THE JOURNEY

I can't turn back
though the journey is far
and my feet are bleeding
while the wild wind lashes and leaves a scar

on my fragile face
in the grey sky the last star
seems to fade away and the shadows
of midnight are out to mar

all that which is beautiful and benign
hungry and thirsty but no inn is in sight
the dust scatters in the chilly air
not a single traveller is seen in the night

but I can't turn back
I have many promises to keep
and if I should perish in the nowhere
I would count that my peaceful sleep

Cool black night thru redwoods
cars parked outside in shade
behind the gate, stars dim above
the ravine, a fire burning by the side
porch and a few tired souls hunched over
in black leather jackets.  In the huge
wooden house, a yellow chandelier
at 3 A.M. the blast of loudspeakers
hi-fi Rolling Stones Ray Charles Beatles
Jumping Joe Jackson and twenty youths
dancing to the vibration thru the floor,
a little **** in the bathroom, girls in scarlet
tights, one muscular smooth skinned man
sweating dancing for hours, beer cans
bent littering the yard, a hanged man
sculpture dangling from a high creek branch,
children sleeping softly in their bedroom bunks.
And 4 police cars parked outside the painted
gate, red lights revolving in the leaves.

                                        December 1965

A poem, for some, is not fuelled by a single thought.
It is not a sudden emotion that yearns to be converted instantly to wordful waste, it is gradual.
It is a volcano, that builds up until eruption is inevitable.
Poetry, for some, is layer upon layer of thought and feeling and concept, hardened over time,
For some, it is hours of pain and joy and the works of the indescribable puppeteer so desperately fused
into metaphor.
Poetry, for some, lifelong.

But for others, poetry is pure spontaneity. It is unpredictable and unlook-back-able.
For others, poetry is their act of carpe diem, their tip-toe into daily bravery and recklessness.
Their mark that is not a scar.
Poetry, for others, is a single moment picked out of an infinity of them and pulled apart, or pulled together.
It is wonderful and hideous, it is skydiving and socialising and swimming with the sharks.
It is instant, it is adrenaline.
For others, poetry is lack of thought or understanding, just the swift transition from neuron to ink or binary.
Poetry, for others, is short lived.

never fall in love with a boy who
speaks in lavender soliloquy and
smells like cigarettes and melancholy;
whose kisses leave you in nirvana and
whose flesh lays in some lovely façade;
for he is a poet, a philosopher, and a believer
whose mind will disappear into breathless purgatory
when you're not even looking
and by the time you'll find out
you'll already have lost him somewhere,
between wandering verbosity,
and ashen wordlessness

Where sleeps the crescent moon
and drifts bright stars away
to bring a song of light
glowing from a thicket there
where tawny birds take flight
or dappled in the wooded trees
foggy breathes the morning light
with rousing sounds of faeries there
drowsy in their dreaming cares
they bid farewell unto the night
and to stars that sail swift into
the evanescent light.

Now springs another day from this woodland place
soft with mossy grays or starry lichen lace
green the leafy ferns will wake
with scented rains wet upon the bark
incense cedars drift and swirl
sweet, the air of smoke
until alas the sun so brilliant comes
from behind a clouded cloak
and disappears once more
the dawn that softly spoke.

rose red rain, like
    blood tears
    running
     through veins,
preyed on the night
  as sinners pleaded
    for their dragons
      to be slayed
       in kingdom
         come's escape,
gray cloudbursts
  darkly applauded
    their defeat
     in thunderous claps,
aware there's
    no redemption
    for demons buried
      deep beneath
     an endless
       decreed fate

Zeus is ****** tonight.

Maybe he was having conflict with Hera. Maybe Apollo or Athena or Artemis accidentally attempted to rain art or astuteness or animals down upon Earth, respectively.

Maybe he drank too much wine.

Whatever the reason is, it's quite a light show.

There are no stars, only the
chemiluminescence
on my shirt and my shorts
that were poured upon me by
intoxicated partiers who thought it would be entertaining
to shower the combination of peroxide and phenyl oxalate ester
upon the party guests.

A map of the universe
is splattered across my hands.

It's as if Zeus
threw away the sky,
in an inebriated gesture,
and it landed around me.

Cronus should have swallowed the father of gods and of men whole.

And the cold just lingers through my spine paralyzing me within the air escaping my mouth
I stare out to the dark where smoke from under my feet billows and curls like a snake
There is no silence but sirens and discontent
Why do I have to try harder?
I don’t care if I’m included just to be known

Clenching my teeth to a crater maybe I have just grown bitter
why do my eyes glow red whenever I inhale you?
Mangiato come una balena
ate so much like a whale
my belly swelled before my nose sneezed and it all out

las calles me conocen
a las almas que mi cortan
no se donde estar y a tus ojos no siga a matar
but what do I do when I see your favorite star?


He’ll never forgive me for cutting him off his favorite t-shirt
How many hours can I get the shreds together
Spinning webs and worn out weaves
And lost words in thesaurus or printed on a magazine
but I should decide the fabric of the world rests on all of us and we still can’t sleep from the senses you’ve created