White Lighter Society Legend says Every single member Of the 27 club Died with a white lighter In their pockets A memento mori Before rock and rollers Did yoga with millionaire gurus And Became shredded vegans To fight the wear of time One more celebrity scandal Or perhaps The machinations of unseen puppetmasters Sacrificing sensitive souls of particular brilliance For the New World Order, of course! A psy-op to enshrine new gods And tease the imagination Of the curious and pathological I put a cigarette On the tomb of Jim Morrison Summoning the mojo Of some mystery cult To tip the scale Towards creating a meaning Worth living for
Nesting After months of building painting and electrical work, after sewing and embroidering beading and bolting recycling and repurposing, after years of moving furniture and changing fabric dusting, vacuuming and tidying up you watch through a tiny peephole in the dollhouse as mice move in, building little nests from found objects, blindly tossing and turning in their miniature beds the carving-knife moon hinged like a broken fingernail.
"Paper Wings" Why do I worry I've never had enough money to make an easy run of it but mostly trouble magnified by who I am and what I write so I'm no longer squinting over my shoulder anymore at those with crooked noses surrounding me on the free corner of the city I'm going to fly upward with my paper wings of poetry over their flat heads and loose suits undoing my belt and pants leaving them with a spat in the faces! "Doing in Ourselves" Continuous Corruption perpetual pollution entire country full of flumes breaking wind cities shaking bombs spreading babel supposited leaders elected atop private dunghills bathtubs overflowing with worthless dollar bills ceilings covered with army ants dropping mini turds far oceans spying full of periscopes and troops doing in ourselves pointing our fingers at everyone else.
Violence Wanderings amidst snow cradled stairs Lily footed innocence A lighthearted Soaking A Feather-like elusive disarray. Then a leopard at night Humanoid force The violence is foggy My tainted mirror sees it The masks of forked paths A string, a right left child's play. After a nanosecond speed The bullet proof vest Marching through For virtue Death and dreaming Glassinobs scented handkerchief Shorting of breaths Death over death's bosom. The power of a couplet The pinching truth Salty with each throb. The leopard runs deep down Forests and pillars Authority holds the shadow The skeptical insomnia A sharp finish Morphine sleep, time's hole. Hours hold on. The river runs through Shadows and bones Chess game and vigilant mistress A dark hell with my resistance. I can't lie with the River. It sees through A wise grandmother and a woolen muffler. Coils the structure Men with law enforcement Country's growth spurt. The children feed on Winds and brain smoked intelligence. The play is ironic. A blind stare. Aborigines instincts a creepy vestibule The river rings on A music to ears Lily footed innocence It holds the strings alright A juggler. Mass extinction Nature's yearnings A blood dripping amazonian finish. It devours.
BORDERLINE eggs fried in butter, handwritten poetry in a yellow legal pad the hand cramps but remains unbroken, words flow but the train has derailed, thoughts like a key change climbing out of the goldilocks zone over the borderline madonna in coagulated egg yolk droplets of chicken-fried genius ink and it doesn’t feel like i’m going to lose my mind but i keep on pushing HEARTS OF TALC sunglasses in the soft darkness serenity now cocktails in thunder-snow in a hot tub in a tornado we reimagine everything vladimir putin in leather black helicopters toothpicks in an avocado pit the scent of burnt sugar we witness with hearts of talc the end of one thing and the start of something else
Hospital So, here I am. Back in the palace of terror, and shame. My dignity gone, before I even got here. Weeks of drinking, without eating had left me so tired, and weak that I could hardly stand up. I had a bath. Getting in wasn't easy . Getting out was impossible. Emergency services had to come, and lift me out. Then my eyes were a mad, glowing yellow, like a cat's. Jaundiced, hepatitis. So they brought me here. And here I've been since. No drink. No cigarettes. No fun.
Witchy Halloween Inside this late October 31st night, this poem turns into a pumpkin. Animation, something has gone devilishly wrong with my imagery. I take the lid off the pumpkin’s headlight and the pink candles inside. Demons cry, crawl, split, fly outsides — escape through the pumpkin’s eyes. I’m mixed in fear with this scary, strange creation. Outside, quietly tapping Hazel the witch, her broomstick against my windowpane rattles. She says, “nothing seems to rhyme anymore, nothing seems to make any sense, but the night is young. Give me back my magical bag of tricks. As Robert Frost said: “But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep.”
Love To watch old photographs of hers from when she was a baby a round-cheeked girl with large black eyes that were pure and curious a healthy stubbornness apparent between her brows an innocence in her smile that overwhelms you with a feeling of melting a woman now a woman that makes you proud makes you want to try a crooked smile, a bigger curve on one side of her mouth left dimple deeper than the right soft, pale thighs half-covered by your bed sheets the warmth of her ass in winter sleeping embraced by each other no such thing as sadness when she’s around you cannot fail anxiety— a plague that plagues others, you’re not worried at all sleeping embraced her small hand groping for yours in the dark her soft voice in a whisper saying my love your heart could as well be a frantic bird singing in the cage of your chest on the verge at times of proclaiming absolute happiness or immortality sharing the intimate darkness of each night as the sun comes up each time and goes down again as it will do until the final day they’ll dig that hole for a body detached by its soul or whatever they call this vessel in you that’s brimming over with this feeling. The mayhem of our youth Sure it had its appeal—- that time in life you were so unbelievably young you were almost legitimately insane—- and yes, looking back at all that degeneration was a thing to behold—- the nonchalant and mindless booze consumption and drug intake and the countless stumblings from whore house to whore house—- and all those girls even wilder than you on your wildest— naked, pale girls leaning over the plate on the nightstand to take a good line of Devils dandruff as their breasts dangled like firm but ripe fruits— Yes, the frenzied drug-fueled nights with the one on one fights that made you beat on your chest like a Gorilla after it was done or the group brawls in slumping bars under a shower of broken beer shards—- Yes, the dripping blood on faces of people you had never meet before that night and the knife threats the knife attacks the Molotov cocktails against riot police because you’d read Bakunin back then and because you were angry and willing to hurt people—- Yes, you were lucky to get out of that youth scathed but very much alive and truth be told and because the older you get the less you bullshit yourself, I never did have the stomach for all that and it never even came close to filling that black hole at the front of my heart that always remained and felt infinitely empty and there’s no more absolute nothingness than infinitely empty and no matter how many people I pushed into that hole the love attempts the literature the intoxication the anger the affection it made no difference—- But now, much older than then, I’ve stopped dropping things into that hole now I’ve learned to live with it. Now, sometimes I’ll look deep into that hole— and the deeper I look the more probable it becomes that it might not be so empty. Now, I am much older. The thought of that lost and misplaced youth sounds loud to my ears, it sullies my peace of mind. Now, I sit on my porch and drink the first cold beer in weeks because I promised myself I would on the first day the temperature would reach thirty degrees and I stare at the tree tops swinging with the warm summer breeze and notice the sound of a particular twig that sounds like a creaky door with each mild gust and I think of my thirty three days matured steaks marinating in my fridge the whole day now and even though I’m hungry I light a cigarette and wait until I’m famished and I look deep into that hole at the front of my bloated heart and realize I haven’t heard Edith Piaf in a long time.
Garden Writing Hunger and whiskey drip from barren branches, become tangible textures of lost humanity. I close my eyes and imagine myself a seedling, nubile and sun-washed, but I cannot complete the physical connection. I remove my shoes, dig my toes deeper into mudding soil as I search for a magical conduit that might just cut a path to the past. Moments pass like pantomimed centuries. Still I am left empty and cold and clutching the extremities of solitude as if they were the last breadcrumbs falling from the hands of peace. A Mirror of Gold Against Your Soul proves that I am as good as you that you are not master of any self, including mine shows a perfect portrait of emptiness ripples with dark refractions of time and loss and a hatred that continues to consume shows that I have outgrown the need to save dying things implies a life beyond the suffocating embrace of your eyes
To Those Who Are Perishing A strange figure that has always been there but never seen appears just then, green bottle flies tangled in her long, witchy hair and patches of brown mold staining her forehead and chin. She knows our names, our secrets, knows our thoughts before we even think them. Those she has invisibly visited have perished miserably from Alzheimer’s and tumors and in shopper stampedes. The science of it can be debated later, when cold black stars pinwheel across the sky and the moon flies up like a clown shot out of a cannon. In the meantime, today’s rain falls on yesterday. We grow old surrounded by clocks.