the Destruction of word(s)

Post Holiday Meltdown

Wake up lil Johnny
Take a hold of the moment
Rip the paper eat the bows
Destroy training commencement
Baby Jesus would do it

Car Pay De Um
Slaughter the Lady Bugs
The house smells of gasoline
Puss bug bites
Bluegrass records in circles
Broken remains

The Music is over back to life
Back to being a real Man
Back to the grim reality
No more dreaming just grim truth
Swallow it all up this is your life

We drove up to the cliff
One of our Sunday drives
Telling me about school
I pulled out Jack and sipped
Flying up the mountain side
Reaching the top we both weep.





Think About the Good Times

Christmas day Godfather dies High on GOD
PCP and funky chicken gives any man a cold sweat
Shotgun police chase -- wondering will you try me?
Grunt!
Hitting a Woman but it’s a Man’s World
JB wasn’t always feeling so good
when he gave death threats
cutting a rug moving an feeling the funky soul
But he’s on the Night Train
So Please Please Please don’t forget
You don’t know karate but you know crazy
Papa don’t take no mess cuz he’s got a brand new bag
Don’t forget to say it loud and proud wherever you are.

r.
i.
p.
Godfather of Soul





An Ode to a Beautiful Woman (revision)

You walk like you live in New York.
I like that the way you walk is quite different.
Walking around Mt. Vernon
you could be in Manhattan, London, Japan.
But you are walking in front of me.


My eyes admire your slick black heels.
As you walk small bits of Celtic letters
play peek a boo on the natural curve of your back.
I smile as you walk never turning back.


Hidden secrets of your cheekbones
only view half at a time.
The way you move is a language
never understood by most common man
a quest for you, a quest for Don Quixote.


Sunglasses hide your true identity
pieces scatter as memories often do.
I try to speak before the corner turns
but I kept walking
you had me for a moment.

Meditation on Season

Somber air crisp repercussions
gently nibbling away on facial extremities
ceaseless days have withered away
burnt leaves cycle and extend in motion
left with looming withdrawal from sunlight.

A preference to uproot
soil stains drip down a ledge
and head towards the middle of somewhere else
to leave every emotion
ever tear, every hug, every friendly sort of embrace.

Before a look back, salt burns a tongue
there are always reasons for running
always but of course the heart is high on the list
times when the bottle can cover up nothing
a crutch of idle times some often believe
moments when drunkenness offers the only clarity
awaken in early hours to whipe layers of sweat.

To have fallen down from the zenith (SAT word)
even an ant hill creates Woodie Allen anxiety, take it all back
one cannot but push forward
until the pressure resides and absorbs the ember
hiding under the covers as episodes of Mash melt into the other.

The exchange of letters were never useful
but the process continued for eras even exasperated
the nameless author lists a remorseful pardon
an exception to most of the rules set in motion
the belief in an alternative plane where experience continues
to re expand a paradigm to further reside
in a psychedelic venture into academic observation.




Admittance

I rest with lying dogs around an endless track
Biting and scraping for self respect
We hid in our newspapers but I was often too intent
On catching an observation of reality

To catch It in motion examine the bare fringes
The scragglers barely sustaining the misfits
Ones that require no bathroom to shave
No taught methods of proper etticate or behavior

Every morning One Eyed Mike pukes on himself
I watch as he opens his eye, squints, scratches his nuts
And I the warm booze from last night releases itself
Onto the pavement he reacts and whipes his mouth

Leaving the pile there out in the open while others live
Business people go to work and step in the pile
Their shoes containing the remnants of Mike’s malt liquor
Yet ignorant of what goes on unless it pertains to their routine

I admit even my own routine is a natural habit
But one needs to break oneself out of routine in order to realize
That a routine is a rather hum drum instinct we all crave
But there is often a set reaction we all crave on.




Groan Up

Simple times call for simple measures
We never called on any of those &
We survived
We had no use for living life by the rules
We often stole and paid the consequences.

Playing beyond an industrial yard
We never had a great infield
But the other kids would often cough up
As we would say the Black Lung.

There was something in the air
But it was not the love of any game
Yet some kind of emissions or oil
Smells tickled our faces &
When we went home
We cleaned black smut off.

There are times when Wilkens Avenue
Seems so far away but yet
It isn’t only minutes away
But the kids no longer play by the junk yard
There are hustles on every corner &
Whenever I drive by I get stared down
Times and people change I suppose
All we do now is groan and complain
But take me back any day
When there was no hole in my heart.



Some Points I Ponder

I realized some old people
never live
also realized some young people
can't live
the way they want
so they hide

covers pulled up to their head
peaking out their beady eyes
stare at different events that most stumble upon
i often stumble but i drink too much
and i often never
hesitate unless i'm too drunk
but that's a problem in itself
when the bottle runs dry
one has to decide what to do
to rest the eyes
or go out and find another

but i think i take it all in
and enjoy the moment
and feel rather content when my eyes close
and i never say i wish i would have done this or that
instead i did this and that
and came home to drink
or to write
drinking is part of the process
or a hobby to keep me from meditating

not the religious spiritual type
but deep thought where you wonder
about what makes things happen
and what makes me want to talk to the girl over there
on the corner drinking Corona
and i make a mistake and we talk
and than she comes back with me
to do other things to waste time
but we waste it together and in the morning she leaves
i had forgotten she was even there
because i slept too late to even bother going to work
but life go on la-di-da

maybe the writer makes his character
into the strongest person and in reality
they are the weak type of person that melts into crowds
that people most often do not notice
but maybe he creates an ego
please excuse me Jung has been on my mind
and my dreams scare me so i delve into every action
but by being so critical on one's self
i am rather rough but that's a point to make in another poem
back to track those people need to start delving in
get out of the kiddie pool and swim
and drown
and celebrate
and don't forget to fuck
and drink and smoke
before its too late and your grand kids may not want to hear you
mumble on about oppurtunity missed
but rather listen to your misadventure in Sierra Leone
but stop and let that monkey off your back.