ive seen the world all people same we love we fear, deprived, insane absolute mass and no division for the HQ supervision we are Trialed in side by solicitude at night blindfolded OF! superiority of those that are biting in our nose medicating under-eighteen that appear so differently and thus don't reap the boredom we are destined to live through im sorry that I'm different and I'm sorry that I speak for the nation of the flowers all fragile but not weak
A bit like Kerouac, not trying to run away. Just want to be free like the river. The mere thought makes me shiver. Not knowing. That's the rush. Where will I sleep tonight? Where will I go tomorrow? It's anyone's guess, and I like it that way.
I'm not running from you, I'm running from me, to a better version of myself. You don't need to get it, just accept it.
Wind in my hair, smoke in my hand, but no longer over my eyes. These highs don't go any higher.
Don't agonize over me, just let me roam free. It's where I'm meant to be, can't you see?
Let's talk about this jazz club that lives in my cellphone in 1950 something with Chet Baker back from the dead. Let's toast to random notes taking flight into the city in the middle of nothing nights we've known or been familiar with. Let's shake hands cordially with the unfamiliar as in "deal", or "peace be with you" as if in church, tipping hats at that stranger passing by at the crosswalk some late evening in spring alongside dandelions sprouting forth from the pavement. Let's read between breaks of beats Kerouac must have hit in 1950 something San Francisco in yelps into the moonlit stages of the balcony of his boxcar boxcar boxcar gone by in a mad blur with whatever graffiti'd message of hope it bore on its sides. Let's hitch into the unknowingly infinite by way of the pen's mighty point. Let's unlearn the way syllable by syllable and demolish languaged signs like hurricane force candor blowing down fact-ory made terms and political decorum as smoke from the pages of their corporate handbook joins the Chet Baker solo note pilgrmage into the holy skyline. Let's move side by side unspoken as those jazz notes he forgot to play. Let's fill in those blanks with uninformed confidence beyond our abilities and grasp the unsayable names of our dreams remmebered. Let's see in seconds passing like bums inebriated with the holy moments gone too soon. Let's talk about nothing but this sacred second at hand on this clock unseen pointing overhead to the face of the moon gone full and hungry for attention. Let this happen only now. Only then will we talk about where it's going.
I stole you away from city lights Yep held it in a brown balled paper bag Drank in the words like liquor I didn’t think anybody could see, really. San Francisco stopped and got back on the treadmill Made of silicon and now its gone
Beaded sweat of mind bleeds into the bay I walked on the pier and teared up a little bit lip The hills once covered in god are covered in another ones I don’t know what to think of it at all
Grit the teeth against it and grind them to dust Bite the tongue until it leaks sweet sanguine blood I drink the wine and dine on the pain And wish with all my dying heart to meet you again But you are dead Even the world you left is dead And the minds of man are dying Because they got way too mad of trying
Counter the counted counter-cultured counter-top Endless sine of combating thought I’ve walked to the golden-brown California hillcrop And realized I stood on holy seasonal grassland genocide
With horror the minds withered United State Holodomor Can I build a paper airplane to take away from here In time you knew there was nothing here to fear I cannot find it Please help me find it
Your alley smells like **** and the taste of forlorn Bay sits in hazy forever The water still glitters god’s diamonds but it feels more like A forgotten mound of coal You cannot polish these timely souls From bronze to something gold If they do not want it
Men like you live to die And we can pretend that there will be another to tell your place But Socratic manners of speaking are banned So too, will you be left on trial
The veil of night shines with roman jewels on an incandescent man-made interstate I watch them sparkle in the receding mirror, all but the brightest remain We built stars on our land and pretend they are god And in a way they are What poor representatives to those congresses of light Impossibly far
So I must make do with the day we are born to Speak words that mean worlds to you And perhaps together we can reawake something Disastrous after the soul, and open the I
to my friend who knows none of my writing yet supports my passion with everything in your being thank you for supporting me with everything in your soul you haven't seen any piece that i have written yet you believe that what i write is beauty i appreciate you so much more than you percieve and i hope one day that i am able to fully tell you how spectacular you are i adore how kind and accepting you have shown yourself to be i know we have only gotten close as of recently but i am glad that i am able to know a person quite like yourself our friendship reminds me of allen ginsberg and jack kerouac speaking of honest emotions and desires thank you for supporting the poetry you have yet to see and thank you for supporting the honest me
five hundred words are not enough to say all the things I need to say but five hundred poems are **** sure enough on hello poetry to get noticed
alas, I write poetry for the sake of poetry just like good ole Charles Bukowski cranking out words with a foul mouth without a care for the audience
I write words for the sake of my soul because it is the only time that my heart feels free to be whatever it needs to be without the world confining me
so **** straight. I wrote five hundred words for my five hundredth poem because I rarely write so many words to express what is in my soul
I should be listening to jazz while I write this just like Kerouac so my words will have a beat and rhythm of the sounds of bebop, instead of a cadence of all my own who wants originality when you can have novelty
everyone is nostalgic to recreate what has been captured before the great writers and poets of our time regurgitate what’s been said for me I don’t really give a **** about the words, so much as how I let the words live out into my life through my actions
words matter because they order our thoughts and feelings, they give shape to the amorphous images that play in our minds and hearts and once something comes into being, then oh man man do they have power that’s why knowing the name of something really means something
who knows if meaning comes from the words, or words come from the meaning did the chicken came first or the egg? all I care about is how you cook the ****** chicken or the egg fried chicken and I prefer my egg sunny side up
Bukowski eat your heart out as I write my stream of consciousness five hundred word poem for my five hundredth poem is it getting a bit redundant? I am a firm believer that less is more
but sometimes I want my words to beat out like they used to on old type writers like a **** machine gun the beat flowing like the drums of a marching band that gives life to even the worst of brass section
I don’t know if my heart can truly sing in a sea of so many words I prefer capturing a single moment with 10 words, maybe 20 words anything more than that feels like a waste just like a coffee ice cream ruined by too much toppings
I am a minimalist at heart even though I can’t declutter my stuff holding onto old forgotten receipts closet full of clothes I never wear
however, on most days my mind is clutter free old resents are shoved out fear written and jotted away the book of the past closed
each day is a gift freely given each breath new
may you be blessed may we keep sharing for fun and for free
I see great ***** every day in the subway and, suddenly, my favorite Hitchcock movie changes from Rear Window to Vertigo. The movement of the train calms me down and I fall asleep quickly, dreaming that I'm in Kerouac's car, quietly hitting the road like ******* hit his canvas.
I see great ******* every day on the bus that takes me home, but not one single ***** for me to lay my ear on. The dream comes to a crossroad where me and Jack have to part ways. He'll go down in history like a great writer and I'll quietly go down on memory lane in oblivion.
Memory disappointed me and left a bad taste in my mouth - literary ******* ain't what it used to be.