It’s springtime! How about writing a poem?
This page is open for anyone to contribute a short or long poem, on any subject or idea, in any style, or to respond to anyone else’s poem. Please use the comment form below to post a poem.
World BEYOND War: A New Podcast
Lost Music: Exploring Literary Opera 
We can all use some poetry right now. Whether we’re writing it or reading it, we can all use some. Action Poetry is open to anyone … either post an original poem (using the comment form below) or respond in verse to somebody else.
Some people have asked me how Action Poetry works on Litkicks. It’s so simple. You read other people’s poems and post one of your own, and other people do the same. This month’s illustration is a wire sculpture of a mule by sculptor and spoken-word poet Mark ‘Wireman’ Coburn. Now, please write us a poem!
Please write us a poem today. Anything you want to get out of your system? Any thoughts you want to send into the public stream, either about election day 2012 or whatever else is on your mind? The new integrated version of Litkicks Action Poetry is still not ready (it’ll be here soon), but here’s …
An old Litkicks friend, Clay “Lightning Rod” January of Texas, died of cancer this week. If you hung around this website during our message board years, there’s no doubt that you remember Clay. He was one of the best writers on the website, the owner of a sly and subversive voice. I interacted often with …
The secret to creating great and enduring websites, I’m pretty sure, is to have the nerve to launch stuff that’s totally not ready. This is something I’ve always been good at. If you’ve hung around Litkicks for any amount of time, you know I’ve been trying to launch a new version of our long-running Action …
Sometimes I find it hard to believe that my blog is almost twenty years old. Well, sometimes I also find it hard to believe that my youngest daughter is almost twenty years old. (They were born the same year, and they both grew up so fast.) Literary Kicks will turn twenty on July 23, 2014. …
The Grateful Dead’s 50th anniversary final shows are now over. Blowing past the boring cliches about aging hippies, the finale turned out to be a spectacular tribute to a gentle cultural phenomenon that offers balm and hope to a pained world … as well as a glorious summertime-flavored dive into a gorgeous American songbook that …
155 Responses
i’ll spark it up. for the
i’ll spark it up. for the record, i’m too drunk to decide whether or not posting this poem is a good idea. cheers, poets!
The Spirit That Doesn’t Wane
why does the priest want to be called father?
do i call to him
or do i call to God?
my lips utter mantras
made of soap
hoping my spirit will be cleansed,
my tongue a snow flake
priest, i do not think of you
priest, i do not seek you
priest, i do not speak to you
sit in your throne–
it is not God’s throne
stand on your stage,
it is not my Heaven
congregation, are you saved?
church, are you Holy?
having missed service
for 4 years, i
showed up for the stain’d glass
and to give you my apostasy
you are ready to kill for your God
i am ready to live for my God
you want ecstasy, you take a pill
i want ecstasy, i pray
The jet stream is dipping
The jet stream is dipping deep
on the first day of Spring
and I’m up here in Aberdeen
thinking about old friends that live in the southeast
and how much I want to go home to Sioux Falls
a pair drowned in the park the other day
everyone I know tries to tell me
how to grow weed
but aside from me
the only one I know that has had success at that
is my mom
the stanzas from earlier in the day
about dylan bowie joy division and cohen
and sad as it seems
“How to Love”
by Lil Wayne
in my head just endlessly plays
half my hometown is addicted to meth
I guess not really surprising
since you can make with Wal Mart
ingredients and this is the midwest
oh little Nikki
I’ve known you since you’ve been 16
you like me come from an upper middle class family
but still the way
you follow me around the library
but never speak
does worry me
I’ve never taken the time to bother to know you
perhaps there’s is some traumatic youthful event
that makes you so problematic
but I really just want to think
that you are spoiled and evil
and I read today on MSN
that dreams don’t provide prerecognition
but when I had that dream
about you in Wal Mart
in Aberdeen
looking for a wedding ring
(all by yourself)
and a few weeks later married to a younger guy
that may have a bigger bankroll (but not much)
not my eyes smile or charm
and then thought about embedded Windows XP
not working right
I’m not sure if I should believe
anything I read from Microsoft
“Big Bang Theory” on TV
one of the few network shows I don’t mind to see
we like what we want to be
or what we like to be
and I’m bored
writing bad action poems
no coast
ain’t the same
as NYC or LA
outside of Chicago Minneapolis Denver
it’s all fucking boring
smoke another Camel Crush
eat more red meat
die before brunch
blah blah blah
Wojo if you’re too drunk to
Wojo if you’re too drunk to decide
Whether to write a poem
The answer is yes
sober (well booze wise)
sober (well booze wise) almost six months…
I learned two good things
1) When a woman storms off follow her
2) “Snowed”—medical slang for being high on valium to get snowed…ie high on benzios…
Six Bits on the Dime
Six Bits on the Dime
A Poem of Spring in the Age of Goog
Phoenix rising
From ash ashes of Last Out Louisville Sluggers
Spirits and Ghosts mingle among the strenuous alive
Ho Ho Kam Camelback
Johnnie LeMaster Yasiel Puig
Simmons Scully
Tuscon Tempe Goodyear Surprise
Indian School
Modern Megalopolis midst saguaros
Flash flood gullies
Ribbon Roller Coaster
Six Bits on the Dime
The river ran
The clouds condensed
It’s a long time since October
Sun beating down again
Time to begin again
The Lightning Field
The Lightning Field
Thin, chill air goes slack around you
punchy from the drubbing
it took, begging a moment
of silence to absorb the blow
and all that rain
a real gully washer
aligning toppled right angles
into a glittering cube, raw
from a good scrubbing
shedding curtains of water flush
with grit, spent casings from an epic
shelling, replacing all your memories
of frail veiny lightning.
Fate tempted and humbled, sweep into
The Lightning Field, nervy and brash
on the margins, the brass leaking
away the deeper in you go
polished stainless steel sentinels
at intervals of 220 feet
the silent roar of 400 slender mirrors
piercing, tapered points patiently
describing a plane but you’re not listening:
smeared by a blood red sun, engulfed
in a fired cathedral, spires set aflame.
On the Growing of Imaginary
On the Growing of Imaginary Arms
Maybe tomorrow will be the day that everyone wakes
up to write a poem, Dean Young muses
in The Art of Recklessness.
Well, be careful what you wish for,
Dean, it might turn out to be a suitcase stuffed
with your dead mom’s pubic hair
that is delivered to your room.
What? Your mom’s not dead yet?
Dental floss, then, used. Don’t ask
what we’ve been eating! Steel wool
that has been stuck into unspeakable drains.
Aborted babies, the remains of which.
Or a thousand chloroformed mice
due to wake up any moment now.
Quick! Close the cover!
Am I being deliberately distasteful
or just childish, or both?
Yes, I agree.
I agree with everything.
Let us jump up and down a stick of dynamite
in each fist and a fart cushion under every arm.
This isn’t literature, you say? Of course it isn’t.
Surrealism was never intended to create art;
it’s a way to paint the walls of your life with doors
to other lives
to turn your salt and paper shakers
into miniature horses
because refrigerators are something that exist
when you’re not involved.
So let’s unzip ourselves. Let’s pull out
the string that stitches us together like a turkey
and see what falls to the floor.
Let’s save only the interesting-looking bits.
Recipe for Writing a Poem:
1. Take a clean sheet of paper.
2. Do something on it that has never been done before.
Start off talking and surprise yourself
with what you have to say
be your own wildly enthusiastic audience.
One of the most disturbingly beautiful things I’ve ever heard
is how those starving to death during the Russian famine
sucked strings of meat from between each other’s teeth.
Talk about a kiss!
What is a poem is the question you ask
when you’ve already been to Kansas.
What should a poem be is the question you ask
when you’re choking to death on the tiny violin
in the back of your throat. A poem, then,
is something you’ve never seen before,
something coughed up in a tissue
like a Minotaur fetus.
Is it death, then? Yes,
I’m pulling up the nails of my own coffin
because it’s not time to climb inside
no matter what the coroner says.
I started a suicide note and it turned into a love letter
so full of plutonium that I was arrested as a terrorist
but I swear that I’m innocent of everything
except looking out the corners of my eyes.
Writing a poem
is like throwing your feet out in front of you
to keep from falling
stumbling forward five or six steps
and then falling flat on your face anyway
breaking your nose
and bleeding all over the floor in great rusty poppies.
Look what it cost me,
three eye-teeth!
Because a poem is a call to arms
if you still have arms to call
in the fight against flabby complacency.
If, like most of us, your arms were sawed-off
in the 3rd grade, a poem is a magic spell
to charm your DNA to grow new ones
the way certain species of newt can grow new tails.
No, it can’t be done; at least not until it’s been done,
so why not try? Anyone can
grow imaginary arms in the meantime;
it’s been proven. I proved it this morning
at 4.17 a.m. With them, you can reach
the imaginary jars the Nazis have hidden
high up in the cupboard.
I have a thousand eggs unhatched inside me
and I want to break them all before I die.
Maybe tomorrow will be the day that everyone wakes up
to write a poem, Dean Young muses
in The Art of Recklessness–
it’s at his own peril that he muses thus
as I hope here to have amply shown.
Give me a Margarita
Give me a Margarita
…Daniel Scott Buck
Let’s not fight.
It’s the first day of spring.
Roll those harsh words
around your mouth
like a shot of tequila.
Swallow the worm.
Shake the rotten apple.
Drench it with Cointreau.
Salt your hair.
Bite a lime.
And give me
a Margarita.
Commuter’s Joe…
Commuter’s Joe…
her hair
like wisps of burnished copper
sea fans on deep pillows
spread out above duvet
broken silhouette
bed warmth venting
fighting blue-black cold as
I arise and shake off
clinging hands of sleep
clumsily I make water
playing footsies with the cat
glances in a spotted looking glass
stumble on a toe
hygiene habit whoop-de-doo
another day in the role of man
step right up
step it up
daily three ring has begun
music only sotto once
as I glance deep in my eye
wondering if my heart’s gone dumb
(true heart, once fierce & free?)
if my soul was meant to fly
but asking meaning now
is meaningless
furrows plowed and dimming pass
commuter’s music fills the air
mumbling desperate on the pike
shuffle up, hook it up,
file out to the door
no time
no time for
a seesaw for a mood
sparrows for a mind
vegetably, I regret nothing
styrofoam stale stench
styrofoam stale stench
wench’s attitude made me gag
bye-bye forever
…sweet and low (for sweet
…sweet and low (for sweet pat)…
Little pink pack of chemical taste.
Makes ice tea smooth and great.
Trick your tounge, stir it slow.
Don’t ever be without sweet and low.
I’d recommend not using 150
I’d recommend not using 150 tea bags to make one pot of tea…
…texico (draft): american
…texico (draft): american margin call…
No one could have predicted the rise of the Texicans, but many were involved. Elias T. Woods considered it long ago, on the banks of the Brazos. Talking late into the night with L. Dean, he understood the Texico dream. Economically, he knew a Texico future was more fertile, but he questioned the willingness of the people, or even the willingness of the politicians, to revolt from America.
At that time, before the towers fell, America was widely considered the lone superpower. The storefront doors swung open and the world bought America. And also stole America. Literally, as chinese and indian hackers stole every piece of data owned by americans, american corporations, american government institutions, american schools of higher education, american museums, american halls of fame, american fincancial institutions, american military infrastructure. It was a fleece job the likes of which the world had never seen. Meanwhile, America was sending another big boat to the Persian Gulf to really pressure the Iranians to quit making a nuclear bomb. The Iranians never looked intimidated.
Just like the Brits, America was fighting wars the old way and stumbling along. Trillions of dollars were borrowed from future generations of americans and foreigners to fund the operation. New planes and ships and rockets and night vision glasses and jeeps every year. The president always got a few hats and a blue all-weather jacket to wear around the boats and military bases. Uncle sam had big, big pockets. Commanders and chiefs with a tribe of cameras and videoers documenting the whole sad scene.
In wait the hackers plotted along with the lenders. Eventually the days of the American Margin Call arrived and while americans drowned in ten dollar gasoline and double digit inflation, corporations laid off millions. Chinese were dumping treasuries like the great flood of the world–a financial flood. The notes were due. All the while, Asian replication of the american economy progressed and America’s slide to second world country continued. Once it was disclosed that Ft. Knox held no actual gold, the public was finally outraged. Even Guantanomo closed down, in an undeclared surrender.
By this time the government was so massive, only mirrors could capture the guilty, naive, and dumb. However, the government didn’t lay anyone off, it got bigger. Factions of dissenters remained, but only Texas was able to organize and prepare effectively. Only Texas had men and women of adventure, courage, and persistence to follow through. The bravado, the umph, the vision. Put your cards on the table and keep your hands where I can see ’em. Part of the past and ingrained in the Texas earth. This place will exist long after America, as all places have throughout history. Empires rise and fall. The same will likely happen to Texico one day. Or, perhaps God will decide to end it all prior to that day. Perhaps Texico is the last empire on earth.
Chinua Achebe is dead!
Chinua Achebe is dead!
my heart is a thing
…jelly farm…
…jelly farm…
‘heyell naw i ain’t goin over to that jelly farm. they got girls with rayzors and wire cutters.’
just a quick one, it’s the mashing season and everybody’s tired.
‘whatchu think i am, a sucka girl?’
it’s just, that, um, ah, well, they asked for you specifically.
‘everbody always askin for me huh?’
must be the the way you you roll the calf and finish the feet.
‘the feets is the wheels of this world, if you got em. so if ya got em, you oughts to take care of em.’
sorry lulubelle, we’ll plan better next time.
‘you ever see them make that jelly?’
no, why?
‘it’s an awful mess. turns my stomach. thee big ole pots of steamin blueberry mash. cooking all the while. hot in there too. some of those old ladies been there fordy years. makin that jelly ever day. damn i’m glad i became a massage therapist instead. i coulda been stuck in there foever. you like my boots?’
i like to see them walking.
no buddhists,
no buddhists,
only the Way.
no christians,
only Christ
I would make love to your
I would make love to your socks if I had you
I would step around mine piles of dirty clothes
and debris
and compromised dreams
If nightly
I could look forward
to the sweet microcosm of you
If nightly I could have you open,
a shifting landscape of limbs and quilt
Then daily
I would make smiling morning coffee
and look forward to the slow revolution
of another twenty four hours
Fast times
Fast times
Every day getting stronger
So much misunderstood
Yet it’s all for the prove
Like you were in some duel
But it’s all with yourself
Plates and cups put away neatly
On the shelf
…gazing with love…
…gazing with love…
already the wind is picking up.
leaves and dusty earth swirling around.
texas spring winds blowing cool and loud.
window seams and door footers hissing.
carnival callers all died off.
replaced by lit arrows and blue shirts.
communications and cops glowfacing.
using every possible space in the complex.
disco music and dinging noises.
wino hustlers and low rise jeans.
doctor office furniture and broken springs.
ice cream shop open til midnight.
and the outside smokers all have scowls.
the smiles and laughs of the young were real.
a father, showing them how it’s done.
folks on the mend and busting out.
talking to one another and gazing with love.
I look at your middle
I look at your middle sections it’s a message from god…
red hair and oh so fair
do I dare compare thee?
Oh fuck I am snowed in…
what is a curse
what is a blessing?
and wid u I’m messing
do ya think it is compression ?
Cos we git heavy weights
of Sodom
Growing two heads where you’re balls should have been
and a gate
complete
and guessing
laughing laughing
cos itz da cold her spring…
STILL LOOKING AT YOUR MIDDLE
STILL LOOKING AT YOUR MIDDLE SECTION
SHE HANGS BRIGHTLY
ON THE DIGITAL FM RADIO
TRANSMISSION
I’M PICKING THE SETTINGS
SO I FEEL LESS LIKE A PERSON
OBJECT OF GRATIFICATION
LET’S DO SOME NAILING
AS WE UNCAMP FROM THE SELF WE CAN’T DECIPHER
I’M GUILTY OF ABSTRACT THINKING
THE LT. GOV.
RED HEADED BASTARD STEP SON
SOME GUILTY NEW ORLEANS AGO
DANCING ON ONE FOOT
PLAYING A RECORDER
CUT YOUR HAIR SHORT
YOU REALLY THINK YOUR SOMETHING
BUT THE CAMP FIRE KEEPS BURNING
OH LET US HOPE TO GOD
WE DON’T RUN OUT OF LIPIDS
LISTER ANYONE?
WELL WE ALL NEED THE TASTE OF ALCOHOL IN OUR MOUTHS
CAN’T YOU BE YOURSELF WITHOUT BEING YOURSELF
AE HOUSEMAN
WIGGIRDLY
YEAP DUMB OP SO NOT
ASTRONAUT
ONTOLOGY GUESSING
YEAH MY 7TH HEAVEN
CRANK IT UP
BIG EARS
BAAL BAAL BAAL
GET FIRST PLACE IN THAT SQUARE DANCE
HIKE YOUR DRESS UP TO ANKLE
AND GET ALL SEXY
WITH VASELINE ON YOUR TEETH
COME ON
HALLE BERRY
LONDONDERRY
MERRY MERRY MERRY
SET AIM LAUNCH THE ROCKET
DANCING ON ONE FOOT
MAKING BREAKFAST
TAKE THAT POE
TAKE THAT YOU DIRTY HOE
YEAH BABY
JUST DANCING
THE SUN IS RISING MOVING MOVING MOVING TARGET
THE BLUES IS AN ARCHTYPE
GET LAST RIGHTS
DANCE HOPE
DANCE HOPE
OH SANTEE SIOUX DO WHAT YOU DO
ON THE RESERVATION
Bad Star Wars. **
Bad Star Wars. **
hey baby hey baby hey girls
hey baby hey baby hey girls say
1. Considerable superficial charm and average or above average intelligence.
2. Absence of delusions and other signs of irrational thinking
3. Absence of anxiety or other “neurotic” symptoms considerable poise, calmness, and verbal facility.
4. Unreliability, disregard for obligations no sense of responsibility, in matters of little and great import.
5.Untruthfulness and insincerity
7. Antisocial behavior which is inadequately motivated and poorly planned, seeming to stem from an inexplicable impulsiveness.
7.Inadequately motivated antisocial behavior
8.Poor judgment and failure to learn from experience
9. Pathological egocentricity. Total self-centeredness incapacity for real love and attachment.
10. General poverty ot deep and lasting emotions.
11. Lack of any true insight, inability to see oneself as others do.
12. Ingratitude for any special considerations, kindness, and trust.
13. Fantastic and objectionable behavior, after drinking and sometimes even when not drinking–vulgarity, rudeness, quick mood shifts, pranks.
14. No history of genuine suicide attempts.
15. An impersonal, trivial, and poorly integrated seX life. Failure to have a life plan and to live in any ordered way, unless it be one promoting self-defeat.
“SUV Blues Penny Haiku Series
“SUV Blues Penny Haiku Series”
By Steve Plonk
PENNY HAIKU #167
See Elmar Fud-Yo
Intwepid Samurai,
Samara sword swallower
Or Fire in the Hole—
SUV overboard or tired
Fatman takes a break.
PENNY HAIKU #168
Coletomb tires
My bones are cold
As an underground condo
Colestone tires
You drive them in
Then you drive right OUT THERE.
PENNY HAIKU #169
No Wind Tires
Colestone gathers flying moss.
Run out of gas tires—
Sold by E-Z Implode Tire Company.
PENNY HAIKU #170
Friedbone Tires:
Get your spirit rotated.
Stonefired—will get thee! Higher!
Stay away from the tapestry.
Authors Notes: From larger MSS. entitled POEMS FOR MY DAUGHTER: PENNY HAIKU, Circa Summer 2000. Author retains reprint rights.
Ich bin Achim. Groß, breite
Ich bin Achim. Groß, breite Schultern, verwaschenes T-Shirt, Schlangenledergürtel und lispelnde Aussprache. Stechend blaue Augen. Liebe und Dummheit. Unbeholfene Willenskraft. Wind um meinen Kopf herum. Wind. Ich bin brutal. Unbeantwortet. Trinke Sonnenlicht. Habe immer einen Sonnendrink zur Hand. Bleiches Gold. Ich bin jung. Du bist jünger. Ich bin alt. Du bist jung. Ich war überall wo Du noch sein wirst. Du bist dort. Ich bin hier. Wind um Deinen Kopf. Gebe Gold in Dein Glas. Licht in Dein Auge. Wir sind dumm. Wissen wir. Wissen wir. Wir sprechen nicht in Tatsachen und Fakten. Wir sagen Uuh, Oh, Mmmmh, Ah…
PASSOVER HAIKU
PASSOVER HAIKU
Again the story that takes a thousand years
The table is set, a desert of matzoh
Always, I am the wicked child
dirty white angels…
dirty white angels…
her young pink lips curl into a smile, her dark lashes flutter. she giggles at one of his jokes, and he laughs back. her face is pure innocence, her aura, that of a fresh young child. her head tilts back as she laughs at another joke, and he is amused at her pixie-ish ways. her eyes glitter like orbs of colored lights. her hair is long and blonde like a halo upon her head.
she bites her lips to suppress a moan but a kittenish cry escapes. his hand is on her thigh, searching, groping, higher, higher…
and when he is through, he smiles and kisses her cheek, or maybe even her lips. money finds its way into her fingers. she smiles back.
she is fourteen.
young.
she needs the money.
she likes what she does.
and inside she cries.
my heart is like the restroom
my heart is like the restroom at the last right stop on the highway to end to all time.
It is fairly clean but disordered. People only make to the end of time once in every 300 million years and they check on it every few parsnips.
James Joyce and T.S. Eliot are drinking whiskie sours in the RV parking lot. But there is nothing to empty from that tank because its all in that tank.
A bad Cure remix album plays.
There is muzak every where. Under rocks beneath the stones.
Love is everywhere.
You missed the Stone Roses show at the last Casino on the highway to hell.
It is only three chords and it gets annoying. Guitars stopped beginning commonplace somewhere in the 2050’s.
Pentantonics with drum machines.
Synsonics Pro Drum everywhere.
It was murder.
You go outside to the solar drift.
Waiting for moon men from the 20th Century.
Adolf Hitler floats by on a chariot.
And damn G…meta fuck paleo-shit trans bitch post ass.
And Eco and Peirce nod in agreement.
And it stills seems like Plato.
That’s the bump of a burn of part of my heart by minute…
Trying to make voices in organs
Organs into strings…
Goddamn Higgs boson.
Opps with yumm-yo results.
Definite Cap.
Max a million
Slog, I’ve dated a few of
Slog, I’ve dated a few of those women. Fun to drink with, hell to pay when hungover.
…sorry moods…
…sorry moods…
Mmmmm…Ahh..
So goes the peace of mind.
A few moments of sanity.
When our minds are open and unafraid.
Understanding the need for fate.
Letting destiny unfold.
Despite the pain and wreckage.
Oohhhh…Yeyaaah..
It is a terrible mess.
These lives we make.
Reliance on habits and rituals.
Sorry moods and daggers.
Trying our best to deflect glory.
Forget expectations.
The curse of fools.
u git the fate u deserve
u git the fate u deserve
it isn’t just a heard word
and the stones ain’t streaming right
and in some other life that won’t have menome
everybody growing beards
as they get older older over dead
we all got red skin and red blood here
Mouth Wash Warriors
and they won’t cure AIDS soon enough
zombie creeping flesh
a zombie movie from Africa
and Italy
dubbed in English
filmography has its moments
mostly discontent
as 1840’s Ireland
and I feel my skin getting flayed
as we git closer to Jesus day
To you JP2 do I pray hoping
for old bones and complete teeth
no fear of caries
and Carrie Con Queso
and Carrie did you spill the mail now?
Ranking things with integer
coming closer to the codex
A Roman Missal
of all the things we are in love with
I’m blazed out of my mind
making an SS scarecrow
stocking up on phosgene
if I was a few days before my bar mitzvah and you were taylor swift
I might give you 20 dollars to strip
playing the same damn three
playing the same damn three chords
till I am bored
my mind more of an 808 and five flat notes
I mistake engines for music
I regret not having hake
I regret the fact I am a complete
fake
but we real the with cotton underwear
emissions from all the leaded cars
MBTT
EBTT
BTEE
all for higher octave
I’d be jittery
if I wouldn’t
have done
so many drugs
stand tall wherever you are
stand tall wherever you are
this world does not need your sleep
Cathedral of Silence
Cathedral of Silence
I let the silence
of the world
enter me:
spacious,
beatific,
like an empty cathedral,
lit by 10,000 candles,
that holds
the memory
of every
answered prayer
throughout time;
a silence
that cleanses you
of all trifles
and small pleas
you might place
before God
because God
will only accept
the prayers
that serve
your thriving
and free
the world
to be itself.
In this silence,
there is no asking
and no receiving.
All prayers
of the heart
are answered
the moment
they become
the living truth
of your life.
– By Nick Leforce
hay men…
hay men…
can a war zone hate in the autumn?
better asked in the spring
life takes on more fecund roles
robins bouncing on the sod
spring peepers drowning out
my dreams
and symphonies of war
germinating in sterile soil
of hatreds and the vibrant world
furrows, like lines in sand,
lie fallow in droughts of compassion
irrigated by greed and ideal
the state a negligent farmer
the cleric a dark eyed plowman
and we
the silent few
hang saddened
twisting in a drier wind
stuffed full of straw and tatters
fowling-pieces staked to iron crosses
as crows with crimson eyes
flay the parchment of our skins…
…moon balls…
…moon balls…
.ralph sampson was a tall, tall dude. was reminded of him while researching the last consolation game of the final four. happened in 1981. bet that game was riddled with gambling influence. the vegas players. mr brown convinced me the fix was in. politics too. ralph never was as good as akeem the dream. ewing mainly lost. villanova days. the others, gilmore, jabbar, robinson, wilt, russell, duncan. giant men, bigger than the normal big basketball player. shaq ruled for years. second tier includes sikma, cartwright, vlade. the mavs got only chandler, donaldson, bradley, dampier. what a sorry state. a c greene won the iron man. thank God for dirk. anyway, was thinking about giants in general and they have always been around. figuratively and literally. casting huge shadows and attracting fixed stares. living above the crowd, paticipating still. ‘fat leeeeeveeerrrrr!!’, the crazed fan cried out in the hollow arena, mike izzulino getting game time. again, thank God for dirk. figuratively, and with a broader brush, these giant voices rage. creating the dicussions of the future. the young ones are getting taken. alarms are sounding. like a ticker tape. gonna die in debtor’s prison. let the jailhouse conversions be celebrated. almost been a christian his whole life. but i will guarantee this one thing–prime on prime, akeem would shut down lebron, while dropping moon balls all night.
if you want to understand it,
if you want to understand it,
stop thinking about it
Dead Bus
Dead Bus
There was a dead guy
sitting on the bus
in front of me tonight.
He was calling the office
on his cell phone
giving some last minute
instructions to some poor
bastard who worked for him.
He was talking in such a loud,
obnoxious voice I turned
to look if he was disturbing
anyone else besides me. But the woman
across the aisle reading
the NY Times was dead
too and so were the couple
chatting behind her. In fact,
it seemed as if I were the only
living person on the whole
fucking bus. Naturally,
I began to get worried.
I was speeding down the
turnpike in a busload of dead
folks passed a landscape
of petrochemical drums and
mobster swampland. And
then I made the mistake
of looking in the rearview
mirror and seeing the bus
drivers eyes looking directly
at me. I knew right then I
wasnt going home alive
that night. It didn’t make a
difference whether he drove
off the bridge or slammed into
a cement mixer. I looked at
my pale reflection in the
darkening window and saw
what he saw: another pale-
faced dead commuter on
his way home to his house,
his family, his dinner, his tv,
and his moonlit sexless bed.
I wanted to laugh but the dead
dont laugh they just sort of
unhinge their jaws in mute surprise.
Besides, even among the dead
I prefer not to seem insane.
..hours away..
..hours away..
..awoke ahead of the sun..
roads still damp and cool
..slain by this world..
left to gasp for air and die
..good to see your face again..
the lines are gone for good
..new robes and shoes..
strong and joyful all the time
..unannoyed and giving..
expected only to live forever
..time and flesh gone..
all forgave and all forgot
..transparent and glowing..
no malice or manipulation
..no health concerns..
the fitness of samson
..the days will melt..
the nights will last and last
..dreams will come true..
it’s only hours away
Thanks for the thought – I
Thanks for the thought – I needed to hear it!
‘Maybe Next Time'(Travel in
‘Maybe Next Time'(Travel in Chicago)
One old man, with grey, messy hair
Sits in a wheelchair
Makes face to me, and says:
‘All right, welcome to the Windy City,
All right, have a nice day.’
I lower my eyelash, hesitantly go away
Just as most passers-by who are always in hurry
From behind me comes his voice,
‘Maybe next time
Maybe next time.’
——03/14/2009, written in St. Louis. I am Chinese and only spent one year in St. Louis, so sorry for any potential mistake in this piece of so-called poem, which always reminds me of something in my everyday life, though.
spring
spring
keep golden drool
flowing keep
spitting I’m going
further I like
my scent these
days I could
eat my self
up don’t stop
keep it flowing
drip drop drop
drop
…perfect imperfections..
…perfect imperfections..
…the dripping of spring, wild weeds and flowers. the trees come alive again after spilling their color the pevious fall. the exhaustion of it all. like an artist must feel after a finished painting. perfections all perfected, completly familiar with every detail. dreamt about. loved. hated. in the end, a reconciliation, or acceptance. otherwise, the trash can. these creators are a strange breed. walking on a glowing cloud one day, swimming in mud the next. memories and anticipation help to bridge until the next inspiration. ideas, places, people. thinking in that order, but acting in reverse. the body does alert the mind. conditions and circumstance are fate’s result, a culmination of a thousand decisions. free will being like a coin. two sides. then we get to heaven and hell and good and evil, which do exist, but it’s a worn topic. we only have 30 thousand days if we live a long life, don’t waste it debating the original fool. the devil’s been discredited. the good ole days are yet to come. somehow, this links back to spring dripping. the appreciation of creation, over and over again. the beautiful display. God seems a caref ree artist, let it fly, editing to a minimum. gives validation to the first thought best thought side of creative art. the imperfections are perfect.
Hypocollector….. this is a
Hypocollector….. this is a good one you just wrote… perhaps the best that has emerged from this thread to date. Seems straightforward and honest…. perfectly fluid and yet at the same time delightfully clear headed. save some of this same stuff of the same well-spring and make some submissions somewhere : )
The Masterpiece
The Masterpiece
i do not wish to write
the masterpiece,
i wish to become
the masterpiece
the sun rise / the man thinking
the sun set / God’s child rejoicing
the rose reaching through the bud/
the soul retiring to scripture
the lotus preaching it’s beauty/
the mind that knows it need not preach
let the lesson teach itself
let my example be my sermon
let my dance be my pulpit
i do not wish to persuade you,
but to honor God and
remain silent in Her presence
except the words “Holy” and
“Thank You” and “Blessings,”
a believer needs no words,
especially what he seeks–
a believer needs no sights,
his vision is not compromised
by what this world
shows him
…nurse, thanks for your
…nurse, thanks for your accolades, just took the ‘drip’ from ms and let it fly, carefree artist. action poetry to be sure. the reaction to the action. never thought of submissions. on to the next thing, trying to find another bridge to cross the raging river again. above the jaded rocks, above the drowning pool, above the chaotic madness and deadly rapids. each crossing ends with relief and exhiliration. got a gig today at a crawfish boil. you know they suck out the brains? hope they got some chips and salsa. the world could live on chips and salsa…
Still and cool night
Still and cool night
Saw On the Road
Disappointment all around
Dean boppin Steve Buscemi
Got the biggest laugh
Somehow I missed that part
in the book
Back home and let down
It was almost as bad as
Uma Thurman in Even Cowgirls
Get the Blues
Maybe worse if that’s possible
Should have made the movie
In the late fifties
Another great novel debauched
on the silver screen
Snow Week
Snow Week
Ground up, swallowed,
tuning against the static,
Collected around the breakfast table,
From depressive to manic,
Crafted collectives surveillance recollected,
Teared explanations,
Wearing boots and night walks,
We don’t ask no questions.
I heard the owl call my name,
I heard the owl call my name,
like a backbeat in a child’s voice,
etched in shadows of a father’s grave,
lonely echoes on a frosted night…
at dawn I’ll be immortal again,
renewed by another workaday
and the uncaring fiscal year,
my soul stays leafless in damp moonlight…
do we end the days defibrillating
in hospice and parchment,
or under foreign suns twitching and fluid,
while kestrels dive as doves take flight…
why only in the dark hours,
the soul’s midnight,
can we see farther, deeper,
nightdreams wander like a restless wight…
experienced or just imagined,
dreamt but never realized,
conceived yet unexecuted,
an inner eye begs keener sight…
as yellow eyed and dark skinned children,
play with tattered banners,
laughing at rusted armor, bleaching bones,
and history cries that might makes right…
as I, stale pilgrim of no progress,
catch faint odors of war,
in the molded root celler of my mind,
as hope catches wind like a child’s kite.
Susurra, that is a beautiful
Susurra, that is a beautiful poem. Loved it. Thanks for sharing!
Subsurface enjoyed
Subsurface enjoyed
Genuine action
Alive, alive Oh!
Spilling that wine
Spring sprung
Arms tanned
L.A. Woman tunes
Densmore’s favorite Doors album
Jazzy pop poetry
Reading Dr. Sax later
Beats in time on the train home
It’s where I wanna be
On the Road sucked, but the
next night that movie with Sean Penn playing a
all made up Nazi hunter/old rocker was
something else
If there is a GOD, may he bless
Action Poetry
Emergence
Emergence
My throat is a grave
Mockery makes thick darkness rest
and revel in light’s absenteeism
False teachers
lead happy headed lambs
to slaughter
and an unholy alter waits
Punk on Punk
Punk on Punk
the Rotten vision of it all
a renaissance culture Clash
of hell rising from The Fall.
Rebuilding
Rebuilding
O! The schizophrenia
O! The frenetic post-modern millenia
Read left to right knowledge seekers
Read right to left eastern orthodox soul seekers
O! HaRuach HaKodesh
Lead
This burnt up flesh
an unacceptable
an unacceptable
weakness
creeps today
speechless
through my room
unloved
whose hand
is light
whose truth
sense mind
is just enough
to shield me
what else than nothing
can I bear
what but nothing
do I have
to share will
those giants
shrink their castles
break will
my blood translate
their speak
and think-
am I deranged
or evolving from another
change feels loose
and thin
skinned boneless notion
and a smacker-tin
clear frames of
slow motion lightning
boldness show up step
away from this
as it crumbles
consider then
….
or prink your shadow
self again
no god
no god
only science
to explain
the silence
your first
thought is
a loss
unravelling
questions
with half-answers
beautiful that
you ask
terrible
you don’t recieve
what you
want changes
in the now
that moment
of no-thought
the promises
you made
yourself alone
alone
made the present pleasant
a warm room with
beautiful mosiac
walls and ceiling-high
windows
fell flat upon itself
crumbled in the
rising sun
and you sit
acheing again
in the same bones
of yesterday
what changes
is the moment
where time
doesn’t exist
grasping it
is cruel
only felt when
given up
how many times
i’ve done that
only to need
more
…wild oating…
…wild oating…
any ole dude or dudette can write a poem.
just start spilling words, don’t even have to rhyme.
forget forms and traditions and draw them words.
any ole chump or chick can make a bed.
pull them sheets tight, tuck them under good.
puff up them pillows and stretch out long and lean.
any ole hunk or floozy can do a dance.
start tapping the feet, pop the arm movements.
make wild eyes and suck in your cheeks.
any ole amigo or senorita can sing a song.
sing without holding back, articulate the endings.
close your eyes if you must and just wail.
any ole father or mother can make a baby or three.
stick around for the raising, its your life’s work.
you already had your chance to go wils oating.
broken branches, unter haikus
broken branches, unter haikus & strange brushes with pseudo-anarchists & self-confessed closet neocons…
tax and spend statists
take your freedom with a smile
we forge our own chains…
marxists in black robes
NO living constitution
judging activist…
hope and change gone sour
divides a country once strong
campaigner-in-chief…
fourth estate hack jobs
agendas disguised as news
no escape from noise…
feed the hungry gods
long checklists for salvation
cleric in a box…
freedom never free
crowd sourced tyrant banners fly
silence is consent…
A Crumbling Mumble
A Crumbling Mumble
let your prophets stand
on their own feet
let your books speak
for themselves
Holy? holy?
scolded by moldy time
folded into the only Light
delve into the night
seen hell, felt nigh
a bold and lonely sight
Heaven held high–
let your prayer follow
your done deeds
let your Lord rejoice
content with his creation
are you tickilish?
are you afraid of death?
that funny, beautiful embrace
that final, divine union
where the end is the beginning
to a mind that cannot conceive
of an ending–
where love desceds from the
stars and planets and puts it’s
atoms in the heart,
where blood is no longer currency
where flesh is no longer monument
where justice rests
upon the wings of angels
and not upon the hands of men
what do you build?
Spring Clean…
Spring Clean…
I awake, dull crusted in shadows
to the swelling roar of hard rain on shingles
wetly dripp’d down rusted gutters
air thick with cool moisture
ozone sharp razor clean
somehow the sod grew a deep green coat in one night
as dogwoods shed blossoms like fragrant dandruff
when did spring arrive?
my mind still bundled in deep winter time
ghosts of snowfields, untouched by sun,
blanket my mood in a stiller time
now shattered by detonations of life
melted by pollen, infused with wind
scintillant bands of light burn laser bright
through pregnant clouds rain gray
beams playing like shiny faeries on the sill
as a weird biology compels me to awake
rush headlong onto verdant lea
dervish twirled and humid breathed
but lightswitched it’s gone
thunderheads roll like playground bullies
smearing runnels on the window
dogwood prismed to a streak
as I shrink back to a pillow
smelling faintly of grass.
Summer came early
Summer came early
They broke camp when
the thunder cracked
& rain exploded
Bring on May flowers
“Cat Scat Penny Haiku”
“Cat Scat Penny Haiku”
By Steve Plonk
a)
There’s a smell wafting through the air
Coming from our litter box right over there
Please scoop it there & scoop it here,
Oh please scoop our litter box:
Get up from your chair.
b)
When you scoop our litter box
It helps us with our biological clocks
We know when it is time now
We cry loudly & sometimes yowl…
While you’re watching the “idiot box”…
c)
A little mess here, a little mess there
Soon adds to the smell within in the air,
Sometimes we think caretakers have no
Sense of smell,
It’s hard to know , it’s hard to tell.
d)
Oh please scoop our litter box:
Get up from your chair!
Are you deaf in one ear?
Can’t you hear us yell?
Oh, please clean our litter box.
Then we’ll be able to chill…
April , 2013
.the arrangements are tight.
.the arrangements are tight. ..added a solo verse with a haunting guitar.. …the message was too overpowering… ….directly from the seat of the soul…. …..that martin had a clean noise….. …….minor chords filling the space…….
.the sword was the word. ..riffs and sounds never heard.. …edgar winter group was big back then… ….mexican horns and strings…. …..that jumping part needs it’s own stage….. ……backup singer sounds just like stevie nicks……
.my seagull’s getting a tuneup. ..polish the frets and a perfect bow.. …sam houston died a sad man… ….should have never joined the yankees…. …..look south my frontier brothers….. ……covert designs and all……
.follow the moon. ..keep the peace as long as we can.. …hypocrites will talk of reasonableness… ….politicians will make back room deals…. …..leaders will smell of grease….. ……occupiers will rise again……
.double standards and broken promises. ..microphone jackson with stars in his eyes.. …the music of generations… ….layers of tracks of sounds…. …..they been claimed by the king….. ……soon they’ll be going home……
A Man Who Sings To Bees…
A Man Who Sings To Bees…
I heard a sound
lilting like reed pipes
wending through air
grown heavy in dusklight
sultry and organic
rising from behind
a pasture heavy with
coarse hairs and droppings
horses and their liquid eyes,
shedding winter coats
(and masticated oats)
even they know
they’re only scenery
whithers to the woodline
as a shadow rocks
hypnotic rhythm timed
to cicadas and honeybees
a man
a man who sings to bees?
rushing to challenge
a stranger in the yard I find
him hatless in the swirling
humming to himself
to the hive
to the dusk
to his dark leather shoes
turned just slightly away
profiled yet indistinct
wordlessly he sings
to wounded hearts
wistful hopes
futures lost
and silently I lie down beside
wild onion, cooling grass
listening to the beating heart
deeply thrumming on the comb
modulated voice, concert of a soul
ort of treble, rumbled bass
and opening my eyes I see
no man
no music
only bees
and me.
Googling I found
Googling I found
a site that was
oogling over the
pre-’04 Litkicks boards
It was an insane party
I guess you had to be there
Nothing like it in cyberspace
Not then
Not now
Probably not ever again
Got my wired ass going
many a night, while we
had our word fun
Yet that was then and
this is whatever it is
in this era of desensitization
Waiting for the axe to fall
Poetic Action, Poet Reaction,
Poetic Action, Poet Reaction, PDfreakinQ…
the pen
soulless
stilled
spent
chewed cap
and emptied cartridge
as my yen
burns like an addict’s fire
palm sweat on parchment
syllables, prosody
sans serif mind flow
while demure muses
whisper soft moisture
follicle and promise
into my thought train
running like a hangnail
raking blank canvas
flecked in textured ink
and immovable type
scrivened on envelopes
spilt on torn napkins
blown out on e-pages
squirt into ether
no action
no traction
cry out for
electronic
reaction
the verse
is mightier
than the
whole
I want a cigarette
I want a cigarette
writers must write
they are in real trouble
most of the time
I could have coffee all night
hi! I want to greet one
seeing only good people around
I want an opponent
I really long to see that man
as I walked through the audience last night
strangers touched and tweaked me
I want to speak with him about
realities we see
I love how we talk in film dialogues of pointless poetry so awkwardly
and stop from time to time and wonder
waiting for the laughter or a commercial break
that would save us from each other
very soon my contract will expire
but it’s so good to be no fuck up
for a while – like home
no I won’t smoke
to the doubters of dreams,
to the doubters of dreams, myself
to the haters of peace, myself
to the gatherers of shadows, my mind
to the forecast of ignorance, my light
i live in a city where
the weatherman is prophet,
where blood is anonymous
and badges are coated in gold
where skin is thin yet
its color is thick
where the needs of the city
is flesh and it wants
bones that are young,
where harassment is a given
and torment goes unnoticed
because of its prevelance–
peel yr mask back
put yr gat down
put yr light up
love what you are
and your mistakes
will adorn you
give what you have
and nothing
can be
taken
Chaos Makers
Chaos Makers
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Words like abuse & chaos
come to mind
Demons lurking within our midsts
Unfortunately they are usually in
positions of power, whip in hand
Get it done & bottom $$$$ lines
rule their every move
All in the name of some kind of
glossed over safety face that’s
there to keep the insurance
companies off their backs
It’s the same game, been going
on for centuries
The reason the pyramids were
allowed to rise on the sweat of
slave labor
It’s how that Great Wall was strung
all the way across northern China
to keep out the Mongol hordes
Railroads in the 19th century
Tall concrete structures on this
very day, built on man’s & woman’s
breaking backs
The Chaos Makers ready to heap on the
abuse
..the blind are the lucy ones
..the blind are the lucky ones.
..the deaf are at peace.
..the mute are wise and happy.
..the numb get along just fine.
The Month of Dead Sparrows
The Month of Dead Sparrows
April is the month of dead sparrows
in my pillow case
in the vegetable crisper
stuffed in the mailbox
with the junk mail
I find them everywhere
I am in a movie starring dead sparrows
I am married to a dead sparrow
all my children are sparrows
dead in the nest
opening my mouth
a sparrow
lies dead on my tongue
thinking, all my thoughts
are dusty dead sparrows
on the corner of Broad & Monmouth
a small girl
with a basket of dead sparrows
wants to sell me a dead sparrow
what is it
with all these dead sparrows
a shopkeeper sweeps a pile
of dead sparrows
from the front of his shop
in the church there’s a sermon
on dead sparrows
an old woman fell asleep
with her mouth open in an armchair
in her very own parlor
& choked to death
on a dead sparrow
I heard of this in a café
where they were scooping dead sparrows
from the coffee urns
a cop was telling the story
as he shook out his coat sleeves
came three more dead sparrows
Christ we’re up to our ass
a stockbroker said
in dead sparrows
impossible you’d think to forget
the dead sparrows heaped eight inches deep
in the streets
the trucks going by pushing plows
through dead sparrows
the sight of the river now a river
of dead sparrows
but forget it we will
it’s forgotten already
except you wake up one day with a sadness
you can’t pin to a cause
& it never goes away
it’s the month of dead sparrows
the very first day.
toity poiple boids, dehd
toity poiple boids, dehd upahn da coib,
noh muh chiopin or boipin, or eatin doity woims…
I found a dead sparrow this morning
sideways on the stoop
strangely unblooded
gifted by clever cats
if fed my morning reverie
always heavy on my shoulders
in the early frozen hours
of frost’s last gasp
my damp spring mantle
as I cling to a fading memory
of my father and his voice
slow step and aqua velva
now etched in lonely stonework
small words for larger deeds
and look at the small sparrow
with its lifespan like a handclap
and wonder if a creator
so vastly beyond time
just got bored with forever
and thought for shitz’n giggles
I’ll make frantic mud men
amok among creation
with half-lives of remembrance
lasting only as whispers in wind
or one (maybe two) generations
if our names are on a label
or painted into frames
hung in plush hallways,
ignored by commuters
too busy dying themselves
or just one of the unlucky ones
who bleed out on front pages
and wonder to myself
as I drag the last few gasps
from my cigarette of choice
if I’m the cat
or the sparrow…
I lie
I lie
flat on my stomach
breathe flat too
and my wrist lies
next to my forehead
and is just much too thin
for my working-hand!
I’m naked I turn
my head my face and there
you lie
I see your mind I swear and a shoulder
your upper arm and below feet
You sleep like a shame
how beautiful you are
naked and lying next to me
I must be somehow quietly
very still until you wake up
then you will come to me
..the next einstein..
..the next einstein..
.not sure we’ll exist in heaven. .maybe we’ll just hover. .possibly we’ll squirm. .we could be forever asleep. .one huge long dream. .chased by a robber. .floating on clouds lightly. .reading minds and healing. .all the wounds of life. .disappear into space. .perhaps a disco ball hangs in the middle of it all. .glittering the black punkishly. .spinning always. .momentum has never stopped. .crowds of the faithful await. .knowing nothing but believing. .the truth glows in our souls. .rings in our ears. .shines in our eyes. .outlasting the old folks. .penetrating the bleak. .the next Einstein. .writing on a chalkboard. .blowing the minds of the young .your will is always corrupted. .your ways are always selfish. .your knowledge is wrong. .only the word. .only the word is love.
Running thru the words, scat
Running thru the words, scat singin at the bar, not drinking just reading it off the iPad, continuous flow action writin as the food flys by and the feet stomp upon old downtown floors, a rhapsody moment brings a tear to Kayleigh’s eye as she shows me her artwork recovered from dumpster and framed, another day in the cafe as the espresso machine churns and the milk steams in mighty reverie….
lonely dreams & lucid nights.
lonely dreams & lucid nights…
stop throbbing temple
blood pounded sight
dim daydreamt corneas
surround sharp morning light
hidden heart whispers
raging wan muffled souls
desire stoked embers
burn kiln shattered bowls
dermis flayed pilgrims
gnaw darkly smoked bones
slag dwelling convicts
flee coke crumbled clones
fly, fly away from
a wasteland of sorrows
as ash can yesterdays spill
into flashpoint tomorrows
is there only the now
present here in this spot
downshift stonebreak and self speak
ungoverned egos run hot
blur sky, photochrome
squint into ink acid haze
peer at forever
as the danse macabre plays…
Patience
Patience
i’m waiting for the president to ditch
his suit and tie and give his speech
in his underwear, looking down
at his crotch instead of teleprompters
i’m waiting for star’d generals to
dismiss their soldiers and abandon
the armies and instead commit themselves
to mental hospitals where they will
play dominoes and grow arugula
i’m waiting for Bob Marley
to visit his own grave, after catching
a flight from an unknown island
in the Bermuda Triangle and
return again to the stage where his song
is forgiveness and standing tall
i’m waiting for Bob Kaufman
to delete the month of April
from all calendars everywhere
and instead replace it with a joint
of marijuana sprinkled with hash oil
and chanting his song of silence
until every child understands beggars
i’m waiting for the inventors of bombs
to fall to their knees and ask God
if he can spare a lollipop or mercy
or whatever is His will until they
realize bombs don’t kill the soul
that is eternal, only the body which
is already weak and seeking a way out
i’m waiting for bones to set up
a family reunion with dust so they
can familiarize with each other after so
much time apart, and get drunk and
tell each other their memories of their
long lost friend freedom who they
invited but did not give
an RSVP soon enough
i’m waiting for politicians to
explode to pieces once they learn
what their names mean to people in
homes they will never visit or pass out
from dehydration so Americans can
put red white and blue marigolds
in their mouths
i’m waiting for Jesus to return
to earth hopefully on TV at
Pat Robertson’s church so He can
nullify all of those speeches and
take back the wine that is His blood
and drink it until he’s drunk to remind
the congregation that they are cannibals
i’m waiting for roses to blossom
upside down so i can dream of
picking them, admire the roots and
pour beer into their soil so they
will talk to me and answer my
questions about the scarcity of spider webs
i’m waiting for my broom to grow
legs so i don’t have to push it any longer
and instead sing to it the song that was
cradled by Coltrane’s cheeks when he
blew deep, wordless wisdom
into the night and day and to anybody
who has ears let them hear
i’m waiting for my collar to pop itself
so my neck will no longer be lonely
and can cuddle with cotton late into
the night on the couch watching reruns
of The Simpsons while sipping screw drivers
where the orange juice was poured first
i’m waiting for the sun and moon
to make love so i can raise their children
as the stars they are and were born to be
and they will not be afraid
of heights because i’ll teach them
to never look down
i’m waiting for Johnny Cash
to put his middle finger in
the guns of all police officers
everywhere so no more men
will be shot for reaching
at their empty wallets
i’m waiting for every single diamond
to return to Africa and for Bill
Gates to get out of there so the
worth of the people can be recognized
as something of themselves that
they always owned and it was only
an illusion that it could be taken
i’m waiting for architects to
collect every single snow flake
that ever fell so they can throw
them back to the clouds in order
to be undisturbed by their own vomit
i’m waiting to eat my wallet
so i can get out or get gout
or be given any disease that
i would never wish on you
i am alive i think
i’m waiting for the Bible to be
translated into the heart’s language
so there will be no more misunderstandings
or contradictions and people will
no longer put their hands into flames
but instead meditate on the power
of sour apples and tree trunks
i’m waiting for the first law
of nature to rewrite itself
upon the tongues of mothers
so when they kiss their children
they will know they are loved and
that their feet are gallons of milk
i’m waiting for truth to grow
a mustache so you will not recognize
it by its appearance but by what
it possesses when it uses your wine glass
as a toilet and gives you
frozen strawberries for breakfast
i’m waiting for Eckhart Tolle
to abandon his lips and instead
speak the stillness with his dance
so everyone can know what it feels
like when desire and need are happily married
i’m waiting for a sneeze to
turn into a prayer or a prayer
to turn into white gauze
that turn red because for every
brain there is a bayonet but
for every mind there is a galaxy
i’m waiting for Hafiz
to get drunk it won’t take long
so i can talk to him about
suffering and leather and tears
and evolution and chocolate until a smile emerges
i’m waiting for my dreams to realize
compassion and hope are weapons
so when i sit down to meditate
i can put this planet in my hands
and learn to love it All
no matter what
Like lemon juice ink
Like lemon juice ink
Webs appear across the lawn
Dew on the pasture
…mud rains…
…mud rains…
…in the afternoon the skies were red. wind had all day to cause the big dust up. dirt in mouths and cussing. day after day is blew. followed by mud rains and temporary calm…
cinquains, hypocrites, and
cinquains, hypocrites, and thugs…slipping on shards of broken glass…
may day
masked thugs gather
raised fist running dogs scream
righteous with Nikes and iPhones
go home
…fish belly…
…fish belly…
…fish belly they called him. beat that bass all day. take after take. tuning by ear, tapping his feet. he shut his mind off. the real twist comes next. asian women in silk, smiling and paying close attention. stomach was white as a white crayola. that’s the reason for the fish belly name. gotta have a blues name. but it has to be given to you. fish belly is good. like Jonah, defiant but still smart. the wisdom of fear. stackabones has a good blues name. guitar player, that dude. whip out a song. three layers of thought. fish belly is good.
In an instant
In an instant
Thoughts come
Elongated
Confused
Rattling in my brain
Dancing words
Action up again
…sick sweat…
…sick sweat…
…arms heavy and slow…feet dragging and flat…a head full of stuffing…a sick sweat…in the late spring humidity…lungs shut off and full of webs…wheezing and coughing…waves of warm buzz…the silence breaks with screeching…the dim begins to glow…tossing and turning til two…Sandy lake days…they’ll ride anything…laughing and getting soaked…happy days are here again…
…the theory of proximity…
…the theory of proximity…
Proximity is essential for productive management and leadership. Greater than strategy, greater than goals, greater than fear. Understanding the operation, knowing the challenges, listening to others.
Supported with an efficient and strictly executed communications strategy, this proximity will lead to effective decision making and a collaborative culture.
Benefits of a collaborative culture and effective decision making are good strategy and tactical execution.
Benefits of good strategy and tactical execution are profits for reinvestment, pocket cash, and continuing prospects.
broken mandelas, bad rhymes,
broken mandelas, bad rhymes, and boots stamping on faces….
subject
object
one hand clap,
kaleidescopic
head trippin’
on the road without a map,
illuminated
confiscated
buddha’s holy rap,
no self
myself
nirvana’s just a trap,
rocket trip
crashing down
head ringin’ trigger slap,
genocidal
herbal tea
messiah takes a nap,
broken flags
burnin’ toys
helmet hammer double tap,
win some
lose more
karma takes another lap…
Put on something nice
Put on something nice
go seeing you
do not understand
be not understood
give whatever you accept
absorb whatever you share
starve
freeze
Go begging
mourn with lamentation
Stillness
..from where thought is
..from where thought is formed..
*to the searchers of glory, the finders of mercy, the shame inspired, the guilt inspired, the tuned out. *turn your attention to important matters, take a moment to consider, salvation and how it all turns out.
*get away from your worn path and walk across the streets, through the fields, over the divides. *plan to use some time to follow the hunch, check out the tip, learn a bit more, follow the night lights.
*go to the edge, the very tip of the cliff, peer over and stare at the earth, it’s peaks and valleys and ruts. *think of looking from space like a satellite, watching from the stars, telescopes fixed on all of us.
*scurrying about like chaotic soldiers, waiting for the next command, standing and glowing on the dock *spotlight the unknown, tune into the unheard, illuminate the unseen, speak the unspeakable, eat the rot.
*chime in with your opinions you busy minds, pretend to understand, pretend to try, through the motions. *knock back two or three and drink a glass of tea in between, close your eyes and think of the ocean.
*the globe shaking always, sending waves thousands of miles, water always finding it’s way to land. *alone on this lifeboat, gasping for humid air, humming always and thinking of for the band.
*mind control of sorts, occupiers of it’s time, it’s reflexes and currents, from where thought is formed. *sometimes called the soul, it is actually a function of our brain, where truth is known and sin is born.
I told her I saw an owl in
I told her I saw an owl in the stars
She gave me blood,
I drank up all the wine
Sad and ecstatic,
smiling at my decay
Wired producer
Wired producer
Brooksian Pop manifestation
My star a risin’
Wanting to be a raisin
In the sun.
Dream last night
So real that I
Wanna go back
It’s where I belong
E I E I O
Country girl
Tall columns on the
lawn, O girl
You know I want to
see you, all alone….all alone.
..preventing gravity..
..preventing gravity..
.the constant talk of emotions and motions .going through them for certain .welling up when thinking of the tragedy .one for the other .equal in impact and consequences .changed into something .the Lord is the remaining link .preventing music like preventing gravity .bands of clowns left for eternity .mocked forever .hard of hearing .the mercy shown .perhaps we refine the guidelines .update the parameters .in light of the new understanding .and abandonment .hit the links .go with pastels .respectability in the shadow of shame .worst case scenario always possible .mostly unlikely.
..whispering girls..
..whispering girls..
just you and the ants now. no one hardly talks anymore.
been feeling low on the inside. like an accepted fate.
whatever that could be. a race car driver.
hitting the banks hard. hoping for the rubber to grip.
which one of us is going to break. who is the engineer. who is the artist.
the ability to create. a ninety degree day.
humid sweat pours from your skin. heat and nerves collide.
dreamed that I dreamed I saw an asteroid pass by. winked at me as it streaked by.
firey ball with a smokey tail. the whispering girls got hate in their hearts. as we all do.
envy and insecurities. left everyone out at some point.
endure the pain. understand the disappointment.
love anyway.
Feeling that the sting was
Feeling that the sting was coming
Ominous, hanging over the day
like the cusp of a darker void
Writing songs, hearing sounds
I come home to hear that my inspirer
has passed on
Rest in peace Ray Manzarek
you can go back but yeah yeah
you can go back but yeah yeah yeah it will never be like it was…
travelling to my never was,
my yearly time in the yard
spring time back to cold Ohio
gripped in nonsense and melancholy
I travel to old town
misted by the cuyahoga
surprised yet not I find
they tore down the tottered house
tar paper and clapboard
hoary hand pump out front
jutting out of upturned earth
like an oxidized finger accusing
at broken chimney
collapsed walls
19th century brickwork sharded
toppeled into fetid basins
the neighborhood harshbitten scar
open wounded by the treelawn
old man who once lived there
trapped in darkness and exile
haunts it no longer
memory freed
by oiled machinery and progress
rooftop split
like broken amphora
scattered on the seabed
and so floats my enmity
thermal up and away
updraft and ashes
drift’n round bulldozers and scaffold
dissipating on warmer breezes
as if it never was…
what happens most mornings of
what happens most mornings of course
remains unspoken, and even to begin
this was difficult, to place the hands here
on the keys, to say ‘yes i have something
to say and i wish to say it here’, that my
life has some value, that the noise is not
all there is, though it feels like the noise
is all there is sometimes, the noise, you
know, the noise, you know it, the noisy noise
that noises its way into your noise and
you can’t hear or see or taste or feel
anything but the noise which is noiseless
and doesn’t know anything and even if
it did it wouldn’t tell you anyway because
you’re stupid and everyone knows that
so there so there so there so there you go
again.
Still
Still
Dark, black light. You see very little but not nothing – that would be ‘free’ – rather to much. Too close. Too tight. A too high frequency of information and of stimulus. A density too close. Much too close. So close it blocks, it’s locking anything. So nothing can enter and nothing … can escape. Nothing comes in and nothing gets out. Nothing. The outside world is a tremendous armor. Inside, however, there is: infinite depth. That depth draws you down. Inside you be pulled away – away from body and away from time. Outside is dangerous – no, rather meaningless – and full of overwhelming emptiness. Tells you nothing. Says too much to ever understand. Demands from you. Anything. Shoves you back in. Wants something. Wants. Besets you. Gives you but no incentive to move. Does not move you. Swallows each impulse. So you cannot move by your own force itself. Cannot make a sound. Not even aspirate. Outside eats ideas. Therefore, you fall into the inside. Slump down. Drop back into yourself by detaching nerves from nerves and nerves from muscles. You disable and dissolve synapses. Reaction becomes impossible. Also unnecessary. No connection. But separation, dissolution, relaxation. But wholly you can not…that far you can not go, not yet. You know of limitations. And know of finitude. You know about the outside and its light. And dynamics you know, and forms and connections you… don’t want to let go of. Not yet. Unavoidable. Uncomfortable, that outer side will sure catch up to you. When you return. You stave it off and linger on. The longer the delay, the longer you’re away, the more complex, the wider grows the chaos awaiting you out there — outside, where I lay and where I lisped my ‘Sh’sss’…Sorry but I couldn’t wait… no more
..kanyeoke..
..kanyeoke..
.it should not be tolerated.. ..certainly not applauded.. ..song called new slaves.. ..performer will go unnamed.. ..bout the dumbest thing i’ve heard.. ..yes, vulgar and idiotic.. ..self pity on steroids.. ..a 1st grader throwing an adult fit.. ..he gonna bust stuff up.. ..wonder what the marketing department thinks.. ..street cred man, street cred.. ..all those simple minds out there will buy it up.. ..i know it ain’t music.. ..like with instruments and stuff.. ..but he’s on the mic.. ..owning the stage.. ..wanna sell more t shirts.. ..the fashion industry awaits.. ..to test out the new fabrics.. ..to change the scene.. ..to throw out the old and sell in the new.. ..on a three year cycle.. ..for the mainline trends.. ..perpetual and sustainable growth model.. ..the consumer’s responsibility.. ..and addiction.. ..back to the kanyeoke performer.. ..why don’t you call a news conference.. ..tell us why you ain’t gonna take it no more.. ..the injustices shown.. ..the irs done done you wrong.. ..so did that dude in the hamptons.. ..you really do that to his wife.. ..don’t tear me down.. ..don’t air me out.. ..this other dude with sandals and a robe got my ear.. ..teaching about the patient and kind.. ..preaching bout faith and love.. ..proclaim Him as your slave master..
Im beginning to like you
Im beginning to like you
You don’t get on my nerves like
All of the others.
Im beginning to think i could
Take you seriously
I mean with most people
It’s like every conversation is
A kind of test
Like i ain’t really talking
Im just trying not to look like a mug
But with you
With you its different
And i feel like i can be myself
Even when im in a bad mood
I aint worried
Not much
Because you understand
I know you mean it
You mean it and i mean it
And that well that
Well that means everything
I like you
monkeys in cages, eating one
monkeys in cages, eating one’s own liver, and temper, temper little man…
in our temperate dimension
brimfull of flesh humour
life’s grand arena
we’re all made
champions of Nod
with laurel wreaths of
hot wire and gristle,
with gilded medallions hung
on faded ribbon,
bent when bitten,
signifying nothing,
echoing hollow cries
of fickle crowds that don’t give a damn
huzzahs sharp with only a blood thirst,
we shred,
we claw,
we saw all the bones,
crazy for the marrow,
sprinkle a scalp with love or not,
marinate with greedy benedictions,
basted in the eyes of grinning gods,
with just a jigger
of black hate and conviction
anyone can feast like horselords
racing hot winds on the plain
zealot riders of a crimson sage
in their longhouses darkly lie
gorging upon
flesh of ourselves
sizzle crack’d on spits
turned slowly
by shrouded imps
grinning,
ghastly grinning
at the joke
that no one gets…
…toymaker man…
…toymaker man…
.the loss of heroes
.when all the worthy died off
.fought in every war he possibly could
.flew planes
.spied
.and dropped bombs
.shined his shoes bright
.glowed even at night
.when the children came
.one after your own heart
.one a free spirit child
.never in a million years would we guess he would pass
.he attended all the funerals
.never would he be honored
.unexplainable and unlogical
.busy mind of service
.til the end
.toymaker man
.sweet gal she was too
.looked you in the eyes
.enjoyed your joy
.next door neighbors to blood relatives
.finally I found you
.set up from the start
.in tennis shape
.the highkick queen
.another one on the loose
.complete with a protector
.warrior child
.she will stand up for something very big one day
.for all the right reasons
.taught perseverance
.creates hope
.smarter than all
.phase six or seven
.can’t keep track
.the canyons are deep
.carved from rock
.water again the creator.
i shatter and throw myself
i shatter and throw myself
at the music, i am made
whole in silence
Duly but eat your words.
Duly but eat your words.
i hurl water in the face
i hurl water in the face
of everyone; go away!
I want to be a knuckle
on the hand of a giant,
carried everywhere, low
at his side.
in timorous beginnings i might
get away with a whipser
when you ask me
what i’m thinking when i’m
thinking
nothing at all.
seed blow seed blow love love
kiss grow find find find love love
yesterday
all our troubles
seemed
not far away
but
more ready
to teach us
something new.
Feline Sonnet
Feline Sonnet
That abstract form in patterned space
Such a glossy shape of fatal ambience
Seamless as a renaissance masterpiece
A perfect camouflage of purring violence
Such is the guise of its killing insouciance
Everything within its finite seeing grace
Is infinitely absorbed by its arrogance
Fashioned fatal in vestments of innocence
This nine-lifed four-limbed feline deity
With the double brace of hearing vision
Multiplying itself in languorous proximity
Fading into landscape of distant singularity
The symmetry of the poet’s infatuation
A creature writ in another hands heaven.
would that i were a cat
would that i were a cat —
o to be as sudden as that!–
my only concern the size of the sun,
my movement a movement begun.
would that i were on a fencepost
thinking a fluff of nothing.
‘i have marked my territory,
my whiskers are straight and true,
my paws are here to clean me,
to knead you, and to need you too.’
I hope you enjoy my poem. Not
I hope you enjoy my poem. Not spring in my part of the world (Melbourne, Australia)
They skipped laughing through teeming splashing winterdark nights,
rode jostling trams on slicktrack city streets, red lights winking, wipers thack-thacking, where crowds leant as one lumbering animal into the night, heads bowed to fat rain drops; thinking of home.
“one lumbering animal”
“one lumbering animal”
ha, great!
outside, the old man leans across
the fence and talks.
it is hot and he is ill,
but it is good for him to be out in the sun.
my brother is being positive with him.
his friend, possibly his lover,
a man who borrowed and then repaid in time
200 pounds
from my brother,
sits in a wooden outdoor chair asking who i fancy
for the champions league final tonight
i tell him i would like to see the underdogs wins
and he agrees.
Eve moll plow think jean.
Eve moll plow think jean.
I absolutely love Feline
I absolutely love Feline Sonnet by Duncan Brown
I have been thinking about cats a lot recently for some reason and this
is such a brilliant description so poetically written – very powerful and beautiful.
Action combustion
Action combustion
Trusting your 1st thought
Jumpin into the sink or swim
In need of the word parade
Flowing down the page
Like in those good old action days
Yet now they are gone
The program we’re working with
singin a different song
12 years down, still walking
that action line
…sons of patriots…
…sons of patriots…
…who can they destroy that will really make a point… …what can they banish that will let them all know… …why would they stop and call the game over… …where is our life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness… …when are we going to realize they left us…
.create something new. .call it the sons of patriots. .glowface organization. .standards set. .children unlabled.
the spineless and compromisers are unwelcome. the weak conformers to this world. reformers are needed. creators are needed. truth is needed. you ruiners of liberty stand down! silence, you destroyers of peace! the sons of patriots is talking to you, IRS. red flag routing, i’m sure. built on a transparent process of greed and bribery. the lobby girls and boys got cash to throw around. millionaires by the million. government work ain’t what it used to be. D.C., the dump home of the redskins, the richest town in america. to protect and serve alright. protect the grease shop and serve themselves.
…walked them mountains of philmont… …sweet sixteen… …diver down… …a chick friend… …california calvin… …root beers… …tent city… …chili at a chuck wagon stop… …a snake is in the grass… …those pine bluff dudes were cool… …happiest on the trail… …teddy roosevelt fishing cabin… …homemade flies and screened porches…
Another one about cats:
Another one about cats, entitled:
Would that I were on a fencepost, thinking a fluff of nothing
born to watch: every footstep might be a meal.
so much more than parasite, they stalk us too
for love: that uncatly feel of fingers in fur. gods
to them—though we sneer at doorstep offerings
of mouse and raggedy bird, and offer no applause
for the midnight song of their yowlings—they both
fear us and love us, need us and want to break free.
in night-gardens they taste it, but soon grow tired
of danger and, slinking home like heroes, dream
of warm laps, of food offered up in a bowl, clean water,
and a dry place set aside for peaceful feline slumber.
..good old days..
..good old days..
.never want to be a good old days dude.
.mainly, they are just old.
.some were good, in fact.
.many were good.
.but they were.
.some were down right awful.
.but they were too.
.gone, past, history.
.the order always changes.
.evolution of activity.
.spending time.
.we spend and spend and spend.
.through the dull and electric.
.set your conditions.
.move like water.
.settle in the cracks.
.rush over rock.
.search for gravity.
.give life.
.refresh the parched.
.clean the muddy.
.water never goes back.
.where all the heartache is left out.
.when pain was not felt.
.right now is the good day.
.tomorrow just a hopeful transpiring.
.make this day about what inspires you.
.make right now about taking a sip of coffee.
.we got nothing to worry about.
.it won’t do any good.
.you’ve done what you can do.
.anxiety not made for the uncontrollable.
.it is a reflex of the mind.
.control what you can through decisions.
.and actions, of course.
.integrity is the link between decisions and actions.
.good intentions are just that.
I am kilter, slightly off.
I am kilter, slightly off. Fetch me
The crockery. I wish to have some fun
With a hammer. Do you know what it is like
To have a face
Like
A wounded sun? You do?
Good then. Pass me the hammer.
Let’s have some fun.
What is the stark bevilment of the outside
Compared to these walls
Who cause evades me?
Someone in the glitterbag of the universe
Must know what I mean by silence.
Someone must see the maths of me
And tremble with forgiveness.
Someone—who, I don’t know—
Needs to come soon, come soon
With groceries, love, and a heart of hearty forgoing,
And
With the fuse for the plug for this brain
That blew two billion years ago, in pain.
No writin from big ole depths
No writin from big ole depths of belly and mind lookin out on any big world –
It’s about funny bliss with what you got in the room with you,
Because everything’s silly in the expanse of the universe and nothing is
Funny.
In the expanse of the universe
I can’t sit in my chair among dirty clothes and bedsheets and sit in serenity with Ray Charles heroin
cool. . .
My belly’s full o’ junk food I can’t get in there right now.
I can’t write from there right now.
I just like what’s a-gettin’ in my ears and soothing my eyes to gentle haze and workin my fingers—
Here in my room I ain’t here in my room,
I’m on Georgia Time.
Silence……..
Silence……..
Families walk the outside
I hold down the within
Beatific day downtown
Anywhere U.S.A.
Beginning of hot, hungry, summer
Cool & blue
Holiday
Feeling the everlasting
We have all been here before
Beautiful strangers
Within you/without you
Make a left at the bottom
of the hill
Follow it all the way
BATTLE CRY OF FREEDOM:
BATTLE CRY OF FREEDOM: Slight Return
By Steve Plonk
We will fight the enemy on land, sea, in air,
Shout out the battle cry of freedom,
If they hide in the caves,
They’ll find no shelter there—
Shout out the battle cry of freedom,
Hurrah for America, Hurrah, folks , hurrah,
Down with the terrorists,
Up with the stripes & stars…
Rally round the flag, Rally round the flag,
Shout out the battle cry of freedom…
***
You may have won a few battles,
But you will not win the war,
Shout out the battle cry of freedom,
Reinforcements have been sent for,
More fighting is in store,
Shout out the battle cry of freedom…
We will find you & defeat you,
No matter where you are,
Shout out the battle cry of freedom,
Watch out for our flag,
Which bears the stripes & stars,
Shout out the battle cry of freedom.
Bin Laden’s been eliminated,
Soon you will be, too,
There are many of us here,
Coming after you…
Shout out the battle cry of freedom…
***
Rally round the stars & stripes
Rally just once more,
We will keep up the fight
Until victory’s in store,
Shout out the battle cry of freedom…
Rally round, men & women,
Rally once again,
Sound out the battle cry of freedom…
Memorial Day, 2013
Hot daze
Hot daze
2 wire shows
Tweak time
Hot daze
Producing
Song writing
Pleasure on the clock
Poetry no more open
Why does it always have
to turn into an open mike?
Wondering how many are tuned
Into this action time?
Wondering when I’m gonna get down
with it?
Hot daze
Time to get to work
Make a rainbow out of pain,
Make a rainbow out of pain, though sober don’t reflect on missed chances
At night in bed
The demons do not exist though they cry in the wilderness
Like lambs in bogs with suns that scream at them to die
Yes I told you I loved you
But when I was there
It felt right and I was lost
And I needed to say something wild
Yes
Hold me
No
Hold me
Let me go
Then bring me back again and ask me how my day was
And I will say
Oh it was fine
Tiring
Tiring
But it was fine
It was fine today
And then you will kiss me
And say
No my darling
My darling
No need to worry now for I am here
An then that will be fine
For the lamb and the sun and the reality of the trees
And I
To admire forever or until the sun dies of loneliness.
..aloe vera nights..
..aloe vera nights..
.a cool chill after a massive sweat.freezing while driving the twisting road.st paul got the good bbq.that place on the corner.just a shack.red schoolhouse an historical marker now.funderberg place up the dusty road.a field of buried bones.old lady included.lutheran church on the corner.missouri kind.the sunglass wedding.what was he thinking.heard on the right.dinausors in the trees.lookout from the cliff.hug the old oak.from the 1700s.earth day folk tunes.gallery openings.on the list at tucker hill.the texas garden.front porch picking.white sands in destin.alligator golf and beers.sunburn afternoons aloe vera nights
that is everywhere that is
that is everywhere that is will break nothing will break free stay here nothing can change all is broken
when sun first sees life it must weep the good places of the heart are always ready to open we must be strong we must not give up so easily when presented with pain
They stay in
They stay in
It’s hot
AC weak
Street sweat
Yet the little kids run
Temps rise
Everyone slick
Some cool
But not many
Tans darkening
Tino wears a sombrero
over his hard hat
We dread the 10 hour daze
Endure them, complaining
amongst ourselves
24 #11 bars can take a week
to thread in a beam
Still the slab poured Saturday
I had my wire art on display
that same night and the tower
crane operators came with their
lovely wives
Air conditioning doing its job this
morning, must be cool outside
Wilderness
Wilderness
Knock! Knock!
Open the gates,
Enter the pedlar on the streets
of paradise.
Snakes traveling across the mountains
Old king’s tales packed in new jars
The street lights showing the road to hell,
I wake up
to the noise of minstrels,
and move on to quiet
shelter from the storm.
I had to walk through the
Solitary streets in the night
the trees add shade to shade
dream to dream
and fear to fear.
I strolled across the forest,
dreaming of the lost
beatnik dream.
Allen Ginsberg maybe,
or even William Burroughs…
Surreal imagery of spotless figures
Radical thoughts of rebellion
and the eternal sense of freedom…
Now the mind is clear
as the cloudless sky.
Time to make a home in the
wilderness.
What have i done but moved across
in time?
Kicking empty cans
and making loud noises…
The hipster dream was better
The science of the night is
incomprehensible but true…
true to the mockery of the old Gods…
And what should i do before
I perish?
perish maybe for food and shelter
or from a coward war?
I should build a shrine
on the roadside
to tell my next traveler
that I live here,
here in this wilderness.
Knock! Knock!
Knock! Knock!
Open the gates,
Enter the pedlar on the streets
of paradise.
Snakes traveling across the mountains
Old king’s tales packed in new jars
The street lights showing the road to hell,
I wake up
to the noise of minstrels,
and move on to quiet
shelter from the storm.
I had to walk through the
Solitary streets in the night
the trees add shade to shade
dream to dream
and fear to fear.
I strolled across the forest,
dreaming of the lost
beatnik dream.
Allen Ginsberg maybe,
or even William Burroughs…
Surreal imagery of spotless figures
Radical thoughts of rebellion
and the eternal sense of freedom…
Now the mind is clear
as the cloudless sky.
Time to make a home in the
wilderness.
What have i done but moved across
in time?
Kicking empty cans
and making loud noises…
The hipster dream was better
The science of the night is
incomprehensible but true…
true to the mockery of the old Gods…
And what should i do before
I perish?
perish maybe for food and shelter
or from a coward war?
I should build a shrine
on the roadside
to tell my next traveler
that I live here,
here in this wilderness.
It was velvet and raw,
It was velvet and raw,
Untrue
At the time, I was thinking ,
You.
Laid now beside all besides ..
But i couldn’t.
Slithered away wet and darkened, tainted.
You.
A creeping remembrance,
A stuttered thought,
Tripping on the back of my mind.
There with velvet and poor beat,
You attempting the retreat.
All you.
Bus 2002
(Really enjoyed the one by
(Really enjoyed the one by michaelamichael on Saturday, June 1, 2013 04:37 am! Thanks for sharing…)
fickle hearts and nightsick in the rain…
dark nights of the heart,
of the soul, awaiting something
extended out into a lifetime slowly passing
all the lonely poets with no paeans to sing
falling fast like caustic drizzle
days flow down to lower levels
burning cateracts and saline
caught in throats of choking devils
so melts a life like many
hungry for both void and sunlight
seratonin throbb’d and desperate
love talon torn yet plasma bright
but memory remains a fickle dove
fluttered up out up away
moments gone despite our grasping
blood feathers molt at end of day
despite the best intentions
time decides to grow up fast
years march past the old reminders
where even all the heroes came in last…
wAs montelle dream bind.
wAs montelle dream bind.
O golden-hearted ocarina of
O golden-hearted ocarina of the sun,
I ride my bike
Through summer streets
And see the trudging beasts
We have become,
How minds that once could stretch
Like cats in trees
Have taken instead to concentration
And through overuse grown dumb.
Oh, that family tree,
Oh, that family tree,
From him to her then me
Apparently, my ability,
To raise one eye brow and then the other in a solo dance,
Comes from you.
Apparently, my green eyes too.
Something has gone amiss.
I’d never explain wrong to a child with the side of a wall.
I’d never get whatever was got by creating a fall.
With hiccups and spillages , all art starts the same.
Grandpa.
(Touch her again and you’ll feel it)
Damn that family tree, first him, then her, then me.
ohjusttosaythat theabovepoem
ohjusttosaythat theabovepoem byhazelcole isverygoodindeed
Tree and breeze
Tree and breeze
and vine and green
and water and honeysuckle-scent share
air and time
And the “All”…
It breaths as we breath
On nights like these
the sky becomes a welcome hammock
rocking and lulling our busy limbs
to peace
And animated clues from leaves
wave our tattered mind to dreams
Skin
Sodden in the maws of June
the soft hair of your innocent left forearm
graces me like silk
..no static nature..
..no static nature..
…thirty thousand years ago a rain drop hit the earth, somewhere near the canyon line. dust kicked up as it made impact, quickly dissolving into the ground. no lasting legacy, not really connected to anything, but the single most important event at that place, at that time. we will debate the meaning of things, unlock mysteries of the mind, but we’ll never completely fulfill our destiny. never completely. no static nature. no static thoughts. now is about execution…
Once, a while ago,
Once, a while ago,
Thirteen and injured (like only a thirteen year old can be)
Probably, more achey and raw than i can ever be again,
(Who would have thought we were right (trust your children))
I found a novel on the tube (and have made sure to leave one ever since)
Mr iain banks (god party with his soul)
Walking on glass, a lucky find, carried me till morning.
Here’s an ode.
Slower now (as am I )
It’s ok.
Hi wireman,
Rest in noise iain banks,
Love always, onthebus2002
Thank you .
Thank you
I’ve been enjoying you daily x
Onthebus…..Hi!
Onthebus…..Hi!
Should be actin up
1st thought bestin
Right bout now
Producer job slowin down
Lives need to be lived
Jobs need to be done
Early wake up call
Before the coo of
the mourning dove
Jack Saint Jack
Rising, ever rising
Rambling, got rambling on my mind
Rambling on my mind
Throes of expectation
Never do cease
“About to bust!”
Standing at the crossroads
Knowing it’s all about a guitar
rest assured that this will
rest assured that this will take
no time whatever to complete:
i exist mostly in dingy corners,
can’t tell my hands from my feet.
and when i walk down the
street, often,
you might have guessed, on
my hands, the people i meet
say
to my feet :”you seem strange,
not quite under the weather.”
i flip myself up and face them
and we stand there like two twigs
under
the
sun. “what do you expect from me,” i say.
“you do not know
me
and i do not know you, and it is unlikely
that we will find ourselves
similarly ensconced in public together again.
and when you see me
walking on my hands as though
they were feet, quite taken by surprise,
then perhaps
the only thing to do
is to go into that pub
together
now
and get absolutely fucking shitfaced
and laugh at anything that moves.”
I offer you this: I take to
I offer you this: I take to my bed whenever I can …
(Make it bigger and braver. Stop being full of shit.
Everyone is scared sometimes but they are only words
So say them, they might sound ok, look ok, who knows.
If you keep your mouth closed too long the words will
All get jumbled up inside you and when you do speak
Nobody will understand you) …
I’ll sing then!
Let mercy come wailing out:
I see mercy in the mirrors of myself,
Shined
To a polish of delight.
Um ah
Um ah
I wonder sometimes who I am and nothing really bothers me but pain.
I wonder sometimes who you are and nothing really bother you at all.
When we lie down our heads allow us the room
To single out things
Which matter
And deserve our full attention
And like that
Well
Like that
Well
Like that
I suppose we somehow muddle though to morning.
pretty beautiful x
pretty beautiful x
So awoken and stretched out,
So awoken and stretched out,
I curl myself beneath and above you,
Even sleeping, nervousness will arise.
Closed lash flutterings over a bronzed shoulder,
I’ll tickle you till exhaustion with this craze.
It’s only me hun, It’s only Haze.
With every freckle, line and crevice,
I can recite you word for word,
Ducking under passages of your hiccups and burps.
Thought maybe time had drawn… me from what is,
the moment of first touch, first kiss.
Still you surprise me, love.
We dont read together, sing together, our songs are not the same.
Still I bow to the curve of your name,
On my lips, hips, it’s all so insane.
I’ve got your back, love
Whatever the game.
i miss the love of not
i miss the love of not noticing someone is there
because their being there
is like the air being there
because without it
there is no there
and there is no you
and so
if you find yourself looking back
and consider how i passed you
sometimes
and did not
tell you
that you were beautiful
and that everything
i ever saw you do
or dreamed
you would do
i felt to be particularly
merited
in the light
it received,
then please try to imagine
that i was only a fool
to bring
what was necessary
to everything i hoped for (you
and only you)
so close
to that part of me
i should have set aside
to make room
for loving you
more often.
…publishers clearing house.
…publishers clearing house…
…the dimmed glowing nights have been lifted. The twisters and grapefruit hail had been avoided. Turn our attention to the hypnotized and plead for them to listen. It is calling. It being the unknown source. Knowledge and faith colliding. Big bang?….you bet brother, a big bang to be sure. Loud and spectacular. But only for the attentive and aware. Rightousness can be demonstrated over and over and it will not matter. All for nothing. And everything. Liberating freedom and it starts every moment…..publishers clearing house, keeping hope alive….the answer to our current state of confusion. The drink for our current thirst. The shot for our current illness…gives hope but gives no faith…disappointment assured. The suckers are in a never-ending line, trying to fill the empty void. Cash and cars. Chicks and rock & roll…and a sea of screens lit up the darkness…
1.33 am
1.33 am
11 years
ten
since I first came here
Lit kicks
then
the poets slicks
ranters
ravers
magic word pavers
So much changed in life
death
no longer a mothers daughter
or a daughters mother
Death death death
painful mourning
the future hung herself from a tree
in the backyard for all to see
and another night of alone
the mother sits
atoning
for the child gone
dead forever
By trying desperately to live again
A Pack of Cards 219.
A Pack of Cards 219.
The golden rule never gives change
And gamblers only drink champagne
Losers can’t afford it
Don’t play poker with medicine men
Doc Holliday’s a sore loser
It goes with his obsession
He’s a dentist by learning
A gambler by profession
An’ a renaissance assassin
A Medici Faustian bargain
Playing the green baize table.
Where ten’s the changing sign
The alchemists’ calling card
The card of transformation
A card of changing of beds
And a change of friends
They could even be enemies
Fortune changes for the worse
An’ losing is a winning gamble
When hands-like
Feet change direction
Losing yourself is the smart play
Sooner’s so much better than later
In time the world loves a loser
But gamblers hate a debtor
I.O U’s don’t spell for
Less than A an’ E
They’re just vowels
Without provenance
Gambling cashes in on culture
Money is the ‘lingua franca’
Of a very deadly silent economy
No one really talks about it,
An’ you can’t keep your eyes off it
But sure as hell everyone
Listens to the silence
Ten’s the calling
Card of consequence
A very suitable number
In Fire Earth Air and Water
They can be quite
Soulfully pedestrian
You never know
What’s in the elements
A good card to keep
Up your sleeve
But lose your shirt
You lose everything
An’ it goes without
Staying a lot
Not a good card
To be found naked with
Be careful with a nine
In any colour
It’s the most deserving
In the highest
Nines, sleeves and gambling
Is a triple tray of troubles
Heads have been known
To be served on a tray of trays
Nines can be very Trinitarian
And quite John the Baptist
A good card to lose in haste
But eternal if a friend
There’s none better.
Eights go on forever
The Via Dolorosa of numbers
They are a sacred journey
Only the compassionately beautiful
Gamble with an eight in their hands
Eight is a sacred mystery
In any suit it is never cut
And always woven
From a seamless gambled-for cloth
Eight never gambles in suits
Only in garments
Never gamble with an eight
Unless you’re gambling with redemption.
Hand life and soul
Have been eternally lost
Or found on an eight.
Truly a gambler’s card
And sometimes a calling card
As every gambler knows
A card of consequence and karma
When it calls, keep your eyes on the dealer.
Sure as hell, a deal’s been done
An’ all the blue eyes are on you.
Sevens like fives are a journey
Good cards for travellers
Wanderers and shape shifters
Seven seas and five continents
Suits those wandering souls among us
Two solitary prime numbers
Indivisible onto themselves
They can be quite pedestrian
Fives can be over confident over land
But they shouldn’t try to be seven
Walking on water’s a mistake
Unless you’re an avatar
Treading wine is better and safer
Five and sevens are a journey
Good cards to keep in your shoes.
Sixes are just sixes
An’ they don’t go with sevens
They’re the card of reflection
A scriptural card if ever there was one
A card dressed in a triple mirror
Vanity and vexation in the curves
A card to turn, turn and turn your eyes again
The number of the card
Is a trinitarian consequence
Reflected in the mirror image of ourselves
The card has an identity problem
Don’t knock it, you might need it.
It’s your friend in need of friend
An with friends like that…
It’s just as well that any three
From four sixes
Is the sign of a winning hand
In a loser’s smile
And the best part of a full house
A card of Jezebels, angels and mirrors
On reflection, don’t you just love sixes.
Five is five and let’s not talk about it
It’s an assassins calling card
It goes with its own territory
A card that doesn’t take prisoners.
Fours are strangers at the door
Every one with a Matthew birth
Mark in the image of John
Looking like four seasons
They arrive like pilgrims
Then are gone
To change themselves
To be the same again
Another season another fall
Leaving calls a card
For all weathers and shelter in a storm
You are kind of pleased to see it
But you don’t know why
Also cards of mystery and obviousness
And only fools an’ fours
Can tell the difference
It’s the ‘maybe’ card
You never really know with fours
The proverbial knocking at your doors
But sure as hell they’ll never ring a bell
A tidy card to send to acrobats
And other kinds of well balanced people
That’s what fours are for
Commitments tailored to your needs
And the occasional highly wired friend
Don’t go out without them.
You never know if you might need them
Threes are trinities and Divinity’s
Father’s Son’s Holy Ghost’s
And more usually the cause
Of a quick divorce
The world moves in threes
Sattwas Rajas and Tamas
The triune dance of the universe
Light, Action and Inertia
It even grows on trees
Every one a traveller
Some are even Gypsies
They can be an invitation
Or a visitor from a distant place
They’re the taxi cards of the pack
Call them when you wanna go
Somewhere they’ll arrive
They’re the calling cards
Of falling friends
You’ll never be lonely on a journey
Of five an’ sevens with a three
They’re the crucifixion card
Unless it suits you otherwise
To be so amused.
Deuces are two’s
The mirror card
Duality’s their basic business
They really are a wolf card
Always travelling in packs
Not sufficient to be dangerous
An’ just enough to not be lonely
They really appreciate your company
It suits their existence to travel together
Their faces are places searching for aces
Jacks in a pack never look back
If they can possibly look sideways
It suits their knavish tendencies
They’re quite the well-tailored card
Fine raiment maketh a fool attractive
In very unfashionable circumstances
Treachery an’ deceit on each turning face
Sure as Clementine’s your long lost darling
An Ophelia never got her hand in time
A gambling Hamlet is a sight to see
Jealousy rage and a ferocious anger
Writ upon a countenance looking back
Beyond the cardboard eyes of the beholder.
Dumb broads are never dumb
And seldom abroad
Sometimes they can be
A very home loving card
Two jokers live in every pack
One out front the other looks back
They’re the magpies in the deck
Less in sorrow than in joy
They cover every missing face
The hooded birds deserve their place
Their reputation precedes them
In black and white they are the night
In colours they’re magnificent sevens
And, they’ve really got your number
In spades it suits their harlequin fashion
To be a veritable grave digging charmer
In jewels they whore the precious deck
Two diamonds and they’re everybody’s
The vagrant royalty rule the roaming pack
Their world is another creature’s finery
Gamblers are such snazzy jazzy dressers
(If you have to lose a shirt do it in style
Second hand clothes and second hand hands
Aren’t so much a misfortune more an affliction
Desperately seeking a lost occasion
Well heeled fools engrave it on their heart
Better be dead in your gracious threads
Than kicking in rags of common comfort)
They’re the card that always looks back
The face in every hand smiling at you
Then there’s the precisely tailored box
The transient funeral parlour
In a good looking box like that
You can die and dine anywhere
In reasonable style
[Tailed a toss head first
Into a losing situation]
They never call they beckon
And if they speak
It’s a good idea to listen.
Mandz,
Mandz,
If every half felt breath
Becomes a whole sentence
We’re quarter way there.
To have a one
Who felt so much it got too raw
Is that so different
Than old action lines of why?
Some choose a different way to cry, to fly.
I was there when just a tot,
She placed around you celestial forget me nots.
I can’t pretend to find a yes in your loss.
But I’m glad you’re back
It can do no harm
To weave yourself around old charm.
From mother to daughter to mother be.
My surrogate lover, my Mandz faerie.
Fae,
You have more yet to come,
Make our Ceri proud
You have always been earth mum x x
The dynamic of the sound
The dynamic of the sound
Action found in between
Rules?
Got no stinking rules
Straight from the treasure
Mind blowing sender
..together to forever blues..
..together to forever blues..
gd
she walks the fine line, she still my sweetie pie.
days go, they’re left by the road.
she needs some tissues for her issues.
dry the tears, nobody needs to know.
ain’t it hard to hear, truth hurts my dear.
some different love we knew long ago.
meant what i said to you, not looking for something new.
this life we made, this life we know.
cg
and we made it right, together we took flight, we made to this very night.
when i look at you, my dreams have all come true, your green eyes are full of light.
dcg
we’ll make it together to forever, we’ll make it alright.
every night i sleep with you, never failed to keep me true.
a woman in the way that you move.
your glowing skin, keeps pulling me in.
woman you finding your groove.
wanna yell wanna shout, honey i got no doubt.
you’re the one i’ll never lose.
don’t ever think we’re on the brink.
sometimes i just get the blues.
i think about lighting up but
disjointed.
i think about lighting up but don’t
it is there still
on the desk in front of me
next to the scissors i have been using
to cut errant hairs
from the side of my head
next to the bottle of Playboy anti-perspirant
i bought
on a whim
while doing an online Tesco shop
my brother is in the next room
having goodbye sex with the girl
from Japan; he smokes too much,
buit tonight, like me, he has not smoked.
and perhaps i ought to smoke it
just to liven this thing up
in which i have told you about two things
on my desk
about my brother
but not really let anything out
not really shown you anything
beautiful. it isn’t easy
to know how
to end a poem,
so i will just end this one
by going to bed.
jointed.
jointed.
two pulls
nothing
a plane moves by outside
i opened the window
to let the smoke out
i want my brother to think
i went another day without it
i sprayed the room even
with Playboy anti-perspirant
oh hell
it is not even anti-perspirant
it is just body spray, deoderant
the silver head of a bunny
on the front of the can
and the bunny wearing a bow-tie
and i ruin everything
by thinking it through
and by not thinking it through.
Thinking back on The Lord
Thinking back on The Lord Buckley and the first time I heard the NAZZ….jack would create his very own flow with little punctuation ….now this iPad does that for o say can u see….me…..dot dot dot……action freedom feelings bleeder never a whiner yet a fine diner out on lone prairie chance to be chance to bumble bee…..thoughts while the fans whirl and the juice gets swallowed ……..
Bummer there dream platio.
Bummer there dream
platio seer men cry
hell yell cream bull.
i’d like to be a grasshopper
i’d like to be a grasshopper
in my next life
so i won’t know or understand
war, starvation, pride
only jump here, munch there
and there will always be
silence to step into
and pray
Abiding by these resolutions
Abiding by these resolutions
I’ll sit and wait my turn.
Hate it’s not ink flowing
But tap dancing
Get in tune with your philanges, folks.
Uttering, stuttering mess
One gets by.
But I get to see Sun pouring first over London sky.
Guess I ticked the right box/boss.
I look after and under and around the highest point of
View.
In western Europe.
Still. Standing there and breathing.
I think of no thing. And you .
…the resort girls…
…the resort girls…
Consider me a very interested observer. Skin in the game. Years and years of beebopping and reverbbing. Just searching for the creases and crannies. Nooks’ve all been found. Somehow, someway, a turn of the corner is coming. I can’t tell you what and I can’t tell you why, but I can tell you when. Someday. Someday is when. Chunking flowers on the ground and snubbing your nose at steak. Like a bovine insult.
The A/C got a tune up. Running like a dream, freezing the summer months. Circulation improved with regular maintenance. Heats up on the south side. Sun beats right through the huge oaks in front, heats the brick up good. We could get cooked up in here. Once again, God bless the folks who work in the air conditioning industry. Public servants of the south, appointments stacked back to back. On call always. You can, and should, control your climate. In one ear and out the other. That dude don’t listen. Ready golf I said! Cheering up and sounding off. We fought when we had to. Our duty was done. Kohrea was a mother. Colder than a deep freeze. The rightous end wars. Making peace by whatever means is needed. Elimination, unconditional surrender, or death. We’ll sort out the details over tonics and gins and wild turkey.
Those tobacco boys shoulda come clean. It’s cool to die. Very near the truth. With dignity and peace. We know the pain is coming. Our very own crucifixion, complete with last words and see you laters. Old men want to decide, they want to instruct the less wise. But the young are deciding on their own, claiming the future for themselves. Polite and courteous, grinning slyly, the old of the future. Every generation gets a clean chance, an opportunity to proclaim. Do not go silently into that great night. Rollick around. Stumble into walls. Knock on the doors of your neighbors. Put your face up to the glass. Hopes and dreams and inspiration. Spend these hours wisely, watch the sun rise and set daily. Weather permitting. Earn your weekly wage, pay your monthly debts, two vacations a year. Ahhh, those white sands of Destin. The resort girls. Morning winds and nightly life. Count them waves, all of them that come in. Your life in the grains of sand.
Counter comment @ da bar
Counter comment @ da bar never too high sink the Bismarck raise the titanic full speed ahead likened to an illusion amidst confusion he rode to yonder sunset….take a deep breath ok it did not turn out according to the script it’s there in all it’s purple Mountains Majesty…(this machine wants to spell for me and its starting to piss me off)over and out the cow screamed beneath the super moon …….
once upon
once upon
my waste of time
strange I felt
my hope, my crime
I wander, I groan
smashing clay household gods
inconsolably empty
bound by steel bundled rods
fire once in the belly
but no true wars to wage
a one act redemption
small story, small stage
tell me finally please
my desperate final relief
that my father’s idols are dead
hymns praised by hollow belief
hapless we wonder
did the great prankster on high
choke on fame, vomit and tithings
grown aloof in his sky?
we clever cynical ones
ironic artisans so smug
look up from below
sunk in pits that we dug
for maybe forgotten in all this
as we wallow, we strain,
is a lead actor not author
leads this short life’s refrain
for what god cries for blood
or -isms that you praise
if the absence of mercy
only stokes hatred’s blaze?
we squabble, we bicker
strutting down marbled halls
but ending we’re all leavened
by that final curtain call
leaving nothing behind
chin up and eyes forward
reach for the bright heavens
and that final reward
can it be halos and harpstrings
or virgins unbounded
or maybe just ending
with shining trumpets unsounded?
to ask for meaning means nothing
if the ending’s the same
but authentic hearts will live truer
in this heartbreaking game
so in ending I wandered
down a fog shrouded road
unsure of the ending
just follow paths as they flowed…