for Those who eat ramen by choice, or not.*

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by disillusionment,
lacking egotistical sold, dragging themselves through the hip streets at dawn
looking for a socially self-aggrandizing fix.
Poets, as they sit in desks and discuss discourse
about discourse about discourse about discourse,
who fear that thinking itself was buried with Vonnegut,
who are lost in forests of brick walls,
inviting, because they block the wind of dying fall,
who swim in cesspools filled with academic sewage, yearning for freedom,
for truth, as they always have,
mining their minds for images, and searching for words to describe
-a reality which is virtual at its core and each act, another chore./
-a scene of life which reflects all that is poignant and sacred.
Poets seek musicians while musicians seek poets.
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly

These poets who search aimlessly for the feeling of feeling,
who are overwhelmed with meaning to the point where meaning
has no meaning in itself.
Who claim this poem as their own and continuously write themselves into it.
It is those who suffer in truth that live the poetic.
Those who sit in front of space heaters eating peanut butter sandwiches in winter,
who sweat unknowingly in summer, comforted in each’s odor.
Those who open Macbooks while squatting in empty flats.
Signing up, logging in and zoning out, forever disengaged.
Those who type prophecy on keypads and let keyboards gather dust-
stratification, signs of long nights spent in century-old homes still not renovated,
ceilings sinking at the sides while those above pogo to punk rock long dead,
or grind genitals to old soul, simulating all that is sensual.
Those who play archaeologist to their own layers of makeup, grimed on the sink.
Those who share their food with the roaches and the mooches who all have keys,
who use the books as shelves to hold ceramic mugs, stained with a single drip-drop,
who, with arms crossed, watch bands in basements play noise.
Those who replaced their nu-metal records with folk but kept the unkempt beards.
Those who drink stale beer on stranger’s rooftops.
Those who live with bags under eyes, themselves asleep, lacking a body,
sleeping naked together to stay warm,
sleeping naked together to stay sane,
sleeping naked together to stay touched.

Those who leave coffee in unplugged automatic pots, decaying rapidly.
Those who eat pizza for breakfast, cold or microwaved, as an act of ultimate indulgence.
Those who prance about in un-matching socks
from hardwood floors to vinyl floors to tile floors, all under the same popcorn ceiling,
dancing to the sound of rhythmic silence.
Those who fight with lovers about acts, but never once mention the act of love itself.
Those who don flannel plaid in springtime color, constructing Williamsburg,
who consider gentrification a new form of landed gentry,
who live in poverty as if it were a novelty,
capitalist martyrs sacrificing employment to hide being non-hirable,
who shop in online surplus department stores for unique vintage.
Those who, who, who hoot like the owls framed on their walls, eyes wide but beaks small.
Those who are oppressed by nonexistent kings ruling in imaginary suits.
Those who crave something new, not tired-as the form of this very poem-
something which is not-yet auto-tuned.
Those who, faux-hawked and shredded, rock and bop to Bowie doing Lou
on Sunday Morning from Station to Station shooting ******,
who walk swiftly with denim skin on their legs and refuse socks.
Those who, in their rightest mind, are the wrongest-minded.
Those who can reject privilege only because they are privileged,
who, in their uniform whiteness, denounce racism,
who, in their uniform straightness, claim immune to homophobia
who, with their ***** ***** in a row, claim to be feminists.

And those who search for revolution in a time when rebellion is conformity.
Listening to the  pounding sound of blog-protesters typing n o w.
who, in claiming to accept, don’t accept the unaccepting,
who got veggies tattooed on their sides while snapping bacon in their teeth,
who ironically infiltrated asylums and performed madness until the shocks came
and they were maddened, for good, eaten alive by volts resounding
ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching.
Who sleep naked together to be together but end up being alone,
exchanges from lips that move in pretentious drone,
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly.
When the abnormal is normal and the whole structure is inverted and
heaven is here and flames under the soil are no longer hell burning for soles of the
Converse, Adidas, and Nike sneakers on the bicycle pedals of poets who ride at night,
listening to the sound of owls that question:
who?
whoo?
whooo?

I'm not sure I was meant for this.
I'm sure I existed far too late.
It seems I came to be in the wrong time era,
and I assure you the wrongest wrong place.
I can hold my head high wherever,
but records and dusty movies are my friends,
they make me feel like I'm home at last;
make me wish the time never ends,
but it did and so forth,
I was not meant for here.
The people, too boastful,
with so much less to fear.
The relationships are wasteful,
and different by the day.
The love and optimism is fading out to grey.
I almost pity the people,
and I find their time more tragic,
while the era I love was suppressed by casual bombs,
the era I'm in has lost all their magic...

you've left me uninspired now
but i don't hate you
not really
instead i hate you for the wrongest reason
i hate you because i keep looking for you
even bits of your beautiful monstrous self
in these wide corridors i walk in everyday,
through the noise in the canteen,
everywhere i go and
especially in all the people i meet

You wake up one day and you're hollow
And you realize you let your sweet one dig so deep up on your insides
You've come to the point where you might not even bother eating
Or sleeping
Or resting the unsettling mixture of hatred and disgusted were-once-love remainings

Because they won't settle
or let you sleep
or let you be quiet, peaceful or
feel
safe

     ironically the only
   thing
  you
ever
  asked of him.

You couldn't be happy with it if you tried a million years
But you don't have a million years, dearest
You have just this one life
And it sure as hell won't be waiting for you to realize it's the absolute wrongest thing to do,
It goes on
and on
and on
and on
and on
and on
and on...

And one day
You'll look back
And see the shadow of the were-once-love
And you'll know
just then
it never was.

there were some hints of hidden plots
but I'm unable to reveal
I found some separated spots
still unable to tell which link is real

and so I try to analyze
what rather should and must be framed
since all I see creates disguise
that's much too complex to be ever named

of course it has been clear to me
that I can never understand
trapped in the wrongest strategy
but this slight insight it could never end

living within recursive strains
and sensing that there is a sense
more valid than just causal chains
but only describable as weird chance

so all foretelling must stay vague
and loosely caught in blurring lines
just guessing back allows to make
out what still must resist to be combined

seems context can produce a part
that hides some future in degrees
of freedom interpreting art
seems the mystic whole is stored in a piece

but there's no way to find out how
to find what is the fitting view
since perspectives change truth right now
and every looking back is always new

breaking habits means crossing lines
to unveil the contexted mess
just writing what my brain combines
still so far beyond my most daring guess

but this is where I cannot get
by words bound to logical thoughts
I treat them in new ways instead
where all I is weakly felt metaphors

and all I see is kept in mind
and stretching out with every verse
but well, of course no one can find
what only contextually occurs

a strange result is feeding doubts
since all is trapped self-reference
that can be clearly talked about
asking how to comprehend any sense

outside the very performed act
but what got written down at last
is a shadowed trace that reflects
translating what cannot be tracked unmasked

with or kept by well defined terms
but ambiguous metaphors
leaving space for views to confirm
spotted patterns that could reflect my course

but each changed context brings the chance
to find new ways of reading how
the world was caught within found sense
constructed just against backgrounds of now

if i could control your Heart
(which i can't; other's, yes; yours, no)
i'd ask you, not force you, to give me what i want

for my greatest pleasure would come from
you simply blindly handing me
        everything
                  you hold dear

of course, i'd want you to suffer as you do
(i'd want you to scream for no one to hear:
                          a silent, pathetic thing, crawling out of your
                          straining throat)
                                             struggle, as you do,

while having no choice.
                                                 [ a war between heart and mind! ]

but, after that initial brawl
kneeling, bent as a nail hit upon
by a hammer at the wrongest angle
the palms of your Large Hands would face the sky

                  and you'd deliver.

Falling in love with you is so easy
I could do it in my sleep,
dreaming of different ways to hold your hand
imagining kisses sweeter than chocolate
Falling in love with you is so easy
I could do it backwards
I wouldn't need rear-view mirrors
it wouldn't matter what was is my blind spot
it would't matter if I hit anything
because this love is reckless
Falling in love with you is so easy
I do not even realize I am doing it
like going up an elevator,
pressing buttons and feeling the slight change in elevation
but never realizing how far you've come
until your look out the window
Falling in love with you is so easy
I feel as if it is the only thing
I have truly ever done completely correctly
and in the wrongest manner
You make my love grow like an infinite river
a never ending push and flow
of repetitive jokes and wanting to kiss you
but also knowing to hold back
because your lips would crack my sweet tooth in half
your taste would leave me breathless
I can not stop falling in love with you
no matter how hard my endeavors are
You make it so easy to fall in love with you
and I hope it is just as easy for you
to fall in love with someone like me

There was once a girl who fell madly in love.
Deeply in love with the wrongest of wrongs
the songest of songs
the longest of longs.

Her legs once so stable
collapsed and fell through.
Like mush mashed potatoes,
like nothing she knew.

This innocent girl,
alone and in love.
Made a promise to herself
she wouldn’t give up.

So though she loved wrongly,
though her man kept her safe,
she wanted to run,
run out of this place.

Her true love was not hers.
He was out with some other.
So she prayed and she willed
to be his new lover.

She neither cared that it wrong,
nor that it was lame.
For this was true love
to her not some game.

But this love she loved wrongly,
he just couldn’t see,
that her love was for only
the girl she could be.

He wanted them both,
but wanted his more.
For if he truly loved her
he’d be at her door.

So now she sits lonely.
She sits without any.
She lost her own dear
'cause she wrongly loved many.

1.

In Japan the color of mourning is white.
The blinding flash of strangled brain
Festooned above the funeral route,
All the crepe-stream blank of pigment,
Blank the mind once dying's done.
Maybe find a bit of hope there, thought
Of light beyond alive, not
The blackness promised by
A firm belief in nothing.

2.

Regardless of catharsis
thus-far crying's done no good
it seems the sap can leak all
trite and flood surround with
sighs but I
I'll still be penitent for naught for all
the wrongest sins, to own up must
say "vanity's what needs my focus"
I--a deal so ******* big
no other face can crowd the mirror
of my mind's eye, I all I see, see

No one looms quite large enough
to crowd me from my view.

12/7/2010

Go on,
Side with her.
You always do...
Everyone does.
She could do the wrongest thing,
And somehow it's always my fault.
So go on,
Side with her,
And when I quit,
It'll be too late,
To be on my side.

the plural of grief is grief,

in our lives, we busy ourselves
accumulating various assorted
grief, some physical, most mental,
those stories when retold, first
make you groan out loud,
every-one asks
what’s a matter, no spilling beans,
you shake ‘em away with
a smile and a “just life”
and it gets
dropped

if you’re so young, that you haven't
started a career of serious collecting,
the objects that will decorate every
place, in every state, wherever the
airy transplants, you won’t be
surprised, thinking you “forgot” to
pack them, for they travel light,
though, they weigh more than any
hope chest of unworn garments that
will never be discarded,
even when
hope is so long gone,
it is still an
unrecognizable

And yet,
the plural of grief is grief

and there is a singular story,
a lost love, a guilt for letting
someone get lost, leaving them
unknowing that if you could,
you’d whisper shouts of reconciliation
for days, to cain assuage the years
when they lay unspoke,
brike broke inside a human chest
of petty
grievances

I have one,
midst all my knowns, which
even not even now, even
in my truth serum poetry
that will not be confessed,
lest you’d beg me to
never write again,
move on to parts unknown,
let that gory story abide in your own,
in your windowless palace,
with your
other locked up secret treasures
wrapped
in black
tissue paper

my own chosen grief,

unspoken, unwritten,
and resting restrained upon an
invisible line
that lives on my tongue,
it is fresh, imaged, just
a hasty taste away, when it
resurfaces at its own chosen
speed, its own chosen need
to be rebreathed, when least
desired, least required,
**in other
words,
when it chooses to emerge,
& it chooses you,
at the precise right
always the wrongest
time & place