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

The man from Vermont

“We all have excuses”
he says and lights my cigarette

not for me,
but one I gave to him
when favor turned for him
in this game of chess he plays with my friend

“Uh oh, they’ve dimmed the lights”
he says, and I ask,
“What does that mean?”

“It means we cant see!”
and a chuckle rounds the board

“How ya like that?”
he asks, and so I write

-----

“See that knight?
The one next to the white pawn?
Why don’t you just- take- him?”
she asks from beside her other,
who hasn’t said a thing
(the pawn takes diagonally)

They came to sit in the only seats
left in the darkened place, with us,
two women slightly drunk and edging
in past middle age. Its the time of his life
tonight, on top of his game, with an audience
against my friend who says he hadn’t played in years

“Eeeaelay!” he yells,
at the wrong point in the song,
illustrating his elevation,
and the slightly less attractive woman leans and laughs along

“How is everything going over here?”
the pretty waitress asks
“We’re in dire need of Alcohol!”
Haha
“Bring me a water!”
and the waitress walks away