I am Marmeladov
Perched as if I were a Father Clock
A Wasp
A Fly
An ant crawling towards the jar of sugar
Stuck in a tear-drop of Honey
Perched at your window
Dream Catcher from vacation to Mexico
To City Country of bandits
Of hot sun
of desert skin
of guns ****** **** **** *******
Spanish women playing Spanish guitars
only 3 strings
only 5 fingers
only 1 eye
Gazing at Death
Her Depth of field altered by her one orange eye like lit cigarettes in a jail sell after lights out
quiet quartet
spanish folklore
a eulogy written in Violin strings
a graveyard of deceased mad men
we never fond Mozart's body
vanished in the sky like the pupils of a white crow
Anatomy of a violin:
Casted in glass
Molded by the moss stauteing over the side of your house
Alcohol
Sand and mud
Winter and old leather boots worn by a Vagabond searching the trees for proof
Sorrow Sorrow Sorrow
untouched lips of a woman
A.M.
Wet cigarettes and wine and crooked eyes and a starving belly a Thirsty Mind
A lost canine:سلوقی, Saluki, Persian Greyhound, Royal Dog of Egypt
Sitting in a plastic wool cabin
the Mad artist
drinking molding *****
A lost Breed
The Wise
The Proud drunkards writing hysterically on tenement rooftops of NYC
1950
1920
Rimbaud the Tenth of November 1891
The wonderers with peyote with whiskey with 'Kamel Reds' with Hope and Curiosity
Undress your symbolism
Your Strawberry Eyes that Grow on my walls and feet like Callus'
And like the Charcoal sketches performed By Death
We Age
just as the sky does
just as the Tree you climbed as it rained and you swallowed Lightning and Thunder
Yet the sky was dry of no rain
It is a drought
We pluck the roses eye lashes and
Kiss
We climb into Brick studios and watch the Ballet dancer
as she shapes her bones into Sad New Orleans Trees
The door is locked
Not by bolt but
By the uncut fingernails and hair of wild vines
So we crawl through the side shingles
like
San Antonio lizards

Ballet ashes
dancing to the sigh of Beethoven's last sight
before a wisdom of blindness
swept over his brown eyes
She seems to be painted all black
Like the flight of a Crow
Or the color of Plums
I sing with the owls
I lay with the long road of infinity and its sadness
Out of oil
Out of Gasoline
Out of Food
so we lay around
Carving the paint off walls
like Van Gogh

I am hunched over a grave
The pond is frozen over
'Monumento a la Madre'
Vagabond home
The rain casts a shadow
I cannot see past your face

Someone is listening
I seep into the peripheral of night
Write symphonies on stone
Lay with the weeds
digest the light of the moon

And as I follow the Southern Star home
I am
Stopped by
Painted red ***** houses
24/7 Whiskey Churches
So I Lay down the rifle

A mother whispers into the fire of Night
I hold a match
I hold Yarn
I Am Wool
Shrinking to the formation
The intricate designs of your rib cage
of your brother's belly
of your Grandfather's waist
Am I simply a fool?
And Who
Doth I ask This question too?
A Torn book
A tattered sonnet of Man's sore feet
blistered eyes that are Green
That are Brown
That are Blue
I Lay with myself Tonight
I am Awake
I am Loud
In your Night
I Am the Janitor beneath the hardwood floors
of your Dream
I am the
Poorly Waged Electrician
With Shoes that resemble an old dog
I Light Your Highway
Your Street
Your Morning coffee
your
cigarette
Am I The Child?
I fall in love with women I see on the streets
Their Wavy hair
like a French sea
Her pale complexion
the Brown Glimmer in her eyes
And I paint on her on Tombstones
On Coffee Mugs and on carpets rolled up for the Dumpster
At Nights
I prefer to dream awake
and sit with a BathTub of words
of stories that melt like cheese
that stiffen like Ginsberg ****
that Shriek and Strum like Tom Waits stomach when he starves on backroad streets
And when I cannot
reproduce
I make love to a woman
And a poem is made
and I kiss her
and my lips say 5 am
and I wish her not to go
But the Dog
is waken by Robins
by the Pigeons
by the digestion of night to day
by the Greek Gods and Goddess' Light
That Falls down
like long hair of woman you have so longed for
and you kiss her chest
And there is no Death
There is no Sleep
or ****** addicts or gasoline or paved roads or shaved faces or mothers or Dostoevsky or Beethoven
There is just her
and you run your fingers across her skin
through her hair
She is the bottom of the Ocean
You are a homeless crab
a Shellless Clam
falling down
down
down
to the bed of the great ocean
and there she lays
With a reflection of Youth and Beauty
And her complex simplicity makes me think of
me as a boy
running behind brick collapsed business buildings
Kissing a girl behind church
Buying Icecream with Josh in Winter

That's what a woman does
She erases Death
from the palms of your hands
and your thoughts
and you sink
to the bottom
and you watch the Coral
The other fish
swimming along
and you laugh
Because you do not know Death
And Death does not know you.

Drinking oil
from mothers breast ******
Death- open 24/7
It's 3am
I can't get out of bed
and the women outside are tapping on my windowsill
Tapping on the back of my spine
“doctor doctor”
rummaging for tongue hieroglyphics
give me pills
I'm standing
saluting the dead like an Air Force Team
Deceased
Finito
Gone
Finished
Bye
forever in the sea by the sea for the sea
Time is a busted lip
on a Youth
Caught ******* in the Garden of Youth
Eden
Eden
Adam Adam Romeo Juliet
Writing symphonies on toilet seats
with
***** Lipstick hued blue
she must match her thong and bra
and hair and soul and painted toe nails and the mood of the night
Is always Blue
Like a blind man
washed away at sea
only to believe he was a boy again
in the Womb
And there is a taste of Salt
a taste of blood in the water
Coffee grains
shark Teeth
February love stories tied together to makeshift plastic hollywood driftwood explorer boats
I am Nobody
I have nothing
I have Poems
I have Books
And I lay in the desert
catching flies with my metallic tongue and Iron casted lips
as my Libido curves like a Rose in Winter
I am ******* the Devil
I  kissed Father Time's Wife
And sometimes at night
I sneak away
Climbing out of my Children Book Fairy Tale locked Bedroom Door locked by a fools gold bolt
And I walk to the Fountain of Youth, the Garden of Eden.
Untieing my shoes
like a woman does
with her hair

Stumbling through the streets of Mexico
Savio
At the ripe age of 20
Life
Dancing nudely in front of his jewel eyes
It is 3am
and the latino barking k-9's are loud
loud and beautiful
like thinking you were dead
but you are woken by a train
and you touch the bridge of your nose
you touch the cheekbones
beneath your face
and you sigh in relief
that you are not dead:
The leaves are green
The grass too
Poison Ivy and Dandelions
Strawberries

Savio
Stumbling through Mexico
Wearing an old ***** flannel
a few buttons missing
Examining the streets
for cigarette butts
To unravel
To squeeze the brown tobacco
into his palm
for later
when he has the chance
the consciousness to buy rolling papers

Savio
bottle of cheap whiskey in his back pocket
holding an imaginary rifle
firing at the pigeons
at Cadillacs
that care freed on by

He had been at a bar
He was born in a Hospital
He liked to drink on top of buildings
He has a father who is dead

Savio
Stopping at a church that smelled of coffee
Music played
It was soft
Sad
Like a woman kissing you good-bye
Yet you try to recall the feeling of her lips
and cannot
He leaned his dark curly hair against the bricks that vibrated smoothly
from the violins
from the piano that over took the room
That washed away the hardwood floor
That tapped Death on the shoulder
That stopped the rain
That made you stand still
to make sure
you are not dead
And the Violin wakes you up
and it is Fall
Now Winter
Now you are with your mother
Now you are
Old
and you look around and notice that
The music has stopped playing
and the Trees
look a little wet
look a little
smaller
than they used to be

Savio
Woke up to his whiskey bottle shattering underneath him
Saw the Sun
Saw that the Church was empty
Saw that the door was open
Saw that
He was hungry
Thirsty

Inside there was nothing
Not even a Cross
Not even an Alter
Nor a candle
did flicker

There was nothing on the walls
The stained glass windows were covered by sheets of metal
The hardwood floor
sank a little
He walked to the back room
An empty room
Not even a window

So he slept
and did not dream
His father taught him that Sleep Dreams were useless
when Savio woke
it was cold
Everything seemed very still
The walls holding their breaths
The Ceiling calm
The hardwood floor quiet not creaking

He opened the front doors
to see that it was Night
and that there were no Headlights
no Taillights
So he stumbled to the liquor store
Holding a Blue Notebook
That he used to
Write down the dreams he wanted to have
The Dreams
he was not allowed to have

At the liquor store
he bought wine
walked back to the abandoned church
and read to himself a dream he never had
but would like to have:
“I am home, a child, sitting or standing at a stream, it is warm, I am alone, but I am at home, Yet, I know that I will not be at this stream for ever.”

He closed his blue notebook
looking up he saw that the church was lit up
and music was
falling out of it
seeping through the wood like sap
The smell of coffee
the smell of cooking meat

Yet when he opens the door
it is empty
it is gray
it is tinted sad
And his father is there
peeling off the sheets of metal covering the stained glass

And Savio wakes up
Turns to his Blue Notebook.

when it rains
everything seems still
her body has the curves
of the grooves on wood
following the path of a moth
a woman
and three children
in a van
drop off phone books
and newspapers
onto front steps
at 4am
and it rains
nothing plays on their radio
she kisses them to sleep
“don't worry”
and they're asleep
but the bills aren't paid
and the hot water
is turned off
Tomorrow
the electricity
a boy without a home
grew up on the highway
the passing vehicles
the passing buildings
people
street lamps
hills
rivers and lakes
streets and turn signals
were his
friends
his television
When it rains
Everything stops moving
and breathes
I am still a boy
at twenty
When I can't sleep
I walk to the highway
and sit
the humming road
the humming 18-wheelers and automobiles
remind me of resting on my mothers heart
I drive to the city
To look at the buildings that are never asleep
To sit in wooden cafés and drink cheap black coffee
I am not a poet
Just a boy
Still on a highway
gazing at the world
75mph
these are my finger drawn pictures
on a foggy van window.

She works at the Flower Shop
selling Roses to the young boys
selling Lilies to widow'd women
selling
white ones
red ones
purple ones
orange ones
She works at the Flower Shop
Clipping the stems of the Lilac
Sweeping the Flower Shops hard wood floor
Insects with wings get inside of the Flower Shop
Insects with wings hide in the openings of the flowers
She listens too the small radio
Attached to the wall
That is painted white
This color
This hue
This brand of Light
Does not compliment her complexion
The Flower Shop's painted white walls are too compliment the complexion of the flowers
Their colors
Their height
Their thickness
Their meaningfulness
The Radio attached to the wall plays Beethoven
The Flower Shop is full of
Insects
Flowers
Beethoven
and White Painted Walls
and a Girl
Who waters the flowers
Who goes outside to smoke her 100's
Who sees the Flowers die
Rust brown and gray
bending towards the ground
The Flower Shop Girl
Shooting up ******
While Laying on the
Flower Shop's hardwood floor
freshly swept
next to the Amaranthine flower
filled with insects

*Beethoven
Sonata No.14
Movement No.3

Catherine's Tango
Quiet moonless night lit only by the libido of a white cigarette
Do not
Do not be a poet
propose to a woman
and die with children on your
Denim Soul'd Lap
I am giving up
I am
disfiguring my Rifle
I am
unwashed clothes
tucked into the corner of the bed
where You and She and He and You
sleep
make love
speech
listen to the radio
when it
gives premarital birth
to Jazz C-section
when the radio
sticks its finger down its
electrical throat
attached to the wall
and
Digests Classical Master Pieces of Symphonies

I am 1:42am
an orange pill
2 pennies
3 quarters
a dime
a nickel
molding yogurt
a face sprouting weeds
a body
blooming old age

Tip Toe
unlock my
golden halted door to a chamber of
Lamps that bend and sigh
only to leave you
quite sad
quite misplaced in the sand
asking for water
but all we have
is cold coffee
it has been sitting out for
2 waltz
all of the ceiling's light bulbs
are awake
chattering quietly
like 5am suburbia birds
Pigeons
Crows
The one eyed red robin coasting south for a warm nest
watch out
Lovers are here to stay
they carry
knives and ****** bouquets

Basquiat poetry
coffee grains
in my teeth
and dreams
I wake up to the walls in speech
recollect
drunken journeys
Emma the girl who
sits at your window sill
mourning the death of night's child:rain
and it is September
or either
August
I am lost in a booklet of ancient nobles
Upstairs
reading mythology
drinking
***** brewed by patients of poverty
Piano skin and noises
leak into the fire place
all alone
There is no more Time
only windows that shine
only windows that are dark
only women that lay naked on my bed and kiss me
Do not worry
I am not here
writing these
rusty poems
as I slowly push them into the sides of your eyes
Shakespeare eyeball
Ginsberg Navajo
Gas station clerk
high on
crack *******
I give her money
she gives me
a smile
a pack of
Marlboro cigarettes
that stench up the church
hiding the smells of
sad prophets
cheap wine and
oyster crackers
85 cents for off-brand large bag
Adam and Eve
clock time forget sleeve *** spoon food coffe-table
Death moving in down stairs
room
103
or was that the opiates
crawling into the tree veins roots wooden finger tips of my
body
of my
soul
of my
bulb
of my
Skeleton that is colored like you
Termites
mistook
a dying flower
for a limb of a tree
that grew sideways
too avoid the hum buzz of Vehicle Highway I-435 Kansas
Age 400 and 3
Child at birth
Man at death
oh how the seasons brew into a facade
oh how
the *****
sleeps with me
I make her coffee
3am
we smell of smoke and tired souls
pointing at the color red
as we
take lefts
and rights
into a city into bowels of streets and sighing police men and sighing homeless
I take off her clothes and
she falls apart like pedals attached by scotch tape to a rose
Nothing it Rains
Nothing it is Cold
Hello
We are the Nothings
and we
sit alone
on bar stools too high
and our knees are bruised from
praying to the bartender
to
pour
one
more
Whiskey
Yet we drank it all
and the juke box is broken
so we listen to
Homosexual men ******'

City Cough
Everybody has lung cancer
or is
walking to a 24/7 grave yard
Will I be buried with you?
I ask a mouse
climbing on my walls
to catch a roach

But he says nothing
and the roach escapes
only to reply
with
“Yes, you and I.”
my mouth gutters “And he and she.”
and the Rat complies
“And sometimes Why.”

Get another drink
April Angel casting a shadow into a lake of bass and crawdads
“Geh me ahnothur dreeenk” drunk lingo speech
***
***
***
Fill your bucket mind
with spatulas
Broken television screens
the toe nails of angels
Piano Keys

Spit into a well
Spit into the wine
500 dollars a bottles or 6,154 pesos
make a wish
make a diamond
make steak
make wool
make love

My starving father filling up on the apples of Vice

Number 3
lights a cigarette in the dark
and the shadow glimmer dance of her
Eyelashes
cheekbones and
Eye bones
and
lip bones
are projected onto the cement wall
an art show
a Ballet suicide attempt
a winter experiment on the Indians of North America

Ride a Train
Rise of Tides
Ruthless Killer
Ruthy big breasted girl in my dreams dancing about a fire that I built from
old paintings of my
Grandfather
as Kansas was spilled like hot chocolate milk

“Get up”
“and where are you”
“can't you tell it is 1am”
“why has the clock mistaken me for someone who cares”
“lover”
“where are you going”
“the river is too cold”
“you will die like Hemingway did”
“you will die”
“i will die”
“Hemingway will die”
“but not tonight”

Shakespeare.
Tapping on my window.
He gives me.
A pill.
We take a bus too New Orleans.
And visit the grave of William.

Cold coffee
Caramel popcorn
Southern Cut Marlboro
Telephone
Lampshade crooked
asking
attempting

Under my eyes
engravings of a crescent moon
from gazing up
on so many nights

Journey through an empty house
Emma
Your Middle name grows on the footsteps of the mice
crawling up the
neck back bone
of the chimney
a dinner table eaten by the termites
Either I or Michael the III
sits on the
window sill counting the rain drops that
tap to the syllables of your name
My typewriter sighs like your mother leaning on a wet window sill
journey through an empty house
in the middle of no where
outside rains on the fields of
tobacco stores
pastel rusted orange lipstick molded Volkswagen parts
a few
rubber tires
****** Indian Cadillac Van Nostalgia Highway Bandit
Opus Utopia
Moonlight Sonata Father Movement No. 1
and as my leather wool toes and toenails and heart and lungs and nostrils and Ceramic eye ***** painted to match the Season of Tornadoes creak through an empty house
where music is not played
and the wallpaper
is peeling off
like fake eyelashes
on a *****
stuck in driveway
Main performance
TONIGHT!
Rain and the cheap perfume of making love as the carpet doesn't move
doesn't budge like Grandmothers Tomb
Beethoven! Beethoven!
I am dipping your piano instrument notes
into the fire
Beethoven!
Beethoven!
The moon is so quiet she stares at me
and the wooden buttons of my gasoline washed swede stolen jacket
falls off
Look in here
there is nothing but hardwood floors
a few windows
letting in the
monotone gaze of the night
swaying wheat fields
crawling up the eyesight sleeve
In my peripheral

Highway
Highway
Highway
To the Ocean
To an empty house
that bends
when the sky yawns
like a dying old old old man
as he sits in his
crooked rocking chair
that a mexican Boy
welded together
with twigs and
coffee mug pieces
the empty house
its skeleton shows
like a sick dog
as it walks the endless boundless streets of a city where the lights are kept on too keep away the thieves
but the moths
and other
unidentified insects
flutter around the Bulb
like gnats
over a man's sweaty face
its skeleton shows
copper wiring
electrical entrails
the bowels the wood keeping the roof up
the insulation
the concrete and the bricks
like decapitated teeth
An empty house
is not
so empty
There is still the left-over hum
of a family
of nights
of windows open
letting in the
Summer breath
There is still
the hardwood floor that creaks like the chipping paint of an old bench painted white
There Is still
the bathroom sink
molding like the aging face of a wrinkling man
There is still
the windows
letting in a
slight breeze
you can smell the rain
the rusted locomotive limbs of discontinued Trains

Let Death be spontaneous
as will I

Shakespeare

I am a little boy
drawing the midnight wings of a moth
that I saw in my dreams
on the damp window
of a nomadic van
crossing the sea of a limbo AM highway
1993

Mother mystery night crossing Texan dirt roads
high grass
I am laying with my black lab

Death is a wild animal
birthed in the sands of a desert
that I traveled
****
holding the Bible
holding Hemingway
holding a
sternum of poems
to keep me
weighted from the sky

In a vision
In a vision
As a boy
Crossing the life span of a symphony
Crossing the life span
of a musical note
of a man growing old under a highway neck drinking my whiskey
from my Camel Wise palm

I am grace
I am Evil
I am the Devil's brother
scribbling war paint
on the bathroom walls of
Latin American 24/7 Neon Churches

Blessed with a passion
Blessed with a vision
Blessed with
the Night
on my back
that slants like the sunrise
that slants like
the eyes of a widow'd mother
of a widow'd goddess
of a widow'd song
of a widow'd night
of a widow'd Boy
stretched out on the Lawn
of a rich man
Who sleeps with silk
and hope

And I
I am a child

Exploring the tiny beauties
of things
that do not happen

I open the swede coffin
of imagination
of foot steps
of Beethoven's finger tips

I climb the roof of Death's condo
of Death's shack
of Death's
Widow'd cat

LifeX70
if you are lucky

Emma
girl with black hair
hair like sleep

On a Violin
On a Piano's back
On a Dog's color blind eyeball

Let Death
be spontaneous

I will wait for him
in my stained sweater
holding a bottle of wine
for the two of us

I know he won't say much
like the pavement

I will offer him a glass

Where does the poet go when he dies
Does Death favor him
Does he let him
become a bird
or a crooked lamp post
that shimmers
that shines
Like Youth once did

Highway child
Nomadic boy

falling in love
listening to the shapes
listening to the wrinkling skin
listening to the story
for ******
in a symphony

Aging night
leaning on my window
I would offer you a cigarette
I would offer you inside

But I know your tricks
I know that the moon
is awake

When does
the poem stop

When the poet stops writing
or when the truth is lost

There is a Cicada following me
like rain on her long hair
as she walks to a river

There are too many books poetry
too many lamps that wont let me sleep
too many poems I have stained
too many nights I have lived
Like a Moth
or a wandering bull through a cities lights

I ask April to stop the rain
I can hear scraps
from the storm
falling into the flower ***
where nothing grows

Let Death be spontaneous
and I will study the rain

He was going to shoot himself
in the department store parking lot

but people don't read sad stories
not even the beautiful ones


So I'll stop here.

It was 1p.m.
When the sun came up
when the sun came out of the sky
It was 1p.m.
When the world was shaking
when the world was breathing and talking and moving and
happening
The walls in his living room were sad
He must have fallen asleep on the couch again
Listening to the neighbor's Vinyl Player from the other room

He looked at his watch
He looked at the window that was on the wall
He saw the sun
streets
the world
He said aloud to himself
and to the sagging furniture in his living room
“The world is a big place, and it fits in my window.”
He smiled
Then looked at the couch and noticed it didn't smile back

So he got up
Looked into his mirror and decided the half-grown beard looked okay
and that his hair was decent
and that the oil on his face
gave him color

He pulled out his ironing board
found the Iron underneath the kitchen sink

And began ironing his blue button up shirt
Making sure the sleeves were straight
Making sure the color was crisp

He kept on ironing
Then he imagined what his funeral would be like
“What would they say?”
He imagined a hairless priest towering over his coffin
“He was a good man, a quiet man, He was loved, not only by God, but by his family, his mother, his brother.”

His blue button up shirt was ironed
It was now 1:30p.m.

He looked at the oven's clock
The clock on the oven must have been wrong for years
Even when the apartment complex was forged by the poor for the poor

The oven's clock said “8:21a.m.”
He was not sure why he ever checked the time on the oven
But he always did
He then put brown socks on his feet
Pants that were a faded Tan
Like an old photo of sand
Then his shoes
Tied them
Put on his Button Up Shirt
buttoned the buttons

And walked out the front door.

The life of a caterpillar
it waits
it does not know what it is waiting for
so it waits
the caterpillar wonders
it is sad
it waits
then the caterpillar
is a butterfly
and the ex-caterpiller
questions
if this
is what he was waiting for

So he waits longer
and white things fall slowly from the sky

and the butterfly questions
if this
is what he has been waiting for

So he waits
his butterfly wings grow weak

the ex-caterpiller dies
and he wonders
if this
is what he was waiting for all along

not the wings
not winter

April air
her perfume
a little asian lady
looking at the flowers for sale
towers collapse
so do hands
caress

April air
everyone's dead

A father and his girls
3 and 7
getting
snow cones in the heat
as the workers
stand and sweat
smoking
spanish cigarettes

April air
his mouth is dry
pupils tiny
like the midnight sky

April air
I smelt her perfume
Watched an Asian lady
look at the flowers
that were for sale

Lets just
lay here naked
lighting cigarettes
like forest fires
we'll fall apart
in the Chimney
Holding the strands of your hair
on my face
as we make love

In a suit and tie writing down the
speechless things
of the sky
at the church with a pistol
in bed with shoes on

April air
her perfume
I passed her by
looking at the
garbage bag
in the tree

the leaf
stuck in a hubcap

the women
following their man

I got a call
from a payphone
in my dream

I'm over due
for a dream
said the ******* the other line
I remember
her hair was blue
she was
wet concrete on a summer night

My beard doesnt grow
Youth is at my window
knocking on the glass
for bubble gum
and mother's smile

April air
the night is
always Sunday

In the parking lot
of a supermarket

looking at the City
with 2 eyes

April air
the day is almost over

She was 16
I kissed her
red red lips

I am a bee
she is a rose

April air
Everyone's a fool
taking walks to the woods.

A dream over due
1999
september
it is august
the flies are insects
growing the Vice apple between the graying chicago winter fern of the ******
towering
empty parking lot super market trees
brown
baige
***** and autumn
skin like apple sauce
dancing inside the mirror of Lust and his Sister Fresno California
On a Payphone
At a Fuel Station
Lights all Blue
Lights all dull
dullified by the gasoline
the cigarette butts that collect in the mouths of mountain saints
Capture Zen
Burn all the books that led you too led poisoning

I am Van Gogh
Scrapping off the dried paint of my walls
of my women
naked in my bed of a hope factor

I am going insane
and the stars do not mind
the Clouds seem to be careless
Vagabond seasonal weather Kansas

Everybody is on the Train
headed to Dreams
100 dollars a ticket
Give me your Wallet
your Sister
your Sins
your nights and your day-shadows bouncing off walls and mailboxes like school-boy toys
your
you're
Insight
Outsight
Farsight
Downsight
Glancing at the peripheral French Decedent girl with black hair
hair black like wet once lit cigarettes

God, smoking a cigar made in The Ol' Great West of timber and the elderly gasping away their lives as a window sits neatly with tundra flowers
and a cacti that never dies
Winter comes in a Van
Full of soup
Full of the Dead Children of Days on in
Full of Dogs with rabies
Full of Cheap women
who gave up on 7:30
and washed their hands in the juices of an Apple Eve sank her yellow teeth into

Savage
Savage

Headlights heading towards Home
Towards Late-Night Television

Oven on

God and Satan
Spooning on the water bed of America
America the great
America the greed
America the want

America the me
you
her
Dog
Pigeon on the side street of NYC push town till suit bye Death

Coffin constructed of Iron and Filled with Wine
Coffin made by a young man sitting in his jacket
smoking a neat cigar
smoking with Gin
Gin
Gin
Gin
The Fireplace is where we may have made Love
But the Heat was ours
and the Torn down back door back yard Tall 100 year old Tree
has left
only a Stump
A beginning of its sprout from a seed
to a Giant
to a home for Birds and Flies and ants and rodents

I am in the Tower
Drinking your Whiskey
Drinking the lipstick of a woman who has nothing to do
so she falls in love with the Shadows of night bricks
of City Street Walls and streets
Swerving
entwining
Curving
Doubting
Ditching

Like love it self
Left out in the Sun
Left with the cacti of Old Age
old hands and old eyes that quiver like melting ice in the 90 degree Texan weather

We run to the fountain of Youth
but the gates are closed
The Pool boy quit his Job
and now the water in contaminated

Drink Vinegar
Drink Chlorine
Clear the mind
the hairs on your chest
the Teeth in between your Chin and Lips

It is no Longer Time
it is no Longer Past
Future
Clean
*****
Washed
Murdered by a knife

It is no longer 1AM
and the Sky wants me to wake up

But the Coffee Machine is crooked and only works if I hold it at an angle

Goodbye Crows of Brooklyn
I'll be on the payphone collect call to subconscious

I'll be on the road
traveling with my hair
traveling with Life
traveling with Destiny and Hope and Emily Tennessee

5 dollars a gallon

Delayed clock
Savio lays underneath unwashed quilts
Grandmother hand made
Savio lays with a woman
“Why are your eyes so Green.”
Savio said to her lips
She had painted them very red
and when they kissed
the lipstick smudged like a charcoal drawing outside in the April rain in Maine
“My eyes flicker green when you kiss me. When you are with me.”
Savio kissed her forehead
It was 1AM
Kansas
Down the street there is a church
the yellowish orange lights are on all night
When Savio buys 3 dollar wine
He walks to the Brick dressed yellowish orange lit Church
Pick up trucks that are thin with metal
rusted at the square gas tank
rusted at the curves of its wheels
rusted at the grill
rusted at the door handles
at the hubcaps
at the bed
at the windshield wipers
at the side view mirrors
at the belt buckles
at the radio dials
at the steering wheels
Flutter by
like children throwing rocks
like Winter
like rain at 7am
Savio sits there
drinking his cold 3 dollar wine
thinking of Mexico
thinking of the magical women he had made love too
kissed
taken out to dinner and lunches and breakfasts
thinking of Long Nights with his brother
Crossing streets with warm bottles of good beer
to Neon lit bars
to bars only lit by cigarettes and tiny radios blasting
Jazz or Rock n' Roll or The Blues or Billie Holiday
Never the news

Savio looked at the woman next to him in his bed
Her eyes were closed
He imagined her closed eye-lids as a moth
With its upright folded gray wings
night
standing underneath the warm breath of a Lamp

Savio liked The Moths
He read about them
He thought of them as the poets
as the painters
as the pianists
as the ballet dancers
as the violinists
of the insects

Savio also liked Boxelder Bugs
they do no harm
they sneak in through the cracks and door openings of homes in winter
They hide underneath sheets of poems
Van Gogh paintings on the walls
Savio woke to a Boxelder Bug on his lips once

The woman that lied with Savio
was beautiful
her clothes were expensive
her body was cruel not to touch
her life was good
Money
***
Beauty
Youth

Savio had none of these
He was handsome
His face was shaded with a few days of hair
His eyes were bright from the many days in the sun as a boy
His eye lashes were long like the docks of rivers from plucking them when he couldnt sleep
Youth was a long time ago for Him
and he sat at parks
watched the kids play
watched Summer
watched April
watched the Roses and the Trees and the Water
grow younger and younger
as He
Stood still as his fingernails grew
and his teeth yellowed by each AM cup of coffee
and each AM cigarette

Savio did not care about Money
he cared about ***, and Beauty, and Youth
yet,
did not wish these upon himself
he
Admired them
like a womans smile
like a Sunrise coasting over a cold morning with white Swans fluttering in the sky
and the Cigarette tastes like purity
and the cigarette has meaning
more meaning than Death
or Life
or being Wise

He admired the woman next to him in bed
he did not feel bad for her
or envy her

He envied on the ease of her sleep
The ease of her happiness
The ease of her
carelessness to beauty
or poetry
or music

He envied the Fools

Savio lied there
Her lips perfectly shaped like clouds
or the designs on a butterfly
or the moon's glow late at night
when the birds are dreaming
when the Dog is fast asleep
when the convict is tired
when the Sun has clocked out
24/7 Sun
like an immigrant

Savio looked at the alarm clock
3AM
the womans Dress and stockings and shoes and Bra and ******* were on the floor
along with her Class Status

Savio has always been poor
He enjoyed it
He liked long days
Reading yesterdays paper that he had found on the road
Counting the numbers of Blue Mini-vans that stop at the red light
He liked going to the park
Climbing a Tree
or sitting at a dock
letting his toes and feet prune
His skin red and the smell of dirt

He liked no Television
He liked his two pairs of pants
His few shirts
His red sweater that his grandmother made him
his pair of shoes
He had a little radio alarm clock
that he had since he was a boy

His father most have stolen it
Given to Savio as a birthday present

His Father was a good man
A bad man facing society
A good man facing his family
He did what he could to get by
He drank

Savio liked to think of himself as a good man
Though he enjoyed the Vices of life
That is why he could never be Religious
Savio was too brave to be told what to do
He was too wild to have his cravings and emotions held down by leather

He liked women
He liked Drinking
He liked cigarettes
He liked Cursing
He liked ***
He liked Humor and Thought about Death
He liked to Fight
He liked to contemplate Life
He liked to contemplate Women
Drinking
Cigarettes
Cursing
***
Humor
Death

Savio
was a good man
He kept to himself
Laughed to himself
walked to bars and parks and highway bridges all to himself

He was a Looker a Searcher a Wonderer a Wanderer

And Life
is a good place to do these things.


Savio got up from his small bed
looked around his small house
opened a small cupboard
grabbed a small coffee mug

Put on his one pair of shoes
Shined them with his old shine shoe case
that his Uncle had given him

He then put on his shirt
it was slightly aged
it was slightly *****
Tho
it was 5AM
and no one would be able too see this

He then put on his jacket
a dark brown swede jacket
it was stained at the shoulder
it was wrinkled
he had spilled gasoline on it last month
and it still had a slight scent of unleaded gasoline
Even though it had rained many times

His pants were strong
They were 5 years old
rough and thick with denim

He felt good
There was no wind being blown
His wine was cold
His eyes were clear
He had a full pack of cigarettes
and a book of matches

This time he walked to the Highway bridge
sometimes on the metal fence
there would be stale roses twisted around the fence

And Savio would pluck them off
dropping them over the highway
onto cars and 18-wheelers headed to Florida

Savio sat at the small cliff
next to the highway bridge
The grass was gold and tall
He took drinks of his wine
slowly the Headlights
turned to Taillights.

Savio woke to the hot sun opening up to his window,
creeping through the lined cracks of his little wooden shack,
Savio was 23 and had never gone to school,
He read old newspapers that were thrown on the dirt road,
sometimes a day old,
other times a week,
On a good day the sun will be gentle,
and the mud isn't too wanting,
and your boots fit right,
and a Newspaper is from that morning,
On a good day.

Other days,
Savio and twenty other,
picked the Oranges,
placed them into long mesh yarn'd bags and carried them away off to the pick up-trucks.

There was a woman he loved,
She had hands that a Tarantula would fall in love with,
she painted them red,
either to match the color of her lips,
or the fact that she,
was lust,
plucking at gluttony,

She could never pick as many Oranges as Savio could,
So Savio would walk to her and smile at her cheek bones,
and smile at the way her eye lashes curved like the way her lips did,

Her name was Bitellie,
She cooked for Savio,
Bitellie picked up what she could,
from his little wooden cracked shack,

The smell of Oranges still on their hands,
Listening too Mario Bauza,
Listening too Mexico crickets and flickering orange talented lamp posts.

It was a rainy day,
and the mud that surrounded the Orange Trees was thick,
yet thin enough to sink you down to just your knees,

Savio had found no newspaper on the side of the road,
It was usually left by someone wealthy,
with the business section folded on top,
Sometimes he would find half a cigarette,
and he would smoke it,
watching the gray blue smoke, tango with the Oranges.

The library is too quiet to read
too contemplate her clothed *******
the wooden chairs are thick with boredom
the boys stare at words that hide themselves
and the women are brave enough to still search for love
I can't hear a thing
A Toilet flushes
The loud thin aluminum and molar teeth Air Conditioner rattles like a starving stomach
I can hear pages being changed
Chairs slowly creaking
The chairs are considering suicide
They'll jump right out this window
Outside the construction workers are smoking
Outside a girl with a pumpkin colored sweater talks to a boy
Outside The Mobiles await their masters
Outside a single orange cone is placed next to an eight foot black light pole
And I stare at it
More interesting than the girl in a pumpkin colored sweater
more sound than the Library's hallways and book isles
More ****** and ****
More cigarette smoke
More sweat
Louder than a thousand heart beats drumming to the Tribal tune of life
**** with out feet dancing on hot coals and slaughtering a Cow for rain
The Cone waits
its plastic thick
bending in like the gut of an exiled starving Tribal member
The light pole Waits too
it avoids eye contact with the people that pass by
it makes small talk to the wandering insects looking for a junk lit fix
“Not for awhile, not for a while.”
The LampPole would say
and the insect would fly away on all of its wings
and hide in the trash can
or the muffler of a Camaro

Outside the trees are waiting
waiting for Mother Kansas Common Bird
For a nest
For an egg
For now the trees are bare
stripped like P.O.W
barley blooming

I wonder how those buds taste like

I see the Cone
still orange
still waiting for me to say
“Cone, I know you. I see that you wait.”
and perhaps this is what he was waiting for
Then the eight foot LampPole droops like lovely Egyptian ***** eyelashes

Outside
Outside
Outside
the Sun is open for business
Sun dresses
and
sun glasses
Waiting
Waiting
Waiting for boy
career
house
baby boy
******
love
ultimate Zen
but Career but House but Baby Boy Anthony oh so sweet but ****** but Love
gets in the way
and the Ultimate Zen is recollected as Silly as Childish as Unattainable
saying to herself
“Life has its plan”

But it doesnt
Zen still waits
Orange Construction Cone still waits
Eight Foot LampPole waits

Inside Inside Inside
Toilets are flushes
Books develop Mold like pregnancies
Inside *** dances in the mind with every passing Legs *** and *******
Inside carpets groan
inside dandruff
inside Clocks endlessly fueled by a battery
inside outside being stared at like the Ocean
and a boat with the Ultimate answer is on it
Inside nothing happens at all
Inside the Books are wondering where have their stomachs gone
Inside Legs and feet go numb
Inside Dry mouths smack
Inside lesbian couples kiss
Inside the florescent Lights shine without stop

I am inside
looking through the window
admiring the smooth **** chaotic curves and heights and birds of outside

-A woman in a pink sweater
-A man in a blue suit

Bartolomeo
he woke to a howl
he saw that Italy was in Night
So he lit a candle
starred through his window
saw Women in love
Dogs wandering
a man playing a Violin
the color of every woman's hair
as she crossed him

Bartolomeo
stood up from his tiny bed and put on his shoes
opened his wooden door and looked over Venice
the air was thick with sleep
thin with open Eyes

he stepped out into the Night
crossing a river
where a Frog laughed
where a Bird chirped

He was headed to a ball
filled with beautiful women
the richest of wine a man could taste

He crossed the river
passed a few homes:
children sleeping
mothers fathers love making
drunks drinking
birds flying to their nests

Bartolomeo
decided to take a short cut to the Ball
went into the woods
where he got lost

The sun came up
hungry
thirsty and dry to the skin

Night came again

Bartolomeo
kept walking
following the smells and sounds of homes

Then an Angel showed her self to him
The Angel had said she was “Mousai”

Bartolomeo asked The Angel if she was the Angel of Death
She laughed
saying
“Quite the opposite”

and she whispered into both of his ears
fell to his knees
and collapsed onto his belly

When he woke
he was back in his bed

With the Violin player out of his window
and the women in love
the dog wandering
with the Ball still in order

Then he had the strangest urge

he looked into his breast pocket and found a drawing of a strange looking box with legs and strings

it read
'gravicembalo col piano e forte'

So he took it to a Violin maker

Bartolomeo showed him the paper

the Violin maker asked him what it was

and Bartolomeo explained to him that the Angel of Death came to see him in his dreams and left this in his pocket

that the Angel of Death whispered a strange Tune in his ear
which made him fall to his knees and belly

He told the Violin maker that this is the Tune you heard before your Death

The Violin maker
was cautious at first
so Bartolomeo offered him gold to build it
So the violin maker did so

When Bartolomeo's project was finished

He trusted it to be the voice of Death
that any man who heard it
was to die

So he took it out to the middle of the Forest
thick with trees


Pressed a key
the hairs on his neck stood

he waited for her
for Death

She never came

So he pressed another key

a slightly different pitch

Then another
it was thicker
more hollow

and to the far left
was higher
sharper than the others

then Bartolomeo ran his fingers across all of the keys

his eyes closed in fright
in ecstasy

Bartolomeo
left it there
for the night

and went back to his little home
and slept

in his Dream
a Tune played
it played through his bones
his hair
the eye lashes on his skull
the thin layer of skin on his lips
the palms of his hands
Throat
Stomach and Legs

The next day he stayed inside
worried that Death was outside his door

He waited for the moon to be dominate

He entered the woods

To find his musical Death Siren

Still there

And he sat at this Death Siren

Pressed a key
The Night seemed to hover over him
Like the lights of a Play
Like the Rifles of an execution
Like the Lips of a Woman
Like the Eyes of a child

He pressed another

Then he remembered the song in his Dream
and Pressed another key

Closing his eyes
he heard the song behind his eye lids
on the lobes of his ears
the end of his nose
and the tips of his fingers

And he played the Tune
What he thought that Death
had whispered into his ear
and down his spine like dripping wax on a tree stump

The Trees bent closer to hear
The Roses
The Birds
The Snakes
The Rats
The Moon
The Def
The Blind
The Mad
The Moth
The Dog
The Feline

Bent closer into the night
and gazed into the Forest

The Night was filled with his Tune
a mix of sorrow
of lasting hope
of a lover walking into the arms of Eternity's Death Canoe
of Sunrise
of starvation cured by bread and wine and cheese and meat
of *** and lust and love and lips
of death of tears of lonely nights
of war veterans
of sailors of painters of mothers of fathers
a mix of
Death and the smell of coffee
of
A woman and a lake
of
The Fountain of Youth and cigarettes
of
Adam and Eve
of
Insomnia and a runny nose
of
Waking up
and Falling asleep.

I thought Van Gogh had it figured out
he fell in love
and cut off his ear
he died july 29 1890 from a self inflicted gun shot wound
He painted
He painted the sky
He painted men women bedrooms flowers shoes street corners chairs boats and fields

I thought Basquiat had it figured out
******
NYC
He painted memories in the present
August 12 1988
NYC apartment ****** overdose

I thought Picasso
I thought Warhol
I thought Stalin
******
Buddha
Had it figured out

but sand fills our shoes in dry texan sun
and the dog howls
howls for its mother
howls for its brother
howls for its sister

I thought the dog had it figured out
eating insects
smelling my hands
eating the ham on the floor

I thought Hemingway had it figured out
Late at night
reading Old Man and The Sea
Suicide July 2 1961
12-gauge English shotgun

I thought Fitzgerald had it figured out
I thought Ginsberg
I thought Kerouac did too
drinking across the neck and back bone and gutter lips of America and back

I thought Bukowski had it figured out
the cigarettes
the wine
the women
the type writer
the sad nights accompanied by cockroaches and a city that is indigestible

I thought Phillip Glass had it figured out
Beethoven
going Def
Mozart lost in his grave
writing symphonies for Death and his cruel tripled eyed angels

I thought
The drunkards were lost
The Junkies were ankle-less
The Mothers were done for
The Fathers had given in
The Young
True
The Elderly
gazing  through the bifocals of heaven and hell
The Prisoners cemented in Time
I thought the Dead
were the ones who published our Dreams

I thought the painter
had it figured out

So I painted

I thought the pianist
had it figured out

So I played the Piano
and listened to the bilingual codes of the keys

I thought the Ballet dancer
had it figured out

So I watched her
I studied the movements
and the bruised toes
looking for a design of an answer

I thought the Poet
had it figured out

So I wrote a poem
and I saw the world.

Stand in the April rain with me
darling lady with blue September night eyes
my arms are weak
from carrying Oranges and fruits
3 miles to the room
Come out side with me
I have cheap wine
that will make your smile mine
Let's go on a walk
to the forest
to the Sahara desert
no need for that dress
or your
eye make up
I have a pick up truck
I have wings
tattooed with religious hymns
Lets climb the roof
of our apartment building
listen to the birds play piano
the kids running
full of youth
our lives are empty with everything around us
I am the simple creek river
a boy plays a small piano
we'll catch flight on the wing of a Moth
a mother butterfly
I see the moon
the stars a million miles away
winking at us
we'll go to Vegas
buy a car
i'll name you lillian
you can name me Hank
I'll smoke long cigars
live in a house
that is small
and i'll stand at the window
and glare out over the City's River
we'll listen to jazz all night
and catch fire flies with our palms
we'll grow old
and forget the time
on the wall
and roll around in the mud
pick up rocks at the lake
and skip them as far as we can
I'll write songs for the piano
Nights will be long
we'll buy cheap wine
and grow white
we'll stare at the fire place
throw our hats in
throw our clothes in
our wine glasses
our thoughts
our dreams
our finger nail clippers

Then we'll get in the pick up truck
head to mexico
let the house burn
with all our things
and your make up

we'll turn into lizards
into fruit flies
into southern eagles
we'll move in with the clouds
the stars
the moon and its daughter
I'll catch a Red robin
and give it o you
we'll stand in the river
and measure the weather
by the hairs on our skin

We'll have 10 dollars
go to a french film
and at the end
will be the end.

All alone
Savio sat
reading christian hymns
speaking at the doorknobless door
tracing the fracture memory
of her legs
her lips and *******
the shoulders
on the fog
that collects on the one window
fog just for him
or maybe she sent the rain
perhaps its her laugh
that drips from the kitchen roof
into a metallic bucket
perhaps thats her smile
in the gutter
perhaps the lake overflowing is her eyes
maybe thats her beauty
blocking the sun
canceling highways
turning New Mexico into Italy
maybe thats her kiss
her lips
that are making his boots wet
his hair and beard damp
all alone
savio sat
with her.

I am the mutt mix ****** soul'd ***** tongue'd,
Animal boy,
Feverish *** green like February Tree moss eyes,
Siren song blink of a kiss,
***** yellow dress,
around her knees,
king,
Queen,
Peasant,
peasant,
going def like grandfather Navy Time,
like Beethoven's 7th dream,
wine induced inspirational serene beauty,
with a sharp stale touch,
of old leather,
boiling like Texan Hot weather,
****** orange lipstick,
No food,
only the bacterial salt,
left on the pistachio shell,
That some,
Hispanic goddess,
For an hour,
200,
dollars,
left as she,
got dressed,
and fluttered away  like,
smoke,
like,
memory.

Shoot at the Blue white,
Moon sprouting Nevada dry desert,
An eyelash of God on a Train falls,
Pedal to Pedal,
Sand dust to Beach love making,
God is on a Train,
Crossing Afghanistan's oil fields,
Backpacking thru rubble russian poverty streets,
God,
The red pigeon,
Perched as a stone city Gargoyle,
Watches from,
Dilated pupils,
As April's blooming flowers,
Catch a winter cold,
God,
Came by himself,
A jean'd pocket of melodic junk,
Hiding in Apartment whiskey bottles,
in broom stick cupboards,
in Vinyls,
That only play backwards,
And the boxelder is,
removed from my,
Iron rust tongue,
To fly,
or.
What it ever chooses to do.

It was 10pm when I decided to leave my apartment
there was snow on the ground
patchy from the dry cold half winter half sun heat
I decided to check the mail
I had been drinking three dollar wine for hours staring at old paintings on the wall
paintings of kansas
paintings of tornadoes
paintings of Van Gough
I had written a poem on the wall
dedicated to the cockroaches and lamp posts of new york city
I wrote it in lipstick and spanish
I opened the mailbox
I felt the moon on my shoulder
I saw a shadow that wasn't mine behind a fence
it was from Florida
a woman I had once fallen in love with
with her brown hair curly like that of smoke of a cigarette
it read “i miss you”
I had decided to die right there
with the half melted snow
the half grown grass that was green and brown
the cigarette butts
the broken glass
with the moon still on my shoulder
a thousand miles behind winters blanket of clouds
I decided to die there
lighting a cigarette
wet from my lips
I lied down
with the orange letter in my hand
with the orange cigarette lightbug in my mouth
smoke dancing out like Amazonian women in heat
I pictured swamps
I pictured the city on fire
I pictured her naked in my hands
giving her self up to me
letting me have her lips and her legs and her stomach and her love
in the distant
behind the city buildings ears and belly button lint and sirens and swing music and the flickering of beer bottle caps and the burning of tobacco
from lips to tongue to throat to lung
then back out
in a ball of stretched smoke
headed only to the clouds up above
which angels and the moon slept behind
It would have been good to die there
the ground felt good
I thought of Texas
rivers
cow skulls on top of lamps
I thought of Mother and her
rose bottled liquor
I hought of Father
and his eyes that were enormous with
poverty and Tommy Hilfiger sweaters
I thought of
Her
alone in florida
full of sun
full of days and full of nights
I thought of Death
and how he must envy me
I smoke cigarettes to make it easy on him
he knows I wont go
without a fight
without spit in his hollow eye
without my blood
on his fur coat
when he comes in winter on a horse
or a Cadillac from the 1930's
I thought of many brave men
drinking their hearts
their bellies
their eyesockets to sleep
with Tall bottles of gloriously cheap whiskey
I thought of war
and I thought of lighting another cigarette
but it was cold
and I decided to go inside
with my windows
with my Van Gogh paintings
with my blind cat who purred at the dishwasher

“i wonder what she looks like naked” he thought
it was 11pm
he had been in the shower for 10 minutes now
letting the water get hot
turning his face and skin red
he had sat down
he stared at the blue rags in the corner of the shower
one was used to wash his back
the other to wipe his *** when he ran out of toilet paper
another to scrub his face
Now they've grown mold
They've almost grown together into one big rag
He stared at the hairs on his legs
He stared at his ***** hairs
he closed his eyes and let the hot water cleanse him
He felt good
Looking through the Showers obscured glass
he was able to see the toilet
it was Blotched
zig zagged
smudged by the glass's perception
He felt good in here
he understood things looking through the showers glass
He understood that things were there
but are in many forms all at once
and that perception
is the most beautiful thing

standing up he grabbed a plastic cheap blue razor
sat back down
avoiding the molded rags
and shaved his face
Chin
Left cheek
Right cheek
Above the lip
Neck

He Felt Clean
He felt like a boy
a newborn baby
Unsure of the things around him
but understanding
the unsure was nothing to be afraid of
nothing to worry over
That the unsure was good
It meant you were still curious
He stood up
turned the water off
stepped out
stared at his naked hairy body in the mirror
looked at his face
it was clean and smooth
The things outside of the shower glass  window were smooth and cleanly perceived
But the understanding
was the same as a man, naked with bright blue eyes
looking through his warped shower glass window
wondering what her ******* and legs look like.

She takes the heart of Men
barley brave
slightly handsome and solemnly gay
the world is bare like the shaven private parts of **** stars
of
young women
young men
I am not the average white male
Kansas
Kansas
Chanting ridiculous church hymns
pray preach till we are dull
till the snow
till the rain
till the tornado is nothing
till the insects on the bathroom floor
are neither welcomed
or shouted at
but rather
acknowledged in a monk-like-state of unforgiving in-ability to think
The insects and the dishes and the plastic wrappers and the condoms and the heart beats that climb through broken television shop windows scratching their scalps with glass and tiny tear drop like rain drops from a cloud trickle like wet make up down faces
Folklore Folklore
Heavenly father
****** Texas Heat Indian Skin Father
oh Holy Father
Teaching the hairy poet the wooden antique poet the stolen gift from an Oklahoman fuel station poet
Oh How You Taught the poet
How to steal
How to envision the future
To trust the gut
To trust women too much
To wear nice clothes
To Drink cold night beer walking down a lightless road in a strange blue memory flash of either texas or Mars
Holy Father
Teacher
Monk
Addict
You had it right
You Coulda' been a great singer
or a poet or a dancer or a play writer or a guitar player or a piano builder
You had the self destruction well completed
You have me beat
Now I sit around listening to the scratched up Vinyls warping and turning like fine black women swing dancing
their dresses in a symmetrical spin
Now I sit around
Reading Rimbaud
analyzing the snow
digging up Deer bones and skulls
Now I sit around my pores ingesting the sounds of birds pianos and fast heart beats.

Fred Gorgeous works as a Valet
at a reputable tall hotel
with pools
with marble bathrooms
and those marble bathrooms have marbled *******
marbled sinks where the elderly pinch out blood from their lungs
Fred Gorgeous is balding
he wears glasses
Fred Gorgeous isn't gorgeous at all
Fred Gorgeous listens to love songs in spanish alone
Fred Gorgeous has a Dog
his dog barks at nothing
his dog never sleeps
his dog is ugly too
his dog has brown black eyes and a blue collar
Fred Gorgeous has eyes too
his eyes are green

Fred Gorgeous lives in an apartment downtown
Police sirens quake through the city atmosphere like World War 1 **** chemical war fare
Fred Gorgeous submerges himself underwater in his un-marble bath tub
Fred Gorgeous can still hear the Police Sirens
they have tainted the water too

Fred Gorgeous was in love once
many times
but mostly once
Fred Gorgeous smokes cigarettes
Fred Gorgeous listens to Spanish music in the afternoon
while the city is at work
while the kids are at school
while the drunks are drunk in drunk encouraging residents
Fred Gorgeous buys cheap wine
3 dollars a bottle
Fred Gorgeous isn't gorgeous at all
Fred Gorgeous is 34 years old
He is bored
He is not tired
He has 3 pairs of shoes
All of them leather
Fred Gorgeous gets drunk and lays in his closet
the size of a Coffin
and smells his shoes
Fred Gorgeous enjoys the smell of leather and shoe polish
Fred Gorgeous isn't special
Fred Gorgeous isn't great
Fred Gorgeous isn't brave
or a hero
Fred Gorgeous isn't anything at all
Fred Gorgeous has a painting of a tornado on his wall.

Lost child afternoon
green pick up truck
cigarettes silver lipstick gold'n red
red like the horizon
in closed eyes
in
underwater blankets
where
Tiny fish and clams and beer bottles swim
Lost Child Afternoon
Gorgeous road signs
laying like a dog
with women of Florida purity alligator tongue
laying like a dead fly
on the carpets chest
resting like a mother
resting like a newborn Larva
like a newborn seed
grasping onto a Nebrask-ian breeze
A'hoy
A'hoy
the sail boat of life
is casting out
give us
give eye
a penny for a ride
for a passser-by
2 pennies to love
3 to keep the love
and 4 to
come back to shore
come aboard
come aboard
the whiskey is
practically gone
practically free
Wear some boots
because  it rains
and the mud is thick like hair
the flowers of life
bow like magnificent dream girl eye lashes
questions balance on a blink
come aboard
life seeker
life conquistador
life Apollo 11'er
life
wanderer wonderer
life protagonists
life main character
life 10 dollars
life love affair
life
30 years old
in dog years
Life
Mexican SunRise
Life
A.M.
Life
take her out to dinner
she put on
25 dollar lipstick
to imprint
to stain
your
offered
cigarette.

Is that death?
coming through my open window
gasping on my coffee breath and cigarette eye *****
blue to the touch of Chicago days
Michigan waits on an owl head
the perched up body of subconscious me
I grasp onto November
and eat the birds
that have gone south
follow destiny by her hair
long long road highway legs
Love is nothing to be proud of
clocks lay willingly
***** by times palm and ****** fingernails
I am a wolf
I am the candle sitting at your tombstone
money and a job waits
the tie the belt the tucked in shirt
gravel and oil in your mouth
you dribble my words
like a baby
not so ready for earth
the orchestra explodes with human emotions
yet is mute to the tongue with words
and the outside city blue man lighten lights that shimmer like gold in Nevada creeks that end up in California gold rush ****** by pistols and machetes and guitar songs sung by the not so ready boys of the world singing french songs
and love
songs
and songs that replicate the Greek goddess' that we once prayed too
but now we
sit alone on rooftops
and gargoyles
mock us
as we stone taxi cabs and young men for being
gay
for being true
for being life
but what is life?
Doesn’t it hang by a fingernails that god chews on when a man is born with 12 fingers?
I say we are all destined to live
everyone  is destined to die in a hospital room
watching cable television
and the songs of Christmas leak into the bathroom walls
and cockroaches leech onto food molding like the blinding eyes of Beethoven
but the angels
of alligator city still sing and curse my name for loving them in night showers
of Kansas toxic snow rain melting at the cognitive touch of my ashtray fingers
I lay down and sink into the bottom of the cities ocean bed
I look for fish
I look for tombstones with my name
I look for Neruda's last word
maybe its
in the rain somewhere
encoded in the ****** markings of a lover
that I once kissed
and danced with
with wine
as the birds and bears were away in the dark forest eating berries that rhyme with colors
and we are all dancing to the same song of deaths tune
and gods  choreographed workings
the coffin business is high
the  gravel stocks are up
we are all burying something in the backyard
whether it be
useless crystals
great grandmothers necklace
turquoise eyes that shimmer like native American destiny
walking in deep snows
coughing in up down out diseases
**** the cowboys
**** the office
**** the temper
**** the Christians
**** the rifle owners
**** the politicians of Washington city

my mind is made up
I will sit drunkenly
in a apartment room
with a wine glass
filled with
piano keys
half off sold for a 30 cents each
and my cigarette and my mind
will be left alone
for the spiders
and the cable television
to devour
like a poor boy
eating a peach that he found
after it rained
for 3 days
oh how it glimmered purple
in the grayed city vision.
Like a painting
perched up in a home
a cabinet with nothing to eat but bread crumbs
and a sip of
expensive
whiskey
left out for the fruit flies
and the insects
that gave way
to human emotions
oh how we all
dream of nothing
and sit on bar stools
drinking beer
drinking ourselves
drinking women
drinking ******
drinking ****
drinking me
drinking Beethoven's last dream gasping for a another song but the defining ear sound of
deaths call is too loud
and even the fire flies
hide beneath the shadowy light of my palm
looking for ideas
too give
to their mothers
instead
they
got to pawn shops
and sell their golden necklace
for a pack of red
cigarettes.

Crows of brooklyn
payphone goddess
Shakespeare:
old skinny
repeating thin silver words
beneath a sea shell
stolen by a 7 year old girl
in a red rag dress
from the burning contemporary
bookstore
tossing sweat thru
irrelevant back spine tunnel streets
featherless skulls
spitting sour chinese gin
from chimney blow hole
of their decaying dead thieving Fox
revolting death
to mother blessing decay
red blue green white
Fox yellow brown fur
swirling entwined like
melting crayons
on a stone militia crafted bench
researched developed by young Hispanic America Freedom wanderers
too hot
too cold to undress and ****
swirling together like cigar french ashes with
tongue hued wine
feverish coffee
thick as the bulging pregnant belly mother
giving
taking birth to a child
tossed carelessly into the Great Lakes
sipping on bad spoiled milk
digesting salt
hard boiled swan eggs
eating purity
chewing skunk
coughing industrial chemical gasoline
******* AIDS NYC bright non-existent lights
non-existent Allah
howling North Korea Communist war hymns
sing great religious protest
gunky toe nail'd feet
waltzing in the stomach of medieval
ballrooms chandelier not casted by
infinite diamonds
but by Jewish slaves
Islamic skins
Christian leather
Catholic molested brains children bones
deceased Langston Hughes
hung by Hughes spine and pupil
the size of texas
mass of the ****** female lips and knees
wearing color blind dress
shoes unfound
skin feet walking on rain drizzling beach
washed up skeleton sting ray
the skin unwrapped
like a christmas gift
Santa is starvation
licking the shoe polished long toes
of Death
riding the Downtown artificial lights
artificial scientist crafted classical
elevator time consuming Death songs

Jesus,
waking up,
to his body dry,
like that of Winter's rose and lips.

God teases my ingrown heart,
with an angel,
with michigan great lake eyes,
the color,
of an allusion,
to the bible's,
holiest thought,
an old version of Leaves of Grass,
lays coughing at my side,
"I will read you when the time comes"
i whisper into the empty room,
of mirrors,
and cheap bottles of city wine,
a beetle,
and I,
contemplate eachother,
it,
scurries into an old pair of shoes,
that a ****** Indian ******,
traded me,
for words,
of beauty,
of dried mud.

the dog's bark can't reach thru the rain,
it is night,
youth dwells on sunlight,
health and the illusion of time,
escapes me,
escapes the palmless hands,
that search vigorously,
starvingly,
shamelessly,
into the mud,
for gold,
I cannot see over these,
holocaust trees,
there is music,
playing in the mental hospital,
the insane,
are beautiful,
the insane,
are Buddhas,
Zen conquerors,
Nirvana explorers,
I sit with a metallic stare,
tossing change,
pebbles,
at God's door.

In Kansas
the streets and the dog pounds
are always preoccupied
by the rain
and the nights
that seem to cast over
cities
ballroom dance floors
rail road tracks with deer skulls
backyards
apartment draft windows
the nights are tired and lonely
Leola climbs a fence
she climbs the side of the world
of the moon
the voice of god
the chimney puffing old man cigar
and she looks out
over the city
far far away
as if she were a wife
of a sailor
casting her lonely brown eyes out over the sea's tongue
and she sees a tiny boat
tipping side to side
there is a light mist
of either tears or winters fog
Ah,
but the city is far
and her fine leather shoes are
on her feet
Leola is tall
and her eyes are lit by something
something bright and full of sorrow and hope
the roof tops and highways
she wishes for
smoking a leather colored cigarette
and the country side sings
a little river stream
running down by the trees
Leola Leola Leola
we all wait for you
I'm still in my blue Volvo
stereo performing infinity static hum
I fall asleep
Leola
to the dreams
you have
over
roof tops
and chimneys
sea beds
and
a sailors love
lost out at sea
and winter  to harsh
to your lips
and your tears
that he can no longer see
are more vibrant
late at night
in the churches front porch
but the door is locked
and a red truck
disappears down the road like the word I love you
lost
on the tip of the drunken tongue.

Movie star blue moon lit eyes,
winter is jealous of her,
solitude,
Rain,
waits,
to touch her lips,
The poet,
sits at his machine,
and sketches the smiles,
the blinks,
of her night glow face,
The moon,
is close tonight,
Tennessee is far,
Emily,
climb the moon's hands,
rise the back,
of a fire-fly,
let down your hair,
when you are up there,
Emily Tennessee,
lonely town beauty,
you make the streets shiver,
like a boy,
touching lips with Beauty.

Whispering to Mother saint texas addiction city
There is nothing here in Kansas
the walls are all blue
the streets are too clean
I cant seem to find my face
in all this snow
the snow is melting now
it is something like spring
Youth is in love
where does that leave the old
the beggars
the dogs with cold brown eyes
I am selfish
with a fishing pole
looking searching
heating
for Love
the tall and beautiful girl
is in a red Cherokee SUV
4 wheel drive

Can we get lost in the snow
the lake is frozen
I kiss your brow

Ah,
Dear lover,
I know I never wrote you that orange letter
but I have written many
poems
dedicated
fuelled
inspired
by your longless
by your destination
that left me sad
smoking a cigarettes underneath an american flag all tangled up in its own stripes

Even now I think of your face
and how your nose was corrupted and shifted up
you're making the coffee cold
I must get back to the poem
I must get back on the road
I must
leave
and tie up my boots and starve myself in the mountains of Zen Buddhism

There is something ambient
about this weather
even the animals have colds
I saw a goose in my neighbours yard
a cop chased me out of the closed off park

I just wanted to see the frozen lake
I just wanted to walk the prosthetic beach
I just wanted to climb a frosted tree
stand with the canopy
envision I as a bee
or a bird
or a wasp
or a fleet of geese
moving South

“are you heading to texas?”
I ask the sorrow'd by cold mother goose
but she only looked confused
and walked past
and took flight

I found a bug
crawling on my lips
as I slept on the carpet
all the lights were on
maybe God was looking for something

My mind
My mind
My mind
I am in love with the sea
I am in love with the idea of women
I am in love with
wisdom
and serenity
I am in love with the ambient mysteries of my own mind
knock knock
I rang the apartment bell too
no answer
I shall crawl through the bathroom window
of my subconscious mind

the dishes are *****
and the small plastic thick television
is preaching God
and a large black man is sweating
waving his handkerchief

I wonder where God is
so I peeked underneath the diminishing green couch
with wooden spokes
sticking out
and I looked in the cabinets
and only found paper plates and wine glasses
then I climbed the roof
and checked under the moon
and I asked an angel
where nobility was
and she laughed
and finished painting her nails.

I would write a
haiku
but there is to much on my mind.

poems to read
nights to think
silence to obtain.

drunk on the winter temperature
heavy sweater
lighting a cigarette.

Late night television
Late night television
Late night television.

we walked to the frozen lake
drew our names
in the snow.

My eyes are heavy
the heart is
some where beneath all this skin.

my tiny wood table
its belly
full of poetry and my eye lashes.

I don't think i'll sleep
tonight
just lay here.

It's easy to be a fool
It's easy
falling in love.

"Hello"
i kissed her
snowing.

It's been quiet all night
my voice has been altered
by red cigarettes
and the piano
late at night
like an infant
crying
across the sea
in france
in italy
lovers kiss
and the night is long and bright
with neon signs
fire flies in the fog by the lake
it's been
quiet all night
my lamp
doesnt say much
there's a taste of leather
in my mouth.

It's been awhile
since you've
taken your life
Today I found your
photo
in the trunk of my car
fellow poet
I know it was
peaceful
amongst the
dirt
leaves
the good sun
on your face
with the smell of
pine trees.

I would give a toast
but i'm out of wine
hanging onto
icicles
kissing hard wood lips
thinking to myself
thinking to the trees
thinking to the side-walk covered in snow and black cigarettes
midnight silent french film
projected by the
Moon
and the homeless woman
singing in the park
wearing
old white shoes
i would raise my glass
but I’m to drunk to honour the dead
and the river is cold
kiss an animal
kiss the
road for the unwanted
road for the seekers
raise your
dinted beer cans
to the overweight sky
my car with a missing tire
to the girl
in a purple over coat
that I’m in love with
but the thick smog of smoke
has me on the floor
the house is burning down
we're all on fire
checking the facet for water
suddenly the watch tower is
off
the sailor hasn’t paid the electric bill
suddenly
it is morning
and the sun is crawling up the sleeve of the sky
let's go out side
before it's too cold
to make love in the dirt
put on boots
draw back your hair
you’re beautiful
i wrote in blue pastels
on the park bench in November
climbed a wall
stood on a stage
at night
quiet
we kissed
and the play ended
with no one around
except the
occasional breeze
and your eyes
that woke the night.

mouth of cigarettes and beer
bark
icicles from the upstairs
balcony
i apologized to the
purple angel
for my silence
waves in her brown hair
drove 30 miles
to a party
where I drank beer
and took a walk
alone
talked with a couple of
homeless men
happy
drinking whiskey from a brown paper bag
i took a swig
and smiled with them
for the time being.

She was tall
she had brown skin
she was beautiful at night when kansas snowed
casting a long sad white glancing shadow
over the streets
the homes of families
of brick cafés and chinese restaurants that are open 24/7
she has big eyes
and there were rings in her eyes like that of a tree that grew in your dreams
but you never had the time to chop it down
and carve the bark
into eyes of a woman
I had only kissed her once
she had lips like michigan lake's winter waves
and she laughed
trees quivered in the wind at 9pm
and she laughed
snow drizzled from the tall tall unreachable ****** sky
and she laughed
with coffee
with cigarettes that we shared like 1940'd milkshake sweater dress couples
drove in a 500 dollar red beat up jeep
with 4 wheel drive
and the passenger window was unable to roll up or down
we drove to a park that was closed
covered in snow and ice and deer tracks and mud and snapped branches
walked to the docks
of a lake
waters still moving
thick
like olive oil
or whiskey from the freezer
she spelled her name in the snow with her feet
the ducks talked
and I touched the quarters in my pocket
lighting cigarette after cigarette
and she laughed.

Put on your make up
while we're in the car
peyote in our air
travelling through the desert
holding hands
air conditioner broke
smoking 4 dollar cigarettes
kissing
wiping the sweat off our faces
with old shirts
torn sweaters
you wore a dress
that exposed your knees
no bra
and your shoulders were bright
like your eyes
it was 100 degrees
lip stick smeared on the rear view mirror
when we kissed kansas goodbye
driving with no shoes on
let's stop for gas
but the wind
the heat the peyote and the lips of yours are
keeping me on the road
melting like hot candle wax
we stopped at a motel
the windows let in a draft of hot air
coffee machine broken
the cable television speaking spanish
making love
listening to dogs bark
as if we were aristocrats
in a private box
at an opera
the sink leaked
adding background static
to the sounds of the air conditioner humming
sputtering for air
we bought bad whiskey
took off our clothes
fell asleep in the sand mixed with mexico's moon light
when I woke up
my good sweater was gone
the 1980'd-rusted-flat tired-oldsmobile was gone
she left me a cigarette
the rest of whiskey.

a porcelain grizzly bear is on my desk table
I stole it from a gas station in Oklahoma
driving 100 miles per hour
in the hope for something hopeful
a tiny minuet grasp of freedom of the road
of the cigarette endlessly burning
endlessly producing knowledge
imagination
little scroll stories that flash through the mind like rain drops or
shooting stars at night
or the clock on the microwave turning from 4:00
to 4:01

A subconscious journey
a path
a walkway
a minor walkway into the many hallway'd mind
perhaps there are no doors
no official room or building
simply hallways binding into one another like ******* eye lashes on a woman of 47
and in these hallways there are rats that like to chew on the soles of your high heeled boots
leaving you
bare foot
then the hallway floors turn into your stomach
flabby
filled with chicken skin and peanuts
A subconscious dilemma
dementia
the dogs got loose
I'll trace them by the foot prints left in the desert like snow

“Ah” my money brother told me
a snow storm
I cover my eyes only to see that I am starving from the wind
and food is scarce in my belly
everyone is dying of hunger
but the poet eats on his fingernails and the poems he abortions through the vaginal mind imagination that creates in his skull made up of glue metal objects and pizza boxes left out on side streets for hounds cats and old serial killer'd military men have left the war only to find trash on the side street and windows with yellow lanterns flaming up in the night like a forest fire
or a **** girl of 16 running through the city streets high on methamphetamines
I called the doctor he's drunk on something I made up in my mind
and Beethoven is on the bathroom shooting up ****** which isn't mine
where is the poem heading
only the humming bird and and ant on the wall will because they do not care
I am hiding something beneath the crevasses of my fingernails of 5
of 10
of 20
of 15
“there's nothing to whisper about” I told her sleeping ear in the midst of drunk A.M. night with nothing to do but make love smoke cigarettes and comment on the noises outside city of sirens that do not attract but chase the negros of criminal car thieves and the drug dealers of KCMO

she took off her dress
something glowed in her eyes
on her belly
in her *******
her legs that grew like plants in a swamp
or in a pond where the deer feed and drink
I kissed her lightly
I saw the moon shake in jealousy
so I left the room through the window
I crawled on my highheeled knees onto the roof and sang
I sang
I sang a song that didn't make sense  and I puked up tiny words of
misleading information to the past of my life
van
desert city Michigan land of
rusting
rusted
old broken toyed up frozen over
antiques
the pond is frozen over
winter won't leave me alone
poking at my eyes
the wind plays a sad song
I miss the tree of life
I want to taste the forbidden apple
but I burnt my tongue on a hot iron
or was it boiling whiskey that I drank from the oven

I took a step into a hole
the subconscious mind began the breath like a young man that crashed in a blue volvo in 1963 on a street next to a ***** house and the lights were loud and the women were thin with
thin
thin
thin
thin
and their ******* pointed
and there eyes shifted only to God
only to 1 dollar bills and the 1 whiskey and 1 more pill of the serene night
of that
hope of finding beauty in a high
but the Trees burn
and the soil is over used
bare no child dirt
the children are deaf and blind and cant run up a mountain
reach the stars
reach the ravens
reach for the
violin
that corrodes the mind like lice
like bleach on the bathroom floor
like termites in the basement
chewing on a sound
gnawing on the night's temple
this may be a problem
painting you
I'm out of oils
and the fridge is warm
that is where I keep my pistol
turn the heat on
turn the water off
lets go out dancing
lets make love
lets ****
lets kiss
lets talk about the sky
as we sit
on our bellies
drinking wine
drinking the dogs breath
drinking the hands sweat
drinking the intellectual thoughts of a book
the book is dead
Savio stands with a sword and cuts his own throat
yet nothing pours out
what is next
where does the Van go from here
where is the next highway thought
the next Used Car Dealer Ship
where is aluminium bathroom
the dishwasher with no dishes
the light bulb that dangles like a child's loose tooth in his molding to man mouth

Look over there
child
mother
indian man with no hair
old?
80?
50 probably
look over there God
look over there
look over there
behind those strange purple white blue trees
I think I see myself
standing in water
with toes
with fingers and fish circling my ankles
look over there
a deer spine
a dogs leash
an unwashed sweater that cost 50 dollars

all my pants have holes in them
all the paintings in my house are fake

her bodied was patina'd
by a kiss of lipstick

soothing
the ride back home
a swig of alcohol
as the city night ***** dominated
quietly burns
where is the loud jazz?
bursting like ******* through windows
where is the passion?
where is the drooling for a womans touch?
where is the television with a baseball in it's skull?

where is the wisdom?
I can only hold onto this rope for so long
my hands are soft
and sore
and this hole is deep
this hole smells like New Mexico
this place stinks of dog and a man who cannot wake up from a dream
because the woman he loves
is in an ocean
and he's chasing her
his eyes are strong and wide
his mouth is full of salt water
and as he looks up
there is snow
there is snow and the water freezes over
and his lover is far
she is on the other side of the shore
she is beautiful in the snow
and his eyes grasp onto that beauty
before he is frozen still


a seagull in winter flies with the crows
what a beautiful sight
I once met an ant
on a leaf of a tomato garden
the ant didn't say much
I complemented him on his life span of a day
I asked him if he ever contemplated suicide
but I guess he never got the chance
the garden dies
the tomatoes grew ill colored
and the stems
that were once straight
like young women in sun dresses
now bends
like an old man reaching for his glasses on the pavement in a sand storm of pain
he hollers out in his used up antique washed out voice of time and too many cigarettes too many women's lips and too much coffee at 5 Am
cursing death
to come
cursing god
to reveal himself
like *******
and the Garden begins to decompose
like that of a squirrel in a suburb street
or a mouse in the cats feline belly
the garden descends bent-wardly to death
to the ground
to the origin of life
of  seed.

A journey into a subconscious mind
or maybe the glance through a dying man's eye glasses.

I'm kind of freaking out
Arizona is sleeping with another man in a cigarette based bedroom
there is still liquor in my pupil'd eyes
the oh great AM insomniac lamp
is dusty
with someone else’s fingerprints
on her *******
i reached for the moon
and only felt snow
the books are staring at me
not saying a word
my breath is thick
i'm out of cigarettes
I've got a few dollar bills
I'll buy coffee and ink pens to keep me up
i need to keep track of the phases of the moon
its 56 degrees
wearing only a sweater
I'm freaking out
Winter may never end
I may not be able to leap from the ceiling
i can't stand up
or grow a beard
i'm slightly insane
or slightly sane
i'm still figuring out how she walks
and the road signs
leading to mexico
i must be crazy
mimicking the speech impediments of the walls

If I had the hands of the sky,
the colors of Monet's secret insight,
a pigment of an Ocean,
unsailed,
by human kind,
what color would I paint you?
How man days can I Starve,
to stay alive,
If I had a canvas,
as large,
as white,
as the moon,
how would I describe you,
snow crunches,
beneath my feet,
I light a cigarette,
breath thick,
honey,
molasses,
dog fat,
If I were to build you,
could I use the tombstone of Beethoven,
grandmother's woolen blanket,
the missing piano key,
a harp string,
moth's wing,
winter's bulimia,
night's insomnia,
a dream's last breath,
novel's,
Last line,
Neruda's breath,
Shiva's golden temple,
a goddess' breast,
the highway's Texan accent,
a humming bird's,
silent flight,
the pollen of a sunflowers,
the ****** user's,
high,
Indian's leather,
a mother's palm,
sad song,
Michigan's final night,
If I were to kiss you,
how again,
would you taste,
too many nights,
have separated my memory.

He was an old old man,
sitting in a chair,
older than he was,
he would sit in that old chair,
staring at the Corn Field,
maybe he saw something spectacular,
maybe God,
or an Angel,
he would take deep inhales,
as if they were his last,
making them count,
getting in one last victory,
the smell of his land,
the trees,
the animals,
the ski,
the planet,
but he never went,
he sat there,
rocking back and forth,
the farm was always quiet,
no visitors,
the rain came at times,
graying over the land,
which he didn't enjoy very much,
he'd close his big,
heavy wrinkled worn eyes,
and imagine running through the rain,
through the Corn Field,
as he did when he was young,
young and didn't think too much,
the Corn Field glowed,
like hot metal it glowed,
sometimes he never slept,
he'd just stay up for days,
Monklike,
no food,
no water,
no using the restroom,
almost stunned,
stunned by what?
I couldn't say for sure,
but his big green eyes,
were weighted on that Corn,
the rain would come,
and the house made a funny noise,
you could hear the birds,
chirping,
scattering looking for a dry place,
you could hear the road,
being drenched,
the hard rain drops,
smacking against the old paved road,
getting so loud,
only a hum came about,
emerging across the hill like a silent marching band,
or a group of lost holy men,
chanting humming something of significance,
but the sound of the rain drops,
tapping the leaves of the Corn,
that,
he could hear intently,
with this he'd softly press his aged lips together,
close his eyes,
and inhale,
suggesting to Death, or God,
that this moment,
is perfect for me to go,
but the rain was still to be watched by him,
the *** holes in the road,
filled like the palms of a child,
as it rained,
was to be heard by him,
he was okay with this,
he was okay with the duty he had,
to keep record,
of the beauty,
he had heard,
weeks would pass,
before seeing a truck,
a lonely old steel car,
or even the zig zagging hum of a fertilizing air plane,
he felt at times he wasn't even on Earth,
the he had died,
last harvest,
when the rain never came,
and the corn dried up,
and crumbled over on itself,
but he had food,
cans and cans of beans,
which he lived off of for a year,
but the corn had come back,
and he sat in the chair,
with wonderful eyes.

We listened to jazz all night,
I had no wine in the tiny fridge,
that was,
supposed to be the kitchen,
we took *****,
I kissed her stomach,
as she lit,
red cigarettes,
with a yellow lighter,
that was thin,
like her neck,
long long long like her,
legs,
we made love with the lights burnt out,
from staying up,
for so many nights,
laying on the hardwood floor,
discovering silver-wear underneath the couch,
and coffee mugs,
to pour our,
Gin into,
that costs 3 dollars,
at the downtown,
liquor store,
we made the city,
smell like cigarettes Gin and ***,
the dogs barked,
2 blocks away,
when she moaned,
and Norwegian birds,
migrated here,
to nest,
to listen to her sing,
when she,
took a bath,
we listened to jazz all night,
on the tiny radio,
that blinked the incorrect time,
and when she left,
I kept the bills paid,
the tiny fridge,
full of wine,
and grew my beard,
when she left,
the jazz at 2 AM,
seemed sadder,
and the piano,
sounded,
more like a her saying goodbye.

jazz,
jazz,
swing,
dancing melt city on the hot side walk,
where,
little boys in jeans play,
baseball,
newyorkcity,
newyorkwomen,
newyorkgraveyards,
new­yorkbackalleys,
newyorktelephonecall,
call her at 2 AM,
drunk on a wine only the bums know about,
i bought a pack of,
cigarettes this morning,
i'm all out,
the side walk tilts,
untying my shoe laces,
and knotting my eye lashes,
she picks up after the 4th ring,
she's dressed to go out,
she's dressed to be undressed and to be kissed,
she's dressed for me,
jazz or something like a Medieval God,
shakes and vibrates and quakes and ******* down the street,
it sounds like rich whiskey in cheap glasses,
and sweating trumpet players and women dancing with their legs and skirts up,
i tell her to meet me on 6th avenue,
where everything comes to make sense,
with the whiskey,
the jazz,
the women in short dresses,
and the club is loud,
leaking out only certain noises,
specific laughs and,
the important notes,
played on the piano,
and squeezed from the,
saxophone,
like a poppy flowers ***** milk,
the payphone rings,
but i'm gone.

it's all good,
Van Gough reprints on the walls,
tact in,
type writer on the carpet floor,
a boxelder bug hides in between 'U' & 'I'
I've got a dollar in my wallet,
hair on my face,
and the dog waits at the door for me to be wild,
the room is cold,
the heater is off,
the electrician is drunk,
i hand him a bottle of wine,
we end up painting the walls,
with the left over blue buckets of paint in the basement,
"now it's like we're in heaven"
the bellyed drunk brown eyed electrician,
his hands face hair clothes covered in paint,
"now you are heaven"
and we laugh,
lighting cigarettes that taste like women,
and the Television screen is cracked and leaks out Volume 3 News
some how we are free at this moment in time,
when the color of the walls are pointless,
when the television screen says nothing,
when the bathtub is broken,
and the water pipes whine,
and the mind is fairly crazy,
fairly drunk,
fairly mad,
but it's all good,
because rent is paid,
and the world's fist is taunting me,
to see how long i can go without eating,
and how fast i can create.