect the global community
Only on my terms which I seem to be in search for
But I sit there mumbling nonsense occasionally typing
Old Rain Dog
Shot of bourbon poured
slam a cracked whiskey shot glass
down on the bar.
Shreds of flesh ripped
I look down and see a red river
natural healing, a Christ-like intoxication.
Walking home with a bloody rag
catholic guilt standing in the way of public drunkenness
tripping over the empty wine bottles.
In this hallowed street, a whine baptizes me with sauce
from a brown deli bag the bottle communes with my dry lips.
In the alley I meditate as the others walk
smoking cigarettes in a drunken hallucination.
No use for sleep when you are born to lose
dreams are for the 9 to 5 fools not prophets
but in the end you see the light on your apartment
realizing the mess you may be in so you go up.
The Holy Mother lies in my bed she the whore
slips into my pants cupping balls.
Her lipstick swirls like a prostitute, her crotch burns
the depths a man will sink -- a sacrifice
people make to live righteous.
All night I lie on a worn mattress listening in silence
to the trains rattle the walls, play tough always
recalling my Catholic upbringing every Sunday
standing on the altar next to a nameless entity.
Going through a routine of a motionless ceremony
the blasphemy burns regret in my chest
the rosary sits on the oak dresser – an antique.
The first time smoking weed with the other altar boys
after mass one of them pulled out the joint
cough and smoke burned like incense.
Visions of dooms haunted me whenever my eyelids shut
so the lack of sleep keeps me in a state of sharpness
sometimes words haunted him.
Rodents
When I write poetry I hear the mice crawling in the ceiling
When I take a shit I hear rodents playing and talking and eating
They speak bad about me criticize how I write
Think they know more about writing than I
I tell them I can hear them than they just start squeaking
Fuckin’ bastards the cruelest critics.
They hide from me but wait when I am watching a movie
And crawl in front of the living room to interrupt
They wait until I have a date to crawl on the table
Or when I am unpacking groceries they crawl out of the bags
Fuckin’ bastards the trickiest tricksters.
They help themselves to food I keep in my fridge
I still have not figured out how they open the door
But now they are dead because I called the exterminator
That will show those fuckin’ bastards
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Emergent Minds (a small series)
Emergency Room
There seems to be
No need for me to message you a snippet of conversation--
We consolidate any passion which we could share
Between our lives as a sacrifice to process.
A process beckoning
Our words into our actions in which mellow drama ensues
Cocktail party to happy hour to a show-- the habitat of Man
& Woman into the deep shallow end of a swimming pool.
The walls concave
As globs of afterbirth absorb into the soil – life process 101
The quietness rejoins loud shouting-- whispers nods of sleep
Cajole into a celebration of sickness a gloomy atmosphere.
A scent of sterile filth
Lingers seat to seat between all the coming and goings of all.
The madness in the smoking section all due to selective paperwork
spare me this for just a couple moments until I receive urgent care.
Treatment
drugs i prefer the white pills
the mellow ones with the writing
1200mg the ones that keep you quiet
until the room begins to spin tilt a whirl
no Tylenol™ shit get me the white ones
i smoke outside shaking in a process
of reconciliation the way I pray is self medication
the way I self medicate is to numb the treatment
i have not gone to the bathroom in days
i smile to indicate the uncomfortable awkwardness
of borrowing a cigarette from a stranger with a neck brace
my colon is black my IV still works
the machines keep me medicated
i almost prefer the muggy rain it keeps me entertained
there is a certain perspective one must keep
to keep the mind relaxed and calm
i could never do the meditation
no new age crap for me boy just the medication
the pills are my salvation
my generation is medicated
Urgent Care
I like the nurse with black bra
She’s seems to be a medical assistant
I wonder if she works much
I think it might be impolite to ask
She has a freckle on her nose
And when she checks my blood pressure
I notice the frilly black bra
I wonder if she saw that I looked
I wonder if she wore it on purpose
Her blue scrubs hide her figure
She seems like no nonsense type of person
I make a joke not even a eyebrow raise
She is at work not at a bar
I feel self conscious
She pokes me in my stomach
I pretend to not feel any pain
She tells me to stop smoking
And looks into me eyes
Like she really means it
Wait-It-Out
spinning my wheels
one door way into another
a maze of sorts.
The man pushing me seems
to not to talk to the sick
he sort of seems to be
intent on getting me there.
Not quite sure where there is
but another waiting room
to wait for another.
I wonder how much waiting
is done in a single day
this place is built around the idea
of waiting for help.
Success is the ability
to wait it out to wait out a gamble
people who cannot wait
often find themselves at risk.
I wait for the x-ray
I wait for the cat scan
I wait for the doctor
to tell me what she thinks we should do
wait it out she replies.
I wait for my pain medicine
I wait for the bill to come
from the hospital.
Anticipation builds from waiting
a certain feeling you have
in your gut just to wait
but what if we had instant results
would we get nervous right away
would we worry so much
would we be so happy when we waited
and what we waited for was all worth it--
I am so impatient.
Monday, October 09, 2006
a group of more poems
Perfect Night
there is something about the bar
worn black band t-shirts
crow colored hair in each shot
a certain familiar atmosphere
but also a certain uneasy strain
an unspoken nervousness
jolted in every stare and conversation
a certain Ted Leo song on the jukebox
many pints seem to pour
splash the plastic rail guards
pouring into a drain of emptiness
a sewage of endless booze
a river for a sort of mystic redemption
conversation drifts to vague stories
details absorb from others
European meth heads scratching
speaking too quick about life lessons
in there distorted state their words retain a trueness
not captured in others straight laced folks
a table of two long lost drifter friends
huddle into the sort of cozy bar time
and just naked sincerity
in these times is so hard to find
A Damsel in a Dungeon
No forced images but a clear concise outrightness that often is not found by many. Straight to the point abruptness and wide eyed ambition unnerved my drinking. There was the way she talked while she drank a cup of ice water while everyone else pushed there way up to order a couple more.
Speaking concise sentences about being a student of integrity and mannerisms. Pomp and drunk circumstance has seemed to rear its head in this location as the group chuckles. A story of abandonment stuck in the nestles of a fishing town somewhere throughout Alaska a dimness and a consciousness without clarity the gray outweighs the light often.
She told us about how she kept a certain comfort down streets and alleys in Baltimore. She would prefer these than even taking a brisk dive into any sort of fresh salty water. She preferred greater lakes to the dingy ocean where creatures lie for victims sharks she spouted I have heard of the sharks.
She was rather queer with her stubbornness to make a mute point. Do you read the paper and hear of muggings killings and rapes? Keep your wits about you more than a trip to water no pictures kept of boardwalk or taffy but rather the tide hiding life and taking from the beach.
At Your Request
She asked me about my poems
asking me about which ones were about here?
Assuming any where about her but she insisted there were
a number of my writing dedicated to her.
She had a certain passion to this conversation
which she never had quite before.
Which poem was rather g-rated and did not talk about
a predisposition I had with fucking and sucking.
I tell her all my poems that mention women
come from my subconscious life experience
and they are based on an archetype of all women
from my first girlfriend, my mother, my long time gf,
my female friends, my ex gfs, and even you.
She accused me of a certain frugal freud trump
after a few moments I chuckle
and admit I could not distort every experience
around one archetype each character represents
one experience I had in real life or in my head.
I am guilty of self narration and self abuse
its my way of psycho analyzing.
I admit she said you can be rather neurotic
and set in your ways of being oblivious to reality.
The way you sink in and type it all up
and re-write history is rather intimidating.
Everything I do and say recorded in your head,
should I be more careful?
I told her to stop being so prudish and that
I would not write about her.
She asked me if I could record this conversation
and create something of use out of it.
Some introspective piece reflecting our complex friendship,
a verbose ode of sorts-- I sort of flinched
but said I would try.
DEEJAY
I find passion
when I stand behind
the dj booth
and play a record
that sets conversation
that hits people in the chest
that gives you a nod of a head
I like to start slow
and build like a carpenter
not Jesus but I carry my plywood
and nails dust off my recsuccords
set the needle in and smash
spontaneous success
who? what? when?
drink up and tip your bartenders
I think of myself like a sniper
and my fingers sit on the trigger
eyeing up potential targets
blood and guts splatter on me
close range big tunes
build up a slaughter house
please call me the boss
Conversative Talk Radio
blame the liberal strangehold
use the word pussy
call them the Blacks
blame those illegal mexicans
cough cough media bias
our type of people
change the topic
the President isn't that bad
democrats just feed that hate
random excuses
living in an age of terror
sacrifice a couple freedoms
look at the polls
atleast we are safe
lack of responsibility
fork tongue rattle snakes
there is something about the bar
worn black band t-shirts
crow colored hair in each shot
a certain familiar atmosphere
but also a certain uneasy strain
an unspoken nervousness
jolted in every stare and conversation
a certain Ted Leo song on the jukebox
many pints seem to pour
splash the plastic rail guards
pouring into a drain of emptiness
a sewage of endless booze
a river for a sort of mystic redemption
conversation drifts to vague stories
details absorb from others
European meth heads scratching
speaking too quick about life lessons
in there distorted state their words retain a trueness
not captured in others straight laced folks
a table of two long lost drifter friends
huddle into the sort of cozy bar time
and just naked sincerity
in these times is so hard to find
A Damsel in a Dungeon
No forced images but a clear concise outrightness that often is not found by many. Straight to the point abruptness and wide eyed ambition unnerved my drinking. There was the way she talked while she drank a cup of ice water while everyone else pushed there way up to order a couple more.
Speaking concise sentences about being a student of integrity and mannerisms. Pomp and drunk circumstance has seemed to rear its head in this location as the group chuckles. A story of abandonment stuck in the nestles of a fishing town somewhere throughout Alaska a dimness and a consciousness without clarity the gray outweighs the light often.
She told us about how she kept a certain comfort down streets and alleys in Baltimore. She would prefer these than even taking a brisk dive into any sort of fresh salty water. She preferred greater lakes to the dingy ocean where creatures lie for victims sharks she spouted I have heard of the sharks.
She was rather queer with her stubbornness to make a mute point. Do you read the paper and hear of muggings killings and rapes? Keep your wits about you more than a trip to water no pictures kept of boardwalk or taffy but rather the tide hiding life and taking from the beach.
At Your Request
She asked me about my poems
asking me about which ones were about here?
Assuming any where about her but she insisted there were
a number of my writing dedicated to her.
She had a certain passion to this conversation
which she never had quite before.
Which poem was rather g-rated and did not talk about
a predisposition I had with fucking and sucking.
I tell her all my poems that mention women
come from my subconscious life experience
and they are based on an archetype of all women
from my first girlfriend, my mother, my long time gf,
my female friends, my ex gfs, and even you.
She accused me of a certain frugal freud trump
after a few moments I chuckle
and admit I could not distort every experience
around one archetype each character represents
one experience I had in real life or in my head.
I am guilty of self narration and self abuse
its my way of psycho analyzing.
I admit she said you can be rather neurotic
and set in your ways of being oblivious to reality.
The way you sink in and type it all up
and re-write history is rather intimidating.
Everything I do and say recorded in your head,
should I be more careful?
I told her to stop being so prudish and that
I would not write about her.
She asked me if I could record this conversation
and create something of use out of it.
Some introspective piece reflecting our complex friendship,
a verbose ode of sorts-- I sort of flinched
but said I would try.
DEEJAY
I find passion
when I stand behind
the dj booth
and play a record
that sets conversation
that hits people in the chest
that gives you a nod of a head
I like to start slow
and build like a carpenter
not Jesus but I carry my plywood
and nails dust off my recsuccords
set the needle in and smash
spontaneous success
who? what? when?
drink up and tip your bartenders
I think of myself like a sniper
and my fingers sit on the trigger
eyeing up potential targets
blood and guts splatter on me
close range big tunes
build up a slaughter house
please call me the boss
Conversative Talk Radio
blame the liberal strangehold
use the word pussy
call them the Blacks
blame those illegal mexicans
cough cough media bias
our type of people
change the topic
the President isn't that bad
democrats just feed that hate
random excuses
living in an age of terror
sacrifice a couple freedoms
look at the polls
atleast we are safe
lack of responsibility
fork tongue rattle snakes
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
More new stuff...
The Poet Saves the Planet from Itself
A person
writes
contemplating
silence
a hand stiffens
stead pace
mental mechanics
grind
just as brakes grind
in my ‘79 pinto
6pm space shower
immediate doom
emergent occurrence
only one person
can save the world
the man writing
the man painfully writing
blocked from the rest of the world
his window shades are down
he is contemplating articles
as the world is about to be covered
the urgency of most people
rush to the supermarket
or some outlet
end of the world sales
but not the writer
drowning in a caffeine surge
sleep deprived
for two days this man
has not even seen the sunlight
or slept for more than hours
yet remains possessed
by something ungodly
to create revolutionary works
to thrive with words
a linguistic orchestra
the world is over
yet he writes
writing a grocery list
The Truth Is Hard To Hold Onto
She sends me lyrics
often
when she feels
they relate to us.
What we have been through
about jagged pain and
not healing love
and sufferation.
She feels she cannot sum it up
and capture the moment
by speaking or creating
but by finding
locating
searching.
She often thinks of me as
the aesthetic type
a curse of sorts
standing over her
as the ultra critic.
Yet she does not realize
how truly articulate
she really is
how truly beautiful
she really is
how truly poetic
she really is
how truly tragic
she really is
how truly powerful
she really is.
She has a way of saying things
and creating things
that makes me feel naked
revealing my under parts
parts that most have not seen
but she sees me naked
she sees herself naked to me
all retaining this quality
a Trueness that
I will not ever possess
I am just more dodgy.
Conundrum
Why do I love her
yet want to
fuck more women
Why do I want her
to feel the same
yet end up with me
Maybe I’m a sadist
or masochist
I have not quite figured
it all out
All these books fail me
don’t think but live
An Ode to a Beautiful Woman
You walk like
you live in New York.
I like that
the way you walk
is quite different.
The way you walk
around Mount Vernon
on a Sunday
is much like the way
another woman
would walk down
Manhattan on a Saturday.
Admiring your slick heels
and revealing small bits
of Celtic letters placed
on the curve of your spine.
Hidden secrets of your cheekbones
a language never read
by most common man
a quest for you.
Sunglasses hiding
an identity
and pieces scatter
as I try to speak
but I kept walking
you had me for a moment.
A Not So Great Cocktail Story Or A Really Perfect Story For A Bad Cocktail Party
I know a friend who told me about a guy. He had a fear of death. He would talk about it when he was speaking about what he had to do. To die was always somewhere on the list. He had a sort of crippling fear of death. Avoided doing a lot of things we do daily or are doing now. He lives a life avoiding meat, no booze, no women. He would spend nights pacing worrying about death. He could not sleep until he spent a couple hours pacing up and down. My friend had to sleep next to him and would be up all night as he walked. Worrying and thinking. Thinking and worrying. Sweating and than a cold breeze goes through the room. Than finally a couple hours left. I dream of death we all dream of death but we are not quite so obsessed. I often dream of other people’s death or imminent death and I fail as the hero. That’s my complex but this fellow would walk and walk and pace and pace not sleeping worrying about death. Until one day he died in his sleep. How great is that?
Book Fair
A poetry reading
should not make you feel
like you were attending a funeral.
The only thing missing was the casket.
It’s quite amazing
how many literary
companies, magazines,
organizations are there
when you feel this city
does not really care
about its writers
or readers.
There are a lot of silly
pictures that help most
avoid the endless
process of reading.
I like when the folks
from the senior home
come over and laugh
about men who call
the president an idiot
a shocked silliness
almost campy
a reaction to anger
a reaction to stimulation.
I like the old hippies
that speak of conspiracies
writing books on these theories
draw crazy pictures and diagrams
that do not support research
a lack of scientific deduction
but they like to talk
the ones that have their own radio show
doctors who paint cars
hungout with Hendrix
and Joplin and Oasis.
Why do most of these books
smell so funny.
An Observation On Environment
I sit at my desk
2:12a.m.
The only sound
Is the fan
From an AC unit
Blowing
And talk radio
Stacks of cds
And records
Scattered on the floor
Newspaper scattered
The white walls
With minute holes
Concentrating
On placement
Perfect phrasing
Slight devices
Tweaking precisely
Madness caught
Hysteric typing
Random chuckling
Typing mashing each key
Like a pianist
Adjust the tone
Reduce metaphors
Trim the fat
Taking the words
To heart
Putting the mind
In place
Like wrapping a package
For a friend
Running Into A Person From High School
I cringe
avoid eye contact
shirk back
and be swift
direct avoidance.
Too late to bow out
caught in a conversation
of who are you
how are you
oh you, Yes you.
I never liked you but
I cannot be so rude
so abrupt
so callous.
I feel my life still revovles
around music
and art
and women
chasing women in circles
this makes me happy.
He hides behind a wedding ring
probably a couple kids
a career a traveling salesman
I wanted to bring up how you never liked me.
How we never had more than this conversation
for four years
how I know you do not even remember my name
but your SUV sure looks shiny
you seem to represent everything
about our generation that I stand against.
Talking about his house
and responsibility I neither want
nor need
he begged for exploits of mine
but I refused his eagerness
to take my soul vicariously
pleasant partings, ta ta.
A person
writes
contemplating
silence
a hand stiffens
stead pace
mental mechanics
grind
just as brakes grind
in my ‘79 pinto
6pm space shower
immediate doom
emergent occurrence
only one person
can save the world
the man writing
the man painfully writing
blocked from the rest of the world
his window shades are down
he is contemplating articles
as the world is about to be covered
the urgency of most people
rush to the supermarket
or some outlet
end of the world sales
but not the writer
drowning in a caffeine surge
sleep deprived
for two days this man
has not even seen the sunlight
or slept for more than hours
yet remains possessed
by something ungodly
to create revolutionary works
to thrive with words
a linguistic orchestra
the world is over
yet he writes
writing a grocery list
The Truth Is Hard To Hold Onto
She sends me lyrics
often
when she feels
they relate to us.
What we have been through
about jagged pain and
not healing love
and sufferation.
She feels she cannot sum it up
and capture the moment
by speaking or creating
but by finding
locating
searching.
She often thinks of me as
the aesthetic type
a curse of sorts
standing over her
as the ultra critic.
Yet she does not realize
how truly articulate
she really is
how truly beautiful
she really is
how truly poetic
she really is
how truly tragic
she really is
how truly powerful
she really is.
She has a way of saying things
and creating things
that makes me feel naked
revealing my under parts
parts that most have not seen
but she sees me naked
she sees herself naked to me
all retaining this quality
a Trueness that
I will not ever possess
I am just more dodgy.
Conundrum
Why do I love her
yet want to
fuck more women
Why do I want her
to feel the same
yet end up with me
Maybe I’m a sadist
or masochist
I have not quite figured
it all out
All these books fail me
don’t think but live
An Ode to a Beautiful Woman
You walk like
you live in New York.
I like that
the way you walk
is quite different.
The way you walk
around Mount Vernon
on a Sunday
is much like the way
another woman
would walk down
Manhattan on a Saturday.
Admiring your slick heels
and revealing small bits
of Celtic letters placed
on the curve of your spine.
Hidden secrets of your cheekbones
a language never read
by most common man
a quest for you.
Sunglasses hiding
an identity
and pieces scatter
as I try to speak
but I kept walking
you had me for a moment.
A Not So Great Cocktail Story Or A Really Perfect Story For A Bad Cocktail Party
I know a friend who told me about a guy. He had a fear of death. He would talk about it when he was speaking about what he had to do. To die was always somewhere on the list. He had a sort of crippling fear of death. Avoided doing a lot of things we do daily or are doing now. He lives a life avoiding meat, no booze, no women. He would spend nights pacing worrying about death. He could not sleep until he spent a couple hours pacing up and down. My friend had to sleep next to him and would be up all night as he walked. Worrying and thinking. Thinking and worrying. Sweating and than a cold breeze goes through the room. Than finally a couple hours left. I dream of death we all dream of death but we are not quite so obsessed. I often dream of other people’s death or imminent death and I fail as the hero. That’s my complex but this fellow would walk and walk and pace and pace not sleeping worrying about death. Until one day he died in his sleep. How great is that?
Book Fair
A poetry reading
should not make you feel
like you were attending a funeral.
The only thing missing was the casket.
It’s quite amazing
how many literary
companies, magazines,
organizations are there
when you feel this city
does not really care
about its writers
or readers.
There are a lot of silly
pictures that help most
avoid the endless
process of reading.
I like when the folks
from the senior home
come over and laugh
about men who call
the president an idiot
a shocked silliness
almost campy
a reaction to anger
a reaction to stimulation.
I like the old hippies
that speak of conspiracies
writing books on these theories
draw crazy pictures and diagrams
that do not support research
a lack of scientific deduction
but they like to talk
the ones that have their own radio show
doctors who paint cars
hungout with Hendrix
and Joplin and Oasis.
Why do most of these books
smell so funny.
An Observation On Environment
I sit at my desk
2:12a.m.
The only sound
Is the fan
From an AC unit
Blowing
And talk radio
Stacks of cds
And records
Scattered on the floor
Newspaper scattered
The white walls
With minute holes
Concentrating
On placement
Perfect phrasing
Slight devices
Tweaking precisely
Madness caught
Hysteric typing
Random chuckling
Typing mashing each key
Like a pianist
Adjust the tone
Reduce metaphors
Trim the fat
Taking the words
To heart
Putting the mind
In place
Like wrapping a package
For a friend
Running Into A Person From High School
I cringe
avoid eye contact
shirk back
and be swift
direct avoidance.
Too late to bow out
caught in a conversation
of who are you
how are you
oh you, Yes you.
I never liked you but
I cannot be so rude
so abrupt
so callous.
I feel my life still revovles
around music
and art
and women
chasing women in circles
this makes me happy.
He hides behind a wedding ring
probably a couple kids
a career a traveling salesman
I wanted to bring up how you never liked me.
How we never had more than this conversation
for four years
how I know you do not even remember my name
but your SUV sure looks shiny
you seem to represent everything
about our generation that I stand against.
Talking about his house
and responsibility I neither want
nor need
he begged for exploits of mine
but I refused his eagerness
to take my soul vicariously
pleasant partings, ta ta.
