I remember well
The creaking of
One hundred year old
Pine planked floor
And the ticking
Of the 100 year old clock
In my family's old home
Before the highwaymen
Took it with the widening
Of Highway 91
But Mom got her new house
Set back just a little
She loves it and new amenities
At least they didn't steal the barn
But I miss the creaking and the ticking
Of my childhood home
On Highway 91
Across from Stoney Creek
My real home
My heads underwater,
in a sea of salty tears.
Wash down stained cheeks;
are heavy to push them away.
try to breathe easy..
Stomach tightens in crying cramps,
begging for an escape
to feel something good.
Dark ringed eyes tell more stories
than a 100 year old tree.
Try to breathe easy..
I grab a pen
I grab some paper
and I write
I write words to calm the soul
write write write write
smoothing scribbling sounds
tears only exchange hellos
on intervals now.
I find comfort in the news
Be it typhoons or drones
I feel like a 100 year old Camus
For he was a miserable little raccoon
Or should I say Morrissey?
But the bipolar king is lost at sea!
I think of Sylvia Plath and her oven
Incinerated in a jar or in a coffin?
I will mention roses in a second
But first, wear your veil
May I eat your cheeks?
I’m your psychopath with style
We bathed in herbs together
The pale breasts that shone
A reoccurring dream of two moons
I believe in reincarnation
bosoms, as the lunar eyes of an owl
Stars, rain, coffee, cigarettes and music
Few clichés, I forgot about your roses
One day I’ll strike the balance
between rhymes and passion
she exists now in a dream state
unaware of the horror and the passage of time
wind rushes through broken panes
floors creak and door hinges speak
announcing her presence
this was her house
once a place of light and love
full of family and friends
cotillions resonating with music and dance
and lively conversation
a grand kitchen to prepare the feasts
of pheasant under glass
a gazebo for laughing in the rain
arbors for moonlit meetings with owls
a pond for lilies and croaking frogs
gardens for picking her favorite peonies
a nursery for her children
all this now nothing but ruins
from happiness to a home for bugs and bats
crawling with silverfish, centipedes and black widows
shrouded in cobwebs
drowning in dust
suffocating in stench of rotting wood and desolation
decorated with 100 year old bloodstains
she never saw her killer
never saw the spurting of her arteries
never heard her children’s screams and death rales
she sees her house as it was
and every night she roams the rooms
calling her children’s names in long, haunting whispers
You know that you're not supposed to cry over a boy
You know that you should be independent
But your train-wreck of an ego was depending on him
You had never opened yourself up to anyone before
Because love was a risk
So you will pretend
Pretend you don't care
Pretend that he didn't make you feel different about yourself
Pretend that you are better off without him
Pretend that it doesn't hurt when you throw away the sheets that he slept on
Pretend that you're not waiting for that Baby, I made a mistake call
Pretend that you don't cry yourself to sleep at night
Even though you're not supposed to
Because you're not all that independent
Because you're falling apart faster that you can put yourself back together in the morning
Because you can't stop looking for him
In that coffee shop where you met
On the bus stop that he walked you to everyday after school
Next to that 100 year old oak where he proposed
Pretend that you don't have feelings
You know I care about you.
That I would regret nothing with you.
If you told me to escape at the crack of dawn to some nowhere place-
I would not hesitate.
You have explanations far to reasonable, they seem idiotic-
but why contradict.
I'm not saying I have a one track mind and that you overpower it entirely.
All I'm saying is I don't mind.
Regret is just one thing I refuse to taint you with.
There are places I would go.
Things I would do.
Thousands upon millions of scenarios we can outplay.
Make new cliches and shatter the sky.
Decide if we believe in our constellations being perfectly aligned.
Then resolve to say everything we did was merely make believe.
I love you.
And I will regret nothing.
Our time together might stop-
so when you see me at tea for our 100 year old reunion,
remind me how amazing we lived.
Show me the images in a whirlwind.
Recount the adventures.
Tell me the secrets all over.
Since we're both good and sober now.
You don't have a one track mind, it's all more like branches.
You've regretted nothing except the lack of expansion and slow timing.
I care far too much for you to ever see you stuck.
And for exactly that reason I'll see to it that you never stop-
even if our 'us' does.
A dream over due
it is august
the flies are insects
growing the Vice apple between the graying chicago winter fern of the vagina
empty parking lot super market trees
negro and autumn
skin like apple sauce
dancing inside the mirror of Lust and his Sister Fresno California
On a Payphone
At a Fuel Station
Lights all Blue
Lights all dull
dullified by the gasoline
the cigarette butts that collect in the mouths of mountain saints
Burn all the books that led you too led poisoning
I am Van Gogh
Scrapping off the dried paint of my walls
of my women
naked in my bed of a hope factor
I am going insane
and the stars do not mind
the Clouds seem to be careless
Vagabond seasonal weather Kansas
Everybody is on the Train
headed to Dreams
100 dollars a ticket
Give me your Wallet
your nights and your day-shadows bouncing off walls and mailboxes like school-boy toys
Glancing at the peripheral French Decedent girl with black hair
hair black like wet once lit cigarettes
God, smoking a cigar made in The Ol' Great West of timber and the elderly gasping away their lives as a window sits neatly with tundra flowers
and a cacti that never dies
Winter comes in a Van
Full of soup
Full of the Dead Children of Days on in
Full of Dogs with rabies
Full of Cheap women
who gave up on 7:30
and washed their hands in the juices of an Apple Eve sank her yellow teeth into
Headlights heading towards Home
Towards Late-Night Television
God and Satan
Spooning on the water bed of America
America the great
America the greed
America the want
America the me
Pigeon on the side street of NYC push town till suit bye Death
Coffin constructed of Iron and Filled with Wine
Coffin made by a young man sitting in his jacket
smoking a neat cigar
smoking with Gin
The Fireplace is where we may have made Love
But the Heat was ours
and the Torn down back door back yard Tall 100 year old Tree
only a Stump
A beginning of its sprout from a seed
to a Giant
to a home for Birds and Flies and ants and rodents
I am in the Tower
Drinking your Whiskey
Drinking the lipstick of a woman who has nothing to do
so she falls in love with the Shadows of night bricks
of City Street Walls and streets
Like love it self
Left out in the Sun
Left with the cacti of Old Age
old hands and old eyes that quiver like melting ice in the 90 degree Texan weather
We run to the fountain of Youth
but the gates are closed
The Pool boy quit his Job
and now the water in contaminated
Clear the mind
the hairs on your chest
the Teeth in between your Chin and Lips
It is no Longer Time
it is no Longer Past
Murdered by a knife
It is no longer 1AM
and the Sky wants me to wake up
But the Coffee Machine is crooked and only works if I hold it at an angle
Goodbye Crows of Brooklyn
I'll be on the payphone collect call to subconscious
I'll be on the road
traveling with my hair
traveling with Life
traveling with Destiny and Hope and Emily Tennessee
5 dollars a gallon
a strange day
it was full of strangers
when I went for a walk
with my spouse by my side
past the junction
a stranger shouted out to me:
and I said quite readily:
“But I need help myself –
so how can I help you?”
and I continued on my walk
wondering at this strange world
past the 100-year-old tree
an octogenarian stopped me
and he said:
“Son, can you tell me which way
to Harvey’s Street?”
and I said to him:
“I don’t know Harvey
and so I don’t know his street;
and by the way, maybe you don’t know,
but I’m not your son….”
and past Kangaroo Point
a cheery stranger all teeth
he shouted to me:
“Oh, great!” I shouted back.
“You may be having a good day
but I’m having a strange day,
I’ll tell you that!”
And past the Greehimn River
a helpless old lady said:
“Ah, kind man, could you pick up
that walking stick for me?
it’s mine and a young man
just now kicked it off my right hand”
And I said with no second thought:
“Oh, old woman
pick it up yourself;
your back is already bent
so half the effort is already there -
and you think I walked all the way here
so I can pick up a walking stick
for a strange old woman I don’t even know?”
and I turned to my spouse
who was with me
all the while and I said:
“Hmmm…what a strange day
with all these strangers…”
and my spouse answered speedily:
“Who are you, creepy stranger?
Why do you talk to me?”
And straight my spouse
walked off from me…
Hmmm…and indeed a strange day it was
with all these strangers one meets
and who walks so close beside
We were up all thru out the terrible night
sniffling like cocaine addicts
like sick little youth 1930's depression oh the Great
our fat lips hung like dying mosquitoes in the coming brothel of winter and her long scorched dress
that I inflamed with my Vietnam stolen lover zippo of gasoline
in a Sober frenzy of jealousy
now her Glare is angled narrowly at lust
coughing up and down side ways in dreams as if I were a butterfly addicted to cigars
we were up all thru out the night
counting our skin cells
watching the television laugh at our faces
He sobbed “how the orange metallic streets
bent to our theatrical emotions on 12th street”
oh the glory of our thoughts and touch was ransom
was god watching in his leather seat?
Wearing his glasses
reading the Bible?
Or does he read Russian Literature
or does he only read Latin
I and I were up all last night
using the Sister's pay-phone copper to connect with silly 3 eyed hipster hookers
their eyes wide and green with white salt like a dirty lake
that you stumble upon drunkardly with a laughing Angel
High on Cough Syrup and mortality
passion-ated by this new opportunity for Adventure's drawback which is death or Boredom
is deteriorating with Age
like the alcoholic richness of 100 year old Wine
didn't go to church
hope that lady with wisdom in her hands forgives me
then I ate
now I starve
clutching at the windows
painting a boy staring at me
wondering if I were real
As I wonder if his thoughts are my own
We were up all night
translating the moon's shadows and hiccups into finger paintings and strep throat.