savio - Hello Poetry

I am Marmeladov Perched as if I were a Father Clock A Wasp A Fly An ant crawling towards the jar of sugar Stuck in a tear-drop of Honey Perched at your window Dream Catcher from vacation to Mexico To City Country of bandits Of hot sun of desert skin of guns ****** **** **** ******* Spanish women playing Spanish guitars only 3 strings only 5 fingers only 1 eye Gazing at Death Her Depth of field altered by her one orange eye like lit cigarettes in a jail sell after lights out quiet quartet spanish folklore a eulogy written in Violin strings a graveyard of deceased mad men we never fond Mozart's body vanished in the sky like the pupils of a white crow Anatomy of a violin: Casted in glass Molded by the moss stauteing over the side of your house Alcohol Sand and mud Winter and old leather boots worn by a Vagabond searching the trees for proof Sorrow Sorrow Sorrow untouched lips of a woman A.M. Wet cigarettes and wine and crooked eyes and a starving belly a Thirsty Mind A lost canine:سلوقی, Saluki, Persian Greyhound, Royal Dog of Egypt Sitting in a plastic wool cabin the Mad artist drinking molding ***** A lost Breed The Wise The Proud drunkards writing hysterically on tenement rooftops of NYC 1950 1920 Rimbaud the Tenth of November 1891 The wonderers with peyote with whiskey with 'Kamel Reds' with Hope and Curiosity Undress your symbolism Your Strawberry Eyes that Grow on my walls and feet like Callus' And like the Charcoal sketches performed By Death We Age just as the sky does just as the Tree you climbed as it rained and you swallowed Lightning and Thunder Yet the sky was dry of no rain It is a drought We pluck the roses eye lashes and Kiss We climb into Brick studios and watch the Ballet dancer as she shapes her bones into Sad New Orleans Trees The door is locked Not by bolt but By the uncut fingernails and hair of wild vines So we crawl through the side shingles like San Antonio lizards Ballet ashes dancing to the sigh of Beethoven's last sight before a wisdom of blindness swept over his brown eyes She seems to be painted all black Like the flight of a Crow Or the color of Plums I sing with the owls I lay with the long road of infinity and its sadness Out of oil Out of Gasoline Out of Food so we lay around Carving the paint off walls like Van Gogh I am hunched over a grave The pond is frozen over 'Monumento a la Madre' Vagabond home The rain casts a shadow I cannot see past your face Someone is listening I seep into the peripheral of night Write symphonies on stone Lay with the weeds digest the light of the moon And as I follow the Southern Star home I am Stopped by Painted red ***** houses 24/7 Whiskey Churches So I Lay down the rifle

0

Apr 30, 2013

Apr 30, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC

.Surrealism.Cancer.

I am Marmeladov Perched as if I were a Father Clock A Wasp A Fly An ant crawling towards the jar of sugar Stuck in a tear-drop of Honey Perched at your window Dream Catcher from vacation to Mexico To City Country of bandits Of hot sun of desert skin of guns ****** **** **** ******* Spanish women playing Spanish guitars only 3 strings only 5 fingers only 1 eye Gazing at Death Her Depth of field altered by her one orange eye like lit cigarettes in a jail sell after lights out quiet quartet spanish folklore a eulogy written in Violin strings a graveyard of deceased mad men we never fond Mozart's body vanished in the sky like the pupils of a white crow Anatomy of a violin: Casted in glass Molded by the moss stauteing over the side of your house Alcohol Sand and mud Winter and old leather boots worn by a Vagabond searching the trees for proof Sorrow Sorrow Sorrow untouched lips of a woman A.M. Wet cigarettes and wine and crooked eyes and a starving belly a Thirsty Mind A lost canine:سلوقی, Saluki, Persian Greyhound, Royal Dog of Egypt Sitting in a plastic wool cabin the Mad artist drinking molding ***** A lost Breed The Wise The Proud drunkards writing hysterically on tenement rooftops of NYC 1950 1920 Rimbaud the Tenth of November 1891 The wonderers with peyote with whiskey with 'Kamel Reds' with Hope and Curiosity Undress your symbolism Your Strawberry Eyes that Grow on my walls and feet like Callus' And like the Charcoal sketches performed By Death We Age just as the sky does just as the Tree you climbed as it rained and you swallowed Lightning and Thunder Yet the sky was dry of no rain It is a drought We pluck the roses eye lashes and Kiss We climb into Brick studios and watch the Ballet dancer as she shapes her bones into Sad New Orleans Trees The door is locked Not by bolt but By the uncut fingernails and hair of wild vines So we crawl through the side shingles like San Antonio lizards Ballet ashes dancing to the sigh of Beethoven's last sight before a wisdom of blindness swept over his brown eyes She seems to be painted all black Like the flight of a Crow Or the color of Plums I sing with the owls I lay with the long road of infinity and its sadness Out of oil Out of Gasoline Out of Food so we lay around Carving the paint off walls like Van Gogh I am hunched over a grave The pond is frozen over 'Monumento a la Madre' Vagabond home The rain casts a shadow I cannot see past your face Someone is listening I seep into the peripheral of night Write symphonies on stone Lay with the weeds digest the light of the moon And as I follow the Southern Star home I am Stopped by Painted red ***** houses 24/7 Whiskey Churches So I Lay down the rifle

95

A mother whispers into the fire of Night I hold a match I hold Yarn I Am Wool Shrinking to the formation The intricate designs of your rib cage of your brother's belly of your Grandfather's waist Am I simply a fool? And Who Doth I ask This question too? A Torn book A tattered sonnet of Man's sore feet blistered eyes that are Green That are Brown That are Blue I Lay with myself Tonight I am Awake I am Loud In your Night I Am the Janitor beneath the hardwood floors of your Dream I am the Poorly Waged Electrician With Shoes that resemble an old dog I Light Your Highway Your Street Your Morning coffee your cigarette Am I The Child? I fall in love with women I see on the streets Their Wavy hair like a French sea Her pale complexion the Brown Glimmer in her eyes And I paint on her on Tombstones On Coffee Mugs and on carpets rolled up for the Dumpster At Nights I prefer to dream awake and sit with a BathTub of words of stories that melt like cheese that stiffen like Ginsberg **** that Shriek and Strum like Tom Waits stomach when he starves on backroad streets And when I cannot reproduce I make love to a woman And a poem is made and I kiss her and my lips say 5 am and I wish her not to go But the Dog is waken by Robins by the Pigeons by the digestion of night to day by the Greek Gods and Goddess' Light That Falls down like long hair of woman you have so longed for and you kiss her chest And there is no Death There is no Sleep or ****** addicts or gasoline or paved roads or shaved faces or mothers or Dostoevsky or Beethoven There is just her and you run your fingers across her skin through her hair She is the bottom of the Ocean You are a homeless crab a Shellless Clam falling down down down to the bed of the great ocean and there she lays With a reflection of Youth and Beauty And her complex simplicity makes me think of me as a boy running behind brick collapsed business buildings Kissing a girl behind church Buying Icecream with Josh in Winter That's what a woman does She erases Death from the palms of your hands and your thoughts and you sink to the bottom and you watch the Coral The other fish swimming along and you laugh Because you do not know Death And Death does not know you.

0

Apr 28, 2013

Apr 28, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC

child

A mother whispers into the fire of Night I hold a match I hold Yarn I Am Wool Shrinking to the formation The intricate designs of your rib cage of your brother's belly of your Grandfather's waist Am I simply a fool? And Who Doth I ask This question too? A Torn book A tattered sonnet of Man's sore feet blistered eyes that are Green That are Brown That are Blue I Lay with myself Tonight I am Awake I am Loud In your Night I Am the Janitor beneath the hardwood floors of your Dream I am the Poorly Waged Electrician With Shoes that resemble an old dog I Light Your Highway Your Street Your Morning coffee your cigarette Am I The Child? I fall in love with women I see on the streets Their Wavy hair like a French sea Her pale complexion the Brown Glimmer in her eyes And I paint on her on Tombstones On Coffee Mugs and on carpets rolled up for the Dumpster At Nights I prefer to dream awake and sit with a BathTub of words of stories that melt like cheese that stiffen like Ginsberg **** that Shriek and Strum like Tom Waits stomach when he starves on backroad streets And when I cannot reproduce I make love to a woman And a poem is made and I kiss her and my lips say 5 am and I wish her not to go But the Dog is waken by Robins by the Pigeons by the digestion of night to day by the Greek Gods and Goddess' Light That Falls down like long hair of woman you have so longed for and you kiss her chest And there is no Death There is no Sleep or ****** addicts or gasoline or paved roads or shaved faces or mothers or Dostoevsky or Beethoven There is just her and you run your fingers across her skin through her hair She is the bottom of the Ocean You are a homeless crab a Shellless Clam falling down down down to the bed of the great ocean and there she lays With a reflection of Youth and Beauty And her complex simplicity makes me think of me as a boy running behind brick collapsed business buildings Kissing a girl behind church Buying Icecream with Josh in Winter That's what a woman does She erases Death from the palms of your hands and your thoughts and you sink to the bottom and you watch the Coral The other fish swimming along and you laugh Because you do not know Death And Death does not know you.

91

Drinking oil from mothers breast ****** Death- open 24/7 It's 3am I can't get out of bed and the women outside are tapping on my windowsill Tapping on the back of my spine “doctor doctor” rummaging for tongue hieroglyphics give me pills I'm standing saluting the dead like an Air Force Team Deceased Finito Gone Finished Bye forever in the sea by the sea for the sea Time is a busted lip on a Youth Caught ************ in the Garden of Youth Eden Eden Adam Adam Romeo Juliet Writing symphonies on toilet seats with ***** Lipstick hued blue she must match her thong and bra and hair and soul and painted toe nails and the mood of the night Is always Blue Like a blind man washed away at sea only to believe he was a boy again in the Womb And there is a taste of Salt a taste of blood in the water Coffee grains shark Teeth February love stories tied together to makeshift plastic hollywood driftwood explorer boats I am Nobody I have nothing I have Poems I have Books And I lay in the desert catching flies with my metallic tongue and Iron casted lips as my Libido curves like a Rose in Winter I am ******* the Devil I kissed Father Time's Wife And sometimes at night I sneak away Climbing out of my Children Book Fairy Tale locked Bedroom Door locked by a fools gold bolt And I walk to the Fountain of Youth, the Garden of Eden. Untieing my shoes like a woman does with her hair

0

Apr 28, 2013

Apr 28, 2013 at 12:56 AM UTC

for now i am winter

Drinking oil from mothers breast ****** Death- open 24/7 It's 3am I can't get out of bed and the women outside are tapping on my windowsill Tapping on the back of my spine “doctor doctor” rummaging for tongue hieroglyphics give me pills I'm standing saluting the dead like an Air Force Team Deceased Finito Gone Finished Bye forever in the sea by the sea for the sea Time is a busted lip on a Youth Caught ************ in the Garden of Youth Eden Eden Adam Adam Romeo Juliet Writing symphonies on toilet seats with ***** Lipstick hued blue she must match her thong and bra and hair and soul and painted toe nails and the mood of the night Is always Blue Like a blind man washed away at sea only to believe he was a boy again in the Womb And there is a taste of Salt a taste of blood in the water Coffee grains shark Teeth February love stories tied together to makeshift plastic hollywood driftwood explorer boats I am Nobody I have nothing I have Poems I have Books And I lay in the desert catching flies with my metallic tongue and Iron casted lips as my Libido curves like a Rose in Winter I am ******* the Devil I kissed Father Time's Wife And sometimes at night I sneak away Climbing out of my Children Book Fairy Tale locked Bedroom Door locked by a fools gold bolt And I walk to the Fountain of Youth, the Garden of Eden. Untieing my shoes like a woman does with her hair

55

Stumbling through the streets of Mexico Savio At the ripe age of 20 Life Dancing nudely in front of his jewel eyes It is 3am and the latino barking k-9's are loud loud and beautiful like thinking you were dead but you are woken by a train and you touch the bridge of your nose you touch the cheekbones beneath your face and you sigh in relief that you are not dead: The leaves are green The grass too Poison Ivy and Dandelions Strawberries Savio Stumbling through Mexico Wearing an old ***** flannel a few buttons missing Examining the streets for cigarette butts To unravel To squeeze the brown tobacco into his palm for later when he has the chance the consciousness to buy rolling papers Savio bottle of cheap whiskey in his back pocket holding an imaginary rifle firing at the pigeons at Cadillacs that care freed on by He had been at a bar He was born in a Hospital He liked to drink on top of buildings He has a father who is dead Savio Stopping at a church that smelled of coffee Music played It was soft Sad Like a woman kissing you good-bye Yet you try to recall the feeling of her lips and cannot He leaned his dark curly hair against the bricks that vibrated smoothly from the violins from the piano that over took the room That washed away the hardwood floor That tapped Death on the shoulder That stopped the rain That made you stand still to make sure you are not dead And the Violin wakes you up and it is Fall Now Winter Now you are with your mother Now you are Old and you look around and notice that The music has stopped playing and the Trees look a little wet look a little smaller than they used to be Savio Woke up to his whiskey bottle shattering underneath him Saw the Sun Saw that the Church was empty Saw that the door was open Saw that He was hungry Thirsty Inside there was nothing Not even a Cross Not even an Alter Nor a candle did flicker There was nothing on the walls The stained glass windows were covered by sheets of metal The hardwood floor sank a little He walked to the back room An empty room Not even a window So he slept and did not dream His father taught him that Sleep Dreams were useless when Savio woke it was cold Everything seemed very still The walls holding their breaths The Ceiling calm The hardwood floor quiet not creaking He opened the front doors to see that it was Night and that there were no Headlights no Taillights So he stumbled to the liquor store Holding a Blue Notebook That he used to Write down the dreams he wanted to have The Dreams he was not allowed to have At the liquor store he bought wine walked back to the abandoned church and read to himself a dream he never had but would like to have: “I am home, a child, sitting or standing at a stream, it is warm, I am alone, but I am at home, Yet, I know that I will not be at this stream for ever.” He closed his blue notebook looking up he saw that the church was lit up and music was falling out of it seeping through the wood like sap The smell of coffee the smell of cooking meat Yet when he opens the door it is empty it is gray it is tinted sad And his father is there peeling off the sheets of metal covering the stained glass And Savio wakes up Turns to his Blue Notebook.

0

Apr 27, 2013

Apr 27, 2013 at 11:01 AM UTC

Blue Notebook

Stumbling through the streets of Mexico Savio At the ripe age of 20 Life Dancing nudely in front of his jewel eyes It is 3am and the latino barking k-9's are loud loud and beautiful like thinking you were dead but you are woken by a train and you touch the bridge of your nose you touch the cheekbones beneath your face and you sigh in relief that you are not dead: The leaves are green The grass too Poison Ivy and Dandelions Strawberries Savio Stumbling through Mexico Wearing an old ***** flannel a few buttons missing Examining the streets for cigarette butts To unravel To squeeze the brown tobacco into his palm for later when he has the chance the consciousness to buy rolling papers Savio bottle of cheap whiskey in his back pocket holding an imaginary rifle firing at the pigeons at Cadillacs that care freed on by He had been at a bar He was born in a Hospital He liked to drink on top of buildings He has a father who is dead Savio Stopping at a church that smelled of coffee Music played It was soft Sad Like a woman kissing you good-bye Yet you try to recall the feeling of her lips and cannot He leaned his dark curly hair against the bricks that vibrated smoothly from the violins from the piano that over took the room That washed away the hardwood floor That tapped Death on the shoulder That stopped the rain That made you stand still to make sure you are not dead And the Violin wakes you up and it is Fall Now Winter Now you are with your mother Now you are Old and you look around and notice that The music has stopped playing and the Trees look a little wet look a little smaller than they used to be Savio Woke up to his whiskey bottle shattering underneath him Saw the Sun Saw that the Church was empty Saw that the door was open Saw that He was hungry Thirsty Inside there was nothing Not even a Cross Not even an Alter Nor a candle did flicker There was nothing on the walls The stained glass windows were covered by sheets of metal The hardwood floor sank a little He walked to the back room An empty room Not even a window So he slept and did not dream His father taught him that Sleep Dreams were useless when Savio woke it was cold Everything seemed very still The walls holding their breaths The Ceiling calm The hardwood floor quiet not creaking He opened the front doors to see that it was Night and that there were no Headlights no Taillights So he stumbled to the liquor store Holding a Blue Notebook That he used to Write down the dreams he wanted to have The Dreams he was not allowed to have At the liquor store he bought wine walked back to the abandoned church and read to himself a dream he never had but would like to have: “I am home, a child, sitting or standing at a stream, it is warm, I am alone, but I am at home, Yet, I know that I will not be at this stream for ever.” He closed his blue notebook looking up he saw that the church was lit up and music was falling out of it seeping through the wood like sap The smell of coffee the smell of cooking meat Yet when he opens the door it is empty it is gray it is tinted sad And his father is there peeling off the sheets of metal covering the stained glass And Savio wakes up Turns to his Blue Notebook.

131

when it rains everything seems still her body has the curves of the grooves on wood following the path of a moth a woman and three children in a van drop off phone books and newspapers onto front steps at 4am and it rains nothing plays on their radio she kisses them to sleep “don't worry” and they're asleep but the bills aren't paid and the hot water is turned off Tomorrow the electricity a boy without a home grew up on the highway the passing vehicles the passing buildings people street lamps hills rivers and lakes streets and turn signals were his friends his television When it rains Everything stops moving and breathes I am still a boy at twenty When I can't sleep I walk to the highway and sit the humming road the humming 18-wheelers and automobiles remind me of resting on my mothers heart I drive to the city To look at the buildings that are never asleep To sit in wooden cafés and drink cheap black coffee I am not a poet Just a boy Still on a highway gazing at the world 75mph these are my finger drawn pictures on a foggy van window.

0

Apr 23, 2013

Apr 23, 2013 at 4:56 AM UTC

3:30am When it rains

when it rains everything seems still her body has the curves of the grooves on wood following the path of a moth a woman and three children in a van drop off phone books and newspapers onto front steps at 4am and it rains nothing plays on their radio she kisses them to sleep “don't worry” and they're asleep but the bills aren't paid and the hot water is turned off Tomorrow the electricity a boy without a home grew up on the highway the passing vehicles the passing buildings people street lamps hills rivers and lakes streets and turn signals were his friends his television When it rains Everything stops moving and breathes I am still a boy at twenty When I can't sleep I walk to the highway and sit the humming road the humming 18-wheelers and automobiles remind me of resting on my mothers heart I drive to the city To look at the buildings that are never asleep To sit in wooden cafés and drink cheap black coffee I am not a poet Just a boy Still on a highway gazing at the world 75mph these are my finger drawn pictures on a foggy van window.

55

She works at the Flower Shop selling Roses to the young boys selling Lilies to widow'd women selling white ones red ones purple ones orange ones She works at the Flower Shop Clipping the stems of the Lilac Sweeping the Flower Shops hard wood floor Insects with wings get inside of the Flower Shop Insects with wings hide in the openings of the flowers She listens too the small radio Attached to the wall That is painted white This color This hue This brand of Light Does not compliment her complexion The Flower Shop's painted white walls are too compliment the complexion of the flowers Their colors Their height Their thickness Their meaningfulness The Radio attached to the wall plays Beethoven The Flower Shop is full of Insects Flowers Beethoven and White Painted Walls and a Girl Who waters the flowers Who goes outside to smoke her 100's Who sees the Flowers die Rust brown and gray bending towards the ground The Flower Shop Girl Shooting up ****** While Laying on the Flower Shop's hardwood floor freshly swept next to the Amaranthine flower filled with insects *Beethoven Sonata No.14 Movement No.3*

0

Apr 23, 2013

Apr 23, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC

The Flower Shop Girl

She works at the Flower Shop selling Roses to the young boys selling Lilies to widow'd women selling white ones red ones purple ones orange ones She works at the Flower Shop Clipping the stems of the Lilac Sweeping the Flower Shops hard wood floor Insects with wings get inside of the Flower Shop Insects with wings hide in the openings of the flowers She listens too the small radio Attached to the wall That is painted white This color This hue This brand of Light Does not compliment her complexion The Flower Shop's painted white walls are too compliment the complexion of the flowers Their colors Their height Their thickness Their meaningfulness The Radio attached to the wall plays Beethoven The Flower Shop is full of Insects Flowers Beethoven and White Painted Walls and a Girl Who waters the flowers Who goes outside to smoke her 100's Who sees the Flowers die Rust brown and gray bending towards the ground The Flower Shop Girl Shooting up ****** While Laying on the Flower Shop's hardwood floor freshly swept next to the Amaranthine flower filled with insects *Beethoven Sonata No.14 Movement No.3*

47

Catherine's Tango Quiet moonless night lit only by the libido of a white cigarette Do not Do not be a poet propose to a woman and die with children on your Denim Soul'd Lap I am giving up I am disfiguring my Rifle I am unwashed clothes tucked into the corner of the bed where You and She and He and You sleep make love speech listen to the radio when it gives premarital birth to Jazz C-section when the radio sticks its finger down its electrical throat attached to the wall and Digests Classical Master Pieces of Symphonies I am 1:42am an orange pill 2 pennies 3 quarters a dime a nickel molding yogurt a face sprouting weeds a body blooming old age Tip Toe unlock my golden halted door to a chamber of Lamps that bend and sigh only to leave you quite sad quite misplaced in the sand asking for water but all we have is cold coffee it has been sitting out for 2 waltz all of the ceiling's light bulbs are awake chattering quietly like 5am suburbia birds Pigeons Crows The one eyed red robin coasting south for a warm nest watch out Lovers are here to stay they carry knives and ****** bouquets

0

Apr 23, 2013

Apr 23, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC

Robert Schumann

Catherine's Tango Quiet moonless night lit only by the libido of a white cigarette Do not Do not be a poet propose to a woman and die with children on your Denim Soul'd Lap I am giving up I am disfiguring my Rifle I am unwashed clothes tucked into the corner of the bed where You and She and He and You sleep make love speech listen to the radio when it gives premarital birth to Jazz C-section when the radio sticks its finger down its electrical throat attached to the wall and Digests Classical Master Pieces of Symphonies I am 1:42am an orange pill 2 pennies 3 quarters a dime a nickel molding yogurt a face sprouting weeds a body blooming old age Tip Toe unlock my golden halted door to a chamber of Lamps that bend and sigh only to leave you quite sad quite misplaced in the sand asking for water but all we have is cold coffee it has been sitting out for 2 waltz all of the ceiling's light bulbs are awake chattering quietly like 5am suburbia birds Pigeons Crows The one eyed red robin coasting south for a warm nest watch out Lovers are here to stay they carry knives and ****** bouquets

60

Basquiat poetry coffee grains in my teeth and dreams I wake up to the walls in speech recollect drunken journeys Emma the girl who sits at your window sill mourning the death of night's child:rain and it is September or either August I am lost in a booklet of ancient nobles Upstairs reading mythology drinking ***** brewed by patients of poverty Piano skin and noises leak into the fire place all alone There is no more Time only windows that shine only windows that are dark only women that lay naked on my bed and kiss me Do not worry I am not here writing these rusty poems as I slowly push them into the sides of your eyes Shakespeare eyeball Ginsberg Navajo Gas station clerk high on crack ******* I give her money she gives me a smile a pack of Marlboro cigarettes that stench up the church hiding the smells of sad prophets cheap wine and oyster crackers 85 cents for off-brand large bag Adam and Eve clock time forget sleeve *** spoon food coffe-table Death moving in down stairs room 103 or was that the opiates crawling into the tree veins roots wooden finger tips of my body of my soul of my bulb of my Skeleton that is colored like you Termites mistook a dying flower for a limb of a tree that grew sideways too avoid the hum buzz of Vehicle Highway I-435 Kansas Age 400 and 3 Child at birth Man at death oh how the seasons brew into a facade oh how the ***** sleeps with me I make her coffee 3am we smell of smoke and tired souls pointing at the color red as we take lefts and rights into a city into bowels of streets and sighing police men and sighing homeless I take off her clothes and she falls apart like pedals attached by scotch tape to a rose Nothing it Rains Nothing it is Cold Hello We are the Nothings and we sit alone on bar stools too high and our knees are bruised from praying to the bartender to pour one more Whiskey Yet we drank it all and the juke box is broken so we listen to Homosexual men fuckin' City Cough Everybody has lung cancer or is walking to a 24/7 grave yard Will I be buried with you? I ask a mouse climbing on my walls to catch a roach But he says nothing and the roach escapes only to reply with “Yes, you and I.” my mouth gutters “And he and she.” and the Rat complies “And sometimes Why.” Get another drink April Angel casting a shadow into a lake of bass and crawdads “Geh me ahnothur dreeenk” drunk lingo speech *** *** *** Fill your bucket mind with spatulas Broken television screens the toe nails of angels Piano Keys Spit into a well Spit into the wine 500 dollars a bottles or 6,154 pesos make a wish make a diamond make steak make wool make love My starving father filling up on the apples of Vice Number 3 lights a cigarette in the dark and the shadow glimmer dance of her Eyelashes cheekbones and Eye bones and lip bones are projected onto the cement wall an art show a Ballet suicide attempt a winter experiment on the Indians of North America Ride a Train Rise of Tides Ruthless Killer Ruthy big breasted girl in my dreams dancing about a fire that I built from old paintings of my Grandfather as Kansas was spilled like hot chocolate milk “Get up” “and where are you” “can't you tell it is 1am” “why has the clock mistaken me for someone who cares” “lover” “where are you going” “the river is too cold” “you will die like Hemingway did” “you will die” “i will die” “Hemingway will die” “but not tonight” Shakespeare. Tapping on my window. He gives me. A pill. We take a bus too New Orleans. And visit the grave of William. Cold coffee Caramel popcorn Southern Cut Marlboro Telephone Lampshade crooked asking attempting Under my eyes engravings of a crescent moon from gazing up on so many nights

0

Apr 23, 2013

Apr 23, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC

Form is dead 3 minutes and 3 seconds

Basquiat poetry coffee grains in my teeth and dreams I wake up to the walls in speech recollect drunken journeys Emma the girl who sits at your window sill mourning the death of night's child:rain and it is September or either August I am lost in a booklet of ancient nobles Upstairs reading mythology drinking ***** brewed by patients of poverty Piano skin and noises leak into the fire place all alone There is no more Time only windows that shine only windows that are dark only women that lay naked on my bed and kiss me Do not worry I am not here writing these rusty poems as I slowly push them into the sides of your eyes Shakespeare eyeball Ginsberg Navajo Gas station clerk high on crack ******* I give her money she gives me a smile a pack of Marlboro cigarettes that stench up the church hiding the smells of sad prophets cheap wine and oyster crackers 85 cents for off-brand large bag Adam and Eve clock time forget sleeve *** spoon food coffe-table Death moving in down stairs room 103 or was that the opiates crawling into the tree veins roots wooden finger tips of my body of my soul of my bulb of my Skeleton that is colored like you Termites mistook a dying flower for a limb of a tree that grew sideways too avoid the hum buzz of Vehicle Highway I-435 Kansas Age 400 and 3 Child at birth Man at death oh how the seasons brew into a facade oh how the ***** sleeps with me I make her coffee 3am we smell of smoke and tired souls pointing at the color red as we take lefts and rights into a city into bowels of streets and sighing police men and sighing homeless I take off her clothes and she falls apart like pedals attached by scotch tape to a rose Nothing it Rains Nothing it is Cold Hello We are the Nothings and we sit alone on bar stools too high and our knees are bruised from praying to the bartender to pour one more Whiskey Yet we drank it all and the juke box is broken so we listen to Homosexual men fuckin' City Cough Everybody has lung cancer or is walking to a 24/7 grave yard Will I be buried with you? I ask a mouse climbing on my walls to catch a roach But he says nothing and the roach escapes only to reply with “Yes, you and I.” my mouth gutters “And he and she.” and the Rat complies “And sometimes Why.” Get another drink April Angel casting a shadow into a lake of bass and crawdads “Geh me ahnothur dreeenk” drunk lingo speech *** *** *** Fill your bucket mind with spatulas Broken television screens the toe nails of angels Piano Keys Spit into a well Spit into the wine 500 dollars a bottles or 6,154 pesos make a wish make a diamond make steak make wool make love My starving father filling up on the apples of Vice Number 3 lights a cigarette in the dark and the shadow glimmer dance of her Eyelashes cheekbones and Eye bones and lip bones are projected onto the cement wall an art show a Ballet suicide attempt a winter experiment on the Indians of North America Ride a Train Rise of Tides Ruthless Killer Ruthy big breasted girl in my dreams dancing about a fire that I built from old paintings of my Grandfather as Kansas was spilled like hot chocolate milk “Get up” “and where are you” “can't you tell it is 1am” “why has the clock mistaken me for someone who cares” “lover” “where are you going” “the river is too cold” “you will die like Hemingway did” “you will die” “i will die” “Hemingway will die” “but not tonight” Shakespeare. Tapping on my window. He gives me. A pill. We take a bus too New Orleans. And visit the grave of William. Cold coffee Caramel popcorn Southern Cut Marlboro Telephone Lampshade crooked asking attempting Under my eyes engravings of a crescent moon from gazing up on so many nights

185

Journey through an empty house Emma Your Middle name grows on the footsteps of the mice crawling up the neck back bone of the chimney a dinner table eaten by the termites Either I or Michael the III sits on the window sill counting the rain drops that tap to the syllables of your name My typewriter sighs like your mother leaning on a wet window sill journey through an empty house in the middle of no where outside rains on the fields of tobacco stores pastel rusted orange lipstick molded Volkswagen parts a few rubber tires ****** Indian Cadillac Van Nostalgia Highway Bandit Opus Utopia Moonlight Sonata Father Movement No. 1 and as my leather wool toes and toenails and heart and lungs and nostrils and Ceramic eye ***** painted to match the Season of Tornadoes creak through an empty house where music is not played and the wallpaper is peeling off like fake eyelashes on a ***** stuck in driveway Main performance TONIGHT! Rain and the cheap perfume of making love as the carpet doesn't move doesn't budge like Grandmothers Tomb Beethoven! Beethoven! I am dipping your piano instrument notes into the fire Beethoven! Beethoven! The moon is so quiet she stares at me and the wooden buttons of my gasoline washed swede stolen jacket falls off Look in here there is nothing but hardwood floors a few windows letting in the monotone gaze of the night swaying wheat fields crawling up the eyesight sleeve In my peripheral Highway Highway Highway To the Ocean To an empty house that bends when the sky yawns like a dying old old old man as he sits in his crooked rocking chair that a mexican Boy welded together with twigs and coffee mug pieces the empty house its skeleton shows like a sick dog as it walks the endless boundless streets of a city where the lights are kept on too keep away the thieves but the moths and other unidentified insects flutter around the Bulb like gnats over a man's sweaty face its skeleton shows copper wiring electrical entrails the bowels the wood keeping the roof up the insulation the concrete and the bricks like decapitated teeth An empty house is not so empty There is still the left-over hum of a family of nights of windows open letting in the Summer breath There is still the hardwood floor that creaks like the chipping paint of an old bench painted white There Is still the bathroom sink molding like the aging face of a wrinkling man There is still the windows letting in a slight breeze you can smell the rain the rusted locomotive limbs of discontinued Trains

0

Apr 22, 2013

Apr 22, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC

Adam and Catherine's Tango

Journey through an empty house Emma Your Middle name grows on the footsteps of the mice crawling up the neck back bone of the chimney a dinner table eaten by the termites Either I or Michael the III sits on the window sill counting the rain drops that tap to the syllables of your name My typewriter sighs like your mother leaning on a wet window sill journey through an empty house in the middle of no where outside rains on the fields of tobacco stores pastel rusted orange lipstick molded Volkswagen parts a few rubber tires ****** Indian Cadillac Van Nostalgia Highway Bandit Opus Utopia Moonlight Sonata Father Movement No. 1 and as my leather wool toes and toenails and heart and lungs and nostrils and Ceramic eye ***** painted to match the Season of Tornadoes creak through an empty house where music is not played and the wallpaper is peeling off like fake eyelashes on a ***** stuck in driveway Main performance TONIGHT! Rain and the cheap perfume of making love as the carpet doesn't move doesn't budge like Grandmothers Tomb Beethoven! Beethoven! I am dipping your piano instrument notes into the fire Beethoven! Beethoven! The moon is so quiet she stares at me and the wooden buttons of my gasoline washed swede stolen jacket falls off Look in here there is nothing but hardwood floors a few windows letting in the monotone gaze of the night swaying wheat fields crawling up the eyesight sleeve In my peripheral Highway Highway Highway To the Ocean To an empty house that bends when the sky yawns like a dying old old old man as he sits in his crooked rocking chair that a mexican Boy welded together with twigs and coffee mug pieces the empty house its skeleton shows like a sick dog as it walks the endless boundless streets of a city where the lights are kept on too keep away the thieves but the moths and other unidentified insects flutter around the Bulb like gnats over a man's sweaty face its skeleton shows copper wiring electrical entrails the bowels the wood keeping the roof up the insulation the concrete and the bricks like decapitated teeth An empty house is not so empty There is still the left-over hum of a family of nights of windows open letting in the Summer breath There is still the hardwood floor that creaks like the chipping paint of an old bench painted white There Is still the bathroom sink molding like the aging face of a wrinkling man There is still the windows letting in a slight breeze you can smell the rain the rusted locomotive limbs of discontinued Trains

100

Let Death be spontaneous as will I Shakespeare I am a little boy drawing the midnight wings of a moth that I saw in my dreams on the damp window of a nomadic van crossing the sea of a limbo AM highway 1993 Mother mystery night crossing Texan dirt roads high grass I am laying with my black lab Death is a wild animal birthed in the sands of a desert that I traveled **** holding the Bible holding Hemingway holding a sternum of poems to keep me weighted from the sky In a vision In a vision As a boy Crossing the life span of a symphony Crossing the life span of a musical note of a man growing old under a highway neck drinking my whiskey from my Camel Wise palm I am grace I am Evil I am the Devil's brother scribbling war paint on the bathroom walls of Latin American 24/7 Neon Churches Blessed with a passion Blessed with a vision Blessed with the Night on my back that slants like the sunrise that slants like the eyes of a widow'd mother of a widow'd goddess of a widow'd song of a widow'd night of a widow'd Boy stretched out on the Lawn of a rich man Who sleeps with silk and hope And I I am a child Exploring the tiny beauties of things that do not happen I open the swede coffin of imagination of foot steps of Beethoven's finger tips I climb the roof of Death's condo of Death's shack of Death's Widow'd cat LifeX70 if you are lucky Emma girl with black hair hair like sleep On a Violin On a Piano's back On a Dog's color blind eyeball Let Death be spontaneous I will wait for him in my stained sweater holding a bottle of wine for the two of us I know he won't say much like the pavement I will offer him a glass Where does the poet go when he dies Does Death favor him Does he let him become a bird or a crooked lamp post that shimmers that shines Like Youth once did Highway child Nomadic boy falling in love listening to the shapes listening to the wrinkling skin listening to the story for ****** in a symphony Aging night leaning on my window I would offer you a cigarette I would offer you inside But I know your tricks I know that the moon is awake When does the poem stop When the poet stops writing or when the truth is lost There is a Cicada following me like rain on her long hair as she walks to a river There are too many books poetry too many lamps that wont let me sleep too many poems I have stained too many nights I have lived Like a Moth or a wandering bull through a cities lights I ask April to stop the rain I can hear scraps from the storm falling into the flower *** where nothing grows Let Death be spontaneous and I will study the rain

0

Apr 18, 2013

Apr 18, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC

Let Death be spontaneous

Let Death be spontaneous as will I Shakespeare I am a little boy drawing the midnight wings of a moth that I saw in my dreams on the damp window of a nomadic van crossing the sea of a limbo AM highway 1993 Mother mystery night crossing Texan dirt roads high grass I am laying with my black lab Death is a wild animal birthed in the sands of a desert that I traveled **** holding the Bible holding Hemingway holding a sternum of poems to keep me weighted from the sky In a vision In a vision As a boy Crossing the life span of a symphony Crossing the life span of a musical note of a man growing old under a highway neck drinking my whiskey from my Camel Wise palm I am grace I am Evil I am the Devil's brother scribbling war paint on the bathroom walls of Latin American 24/7 Neon Churches Blessed with a passion Blessed with a vision Blessed with the Night on my back that slants like the sunrise that slants like the eyes of a widow'd mother of a widow'd goddess of a widow'd song of a widow'd night of a widow'd Boy stretched out on the Lawn of a rich man Who sleeps with silk and hope And I I am a child Exploring the tiny beauties of things that do not happen I open the swede coffin of imagination of foot steps of Beethoven's finger tips I climb the roof of Death's condo of Death's shack of Death's Widow'd cat LifeX70 if you are lucky Emma girl with black hair hair like sleep On a Violin On a Piano's back On a Dog's color blind eyeball Let Death be spontaneous I will wait for him in my stained sweater holding a bottle of wine for the two of us I know he won't say much like the pavement I will offer him a glass Where does the poet go when he dies Does Death favor him Does he let him become a bird or a crooked lamp post that shimmers that shines Like Youth once did Highway child Nomadic boy falling in love listening to the shapes listening to the wrinkling skin listening to the story for ****** in a symphony Aging night leaning on my window I would offer you a cigarette I would offer you inside But I know your tricks I know that the moon is awake When does the poem stop When the poet stops writing or when the truth is lost There is a Cicada following me like rain on her long hair as she walks to a river There are too many books poetry too many lamps that wont let me sleep too many poems I have stained too many nights I have lived Like a Moth or a wandering bull through a cities lights I ask April to stop the rain I can hear scraps from the storm falling into the flower *** where nothing grows Let Death be spontaneous and I will study the rain

126