the Destruction of word(s)

New Piece : Remannt

2010-08-06T22:52:00.000-07:00

Starring into the eyes of darkness
Sleepwalking stumble into the office
Grind he daze away waiting for a period of rest
Assurances that the coffee is fresh
The consequences of your daily actions
A faithful act turn to indiscretion
Lies swirl into colors into a shade of grey
And the period breaks as night turns to day
A man sometimes breaks and shatters
Shaking as if nothing even matters

Submitting to the neglect of sleep
Anticipation is like a farmer ready to reap
Tenderness drips like falling rain
Swerving into obstacles yet feel no pain
A friend implored to make an exception
Wrapped up like a package to emotion
Lets not talk and just listen to silence
Mounting pains piles onto the distance
You promise not to bend but you may
A silent storm washes it all away

type til your fingers can no longer sing

2009-10-29T23:00:00.000-07:00

Night

Night is quiet
it feels so right
yet so wrong
to be caught in song

Sleep seems to pass me by
like a needle brushing an arm
yet I stay unmoving
unresponsive to most things

To write after silence
is difficult yet to lose sight
of what is right or wrong
seems to be part of a tragedy
to tease a rhyme
to get to the next line

Guilty

Words often fall in place
during the hours left to sleep
sustaining ones self on words
is hardly enough to get by
so instead of wondering why
go out and mend the layers
of stimulating experience
to cope and sympathize
listening may be the method

Others take out their own logic
available for anyone given the price
the night is quiet I hear the cars roar
yet I tell myself to want more
I crave it to a degree
of intellectual attraction
purely based on instinct not design

To hold back one self in the bliss
of happiness is a scary thought
one I seldom look towards
in a twist of lemon flavored fate
I decide to wait it out
until it all forms around one another

Midnight skies tell the true stories
one cannot even mutter the picture
that lies beneath the sky line
words often get left behind
on the tip of ones breath
breathes a quiet death

I AM BACK!!!

2007-10-11T23:17:00.000-07:00

Poets Attack

From one to another
spam each myspace
look for Kerouac
or Bukowski
tell tale signs that they are among the afflicted
sick sick people with words
tell me how they enjoy my writing
add me as a (peer) friend
language mutilated on a screen
like a butcher with a twitch
to be something what most others do
the words waiting never come the way the words should
but other times fall on top of the head of any passerby
some to suffer others to inspire
others to live in the alleys with bags of wine
to understand or interject is beyond logic
the better part unwritten
the part sprinkled with details about the girlfriend
who drank too much and fucked her cousin
and well the way society works there is no common place
no like minds can hold each others’ hand
fuck it just drink the wine like the others do and think
wait to act just type it out and think
thinking never killed – well these grapes are shite
and the acid in my stomach makes me want to vomit
salvation has never been so un-transcendent
and their others who would have books
others would do readings
and yet the one in the house
scribbling away into the night like a possessed criminal
going over the plan
every step – every details
eyeing up the plan
going to approach the victim
a bloodbath of verbal viciousness
my poetry meant more when I was young
and the older I get the message is more
smoke screened and hidden
and well I must admit I regret the way it has come to this
a beggar – a poet for food
but my words cut like a knife
waiting for a sheep in the crowd
in rush hour lunch sprawl
the marching bees I will splatter them all.

My bones

Feel like they have lived millions of lives
And I may not rest soon
They seem like they could fall apart
My skin carries them around like a potato sack
Duppies lay waiting for them to crumble
Foundation not as solid as it could be
I drink and smoke too much they say
But I laugh often in this stupor
So who’s to say what is in my best interest
I’d rather stay inside than be around others
Even if they are just like me
I don’t need to be related to or appreciated
I am much better being here alone with my bones.

Friday Nights Are For Fuckers And Not Writers

Ill will and temperament were two features I often expel in my writing
But there is a time and place for all and well I am neither here nor there
Stories all layer on top of each other falling as one would say into place
Vegas reminds me of the splendor and squall and I stay inside to write
And I may be drunk the whiskey is my salvation the bottle is Babylon
I have a girl but she lives too far away and we only see each others when we can
And who cares about me what do I need me for –

My insight is skewed Friday nights well those are the nights for weekend warriors
My apartment is often a mess and the bottles lie with the trash
The coffee in the morning is the only rest for the wicked and I think about being happy
A distant dream unattainable and I try to avoid the little special things
That make life worth feeling – so many questions that cannot find any true answers
And I smoke and the ashes hit the ground and never soak in the news
I feel like an idiot with a guitar with no strings and I keep strumming along to something.

Block

Everyday waking up numb
And wanted to go through the poetic motions
But vomit leaves my mouth
Clutching onto a pen to scribble the noise down
On something but left with chunks
Of popular goings on and catch phrases
And well everyone needs to suffer
All my favorite writers seem to suffer
So if I am happy maybe that’s the problem
In these cold plastic days love is not a gamble
But to write I want to throw it away
And go back and forth with drama
Give me some inspiration to write about
The man who sleeps in a different bed every night
Is the man that most want to read
Not the stalwart that never leaves his woman’s side
The culture wants sex and violence and drugs
The genre needs it to survive
To reclaim the greatness of what it once was
I always wanted to find something to be great at
And everything I strive for is out of my grasp
And my fingers are beginning to look thin and pale
Every day I become closer to becoming a skeleton
But the words dribble out like magma
And leaves a whole in the table and I struggle everyday
Thinking of poems in my head that never written down
Become day dreams and delusions to be back in college
To have time to waste my days away in front of the screen
Typing and writing typing and writing
No other cares in the world
I would be like Robert Johnson and sell my soul
If I could write something real –
But I would hesitate and negotiate and back down
Weak kneed and hesitant my shining traits
And I would rather sit at the bar and struggle
The true poet is one that works on his words
Day in and out until they are perfected into crisp language
The language for the people by the people represented
A people’s voice not a politician but a poet that can say or do anything
And not leave out a word to any generalization
But now it’s 3 am and I am just blocked.

Things Fall Apart -- Bit by Bit

2007-08-05T23:47:00.000-07:00

Things fall apart

When a friend leaves without enough notice
and you are left questions your role in the big pictures
and every night drinking is no longer about enjoyment
but a process to numb the bad stuff in life
part of mourning and part of the morning
when the structure your life was built around retains a crack
the foundation shakes and things never look the same
and inside the turmoil rots but you go on
out of responsibility not for any real reason
when the levies break and your last gasp for air is enough
every night the words are lost
and you stare at the empty keyboard
and a lump is in your throat
this is reality not a scheme
every moment you can stop and look back at
but right now is always the hardest
the way you thought the world would be
is far from the truth and that sets in
and makes everyone numb
numb to touch, numb to taste
there are people that suffer but I prolong
the process and push myself in a hole
to hide in the shadows with no one but my own mind
my mind betrays me and tells the world
but I am left shuttering from the gust in the alley
and this is the only place where you can be at a time like this
where the paradigms fall away
the lessons taught are often lessons failed
and the people you believed in hark back to just words
and failed phrases never transcribed or documented
you think are ready to leave but you can not
but to want to leave is enough sometimes
and who would have guessed this is how
this is a point to others we all need to fall
and my heart is still empty and that’s all it can be
there are days when everything seems black and white
and days when I drink and all I can do is drink to get by
and the drinking leads to mistakes
temporary lacks in judgment
everyone falls apart eventually

Any Advice Is Often Bad Advice

You can’t be a poet
until you lose the concept
you are a hero
just a natural force
and you write about the beauty and tragedy
of time and space
an ability to focus on forces
a poet’s voice
to dwell on selfish moments

I digress as I sit in my underwear
empty glasses filled with remnants
of margaritas some from tonight
some from another
the sweat collects around my head
my eyes red and my stare intense
as I type words
and I am lost not in forces but on wants
my wants my needs
left unrequited by the same demons
my digression into drunkenness

You can’t be a poet
and write like a drunk
its been done by others better than you
its been done by everyone by now
give it up and focus
or you will wind up in alley
mad and crazy like the others
and lost with your own words
no money in your pockets
but the bottle with hold like your only child

I would rather hold a bottle
than a cold woman
and every poem is honest
unlike the academic dribble that bubbles
from the rich white folks in new England
I write like people live
that is how poetry lived and breathed
not looked up in a chest only read on Sundays
in the New Yorker.

Last Year’s Poet

The chapbooks all lay across his room
music blares as he sits possessed
writing and wanting
trying to find another way to publish
these words he believes mean more to others
than to him to sell it all to one publisher after another.

Submit or die he whispers to himself
these words are hand crafted about the imagination
he keeps each letter from his favorite writers
that told how prophetic he was and how
he was like them when they were young
and when they could still write
not just fake it
like they fake it with their significant others
poets cannot make love
just observe and write
no time to really feel.

He feels numb
like its been faked all along
and he wanders
if that one book was all he had
was that all he could ever write
the rains falls on his head
and than he decides to focus
to write -- to edit -- to structure
that will clear this avalanche
he has suffered for many years
when he’s dead will anyone remember his book
or discuss his work
in modern poetry classrooms
probably regarded as a one hit wonder
or a great unread genius
when they see these words they will know
He was last year’s poet.

When Things Fall

she calls
blazing bold accusations
and whispers deadly kisses
yours truly
left scorched
stuck to the grill

WTF

i sang my song
and left the stage
yet she thinks she can enchant
what is undone
in mistrust and dishonest

WTF

she smokes to escape
and thinks its alright
but when the last puff dissipates
she lays alone
at midnight

WTF

from grace to dust
mistaken identity
but there is nothing here
for tested travelers
the train tracks call his name
in the whirling wind
nothing is ever the same

WTF

static unhappiness
whipped in wonderment
betrayed by my own words
inconsistent esteem bursts
remnants ring the alarm
as it reigns over

I still write... just not very good.

2007-06-23T22:26:00.001-07:00

There Goes The Neighborhood

There are moments and days that lead to weeks
From months and back to years
When I feel cheated
I am told the feeling that you are cheated is unfair
To projects one’s own feeling onto an emotion
The voice says can be senseless.

And that’s the way I feel
When a man as weak as me
I find myself always in the middle of the road
No future known just a steady path
One that may lead to nothing
At times this scares me.

Typical responses I share
A reaction thinking I am someone to be
Realized as un-ordinary
To plead to be thought of anything but average
I plead to be my own self
And the whole meaning of something other than the present
Moderation can be a mean of freedom

No time left for idle hero worship
The acceptance of every writer I ever read was anything but a median
For life is meant to be shook up
To be anything but a steady medium
All my favorite musicians never copied from someone else but initiated their own
Into the influences to take a chance with change.

I scare myself even when I say that
I cannot deal with “it”
And the acceptance is nothing something I can yearn to satisfy
There is often pleasure found in uncomfortable feelings
And yet I continue to meander on the page
Dribble the words out like a waste dump
The flies swarm around my head as I press gently on each key stroke
Writing used to mean something and wasn’t a place for people like me to go

stories of art

2007-06-08T21:38:00.000-07:00

The Day the Color Went Out of the TV

Words cannot always fill in the blanks
And there are times when silence
Is the only appropriate form of space
As light changes into other forms of matter
And the daze eventually fades in the setting
Hours upon hours sat to do something is better
The magazine spread on the coffee table
The mood is disrupted by a stranger.

And even in the full room emptiness creeps
And the voice missing is the what the waiting is for
But no wait will be long enough and there are tensions
That swell the walls a mist erupts into stories
Lessons and heart felt expressions and well there is nothing else
That the group can do and the process is among us all
And Is repeated when necessary.

Grey is one of those colors that frighten me
It cannot be identified on its own just a pieces of others
And well the whole science of the color spectrum is rather dangerous
And I would not make a metaphor for the tube being black and white
Or would I?

There are times when words only hint
When they lead the reader to a decision
To agree or disagree no black and white
No grey just pure emotion pure sentiment
And the problem today nothing is so indiscriminate
These times (the news may say) are dangerous
And the unrest is awakening and my shows are offset
Water of the masses is a shallow stimulant
And the people never meet eyes on

Just the Facts

The fact is this
I have never loved poetry
I grew up with fiction
And lived in fantasy
Yearned for amassing comic upon comic
Every month I waited by the news stand
And the clerk smiled as I gave him my money
In exchange for pulp for my daydreams
Superpowers super duper details
Morality haunted me as I read the glorious recounting
Of writers glorification of the anti-hero
Teenage years full of stereotype upon stereotype
Safety pins and punk rock yearnings
Left me needing structure but I took it my way
Searching music that was the antithesis of what everyone else understand
I often read the books that I was told to read
But I searched out the other ones I was told not to read
Cookbooks about warfare and drug abuse
Bohemians writing about sex, drugs, train hopping
Books with “fuck” and explicit experiences
And the more I read the more I lived
Life does that to you
And I never loved poetry
But every lyric to every song gave me meaning
The tortured heroin addict that made music for himself
Self absorbed rationalist, the socialist with a smile, the punk rockers with Mohawks
Skinheads that were not racist
But landed many punches before asking the right questions
And all my friends were the most dangerous
Pop culture was our life and we floated in and out of own generation
Reliving the glorious moments of the past but still fighting the modern argument
Meaning was never found but that’s the hidden secret
Poetry was there
In the background Ginsberg in middle Whitman in the summer
Hiding in the grass Kerouac deep ceded in daydreams
But it was never in the front and never will be
And I have to admit there are things that come before
And all the greats were often just great with this
Mediocrity never did much harm
Acceptance is often deluded from denial
And in college I decided I was a poet
In a group of poets we all had voices
And writing styles and concepts
Often vague but the bars would be where we thrived
Smoking hookahs and other devices
And the words touched for seconds and than split
Shattered across and in cities that seemed like universes away
I spoke with my own words
And I did it on my terms
We did it ourselves
Poetry was ours for a brief second
And than the year left and reality settled in
Life gets in the way
And no one ever warned me
That poetry still follows me around
Even though I secretly resent it
And what is stands for but I must admit
It is the most honest form of expression in these times
And the media denies it
Some never make much sense
And I never loved poetry
I still don’t but I still write
My words are concise and lack the excitement
That was once there and now gone
There is no time to hold onto the past only to relive it
No shame in regret and I missed the times when it meant something to write
And it was not just a hobby but a certain lifestyle
Culture has blended and melded there seem to be less danger nowadays
But fears guides the ants while others often fall short of expectations
And even at 25 I still do not love poetry
But I express it I can’t deny it
And sometimes I even forget it

Want Ads

2007-06-03T08:33:00.000-07:00

I always feel rather disappointed when I read the section
because there are times I read and I realize
there is nothing here I want.

But there are times even when I do not know
what I want and everyone wants something
to be a part of.

Wants are different than needs
needs are substantial to life
and wants are often unconsequential.

To some what they want is needed to sustain
a healthy head above the stream of life
that can wash anyone away.

I mean to not cause distress but this is what I want
a world (yes not to be coy) to my own
for my own sheer being to be.

To be the best and the worst
the ordinary the least important
yet the most important the sexiest but also the ugliest.

In a more simpler level I want a job where I can do
as little or as much work as I feel like I should
any given day of the week.

But what I want and what everyone else wants
often never quite lines up with that thought
and many people think too much, and I am guilty.

Overthinking and at one time even overachieving
but those times are gone I am much more happier
doing exactly what I have to do -- no more or no less.

I keep thinking one day maybe I'll look back
and know what I want and not have to ponder
the complications of pleasure driven madness.

I mean everyone wants a girl and our bodies need
some sort of sexual release but your actions dictate
the behavior and social interactions.

The important traits of the game is rather acute
pinpointed by milla-second reactions
ones that are often biological and subsconcious.

Anyways what the reader wants is often a waste
as they are not the creators they must conform
or pretend to fall into the role the writer wants.

What the writer wants is often an ideal unattainable
but anything can be coaxed if done the right away
my writing the wants are rather unnerving and unbalanced.

the only way to describe my writing is like trying to understand a homeless man engulfed in flames without pants and clutching a bottle of wine

2007-04-20T23:00:00.000-07:00

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Consumer
Please consume some more

Match up perfect people
Beauty often is not subjective
And I find it rather to be said by people who don’t have much beauty
I never claimed to have any but I am blunt
Or some might call honest
A certain psychosis seems to come from the people
That are desperate to meet others
And there is some sort of sexual neurosis into kissing new boys
Or new girls if you seem to be on the fence

Our vehicles is the “bestest” vehicle ever
Puts the others to shame well ok not really
Most of these are just the same
And well we have bells and whistles
Or just a simple one depending on what we can push out of you
Some people call the salesman a drug dealers that knows how to up sell
But the salesman never sees these people again (most of the time)

Well if Jimmy does it
I”ll do it
We all know Jimmy
And when he’s on the tv
Doing what he does
Selling the “it”
Even if i don’t need it
I doubt I would ever use it
But I buy out of appreciation
Not out of necessity

Our sandwich is better than the other guy’s burgers
We have meat like they do
We have toppings like they do
But we have personality
Now wait we don’t
Ok well we do have a bunch of dry, unseasoned
99 cent menu
What a value but this is mostly shit
a dollar menuaire (copyright pending)

I must admit I do enjoy that one character
With the perfect jingle
You know it comes on the tube everyday
But i never bought into this
Well just once but I’m the writer
I know what stays and what goes.

When You Meet A Woman

You say what’s true and it often scares you
And you think what no one else seems to think
And well the analysis is when things get foggy
The Doctor and Mr. Dylan are both there playing dominoes
One dead one a zombie not one of the brain eating ones
But the one that plays games with the dead
William Carlos Williams keeps talking about his wife
And Dylan goes on about what he wouldn’t want to do
But I don’t beat around the bush
I want to be inside you
They keep drinking and playing dominoes
And never ask me to pull up a chair
But I already have her shirt off
And she’s on the bed asking for me
To join her
I ponder how the great poets do
But not think it through
Thinking are for the ones that never write many words
And throw their work in the trashcan where it often belongs
My work has been there and I know in the future it will find its way
And well every once in awhile you get one
I’m talking about women not poetry
But they are both intimidating topics
Ones where you have to watch what you can say
And what you may not want to say but it needs to be said
And the professors and students
Spoke openly about sexual embarrassment
It always comes down to blood
I mean writing
Without blood and tears your writing can suffer
And the best poets aren’t the ones busy to make the poetic motion
But the ones fighting, drinking, and finding women
It always comes down to them
And from my standpoint my only skills are
Writing and fucking
Everything else is just for chuckles.

A Killing

I can make a killing if sold my poetry on the web
Like itunes 99 cents for a poem
A customer could control what sort of poem the could have
And I would fine tune it
Need a poem for your wife she has brown hair perfect
Need the perfect love poem to send your brother
He’s a garbage man how poetic!
I could make a killing and hire so many poets to write
And we would churn out hundreds of quality poetry
Handcrafted and a great value
And than Americans would start reading our poetry again
And we would make a killing

The Shooter

Too late to understand what we can never
The paper trail reveals a certain deal of trouble
And we all have unsettling thoughts
And we all write things but when righteousness ruins
No one man can judge others
An obsession for justice but the mind corrupts
And actions are reactions
And well the man was doing what he had planned
He concealed to destroy
And well we medicate and heal
Eventually we all forget what has to be done
Until the next headline

The Minister’s Son

We went to school together
And a friend told me the other night
He was teaching the good word
What about the bad ones
But take the good with the bad
And one day he went sort of crazy
The screaming came from the yard and he had on no pants
And was rather convinced about being a character from the great book
What about all the bad ones

Diners

I can never find one of those diners
That are open all night
The ones we used to waste hours of endless time
Smoking cigarettes, drinking chilled coffee, watching the small tv
And the greasy breakfast menu
It was either going to sober you up or make you sick
That was part of the excitement
New cook behind the counter every week or two
One night we were almost 86’ed
But they brought us an order of hash browns
And the situation resolved itself
in the sort of mindlessness that only happens at 4 in the morning

Is There A Method?

The Blues have a certain method
Most music does unless its improv
But even improv has a certain method
A certain way too approach
And poets some have methods
And some use un-methods or non-methods
But what about the one that reinvents everything
The artist that smashes the sax and call it a symphony
Or the poet that wrote until his fingers bled and called it a series
And well actors use their method to change
But poets are often more fixed in their ways
And this poem follows its own path
And sort of make some points
but ads in those counter points that make it disjointed
and well i try to write the same but it comes out different each time

confessional

i stay up and write the soundtrack to talk radio
and the noises the house makes when most sleep
i never took myself too seriously
the weakest part of the writer is the ego
the writer wants to think what he writes is terribly important
sometimes it is but often not
others never write because what you place on the paper is permanent
some can deal with how every word is like removing a piece of your clothes
and by the end of the poem you are out in a crowd – naked – exposed
there is no hair just body parts – a cock or a pussy
bruises represent the smudge parks or crossed out words
the last time i confessed i had to make an attrition
but this time the out look is bleak
and the world is more difficult than only a couple years ago
and every minute seems to be a means
i never became a monk like i told my teacher in kindergarten
but there is a certain dedication to one’s words
and those words are often troubled with morality and humanity
the business is dirty and my hands are soiled
but one day the submissions will not be returned
a moment where the editors will line up and ask for more
and you tell them you need to drink and be left alone
but it seems so far away and i fear i may not hold on long enough
a friends asks why i enjoy this and i said i didn’t
but it is the only way i can express what needs to be said

the choice is unimportant if the world is spinning

a troubled writer once wrote--
our choice is almost no choice. if we move too quickly we are dead, we are dead. if we do not move quickly enough, we are dead.

so I think I will not move at all
and in compromise there almost is none
but yet the world turns and in respect for the others
so do I but there is distance to the past
and the news reporters decide to do a live feed
but their words are spoken than forgotten in less than an instance
I say choose not but live
and the world keeps turning
the hospitals keep the dead from being zombies
every day I notice my records collect more dust
elsewhere a dog pisses on his owner’s rug for the fuck of it
and a woman wakes up with bloated stomach
while a male wakes up and hurts to piss
the weather is awful warm and cold at once
but go out the doors and find the reason to choose
the spinning world of another drunk night
puking in a dirty toilet with a shit eating grin
the most powerful person in the world is drunk
because he/she never cares what to do
pure action and no thought of consequence or self advancement
just pure non stop no reason behind a choice
so let the me spin off the light posts
singing the songs of my youth
and the world still spins
and I lay laughing in the shadows
a madman in the alley with a bag of wine
without a choice

WWW.

the worst invention of man is not poetry,
the letter, the rock, the guitar, rock n roll,
television, the automobile, religion, or democracy
but rather the world wide web
the ability makes some not live
but experience
and all the experience in the world
cannot create a sims operating system
that makes a man or woman feel as good
as laying on top of each other sweating and fucking
chat box upon chat box Will Waste aWay your daze
and well I like some things

one has to admit al gore always looks rather bug eyed
and well I am sure he is a nice man
that wants to end global warming and be elected as president
but he credits himself for creating the inane universe
and well all those predators need to prey on young boys
somewhere and well everyone has needs to meet
and we can please them all here with a website
or a chatroom or a message board or blog
but the pimply double-eyed nerds of the universe
will never become the great people they are meant to be
because of the yahoo groups DD server

lets find out the weather
no don’t step outside
go to the website that tells you the weather
lets go to a movie
well I can download the newest Tarantino film before it s out in the theatre
lets go for a drink
no I am waiting for an email
lets live
no I’d rather stay in and check my email
fuck you

the past will stab you down

2007-04-04T07:52:00.000-07:00

The Return

She asked to me write of the city
Yet I felt betrayed not by the strangers
But by the city that seemed to pass me by
I never quite grasped what had happened
But it had occurred and at one point
I just decided I wasn’t returning
Yet the city wanted me to fail

It wanted to hold me captive
In the bars til last call
But I burned up the temptation
Rotating sickly motions from my fingers
On the keyboard the words bled out

The city asked me to float on by
Just for a drink and see what could happen
The invitation was tempting but my car would not start
Because I refused to fill it with anything that would tempt me

So I replied to her that my words on the city
Would be just from the past and that any further experience would not occur
Until the one night on the way home I slid back
A step by step method to resist was faltered
And my hands shook on the wheel as I returned

The trumpets blaring were not a welcoming party
But a white taxi cab unpleasant with my current position
Sitting in front of the green traffic light
I smiled and knew this was where I belonged
To prosper in daily occurrences
or to stumble upon my imminent ruin.

Confession

When I hear the voices I usually head to bed
Because all the great men & women are usually mad
But they channel that into some outward creativity
My niche is still a work in progress
But I acknowledge it could still be genius
A real writer would never even hint at this design
So he threw the keyboard across the room
And told the most honest and pure thing he even wrote
About a boy who never liked himself
Who never liked the world
Who felt betrayed by everyone for no reason
Who couldn’t love until it was mixed with hate
And than it was often too late
Through his tribulations he suffered
And toughened still it was just a paper thin shell of vulnerability
The quietest people are the ones that speak the most in their minds
And when words cannot do justice to the situation
His mind put the scenario into the perfect pitch and cadence
In the group he rubbed the wrong way almost anyone
He left any confessional tale to be one layered with one liners
And impersonal observations, people expected more.

Nothing every changes

It was funny how the place never changed
And in 8 years the same smells were still there
The faces always change as people come and go
Only two or three familiar faces everyone else barely recognizable
Cognition was a physical detriment
As a ukele served as more of a joke than a threat
But the hawaiin singer’s fingers still bled
Like the rooms often feels dingy and dirty
Common adjectives for a place of this magnificence
3 chords with a rhythm bashing
the stairs shook as the bar stand often did
tapping with the feet of drunks and aspiring drunks
and ponytails were never meant to be offensive

Memories

My junior year of high school
My best friend and I decided to take journalism
We made up our minds and were quite passionate about this pursuit
In our heads it would be so easy to become these infamous reporters
And we would research these fanatical stories
Our friends would come to us to help them expose the truth
I never wrote one article that made it into the paper that year
Every article I wrote for the paper was deemed --
inappropriate
dangerous
artificial
revolutionary
The editor was a jock and refused to print our words
We wrote about punk rock
One article reviewed the anarchist cookbook
Another the latest misfits album
An editorial on how the school favored the sports program
Over other aesthetic pursuits
The editor’s face turned red and laughed after that one
Every article more professional than the next
We truly crafted our skills and enhanced with dictionaries
And other media tools found in the classroom
Every word more potent than the next
But the trash piled up with our articles
I had honest ambitions that I could change the world with my words
And I learned the lesson that year
When everything I wrote made the editor and the teacher more offended
I discovered how to offend people by writing
My words no shock value words like fuck, cock, pussy
But my articles were disarming until the end
When the point I made hit you like a blunt fire extinguisher
Like a locker being slammed on your hand
Or at times a toilet lid hitting you over and over the head

the hits keep coming

2007-03-27T23:28:00.000-07:00

Friendly Moments

Pass by
Floating temporary
Puff of smoke

To whom it may concerns reference the frantic moments
Dry up to the well
Lied about the secrets reveal the past
While the booze sustains any sort of bond

I lost it all in a market
And regained nothing in these fleeting periods
Of withdrawal

No one burns in water
Of drowns in flame
Yet I manage

The unsettling happiness roles around and down
Pushing it in
And the voice on the phone
Isn’t the same voice that spent hours
Molding substance and truths

Played out and the band marched on and on
Like a New Orleans funeral procession
The jazz stings your face
Like the wind should
But the shanty shacks still withhold
Their foundation worn
Faded from catastrophe
Disaster settles and last but not least
Acceptance

The bar closes yet the few remain
In chit chat
And the skeletons line the ceilings
Dropping like an avalanche

Madness is fleeting
The grip is substantial
As smoke rings around the head
And the retina focuses to know use

Those moments are lost

Old poet

Sour body
Flattened mind
Words on his breath
Like whiskey
Brown words
Dying of possibly under
An influence of another
Spitting out art like an accident
Wasted on the lack of worries
Aesthetic amnesia
Passion less worries
Life is unholy and gay
Harking back to poetry class
The workshop pains him
So great yet so tragic in flaws
To embrace not change
To breathe not hold it in
Put the page to the grind
And work
Workhorse
Trojan horse
Disappointment after another
The publisher has dust on its press
And yet his name shivers on his tongue
The readings were few
Yet time told no lies
And his face told his poems
Before his words
His beautiful words
Cracked and frantic
Tremble the students
Waiting for thunder but just a light breeze
Tv dinners line his trashcan
And the sofa worn in one place
Eternal wisdom held inside
Never tapped just suffering
Until the ground swallows him
In all of its majestic glory

oppen

2007-03-05T20:19:00.000-08:00

Psalm for Oppen

In worse forest
deer bed over--
there.

as eyes soften
lips nibble
nipples nuzzle
alien plastic grass
filling the remainder
of Easter crosses

roots dangle from mouths
like flesh
earth scatters ash
yet the natural tombs
are there.

Paths nibbled thru leaves
circles outsource
honor is aforementioned
side notes whiter in reference
reign in environment--
no green piece left unturned
words left to hang in the sun

Faith in the wild
Dear George,
Harps left sharp
Dual messages undelivered
Students lost beyond the depths
Studies of academic yearnings
left naked
to engulf and to leave not in exile
but in sheer vulgarity.

this poem is partly taken from this Oppen poem

Psalm
In the small beauty of the forest
The wild deer bedding down --
That they are there!

Their eyes
Effortless, the soft lips
Nuzzle and the alien small teeth
Tear at the grass

The roots of it
Dangle from their mouths
Scattering earth in the strange woods.
They who are there.

Their paths
Nibbled thru the fields, the leaves that shade them
Hang in the distances
Of sun

The small nouns
Crying faith
In this in which the wild deer
Startle, and stare out.

Observations from an Outsider

2007-02-25T22:10:00.000-08:00

The way he holds her suggests less than what she expects. An indication of different struggles meddled with. Her touch grasps for his, a frail tender moment unfolded. Uncomfortable facial features as she consumes his every reaction. A climber holds onto a ledge for dear life the way she is with his hand. Yet he breaks each motion to send her plummeting, no rescuers to reach out. Self preservation he trembles as she makes a blind grasp, reluntancy is a subconscious symbol. She has given herself to him like she was taught to do. But it makes a pale effort to his indifference. She tries to give him but his attention is rather to different times than the present. Emulating and exageration of every feature she urges for more than his frustration but fails numerous times. One scene after another he stands defeated even if he was the strongest man on the planet. Sort of a defeated slump when she hugs him. His breath slips out like a sort of last gasp. She claims to read alot she tells me later. But only articles on her beauty or about ways to get someone to notice. She wants to do what he wants. Yet he wants no part. A futile resistance and I write it down. She intoxicated by him. A pyschoanalysist might delve into her inability to be loved and what brought these feelings to tution but I sit sipping cappicino's and laugh to myself. My note pages filled to the brim with her. She is almost too much for my page to even handle. A woman that burts out and grabs you by the throat. I call that passion and the way she enchants you by following you. Watching you even when you cannot view her. She drives by your house and waits outside. To conquer a woman to have her on the floor or in your car on a sidestreet to take her moaning and doing it right. I turn red as my pencil point breaks and she stares at me I pack my stuff like a fawn in headlights.

Untitled

2007-02-25T21:56:00.000-08:00

A doleful wintry mix
sheeths of salt twine
ice bullets pounce
tapping on grates
in a rhythmic freeze--

hands warm on the heater
gush of redness swells
a certain feeling of a bluesy guitar riff
passes from cheek to cheek
a nod from each
a coat placed not on a rack
seething hands
slippery finger and toes wiggle
a sort of impecable timing
for bleeding of the crop
most fertile soil to drop seeds
passionate twithering
rough unshaven harmony
worn nipples to feed
but inside certain warmness--

piling of precipitation fornicates
as she moans on her back
he thinks of writing her letter
after all this is complete
and what it would say
and the wording of such
a sort of explanation of why
a celebration like this might not continue
loose conversations
revel in indlessness and lost marbles
she asks for his arm to hold
and he agrees for a moment--

watch the sunrise and set
it seems to not be able to decide
a gray dreary night turning over the sands
lived away from the shore
she asks if she can stay
he says no but possibly next time
when work calls no need to lay with others
his hands shake because of guilt
the summer spent with stories of travels
from one coast to another region
I should know better a stubborness in words
stronger than any alcohol
greater than any liquid in a bottle
a mythic solution of silliness--

he thought he was an island
only needing to pillage when he lay restless
fat and not so passion filled
he truly wants to weep
and think of kissing her eyelids
other men took her gently
I came upon thunder lightning bang
the bursting water lay waste to usefulness
a summer seems a lifetime away
numb to the feelings he had just felt
to look back would be a sin of some sort
an injustice to the past
no need for further injunction
but rather details to lay naked with.

Pouring Water on a Poetic Man

2007-01-11T22:29:00.000-08:00

Lining

My roommate lost his esophagus a few weeks ago
Not the actual organ but the lining
A mucous membrane of sorts
But at least he has no wisdom teeth left
And the doctors are sure that it will turn up
The thing is we searched everywhere
Under the sofa, in the closets, outside
His lining is nowhere to be found
I tried to buy a lining for something else and passing it off
No imitations when it comes to the esophagus
So I’m writing this in hopes someone might have seen it
It looks kind of like something that should be in the body
And well I don’t actually know what it really looks like
But if you happen to see a pile of goop
Driving around, walking around the mall, hiding in a tree
Please let us know and we would greatly appreciate it.

Books Lie

Romanticize the lives of ordinary
the lives of regular joe’s who work
drink and occasionally fuck
Many books written on the cunning criminal
or the road scholar bum
but you can’t win.
The road of righteousness is not outside my window
I walked around for hours and it never turned up.
Even in the books when the detective solves the case
murder is never quite so formulaic.
What about those spiritual guides to enlightenment?
A load of new age bullshit to pay the bills
to build the temples.
Travel guides never take me to the proper location
most of the time by the time you read it
the buildings are dilapidated,
where once led to a booming town now it lays to waste.
Worst of all the biggest type of liars are the books of poetry
the words try to encapsulate the reader.
The scene is set and for what, some unnatural payoff
or lack there of
I mean the verses just go on and on
sometimes you get the poets that rhyme
or the ones that craft the language together like a tapestry
for what purpose does this serve
the visual effect?
The modern poets and there post modern world
the ones where they comment and gesture and observe
some truth no one else can quite see or picture.
What gives them the authority, I just don’t get it.

Restlessness

In the days sleep kept calling me
Black and white films about loving the bomb
Caught me resting my eyes
As moments fell from minutes to hours
Days began to turn into weeks
The daytime hours were meant for naps
Hiding from life in the sofa
Under the covers above the pillow
Life was not so bad in constant rest
The worst part seemed to be the time you woke up
The hum of the radio caused relaxed my state
I went from nervous anxiety to calm, peacefulness
And then hours were gone
The pain from sleep never quiet goes away
What you were sleeping for
The stake of life and refusal to accept
A life not so predictable and dull
I wanted to take to the road but was tied down
By jobs and commitment
Only in my mid twenties I assumed I could not get out
I could not just take all my stuff with me
And find a train and never look back
There were moments when my suitcase was out
But didn’t walk out the door
So if I could not take to the street I would take to rest
And sleep the days away in dreams
Where I could be where I wanted to
Every person was a reminder of what I had left
The girl with the biggest heart
But a woman’s scorn made you hate who you were
And after all the arguments you still had to go on
And sleep was the only option.

Music Kept Playing

The thing is by the age of twenty I think I’ve seen over 1000 bands and I love it do not get me wrong. Good bands, bad bands, ok bands, mediocre bands, wild bands, dumb bands, crazy bands. All mixtures oh you know that band with the good guitar players but everyone else isn’t so great. I saw them a few weeks ago. Music has a certain vagueness when you are describing it to a stranger. But the music kept playing so I kept listening and I couldn’t stop listening. I think I want that written on my tombstone as a sort of epitat to describe what my life was all about.

A few months ago I just got tired of seeing the same bands in the same places. So I stayed home a couple weekends and all I could think about were the bands I was missing. And I thought what if tonight at the same club I could have been at the best band in the world was playing. I missed their set. I get these sort of anxiety moments where I feel if I am not there the tree won’t make that noise it does when I would be there. So if I am not there to witness the greatest band play their best set who will be there to hear it? Probably a couple people but they wouldn’t tell anyone what they saw. They would probably hold onto it for years and just glance at each other like a handshake. They this awesome band that no one else got to see. Hold onto bury it within themselves never mentioning in words what could be communicated in looks.

The problem is I keep looking at people in this way. And it makes for some uncomfortable uneasy glances. And you are thinking and they are looking at me thinking what is this guy thinking about. Intense. Than I ask them for a cigarette and ask them how the band was last week. “Oh just the usual.” Oh right just the usual the same old chords the same banter the same covers. But I know he is lying. I know there was something important that happened. I feel uncomfortable because I know I am not the only one thinking this. There has to be someone else.

But it didn’t matter especially when the opening band went on. And they were what I expected. But as the evening wore on some people got drunk and had a fight during the last band. They had to drag them out by their shirts and well the police wasn’t called they were friends. And well those sorts of things happen. It made my night because the last band started playing songs I expected them to play. And well the night needed some excitement but as the fight ended the music kept playing.

I think to myself what will happen when I am old and I have grey hair. Will I be out of touch and inebriated to care what happens? Or will I be in my room speculating on the bands that would be playing tonight? Or will I still be at the club? Ordering the top shelf booze and living life like how I’m living now? And I see it all now the same bands except older and maybe some younger bands. But the younger bands grew up with the older bands and so they sort of sound like the older bands. Not too many people remember the older bands maybe a couple. I remain as a history book and I reference bands and songs that no one else remembers. One day thought I will not be there. And when I am not will the music keep playing? I am pretty sure if the walls are still holding the building up. And maybe one older kid will show up and ask where is that old guy that used to listen to all the bands and complain.

endings and beginnings chchchanges

2007-01-02T20:58:00.001-08:00

A New Year To Pledge of Half Truths, Hidden Lies, and Idleness

Does it count as drinking alone
if your roommate is next store in his room?
He’s not drinking and you are not exactly hanging out.
The house is not empty so I think I am not drinking alone.
Is there any “true” harm in this if it would be falsified?
Does that change the status between you
and or I?

Whiskey and ginger a pleasant new years’ present
no hats or babies or fireworks
happiness can come in varying contexts.
Is this heading into the deadly ambiguity of virtue?
Writing letters came as second nature--
“Think of the past we share
when you hear a coal train slide across the track
every time you roll in the green crab grass
a illuminating star on a deadly collision with the sky
remember when we woke up to find mockingbirds
sugar in your coffee
honey bees stinging little fat kids
hold the earth up with me
lay down and hold on to me.”

a new year to end
a new year to push over the edge
a new year to vow to do something meaningful
a new year to waste on cigarettes and booze and god awful books

The warm fuzzy feelings soon end with Text Messages
Bells Whistles Shakers Balloons Champagne.
Fire from the neighbors lighting off the rest of 4th of july
balls dropping from penis shaped structures
the day that will never end just a party.
People pretend to believe-- they can change the world
while City Hall lights up, building open their top floor for a view
that never changes from one day to another.
Idle minds roll their eyes and ask too many questions—
when do late evenings become early mornings?
Wait until the day ends and people go back to habit
the day after tomorrow or maybe a week or maybe a month or maybe in an hour.

Party Time

To delve into something headfirst
takes a sort of unrelenting commitment
one where isolation is a celebration of self
a concentration where a passion becomes more--
at times one can not carry friends
or family to separate self from any classification
to rejoice in being an outsider.

The party can be rather an unfulfilled self prophecy,
if precision is not perfected--
devotion can never wait for job, faith, or love;
a lonely life wasted in chunks of decades
devoid of contact can lead to precision
or tremendous amounts of depression

But a paradigm can adjust and a doorway opens
when it does jump, opportunity is a bitch
and no one wants to be the last one at the party.

Sanctimonious Man

My bed ain’t made
My beard ain’t shaved
Unrelenting anxiety sets in
To entertain a condition of sacrifice
Rather than selfishness
To take what you need
Rather than take for the sake of needing

No apologies found
No mind boggling puzzles
Just straight intensity dealt with
To reach a certain frankness
That cannot be salvaged from authority
A righteousness to right wrongs
Even if wrongs are committed in the act

Fuck no wine left in the bottle
Harmony with an uneasy appetite
Unsatisfaction came as a gift to some
Like a den of starving rattle snakes
But others driven to sin by normalcy
Bible belt prisoners converted with promises
lined with gambling, pussy, and booze.

endings and beginnings chchchanges

2007-01-02T20:58:00.000-08:00

2 Season Poems 1 revision

2006-12-26T22:23:00.000-08:00

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.

leaf me alone but just don't fall back

2006-12-14T22:19:00.000-08:00

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.

The Days Run Away ... And Die

2006-11-15T23:18:00.000-08:00

Beat to the tribal drums

I never did coke even when he offered
The Kinks played in the foreground
Finding myself a stringent sequence
The subculture of genre was out right
The booze took the edge off to just walk around
Without following the beady eyes

The days
Run away
From me
As we all grow
And die
Rotting flesh
Molecular disintegration

She took your virginity from the bathroom stall
The communion with flesh and cum and blood
Iggy Pop had nothing on her crimson lips
The acceptance of when things fall apart
The foundation slowly began to crack

A Bad Night

Sometimes the words won’t pass
I have to say something
To make me feel less bleak
And when I felt like every shade of grey
The drinking from last night lingers
And I think about her
She told me how she read what I wrote
And asked about me
I felt insulted it took her this long
And she wanted to say the right thing
So I might not write the wrong thing
Because she does not want to be looked at badly
Even though when she sees me I feel weak
The only power I have is words
That is all I have left
Maybe I should just try to float by
And lie to myself daily delusions
I never could take the blame she would say
But I am taking full responsibility
And it pains me when I think about
What could have or should have happened
I think she watches the phone when I call
In weakness there comes clarity
I resent how I pick up when she calls
She uses that to her advantage
That it is not in my nature to ignore her
But it is in my nature to cling on
And not let anyone else in
To block out the full reality
And just dwell on the unpleasantness
I just heard a statement on artists
often make art out of social miscomings

Bash My Head In With Truth

I have a problem often accepting things as definite truths

I accept a force of creation
A small flicker or flame
Did not come just at chance
I can accept dolphins that walked
Monkeys that evolved
Science is often a dish best served cold
Hard boiled snake eggs

Problem

I have no problem but that might be it.
By me being unnecessarily non-threatening
That is my hang up.

There are days when even drunks do not want to drink
Rather just think about their problems
Until it boils down to bottle
And they sit in front of the tv
And the bottle calls them from the kitchen.

Some days when terrorists just have no reason to reign terror
To play ball with his oldest son and talk about the bomb
Another time, another day
It will probably still be there when the sun rises.

Everyone seems to have a problem with something
We plague each other with them until they eat up
And cause a thermo nuclear meltdown
So I am just asking I have enough, no room for any more.

The Self Proclaimed Boss

He though of himself as
This way but maybe he wanted to be thought of
As a genius but he was compelling in the way he spoke
He had people following and believing
Yet he never had much follow through
But it was scary when people would follow him
And his half coked up schemes
Somehow we all followed him through the many depths
Yet often ended our association out of just disgust
At how dirty the filth we had wallowed.

Ode to Spider

Watching me while I shit
You cower spinning your web
Rejection of any symbiotic relationship
We could foster
Yet you wait for me
Wait for the light to come on
To spin by my face
While I wash and soap
You want to be there
To get one last bite
Before your ultimate death
The giant slays all in his way
You stand on my shoulders
Hoping your poison will one day slay
Every giant that has hit
Swatted with newspaper
Sprayed chemicals in your eyes
One day revenge will be sweet

Sobriety

In order to be poetic I need a pint
In order to be a writer
I need to keep my thoughts in order
Reflexes need to be sharpened
Not blunted in booze
To script and mold words onto the page
I struggle to keep the booze down
The typing cannot be a blurry daze
Of drunken nonsense

I never made any claims at being the poet
But just a man with a burden for words
The Catholic guilt sets in the next morning
Making an oath to never spill a sip of booze
To be blunt – I require the parched lips.

My editor told me to write in a younger voice
To appeal to the college generation
To shape my words to conserve space
To fully equate my thoughts into concrete expression
But also maintain your aura of hip.

I felt like a whore in church and raped
By the high priest, I equate mass to a porno
My values are rather skewed
I never spoke to the devil but his hands misguided me
Through accidental disadvantages I crippled my own actions.

The next day we could not recite a word or even an event
The documentation was corrupt beyond use

Election

No more phone calls
I can finally stop lighting the mailbox
With a firestorm.

I cannot wait to open the bottle Of champagne
To celebrate no more tv commercials
No more puppies , the dog is dead.

Time to run to the polls
Hysteric propaganda
Disenabled by free ideas.

Girl from New York

She said Brooklyn
The boy knew he was doomed
But aren’t we all?

The boy took her
To the best places
That the east coast had to see

Yet he wondered
If it was enough for her.

She wasn’t the prettiest
But to him
She was more.

Because when they danced
Madly in the rain
From one light pole to another

Her Persian eyes kept him on track
Was it a secret
That she often never muttered
Aloud or to herself

She was never home
Even when they laid together
Rolling in naked sweat
His hands often numb.

days wither away in autumn

2006-11-02T21:25:00.000-08:00

The Window Is Gone

Someone referred to me as prolific
My writing being an expression
Of something greater, possibly monumental
It made me squeamish to think about
Obviously I felt too intimidated to write
I often get too nervous too sad too over the top
To compose anything other than mindless dribble.

There are days when I spend more time
Going than coming and those days I can’t write
There are days when I spend more time here alone
Those days the writing does not always come out
There is only a slight opportunity of inspiration
I could not write everyday if I did I could not grab
Choking the life out of communication
Smothering in phrases and purpose.

I could not write to put food on the table
Not there is much money in people that write
Self absorbed squishy abrasive diatribe.

On My Sleeve

the other night the queen of hearts
slapped on my shoulder
my friends laughed at how i wore it,
a heart on my sleeve.

the way I went with the crowd
swaying like a tree ready to be uprooted
at one sign of uncomfortable silence.

i need to live by the river
so i feel i can take a boat and leave at anytime
the constant struggle to want to leave
to leave to be part of something
bigger than you belong to.

on my sleeve remains the sticker
have not brought it to my attention in quite some time
the conversation was scripted.

booze set the course i remained on par all night
as I resolved any sort of dramatic scene,
grabbing her shoulder swallowed by the crowd
she would not even look me in the eye
and yet it remains unmoving unnerved.

The Name Is Sid Hartha

Take root in heart
A sort of seed of spirituality
Set to expand the interior design
A flicker of faith exhausts in the mid-light sky

Years and years seemed to be spent
On a spiritual journey of a novel
Reading about the European traveler

Grizzly display of youth upon the man named known as Bubba
Rub his belly tell him about the door to door sales mission
A subliminal eastern philosophy takes seclusion

As a snake tempts the young beauty stricken lady with brown skin
Her heart shakes in its sheer structure
The beat goes on steady and faithful

Biblical Anglo Saxon overtones
The new age movement needs no fodder
With all the vegan wireless cafés raping the landscape
No ugliness just oneness
Ohm Ohm oops it may be my phone “Can You Hear Me Now, Master?”

Our industry may rape ideals
Our industry may come… please do not wait up
Zen was no paradox just an inconvenience
But I think of myself as progressive
A captain of industry living outside my dreams

The door to door salesman selling used vaccum hoses
A certain humbleness required to sound convincing
Take me to the mountain and lets find the burning bush
Meditation is a spiritual commitment
That requires good shit

stream of consciousness

2006-10-22T21:59:00.000-07:00

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

Emergent Minds (a small series)

2006-10-19T21:52:00.000-07:00

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

I buzz from room to room
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.

a group of more poems

2006-10-09T21:32:00.000-07:00

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

More new stuff...

2006-10-03T23:27:00.000-07:00

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 Can of Duality

2006-09-27T23:56:00.000-07:00

a can
rounded top
sharp edges
metaphor
for life
a scent left
waivers as
i try to turn
twist or contort

Bullshit
A poet cannot
Write a real
Poem
About a can of

A poet writes
His best poems
In the shower
Or on the toilet
A certain solitude
Concentration is key.

A poet writes
In the park on a sterile
Bench smelling nature
Observe and record.

A poet writes
In the dark
Drunk and a whore
In bed, chuckling to himself
While a bottle
Lay on his desk.

A poet writes
In academia
Around sophisticated peers
Discussing our work
The classics and the new classics
That may not be so classic
In a couple years.

But a poet does not
Write about a can of beans
Pork and beans at that.

A Can of Duality

2006-09-27T23:53:00.000-07:00

A Can of Duality

2006-09-27T23:47:00.000-07:00

The Last Conversation

2006-09-26T22:51:00.000-07:00

She’s leaving in a few hours and calls
saying she cannot sleep
I say I hope she is safe
she seems to be happy and I hope
she is.

She seems to think this month will be
a time to think and grow and learn
and it may take longer than a month
but I want to see her in a month
I inject into the somewhat pleasant
conversation she seems to think it may take
more than a month.

A month can be a long time when you call
everyday when you call to hear a certain voice
on the other line pick up.

She thinks I do not realize it’s over
I said it’s ok it’s over but lets move on
she agrees for awhile until we talk about
october and how I will not be able to wait to see her.

She says we cannot just pick up where we started
a new friendship of sorts grown out of the shit left over.

She asks me what I am doing on a specific day next month
I tell her I’ll be where she is going to be at
she says why you don’t even care about them
you would just go see them because of me
well no but ok but I’ll be there nonetheless
we can talk if you are ready

She starts talking while I’m talking we both say
what we want to say ignoring what the other
may or may not be saying
I hear before she hangs up I don’t want you there
calling back she admits that she should go
she needs to be up in a few hours to board
a flight that will take her away for a month
I already miss her.

A Commercial

2006-09-26T21:29:00.000-07:00

A Commercial

the politician on my tv

says he likes puppies

says he would never hurt a puppy

am I a puppy?

his eyes never look right at you

he seems intense

he creeps me out

he seems to be a good citizen

his suit is pressed

his smile is too earnest

his teeth too white

he uses a puppy on his commercial

the cameras never lie

but we seem to do

public service frightens me

to be responsible for myself

and my own misguided actions is often too much

The Last Day of Summer

2006-09-22T22:32:00.000-07:00

It’s the last day of summer.

And I’m all out
of metaphors.

A few days ago, she called
she was taking a trip
away from me
for a couple months

she knew I would not like it
but said, “I think it’ll be good for you”

Whenever I spoke like that
I think she knew what I meant.

I told her to not go.

It’s the last day of summer.

She asked me if I was in love
with someone else

I was more concerned
with her leaving
then answering her question

She thought my silence
was an admission of guilt

saying she knew I had to have someone
I didn’t but she didn’t know that.

She didn’t know how I spent most of my days.

My room was not just 4 walls
some things never get let down.

I was different until I met her.

It’s the last day of summer and I’m fucked up.

Do you like someone?

I thought “I don’t even like myself”

she hates when I get mad

And she cries then I cry.
Then we both yell and cry.

A mess.

I tell her
it comes from the inside
it burns me up
and then I explode.

Suppression Freud would say
fuck Freud, the only cure I need is a cold beer.

but we don’t have any beer.

Just one apple cider
that has been in the fridge
since the 4th of July.

It’s the last day of summer.

She tells me she wants us to be friends
when she comes back

we can be close like we used to be

I told her I can’t suppress my feelings for her.

I can’t sit this one out.

I told her too many people
nowadays just are not passionate anymore

I want love or hate no grayness

she thinks I’m a fucked up person
but I told her not to let people control her
or how she feels.

Be true (cheesy movie line)

“Are you doing this for yourself”

It’s the last day of the summer.

I’m here in my room on a Friday night
I seem to be mad at the world.

She won’t answer her phone

she said she considered
seeing me before she left

I told her she needs to be strong

to see me one last time
to look me in the eye

be strong.

Too many people think it over

take a chance
take some action

I can see it now on T shirts and bumper stickers.

don’t just sit there and take it
like I’m doing.

It’s the last day of summer.

I don’t remember our last conversation

I think it ended with her crying and me apologizing

Gosh we both love to hurt each other
and we hate to love each other

a paradox of emotion.

It’s the last day of summer.

Is this it?

I (I I) Arrive (Identify)

2006-09-18T22:59:00.000-07:00

I

Broad sentiment of the word
for one reason
man to man whistle
broken phrases,
whisper on sea foam
Cloudy gloom
skies over
3:00pm tick tock
Sacrifice was not a cause of revolution
for anyone in these times
Understand the man spoke to the pasty mother losing a child in the market
Voices bounce inside a tunnel
under the guise of protection

suspicion of skin disease
pigment spiral
sweaty palms
clinging to laminated stock
rotate.

II

Post-modern departure, give way for change by the masters.

Conversation locked in and loaded

Cross cultural mind sets divulge

Spoken to the point, offensive nature of tension

a conundrum found in crossing the Delaware a hole in the toll booth

Rivers run from false truths to produce a thesis of fear

scoffing your feet on the welcome mat

Another dub poem from "III.Point of Arrival (Identification)"

http://locusruine.blogspot.com/2005_04_01_locusruine_archive.html

O Oue Oi O a

2006-08-27T09:42:00.000-07:00

after noon hiss
bel air, Maryland. sparkle and plastic implosionsstick a steel pole up your nose.
Encapsulating consignment direct-eye-contactlock to lock and ball to wall.
Bang A Rang (singular) left.Reinventing space and interval goblets from tubes of lube glistening
steal a mirror reflection.
Opting for history happy-go-lucky, Groucho.
mass marketing orgasm
sex organ spasmsChik Chik Chik
Touch my nipple
dismissive passion prescription.
Searching for a sort of validation
lost to negligence.

original poem was entitled
"I.Of Course Point Off Track"
http://locusruine.blogspot.com/2005_04_01_locusruine_archive.html

Editing Underground News

2006-08-20T14:40:00.000-07:00

I have lost the connotation
peeling away a stray sniper casing.
Radioactive residue left on a desk
covered in a temple of manila folders.
The derivative is quite possibly
the end point of all.
Hezbollah more hesbiblah!
Tear the press up,
rip up the ink stains from my finger tips.
Printing not finger painting
mind this inane utterly ornate job.
Tell me of your Latin lover,
or include instructions of a technique
for pelvic grinding.
I spank you spank we all spank.
Water cooler hi-jinx the office is a plethora of stimuli.

Hip-check at the door.
Lozenge the throat before public speaking
I prefer herbal green tea with a splash of soy.
Stick it in and push harder.
In and out gently not rough
goddamit my nipples are sensitive.
Can you blog me now?
Holden where art though?
Always double duce, Aaron.
Your portfolio comes off as amateurish;
you seem to have an immense enjoyment
from detailing intimate sexual acts.
The balls slammed down on her desk,
steel stress relievers, a of waterfall sweat.
Perverse a news den not a locker room.
More like a hut of some sorts
with the walls covered in paper mache
and no smoke stacks as of yet.

*******
The amplified bass of enjoining desks, the carpet is dirty stained coffee residue. Discussions of the aesthetic values of independent media sources. All outlets appeared to be full. Niney and Perry spent most of the day contorting the layout laid out the foundation nicely. Happy hour hours away the relaxing movement of steady constant seconds being spent varyingly. My business Mr. Bernstein is to concoct a meaning. I was lost in the streaming rum and cokes & whiskey sours spilled over lunch, come back to me in about an hour. The sobriety of an hour was fresh and new. Blue current steams over clouds the atmosphere was connected over a wire. We all have vices (is that not true Coleridge) cocktail chat. The accusation of another bird on the wire. Ketchup and piss stains left on the rug. Damn dirty freelancers barking up the tree for more integrity clean up after yourselves than talk to me about equal rights. Always with the agenda the barking of propaganda. Red or Black or Yellow why does the shade matter just the font. Pay close to the font, the font says things not expressed into words. In some ways it stands on its own defiant or in perfect harmony. Back to the old ball and chain gang. The journalistic minor league lewd in existence watch out for lifers. Back to the issue at hand, keep your eye on the cartoon (the editorial). Holden was too idealistic. Jack could not handle the deeper issues at hand. The smoldering presses roaring at any split wine or blood. Feed the Romans they could say towards the underbelly. Conspire a mutinous assault on the editor spare no assistant in the way.

Feebleness takes the breath away. Gimme what you got.

II.SellhAir DUB

2006-08-14T22:24:00.000-07:00

The scent of burnt, darkened ends.
Once a blonde blaze up in smoke.
Tossing motion between squatting, wink wink.
Activly participate spinning in the chair.
No space for seats
or any doubt.

Conducting business
register
contract breathing
one breath
dismally comfortable; tip accordingly.

Shiver for a second or two
excess swept under the rug
as we adjust the piece.

Original poem "II. A Point to Smell the Air"
http://locusruine.blogspot.com/2005_04_01_locusruine_archive.html

Drowned in Salt

2006-05-13T00:53:00.000-07:00

Today I decided I would like to hide myself in half-truths

I reveled in revealing myself to you :

the madness of conversation was exploited.

I had once wearied my emotion down to a single whine

self loathing dragon fire of hate unleashing sewage

ravishing your heart, ravishing any heart up for the taking.

What did I find in myself?

Coldness possibly or some other misplaced fear, I prefer small words

the choppy rhythm breaks down the guard.

Waking hours spent often given to every need every ounce of tenderness spread,

spread thin weary of any sudden movement to attract a predator.

When did you ever promise yourself to me, I gave you me in every breath

every thought every square foot of my frame.

I hallowed every word bequeathed from your mounds, spare me my glutton of words.

Ounces of madness covers my breath, exhale the spitfire.

The withering while whiling away in the green green grass : please spare me this.

I begged on my knees to give me the answer (the only) I could hear but falter

after every step we pressumably take

the dam implodes.

The passage to the promised land of loathing nestled away in the cortex of psyche

arched nerve ways pulsate oxygen and blood the foundation of life :

cellular heartbreak was never quite the cropped outline.

Focus on the present, on the way we used to share

fleeting memories unleashed in the dastardly thick fog

a fog to forget to lose all senses.

Senseless babble of babylon when did we fall so high and mighty

I used to have some sense or purpose no I wander : the melody of an oldies tune

bare bone to the ritchoet as the pains of glass leave shards and scars of colored glass

lodged into my pec.

Regurgitate a lyric for added meaning : some sort of doing "the right thing"

spare me the simplicity and send me out to the desert for 100 years

and I would still hold you down when I returned.

2006-03-21T20:47:00.000-08:00

Blue Dub At the Controls

Puddin skin

solution.

Wander in a darker shade

cuttin' no slack jack

luster in moistness.

Spread my legs

aerobic sensualities explored.

The doctor told me about my feet

being arched,

I should take better care of my feet.

They are the only pair you got.

The smell of bleach :

I sit at home doing laundry

word scribbled in a notebook

as the dryer cycle reverberates.

Remnants of blue soap, stings my noise but I cannot resist an urge to sniff.

My sink is a big river, everytime I wash my hands.

A baptism of brown water of my squatty fingers.

I hear cries for whiskey : the pub below crackles with noise on a weekly basis.

Thursday nights are great for insomnia

but the proximity of a temptation

the truth is I like surrounding myself with sin.

I talk in tongues to myself.

Deep in Dundalk preaching harmony and melody

on a rubber band guitar.

I play with my thumbs.

The solos rip up my skin

and the blood is only ketchup, I promise.

Processions often are lead to the door

no smiles are had but liquor is spilled.

Nude bodies contort in towels and togas

like the Romans, but with more culture.

the original "Blue Bodies" can be found here... http://locusruine.blogspot.com/2005_04_01_locusruine_archive.html
Point X

On (the Moment of) You

2005-11-04T16:30:00.000-08:00

There was a moment when a hollowed etheral image
scorched deep into my holgraphic concept imagination :
by not speaking so many oral oddities of conversation
I could not equally express my greeting card esque regards.

Accessible modes of communication have been briefly shutdown
put on hold until I can concieve an available moment,
mental facilities are not quite up to a reaction.
My intentions are ad hoc in virtue,
actions however are never quite concievable
without pure unadultered contact.

Flash memory bulbs crackle in a neon explosion
when I read your letters, but dialing your number
was never an admission of guilt I wanted to take on.

Ancipation of tangled lives intersecting gambling in chance
a game that had been lost to darker souls indeed.

This context left me numb as the assetts of physical touch
drifted further and further apart, using a metaphor of ships.
Missing a set of eyes to roll at me I wish you were with me.
Our conversation questioning on bordering issues
an affinity for one another we could never quite get past.

I held you in a moment and I miss your touch, after every rationalization
after every conversation, after every misinterpretation
the regard I held you in never waivered. My confidence could not grasp you.
Is this an admission of guilt or just a transgression into something deep, please decide.

I could stutter over everything I had to communicate, yet you always knew.
The horror yet pleasure of being known by someone
greater than you could know your self.
The guilt in wanting to return the favor : wanted to grasp your complexity
to embrace you (like the way a trumpet grasps a note).
Holding through the blue times, through the melody, rhythm of ours could collide
and in intervals it surely did.

Only in so many degrees of seperation could this be anything else
pushing a barrier we both had programmed in : why is this so hard to accept.
I basked in your being every moment, secure or not I held everything I could ever do
while your lips left an impression that I would never ever slip away from.

I never had so many words for someone
that I just could not get out in this language
or any language that required movement of the mouth.

The jaw bone rubbed up against
the back of my cheek brushing pink fleshy substance
no hesitation but more of a regret of doing things
the way others would not have possibly chosen.

To rip out everything in bouts of insecurties, to cross up the words better left unsaid
to pour out my being and place in the table one too many moments,
but I cannot go a day or a hour or a minute without sharing a piece
of what you gave to me.

I cannot get over your being, the strongest I ever shared a prescence with
captivate me more and more, even feeling surreal to bask in your smile
melt me into a substance to be a part of a universe that could mix together
I want your substance continually : the flow of information
cross my data base until my memory is crunched together.
Blurring a line between our balance of equity and rationality until it no longer mattered.

Places Where I Want to Die

2005-10-12T00:53:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, and I mean sometimes
I ponder places where I could breath a final breath.
No deep, piercing mental meditation
but a brief pondering of different places to lay to rest.

Somewhere desolate, possibly peaceful defiantly serene
a forest scene where I would smell the pine.
Who would want their body discovered by a group of tourists?
Polaroid snapshots explode from their windows
as flies waver around your flesh, some sticking to my cheek.

A long time ago I thought a car accident might be a way to go,
all over in a moment relaxed driving down the beltway and smash.
In a moment it is gone like a whisper, a spirit ripped from you
a gnarly explosion of metal and plastic parts.
But the people around you seeing the blood splattered on their window.
Sounds a little uncouth if you ask me.

There were times when I thought death could come in a terminal sickness,
laying on a bed in a hospus caused by some sort of benign cancer or a fatal tumor.
A long orderly process of mourning for your own death.
Hours of reflection, hours of preparation but most time wasted on minute details.
Assuring family and friends of how you are not scared,
when the lights go out you shake in fear of your own mortality
Knowing this might be the last time you have your eyes open.
No room left for tears the strength to barely have a desire to carry on.
Lying in a sterile room, opening your eyes in an artificial environment
sounds too mechanical.

Where is the honor? Going down in a blaze of glory?
What about the youth mantra ‘I want to die before I get old’?
I told myself I did not.

I have lists, precarious lists of things I want to do, people I want to see,
places I want to be, experience to treasure.
But there are times when I ponder questions about my untimely parting.
I avoid a neurotic obsession but I do frequent tombstones
to pick out my favorite. Listen to the calm soothing wind of a graveyard
quite an experience to walk along the road examining people who do not know.

I listen to talk radio shows about death, the experience. A question of life
after all this thinking but for all the preparation death seems so complex.
A taboo in culture, but a subject so written on it seems cliché
even to offer a new concept or angle on such a broad subject is difficult.

My favorite part in the newspapers are the obituaries
My fingertips smear the black ink over my hands.
I like how they put perspective on everyone’s life in a few sentences,
a brief summary about life ending with death.
It lacks a certain suspense because at the end you know what is coming.

The police blotters always lack a certain flare for detail.
Death seems like a statistic some sort of number to base a chart around.
I see death as a parting of familiarity, some sort of homecoming but a going away
I try to rationalize my fears. There are many reasons I have not to worry,
but it bothers me day to day.

A doctor told me I had an obsessions with death, my own he coined it.
A morbid fascination with my own last days, I tell myself to live in the moment
to forget the mindless uncontrollable details.
I blame myself for not being more occupied, there are too many moments
too many precious spaces of time left open for me.
I cannot build some illusion of busyness to prevent my mind for focusing on a topic
it is a form of entertainment a sort of sick entertainment.
I have a book full of instructions. The Egyptians had a real pomp and circumstance.
I do not need a cannon to shoot my remains but it would be quite shocking.
To picture the funeral services ending in a mortar of my being
raining down into the crowd, a sort of calmness afterwards.

I decided it is too early to really put much thought into this, then a friend passed
and it made me worry. I started shaking and stuttering in front of a friend
And I was sad. I slept in a lot and kept this hobby going,
death isn’t a good hobby to really have. There is not much to collect, no groups to join.
Not really into the whole serial killers thing so my interest did not follow a norm
I tried forming a group but it was kind of awkward to try to get others to join.
Death doesn’t scream out to many when you put it onto a flyer at a store,
well I did get some replies but they were kind of in their own universe.

The media uses death for emotional effect to solidy a coment or headline.
Bloggers use a body to punctuate a story, to flare it up.
The stoic media broadcaster reports death with a straight face
like he was personally affected, but the human interest story always brings a chuckle.
Our culture of course gets criticized for numerous imperfections,
but in death we have so many options.

Back to the point I had I found this great place in the middle of town,
I could see my body laying in that grass. It feels good against my skin
and I had a nice dream there about my funeral it was cheerful yet respectful
Calling everyone telling them I think I found the place I want to lay
now I just have to decide how. Not that it is my decision
but I would like to have input.

another updating ding ding ding ding (read on)

2005-09-07T10:16:00.000-07:00

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.

Something new finally...

2005-09-07T00:34:00.000-07:00

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’.

happy horror prescriptions (read the bottle)

2005-08-04T02:03:00.000-07:00

DJ carry me home

seeking into the void between spins

rejoice Babylon in pompous decor

a baptism melody, bottomed out pulsate.

Reverberate in a clandestine sonic excursion

god like cultural isotopes (James Dean, Elvis, Dee Dee Ramone)

excess swallowed, puke ridden toilet.

****

Words wasted, soak a broken bottle

clit sores soothe in the lack of ventilation

a whole not in my Black Lung but in my soul.

(Northern Detroit rock opera in drag

the hippest backbeat) Lost on me.

****

I scratched my fingers on the raw table

The sign embroidered on my bleeding ends

Tongues of fire spit out.

Eyes roll back, foam off the pint

exercise (pump it up) the spirit.

Decca dance is on the road to my salvation.

****

Conversations interface crumbles

The shards of evidence were never recovered.

The body of an American the Anchor conveyed pity

on lookers of a digital traffic accident off the I-83.

****

Bar time moves slow, leeches over the second hand

Acceptance is the first step I have been told by others

But questioning our actions often lead to splitting hairs (needle).

The dance was never quite important as the result,

It often ends before it had a start or possible existence

so I took the last train out of town, my thumb was sore.

****

We spoke about Oppen and Kafka, raw emotion of meaning

blue cascade was lost on my bleeding ears (heard enough?).

The city was long gone as I was 100 miles past the glimmering

the lifestyle ate me alive, limp consumption lead to a rotten road.

****

Moss grew around my bed as I slept, I believed in nature

but power (unquenchable) can be dangerous in certain minds

mass production : marketing pitch.

I used to believe in rock n roll but that was long gone

(train tracks grinded to a halt) wakin’ me from shakin’

and the voices we heard when the lights went down.

Getting On with a Point

2005-08-01T01:51:00.000-07:00

We motioned for hours around the visible moment TV, an insignificant event not quite here or there I suppose. The words fell off the bar and into the great wide open space empty by all means. A couple shooting pool, dancing to the funk mix cd that was skipping ever 10 seconds or so. I sit there deep in meditation, wondering why I was here (at the bar not some great ominous question of point) pondering like Howlin Wolf jamming on a riff. Details circled around my fingers as I was supposed to be shaking my love on the (dance)floor. I never payed attention to the details I just took the meaning that was my biggest problem. The end result was quissential not the trip but the road arrived to. The destination point not how you got there, did it not just matter if you got there? Some spend lifetimes reviewing the destinations never reached.

Weeks before I had seen the city and every time I pass the interstate coming in I often stare in amazement at the blinking lights and billboards that wear away in age. The night sky had just reached over hanging over a cool breeze and the clouds created the perfect shade of a night sky. The tower that blinked red caught my eye as I pondered ever leaving here. Years I have spent in this place somewhere else would be alien but I spoke about it hours later. In a mumble wondering if I could retreat in a mountain shack with a typewriter and a bottle of tequila. I was in search of no great American novel or dream those had all been found by better people than I. Words and music had filled me with passion my whole life. The painstaking details of art where the final product is part of the process. A keen eye of the result with attention to the finer points. The composition of a process was not stylistically aesthetic but the result and what it made you feel was key.

Some would say a perfect combination Pineapple and cheap vodka with week old fruit. The taste was sour and made my face pucker and revolt at the taste. My lips dried off in a moment that took me out of here. Lately after a couple drinks my head begins to hurt. Torturing myself over details often better left not even thought. I had no attention for the moment I was caught up living someone else’s life. My friend tells me he wishes we he was 16 again. The time of our lives he recalls. Living a lifestyle with no cares in the world. I think if I did it again I would be more constructive. Regretting the time wasted analyzing painstakingly. James Brown grunts in the background.

Conversations hide true feelings. The girl behind the bar smiles only to get a tip, sincerity is often forced. I feel often like I have lived 10 lives by the time I was twenty. I hid behind the spectacle briefly displayed on the screen. I prefer to be passive instead of aggressive. I keep telling myself I want to freefall just for a moment’s time and then come back refreshed from being out in the open. Art imitating life or the latter. Preoccupied diagnosis by the doctor to return to the pages of fantasy. The life of great men or women had gaps and I think I am in one of those gaps right now. Often being in between times are a good reason to keep pushing and maybe the right thing may come out. I lament hours later in a stupor of tom foolery as I spoke to myself with the key in the car and my headlights off. I often pictured myself capturing the moment in the right tone but tonight I feel cut off from who I really am. I take that with a grain of salt, and I wander off in some other tangent.

Immediate Poetry for the masses

2005-07-01T01:21:00.000-07:00

Dance Party Poetics of a Hipster

Aren’t we all like 45’s
circulating round and round
until wearing out the grooves?

Vinyl sleeves pave the path
to dancefloor breakdowns
by Stax horn players and P.P. Arnold

Crooning Motown love odes before
every phrase had been muttered
soulful shakes of the stereo treble.

Intimate hand clasps at midnight
swingers represent the style of Mod(ern) fashion
skinny black ties and the backbeat.

Dance, a representation of reality
Do the Dog, the Monkey, Funky Chicken
layers of sound captured it all.

Baby was neither endearing
or over-the-top sensational sentiment
a part of me wants to return yet grass is greener.

One step out of time, retro passion
for another period neither here or there,
what would you revive back then?

Targeted for pleasure principle tactics
no cards or Queen of spades to play just raw emotion
sub-culture meant so much more as counter-culture.

Instead of a passionate follower
of clouded days blue rain bellows from over head angles
grey eye shadow two steps down the face in arrowhead streams.

The dance never seemed to break
only for a dissident seconds (split for a drink or 2)
if so the steady thump and bump drove the youth wild.

I'm still here

2005-06-20T13:01:00.000-07:00

I've been listening to way too much Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers. I even stole a line from "Pablo Piccasso." I also believe "your face is pure sex when you smile" might be the best line ever written, sang, etc. Anyway I have some new pieces I am slowly grinding down on. This blog needs more quantity as well as quality so expect more soon. Check back often...

Interplay of Conversation

Unfamiliarity of the anonymous voice locked into a greeting (hello?)
exchange notification for specific natural identification so I asked
and no one called Picasso an asshole (I liked girls).

Comply to contrived patterns of blurred longitude
static electric lines of parallel consciousness (I hate being alone at night)
paths have crossed in non-secular intervals.

Excuses fall like poison droplets in a gothic tragedy,
I try to read those writers but the books all smell bizarre;
pour sand out of pages, too many schools and periods.

A conversation bursting with sensational normality
true meaning of senseless aesthetic apathy of our 20’s
(a decade later maybe it will be the same).

Coaxing our old conformity into lists of fallible excuses
vegan after dinner soy soaked: 9 to 5 bulging from brim
on edge of a gory accident scene.

Enclosed by our verbal apprehension of our precise location
cellular connection jagged (one bar or two?), I remember when
there were days we hungout at bars and train stations.

Chain smoking and walking nervously, stuttering soul-bearing interplay
in the morning hours of evenings, alcohol fueled eyes glow in neon
coming down on grimy coffee and wet eggs.

We both agreed feeling like cold shiny grey concrete statues:
the old white men lining parks around the world
letting the birds shit all over you.

new new stuff (feedback in encouraged)

2005-05-06T02:11:00.000-07:00

Confessions of a Linguistic Butcher

The hands rested incessantly as fingers lay in the dripping onto the rounded metallic tube that relays back. A counter-reaction revolution shaking in the sheets of latex. Scent of rubber still wallowing, sweat drips into the rustic drain. Stronger than the month old Trojan wrapper lubricant sitting on the windowsill. The withdrawal of the actions I took; the ashtray stained in guilt. The obsession with city-wide moderate media, cutting out the rectangle articles of inspiration lacking in depth. Hours expire as nothing is done except constant wavering guilt. The purged paper the victim of the moment, sits ravaged by incessant symbolic scratching. Aching for more addicted to the act of engagement.

Poets are butchers:

cutting phrases in alignment—
lining rhythm with pattern.

Mood set by
a set rhythmic pattern,
slight tapping of letters pressed.
As the words split or delete upon one another
broken in order, shaped to the liking.
Blotched skin peeled off structure
torn like a predator chewing a lamb.
Pulsating blood squirts,
ink blot forms around spiral notebooks.

I sit at 2:02am waiting for a striking logical excuse
or witty phrase to spiral this writing into some discontent.
Pondering peer acceptance or approval that never reaches
my unreal standard, but that is what I do.
Accused of not taking it out to the streets,
examining the inner struggle (reality show in progress)
who wants to see the bloody process?

Locus Ruine (Part 1) Point I, II, III

2005-04-29T12:19:00.000-07:00

I.
Of Course Point Off Track

Afternoon hustles the rails blare
A desolate lone spark ignites.
Hands clutch stick steel pole:
Sweat gently conjoins to tips
Passengers avoid direct eye contact
Locate dread-locks bangarang bongo drum
(singular) in stealth admission.
Guilt left

Reveal a fixed interval : precise demarcation.
Tracks stained oil goblets of lubrication
Glisten in steal beams offer reflection.
Opting for history of oppression
Not the happy-go-lucky capitalism.
Mass appeal loss to Marketing,
Stony-eyed executives erupt(ion)
Boom Chik Boom Chik Boom Chik
Tickets ripple, looming formal as dismal
Passion martyred safety prescription
Processing identity for perspective validation.

II.
Point to Smell the Air

The scent of lights Marlboro,
Matches lay burnt, darkened ends
Once ablaze from addiction.
Ash to filter

Tossed momentarily, the silence between
Boarding and squatting, no wink or nod
Active participation.

Doors shut, latch slid in
Air tight, a seal of approval.

No space for bodiless seats
Or any doubtful naysayers conducting
Colloquial business.

Contraction, one breath at a time
Sitting at the rail bar dismal yet comfort
In capital or whiskey sour.

Lunch was turket on
Freedom Toast, post commentary here.

Conduct nasal atonements, not for passengers
Locked in a light closet for top hats or fur coats.

Shivering in a moment, the carpet scent
Dirty laundry, one more hour to go.

III.
Point of Arrival (Identification)

Here or there in the broadest sense of the word(s). Never come home, not for one reason. Many unspoken phrases, whispered on this salty platform. Seafoam cloud skies over Brooklyn. At 3:00pm the top of the clock blurred. Self sacrifice was never a strong coat for anyone in these times.

Understand the man spoke to his motherless child. Lost conversation trails off into a tunnel. Cloak and dagger secrecy kept under the guise of protection. Camera take in visual cues, suspicion of skin tone not actual behavior. Tongues lash out spiral to sweaty palms, clinging to laminated stock. Numbers line up on a notebook pad. Cycles rotate.

Post-modern arrival delayed give way for change. Conversation locked in romanticized beliefs over outdated cultural mind sets. Spoken so trite and to the point, offensive in the nature of tension. A conundrum found in Washington crossing the Delaware. Rivers identify false truths to produce a basic thesis of… comments and questions will be taken after the lecture. Scoffing your feet on the welcome mat.

Locus Ruine (Part II) Points IV, V, VI, VII

2005-04-25T23:25:00.000-07:00

IV.
A Point of Blocks

International jet setters skitter past
Talk of experience and foreign land
Ambassadors huddle under dark dreary lampshades
Foreing aids order pints for their bosses
Welcome to a time square happy hour

(I hear of English dips drinking Canadian lager, oh quite the scandal).

Lost in a moments notice deporting location
For specific indignation of humorous antidotes
Deporting on 33rd in search of 9th
before a French karaoke outburst.

I make it a point of interest to intersect street corners
With flashing signals of passerbys,

Please streamline all rustling and bustling
For rush hour interruptions. Immigrating side walk
To nearest border, train of process lost.

Feet pound the pavement, the rhythm syncopates
Rubber soles burn up on this hallowed stone
Walking the same beat as so many others, repeating history
Constant de-ja-vu but in a moment of concise recollection.

V.
A Point to Go Underground

Laughter splits out of the sidewalks
in rigged cracks, also in aluminum pots and pans
point to patterns of invention.
Mad hatter, Mandhatter, Manhattan
Reverb, echo, digital language
Or loss of ambient passion.
Statements of bliss.
Aesthetic expression wiggles
Onto shadows on the magnified white.
Silver guitars and saxophones cover crowds
Gushy notes and chords bleed in overtones.
In a smokeless carbon copy factory—
Knitting together hopeless phrases,
Strike riffs, mash keys all in unison.
Harmonious interludes sonic ambivalence
All proliferated in this floorless brick.
Safety in numbers of intelligent pro/con verse
Calculate flicks of tongues per beat.
Enunciating the proper artistic demarcation.
The moments left unbalanced, unchecked,
Recorded not in time, seconds late.

VI.
(Make it) A Point to Part

Hallowed statements (grrrrrrrrrrr!)
Time lost in the city,
Inner upt and outer downtown (napkin,
Coordinating contortionists through Broadway.

Lapse in locomotive hustle bustle
Alleys shutter CBGB’s 53rd & Strummer, Joe military coat
Patches signifying classification, lost with words).

Joining hipster religious cults so 1…9….9….9
Ignition: key in the car, take me back to the futon,
Mattress noises shake the crusty walls.

Ticket times melt into the digital screen at the Greyhound station,
Board until full, smoldering feet revert to inclination.

Eyelids lapse, parting shots, depart time imminent
Blue warning level, slight alert interest lost.

Holland tunnel darkness, one interval (to meditate
On turnpike rest stops speaking in neurotic voices.

Characters all part of an unending skull and bones conspiracy theory--
to alleviate rye bagels?)
The skyline visible for a number of exhaust miles,
Which I stopped counting.

VII.
A Point of Concept

Too hard to place in a small plastic container
Obtuse in definition, replay the placement of constant doubt.

Rift-raft : lifeboat sinking in the words-spoken-less.
To give up on the unattainable, numb to the touch.

Etched stretched finger nail, skin sore from constant :
(a realization) that Man Cannot Live on Bread Alone.

A belief revolutionary protest to reject all that is not concrete,
to abolish all that is rational, all intellectual pursuits quietly
disregarded in the back of a hickory-smoked closet.

To look at the concrete abstraction of discomfort,
the remnants of the past still remained in awe (unattached).
Left without constant remainders but just illusions :
real-ness in search of the unmistakable to mutter in silence.

Wandering on the borderline until the pressure implodes
leaving you balanced on a beam of decision
to repeat previous miscalculations a refusal to move on.

The plan was never fully revealed to mutter in steps
or points of progress but to fully lay out a oral / written
map of the moment : the note in the hand still remains days left
symbolism of specific Locus Ruine.
Swarm the lot of description, picking and gnawing on the rope
to reject the loft of isolation. Babble on one too many glasses of
Red Wine in a Box. We slept on glass in the alley but it never broke.

Locus Ruine (Part 3) Points VIII, IX, X, XI

2005-04-25T17:59:00.000-07:00

VIII.
A Point on the American West(erns)

Scene: Zen Vegan Smoke Shop/Café in Yuppie City, USofA

A pen is an (inner) compass
but lets brighten the neo-conservative
neon-fire baptism in moans
straight laced bump fuckin’ whore.

Excuse my tone but the word is out:
Best of the West is dead, cocksucker.

Whispering in my ear
how she told me *#@&!
under corporate bleached nostrils.

Crimson state confusion aqua bodies,
exploit the nature of emergent bloodshed,
MSNBS soapbox errata orgasmic.

Drudge the sewer for inter-media conglomerates
like John Wayne flipping preservative hamburgers
reduced to begging for another Sandinista or Bay of Pigs.

Liberal news blog backsplash like mouthwash in the sink,
a green residue remains like the money lined pockets
as the seed splintered onto a concrete slab oozing machismo.

I wrote this down inspired by flatness
genetically enhanced grass and salt of the sphere.
Her hair mixed in her eyes hiding pieces of her,
speckled in my blotched sight through lunar brightness.
A future seemed unimportant in a constant embrace.
her voice speaking of the lack of trueness in my being.
She held my thin stubs, gentle circles engrained touch.
Navigation from each globe around and around
tra-la-la-la melodies gorge beneath the lips.
In this moment her warmth cleanses as shingles shake
her name gently blown in my ear.

(Testimonial)

Proxy Sam Elliots pillage the villages, free radicals
infected periodicals smearing smoke-stains from the ink
St. Petersburg was certainly no paradise under Peter.

IX.
[Point] On Flight

Midnight smoke crisp, rushes through my nostrils
as Columbian coffee purrs in disposable foam.
Newspapers dispersed across shag carpet floors

blurred stories in newsprint,
black & grey fingertips remain

while faces rippled and obtuse revel in checkpoints.
Translucent neon reflection numb

destination : destruction.

[exclamation]
I like “d” words.
The enjoyment of hour and a half searches
“d”etecting if terror is atleast admissible
in court, grounded in the middle-
ground of justice and truth.

Sao Paul never seemed so brutal and honest,
wild flashes staring at the American imported from New York
never did the “Body of an American” mean so much.

[wide mouth amazement]
Fed with paydays and “d”iet Coke,
watch out they have razor sharp industry.

Two linguistic parallels squander so close
in language yet far apart in meaning.

[the film ended cut to cassette walkman, outdated, no eye-pod] Bruce Springsteen never sounded so free[da-dum].

X.
Blue Bodies

What would Pound do?
with pudding skin pollution
wonder in shades of dark waves
lackluster in moist details.
Legs spread feet arched,
while a bubble floats to the top.
Gently splashing evasion
like a washer rotating on ‘econo-safe’ cycle.
Useless advances reverberate
scratchy numbers line up on a notebook.
Industry cannot apply practical ability,
yet our novice illogical comprehension
ss easily commodified, expired, or outdated.
A big river becomes a watering hole
baptize me in Baltimore’s natural bohemia.
The rye cries of whiskey sink in Old Bay,
harboring all but sprinkled in Natty Boh.
Head to toe, emerge talk in tongues
deep in Dundalk preaching words
to jobless, toothless, hopeless repeating
“less is more” in a disjointed scene.
A holistic man with gentle whisper
preaching to the crowd, disciples stumble
harmonic processions as nude bodies
contort in towels and togas.

XI.
The Point About Evacuation

Sympathy in screeching wheels
words spread about black top
signs point to routes to be taken in an emergency.
Unending and wet like the pages
burning holes in a pocket.
Sharp coy phrases, paper thin in touch,
plans fragile in existence.
Excessive in absorption :
M o I s T n u m b n e s s.
Whitman scoffs with beady eyes
objective glances without a forward motion.
Feet walk, feet talk for miles and blocks
I hear Babylon is not burning but lost.
Lets do lunch in hallways after scares,
to error is divine but to terrorize is American.
Clint East meets Roy West
spaghetti format (bang bang shoot em up)
a showdown in Phoenix City.
Subliminal advertisements signal low warning
exhale sheer brutality of post modern comfort.

Earthfiles 0001

2005-03-29T22:25:00.000-08:00

Configuration

shapeless mo-shion
eclipse shallow gravity
realignment of the orbit:
“Ur the future”
(refer to catalogue note)
cosmic international jet-set
celestial transmission
satellite submersion.

Half lit by conversation
buzzing neon, needles spur
trinkles of half spoken warnings.
Caution read the report
cabinet lift the page by page.

The question was never asked but answered. Oblique resignation given to misguided confessional writing. I believed in aesthetic observation. The meaning was never quite there to attach one self to permanently. Shades of overtones, musk followed the scribble of alien writing. No language yet pattern repeated. Notice the stifling details. Overload of memory, ram splits blood. Horn on recalibrate the dissidence. Never quite finding open ended in the search. File loaded. Designate sector of classification. I often found the trouble in believing to be outright conflicting. Typed and annotated beyond belief the danger in sometimes uniform conformity was the fact it often lead to assignments without a way to grasp… line up. Stapled in order to hand the knowledge seekers.

Artificial and interfacial existence
on our plane, shaking back and forth
searching the thread of text.
Pull out hard evidence
brick of information
etched on peaces of a stone wall.
Exploration of self
in body and mind diluted
A sense of betrayal to our creation
falling in our shallowness.
Bow out of emotional response
but the closed eyes of acceptance.

Twin Paradox

Misguided science often corrupted
mindless wonder lost in detail.

Eye witness report
of ignition of rocket to prove
Theory of a Longshot.

Ein Stein space:: Time & Travel.
Charting life in one scientific dramatic monologue
records slightly altered to protect the reader.

Power towards the thread of life,
string DNA strands pieced together
Scotch tape never holds over
baffling figures charted, distance explored.

Imagine form and theory
thrown out the logistical door step
Could time be a stopwatch never stopped?

Time dilation unfolding
the barriers burst open
unraveling at the seam.

Diner Experience

Witness report:

To succumb to plights dissolved
in a chalky substance around the edge
Equal and Irish Crème residue
nutra-sensations buzz around
like gnat lost in pattern

Stumbling in pure omission of the obvious acceptance. Waitress crooked smile stained in guilt of service. I ossilate in the glowing resolve of white pupil cracked red. Jagged buzz slowly fading over the horizon. Sky embark on a transmission of ominous life the light show passing overhead. FLASH FLASH FLASH. Gone without a glimpse, military base sparkling bubbles. The breath sped up, heartbeat drumming. The home fries never tasted so … obvious a illusion. Could it have been anything else? To presume the obvious would leave an explanation of obliviousness. I succumb to the pressure of society and blirt out a weather balloon. For one moment I want to drive down to the point of the movement and stand in wonderment. Instead I finish the meal driving home on the beltway I feel the heat of the moment sink in. The light overtop explodes shaking my body down as we pull over, no other vehicles in sight. I step out and stare into the blue interlude of atmosphere. Clouds bubble, stars twinkle. Blinded for moments as the light lifts over head. Face frozen in sheer bliss. Warming all exterior body functions to a null. Wanting to scream or react yet stuck in the same blind precision of experience. Blinking a futile function of helplessness. I fight to close my eyes in the seconds that passed all gone awaken in bed lying still in this post modern lullaby of the evening.

Explanation

gas/acid reflux/stomach ulcer

hallucination (drug-related)

panic attack

attention seeker

conspirator/conspirator believer

inexplainable :: conclusion pending

Locus Ruine (the run down)

2005-03-28T18:33:00.000-08:00

This is the beginning of my blog. In this blog I hope to accomplish the following...

1. create an expression of my writing through word, expression, and experimentation.
2. create a symbol of my writing and what "it is" (meaning).
3. express my own thoughts and feelings in a manner that is not only "poetic" but giving a sample of who i am. (You are what you write.)
4. in line with poetic philosophy of a moment is an expression of the universe. The power of a moment is numbing.

After finishing college a year ago, I have at times to a standstill with my own writing. I feel this forum can not only aid my writing but also give it a forum to be seen, heard, read, expressed. As of now this journal will be private until a number of writings are compiled that I feel appropriate.