A silly sad soldier who drinks stolen rum
And tastes poetry on his tongue
Stumbles through lost and locked buildings
Mercantile and meaningless as him
He counted up the nights straight he had stopped in this town
The faded edge-burned nights that trailed off into his dreams about women
Some he’d met and some he would after death
Both were nicer in the haunted corridors of his mind though
And he had gotten used to that
One night inside a dank room fraught with electric worries he could only half identify
It was a morning never mind just enough light provided to show
That he had reached to stroke the face of a new love
The thought being the most pleasing he had in many years
The type that to remember gets you misty eyed but you only know its cuz you thought about so much

You sort of wanted to cry to it
He probably would later on from a barely related cause

But that thought…
Her skin felt rough like cotton sheets as his hand pulled away from his pillow
She smelled like his bed
Because she was
And he probably said nothing, didn’t even grunt
Because no one was watching

Bar Hop Beliefs

The field spread out before him a disgusting mix of colors intertwined and mating

Mixed and sexual red of the street light mocking, promising

A felt feeling that never comes

A meant meaning that never feels

Yet he felt and felt until his veins fled the bleeding

Frightened by their own circular work

And he felt that it was momentary and forever

And he knew that the stop light held st benedicts thoughts

And he thought he knew it all, the Guinness, the Indian girl

It all made sense in his system

But it left out tomorrows thanksgiving

The sitting around a bird industrial farmed for commercial interests pure and puerile

A cold rejoinder to pretensions and tortured ethic racks

He took a small breath and bit

His smoky thought containing and obscuring dreams of her that never eased and always burned atop his minds fuel

Tire fire observed and observing by the heat of the blaze distorting faces in the glow

Fret and frer and flame atop his ever burning thoughts

post secondary

Scenesters in skinny jeans
Lesbians in flannel
Sandwich board commies
and that kid with the dreads.
Drum circle daycares
Trash bags of weed
Cramming on pills
Oh, thirsty thursdays!
Blacking out
Getting laid
Shrooming on Sundays
Smokin butts, shitty food
Too long walking in sandals
Mad chill new music
and more boring keggers.
Three bucks in the bank
Ripping down flyers
Newspaper sucks ass
but let’s write a novel.
Taking off semesters
Tuesday night road trips
Don’t think, just go
Student loan payments?
Fuck you college.

summertime

on my way...where am i

back here for a bit
i just got in last week
i found us a sofa
that sits two comfortably
plaid plaid plaid and green

money orders and wireless
internet and cable tv
make lonely nights
and half week days
just melt in your mouth

i stole some cool music
that you probably haven't
heard before i told you
about the way it moves
me and i forget

green shit is big in the
tiny cities on finger lakes
i can be a farmer a
foreigner or storyteller
if i weren't busy couching

houses with crooked frames
and cars parked like
patchwork junk piles
some call it quaint
and pocket my new bic

raining and clear skies
with a nap in between
its so hard to plan for this
kind of weather so just
sleep it off and on and off and off and off

vermont is like a ball pit
full of colors and laughter
and lots of balls
that you
splash into all at once
because it looked so fun

its not very deep, this pit
but you can't walk away
and all you see are flecks
of red and blue and green
and you step on someone
just below the surface

say you're sorry and
remember that this whole
place smells like stale urine
so be sure to wash your hands
and tell yourself they must be dreaming

leaving someday is always an option
that you could just be gone like that
oh what a dream and such a
great story to tell another new friend
you meet at a gas station in rutland

at last you arrive somewhere
after driving all night full speed
eye drops and a brisk walk
to shake off the road a bit
but you look like shit

home sweet home you grin
and look at the newness around you
you mumble profanity and reach
for your cigarettes as you read the
fragmented words painted on a rock
in every single color that you have
to squint to read

take only photos, leave only footprints
help us keep the green mountains green!

without giving that boulder
even a second more
you try to find the nearest thing
tall fast or sharp enough
to kill you on the first try
but it never will.

Credit Report

A mother and her son sat on the front steps of their home
She opened the mail. a cigarette
He watched the grass. summer time

What are they doing? What are they thinking? Where is she anyway?
She asked
About the girls

Questions
With the answer in
The asking of the question

He answered anyway, about asides and in analogy
She sort of listened. tore junk mail
And they joked and smiled

She opened a letter from the high school

Your child,_____, has been absent (52) days from U.S. History. a new record

Christ she said. that girl
Nothing new
She drew upon her cigarette. every class
. a letter for every class

He patted her knee
she’ll be fine. she’ll be fine

Gus poked out his head from behind a bush
All droopy and tired eyed

Hi gus
Hi gus

She said oh my god!

Those bastards she said
What he asked
What. what!

There was another letter open in her hand
I thought we were finally getting our shit together she said

What
He asked. what!

They declined us. oh
He put his arm over his mother’s shoulder
I guess that means we gotta get a cheaper car he said. no shit

An old woman turned the corner
She was old and wore a jogger’s suit and jogged in the middle of the street.

Gus ran across the street to meet her
Guuus
They said
And his mother stood up
Fast out to get him
Don’t worry!
He’s a very friendly dog!

The old lady looked up
Still jogging and said
Don’t worry
I’m not afraid
Smiled
Made kissing noises to Gus and jogged away.

Three pleats

You look even more than last time
Throwinround that belt
Sun glasses and your smile

Look
and smile

Paying attention and not
Paying attention to you’re
Fishnets
Finishing right below your
Skirt thighs
Thick bands
Keeping snug on your legs
And that thick black leather
Belt
You passed around

To sit who could fit it

Rauf

He surrendered to the greatest weapon available
to the rich and powerful men he once struggled to defeat,
Bowing to the very wealth and power
that made those men
with wealth and power
men to defeat,

fat, happy and in charge.

Times (work in progress)

4:44
The afternoon finally catches up to me
The rush of the day
Behind me
The night
Rising up and pinching
Where neck meets skull
Before the sun
Goes down

8:19
Always there
One before the one
That makes the third
A pair
Like marriage
And why I’m here
To see the three
Beneath TVs
Or driving on the radio
(My parents’ anniversary)

10:47
Scrambled
Groping from my seat
Like a lobster in a pot

10:52
What a mess huh
Don’t know to come or go
To stay awake or sleep

7:00
I wish the light was like this all day
With my windows open and blinds up
I can see without squinting
At the screen
And all around the screen
Without the unshaded
60 watt bulb
I light
Or don’t
Later

2069

Kids these days
Getting back alley ‘plants like clothes hanger abortions

“No child of mine will have a chip in their head!”
The nets are dangerous!

If they catch
You get
Tangled up good

Her old man says about that

“Its my body!”
Screaming like a new tattoo
“And I can do what I want!”
“You will not!”
Until she saved enough

‘Cause all the kids got ‘em

Just need to close your eyes
To light up
Inside yours eyes:
To commune, play, music and override
The boring shit

No one can stop you from that
From closing you’re eyes
On the train
In class
Working

She shivered when his hand ran up her neck
And held back her hair

He pressed the gun to the hollow
Where her neck met her head
And it hurt after he pulled the trigger
For a second

“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Make sure you keep it clean or it might get infected.”

That down home sound

Toast to mountain majesty
With twingling stars
And strings

Toasting
Mountain majesty
Light up stars and strings

Smoking picnic table scribbles

Angry clowns and wild flowers
Smoking joints
And mushroom head
Lines
By sharpy heads

And sharpy faces profiled
Facing you and grinning

Don’t do drugs
By one hand
Dot dot dot
Often by another
Arrows to the whole thing
Saying
FUCK YOU

A budding
Margin artist
Drew a heart with flames around it
Some one says, “Love is everywhere”
“Love sucks”
“Q-T love 4ever”

Doobie
Portraits
A cartoon tank with smoking barrel of a joint
“Smoke weed every day”
Some one says
They like weed

“For a 2 year college there is a lot…”

I didn’t read the rest
Cause
It was upside down

A place to sit

There was probably a gate there once
Or maybe no fence at all and the yard was open

These stone steps all crowded with ivy
And traffic on Whitney

They Lead up
But now up there is just a fence without a gate

Shopped the waste

On the ubiquitous park bench
Cackling like hand rolled cigarettes
They discussed bum politics

Oil matte hair
Gritty old hat laughter
Discussing bum politics

Their life beside them
In things in thin bars

Bird cage vagabonds
Whistling vague testaments
Free of charge

Rain proof polyester stuff for bad days

Empty bottles and cans and plastic bags
Of uncertain store and origin

They got it all

And all they need is a good, sturdy carriage

Most Importantly, Philip Glass


It had been a long time since I heard someone play the piano right there in front of me
Xavier was his name, a concert pianist from Spain
He married, moved here and finished his career
Never wrote his own music, he thought, How?
There is so much beauty already

We had the auditorium all to ourselves
Big and empty, all lit up but cavernous

I asked him to play when I realized I hadn't heard him before
When I realized, most likely, that I wouldn't get the chance again

Before he did, he apologized, saying he remembered only a few pieces

Once he started, he struggled, at first, against a sticking D and rusty fingers
But still, he played for me

I struggled myself
I had not slept the night before and was weak with translucency
Or excess caffeine
And lied down on the floor below the stage
Before a row of seats

I stared up at the high ceiling
And the convex domes of glass that adorned it

Like bug-eyed rolls of light, they rang down little halos, wet
And vibrantly reflective of the music
And reflective of the liquid where the swimming light became sentiment
Raining down and counter-playing
Mad Rush
And
Mad Rush
And
Mad rush

A multitude

A lullaby to hypnotize and roll you up inside

A reintroduction to a lover: a girl who played piano herself, for me a time ago
Where I find myself again, in our tiny tomb, that claustrophobic practice room,
With fury stamped and stamping in your wrists, on and with your wrists and breast
And pounding with your shaking fingers, those arched and fierce and shaking fingers
That look to hold to keep your scarred and tender figure safe

Safe from crashing to the keys and receding in defeat

Your clambering bracelets like tambourines
And that tangled hair all frizzed about

With your back to me I disappeared
Into a peculiar brand of intimacy

There in the auditorium it was almost sleeping

Solely calm, the music played me like a dream

A question to the bastard who first laid a finger on the cave wall

Did you have any idea of what that finger held
All ground up and wet on its end?

Did you ever think your antlered god
Might one day gore the Earth?

I can’t blame you for wanting to draw him,
For wanting to show, as exactly as you could,
The figure that came to you in your dream.

I understand your lack of choice,
How you had no words to speak of his image,
Words like the bends of his tongue and throat.

How his sounds were familiar, but were not,
And persisted as the kind of blotch on your vision
That blinking does not clear, the kind that comes
When you watch a fire too long, or stare at the sun.

How his voice sputtered and carried. How it varied
In pitch and carried as your fires echo in the cave.

It did not rise from the gut, nor was it coarse
Like for the noises made at all the simple things
You run from, touch and eat. It was less dense,
Like a touch to water versus a touch to stone,
Giving and inconsistent.

But unlike most things which come in dreams, the sounds
And from where they came remained. You did not have to
Struggle to remember them come morning. You had to
Struggle to imagine what to make of them come noon.


-----


Spit and ash,
Spit and ash
In your palm,
On your finger.

By the light of a fire you made for this purpose,
Spit and ash in your palm and on your finger.

First came the antlers, branching from a head.
The neck and shoulders followed on
To waist and legs and feet.

You spat and dipped your fingers in the ash
And made certain his lines were thick and clear.

When you were finished, the others had returned
For the evening and their feast of meats and greens.
You ate little, waiting until they were full before you
Bade them follow, grabbing arms and a log from the fire.

You lead them to that far off corner
Where your spit and ash were laid.

The breathing of the others grew quiet upon the sight.
One stepped out and reached his hand to touch
The figure, but faltered, and looked
To you instead.

They wondered,
And looked to you
For how this shape had come
Upon the wall. You had brought them
But, with their eyes, they demanded more.

Of what, they were not sure and nor were you,
But a reminiscent glimmer emerged with their questioning,
A look in their eyes like you had seen first the night before,
That had come with the antlered figure who spoke his words.
And of those words, which on to you were only sounds,
Three syllables rose above the rest. You thought,
Remembered them, and pointed to the wall.

You spoke that word,
Just as the antlered god had,
And they all repeated what you said.



***********

i kind of plan on this being the begging of the poem, is that a bad idea? would i be milking a dead horse, kinda?

Sterling

In a cloister in a city,
Traffic beyond the walls
Sounds a hum drone, passive, lifeless
But for horns- horns-
That call out from the streets.

A cornered enclave of stonework
Harbors strange stonework
Ivy and armored crusaders,
Proud in stained glass,
With lions at their feet.

They stand guard over cigarette
Ends, dead leaves, and litter,
Humorlessly, dutifully
Watching themselves,
Forever, stand in place.

lil paradigm shifts and christmas cards with glitter

i'm feeling a bit hazy on the details and i keep losing more and more time, but i have tried and failed to kill myself at least three times. secrets secrets are no fun, oh dip. i went to a therapist for a while and neglected to mention this detail, i didn't want to worry her with my troubles, she already thinks that i have a guilt complex and stuff. what evs, i'm in a better state of mind lately, i just don't feel as though it is my own. today i bought two new pairs of shoes and painted my bicycle to keep my mind off the fact that soon i will confront the person who made me want to stop living. i wonder if they sell greeting cards for such events, or if i will need to but a blank one and just kind of wing it...

muppets suck muppenises

Here I live
Always wanting to be alone
With all these funny strings
On my fingers
It’s not that hard really
To be so vain
Faking self assured
One step ahead at most
Then no one tries
To call you out
Asshole puppeteers aren’t smart
Stop feeding them
The minute they glance
Down miles of fishing lines
At the marionettes that smile
All the fucking time
They fantasize about all those van doors closing at once too soon
And hope they can’t reattach
Mend or even graft a single
Midas touch wand to their hand
That does absolutely nothing
Perfectly
Then people clap and the lights turn on
And they go home
They watch the news
And eat ham with their kids
Just like their parents did before
And their grandchildren will do just the same
Just a little better than the puppeteer
And that is more than enough
Even rag dolls on lanyard can dream
To pull the strings
Over and over until it seems
Unrehearsed, genius some say
But it is really not a talent
To stop giving a shit
(unless you practiced so hard)


I lost my way with words.

ignoring the content

i feel like im onto something better for myself with this style, so heres so more crap, why not:

Exploding release the only difference among us is where we get our piece/peace and the disagreements are virulent and the passion is real and to deny that theres truth is just spinning your wheels to pick no part in discussion just sit by the side, declare no ones right well then fine just keep quiet I want no part in your sophistic shit that you squat out roll in get a diploma for it id rather you told me you just wanna see tits theres no wheels spinning there no self conscious despair
only a lack which is honest and damned unaware

The struggle and shove every one needs what only a few have and they bumble above and below the issue with words that flip out and drop to their feet the special words the slightest move the stretch and the slide the mating ritual gone civilized like fencing with pins that stick in our dolls and supplies are running low and the barbarians are at the gates but now only the monks are safe! everyone else is everyones parent dumped in the pot and we melt into our children but the vat smells of blood lines swept and useless sweat the half of the human that never copied itself but more importantly never binded itself and was made whole but was only man or only woman just a kiss seeking aimless and sometimes hieros but never a gamos they were fated to want to their crooked marrow so nobly thought built to futility if by a deity then there lies the tragedy truest inthe stretch and the slide
our mating ritual so civilized

These are stream of concious, written and edited in about 5 minutes and I'm wondering if this is a better, worse, or just different format for me.

Furious flailing between line and white page exacerbates anger do not call it rage you would only exact the perilous extraction drawn to the scent of my putrefaction

The push and the pull when its all in the mind and you thought that you’d think well that’s where you went wrong thinking about thought is the last thing you should think, I thought you knew i thought you knew what it meant when you look in the depths and see only yourself well here I am spelling it out in words dripped from a pen from a finger cut finger short circuiting my keyboard to be on equal terms with my head

Despair is so dated well damn maybe if I were despair instead of just in it I’d get some of that action but how much creation can flow from negation when a soul is see through and the thoughts about thinking are doubtful where does a drive fit in, truth is the drives take their eponymous seat and the sins are whats in the simple stupid drives you deeper down that road in a hunter s thompson night where its always las vegas and youre never not high on some new medication released by your brain but I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s whats called insane

personally in terms of work to reward i think these come out better than my more formal stuff, it at least cuts a bit a on my constant pretension but my tendency towards random rhyme remains no matter how fast i type.

An ember sits dying on the ground

I said it couldn’t have been my mine

The cigarette said otherwise

I didn’t press the point the pressure did that itself

And kept oh so quiet when its responsibility was clear

I walked into the kitchen and saw the mouse run his wheel

His circle wasn’t perfect but then his couldn’t kill

At least ours was intentional and such a good thrill

The same as the sinner who takes pills till he pales

My first kiss is always an overdose and nothing but thrill

Someone shoulda said we don’t all have the same scales

My balance remains broken like my hometown’s hills

Now I’m lying in a bed only I could have made

And it’s literal and figurative and oh so unkempt

But that’s the die he cast when He gave us our will

Every face in a crowd a walking, talking bet

Some say if anyone cleans up, its the Devil

Lord knows my will just wastes and wets

And we run on the wheel and we say that its fate

The truth is fates the metal

Ours is the gait

We choose the speed and trip

When we see a rung too far

Mine might come when I enter a bar

But don’t blame the drink, when I do

We all oughta know by now its not true

Guns don’t kill people, people do

A moon poem

assy

I like the snow.
Its clean and non-committal.
The leaves aren’t brown, all wet
and daring your periphery.

93

My page.
Oh my god,
My number.

I married a She-Donkey?
What does that mean?
How am I here again?
Returning
To the scene and the lines

Time flies when youre having fun

How many couches have we done this on before?

Coma like mouth breathers

Let the music and the insides be

Sitting in the dark
On a hand-me-down sofa in a basement
No windows
Black walls

Or in a particularly luxurious dorm room
Two couches, a flat screen and the fan set up right
The whole shebang

Or that old lumpy thing with books for the missing leg

Always there after work
But not for quiet or a moment to myself
Not a second’s rest

Now we’re in a swank bar with Billie Holiday on fine leather sofas

Now its more expensive

a bitter night

Cast iron hexes
Delineate definition
Between the green
And the castles of the fortunate,
Asleep between their studies.

I
A young man defines his brand of opulence.
So full and self assured,
He carries on without a thought to the world.

Sun to grass,
Shadows sun bears.
What thoughtless observation.

Not a shadow in the sun,
But the careless in the shade are far from overseen.

II

Your time is straight and plain.
There is nothing waiting on the other side.

All that remains is stringy and dry,
The pickings grown slim on your fat.

These shadows have shapely edges
And the sun doesnt care if you stare.

I just remembered that the world is a beautiful place.

A fresh new comer, the winter air blown in past early spring
Caught my breath, lifting up the garbage pales at one AM
Because I forgot to take them out earlier. I’m glad I forgot,
Otherwise these fucking stars like solid stones I could touch
Wouldn’t be up there in the sky for me to touch and I wouldn’t,
If it were not dark, have let my dog come out with me
Without clipping him to the runner. I’m not sure why.

He would not have followed me
As if he were an old hunting dog
And we had been doing this for years.

He wouldn’t have lifted his tail in attention
And hurried his feet without me having to say a thing.

He wouldn’t have been there to recognize a feeling I could only barely feel myself.

so, i did try again?...

i've been trying to write some poems that have patterns and rhyme and all that boring shit, this is one of the least embarassing attempts of many; i wrote it down as i sat on the dryer waiting like junkie for more warm towels to fold... god damnit.

nick/gNack-salesman

Don't have friends in high places
My rich uncle's on the dole
I don't know any famous faces
Not even on the totem pole.
That's alright though
It don't get me down
Got my pen and paper
Jotting like I own this town.
From where I'm standing
I can see it all so clearly
Don't care if no one's understanding
Still I'll clutch my scribbles dearly.
It's not a job, it's not a hobby
To just see while others do
That's why I sleep out in the lobby
Spilling ink so black through eyes so blue.


...and then I folded like 10 washcloths.

i don't feel much like writing...

...these days. but if i must then here you have it:

some dumb words


too much shit on my mind
to think clearly
let alone write?
don't mean to seem bitter
although i probably am
just ask margot
who stakes claims of sedation

oh bother...i will try again tomorrow
(when i finish packing)

It sounded like paper tearing

Is she alive?
The blood does not say for sure,
But she shows it to me,
Brought up from underneath in petals
on her eyes and on her arms.

-Some thing within which reaches
and remains always unseen
-Wrapped about it but independent,
behind tired and drifting eyes
-The point which holds the body,
Or body holds,

She shows mostly from her eyes,
but today from lines that cross
crosses across her arm.

And Jesus Christ, help me, she bled.
She bled for each time I spoke with certainty
On such things that one could never be so sure of.

Most Importantly, Philip Glass

It had been a long time since I heard someone play the piano right there in front of me
Xavier was his name
A pianist from Spain

The auditorium was ours
Big and empty, all lit up but cavernous
I asked him to play when I realized I hadn’t heard him play before
When I realized, most likely, that I wouldn’t see him again

He was a musician, a concert pianist
He had married, moved here, and finished his career
Never wrote his own music
He thought, how could he? There is so much beauty already

He sat and said, almost apologetically
That he remembered just a few of pieces
He began, struggling against a sticking D and, at first,
Rusty fingers, but, still, he played for me

I hadn’t slept the night before
and, struggling with translucency
or too much caffeine, I lied on the floor
Below the stage, before a row of seats

I Stared up at the high ceiling
Where this oceanic multitude, the fingered keys, roiled up within me
Where wide convex domes of glass or plastic
Adorned the high ceiling like bug eyes rolled in light

And rang down little halos, wet
and vibrantly reflective unlike my own
dry bug eyes, in a bedding of all that sound

And there my eyes rolled back and I was met with the thought of a girl
who played the piano herself, for me, again
in a tiny tomb, the practice room

And a picture of the fury that stamped with her wrists
And how her shaking fingers looked to hold her arms

How her impatience increased the tempo of the score
And every key was a panicked grope for volume


I remember a peculiar intimacy that came with her back to me,
Performing in a place where there is no thought given to perfection
There in the auditorium it was something close to sleeping
Calm, his music played me like a dream

anemone

personal taste
and/or
self-serve entertainment
are tendencies of that which makes you me

and I?
a thing we take for more
when what we say is stone

sometimes (most times)
we forget we speak in fluid

when rocking in our seats
and itching in our fingers is forgotten

On the first 30 seconds

Out with it!
Off with your head!
Let what spills from neck up spill

If the meat don’t come with the first thirty seconds
Then leave it to rot for the butchers

(If the meat don’t come in the first thirty seconds
Then spare it the rot and the butcher)

(If the meat don’t come at the first thirty seconds
Then the butcher can’t spare it the rot)

(If the meat don’t come for the first thirty seconds
Then the rot won’t stop for the butcher)

(If the meat don’t come to the first thirty seconds