What incredible
Passion or
Disregard for
Humanity it
Must require
To *******
In public;
Either is
Truly admirable
Yet rarely
Appreciated

Draped in gloom light
awful dead humanity
I left for the world
to find that
iron spoke to
air in secret Breath
Flora drank down
sunlight frothy Buzz
      and up
liquid leapt from earth
for high-up night clubs
falling back in dreary
morning Joy for
underfoot cities of
hustled and bustled
terra forma
systematic, immaculate

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

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

When
Buildings in the
Cities collapse and
Crumble;
Gone,
Town Hall meetings
Gone,
Courthouse hearings
Gone,
School day lectures
Gone,
Ernie's on 5th and Market
Gone,
Sunday morning hangover
Gone,
Friday night bliss
Gone,
Wednesday happy hour
Gone,
Tuesday work rush tension
Gone,
Grocery store hellos
Gone,
Bus stop goodbyes
Gone,
Country
Gone,
Continent and planet
Gone,
Hierarchy of man

Gone,
The Idea

The whole big Idea,

When
It's all gone,
What you do
To pass the time
Is all that ever mattered

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

I threw her
clothing out of the
third story window
gripping a fifth
like a banister
laughing a deep
mad chuckle
as I felt, for
the first time,
like a child

responsibility
makes a
drunk
out of me

I have cursed
my brain
so many times
now that it
ignores me
and I it,
though sometimes
we come out
of our rooms
and awkwardly
interact

Head slumped:  heavy, ringing.  In the distance a **** whacker is constant.  If it's real, I can't tell anymore. This is me now, tomorrow I'll be straight.  Except that it is tomorrow, and everyone knows it but my ******* brain that plays on like a skipping record!  Ah! ****!  People pass by like flies, living at a different speed.  I coulda taken them all on last night but for now I need strength.  Food or *****, what's it gonna be?  The clerks know the game.  They see them stumble in at night ready to swallow the world whole, and in the morning, when cigarettes are their only friend.  Clerks stay straight to watch the show, to feel good about what they got.  They can keep it, though, gimme ***** for now.
"Is that all?", his voice echoed
"What?", "Yeah, that's all, what else would I get?"
"I don't know.  Food, maybe."
I looked the guy square in the eyes for a good six seconds.  His eyes were wide getting wider, he could feel the tension.  All I could feel was the hangover.
"No, just beer."
I looked down at the 12-pack, then at the manager walking towards us.
"Alright, I see the score."
As I left through the automatic doors the day broke my eyes in two with a sharp piercing ray, and it began ---
another one.

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

Bukowski lived in the third
dimension but
wrote in the fourth
when he died he
was released back
into the ever

on and on
and down and around
a winding whirling rabbit hole
to find a stronger whiskey,

if you ever witness
a suicide,
smile, and
wonder what the two
will talk about

Man's flaw
is that his
heart is far
larger than
his body,
though,
some are
not bound
by humanity,
no,
some are
not men
but ideas
in the form
of men

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

it's so quiet,
-still-,
softly I hear the
walls vibrate to the
movement of the earth,
and the earth knows
and the walls know
something we would give
every thought for

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

I'm in love with the couch
and the way that it smells
after a bottle of wine
and the feeling
that time passes by
lying drunk on that couch
and I could die in that place
where they don't let god in
and banjo music quietly
twangs diamonds from coal
'til the dawn spills inside
and reminds me that I'm alive

the heart knows
to pump blood
to the extremities,
but sometimes
the heart
sees itself
in another ribcage
and forgets to beat

the poet
must label
the world
in a way
most people
would choose
not to

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 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

There is no color
Of death
Like eyes know,
Only death of mind
And sick plastic aura,
Death makes known
In soul depth of being
And days when
Sighting humanity
Hurts the eyes

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

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

I heard
Siren songs
of Established
In search of
Identity,
And the smile and
Smell of Successfulism
Began to clog my
Lungs and arteries
Until I was
Completely alone
And slowed and vibrated
Glimpses of Truth
Wrapped in smoke rings
And sunrises

Now,
I don't claim to
Know Truth
But have observed
Its twiddling thumbs
In morning hours
Lost in thought and
Utter purpose
And now,
If you look
To the East or the West
On a day when the sun
Reigns and the earth cries
You can almost
Stop it all,
Or slow the process
Enough to toss a few back
And smile

A boy I once knew and I
were walking home from school
kicking rocks
when a beautiful woman drove by
in a then new Cadillac sedan
smoking a cigarette,
"I wish I was rich," he said
"Then I could land a broad like that."
"How?" I asked
"Huh?" he said, confused.
"How would you get her to like you?"
"Women are trophies," he said,
"You win 'em."
"Oh," "What happens when you win them?" I asked.
"***, I suppose."
"And then what?" I asked again.
"And then you have 'em, you win."
"Well, who's playing?" I asked.
"Everybody!" he asserted, "Everybody with a ****."
"Oh," I said, "But why is everybody playing?"
"I don't know!" he exclaimed, "You ask too many questions!"
I stared at the rocks on the ground as they passed.
We kept walking in silence until we split ways at a street sign,
and I didn't see him again.

"I've given it up."
"Given what up?
"***, love, the works."
"What, like you're not going to try anymore?"
"Yeah, no more.  I'm done, I've had it!"
"Wow, done.  How long has it been?"
"Two weeks."
"And you feel better?"
"I feel like ****.  Every day I think about it, all the time." "It's all I can think about!"
"Then why don't you try again?"
"No, I can't, I'm done, it's just another thing that handicaps me."
"Yeah, but it's great."
"Yeah, well I'm done.  I'd rather be miserable than walk with a limp, no more."
"You'll be back one day.  You'll break down."
"Yeah maybe…but for now, I'm done."
"What does Kathrine think about all this?"
"She doesn't know yet."

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

As you sleep
I stare at the
curve in your
neck and the
line that runs
over your clavicle
and I imagine
how I will run
my fingers along it
until you wake

Some
times I
fear
castration
is the
only way

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

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

the rain came
down in patches,
sidewards and
misshapen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

back to
wine and
stained
shirts

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

If I want,
I cannot have
if I have,
I cannot want
in this way,
life is a series
of disappointments.
disappointment is
a product of the ego
to escape the ego,
focus on the ego
only then will the
world outside the
ego be revealed
god is the absence
of the ego, the oneness
of nothingness,
the primordial unconscious.