in a dim lit bar,
where orange hues
soften our brains,

our pathetic pulsing hearts
spout whiskey blood
into our muscles

and we flip quarters
into each other’s creased hands,
waiting for the other to

drop the game,
our eyelashes flashing
distracting cravings.

but

your eyes aren’t chocolate pools
until rye sets flame
to your inhibitions.

i won’t take the invitation
for a sticky dip.

Lithuania! My homeland! You are like vigour.
How invaluable you are, only he can figure,
Who has lost you. Today your beauty wholly I view
And seeing, describe it, because I long after you.

Holy ******, who guards Luminous Czestochowa
And shines in the Gate of Dawn! You, who watches over
Strongheld Novogrudok and its faithful populace!
As once you healed me, a child, so miraculous
(When into your care from my despondent mother bid
I lifted my already departed eyelid,
And soon could make my way on foot to your temple's door,
Having gone to offer thanks to God for a life restored),
So too you shall restore us to our homeland's womb.
Meanwhile, may you convey my soul from its longing's gloom
To those aforrested hills, those evergreen meadows,
Stretched wide across the space where the azure Neman flows;
To those vast fields, painted in varicoloured grain-dye,
A landscape gilded with wheat, silver-plated with rye,
Where the runch is amber, and the buckwheat white as snow,
Where like a maiden's blush the red clover overgrows,
And all's interwoven, as if by a ribbon, green
balk, within which a wild pear tree can sometimes be seen.

Bones in the rye field they sang, brittle stems of iron spreading leaves of
rust
A hidden look in watery eyes, secret sickness, ripping my guts
asunder
That space between midnight and morning when the world has been reduced
to monotone
In the blue-gray lucidity we sit, absorbed in cigarettes and gusting
wind
A few notes of Satie and I’m sitting in that blue room again, bamboo out the
window
Your voice like a finger running up my spine, singing to me, drowned out by
spring showers
Clay pots on the shelves, wilted sunflowers on the floor, grass pushing its way
through the floorboards
I step into falling rain, dream of sleep, dream of nothing, the blankness between
wakefulness
Hands carrying the scars of a thousand days, much like the day before, unconscious of
its passing
In tired two syllable words we exchange our hearts
In smiling kisses we pass each other breath, fresh like fertile ground split by
rugged plow
Black and white photographs in odd fitting drawers with cheap brass
handles
A pocket watch carried by many men before me, strewn upon stained counters
and newspaper clippings
I will these tired eyes to come to their senses, absorbed in a single word in a single
line
Losing their focus for minutes at a time, the sensation of drifting, the feeling of
fading
Like watercolor or lines in well-trod earth, shuffled into meaningless
harmonics
I still miss the sound of your violin, though you thought no one listened through
that ***** window
Scraps of Scriabin and Brahms, your symphonies saved me many a night
Such frail hands and white scalp, but you did not shake when bow met
fingers
Those nights of cheap Merlot, secretly stealing a moment of calm from your
skilled hands
The records never quite rivaled those nights, my unknown
friend

The brown liquor creeps
Into the gray crevices
Rye whiskey, you win

I'm an infant
crawling with unformed senses from arm to arm
ready to be mystified if I knew the meaning of the word
Feeling the curves and dimensions of the world
of its curious things with lips and fumbling fingers
Green as a rye mold
and my dreams are hallucinations brought on by its consumption

I stood there staring
at the distance between you and i
There are worlds, universes even, or perhaps
three measly steps.
Your hand twitched
and I thought for a moment you wanted to hold my hand
but i realized how stupid that sounded
and i kept that idea locked in the vault in my brain.

Your eyes refused to look at me as if i
was a foul beast whose appearance was so repulsing
that if you looked at me even the slightest bit
your eyes would shrivel up
and your heart might collapse.

But as i stood there measuring the distance
between us
i realized i had begun to miss you.
And that's really something,
to miss a person who is standing right in front of you.

You are the wrinkled sheet I have no intention of smoothing out
the empty bottles on my night desk
the clothes fallen and never picked up.
You have become a bother
but something i cannot bear to part with
in fear i will need you once you're gone.
If i smooth out the wrinkles
I'll miss the marks they left on my body
but i'll miss your body more.
You are the scars that will never go away.

When I finally spoke, I said
"I believe there are Gods
but there are no Gods watching over me tonight.
If you put more worlds between us
I won't be able to find my way home."
With that he put one more world in between us
then three more universes followed
and then six more steps.
I saw his back turn then.
I saw his eyes go ark when he turned.

All I could think of was
"If a body catch a body comin' through the rye"
and Holden Caufield's voice thundered through my brain.
He said "We should go after him
but you have to be in the mood for that sort of thing."

And I said all i could think of to you
and for a boy who was never good with words
you sure knew the right ones to leave me with.

Beware!
Beware!
The great Beast of the World
Beware!
Beware!
They’ve come
They’ve come
They’ve come

Beware!
Beware!
The mighty, ferocious roar
Their anger have no limits
Their hunger have no bounds

Beware!
Beware!
They’re lurking everywhere
They lives in those we scorn
And within those ***** throngs

Beware!
Beware!
They’ve come to get us all!
What have we done to deserve this fate?
Such innocence yet we fall

Beware!
Beware!
Gather your gold
Gather your letters
Gather your shoes
Your bread and your butter

Such savagery
Such monsters
Flaming tongues
Knife blade garbles
Seeping into every nook and cranny

What have we done?
But give you a place to sleep?
What have we done?
But give you a way to live?
We are like you
Working in the fields
We only reap a different harvest
Of course not just coal and fuels

What have we done?
But give you recognition?
What have we done?
But put you where you belong?
Your tears are woven into our blankets
We wear your blood in stone
Don’t tell us we stand on the same rock and soil
We live a different birth

What have we done?
But give you food to put on your table?
Of grey water
And rock hard rye
That we found in a rotting corner of our pantry
Out of the goodness of our hearts

Oh why have you come
To lock us in your cages
We don’t belong where you live
Don’t come don’t run
And tear us into shreds
We only did what was right

Don’t come knocking at our front doors
With your jagged claws and yellow teeth
And those swollen eyes and lips
Don’t come and trample
All over our front lawn
And take what is rightfully ours

Heel!
Heel! I say!
What has gotten into your head?
We have worked together so well
You and I
What has become
Of dog
And his Master?

A hippie hocked a louie on Sammy
when he landed in San Francisco.

Sammy didn't respond;
he just wanted to make
his connecting flight home.

Sammy wasn't proud about
some of things he did in the war;
so he figured he probably
deserved the garlands of disdain
an ungrateful nation bestows
upon itself in fits of self contempt.

Sammy shut down and tuned out,
soon his heart was as dead
as a tombstone until he visited
the monument.  

He would often recall the story
that as he approached the darkened
wall he could sense ghosts loosening
themselves from the black granite.   

Sammy swore that Jimmy Lynch
who went MIA on the final week of his tour
gave him a bear hug and told him
as long as the beer stays cold
and he don’t lose the church key,
everything's groovy and he’s
hanging tough until the rest
of the guys show up.

Jimmy pointed to the Lincoln Memorial
at one end of the mall and to the
Washington Monument at the other,
emphatically stating that our monument
was forever linked with the greatest Americans.

Yeah meeting up with Jimmy
helped Sammy to start shaken
off some real bad stuff.

Mazie knew her husband for a
month before they got married.
A week later Freddie was off to Vietnam.

Freddie was KIA during the Tet Offensive
and his repatriated remains are peacefully
at rest in the red clay of Georgia.

An always faithful Mazie
came to the monument
a few years after it was dedicated.  
She was struck by all the keepsakes
people left at the base of the wall;  
Zippos, baby pictures, a copy of
The Catcher in the Rye, a fifth
of Makers Mark, Pink Teddy Bears,
votive lights, a red 57 Chevy model,
a left handed catchers mitt, and
a pack of Lucky Strikes.

She palmed rosaries and
crucifixes that salved sore
running wounds and David’s
interlaced Star sounding a Shofar
pleading a case for peace.

Mazie is most moved by the names.  
Rows and rows of names. The scroll
begins in a modest manner and
as the wall climbs the names
of a country's vigilant sons and
daughters tower over her head.  
So much living history; spoken
in the unique accent of a country’s
diverse plethora of luminous tongues.

The stories written into the black granite
tell a tale from every state; claiming
the ears, heart and mind of every citizen. 
Each chiseled letter captures every bit
of sun and deep creeping shadow
inching across a great nation.

“I’m  71” says Mazie.  “When I look
upon the wall I see my 21 year old
Freddie as he looked on the finest
day of his life.  He will never look
any other way to me.”
  
“I didn't want to go to see it,” Franny said,
“a cold piece of stone won’t bring my son back.”

Franny did finally go...

When it rains the wall weeps.  
The wall wept all day,
the first time Franny went.

Many were rubbing
the impressions of
dearly departed names.

Franny too, kneels to the
presence of her son’s name.

With a mother's
grateful fingers,
she touches the wall's
damp surface; wiping
the drizzle from her
child's sodden face.

Kneeling before his semblance,
she rubs his etched edges
onto tiny bits of paper.

She sees him,
made manifest in the stone.
As if through a glass darkly,
a found son looks back,
onto the face of a caring mother.

Franny hangs onto the quiet
memory of his voice,
shimmering in the soft lilt
of a warm dark stone.

This deep core Vulcan gneiss,
at last emerged from the hardest stuff,
sculpts a perfect likeness of a tear stained nation.

The Harmonizing Four: Rock of Ages

In Honor of
The Vietnam Veterans Memorial
Washington DC

Oakland
Veterans Day
2013

Maybe it's that marvelous view as they walk away that never seems to compel me to call them back.

Maybe its the happiness of being alone the wind in your hair or the the highways empty embrace that just seems to keep me ruining far longer than the rest.

The bottle the music a simple soundtrack to the existance we only care to forget.

Passion doesn't exit online as machines can't breath life into your lungs but I can't certainly darken your door if only you'd allow me to tonight.

The party we will have only to forget.
You me and the page it's all in secret and  all for them to never truly understand .

Summer may you die.
As all the bad girls sing cheap motels were we gather the ice machine I vist to often underneath the stairs .

I sleep drink repeat .
Trying to find the lines I searched for all the these years past.

From the dust bit in Austin to the Kentucky bourbon embrace I will romanticize the decay only to show you the reality I to often ignore myself .

Another drink shared and hopefully another night with you.

The page can't capture passion .
But I believe I touched upon it more than once with her tonight .

A while back, Nick and I sat
side by side
in split-back forest lawn chairs.
Huff and huff
the porch's coat of scarlet stain,
talking like
existential cab drivers.
Legs on legs
crossed like war trenches or
window blinds
or a cold zipper's cold teeth.
Life or death.
More life on rye, Swiss cheese.
Holey talk of Jesus Christ.
Cross the cross
and hope to die; I know we will.
For now, though,
skip small to get to big talk.
Cursive hand
separates notes and throws out
the *******,
but everything at that age was *******.
Challenger
never blew up, Dillinger
never robbed,
we never dissected life
to see its
uncertain pancreas.
We're kids but can't act like it.
Qualms with calm,
and clever wordplay plays footsies
with my thoughts.
My stale bread secrets take up
too much space.

You won't catch me – while running through the rye
I've got nothing to lose - only everything to gain

Maybe I'll end up in miles of traffic waiting for the lights to turn
Like a yellow ladybird, waiting for the red light so to leave
The daily grunt and anxiety of simply going from A to B
My stomach churning at the thought of such a terrific possibility

Alternatively, away from the city, there's the sea.
I do always hold I was a French sailor in a past live.
Even though I've never been to the Côte d'Azur
I'm sure I could find a second home there

But I’ve never doubted the fact I do like my hometown
Could I really sway away from Bray?
I’ve never been down when walking along stony beach
Or over the Dargle at night, swans floating about without care

Learning is synonymous with Leaving
If I am to strive in this life maybe I need a push
To drive myself from my comforts
And feel that rush upon discovery one’s worth
In living than mere surviving.

Although I must admit, this poem is full of ****
These ramblings of single stream of thought
Not dreams per say as I am aware that
They do tear at the seam and unravel quite brilliantly.

No, this is not my dreams and hopes
Or some sad reality check
About how tempting the rope can be
Or what can be done before one is dead

No, these words are quite frankly, just words
They represent my world at this present time
What one can find on my mind
Nothing more, nothing less

There is danger that tomorrow
It could all change
Stranger still, it could all remain the same.

Still with all this said ---

You won't catch me - while running through the rye
I've got nothing to lose - only everything to gain

Hello my brother
Can you spare a moment?
So glad to see you

I've been down on my luck
Living in this alley these days
Always a meal or two in the trash

So how have you been keeping?
Good to hear about the wife and kids
I understand you don't want me visiting

Oh, you want to know about Mary?
She left me a couple years ago
My own fault, too much work

The job took away all my time
Mary was feeling a little rejected
So she found herself another lover

But the job decided to let me go
I kind of allowed myself to go to Hell
So I found myself without a job or home

Yeah I heard about little brother Billy
He joined the army and went off to fight
I miss him, I wish i went to the funeral

Oh, have you really got to go?
Yeah, I know it's been good to talk
My brother, you are always a busy man

Don't be a stranger now, visit soon
I am always living in ths alley, here
Always here, drinking my bottle of rye

Sit back. Relax. Take a breath. Take a minute. Take a hit. Take a drink. Take a sting. Take a shot. Take a line. Take a day. Take a time. Take a mental Picture. Take a pill. Take something you've always wanted. Sit back and chill..

Sit back, watch the ashes, their crumbling down.
Keep your head in the sky. Keep your feet on the ground.
Keep your buzz going. Don't ever come down.
Keep your face smiling and don't ever frown.
Keep the toxins flowing. Keep your head held high.
Keep your thoughts clear. Stop wondering why.
Keep your hopes up. Drink that whiskey and rye.
Keep moving yourself forward. Live life 'til you die.

Sit back, watch the ashes. They fall to the ground.
Take a listen to the birds, its a beautiful sound.
Take a minute, sit back, watch the world go around.
Take a look at the sky, so vast and profound.
Take a drag of your cigarette, and let yourself go.
Take notice of your freedom, and let the wind blow.
Take off your winter coat, go with the flow.
Take off your mask, let your true colors show.

Sit back, watch the ashes as they land on the earth.
Feel the rediscovery, and feel the rebirth.
Feel the wind on your fingertips, for what it is worth.
Feel the world, what it is, it's incredible girth.
Feel yourself drift away, feel the grass on your toes.
Feel the sun on your face, feel the wind as it blows.
Feel the love in this world, as it blooms, as it grows.
Feel the light on your soul, see the beauty it shows.

Sit back, watch the ashes, their coming, their due
Realize, though, that it's beautiful too.
Redo all of the things, that you love to do.
Remember there's people that truly love you.
Replay all of the memories that make you smile.
Revisit your best friends, and chill for a while.
Resign from your deviance, cunning, and guile.
Relax in recumbence, sit back, reconcile.

The ashes will soon, cover all of this land.
Theres nothing to stop it, no curing command.
Theres someone who loves you, so go hold their hand.
Theres a shortage of love in this world of demand.
Theres only one thought that comes into my mind.
Theres nothing new out there, theres nothing to find.
Theres everything I need, right here, am I blind?
Theres people who love me, people of my kind.

So the world can go ahead and crash down around me, I'll just look Away. I'll just take a look at the things I love.  I'll just take notice of the beautiful Day.
I'll just take another shot, I'll just sit in the beautiful green Grass. I'll just look up at the sky and let the ending pass.
I'll just be sitting with the people I love, and we'll be letting our true colors Show. We'll be feeling the grass on our toes, and letting the beautiful wind Blow.
Get ready to watch the rest of the world fall to pieces. To watch the ashes fall. Prepare for the Show.  But Don't worry...Just Sit back, relax, and let the last of that beautiful wind Blow.

____

Fall with me. Drop with me. Drop like the rain descending from the pregnant clouds overhead.  Fall like an avalanche, free and uncontrollable. Fall like the waterfall, endlessly powerful.  Fall with the world, but not in disgrace, we're falling like leaves into a beautiful place.  We're falling into eternity… discomforting but true. So enjoy the descent, it's the least you could do, for out of this fall comes a beautiful view...

Fall with the leaves. Fall peaceful and slow
Forget everything that you don't need to know
Form truces with enemies, befriend every foe
For now is the time to let everything go
Forbidden are thoughts of a peaceful demise
Forsaken, the image of peace in disguise
Forgive all the subtle and meaningless lies
Forego a renewal, re-open you're eyes

Fall with the Rain drops, now finally freed
This is the beginning of the end indeed
This peaceful decline may be just what we need
This fall from our old withered branches of greed
This pressure discharged… our old ways replaced
This wind now uplifting, this beauty embraced
This Government Tangle, this Empire, erased
This Is the End of the struggles we've faced

Fall with the Waterfall, Establish your voice
Pro-life… Pro-love… Pro-strength… Pro-choice
Protest your opinions, don't let them devoice
Progress now possible, so revel, rejoice
Provide the necessities, laughter and love
Produce something new, something unheard of
Proclaim your new freedom, and wake with the dove
Promise to fall with the rain from above.

Fall with the Avalanche, plush and severe
Don't let the ending take hold of your fear
Don't forget, there's people that still love you here
Don't let these people, your friends, disappear
Don't be afraid now…  The grass is still green
Don't take your eyes off the beautiful scene
Don't let your colors be shaded unclean
Don't let the distance grow vast in between

Fall with the ashes that cover this earth
Be Born Once Again, re-discover rebirth
Believe in true beauty, for what it is worth
Beware of this world, its incredible girth
Below you are roots from which you can grow
Beyond the Horizon is the end as we know
Belong To A Bigger Picture, go with the flow
Become something less…  Sit back… Watch the show.

Fall with the ashes, but not in disgrace. Finally we can escape from this place. The government gone, the Empires erased.  We can Fall with the raindrops, with beauty embraced.
Take off your masks, let your true colors Show. Let the sun shine bright, let the moonlight glow.  Revisit your best friends, Let yourselves go.
and let the very last of that beautiful wind blow…

A long long time ago
I can still remember how
That music used to make me smile
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And maybe they'd be happy for a while

But February made me shiver
With every paper I'd deliver
Bad news on the doorstep
I couldn't take one more step

I can't remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride
Something touched me deep inside
The day the music died
So

Bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
And them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die

Did you write the book of love
And do you have faith in God above
If the Bible tells you so?
Do you believe in rock and roll?
Can music save your mortal soul?
And can you teach me how to dance real slow?

Well, I know that you're in love with him
'Cause I saw you dancin' in the gym
You both kicked off your shoes
Man, I dig those rhythm and blues

I was a lonely teenage broncin' buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck
But I knew I was out of luck
The day the music died
I started singin'

Bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
And them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die

Now, for ten years we've been on our own
And moss grows fat on a rolling stone
But, that's not how it used to be

When the jester sang for the king and queen
In a coat he borrowed from James Dean
And a voice that came from you and me

Oh and while the king was looking down
The jester stole his thorny crown
The courtroom was adjourned
No verdict was returned

And while Lennon read a book on Marx
The quartet practiced in the park
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died
We were singin'

Bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye
And singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die

Helter skelter in a summer swelter
The birds flew off with a fallout shelter
Eight miles high and falling fast

It landed foul on the grass
The players tried for a forward pass
With the jester on the sidelines in a cast

Now the half-time air was sweet perfume
While sergeants played a marching tune
We all got up to dance
Oh, but we never got the chance

'Cause the players tried to take the field
The marching band refused to yield
Do you recall what was revealed
The day the music died?
We started singin'

Bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye
And singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die

Oh, and there we were all in one place
A generation lost in space
With no time left to start again

So come on Jack be nimble, Jack be quick
Jack Flash sat on a candlestick
'Cause fire is the devil's only friend

Oh and as I watched him on the stage
My hands were clenched in fists of rage
No angel born in Hell
Could break that Satan's spell

And as the flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrificial rite
I saw Satan laughing with delight
The day the music died
He was singin'

Bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die

I met a girl who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news
But she just smiled and turned away

I went down to the sacred store
Where I'd heard the music years before
But the man there said the music wouldn't play

And in the streets the children screamed
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed
But not a word was spoken
The church bells all were broken

And the three men I admire most
The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died
And they were singing

Bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
And them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die

They were singing
Bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die

Written by Don Mclean • Copyright © Universal Music Publishing Group, Songtrust Ave

I can not find Mae's recipe for Swedish rye bread;
I thought it was taped to the fridge next

to obituaries, and the phone number
of Joon’s Korean restaurant.  She knew

the bread recipe the way one knows the feel
of a lover’s back or a favorite character

of a cherished book.  I seldom think of her,
mostly when I am hungry or cold.  Today

I am both, and it is only September;
what will become of me by December?

Venom!

Carry not venom in sharpened fangs;
Which pierce peace.
Bring not scorpions madness unto the kicking tail of abnormality.
Nausea sickens impolitely,
While walking through a softened heart.

Be not bitter as I am not.
Tells me that I am not forgot.
Each time with words you crucify.
A public notice not denied.
Cannot deny in whinging and whining.
Powerful hearts are both entwining.
Smash and grab,

A stollen heart.
That was Stollen,
Well bread.
Not stolen,
Straight rye bread,
Stolen from a German fantasy.
Fruity, spicy full of fun.
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

There are men in the yards
Boys, really
That teased me endlessly
In school
And now they are grown up
Angular in their carhartts
Corn fed
Sun red
From bailing too much hay
A little extra money on a weekend
They are clad in camo hats
Soft denim
Work clothes

When I knew them they were farm boys
Who were never looking for more
Than a corn fed
Country princess
A pair of cowgirl boots
To take to bed
And now they’re driving fire trucks
Tractors
International harvesters

Their princesses
Have fattened up
Wide hips are good for children
Easy enough to let yourself go then
Cute clothes are for the rich city *******
Who still fit into a 2

And their kids
A new generation of
Freeburgians
Are drawing with chalk in the streets
And the older ones
Are riding bikes
Long outgrown
Scraping their knees
Getting stung by bees
Shoplifting from the motomart

They will grow up normal
Grow into their work clothes
Keep that small town pride alive
Keep the corn fields, keep the rye
Keep the beans and wheat and barley
Growing high

And I keep running right on by
I never knew these people
Though I wear boots too
And my hands are calloused
From working with the soil
In the distance I can see the steeple
And my car
Parked for a quick getaway
Another day
Avoiding this place

The sea breeze moistened with romance,
Filled my lungs as I stood.
The morning sun with a sweet dilemma,
Cured me of my worries.
For this gypsy heart has found its home.
A cave in the wild sea.

The choirs of the flying birds,
The rhythm of the sound blue,
The dance of this glimmering waves,
What a sight I see,
For this empty canvas has found its colours,
A whale in the open sea.

The setting sun of Africa,
The beaches of Hawaii,
The heart of a village,
The catcher of the rye.
For it has all been a perfect cocktail,
A cold drink in Dubai.

Do these eyes tell a lie?
Or these smiles shine too bright?
For the truth of the time,
I don't care about wrong or right.

For a life that kind,
It seems that blind,
For a life so close,
Is it the brink of an overdose?

The high of this night,
The air seems so light,
So let's fly in the sky,
For its not a magician's lie,
For he has tricks under his sleeves,
For we are the beauty in falling leaves.

For these doors of the heavens,
For this crime of the scene,
For I need you with me,
To spend the rest days,
At the house near the beach.

somedays it’s nice
just to sit
relax
unwind

free one’s mind
of thoughts which
drag us down.

feet propped up
on an ottoman
eyes closed
music playing

idyllic

rye ‘n’ coke
and a bag of chips

guilty pleasures
lend a helping hand
to bring us
up

a temporary utopia
is what I need
crave
desire

in the absence
of sadness
sorrow
disappointment
I find
peace.

i

i think why not to let
but proved the query set
a double somersault-twist
or kiss your sweet lips..

can  end in cold death-
still the birds in the trees
go cheep or not at all..
i have reason to not question..

ii

i have memories return from the crib
it is all just part of the aging process
we beetle by saying that can´t be right
the lights´ get bright and bright..!

birds talk to us but i don´t hear voices
we become preoccupied with prices..
i recall four blackjacks  a penny
dying has a long curious way..

i am pretty sure i am someone else
absolute and completely and yet
these early feelings as blithe pictures
remain constant..



iii


more work less ******* about
but creation is just living
some absolute and indistinct
(it is tough being a poet..)..

iv

lily says,for it is her,
you don´t play no more,
only i say in mind
the years don´t lie
content´ s fragile store..
repetition dulls the brightest
core..eventually a silent purr ask´ s why
not why not..

v

why write poetry says lily
because it is a futile act
of achieving something perfectly..
we like that..


or like stubbing one´ s little toe
a rabbit from a dream hat
in a vain effort to retain what
remains of my memory..

lily why not or why bother..
lily red diamond from her
eyes sparking like a star is
just a ******* star baby..

she half nelson bottle wine
why do anything..a sign
a metaphor an hieroglyph
love and hate lily..

or the little bird in the agaves
i would like to shoot that one
hate and love lily
porquoi-pas..

vi

i read o twenty years before actually commiting to paper
not much but i knew the stuff i loved and kept there
i know it was charles bukowski i loved his funky gear
thank you norwegion liz for lending me his books dear..

ham on rye and factotum you say don´t lose them mf
i swore i would not lose them i would not lose them kf
kind friend..but i lost them i lost them..df..
dumb ******..


i leant them to someone that swore the same
they suffered an horrendous head..crang..
on and the books lost the books got lost..
there was scant satisfaction in plaster form..

maybe they went to a happy home
so not my fault that his drunk poems
god is he fun liz i hear your laugh then
such a wild sound ..generous so!

you said i should write and thank you
only human to encourage me true
and always a good drinking companion
you bought decent wine..

i adored cognac o..that was my poison
you always attracted van gelis errant tounge
unpleasant but one had to watch him..
that was his fun..

and then backgammon
goes a bit faint then..
i would like to say i won
you told me roland was cheating..

i think it was fun to play him anyway
esspicially on cement truck day..
not that he ever bought me a drink
not that i liked cement..

i lived with roland actually
this stopped any conversation
i met him by accident in eilat
that place was a laugh..

i think i enjoyed the second time
first loads of day jobs though i
played in the streets..and living with
the russians..

that a blast lily..my immediate neighbor
we never spoke..and the police pulled his hair
and yet not a squeak..a match box of grass cheap
i went to silently get a light..

he did say never run boy..
i thought alright for you
alright,
who was playing late night
in the soft quiet night..

so i was nosy
within the deepest hush
a glass and bottle jungle
impossible this silence

and i could hear him swallow
once the army ran through
i was tucked up in bead reading
by hopeless candle light..

i met roland in the peace cafe
a misnomer if ever there was
he picked me up and tossed me
around..

hey mike we got ****** and under
the landing planes roaring down
aint had hash like that in so many
years..

there was the red lion and at seven
free food and a drink and a movie
i read miguel cervantes..they
play the eye of the tiger later..

then the hard rock cafe with killer
egg and chips
i worked with an architect and made
a few shekals.

vii

i got out of there man i went south
dhab a quiet hut and goats..
that is the life right there..
o the corral beauties..

the stars as glimpsed through the palm..
pretty carpet and soften-songs of balm
brain blown and fly blown
and then back to town..

which came as a shock then
i had a drink and a very nice mention
for the cafe at the bus station..
i salut the the patience of the librarians..

I thought about you this morning &
wondered about so many things.
Did you sleep well or spin in between your sheets,
dream of anything special, mind draw a blank,
drink strong coffee, spiced-tea or have neither?
Perhaps you’re a juicer, do you fancy
carrots or strawberries or both?

Enjoy two Eggs Benedict or three scrambled,
have whole wheat toast or rye, some nutritious
granola crunch with a bit of soy milk?
Did you partake in a quick steamy-shower or
draw a soothing hot bath with lit candles & soft-jazz?
I’m wondering if you wore your hair
up in a bun or let it fall down,
all round your pretty angel face?
Did you apply make-up or
go Au Naturel, frown
putting on lipstick & smile
getting dialed in
for the start of a brand new day?
Did you dress to the nines or go business-like,
perhaps a trip to the gym for a spot of yoga?

Did you drive your earthy VW-bug or rev up the sporty Saab,
take the trolley, ride the moped, or hop on a bike?
Where you late to your work or
did you get there early enough
so you’d have plenty of time
to think about me?
I think about that too.

There's gotta be something to all this
he says
he pleads
he reaches out for something concrete to mix his ideals in with
there's gotta be something to it
he says
well explain what it is to me.
it's like
I see the world before me
every place that ever was
ever will be
I see all of this
and all of the people -
silly little things bouncing around the galactic pin ball table
and it's like I'm waiting for the bonus round
I'm not following you
that's the problem
nail on the ******* head doc
nobody follows me
or maybe I don't follow them
they say Hello how are you doing
and all I hear is
sroeijfapoirjfpaiorjvpioserhvipshfvjipsrjvarjv[oisjgv[js[voijn­raoijoi[sjvijsr[jsr[i,vjsoirjvso[itjsoiernaudrv;jzdnfv;ndfvi;ondf­oibnsoinb Why ******* bother?
and I don't know why I bother
ya know, doc?
because I see myself in a cracked mirror
a really introspective, deep thinking, wordsmith of the people by the people for the people
here to wake people up, to put some ******* oomph in their step
then it changes
out of my left eye I see
the waste of space siphoning oxygen and turning it into ****
so **** yourself to make the world a better place, right? only I know that it's not right. When I am awake in bed at five am craving anything to shut my brain up I think of her, or the other ones, or my Mother and how much wasted potential it would be. Potential I don't have. Potential everybody tells me is there. Go to school. Move to san fran, or LA, or the big apple, flee. But I can't leave them.
Slow down son, you're rambling.
sorry doc, it's just the world moves at a set speed, and inside my head is a washing machine full of shoes and bricks on way too high a setting.
so why do you write?
because If I didn't this would all come out in much unhealthier ways. I have to stop myself from spearing the woman with her baby with my Hyundai accent hatchback 2011. I clench my fist so tight, that my fingernails cut my palm - If only I didn't bite them raw and ******.
Where do you think this all comes from, this feeling of anxiety?
where? what the **** kind of a question is that, doc?
just do your best
my best will never be good enough. Because the world is empty and void and full of people who would sell you as Joseph just for a technicolored dream coat.
That reference is so outdated, who is it for?
certainly not the people who like my work. I write poetry for a world that doesn't give a **** about poetry.
you don't really write poetry though, do you? You just rant and then hit enter to give the appearance of lines and stanzas.
You're right. I dropped out of school for this **** and all I can churn out is infantile angsty *******. I hate the people who practice self harm. It seems laughable to me. If you need help ask. If you want to die, Die. Nobody is stopping you. Then again, I want to save every kid who thinks they are ****** up or not worth it or hopeless. Maybe I read the catcher in the Rye one too many times. But Salinger had it right. He just locked himself away from the world so he could write.
I think we're about to run out of time
Doc, my time ran out a long while ago. My whole life has been spent running away from the last falling grain of sand
so the same time next week?
sure, doc, why the **** not, I mean you don't even really exist.
You are just the dead air when I'm at my most lonesome. This office - just my empty car, my bed in late and early hours and this patient is just another kid thinking he is the exception only to realize we're all being flushed down the same ****** toilet.
So yeah, same time next week I guess