a poem the way
I do
is to first turn
your heart
inside out

then
go a day
or two
with no
sleep

thinking
of
optional words
and rhymes
until

you pull your
hair out
and don't
take a bite
of food

the whole
******* time
and smoke ten
packs of
cigarettes

waste the day
your apartment
all filled
up with
crumpled paper

and beer cans
and butts
and your answering
machine
full

so empty alone
my need

is to fill it with
anything

give it a texture like Van Gogh
painted

canvases with his ear

or paint a melody
a visual

song of Hey Jude

and someway in a trying
image

or a straining high
toned  

metaphor
talk to angels

which I do
between the lines

and forgive
my inability

to artistically capture
their immortal

words
but my

periods if
you examine

closely are
tears and my

pauses the blank
paper

of my soul
my heart the

pen writing
my foot an iamb

or a pallette knife
or violin.

mid gutter again
at a
pace I consider
meaningful, neither
too fast
or slow but, a quickness
of aim
so much
from here to there
wherever
on the sides,
flowers
animals
trees,
from them
i gather
the essence...
there a pace
i beat and step
listening to
a distant illuminating
drummer
making
ambulating causing formatting,
my way,
my destination I forget
and no matter,
with
the wandering
cadences
resounding
in my ears.

but us men are perverts
I know about cats
and dogs
and buildings
all their workings
just know so little of
the fairer ***
and I guess
that is why I get
so excited
when one gets close

a door opens in
i feel invited
a door opens out
I hit my shin on
a door that goes both
ways may
a day go one way
another go the other
and I don't notice
seeing a Pull sign as I push it
duh or the other way
so I just enter and go about
the business of getting in
letting out
or a revolving door
conundrum

his name, is gone his body was
found in a silo
the ******* missing.
A corn cob stuck up his ***.
It took a posse of Sherriffs
and three nuns and one priest
to locate him.
There was no reward , no bounty for his missing finger.
I guess they figured it was gone to hell.
His soul lingered around
that silo for weeks, though,
a smell like chicken **** fertilizer
they spread down here in bamalama
and remember
don't flip a cop off, either.

and be wise
     brave to see
pause, in the *******
      her in the kitchen
doing dishes
         recall how she feeds
your children
         washes clothes
and smiles
and glows

be aware of all the time
     passion if love
is to be sublime
       extends to daily
chores

and take her by the hand
        out side the bedroom
and thank her

to have all my prayers
answered the
days of sunshine and smiles
the ones who guided me

the influences that
painted my visions
in yellows and crimsons
they who saw my needs

and gave me a little room
to breathe
came back later
to check on whether

I was good or not
and when I needed
slapped my *******
woke me from

my myopic visions
and self centered
dreams, or made me read
Bukowski