(fear
drives
the heart
of man
but love
crashes the car
for the
insurance
money)

the truth
is not so much
a thing
but a
symphony-
that bounces
off walls
and changes
shape,
and the
honesty
is found
in the space
between

The fire
Drank my beer
As I slept
In the embers

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

"Stop trying
to explain yourself,
have a little dignity."
this is what a
homeless man
said to me
while he was
*******
on a
sidewalk
in the middle
of town

I was on the street
with the college down a bit
at a bar where no one had been to college
where I had once seen a girl,
a beautiful piece of ***
in a red dress
she moved around the bar like a waitress
going from table to table,
smiling
a beautiful piece of ***
in that red dress
each time she would lean over a table
I would catch a glimpse;
a tight young body
squeezed
into that red dress
and the men would laugh
and the women would frown
until the whole bar was focused
on that beautiful piece of ***
in that red dress
I never saw her again,
at the bar down the street from the college
where no one had been to college,
but I still remember that
beautiful piece of ***
covered by that red dress

(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

I feel like a liar
when I type words
that don't have much
meaning beyond their meaning,
but,
when the fire
burns out
and I fall back,
asleep,
these words
are simply letters
strewn together
on a computer screen
on a wednesday night
on a couch
in a room
near an ocean

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

I studied profound
Toilet stalls full of wisdom
And cried for human

there have
always been
conservative extremists,
except now
they have
the means
to destroy
the entire world,
and ruin all
that they
have worked
so hard
to preserve --
yesterday
I saw a
child pick  
a flower
and eat it.

Corso told me that
there are levels to
this [poetry] thing:
talent; genius;
Divine,
"Ok," I said
and put a gun
in my mouth,
"Wait, wait!" he said,
"What are you doing?"
"Joining the divine," I said.

Courage is what you get
when you imagine fear
while it's tucked away
snug in your garrett
surrounded by doubt
and tiny walls
that disappear
entirely when looking
down the barrel of a .45
which isn't long
and isn't expensive
and is the most common
gun in the country

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

Everyone, living
or dead,
is Genius
though not that
many realize it
and even less
do anything with it
but once in a while
the cards line up
and the hand is played
and all the world can
do is sit back in awe,
give up a few chips
and shuffle the deck

the female is confined;
a fly in a moving car
and rain falls
and snow falls
and one by one
the female dies
as she is released
into earth and into
rivers and onto creek beds
and one by one
tadpoles become frogs and eat flies
before they become stuck
in moving cars

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

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
And god smiles my face
And god still cries for
His Muse,
I'm glad you died
When you did
Before it all changed
And We lost the momentum
And replaced it
With sleep

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

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

god is at the top of a bottle
of single malt whiskey
in that first sip
(and the second)
and the liver
slowly absorbs
what it can
and the angels speak
and god speaks
sweet waves of
ecstasy that
vibrate
until the dark
consumes what's left
of the day

I spent all my cash
on a stripper named Gypsy,
but we vibrated
and now
beams of light
shine from my chest

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

how?
how do you ****?
how, when the blade
or gun or blunt object
is fresh in your hand
gripping and perspiring angst
through palms and fingertips,
how do you come down
on flesh and muscle and tendons
blood breath and pulse
hopes loves and dreams
hates dispositions and fear,
crippling fear,
minuscule frets and
fleeting concerns?
how?
how do you end a life?
how, in you darkest hour
of pain and anger and hopeless suffering
of debilitating sorrow and absolute hate
how do you destroy
what was
what is
what could have been
what you did not create
what is not yours to disassemble?
god is not a person or a presence
but a sense of knowing
that you will never know
how

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

i used
to hate
god's face
until i
saw it
reflected
in a puddle

I flew to see her in Chicago, went out for dinner and hopped a train to South Bend the next evening. We brought ***** and whiskey to keep us company on the short ride along the lake. That night we made love, I mean really made love; both reaching ****** simultaneously. My prowess was there, in spades, but we slept instead. The morning greeted me with a ******* and she another ******. My prowess turned to hubris but I said nothing aside from, “Wow.”
The day, a Saturday, was spent touring the campus; a beautiful one at that, my favorite. I acted as tour guide while she abided courteously; I had the day, the girl, the nostalgia. There was a football game and we decided to go; the home team versus their oldest and most hated rivals, a must see. We yelled and screamed at the away team until they lost; beating themselves really. In the ecstasy of victory we promptly returned to the house and to bed. Again we made love, again simultaneous ******. I felt a deep, heavy connection, a longing. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep but the night was cold and long and my breathing too slow to match hers. For hours I sat and let my arm go numb until I could stand it no longer and went for a glass of water.
In the morning we made love again, she reaching ******, me with a feigned smile. The day was spent with my father’s family, an unexpected detour. She was affable, me benign, and the day went on until we boarded the train once more, this time sober. We discussed my next visit, or rather attempted to as the conversation turned to politics, welfare, humanity. As I left for the plane I told her that I loved her and she said, “Goodbye.”

one last ****,
one last good ****
before you go and realize
your worth
while a rough and tumble
****** still suffices
before you die ten times or more
and live in the skin of another
and while I can still have you
and you, me
if only for a night

I like to imagine
Wordsworth or
Keats as a
twenty-five year
old disheveled
drunk with a
beach town
degree,
struggling against
struggling, hiding
away from life
in the confines of
a classroom

I looked to the West
with strained neck
and weary eyes
where roads stretch
over hard ground
and boots cover
beat-up toes from
industry from nature
from time and the
morning starts before
the dawn in the starry
mourning ours of the
midwest skies that
keep going, further
than humanity, and
tomorrow is a lifetime
and lead paint is the
only god you need
aside from the warm
solitude of another
struggle that eats at
your brain but sings
your heart in the tune
of the wind that howls
through your being--
straight through to
the other bitter side--
and in that thin line
that separates god
from man and stretches
clean through to the coast
I saw a purity of thought
and of being in the very
struggle of the sun
over that ridge that
seemed to strangle
the earth like a necktie
and I saw the spirit
of the spirit, the old
one, the first one
******* and bound
with hopes and dreams
and furniture and gold
and television chords and
bits of blue cheese, bibles,
and bad skin and so forth
and the whole scene made
me sick until I puked up
all that I had swallowed
in my youth and my
stomach was anew and
fresh and filled with sunlight
from the horizon that went
on into the forever where
poets rest their brains
and god sits and reads
Bukowski to the angels

"Indulge in
that which
gives you
either
pleasure
or pain,
anything
in between
is a waste
of time,"
I heard these
words uttered,
by whom is
irrelevant

I destroyed that
which I sought
to understand

when I last lied on
the floor and the
song changed to
Monk's 'Midnight' and the
drunk was in pitch
my soul stood up,
made love to
the air and
took liberties
with my alcohol --

when I last lied on
the floor and the
song changed to
Monk's 'Midnight' and the
drunk was in pitch
my soul stood up,
made love to
the air and
took liberties
with my alcohol --

alcohol gives
short periods
of drunkenness
followed by long
periods of contrast,
but in that drunkenness
god whispers
insanity in
your ear
and you
smile

grab crazy
from twisted minds
and hurl handfuls
onto brick walls
and watch passersby
cringe and cry out
in agony, seize their
sanity like a gun
and shoot wild
into the night

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

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."

My frustration told me
That madness would
Answer my prayer but
I tried going mad,
Screaming Holy! in
Acred forests
Grabbing at atmospheric
Redemption and sunlight forgiveness
I tried going mad
Waving lone **** heartache
In crowds of closed-box
Timid hurt,
"I'm sorry I'm sorry!"
I tried going mad
Dancing barstool homeless
Through heavenly hallways
Laughing insanity,
"Take my eyes!"
I tried going mad
Cursing schoolhouse process-plant
Ideology and worship
"Where is the FDA when
You need them?"
I tried going mad
        In streets of gold
With hungry hungry
Empty sick blindness
Taunting me, "Get a job!"
I tried going mad
With Poe and Shelley and
Thomas and Wilde
All howling humanity
All singing Patriam
I tried going mad
        In type,
Even seeing briefly
Line/break suicide
On liquid crystal display  
Oh! I tried going mad
But my soul dragged me
To earthcore wisdom and
Vibrated my atomic scaffolding
Immaculate

I gave some
college students
a poem about dignity,
I said they wouldn't like it;
they put it on a wall
in the cafeteria
and gave me an award,
"ok," I said,
"I can take a joke."

It's that good one
That really good one
That plucks heaven
From scripture
And barstools jesus,
By god it's a wonderful
Wonderful something!
That blessed something
From the east rolling hills of nowhere
And big breasted hopeful Bliss
God bless god bless
Holy! Holy! Holy!
The one, the beautiful one
That nirvana heard
That glorious Perception of Love
On weary beat down minds
Well gee, I think
God stopped for this One
To gasp in disbelief, sing
Holy! Holy! Holy!
And the angels
What else but angelic

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

life, sometimes,
is like being on a
busy road with no car;
on one side is sobriety
the other insanity
and the median is
small enough
to **** you

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

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

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

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 have nothing
in particular
to write
yet,
feel the need
to let my fingers
run over the keys,
pretend I am C.B.
and press a few
until something
starts to form
out of the subconscious
that lies behind these
drunken eyes and
irrepressible grin

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

looking both ways
on my street with houses lining it
leading to more houses and dead ends
with front porches overlooking culdesacs,
culdesacs with front porches on dead ends
watching Letterman
no, Leno.
Leno gets a lot of ****
but he has his crowd,
and they all live on my street
leading to nowhere and culdesacs