Tuesday, September 30, 2014

5957. YOU ARE

YOU ARE
You are seemingly sorry, for what? For me?
Don't be. Like Al Pacino, I'm alive in Sneden's
Landing, living with a famous girl. We drink
vain Margarita's on the deck  -  seeing the
Hudson swirl.
-
My latest thing, a Range Rover Sport Deluxe,
sits sideways on the padded carport. I parked it
there myself  -  for Robert to take care of, change
the fluids, gloss the coat, just make it sure.
I'm due in Vermont on Tuesday morn.
-
After that, there is no more. I've got  -  not 
yet  -  no schedule posted. perhaps I'll do a 
local talk show, one of those with a caravan 
of clowns who are always laughing and making
light of ills. Bob Hope, like that, stupid stuff,
and I quote : "I just heard the Statue of Liberty
has AIDS, but she doesn't know if she got it from 
the mouth of the Hudson or the Staten Island Fairy.'
-
Stupid shit he was, I hated that guy. And people applauded
his ring-necked pomposity  -  even went to Vietnam and
played his coastal snuff before the insane, breaking
soldiers  -  no brooding, just being an ass. Sex jokes
and innuendos on the eve of everyone's death  -  out
there, the soldier crowd, probably in a ratio of
four to one, survival. Anne Margret's breasts too.
-
Amazing the things we put up with, truly.

5956. MEDALLIONS

MEDALLIONS
Statuary goes green, I see it every day. John
Witherspoon himself, standing. Read the message
like any of the tourists standing nearby  -  a camera
athwart their every eye. A homily such as this, 
they should go read it in church.
-
And then their softly hammertoned voices : 'quickly
some see look at this this is where...'. Yes, this is
where oblivion trails. The void enters. The open
space. The chorus sings : 'we are nothing, nothing
at all. In all this immensity, we are nothing at all.'
-
On Saturday I hope to hop the hammer, take the orange
bus, ride the P, travel the campus loop. I'll return,
hidebound by a new adventure : a sandwich on the
green, sitting at benches hardly ever seen. The
Japanese Peace Pavilion Bell will surely have
to do. I am myself, and nothing too.
-
40,000 feet of dogs and people. The football players
and their dismal grind. The traffic and the cars; all
those tarmac surfaces covered with cold cuts and
mustard, beers and wine. What a world is this!

5955. STEELSHED

STEELSHED
Put it away now; run like a steed. You 
are anarchic in your every new need.
-
Pliers and shovels. Tent pegs and screws.
Hardware the likes of all the unknown.
-
Only slaves know nothing of their destinies.

Monday, September 29, 2014

5954. ALL THE MILLION THINGS I HAVE BEEN TOLD

ALL THE MILLION THINGS 
I HAVE BEEN TOLD
Not a one of them was really true. Pontius Pilate put it
rightly  -  what is truth? Truth is what you have until the
real truth surfaces  -  that the entire world is a lie, and all
appearances deceive. Language is a dance made up to
send rhythm to the lies we hear  -  something we can move
and wiggle to. First it's Peace, and then it's War. And
then we find no difference between them ever was.
-
Words lied again  -  you bastard swankherds, you pointed
minions of the Devil himself. Blackjack spike boots backwards,
marching deadly over time. Ever onward Christian soldiers, bah!
-
I have a thin craft, some boat like to slicing water, that takes
me o'er the shoals and tribulations, the rapids and the swells.
I cling while it moves, I hang on tightly. Never stray, don't
let the eyeballs wander, watch where you are headed, and  -
most importantly  -  be sure to keep on going somewhere.

5953. NOT A SHRED OF INTERVIEW

NOT A SHRED OF INTERVIEW
Shoelaces are untied again. Nothing's gone over
the falls. Me and Marilyn doing Niagara together,
and oh that mist! This dark fellow, drives a 1953
DeSoto over to see us  -  smokes like a chimney.
Oh, yeah, the car does too. She jumps in, in a
red negligee that the mist has turned clear. I can
see over pore on her body. 'Not much for
uncharted territory there, Misters Lewis and
Clark.' I muttered that to myself.
-
If an interview is an exchange between two, then
a monoview has got to be this : just me, muttering
to myself. The backtalk of a simple sage, the
soundings of a sickened age.

Sunday, September 28, 2014

5952. THE SUMMER SUNLIGHT OF ANCESTRAL GRIEF

THE SUMMER SUNLIGHT 
OF  ANCESTRAL GRIEF
Yes, when I see that I know it is right. I light a candle,
and begin praying to the Katzenjammer Kids. I remember
my uncle, frying eels in a pan, eels which, just before, had 
been sliming around while he cut them in pieces. So easy,
as if they were lazy snakes. The fryer, the fire, the frypan 
itself  -  really not much of a choice for these fine, free things.
-
Oh well, I entered Life. Like this, I stood silent and small to
watch  -  people talking, and songs on a radio as big as a house.
A baseball game on a TV with the screen the size of a small box :
men drinking beer and wine, swearing to squint to be swearing
at something  -  single, double, home-fucking run! On Saturday
nights, just as strange, the fights  -  men in shorts, on that same
screen, beating the daylights out of the other to beat just the bell.
-
I often thought of nothing much at all. Was I in Hell? How did
one tell?  'If the shoe fits, wear it' - that was all they ever told 
me when I found the nerve to ask. If the shoe fits, wear it, again.

5951. CALLING ON SHEILA

CALLING ON SHEILA
The city streets aren't made for parking  -  the idea
of a curb is to curb the deed. I walk wherever I wish.
It's easier that way. There's thin light that passes
between thinner buildings  -  all that glamor and
glass as I stand to let the people pass. I am their 
Pope, I am their Leader, Il Duce, Caesar, the Czar. 
(Oh God, how I need a czarina).
-
So then, imagine what it's like to be this crazy. I 
want to get married tonight. I can't. How old fashioned 
is that. Nowadays they take what they want with a jab and a pat.
(Oh God, how I need a czarina).

5950. I NEVER MADE FOR HOME THIS EARLY

I NEVER MADE FOR 
HOME THIS EARLY
Gunslingers, put your shit away : douse the torches
all you big dicks in the posse. They're aint 'gonna 
be no hanging; go home to your wives and kids.
This whole issue's a fools paradise, and it's been
presented to you by madmen for sure : the blackguard
in the White House, the whiteguard in the Senate and
House. What do any of them know anyway? The
whole place has gone mad. Mad, I say! Mad.
-
Insanity runs the rulebook as well as rules the roost,
sets its new parameters, and every bastard nods. I'm
stuck in here with Princeton fabs  -  these knockheads
studying International Law and International Political
relations, while around them an entire world of words
and goodness sleeps  -  or has it all been killed?
-
All it takes now is to know the secret words and you 
can be as mad as the rest : Boko Harum up your ass, 
and how come Crimea isn't just presented as Crime A?
Because they're all too chicken-shit to pray but not to prey?

5949. LEARN TO DO ALL THESE THINGS TOGETHER

LEARN TO DO ALL 
THESE THINGS TOGETHER
The sun has a harrowing mask, the world a disguise.
We are broken into our own little pieces, while 
outside the legends the living survive.
-
Now they bring the cars doors home. I hear them
slamming and the voices of boys not yet men
are heard  -  the awkward and raspy change
once again, while I sit here to ponder.
-
I haven't a suspense any longer  -  all my
mysteries, like the acne of boys too  -  have
been cleared up. Everything solved, but
still making little sense  -  and why did
that butler have that knife anyway?
-
Would I want to say my prayers in some other
language, if only I knew the tongue? Kneeling like
a fruitcake at the bedside of a jerk? Sending
something back, so they'd remember my name?
-
An immanent demise can, for certain, draw attention.
Now learn to do all these things together.

5948. HEMLINES TO HIROSHIMA

HEMLINES TO HIROSHIMA
In the great gauge of the world at least we are talking:
your voice beats the sound of your gun? I look out
to the distance : Mount Fuji, again, undone?
-
Here the moon is unsettled; it sits low, like a ridge
on the crest, biding some bayside time 'til tomorrow
comes by. I'll send a hello to the new season.
-
How does this go? Or how did it?
The God of the past is long ago vanished,
and the God of the future has not yet arrived,
and we, as in a dream, are born into the time between,
not knowing what we should understand as Real.

Friday, September 26, 2014

5947. OLD JOE CINO

OLD JOE CINO
Here's the freshest scene I'm painting  -  
a brush within my hand, another in my head,
bleeding color like a rainiac would bleed rain.
I won't even bend down for fear the audience
here would miss a beat  -  this old joint, this
mess, this ruddy, old stocking, hung by a
chimney with care.
-
'Porcino was short, and he always smelled; not
that he was dirty, I don't mean that. But he had a
virile, manly smell. He was short and plump
and he got plumper. He had eyes like Hedy
Lamarr. His eyes could just transfix you.
And he was so kind, that it seemed like a
character flaw :  an abundant, humanistic,
and all-embracing hopeful attitude.'
-
'Porcino? We all called him that. I
think it meant something like, little
fat pig  -  something. Anyway, old
Joe, he never really minded.'

5946. NEO-CATHARSIS

NEO-CATHARSIS 
Break all those bones, run the amok along the edging; 
take from one what one delivers. Here is the anomaly 
lizard : black panda, something easing, waiting. 
Tradition only demands forgiveness - with the 
other eye, it winks. Just yesterday, that man on 
37th, crushed by a falling concrete slab. No one 
writing about it, not one report, would say that
 he was 'dead'. All they could say was that, at 
the scene and beneath the slab, 'all that was 
visible was one arm protruding.'
 - 
I haven't got the energy to come to things like this, 
to counter every accusation or refute every lie. 
I am nothing but the wind-up chronicle I choose to be.
(You listen to them, or you listen to me). 
-
 My mother's long gone, my father's born dead - 
 I am alone in this non-chivalric world : 
chasing pebbles, finding corn cobs, eating hay. 
Whatever I'm reduced to is what I am today. 
My shack leans stiffly in a wind. 
I only pretend at fighting back.

5945. ANOTHER DAMNED LIFETIME LOOMING

ANOTHER DAMNED 
LIFETIME LOOMING
I haven't had enough time for a semblance of
blue lips. These aren't oases in front of my 
eyes, they're just illusions. Now that that's
out of the way  -  see that glimmer over there,
it's just another damned lifetime looming, and
already my brain's gotten ahead of my self.
-
Although it's sometimes freezing cold, right here
where I stand, they're frigid moments only in passing.
Some have words, and some bow down. Some,
in chainmail armor, are still fighting their battles
of the past. I think I will take to the open sea,
and simply sail away deliciously.
-
One time, I stood out looking at the churning river
before me : heavy coastline, dense with rocks. Some
hikers, up above, were yelling to one another, nothing
I could make out, but a message nonetheless. That was
when I began yearning for my own Appalachian Trail :
Some weird wizardry of woods and forest, deep within,
 and another damned lifetime looming.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

5944. BIBMAN'S BEACH OF THE DAY

BIBMAN'S BEACH 
OF THE DAY
Here I go again; weathering a storm, eating 
at broken tables. Walking where the errant 
soldiers died, I see a plaque saying they were 
buried here. Found after exposure, dead  -  
abandoned, hungry, wounded and foul. The 
National Oak has nothing on them. I walk 
away wanting more. The distant sea is rolling 
in, near here, the waves yet smash the shore.

5943. ENIGMA VARIATIONS?

ENIGMA VARIATIONS?
Enter the left and enter the right; the forceful
pale soldier is gunning. Others stand forward,
alert in a room, listening to things they do not
understand. 'We are madmen, we are fools, 
we are killers, we are ghouls. And this will
never stop.' On the fields shown on screen,
pictures in green of death and destruction,
these people watch willingly to see what they've
done. Bastards can never cave in. A certain
geo-politics is all that's needed to excuse
dead children and the maimed limbs and bodies.
Payback never matters, just as bastards never 
cave. Would that I could watch them die as well, 
these tax-funded mad hatters, these military obese.
Warfare has become the most methodical of games,
a clinical, pale effusion of clean hands and distant 
stares. Reserve for me a perfect stance, from 
which to watch this sickening dance.

5942. NADIA

NADIA
Sitting on the bumper of a car  -  just a
piece of the ass grabbing the support  -  
resting back and just going to talk, Nadia 
goes on. Her new boyfriend too is talking,
and at such an ease they seem at rest. He is
married to another, she not. He is Ilya from
Russia, and I've known him a year  -  partially
a pain, I've tolerated his time. Now, it all fades
away. I am more glad for that than not. Her? I
really do not know, just having seen and nodded
any number of times : they've somehow found their
own circumferences far better than the circles they
had before. I think of them in love, and wonder.

5941. AND NOW THE OMEN

AND NOW THE OMEN
There is a sprinkle-fest of faeries
which recurs from time to time : 
small children, in a vacuum-packed 
school hearing words of the
Grimm Brothers and Grimmeslhausen 
too. I enter the wrong room at the 
same time as I enter the right room.
Duplicity such as this, though not a 
harmful matter, demands attention.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

5940. REMARKABLE MEN

REMARKABLE MEN
We run the shibboleth from plural to plural, 
leaving outsiders at the door. Like some speakeasy
of the mind, the little peephole that slides open has
an eye within it. If you say the right thing, you get in.
-
The raucous crowd rocks its own ride  -  thrumming 
sweet drinks and overdone meats at the harborside.

5939. CHAINMAIL

CHAINMAIL
Sinecure. Safe and easy. I can
sit back and not care about caring.
I can blot out the sun yet sit close to
the fire; frankly, my dear, I don't give
a damn. There are times for things, and
there are times as well when nothing 
matters. Enter my soul, this is my essence.

5938. WHY WOULD SHAKE HANDS WITH A MAN WHO EATS FIRE?

WHY WOULD YOU SHAKE 
HANDS WITH A MAN 
WHO EATS FIRE?
They've painted the streets now. Not just the lines  -  
as they do, say, in Syracuse for the St. Patrick's Day
Parade. Green lines everywhere. Our world too has 
a 'Green Line'  -  something to do with military force,
a strategy to keep others away. Bang the gong and shoot
the gun. Imaginary red lines, I've heard of them too :
the war-time clangers and the bombs were supposed
to go off. Life changes nothing in its very soul demise;
a departure from the manners of the very-mannered way.
-
Listening to men garbed in cammo? Why not. Exchanging 
fire with a nutcase duo? Why not. Riding a tank to Mt.
Ararat's top? Why not, again, why not? I want to
leave you shaking your head in confusion, and
yet, I wish for you to embrace me, 
maybe hold me forever.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

5937. HEAR THEN WHATEVER HE SAYS

HEAR THEN 
WHATEVER HE SAYS
Gunnery captain man-handled man floating
a'sea on a scape full of foam. Mentioned
meanings, still coming down : sirens off
the shore, lady-voices singing back.
-
There's a chorus of men delicately hanging :
from the banisters at the edge of the ship, they
look down with lascivious eyes. And only a 
daughter without blood would know this.
-
I received a letter today from a friend in need.
He's desperate and screaming loud. I'd bend
down to help him but he won't take a hand.
Just rudeness. Just anger. I feel like Saul Bellow
here approaching Delmore Schwartz. That's a
poor analogy but I'll make it work. Read
Humboldt's Gift. I did; it works.

5936. COKE FRASER IN LANIN LAKE

COKE FRASER 
IN LANIN LAKE
Here come the pipers again, and the fire engine and
those guys  -  everyone milling about waving little
pennants 'neath the small-town trees. Big oaks, bigger
than small-town dreams. A few antique cars, fancy
and wide, come trailing behind. People cheer
and people wave.

5935. TROUBLE

TROUBLE
I've had trouble hiding my Gustave Moreau; those
all-momentous moments and the pictures that go.
I delight in these warren-wrens and watch everything
with you in mind. There are countless stories about to 
fold : the little priest from the Mission of St. Demetrius,
he his holding out his hand while men in line walk
slowly in for sandwiches and coffee. Freed food
for the homeless, yes, but who's checking? And are
mot we all, at heart, as homeless as any wretch  -  
losing chances to turn our lives around and
living through truisms instead. Life, then, is
what we never had.

Monday, September 22, 2014

5934. BOMBING FOR PEACE

BOMBING FOR PEACE
I am able. I shall do what I can do.
I am bombing for peace, drinking new
blood for refreshment, I am killing for
the cause of Good. I am maiming so 
others may walk. I am dropping clusters
so men can find Peace. I am bringing
forth a light, from a very dark place?
-
(I am no better than the nastiest brother you can find).

5933. NAKIMOTO

NAKIMOTO
Enforced with violence  -  those drivers,
hiring bosses, longshoremen who didn't
play ball with the system got hurt. The
toothpick behind the ear told the hiring
boss what was up that day : scheming
paybacks and the moneylender's due.
-
The day we had to shoot Andy Hintz was
no different than any other day : out on the
rooftop in an early morning light, one hundred
pigeons cooing. Down the top from the opened
doorway, to the second-floor landing just as he
was coming out to go downstairs. Five quick
pops took him down dead. In an instant, we 
too were gone. Right back out the top again, 
and over. Everything was covered well.
-
No one told him not to look, no one told him
not to live there. Where everyone knew. Too
bad for all that. No more Pier 51 for him.

5932. OUTRIGGER

OUTRIGGER
I can clearly observe the tides  -  even as,
on the river now  -  the water is but running in
or running out. The ripples and swells will tell.
-
Let's crouch here to watch the frogs and turtles.
It's pretty amazing, these things sunning on  a log;
as if they knew the moment, as if they ruled the
time, as if they lived amidst all things.

Sunday, September 21, 2014

5931. THIS EAST VILLAGE

THIS EAST VILLAGE
(though 44th and vanderbilt)
The sang-froid of the cold-blooded : an old
cemetery behind gates. 'Preserved' Fish, of New
Bedford is here in the ground. Pronounced
Pre-SERVE-Ed. I like that name always.
The rest of the family  -  Hamilton Fish and
the rest, along with Stuyvesant, made the city 
around here. I walk their ghost. I live in their
present, which is my past. Heaven help the rest.
-
My few friends left in the Angels still smother E3rd.
Their armaments and motorcycles gun the street  -  
known as well as the 'safest' street in the city. Try
that idea on for size. Death's head for lovers.
-
Here are my hands  -  take them; wrap the rope around
me and hoist me up like Nathan Hale. Sept. 22, 1776.

5930. JACOB'S RELEASE

JACOB'S RELEASE
Some days I just walk these city streets alone and
endlessly, my big heart pealing, my poor eyes to view.
I have no gifts or magic to bring to these teeming hordes
of people  -  and things  - I see. They are brown figments,
in a way, and they just go on. Every moment of the
present is not real; each is but a reflection of everything
that's gone before it : the old John Street church, now
just sitting there, was once a hotbed, a fiery place  -  of
blacks and slaves and runaways and burials and 
intriques and prayer. All jumbled together in
one hot instance we missed : now, for 
goodness' sake it's real estate.
-
Half-measures have never been for me : I dive, and
dive again until I hit bottom, or leap, until I hit
the sky. It's senseless as all get-out, but it keeps
my life alive and going. Right now, in passing,
I shoulder every responsibility that ever was
and make it mine : I want to change the world.

5930. MORNING TIME

MORNING TIME
It was so damp this morning my nostrils dribbled
and the dim of the sky colored nothing at all. 
Every morning window was shaded dark-to-black, 
as if the entire world was in waiting. Sensitudes of 
kings and empires were filling the air with feeling 
as everyone knew exactly where they were 
and no one knew a thing at all.

Saturday, September 20, 2014

5929. THE EMBRACE

THE EMBRACE
You know. When copper turns green, or
brass items weather. Patina, I thik it's called.
Two men, in a bear-hug of happy success,
are embracing. In their huge Winter coats,
like bears interlinked. One man, while I watch,
works slowly but surely too, pulling a large knife 
from his very deep pocket and plunges it twice
into the other man's stomach. The man falls;
already gone, I'm sure, before he hits the ground.

5928. HEROD

HEROD
Why am I watching this, and who is this
man? Looking out at the crowd today, I saw
they were all cheap merchants; hook-nosed
and selling pennies for pennies to pennies.
I am above all that. I rule.
-
An episode like this can give me a fever.

5927. PARALLEL POSTINGS

PARALLEL POSTINGS
Oh my dear we've gone one pediment too high today;
walking architecture as if it were a hillock. No one
counts the steps to the top of the tower. 

5926. ONE IMAM IN AMMAN

ONE IMAM IN AMMAN
Disrupt the disorder and alter the clime.
I've always been pretty much of a faith healer.
Disrupt the disorder and alter the clime.

5925. THERE'S BEEN TIMES

THERE'S BEEN TIMES
There have been times  -  one hundred and more  -
when the central lighting has come down : the forces
of the King, wielding scabbards and swords, take over
the bridge and let no one pass. Claiming to add to the
cover, the men come by checking paper. New times.
-
New times have new eyes. Delivering new stories, telling
new lies. Does anyone really know what's going on?
-
I ask the Muslim dude, in his craziness, to behead me,
and this time he refuses to budge. My luck. I stand
before the President, who snoozes very nicely in his
new golf shoes, and gently wake him up. 'Kind
Sir, I hear it said your busy thinking?' He nods,
and gets up to change his channel once more.
-
The central lighting has come down again.

Friday, September 19, 2014

5924. COOL MISSION MAD-MAN GLIMMER

COOL MISSION 
MAD-MAN GLIMMER
I'm hunky-dory to this awesome story all over 
again  -  reading a fairy tale backwards, wishing
a genie back into its bottle. Back me up, hold me
steady, this fence is about to fall over.
-
Someone has parked a car in this bush, front bumper
right up to the center; everything's twisted, the branches
are down, I'm pissed and I'm angry as hell. I want
to sue this truck-driver bastard for all he's commercially
worth  -  which ain't much, I hear-tell.
-
Have you ever had to sit, for hours, listening to the patter
of others? All those gruesome, sad-story writers who go on
about love and lost-causes, dead folks and remorses, the
fire in a heart that's gone out. So tired, so sickeningly dull!
My writing formula for them instead is as follows: be
outlandish, be rude and be bold. And then, just as much,
listen to my words about your story, three times spoken. 
'I don't care. I don't care. I don't care.'

5923. LET'S PUT OUR FINGER ON SOMETHING

LET'S PUT OUR 
FINGER ON 
SOMETHING
(traveling in time)
She's the sort of girl they nab in the department store
for taking a scarf or a wallet  -  something stupid and
whimsical too. She doesn't need either, already having 
a hundred. Claiming an ancient lineage from a Baroness 
Von Schmenkenberg or something in Austria, two worlds
let her straddle them : like high, like low, all those riches 
go. It doesn't matter, and the words don't work : an alibi 
is just like any other lie only perhaps safer if it works.
-
They pimp her fondness for riches like they pimp a
nine-year old's eyes if they could : innocent and loving
all in one. What's the matter with anything here?
-
Baroness, I'm sitting in this stinking garret now, 
drawing lines on paper with pencil, just trying to 
make things work. You're out on the ledge pretending 
to die again. My stab at Existentialism has not worked. 
I'm blind again, and oh so stupid once more.
-
Look at that skylark : it rolled past the southern 
window just as you were pouring that drink. 
I swore I saw it stop and look. Birds don't do 
that, do they? I'm' trying here to put my
finger on something.

5922. FRENCH HORSES

FRENCH HORSES
I squandered my vast fortune
buying all the horses in France.
If you see a horse there, it is mine.

5921. BEER NUTS

BEER NUTS
You make me swoon solid like chocolate,
down beer nuts like sliced apple, choke back
my laughing tears. These are the suburban
prizes of the game of chance I live.

Thursday, September 18, 2014

5920. WELL WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH ME, AL SMITH?

WELL WHAT'S THE MATTER 
WITH ME, AL SMITH?
I took to the streets the day after the fire,
everything was still smoldering along the 
ground. I sought a new Townsend Plan, 
I wanted free money. Look up Fifth Avenue 
yourself, you old fool, and see what all these 
cars will bring : new places to implicate people
 in everything that ever goes wrong.
Minetta Brook goes underground.
-
In these monied canyons, all those bastards with
their pens and pencils shall smart away their loss
and then claim profit. I am left, in the street, and
helpless. I sigh like a camel snorts. It's so sad.

5919. AND WHO IS GUIDO BROWN?

AND WHO IS GUIDO BROWN?
'It's only food until you eat it,' he said  -  a most
typical understatement for him  -  easy to understand,
yes, what was meant, yet dolefully strange nonetheless.
Who wishes to sit among riches, thinking of this sort
of stuff? Not me. In Beethoven's odd marketplace,
I'd buy the snuff. The outlandish stories, the Chinatown
food, the blunders, the fakes, and the reasons. Enough.

5918. LOVE IN A SACK

LOVE IN A SACK
So many meanings, in this night : pipes clattering
for the first time this season. Autumnal moments. 
No matter where I turn, there really is an apparition
before me. The 17th street marksman still sleeps.
-
A guidebook to this terrain is fearsome  -  something
as written by a Freud or a Jung. I can't make matters 
simple any longer. There's a pen in my ear and a
heart in my mouth. Oh, Mama, oh.
-
What happens to a returning fugitive, a soulful
wanderer who sits in the park : all days are the same,
the birds will proclaim. Lethargic, gray, and dark.
-
My intentions were never to last this long : find love
and peace, and abscond and be gone.

5917. GORGONZOLLA NIGHTMARE ICELAND

GORGONZOLLA 
NIGHTMARE ICELAND
I awoke with a start, I'd slept with a bear, I looked
all around, nothing was there. Floating through
space, aimless to boot, I entered a place I could 
sense. There was music playing, they said. I was 
deaf. The rainbow apparition took the face of a 
fawn, five delightful flowers were sunning, a 
maitre'd came over with a halo asking if I wished 
to by a raffle ticket. 'For this?', I said. 'If you win, 
you get three,' he replied.

5916. ARAPAHOE BROTHERS PLAYLAND FIESTA

ARAPAHOE BROTHERS 
PLAYLAND FIESTA
I got on the boat marked 'Funhouse', it took me to
the Chamber of Horrors. I got in the car marked
'Tunnel of Love', it took me to the same place too.
I stood straight up and waded through muck, I shouted,
'Hey guys, what's this, what the fuck?' A stranger strolled
by with his distorting mirrors, he said 'This is 
your life, now you know what queer is.'

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

5915. LAND-LOCKED BREVITY

LAND-LOCKED BREVITY
I saddled the escarpment with my figure, 
walking  -  long steps across a windy field. 
Rock strewn and strangely cluttered. 

5914. FINE STUFF ALL THIS IS

FINE STUFF ALL THIS IS
You are a child of nothing; not so much nothing
as nothing is all. You are everywhere conscious.
The mind that inhabits you knows no limits, and
creates for you the 'Real' you walk through. Go on,
then, head held high. Look forward.
-
The riches of Kings that have come and gone are
hidden yet in the brazen dunes of the sands of
time. They do not stand still  -  all things will
change and vary. Stand as firm as you wish, 
but you cannot.
-
Here in the marvelous patterning of a kindergarten
gulch, we get to hear words and watch the actions of
men and women in their times : loud and soft, the
gentle tissue which wipes the concrete block.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

5913. SOMETIMES

SOMETIMES
Finding myself wanting a hateful force to take 
the mouth from those who speak : of God, of 
war, of all those things which maim and mangle. 
Yet they speak of a brave and a braver. First one 
side, then the other. Gallantry blows like a nickle 
slingshot shudders  -  the stone flies, ripping  
through the air, no one knowing where it lands.
-
Stretch the marble quarters, listening to your brain.