the Destruction of word(s)

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

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

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.

Labels: charles bukwoski, jim carroll, kerouac, modern poetry, modernism, new poetry, new york school, poetry

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

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

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

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.