Mexican beer
on hot days
like today
puts Hemingway
above Byron,
but only by
the skin
of a lime.

there are cobwebs above
my bed,
and not in a metaphorical
sense
I’m staring up at them
and they mean something
really
or they should
I should care
and I do
but my head is
half buzzed
and four a.m. is
a couple of
blinks away and
well
the walls are the right shade
of clay
like the word Arizona
and the crickets are trilling
songs
on violin spurs
as the ceiling slips away
and my eyes are heavy with
desert
and the cobwebs
endure
another poem

it’s been a while
but now I remember how
the keys feel
like a trigger
and I’m Clint Eastwood

in the basement of a mansion  .

no, nevermind

I'm glad you died
By the train tracks
In Mexico, alone
With the lizards and
Horned toads
When you did,
When the mood
Was High and
The momentum
Rolled in your favor,
I'm glad you died
When you did
Before rock n' roll again
And again and disco
And no Jazz, no bop
And waves crashed
And undertoe tore at Tired,
I'm glad you died
When you did
With movement, with power
And you should hear 'em
Talk about you and the boys
With ancient lips and Beautiful
I'm glad you died
When you did
Before it all changed
And They took away
Want and replaced it
With electronic death

Truth is what we tell the air when we
    are alone
Anyone that's ever been alive share
    these holy atoms
Love is their vibration
Let your molecules accept the
    movement
Vibrate and hum holy
Hum hum hum until the day breaks,
    and then try a little harder tomorrow

We're too afraid of being caught
To truly go insane with love
Our eyes are transmitters of love
But somewhere along the way,
   the mirror stole the show

Humanity is rarely required of us,
      but is necessary for survival
We are our own death in retrospect
Talk to yourself through the voice of
      another
And dream your life in real time

I keep trying
to finish my
beer but
Miles is playing
Homs with Damascus
on deck like
Green in Blue in
Bashar
and the conservatives,
that is, the Muslim ones
or rather
the extremist ones
that is, ****
there’s good people
dying to a machine gun
bass line
‘dada doo da’
‘dada doo da’
and they all want
the guy gone
but we’re just playing
White Christmas on repeat
trying to drown out
the bass line
but it keeps bumpin’
‘dada doo da’
‘dada doo da’
so I finally take a sip
but it’s sour and
flat and the bass line
is bumpin’ my elbows
and pulling’ at my chest
‘dada doo da’
‘dada doo da’
with a C-4 concerto
that makes Bach
seem irrelevant
and Mozart a spoiled
brat, my god
it’s a sink-hole in
Dm, the last one
on the album that
makes you think,
“Why did they let
this happen?”
‘Dada doo da’
‘Dada doo da’
Oh boy!
It’s enough to really
hang your hat on,
but that’s for another
generation to wonder,
Me-
I’ve got this beer to
finish and the record
keeps skipping
‘dada doo da’
‘dada doo da’

I was in
a relationship,
now I'm not
(insert poem)
The End

Drunken couch corners
feet up head back
late night slow jazz playing
****** ****** ******
give me more give me that
sound
I need that sound
like the sky needs blue

Forest, rivers and oceans
couldn't hold what one note
can
And that slow drum
like Alexander into Egypt,
Give a man an instrument
and he'll show you God

"I don't belong here,"
Wollstonecraft must have said
As the Laudanum
Chased her eyelids

Three caged birds
On the back of a truck
Headed south to Smithfield

I know I
shouldn't write
anything down
but it's hard not
to
god is in it,
a bit
what I mean
is that creating
goes hand in hand
with satori
maybe it's good
to write down
what feels like
that word for the
unexplainable,
important
all-in-all
everything,
god that is
but that's not
what this poem
is about
it's about a cat
I saw on
the sidewalk in
the rain
last tuesday
waiting for mice

the rain came
down in patches,
sidewards and
misshapen

words are
poor conveyers
of what is locked
up in the very most
center of my brain
or I'm just full of it,
either way it
feels like something
is in there that wants
out

After sixteen
hours on
your feet
Pabst Blue
Ribbon treats
you better than
a two hundred
dollar ******,
"keep your hands
off," she said
"get away from
my beer," I said
and the other used-
up souls in my
apartment building
began their own slip
into dreams of
suicide and release,
only to wake
the next day
groggy and hungover
but alive

In this world
You can be a
Dreamer or
Be in another's
Dream,
Or, like the
Best of us,
Exist outside
The dream,
Dreamer and
Entire concept,
Creating out of
Pure unadulterated
Joy and excitement

Old dreamers
As extras
Lifting few
On high
As crows
Pick at
Sunflowers
In a field
Behind the set

back to
wine and
stained
shirts

Eating canned
Goods drunk
On a Wednesday
Evening or a
Dog rooting through
Yesterday's garbage,
We are weeds
In the grass,
And the fences
Are covered with 'em.

Write while popping
Pimples and your
Work will acquire
The aggression and
Self loathing that
It needs

Time demands
A lot of man:
To be on top
Of the world
One day
And have to
Repeat success
Until death
(And even after,
If you're lucky)
Time is a
Runaway heart
Or Thomas digging
Fingers in Jesus'
Open wound

Jesus Christ! I've
never seen so
many ants in
all of Africa
let alone in an
office building,
and on a beautiful
spring Tuesday when
the flowers smell
like god

Go away-
go away and
let me regroup,
every time I think
I have it, really have
it, someone speaks
or the phone rings
and it's all lost-
all lost and forgotten
and the spark dims
and somewhere a
small man smiles
and you want to
rip it all out of ya
and start over
as a crane
in a pond

The rain's
falling again
playing its
usual sonata
but this time I
listen and listen
good
each drop's got
a different pitch
based on the
distance from the
ear to the site
of the drop which
came half a mile
from the upper troposphere
down to the particular part
of earth close enough to
resonate past the
ear drums trying
to capture the
sounds that overwhelm
the soul on a drunk
Thursday evening
with the window
open and the blinds
drawn
just a little

the unnatural crane
lifts its long neck
to the glass sky
and cries out for death

Frenzied fingers
On a Thursday
morning around 8
Or a heron
Stepping through
The orange sun

Drug down and
Tired and the
Pinch in the
Lower left corner
Of my back is
Enough to call
It quits

Waited up all
Night for a
Bloodmoon
But the clouds
Cauterized the
Gaping sky

(To be read while listening to Thelonious Monk's "I Didn't Know That About You")

I might wake up
tomorrow
I might get dressed
and attend classes
I might even finish the work
that is due, and
I might graduate
in a few months and then
I might get a good job, you know
and make enough to be comfortable, then
I might meet a nice girl
and take her out a few times, yeah
I might get up the courage to kiss
that girl and make love to her, well
I might stick around a while
and see where it goes, but
I might ***** it up some how
and send her crying and
I might get low down at a bar
up the street
I might have a few drinks and
try to forget her, and
I might have a hard time coping
without her but
I might get along anyway and
start writing again
I might let the years go by rather
quickly and
I might get old before I do anything
about it and, well
I might get sick and die in an apartment
alone with the heat on, yeah
I might do a lot of things and
I might just sit and let the record play
a little longer

Some
times I
fear
castration
is the
only way

Ah yes, a
poem about
love loss
and confused
intention
yes, it seems
that some of
us don't see
the orchids in
the garden shaking
what they got,
Oh! to be a flower
in spring

Yes yes yes
I have seen
I have seen and
must tell someone
yes Yes yes
and oh how they
rose up out of the
very ground that I am
on now and you must
be on also
Plato too and Alexander
DaVinci Shakespeare
and the rest,
same quality of earth
same zig zag shape
of snaking rolling
prologues and epitaphs
and it goes and goes
yes yes Yes
life on this
life on that thing unknown
bouncing bubbling
hereandthere life
good life half life
people takin' it and
running life
and the down down
down life,
yes
and don't forget the downbrother
and sister
on a bad no good
trip or trippin'
over someone else's
trip, yeah
somebody's got it in their
back pocket yeah everybody's
got it but nobody wants to
play it
oh boy oh boy
what can ya do when
everything is up and down
and down and out
all at the same time
and you've been smacked by
heaven forgetting some poor
guy down the road
dyin' for a nickel,
well I got nothin' for it
but to spill-
spill it all out
here
"I'm sorry, I really am"
but you don't want sorry
sorry doesn't taste like
dignity apple pie
fresh out of
the ephemeral oven
no
no no
sorry tastes bitter
like a lemon
in the sun,
well what's a guy
to do with that
other than pluck
a fresh one from
the fridge and try
to slow the day

well,
here it is
I'm drunk,
Shitgriningly
Drunk on 40 oz
Beers and reading
Byron

don't make art
don't even take
that first sip of
ephemeral joy
because no one
wants it
NO ONE WANTS IT
and you know that but
never really know
until you try to sell
your soul and there
is no buyer
NO ONE WANTS IT
repeat that until you
can accept it and stream
consciousness for
no one but yourself

beer beer
beer! its always
about alcohol
with you!
ahh yes but
on occasion I
also write

The fire
Drank my beer
As I slept
In the embers

I often ponder madness,
Like something deserved
I wait for Insane
And the gratification
Of sheer madness
When you see them,
Hear them
You know who you are
You know what they are
You know for certain it's happened
You know nothing for sure
Only that you want assurance
And the want keeps complacency at bay
Keeps you guessing
Keeps you hoping
I often ponder madness
When walking back-straight
Upright and taught to the counter
Of the unemployment office

Ghoulish ghoulish ghoulish!
I don't recognize
These days
I don't want to,
My brain bleeds
That heavenly sounding
Touch of god
That taste of the divine
That "ohh yeah,"
Good good good!
Feel it man!
It's in there deep
Like some sort of
Code-written karma,
But it's bleedin' out
And fast

On the walk home
Through the park
The one that
Used to have birds
I saw an ad
And another
And two more
The last one selling advice
About buying insurance
Which made Whitman cry rain
Into my beer,

   *When the unnecessary
    Becomes convenient,
    Less than nothing
    Has been accomplished

Kept out of bars
On St. Paddy's Day
With a thirst from
Here to Ireland
But the bench
Is at a 120˚ angle
Which allows the moon
To remain in your view
While looking across the ocean

I like your
Poem and I'll
Use of it
What I need
And toss the
Rest
Or steal it,
Doesn't matter
As long as I
Ascend

One summer
I travelled up over
Around and through
This great mass of land
Neatly divided into 50 separate
        And a couple picked up along
        The way
And just when I had seen enough
Resting my eyes at a diner in West
        Hills, NY
              -the one with the Red
               cushioned seats that still
               smell like leaves of grass-
An angel, a fallen cherub a shining
       Shimmering cousin of Christ!
Poured my coffee
As I tried my best to focus my eyes
And grab a glimpse
       (My god I could feel her!)
Of what I knew was surely heaven
       In disguise
And I squinted and she smiled
And my heart exploded a billion plus
       Light fragments back into the
       Atmospheric beginning
And I, humbled,
       Apologized for the mess
But she just smiled New Jersey
      Past the pines
      On down to New Orleans
      And across 1845
      Up to '49 Frisco
      And back through
      Theicyflatwinds
      Down marked twains
      And Great Ohio
As I entered the 51st State

The poet's song
Was sung in print and
Heard by the carpenter
Who sang into wood
A song of perfection
And the wood sang
Of seventy-three rings
And winters lasted
Heard by the poet:

"I heard a treefall
Echoed in the valley that,
Caught by the buildings
Was heard by the children
Who hummed in their sleep
A song of innocence
That radiated Beauty
Seen by the angels
And envied by god."

I spoke in vain
To a rather coy daffodil
Commenting such,
"Excuse me for saying,"
    "But you look lovely today."
And I, as if expecting response,
     Allowed silence;
(Reciprocated by the daffodil)
"Yes," I said, "Save your words."

Thursday night beers
Spill onto the bed
For a bit of the old
Rough and tumble,
A quick word with
The angels
And home in time
To really tie one on
As the jazz
Plays somewhere
For someone in love
With a note and
Dying slowly for
The beat, playing their
Story and the story of
The cosmos,
And heaven is there
And you are there
In a red dress and
A smile that starts
Somewhere beyond
Polaris

He's typing again
About god and the angels
And nonsense
He's always typing
Always murmuring nothing,
Once in a while
I wish he'd get some rest
So I can be alone
And ponder world peace
-Brain

A drink to commitments
A drink to routine
A drink to supposed to
A drink to should
A drink to order
A drink to loops and loops and
A drink to losing
A drink to forgetting
Another to forgetting
Another to remember
A drink to sadness
A drink to the Little
A drink for sorry
A drink for appearances
A drink not to care
A drink to see god
Another to see better
A third to enter heaven!
A fourth to submit
A fifth to disappear
Another just for luck
And the rest are for us

Most people can
Live to 75
80 if you really
Want to and
Have the means
I never thought
I would make it
As far;
I have played my
Knees Monk
My lungs Gillespie
My **** Morrison
And my heart Davis
Kind of Blue on repeat