the Destruction of word(s)

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