from, Texts from Nothing

When I reflect now on the recurrent problems of what, with all proper modesty, might be called the heroic period, on one in particular so arduous and elusive that it literally ceased to be formulable, I suspect that our pains were those inherent in the simple and necessary and yet so unattainable proposition that their way of being we, was not our way and that our way of being they, was not their way. It is only fair to say that many of us have never been abroad.
- from, Texts from Nothing, by Samuel Beckett

It's Just a Poem

Done
Finished
Clear the cannons.
Slip back under your sheets
With your putative,
Mascara stained eyes.
You can’t handle
The morning after?
Go back east
To your daddy
And his Saab.
Take your teasing tongue
And ignominious tendencies,
I’ve had my fill.

“When are you gonna 
Write me a poem?”
You pester and plea.
“It takes time, you see,”
I encourage. 
“You can’t force such things.”
Certainly you’ve made the moment ripe,
Your reason has arrived.
Enjoy it,
You homage,
Your petroglyph.
Read it to your friends,
Remember it for your kids,
But remind ‘em
You ain’t the first.

The torpid stoicism 
Settling in you,
It’s normal,
They’re always shocked
Wondering where they went wrong.
You can’t write this kind of shit.
You can’t imagine this sort of drama.
Only in the conception
Of this death,
In finally conceiving
What the mirror returns,
You can hope
To look beyond
Your cherubic perception,
Glance at what your daddy
Was most afraid of.

Your shades won’t cut it
The mascara can’t hide it.
You’ve been revealed
Everyone’s smelled your stench.
Just pray the world’s still got
An ounce of sympathy
Cause my well’s run dry
And you’ve sucked my soul clean

Stop crying.
I can’t help my precocial soul
My itinerant existence.
I’m the vagabond
Your daddy warned you about
I’m the jerk
Your momma lusted for.
Cuss me
Kiss me
Curse me
Fuck me
I’m hanging 
By a thread
And have too many patches
Left to stitch.

In any case,
It’s just a poem;
Don’t take it so hard
You knew it was coming
You could feel it
In your bowels.

Take your Pepto
Light a candle
You’ll forget about it soon enough
Well…
Except for this poem.

who knows what knots your daddy taught

a Monday to be remembered.
with so little at stake
and so much to be assumed.
We always belittle our hopes
and reiterate the fears
of all the bandits,
vagrants, and
non-abusers.
We tackle ourselves
in an attempt to dilute our surroundings.
Crush our psyche and disavow all that we've ever stood for.
Resolution is for the meek and
the intrepid beasts,
for cognizance is pragmatic
only when you're on top.

your cat eyes keep me down
your cat eyes pin me down

purr up another tree,
your whiskers are forgotten.
Blind Blaek bleeds
for the sight of our youth, and
little Jimmy,
who pains for nothing
but to be old.
I can't kill myself without taking you down.
I'm forever lonely
with someone else around.

I'd kill myself to stay alive,
shoot my father to fill his love.
Eat money to remember I'm trying,
bite my mutt just to taste her blood.
It ain't a wake without the sun
or winter without a birth.
The showers are all equal under the sky,
preach the fish from stream to sea.
A grain of sand ain't nothing, screams the ant
till it gets between you and me.
So I'll pull up my boot straps
and point my toes south.
for my belongings ain't worth much
when I can't fill my mouth.
the lands of the Bible
today shake with Thor's thunder,
and we're in the dark without a spark
among our electrified existence.
I can't keep wearing plaid and corduroy,
with boots with tread and socks that match.
My hat ain't got a hole yet and
my dog's still got all 'er legs.
My teeth have yet to rot and
my ass don't bleed like it use to.
but I still got plenty reason
to give you up and
more hatred to deliver your way.

I wish the hard times weren't so easy,
that the asphalt didn't taste so good.
but with a gut like mine and
all my healing
it's hard to not imagine moving on.
as dark as it seems,
I can always taste morning,
though it gets too bright
I can still see death.

Grant me a pardon from my sorrow,
so I might obtain a key to my grace.
For transgressions taunt timidly
with such a hole in your face.
My time is too tight
to tie a knot with you,
but who knows what knots
your daddy taught.

about the pen conference

take a writer away from his typewriter
and all you have left
is
the sickness
which started him
typing
in the
beginning.

about the Pen conference
Charles Bukowski

from Dylan's Tarantula

got too drunk last nite. musta drank too much. woke up this morning with my mind on freedom and my head feeling like the inside of a prune ... am planning to lecture today on police brutatlity. come if you can get away. see you when you arrive. write me when you're coming.
your friend,
Homer the Slut


from Boby Dylan's Tarantula

the bluebird

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery store clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say.
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
You want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're in there,
so don't be
sad.

then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

The bluebird
Charles Bukowski

everywhere, everywhere

amazing, how grimly we hold onto our
misery,
ever defensive, thwarted by
the forces.
amazing, the energy we burn
fueling our anger.
amazing, how one moment we can be
snarling like a beast, then
a few moments later,
forgetting what or
why.

not hours of this or days or
months or years of this
but decades,
lifetimes
completely used up,
given over
to the pettiest
rancor and
hatred.

finally
there is nothing here for death to
take away.

----
everywhere, everywhere
from - what matters most is how well you walk through the fire
Charles Bukowski

St. Catherine's Village

3.5.08, en route back to Jackson

Last night
I met a man of peace,
assured and calm
in his mother's time of need.
He told me he's from Eugene,
that land of Kesey
and the book I was reading.
Last night
I told him
that I once too
knew Oregon.
He smiles
at my admiration.

Our elders
share a nursing home,
an estate of sorts,
his mother
and my mother's mother.
"They say she's declining,"
he says. She is ninety-six.
"I understand," I say.
I'm twenty-three
and without work.
We land in Mississippi,
issue condolences
and gather our things.

A realization

At the sight of a lovely being,
I find myself
in consternation,
unsure if I've ever truly loved.
And upon realizing such
I equate my dismay
to the equal discomfort
that I may have never loved myself;
not my appearance,
my standing,
depth or ability,
but my nature
and true being.

for sacrifice is a consequence of time

I don't know what she told him or
how her language could ever skew such a mind.
But it happened, it exists,
though he fights from every breath
he's known.
It was written in the mud,
that which seeps through all strata,
that he
would change it all for the better,
bubbling up and rising forth
from that never thought or foreseen.
That he
would breed on the love
thought incapable
and issue to those thought
to 'know' the breath
of a life never seen.

For triumph bleeds struggles
forever encompassed and requisite
of each other.
No victory fought
may nor ever existed
without loss,
for sacrifice is a consequence
of time.

A Tuesday

2.26.08 a visit to Austin

A Tuesday

We concern ourselves
with that which we
once knew
when contemplation plagues
our mind and
our horizons shrink
with each passing
has been.

Consternation and diplomacy,
the politicians of our psyche debate.
Justifying who deserves what,
issuing sentences according to
past lives and
present absences.

When we were the chosen
one,
and our skin could
carry no stain,
our bowels would breathe
angel's breath
for ushers to lead
down the aisle.

And solace arrived
when we awoke,
forgiving all the night's revelries
and giving admission
for that day's faults.
There we stood assured,
for all existence was gold
and love was our only fear.

And today we remain
evolved and ever unsure.
Because all we have
is time
and all we seek
is a place.
For today
uncertainty plagues
incessantly,
like the yawn
from a twenty year sleep,
signifying nothing
except what is not,
and keeping a wonder
of what being
is.

flunking sunday school

Is a grave digger aware
of suicide-season?
Does he begin
to set his alarm earlier
once November starts
and make sure to use all his sick days
before summer is up?
If a new drug hits the streets,
do the clear the lots in preparation?

When does a fish know
to stop eating,
or that it's arrived,
when all tastes the same
and the water never rises?

Can a saint be a martyr
if they flunked sunday school?

What an incredible gimmick
to sell a pen that can be disassembled;
the company can never go broke

Junko Ono

Joyner,
the coin ain't shit for the corn
the blood gets thicker,
but I can't shake the tick
Make mama go outside,
I'll be there before she dies

saving grace,
Junko Ono

Learn to spell Wednesday

Lear to spell Wednesday
you boston rag top leaning,
scheming for whom the bell tolls
with cracks she snaps her whip
to get in line,
harassing the younglings and Junglings
rants, raves of she to the moon,
its cheese too skunk for that skank
blesses bad noise, those erotic toys
breast erect, with Levon
the atomic nipple,
rippling Constantine
among his chubby chauffeurs
he can't pay to remove amongst her
she locking the lace
of her brown bottom boots,
so she trips his mind
at each quarter of the clock
turn, turn the space face demeanor,
the meaner true to thyme.

Call it quality control

Bill,
Steve made a mess
of the cake / surprise a
birthday guest, guess we'll
ear mark the bill of rights,
let senator wrong preach
his doctrine of simplicity /
our world is stain glass
and you lost the damn baseball

Call it quality control,
Col. Jerky

Hank

Hank,
Make the call you wack
Gay in fact, I can't call the judge
those bugs take it all these days
Greedy knats taking the cake
and not eating it either, fools
Find the cut cliff, stiff
on the face side, the
pretty view.

Watching,
Marv Gunther

Merrily Patchwork

2.27.07 Tuesday

Peters make the mark
Ms. Queenbee, her lame duck spark
We can't change her, that force
I make the move unknown
Make it happen, push the realm
Col. Helm on the line, a sign
for thymen and Rosemary McGee
has lost her wit
Make it happen Boss
I'm in route

Dearily,
Merrily Patchwork

She dreamed she was St. Augustine

3.26.07 Monday, 10 am

And with each morn' our faces awaken, groggy, unsure and confused. We fell fast asleep, knowing our gravest dangers lay not in our dreams but with the morning's glory. Think of those sunrises at the beach, that peace and solitude that remains unknown to so many dear souls. And who is to reckon with this and remain content in their existence? What livelihood can account for these beauties of our time, so rich in truth and absent of disgrace. How can we let those moments remain untapped and continue this banal existence? I can't wait and I won't. I will not allow my soul to deter my growth, to slow my progression. Dangerous souls remain at each turn, and our environment will never be rid of them. With a cape and a cane they walk so proud. Dealing with this trivia of life, unbeknownst to they or their peers. And why would they leave this life, knowing nothing outside it and uncaring nontethelss.

How virtuous history appears before our eyes, dancing off the page in radiance of admiration and esteem. We remain loyal to those we never knew, believeing the admonisment of our own time to be vain and lacking truth. Yet we dredge on with our ankles restrained, lifting the masses on each heave in step. We proclaim from on high, our chests full of valor, our brows narrowing to the auspices of the day. The sun opens our eyelids, drawing means to no visible end. One knows only that which remains unspoken; that which can never be contested by the swine of this age, carried six feet under, remaining inherent in the spirit of which it was born.

Dreamed she was St. Augustine,
mean, lean, the go between
God and men, syntac
attack the swine, thou time
is upon us kind sir, deter
not your sister's cry, making
haste of waste, confess in jest

On Sewanee

April 2007

There are things we believe we might forget, hoping in a sense for our own sympathy. We have resided the last four years, secluded upon a pedestal towering above all we take no regard for. These times are ones we each pray to never loose, an utopia with all the hoopla of being adults and the ignorance of adolescents. In these times we feel secure, regardless of the goings of the world beyond us. We are safe here; a haven for endless possibilities, taking each and every day what we desire, promoting what we hope for. But when will we have what we desire? Will we arrive at knowledge or the capacity for what is enough? In these days we muck about, extending any and every inquisition to our soul's delight. We reside uninhibited, free of those shackles we believe hang beyond our convenient bubble.

What will that realization be? Growling in our midst, gauging and grinding, ready to break that mold. It's strange this place we name complacent. A beer and a bowl. Maybe a cig' and a shit, if there's time. "Ah fuck," he says, the garbage man blasting his thumb again. It seems you can'
t win with oil on your hands, or grit in your teeth, shirt without sleeves. "You ain't one of them, " he says. "Not those that found it. Them boys have it all down. Yeh that's right. Been reelin' in it for years."

And so the good guy squeals, he can't take the heat. And this guy's a sweatin', I mean churnin' in his belly, inwards pretzeled every which way. I tell ya, I thought the guy was a warrior till they broke 'em.

In Portland

In Portland
7/11/07

The swine arrives, another evening ensues. My time here in this scene is slowly closing, bringing about strange sensations. The move is immense and I doubt its repercussions will be made immediately evident. Nevertheless I find solace in these uncertain times, knowing I have a purpose and it shall be fulfilled.

Soon enough work and love will make a man out of you. Through and through. These trials and tests are true necessities to our growth; to comprehending that which is real, that which is truth. People move and make changes, some provoked, others unnecessary and uncertain. We know not why we do these things, though the flagrant action is clear. So where to go from here. We find ourselves time and again in these states, hoping our forethought and good intentions carry us through. Where to? Does a resolution exist.

In my mind, in my heart, the issue is absent, yet the presence remains in a lingering sweat, bitter and relentless. Unyielding is its source, and unsound its motives. I await that day and maybe it will arrive at dawn. It's arrival might be elusive, remaining unnoticed till the hour is ripe. We go amongst our friends, leading life with continual casualness, losing these hurtful thoughts in the bliss of faithful company and fruitful gatherings. The benevolence of a kind word, a true smile, a caring reassurance. These things uncounted, amiss, forgotten and limitless. Nonagression, the path, the way. A non-judgmental conscious leaves one tired and filled with empty anger.

Yet this is passion, this is zest, life, breath, all that propels us in life, in love, in lust. We creep ever so slowly thinking time is endless and our passions fleeting. Hoping this is the one, the part, the place, the time, the girl, the past, the end of the beginning. We are clueless as to the convictions we hold under our breath, bounding, tittering with the notion. "That mocking bird is gonna sail away, we're gonna let it, we won't regret it."

And what of this land, this piece of earth open to the endless, the unknown. Where my road will lead is certainly uncertain ... though the direction is general and the driver ... the driver, he is broad in vision, yet meticulous in his perceptions. You see, this road he drives is filled with exits, road blocks, speed bumps and dangerous curves. But that is why he drives, that is the pursuit of all like he, hoping for the life of content-ness and yield-less understanding.

His father is loving, supportive, faithful, trusting. Their time is still yet to c0me. It's as if a standoff betwix the two, though either continually remained neutral. Neutral, scared, mad, and hurt, it continued and seems sad. Yet the transgression approached, and fearless they confronted. Axe and blade, tongue unrestrained, appetite starving. Though not ruthless, the intention forgiven, less than amiable.

A gift, what does one make of it. Money give to one, a favor, a gift, smile, favor, sacrifice, displeasure, to the benefit of another. Is one to give for the sake of the self-congratulation? Found treasures of unknown origin is their benefactor to be revealed. No ... What is this desire to help others without their knowing, without their thanks. These keen thoughts are not revealing.

The scene, the utter brutal ugliness of such a beautiful and benign experience. Has he crossed a border, a line of wretched treachery? It seems the devil incarnate has emerged in him and continues, no matter the nature, demeanor, congenial or quiet. But what should we expect of one of such ineptitude. Sly, sly they lurk. Praying those they want for no solace, love, reason or lust. Certainly pure power, talk and agenda drive their pursuit.

I don't need a conversation, an apology, forgiving departure or recognition of fault. The issue stands as it ended and is. As it remains. I expect nothing of her and this will remain. It's such a pity, that one would hold such prejudices, such grudges, crying over broken bones, things unable to be mended. A heartbreak can never be justified, no matter the amount of rightful reason. Some things are necessary, urgent to the health of the soul, to the betterment of what exists, and could fruitfully in the future.

But this bull shit writing gives no answer to the situation of the time.
And fuck it, because no one even cares.

For Stella

If only my dog got paid
to sit
and watch
the house all day
She just might have
something for me
when I get home

When I struggle up to the door
to open a way
for her shits
She clawing my being,
there under
the sheets
testing
daunting is she

But if
she got paid
than I might have
incentive enough
to treat her
the way
she treats me

I'm not there

I'm not there

You can sense it in their voice
No matter the intonations
No matter their glee
their joyful banter
the notion resides in the air
unneeding of recognition
or acknowledgment
There it is
plain as sunbeam
And we make no attempt
no salute
to it's putrid presence
Why do it
What need requires it
I am here,
cognizant and able
and for what

So I take my days in stride
keeping to myself
What reason do I have
to let on these feelings
these empty emotions
I am here
I'm not there
I'm not there
You hear!
I'm not there!
And you are
and you know it
And is there a care
And is there suppose to be
And who would have it
And why would they

I can only speculate
speculate and masturbate
And where does it get me
And where does that leave you
I can't force your emotions
I am here
I'm not there
Nothing more
Nothing less
So go on in your ways
Fill your time with it
Because you can't have
I'm not there

who's to say what is rain

how bright and shining
the world seems
when in all its glory
far from home
off in space
a distant place, no one
really seems
to know
about.

"Don't leave me alone
in the twilight"
when the rains hit from both sides
where the clouds move the tides

you can't bring
a sick man to the vet
you can't bring
a wounded wolf to the gyno
Because if it's all just beer
and if tin cans
are a better measure of time
than needle pointing or
naming grandkids
whose to say what's rain
and
what's not

the creep, that snake
take awake along the side
the kid pierces the bubble's ascent
with known bylaws hovering in the air
fare is the fun,
circus amongst our wits
along fabled widows' paths of knit,
ans slit stitch the niche
to the cell phone
making all alone
in touch,
and with animal lust
lack the fires
building light years

her exit makes me quiver
a shiver never delivered, yet
equivocated with my own self lust,
or bust on her self righteousness
and grind her gongily presence
making life real
and reality alive

For Your Consideration

underwear is for those who lack the fortitude to appreciate the testicular freedom the Almighty bestowed upon us, following the rib-conception of our illustrious being

The crisis

The night holds itself upright,
so proud
it breathes a cacophony
of its own kind.
It seems we've lost all control
these days.
The world spins,
wobbles and turns,
wavering, a dreidal,
but with excessive care.
Balance
the great virtue of the times is found.
We ignore the scales
that allowed for our existence.
We have dismissed nature
and all of its
lessons.
It's the climate crisis
the housing crisis
the energy crisis
the terror crisis
the morality crisis
the immigrant crisis
the yet unopened crisis,
another unwelcome guest.
These ideas
we plant in each others heads,
incessantly picking apart ourselves.
For the praise or benefit
of no savior,
no great idea or being.
We dissect ourselves beyond recognition,
mutilating toward dishonor.
The Lord made a dog
incapable of thinking of itself
as lowly as we.

In Passing

It's attained unknowingly
that complacency,
solitude.
And it seems they're
in their passing
before they even
realize.
But I can see
it in their
eyes.
The distant focus.
Unaware of the
atrocities
that've come
with time.
They exist
in a realm beyond
our experience.
Remaining aloof,
unnerved by the
pervasive plagues.

And I know
I'll be there
one day.
And they'll ask,
"When did he
arrive?"
They'll wonder,
"How did he get
there?"

But the owl's
mystery
is it's existence.
And the moon
reveals
no more than
it should.

For time will proceed
regardless of
acknowledgment.
Though our scope
has trouble
with such notions.
We are the
itinerants,
the despised, the
one's we were
warned about.
We can't place
ourselves,
nor explicate
any relevance
to such passings.

For one never reaches
new lands,
without consenting to
lose sight of the shore
for a very long
time.
Each departure
an arrival.
Every loss
an acquisition.

We are always
in passing;
and steadfastly
we exist.

And I guess that's your world..

They seemed so true,
those letters;
surprised even me
they could be from you.
"You've changed my horizon,"
they'd say,
"made me aware
of a world I never knew."

I guess that's my world:
Planet Swine.
Where locusts are delicacies
and Ziplocks hold the
president's seal.

I guess that's my world
where the bell tolls
for the beggar's aching belly
where street singers
toss nickles down
to the Senate floor

I guess that's my world
where groceries are bought
with egg shells
and rye whiskey remains
atop America's most wanted

You see the letters
they weren't from you
as much as they were to me
As my own parables
weren't for you
as much as they were by me

I guess that's your world
where the pen
resolves all arguments
and a smile serves
as a trump card
to any dissent

And I guess that's your world
where a side hug
shows enough care
to keep you out of trouble
and an affable front
allows it all
to remain irrelevant.

Love Is Just Pen & Ink

Love Is Just Pen & Ink

Some actually receive the letters,
the promised confirmations.
And we’re always reminded
of the postal service’s inconsistencies,
The 1’s drawn too long in the zip code,
the 7’s lifted too soon.
“Ah, it’s Lindsey with an ‘e’…
It’s too bad, ya know,” he sighs.
“The note was pure honesty,
that’s all I really recall."

They appear complacent
and understanding,
their facades teeming
with ingenuousness.
But they are always more aware
than they let on.
Because it's that hope
that propels the one's
that actually are written.
It's that naivete
that fuels that babbling masturbation,
spilt upon those lines
late at night.

It's
the subconscious purpose.
It's
all that's left of romance.

And maybe she'll get that letter
one day.
When guilt has shadowed
my morns,
and longing diminished
my purpose.
After a disheartening phone call
from your mother.
After blacking out
at another wedding.
It's
your detox.
It's
your confessional.

And she'll toss it
in the box under her bed.
Throw it in with
all the others.
Returning
to her make-up and mirror,
she'll wonder what you're up to.
Imagining
how drunk you became
as you compiled.

And you'll walk it off.
At least till the next one comes along,
till you hear
your best friend's getting a divorce.
You'll keep your cool
till your sickly gay uncle finally passes.

Because that's the thing that makes sense.
We write
to see our imagined perceptions.
We lust
to keep the loneliness from hurting so much.
Lust
for the vantage of Tennessee Williams.
Lust
for a child's drawings.
Lust
for a dog's cherubic gray-scale complacency.

Because
love is
just pen & ink.