nothing is absolutely true, & if it were it could never be
conceived of, nor understood by the human mind.
***
infinity is the prosthetic limp toward the inevitability
of every man’s limitations.
***
everything is within us. everything stands outside of us.
most are reluctant, or afraid, or simply too indifferent to look.
it makes no difference where we look—we’ll always find
something we need, something to take us further, & something
to throw us completely off track.
***
touch the garment, but don’t let yourself be dragged along
behind it. learn when to let go.
***
politicians do little creative thinking. they give the people
want they want to hear & see. they possess the ability to
predict the flow of the collective consciousness, so that
they can say & do the right thing at all times, & hold on
to power. it’s nothing more than a sophisticated carney hustle.
***
evil speaks for itself. it doesn’t need us to do the talking.
***
democracy has become fascism by the numbers.
***
the more free we imagine ourselves to be, the more enslaved
we are. paradox is a powerful tool. it leaves minimum proof
it was ever there. it has its own natural camouflage.
***
death is a long, drawn out sigh of relief.
***
the world is full of two-bit machiavellis. those that were
deprived of even the most basic emotional & physical
needs are a completely different animal. an animal that
the social sciences pretend to understand. the fact that
their findings change, often drastically, every year, is
evidence of this.
***
obscurity wears many veils. for every veil that’s ripped
away, another replaces it on the other end. it’s chuang
tzu cramped in a dark corner. it will survive with the
dirt & cockroaches.
***
total destruction has to be the goal of every power
structure. the threat must be excessive & melodramatic
in order to achieve its full effect.
***
we sing when we have no other way to say it.
***
society is held together by symbolic relationships. actual
respect, compassion, charity & love aren’t necessary to
its inner workings. they’re often (to the social structure)
gestures that can threaten the hierarchy. this is why the
powers-that-be try to keep them all within a state sanctioned
framework. they can then take part of the credit for something
that they are in no way responsible for.
***
authentic anarchy is uncontained, unconditional love.
***
utopianism has to be founded on an unequal scale. in order
to reach one man’s vision of perfection, he must stifle,
even steal from another.
***
the more rational we become, the more inseparable become
good & evil.
***
violence springs from the ego left unchecked. violence
is the final manifestation of extreme narcissism. violence
is written out of history, replaced with an agreed upon
idealism.
***
harmony is nothing but nuts & bolts thrown down from
the mountain top.
***
the more frightened & desperate we are, the better our
chances of rising above what we’ve been molded into.
the more afraid & hopeless our situation, the more we’re
apt to resort to our animal nature & also our divine nature.
there’s no need for duality. any imposed duality of sacred
& profane is institutional. it has less to do with our basic
physical needs & our spirituality, & more to do with an
insidious means of control.
***
cynicism is an easy escape from responsibility to others.
it can also be one of the last lines of defense.
***
we draw up vows & promises to achieve an equilibrium
that we haven’t begun to understand.
***
spit in the ocean & call it altruism. piss in the river &
call it reconciliation. weigh the corpse down so it sinks to
the bottom of the lake & call it the law of averages. drain
every drop of water from the pond & call it divine proportion.
***
unanticipated exchanges are the closest we get to fair
value. absolute spontaneity lets the angels look the other
way.
***
disappointment is the obvious conclusion of selfishness.
most men’s needs can never be met. it’s a never-ending
stream of the latest manifestation of our divine right to
indulge ourselves.
***
insanity is often an absolute purity poisoned by
whatever has been deemed normal behavior at that
time. its definition is constantly devolving into a
tighter knot.
***
elimination of information in a tribe of hunters &
gatherers that horde their goods, even though they’ll
never use it all in their lifetime, & will perpetuate a class
of vulgar self-entitlement, is a dunce cap that radiates
like a halo.
***
destiny is obvious tendencies that have congealed into
a believable story.
***
the more indestructible we seem to become, & the safer
we seem to be from outside forces, the more our chances
increase of imploding into nuclear waste. entropy will have
its way eventually.
***
compulsion is synonymous with original sin. it’s
seen as a lack of control. however relinquishing
control is seen as a saintly act. it’s a semantic quandary
more than an ethical question.
***
equivalence is inaccessible to all but a few—therefore
canceling the definition. another example of paradox.
another mathematical mistake. another link in the choke-
chain of the bourgeoisie.
***
goodness is a pile of ashes from incinerated documents
that had no escape clause. evil is a rigged compromise
sealed with a handshake or a kiss.
***
morality is a clumsy balancing act with the audience
cheering us on while secretly hoping that we fall.
***
true guilt is courting the favors of the highest powers.
judgment is to damn one’s own opinion & overthrow
one’s own verdict. only the self-righteous are qualified to
wield the gavel. only the repentant can whittle the gavel down
to his own visionary icon. he can name it justice, or he
can call it mercy without a catch, with no small print, &
set it atop a revolving stage that everyone has access to.
***
reality is a faulty construction of the intellect—no
matter how flawless the argument may appear.
***
art doesn’t need to be understood to be validated. it
needs to be felt. what we feel should take precedent
over what we think—in art as well as love.
***
though many would argue the contrary—i believe the
more we prosper, the more we reveal about ourselves.
much that we reveal we’d prefer to keep locked away.
***
every contradiction is true. every truth contains contradictions.
nothing can begin to explain this conundrum except absurdity
& love.
***
value cannot be determined without complete input from all.
***
most understanding is circular & ultimately impressive, but
senseless. revelation is ridiculous & beautiful & a wild ride
that leaves us stunned.
***
art is the unnecessary formed into something indispensable
to the soul.
***
light is to darkness what a mirror is to an irreversible process.
***
consequences are that which we can’t buy our way out of.
***
a crucifix is a smoking gun, not a fashion accessory.
***
praise a man past his capabilities, then watch him crash into
his own reflection, collapse into total inefficiency.
***
vanity is a perfectly proportioned cage.
***
fate is the judgment of the self-possessed.
***
faith is what separates us from lower life forms. faith is
what separates us from others.
***
inclination is another word for refusing to stretch
ourselves past circumstances. circumstance is an
inferior imitation of the moment.
***
financial considerations have motivated mankind more
than anything except genetic proliferation. the root of both
being selfishness, either psychological or biological, but
we’re always trying to disguise it as essential to everyone
but ourselves.
***
sophistication is for those who have little else to offer.
***
theory is watching paperwork to see if it sprouts wings.
***
trying to penetrate another man’s logic to its core is futile,
even if we’ve walked beside him every step of the way.
***
the universe is a wounded animal that will eventually
be cornered, then it will come rushing back at us with a
fury that we can’t begin to imagine.
***
fear is a simulation so perfectly organized & displayed
that we can’t tell the rational from the irrational. our
physical reaction doesn’t tip us off because there’s no
difference in backlash or reverberation.
***
what we see as imagination can be nothing but predictable
patterns laid out to simulate disorder & haphazard effort.
imagination can develop into a concrete manifestation of a
vision that loses all its power in the process.
***
feedback is a sure way to transmit energy into a tragic
context where its power & individuality will dissipate
into just another clue at the scene of the crime, & be
absorbed like blood into the initial facts.
***
passion is an omen that’s difficult to pin down. in a
moment’s flash it can splinter off into something loving
& beautiful, or something brutal & ugly.
***
passion is a game of chance where we ignore the rules.
often we deny their existence.
***
we reason with ourselves in order to buy our impulses
more time.
***
we lay down limitations on the flimsiest of notions,
then insist it’s solid reasoning.
***
uniformity allows us to make ugly self-serving decisions
in the name of unity & equality.
***
one man’s work of art is another man’s undesirable effect.
***
conviction can be nothing but self-righteous provocation.
***
we are redeemed less by what we are than by what we
are not.
***
prayer is often a tower of babel made of matchsticks. a
public display of affectation. an apocalyptic request as
a second choice.
***
organized religion is a row of structural anomalies
advertising immaculate craftsmanship & a perfect
chance to topple others in good conscience.
***
paradox is a natural unfolding, an origami diamond
with something different inside each time it opens.
it clears the way for further development. it cleanses
the pallet to let new ideas roll off the tongue unpolluted
by certainty.
***
when the thread of intellective reasoning is broken—
that’s when we’re open to imaginative & metaphysical
speculation.
***
subjective retaliation, not objective self defense, is the
true nature of the beast.
***
a well-placed quote can be an effective disappearing act.
***
mass ritual is control without the need for enforcement.
individual ritual is reassurance in the form of mental &
physical structure.
***
consciousness on any level is a chain reaction that can
be completely independent of any individual senses or
intellective definitions.
***
consciousness is a cloud of smoke so thick we can’t see
our own hand. the subconscious is the hand.
***
we submit to a saturation process without any understanding
of the results. we no longer have to be persuaded—we
already believe.
***
madness (to give it a generalized definition) isn’t so
much a case of circuits shorting out, as it is a circuitry
so complicated that it can’t be effectively controlled
on any regular basis—either individually or in an
institutional setting.
***
one man’s poetics is another man’s obscenities. all
the theory in the world isn’t going to bridge the linguistic
disparities.
***
the more simplistic the pitch, the more suspicious we
need to be.
***
nationalistic & religious artifacts are icons that are
laid around the shrine to our inability to think for
ourselves. we worship at the altar of indifference
while gyrating & genuflecting in an over-the-top
manner so that nobody gets the wrong idea.
***
a single hair can’t be placed between life & death. yet
we’re constantly trying to pry them apart with pseudo-
theology that’s nothing but reheated materialism, &
with bricks & mortar, & six feet of freshly turned over
earth.
***
we accumulate preconceptions in order to transcend.
we insist that something or someone be there waiting
before we fall.
***
eliminating our animal nature to make room for the divine
nature, or vice versa, will only render both useless. a pile
of ashes we call heaven.
***
perching ourselves on the proverbial mountain top can
be a simple failure to grasp any visible or tangible cause.
an intellectual stagnation. a spiritual hedonism.
***
most refuse to acknowledge that chaos is divine proportion.
it has no chosen people. it has no preferences.
***
imposition of will is an evil metastasis that will eventually
destroy all parties.
***
an acceptance of fate is a direct denial of free will.
predestination is slapstick metaphysics—trying to untangle
the strings wrapped around us, & only making the
situation worse.
***
we think in elliptical shards. speak in clipped phrases.
but we insist that our literature be structured & linear.
yet we lose more in the process than we gain.
***
we are a shattered mirror, or else we’re intact kitsch.
***
any mystery must be dissected down to infinite theorems
that only dilute its beauty.
***
we mistake florescence for illumination. we resort to
clichés & overstate the obvious.
***
we take wild swings at presumptuous reflections &
foregone conclusions. we try to nail down the ethereal.
then we thrust our hands out & demand some sort of
compensation for our foolishness.
***
proof is a balled up fist chained to a wall. nevertheless
we puff out our chests & congratulate ourselves on
our accomplished futility.
***
sometimes self-destruction is our only way left
to exert our will, in an otherwise completely
ineffective life.
***
when the original impetus is lost or discarded, then we can
get to the crux of being where epiphanies spring from
bewilderment & confusion.
***
annihilation of the illusion of completeness is the first step
toward transcending preconception, erasing programmed
memory, liquidating contractual obligations agreed upon
under psychological duress/the gun.
***
the literal sense of the word is only a representation
of control.
***
much that we insist we need is a fusion of collective
status combined with our own conscious & subconscious
will to survive.
***
a silently agreed upon reality dictates the animal’s attempt
to communicate through any way but direct means.
***
narcissistic satisfaction results in convulsive shots of
genetic ad infinitum. a procreative code of perfect
replicas & executioners.
***
repetition is shackled indeterminacy. a safe bet with
supply & demand.
***
zero is raw material for computed future considerations,
as well as pure abstraction.
***
we hand our decision-making over to others & call it
representation of self-interest. but the moment we give
it away we become a demographic.
***
any display of collective emotion becomes an unchallenged
vanishing point.
***
we speak in symbolic terms to confuse the issue, & to
protect ourselves from any direct confrontation & possible
retribution.
***
indifference is a vain attempt to simulate denial.
***
the void is promiscuous.
***
public opinion is usually a forced consensus. a manipulation
of free will into the herd mentality.
***
an attempt at restoration of illumination is usually a poor
reproduction of whatever was pointing toward the light.
***
a swing in the mass consensus is a perfect opportunity
for an ideological exit.
***
equality for all is a semantic tar baby that can pull us
over the edge into inhuman behavior, or into mass graves
that we ourselves dug without questioning their purpose.
***
demand the right to explode in every possible direction,
even if you know that you’ll never need all the avenues.
***
liberation can be confused with degradation, asphyxiation
& elimination.
***
unexplained & often undeserved punishment for natural
behavior is the proverbial curse of cain. a human burden
that pays off in spades.
***
ethical principles are graded on a bell curve. which means
it can be difficult, if not impossible, to know where we
stand.
***
so-called normal behavior is repressed ambiguity.
***
a jury of our peers is often a pit of poisonous vipers.
***
the more redundant we are, the more we’re praised
for our thinking.
***
destiny is lined with trick questions.
***
each moment is a different deck of cards thrown into
the air—with a snapshot to commemorate that which
we can never reproduce.
***
imagination is infinite space that we let be compressed
into as small of a box as possible. it’s referred to as
clarity when it’s actually a drastic reduction of possibility.
***
no one will speak up for the mistreatment of the stray
dog for fear they’ll be bitten on both hands.
***
complete realization of oneself is to risk self-obliteration.
***
ecstasy is the pinnacle, as well as the death, of anticipation
& desire.
***
individuality is an aphrodisiac for those who can
look away from the television & other mass media.
otherwise it’s seen as an aberration, even a threat.
***
an unfettered mind is a verification of an ever-changing
sequence. neither the beginning nor the end can be
exploited.
***
the constant need for sensory stimulation is the perfect
trap for manipulative programming.
***
streaming entertainment & too much information stifles
original thought, & reduces the creative mind to inane
sound bites.
***
the perfect pair is a logistical improbability.
***
feigned submission is an effective means of control.
***
communication for the most part consists of ambiguous
or misplaced punctuation.
***
conversation is trying to find something colorful,
preferably loud & flashy, to hang on our quotation marks.
***
a solution is analytical compromise. an answer is
spontaneous combustion.
***
art is the last judgment pulled through infinity.
***
results have more to do with the point of no return than
a frame of reference where we can begin statistical riffing.
***
artificial intelligence can be applied to humans as easily
& accurately as technology.
***
despair is the polar opposite of indifference.
***
the immaculate conception is to deny jesus of his humanity,
his struggling, & to set his words on a pedestal beyond
mankind’s capabilities thus discouraging its striving. it
turns him into an indestructible, infallible comic book hero.
***
an epiphany is a surrealistic subtlety with at least a
possibility of communicating a higher truth.
***
futility is a lucid approach to that which is beyond any
intellective order.
***
we let ourselves fall into involuntary solitude, then
complain when we can’t even crawl a few feet away.
***
euphoria is a quick fix for longstanding suffering &
the relentless grind of chronology.
***
order is the malicious deconstruction of improvisation,
& a tampering with the holiness of spontaneity.
***
identity has been reduced to the lowest common denominator.
***
we mistake our expectations for god.
***
clever sarcasm & embittered cynicism are a good match
when we’re searching for justification for our weaknesses.
***
uncertainty generates truth & understanding far more
effectively, & with ultimately longer lasting results
than dogmatically jimmied irrefutable fact.
***
coincidence is physics at play.
***
mankind is connected through simultaneous panic.
***
art is running into ourselves over & over, & seldom
recognizing who we are.
***
wisdom is realizing when to shut up—before we
become trapped in circular logic.
***
philosophy is the last refuge of the totally confused.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Saturday, May 3, 2008
prose poems/ mark hartenbach
1.
i looked long enough that i forgot to breathe. it no longer
matters if it was love or irretrievably beautiful. it was
undeniably human. it’s no longer important if it was
spurred by dopamine or expectations or literary aspirations.
i no longer remembered the physical blow. i never
understood completely why i continued to move toward
it so many times. i do recall why i walked away though.
i don’t remember how anger could rotate into other
emotional readings. the longing & the solitude began to
become larger than the sum of their parts, even though
they were more than a world away from one another.
i hear an empathetic reply. i hear repetitious apologies. i
find myself surprised yet again at my reaction. i still need
surprised, & i need something to help me forget in
the meantime.
2.
i paused for a moment before my laugh broke the distance.
i laid one on top of the other until they all toppled over. i
bridged the night with a mason jar of homemade wine &
& cribbed poetry. you said i was different. it was all in the
way you said it of course. i understood immediately &
accepted your judgment. she told me that you said i was
enigmatic. that was even better—if it was true. she must
have realized at some point that she was driving me right
into your arms. maybe it was subconscious to begin with.
maybe it was as calculated as her faked orgasms &
elaborate maybelline touches. i slide my hand under the
table so i could touch your leg. the room was crowded with
conversation, but i could hear your breathing quicken.
i wanted to sweep the table clean. i wanted to glide into
you right there. i wanted everyone to watch. you asked if
i’d like to stop over that evening. but i had to be home that
night. she would know immediately where time had went.
i didn’t want to go home. i never should have left.
i don’t care if it hurts/i want to have control
i want a perfect body/i want a perfect soul
- radiohead
3.
i wanted to drive fifteen hours to see you again, though
there was no guarantee you’d be there. i’d promised two
years ago that i would save my money so i could make the
trip. i meant it. but i was weak. i spent most of the money
in the land of nod. i wanted to drive all night to see you.
i had my duffle bag packed & hidden away. but i had a
two-toned problem under the hood. it was an adventure
every time i pulled out. four bald tires, a window that
wouldn’t go up & no reverse. i wanted to drive all night
& be there by the next afternoon. but i was living with
someone else & besides, i had no driver’s license. i knew
she’d report me missing immediately. i’d be pulled over
& cited. they’d tow my car away. i’d have to hitchhike
home with no excuse. i’d have to find a way to get the
car back. i’d have another heavy fine i couldn’t pay &
no more transportation for work when the cast on my arm
came off. i’d have a furious girlfriend waiting, threatening
to leave. i’d have to dodge her blows. of course i wouldn’t
blame her. i’d be guilty yet again. i wanted to drive all night,
fifteen hours straight through, to somewhere that no
longer existed.
4.
i ask her to try on the wedding dress. she’s understandably
hesitant. after all, i haven’t made anything that could
construed as i commitment. she might think i’m a freak.
& she might be right—but not tonight. she asks where
it came from. i say i’m not sure. she rolls her eyes &
throws it back in my face. she says she’s not wearing
someone else’s promise. i tell her it’s not like that—i
only wanted to see how it looked on you. i know you’d
look so beautiful. i can imagine, but i need more. she says
that i’m looking in the wrong place. then she screams—
i’m not playing any games tonight to satisfy you. i can
understand her angrer. i could have predicted her
response. but i had to ask anyway. she walks quickly
toward the door. i won’t try to stop her. i pick up the
dress & fold it carefully.
5.
i did recall a few nights earlier, but when you asked for
details i said i could only remember bits & pieces. i had
a selective memory. i didn’t want to give away too much.
i was standing on the front porch. it had a wooden swing
long enough for two people. you don’t see them much
anymore. you were on the other side of the doorway.
the screen door was propped against my shoulder. the
living room was dark & the porch light was out also.
the same vinyl played continuously. “i think we’re alone
now.” this was your way of asking me to stay. you would
have never asked me flat out. i said i really couldn’t stay.
you didn’t argue with me. you never argued with me. but
you looked away with tears in your eyes. i let the screen
door slam & walked away without looking back. i don’t
recall feeling anything at the time. it’s strange—because
i feel so much now.
love is a dog from hell-charles bukowski
6.
i asked you to walk downtown with me to a friend’s place
to party. you didn’t know any of them, & looking back i
wish i hadn’t either. but you knew the situation & you didn’t
partake. you didn’t want to sit in silence while i got
ripped. then you’d have to try to drag me back up the hill.
you told me that you wanted to spend the evening with me.
you & i alone. i wanted you, but there was no way you
wouldn’t eventually lose. when it came to getting high,
you would always be the second choice. i think you were
just beginning to realize this, or maybe you knew it all
along, but cared enough to stay. i was eighteen & the
hooks were in deep by then. i remember that upstairs
apartment where we’d meet. i was never sure who it
belonged to. i have conflicting memories that we had
little time because your parents might return, or it was
your sister’s apartment & all was cool. maybe i never
asked. i don’t recall your being overly concerned about it.
we would listen to the rolling stones greatest hits over &
over, while stretched across the couch. it was always on
the couch. you were still in school. a couple years younger
than i was. you were beautiful. you were quiet & seemingly
unaware of your beauty & the power you held. this pulled
me closer. i did most of the talking, though you would
whisper something to me after we’d kiss. how could i
forget what it was? but i do remember how it made me feel.
this is more important. i said i would go alone then. i
left you behind, standing in my garage that served as a
place to crash & burn. you didn’t say anything. you didn’t
come after me. when i came back you were gone. i never
saw you again.
7.
i remember all the leg room in the backseat of your father’s
black cadillac. you used to let me drive it, even though i was
cinched 99% of the time. i didn’t tell you i had no driver’s
license. i think you would have let me drive it anyway. i’d
tried to get a driver’s license but there a discrepancy between
my birth certificate & my social security card that i couldn’t
get straightened out. so i drove for years without one. i’d
already been cited twice for open container (but never dui),
running a red light, no tail lights & of course driving without
a valid license. i wanted to make it with you so badly that
night, as only a nineteen year old can want. you said you
did to. your eyes would glaze over when you did. we were
parked near a streetlight in front of your sister’s place where
we drank every night. you confessed you’d had an abortion
a few months before & you needed to be careful. i acted hurt.
i found this routine to be effective. i never tried being honest
with anyone until many years later. love & war right? i said i had
to leave. i don’t remember my excuse. it was probably a lie.
i was seeing someone else also. she got off at ten.
8.
i stare into an almost empty wine bottle. i see a woman’s
face next to mine. she’s crying & i have a smirk on my
face. or maybe it’s the other way around. i rotate the bottle
slowly. i’m looking for a different ending this time. i
might be better off finishing what’s left. i’m getting tired,
yet the faces are coming as fast as ever. of course, this
doesn’t insure that they’ll be there when i wake up. i
need to ask their names. i need to write these names down.
i need to remember their numbers. i may need to start
with my own. there is important information that’s been
pushed aside for facts that no longer pertain to my present
situation. i passed the memory part of my latest psychological
drill. at least the short term memory section. i line up the
bottle up with the others & try to concentrate. i find that
whatever i don’t accidentally knock over, will only fall down
on its own anyway.
there is always some madness in love-nietzsche
9.
i had a room in a boarding house in a college town no
bigger than a broom closest. but it was all i could afford.
i was coming off a teenage divorce & had to steal lunch
meat from the 7-11 & steaks from the walk in freezer
where i worked part-time. it had a single bed, dresser &
small metal box that served as a place to hang clothes.
there was just enough space to stand if you stood very
still. i shared the kitchen & two bathrooms with about
ten other guys. they were all students. but i wasn’t. they
were all older than me. i had no idea at the time that i was
spiraling out. you were a waitress where i worked. you
used to wrap joints in napkins & tape them to my time
card unless it was friday. i never worried they would be
discovered. you just laughed. i didn’t have a car. my ex-wife
had taken it along with everything else. you would sometimes
drive me home from afternoon shift. if it was warm i’d ride
a rickety three-speed bicycle that someone had given me.
i’d usually ride the university bus to work. i always
told the drivers that i left my wallet at home & they’d nod
their head to get on. we’d go up to my room & smoke
& talk into the morning with our backs against the wall,
& legs dangling over the side. you had almost as long as
legs as i did. you were so much fun to hang out with. but
i thought of you as another buddy. it didn’t seem possible
to me at that time that i could be so open with a girlfriend.
one night you turned & kissed me. you said you wanted
to stay the night. i whored around a lot then & never said no.
but that night i said i was sorry—there was someone else.
i can’t remember who it was.
give me absolute control/over every living soul
& lie beside me baby/that’s an order
-leonard cohen
10.
i couldn’t tell you who was playing that night. i don’t
remember much from that period—especially on weekends.
i was usually operating at diminished capacity, or mood
management as i liked to call it. it was warm & we walked
slowly up the grassy hillside, talking quietly, until we came
to a dark green bench at the top. you’d had a friend call me
& set us up. you never seemed shy so much as detached. i
can’t recall being with anyone that was so unemotional. we
were too close of a fit. we spent time together, but you
never showed enthusiasm for anything, including me.
maybe because i spoke with a biting sarcasm most of
the time. you would lie there passively & let me slide your
jeans & panties off without saying a word. you’d never look
at me the entire time. it went on like this until one night
on your basement rug. you said you had to have me now.
it caught me off guard. you lived there with your parents,
but they never came downstairs. earlier that evening we’d
sat with the volume off the tv. some old black & white film
that i’d made up all the dialogue for. i was trying to make
you laugh. you said it was irritating. you couldn’t hear the
music. it was neil young’s “after the goldrush.” i had hair
halfway down my back. you asked me not to get it cut.
the only abnormality is the incapacity to love-anais nin
11.
i wanted to warn you about the cobwebs & non sequiturs.
but it came out wrong. this led to confusion. you told me
that you’d leave me if i didn’t take my medications. you
threatened me with endless well-constructed arguments.
i became even further confused. but you said that you
hoped it would clarify your position. i pleaded love. i told
her—i did it for you baby. didn’t you believe me, or did
you purposely ignore me? i’m sure that i stressed this fact.
it may have come out in broken pieces. but i know you’re
sharp enough to put these fragments together if you wanted
to. they fell out of my mouth when i least expected them.
it may not have been eloquent or graceful, but there was
some poetry in there. i tried not to indulge myself, so that
i’d have more to give to you. but i knew i couldn’t mention
this. i knew that you would take my suffering personally.
12.
we took turns spelling out love on each other’s bare
backs with slow fingers that couldn’t lie. i remember all
those words. but i left them somewhere. maybe it happened
during the last indictment. maybe i left them high in the air
to be sliced by lifesaving blades. maybe they got mixed in
with the cynicism & broken hearts. maybe they were gone
long before all the drama began. i may have used them in
another story. if i did i apologize. i might have given them
to someone else that i felt needed them more than i did.
i find this difficult to imagine though. i remember falling
through the ice. i remember you putting your face against
the cold. i remember being pulled lifeless from my drink
by a beautiful stranger. i recall trading stories with her &
buying her a drink. it was the least i could do.
i looked long enough that i forgot to breathe. it no longer
matters if it was love or irretrievably beautiful. it was
undeniably human. it’s no longer important if it was
spurred by dopamine or expectations or literary aspirations.
i no longer remembered the physical blow. i never
understood completely why i continued to move toward
it so many times. i do recall why i walked away though.
i don’t remember how anger could rotate into other
emotional readings. the longing & the solitude began to
become larger than the sum of their parts, even though
they were more than a world away from one another.
i hear an empathetic reply. i hear repetitious apologies. i
find myself surprised yet again at my reaction. i still need
surprised, & i need something to help me forget in
the meantime.
2.
i paused for a moment before my laugh broke the distance.
i laid one on top of the other until they all toppled over. i
bridged the night with a mason jar of homemade wine &
& cribbed poetry. you said i was different. it was all in the
way you said it of course. i understood immediately &
accepted your judgment. she told me that you said i was
enigmatic. that was even better—if it was true. she must
have realized at some point that she was driving me right
into your arms. maybe it was subconscious to begin with.
maybe it was as calculated as her faked orgasms &
elaborate maybelline touches. i slide my hand under the
table so i could touch your leg. the room was crowded with
conversation, but i could hear your breathing quicken.
i wanted to sweep the table clean. i wanted to glide into
you right there. i wanted everyone to watch. you asked if
i’d like to stop over that evening. but i had to be home that
night. she would know immediately where time had went.
i didn’t want to go home. i never should have left.
i don’t care if it hurts/i want to have control
i want a perfect body/i want a perfect soul
- radiohead
3.
i wanted to drive fifteen hours to see you again, though
there was no guarantee you’d be there. i’d promised two
years ago that i would save my money so i could make the
trip. i meant it. but i was weak. i spent most of the money
in the land of nod. i wanted to drive all night to see you.
i had my duffle bag packed & hidden away. but i had a
two-toned problem under the hood. it was an adventure
every time i pulled out. four bald tires, a window that
wouldn’t go up & no reverse. i wanted to drive all night
& be there by the next afternoon. but i was living with
someone else & besides, i had no driver’s license. i knew
she’d report me missing immediately. i’d be pulled over
& cited. they’d tow my car away. i’d have to hitchhike
home with no excuse. i’d have to find a way to get the
car back. i’d have another heavy fine i couldn’t pay &
no more transportation for work when the cast on my arm
came off. i’d have a furious girlfriend waiting, threatening
to leave. i’d have to dodge her blows. of course i wouldn’t
blame her. i’d be guilty yet again. i wanted to drive all night,
fifteen hours straight through, to somewhere that no
longer existed.
4.
i ask her to try on the wedding dress. she’s understandably
hesitant. after all, i haven’t made anything that could
construed as i commitment. she might think i’m a freak.
& she might be right—but not tonight. she asks where
it came from. i say i’m not sure. she rolls her eyes &
throws it back in my face. she says she’s not wearing
someone else’s promise. i tell her it’s not like that—i
only wanted to see how it looked on you. i know you’d
look so beautiful. i can imagine, but i need more. she says
that i’m looking in the wrong place. then she screams—
i’m not playing any games tonight to satisfy you. i can
understand her angrer. i could have predicted her
response. but i had to ask anyway. she walks quickly
toward the door. i won’t try to stop her. i pick up the
dress & fold it carefully.
5.
i did recall a few nights earlier, but when you asked for
details i said i could only remember bits & pieces. i had
a selective memory. i didn’t want to give away too much.
i was standing on the front porch. it had a wooden swing
long enough for two people. you don’t see them much
anymore. you were on the other side of the doorway.
the screen door was propped against my shoulder. the
living room was dark & the porch light was out also.
the same vinyl played continuously. “i think we’re alone
now.” this was your way of asking me to stay. you would
have never asked me flat out. i said i really couldn’t stay.
you didn’t argue with me. you never argued with me. but
you looked away with tears in your eyes. i let the screen
door slam & walked away without looking back. i don’t
recall feeling anything at the time. it’s strange—because
i feel so much now.
love is a dog from hell-charles bukowski
6.
i asked you to walk downtown with me to a friend’s place
to party. you didn’t know any of them, & looking back i
wish i hadn’t either. but you knew the situation & you didn’t
partake. you didn’t want to sit in silence while i got
ripped. then you’d have to try to drag me back up the hill.
you told me that you wanted to spend the evening with me.
you & i alone. i wanted you, but there was no way you
wouldn’t eventually lose. when it came to getting high,
you would always be the second choice. i think you were
just beginning to realize this, or maybe you knew it all
along, but cared enough to stay. i was eighteen & the
hooks were in deep by then. i remember that upstairs
apartment where we’d meet. i was never sure who it
belonged to. i have conflicting memories that we had
little time because your parents might return, or it was
your sister’s apartment & all was cool. maybe i never
asked. i don’t recall your being overly concerned about it.
we would listen to the rolling stones greatest hits over &
over, while stretched across the couch. it was always on
the couch. you were still in school. a couple years younger
than i was. you were beautiful. you were quiet & seemingly
unaware of your beauty & the power you held. this pulled
me closer. i did most of the talking, though you would
whisper something to me after we’d kiss. how could i
forget what it was? but i do remember how it made me feel.
this is more important. i said i would go alone then. i
left you behind, standing in my garage that served as a
place to crash & burn. you didn’t say anything. you didn’t
come after me. when i came back you were gone. i never
saw you again.
7.
i remember all the leg room in the backseat of your father’s
black cadillac. you used to let me drive it, even though i was
cinched 99% of the time. i didn’t tell you i had no driver’s
license. i think you would have let me drive it anyway. i’d
tried to get a driver’s license but there a discrepancy between
my birth certificate & my social security card that i couldn’t
get straightened out. so i drove for years without one. i’d
already been cited twice for open container (but never dui),
running a red light, no tail lights & of course driving without
a valid license. i wanted to make it with you so badly that
night, as only a nineteen year old can want. you said you
did to. your eyes would glaze over when you did. we were
parked near a streetlight in front of your sister’s place where
we drank every night. you confessed you’d had an abortion
a few months before & you needed to be careful. i acted hurt.
i found this routine to be effective. i never tried being honest
with anyone until many years later. love & war right? i said i had
to leave. i don’t remember my excuse. it was probably a lie.
i was seeing someone else also. she got off at ten.
8.
i stare into an almost empty wine bottle. i see a woman’s
face next to mine. she’s crying & i have a smirk on my
face. or maybe it’s the other way around. i rotate the bottle
slowly. i’m looking for a different ending this time. i
might be better off finishing what’s left. i’m getting tired,
yet the faces are coming as fast as ever. of course, this
doesn’t insure that they’ll be there when i wake up. i
need to ask their names. i need to write these names down.
i need to remember their numbers. i may need to start
with my own. there is important information that’s been
pushed aside for facts that no longer pertain to my present
situation. i passed the memory part of my latest psychological
drill. at least the short term memory section. i line up the
bottle up with the others & try to concentrate. i find that
whatever i don’t accidentally knock over, will only fall down
on its own anyway.
there is always some madness in love-nietzsche
9.
i had a room in a boarding house in a college town no
bigger than a broom closest. but it was all i could afford.
i was coming off a teenage divorce & had to steal lunch
meat from the 7-11 & steaks from the walk in freezer
where i worked part-time. it had a single bed, dresser &
small metal box that served as a place to hang clothes.
there was just enough space to stand if you stood very
still. i shared the kitchen & two bathrooms with about
ten other guys. they were all students. but i wasn’t. they
were all older than me. i had no idea at the time that i was
spiraling out. you were a waitress where i worked. you
used to wrap joints in napkins & tape them to my time
card unless it was friday. i never worried they would be
discovered. you just laughed. i didn’t have a car. my ex-wife
had taken it along with everything else. you would sometimes
drive me home from afternoon shift. if it was warm i’d ride
a rickety three-speed bicycle that someone had given me.
i’d usually ride the university bus to work. i always
told the drivers that i left my wallet at home & they’d nod
their head to get on. we’d go up to my room & smoke
& talk into the morning with our backs against the wall,
& legs dangling over the side. you had almost as long as
legs as i did. you were so much fun to hang out with. but
i thought of you as another buddy. it didn’t seem possible
to me at that time that i could be so open with a girlfriend.
one night you turned & kissed me. you said you wanted
to stay the night. i whored around a lot then & never said no.
but that night i said i was sorry—there was someone else.
i can’t remember who it was.
give me absolute control/over every living soul
& lie beside me baby/that’s an order
-leonard cohen
10.
i couldn’t tell you who was playing that night. i don’t
remember much from that period—especially on weekends.
i was usually operating at diminished capacity, or mood
management as i liked to call it. it was warm & we walked
slowly up the grassy hillside, talking quietly, until we came
to a dark green bench at the top. you’d had a friend call me
& set us up. you never seemed shy so much as detached. i
can’t recall being with anyone that was so unemotional. we
were too close of a fit. we spent time together, but you
never showed enthusiasm for anything, including me.
maybe because i spoke with a biting sarcasm most of
the time. you would lie there passively & let me slide your
jeans & panties off without saying a word. you’d never look
at me the entire time. it went on like this until one night
on your basement rug. you said you had to have me now.
it caught me off guard. you lived there with your parents,
but they never came downstairs. earlier that evening we’d
sat with the volume off the tv. some old black & white film
that i’d made up all the dialogue for. i was trying to make
you laugh. you said it was irritating. you couldn’t hear the
music. it was neil young’s “after the goldrush.” i had hair
halfway down my back. you asked me not to get it cut.
the only abnormality is the incapacity to love-anais nin
11.
i wanted to warn you about the cobwebs & non sequiturs.
but it came out wrong. this led to confusion. you told me
that you’d leave me if i didn’t take my medications. you
threatened me with endless well-constructed arguments.
i became even further confused. but you said that you
hoped it would clarify your position. i pleaded love. i told
her—i did it for you baby. didn’t you believe me, or did
you purposely ignore me? i’m sure that i stressed this fact.
it may have come out in broken pieces. but i know you’re
sharp enough to put these fragments together if you wanted
to. they fell out of my mouth when i least expected them.
it may not have been eloquent or graceful, but there was
some poetry in there. i tried not to indulge myself, so that
i’d have more to give to you. but i knew i couldn’t mention
this. i knew that you would take my suffering personally.
12.
we took turns spelling out love on each other’s bare
backs with slow fingers that couldn’t lie. i remember all
those words. but i left them somewhere. maybe it happened
during the last indictment. maybe i left them high in the air
to be sliced by lifesaving blades. maybe they got mixed in
with the cynicism & broken hearts. maybe they were gone
long before all the drama began. i may have used them in
another story. if i did i apologize. i might have given them
to someone else that i felt needed them more than i did.
i find this difficult to imagine though. i remember falling
through the ice. i remember you putting your face against
the cold. i remember being pulled lifeless from my drink
by a beautiful stranger. i recall trading stories with her &
buying her a drink. it was the least i could do.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
from "beauty is a rare thing"
scene forty-six
last night you called for the first time in months, but the
ringer was turned off because i went to bed early. last
night you realized what an ugly thing you’d done, &
you were ready to swallow your pride, & say you were
sorry for the pain you’d caused. last night you let the
phone ring a dozen times, then hung up & tried again.
last night i didn’t hear the phone ring at all. last night
you poured yourself another glass of wine to give
yourself the courage to admit you were in the wrong,
& that you didn’t expect me to forget, but hoped i could
forgive. last night you rehearsed what you wanted to
say to me in the mirror, though i wouldn’t see your face.
last night you called until one o’clock. last night you
called emotionally spent. last night i never picked up
the phone.
scene forty-seven
there is no whole of the moon, only the dome light
of an old pontiac. we were sitting on your couch
watching yet another boring film. you had on a short,
transparent night gown. i was as i came. it was spur
of the moment. there were many of these moments.
i would slice off an idea & be raring to go, but you
always said—can’t this wait? you surprised me this
time. you didn’t bother to get dressed. we walked
out to my car. the ground was still warm from the
sun. we were both a bit cinched. we had different
drugs of choice that i’ve found don’t go well together.
i tried to overcome this. but i wasn’t about to adopt
your lifestyle. as soon as we got in, you began giving
me directions. i just wanted to drive. i don’t remember
where we went or what we saw, only that you talked
the entire time. when we returned i parked under the
streetlight in front of your house. i pulled you toward
me & kissed you long. you said it must be a full moon
tonight. but the sky was empty.
scene forty-eight
it could have been perfect. it could have been
beautiful. it could have lasted longer than six
months. it could have tasted like homemade
cheesecake with fresh strawberries on top. it
could have gone down like smooth aged whiskey.
it could have been a pure, unhampered with nod.
it could have motivated me to clean up my act.
it could have removed the bitterness in both
out hearts. it could have made us forget awhile.
it could have reduced the weight of the world
to a few question marks. it could have made
a huge difference in our lives. it could have meant
something to each of us, something that the other
didn’t understand. it could have been a barely
averted crash filled with adrenaline & radios that
continued to play through all the confusion. it could
have been soulful without the usual required suffering
we believe is needed to qualify love.
scene forty-nine
when you walk in the room i have to catch my breath,
& i can sense others doing the same. when you walk
in the room i subconsciously press my palm against
my chest, as if my heart might explode. when you walk
in the room i see no one but you. when you walk in the
room my emotions & biology are heightened, & begin
a frenzied dance, & i feel absolutely consumed. i feel i
couldn’t take any more. but i do. when you walk in the
room i lick my lips subconsciously, & feel my pulse
charging ahead, though i’m sitting shock still. when you
walk in the room my head slips into a purple velvet spin,
while my cell structure falls into an uninhibited groove,
& i swear i see sparks flickering & snapping & stinging me,
& the heat becomes so intense i burn with want. so you
finger what appear to be ashes, & i jerk & spasm & lose
myself so completely that i have to ask you later who
i used to be.
last night you called for the first time in months, but the
ringer was turned off because i went to bed early. last
night you realized what an ugly thing you’d done, &
you were ready to swallow your pride, & say you were
sorry for the pain you’d caused. last night you let the
phone ring a dozen times, then hung up & tried again.
last night i didn’t hear the phone ring at all. last night
you poured yourself another glass of wine to give
yourself the courage to admit you were in the wrong,
& that you didn’t expect me to forget, but hoped i could
forgive. last night you rehearsed what you wanted to
say to me in the mirror, though i wouldn’t see your face.
last night you called until one o’clock. last night you
called emotionally spent. last night i never picked up
the phone.
scene forty-seven
there is no whole of the moon, only the dome light
of an old pontiac. we were sitting on your couch
watching yet another boring film. you had on a short,
transparent night gown. i was as i came. it was spur
of the moment. there were many of these moments.
i would slice off an idea & be raring to go, but you
always said—can’t this wait? you surprised me this
time. you didn’t bother to get dressed. we walked
out to my car. the ground was still warm from the
sun. we were both a bit cinched. we had different
drugs of choice that i’ve found don’t go well together.
i tried to overcome this. but i wasn’t about to adopt
your lifestyle. as soon as we got in, you began giving
me directions. i just wanted to drive. i don’t remember
where we went or what we saw, only that you talked
the entire time. when we returned i parked under the
streetlight in front of your house. i pulled you toward
me & kissed you long. you said it must be a full moon
tonight. but the sky was empty.
scene forty-eight
it could have been perfect. it could have been
beautiful. it could have lasted longer than six
months. it could have tasted like homemade
cheesecake with fresh strawberries on top. it
could have gone down like smooth aged whiskey.
it could have been a pure, unhampered with nod.
it could have motivated me to clean up my act.
it could have removed the bitterness in both
out hearts. it could have made us forget awhile.
it could have reduced the weight of the world
to a few question marks. it could have made
a huge difference in our lives. it could have meant
something to each of us, something that the other
didn’t understand. it could have been a barely
averted crash filled with adrenaline & radios that
continued to play through all the confusion. it could
have been soulful without the usual required suffering
we believe is needed to qualify love.
scene forty-nine
when you walk in the room i have to catch my breath,
& i can sense others doing the same. when you walk
in the room i subconsciously press my palm against
my chest, as if my heart might explode. when you walk
in the room i see no one but you. when you walk in the
room my emotions & biology are heightened, & begin
a frenzied dance, & i feel absolutely consumed. i feel i
couldn’t take any more. but i do. when you walk in the
room i lick my lips subconsciously, & feel my pulse
charging ahead, though i’m sitting shock still. when you
walk in the room my head slips into a purple velvet spin,
while my cell structure falls into an uninhibited groove,
& i swear i see sparks flickering & snapping & stinging me,
& the heat becomes so intense i burn with want. so you
finger what appear to be ashes, & i jerk & spasm & lose
myself so completely that i have to ask you later who
i used to be.
Monday, March 24, 2008
an unseasonably warm day in march on pittsburgh’s south side
a tattooed heaven with a glass third eye
doesn’t hover over us
it’s beneath every step we take
listening to every word
wanting to lean in closer
though hesitant to spook one another
the dance has begun baby
i hear charlie parker’s horn
or maybe eric dolphy’s alto
cutting through metropolitan clatter
rising above thousands of distractions
& i haven’t seen a single building over four stories
since we hit the south side
from the urban gentrification of the last bus stop
dissolved into a relaxed vibe
a miracle considering my agoraphobic bolts
walking streets as close as possible
without actually touching
only occasionally brushing against you
& the electricity (overused simile that it is)
is undeniable, a holy conformation
i must be swinging in the right direction
& i admit i need this supernatural chicken skin
because i’m not always in tune
with my biochemical demands
until the song has stopped, the needle lifted
before ultimate consummation
the future a mere few second traces
that pull me near
though i should stress willingly
& i hear a bass line
that i haven’t heard in so long
a classic motown number
synchronicity
a formal invitation isn’t necessary
nor required, thank god
but i know you’re going out of your way
to accommodate head taller, sprawled, gangly limbs
though i ask you
please don’t make a fuss over me
& hinting factiously, but not entirely
to pretend i’m not even there
but you never deny my presence
you never glance away
when i want to make soul to soul contact
listening to your brown eyes
never seeming to be embarrassed
or uncomfortable in any way
& i’ve told you about this desire
yet i don’t feel as if you’re faking it
for my pleasure, my need
i believe i would pick up on that immediately
& when my chemistry suddenly dips
as it’s genetically predisposed to do
my mind abruptly shifting into reverse
rushing toward a dark place
where no one can reach me
i have to ride it out on my own
this is what i’ve told myself forever
but you sense this
you move behind me, seated in a kitchen
a perfect tactic in this situation
then wrap your arms around my neck
laying my head against your warmth
i’m caught off guard
which is exactly the right answer
& i wonder
how could you know this
thursday night at her house
talking for hours, my mind racing haphazardly
without worrying where it will land, or possibly crash
not a concern, as long as i can say
but what a fucking ride it was
stimulated with your brilliance
stealing your word because it applies
your life much more interesting than mine i think
wishing i could have been there too
no shuffling silence, no frantically reaching for right words
because i’m afraid truth will rip us away from each other
unaware of time, not willing to let the clock intrude
i’m feeling selfish
tonight i want you all to myself
no interruptions from the world
that’s on the other side of the door
but feels like a million light years
unreachable in that many lifetimes
i have no use, no patience for stern warnings
not to let myself be pulled into your gravity
i won’t listen to smug insistence
that it’s for my own good after all
fuck that dirty adage
i didn’t acknowledge it then
i certainly don’t believe it now
& eventually
though i’ve never cared for the implications behind that word
we slip into black velvet comfort
& for the first time
i notice the light behind the headboard says 4:30
almost ready to crack open a new day
but i refuse to let go of this one
i’m unconcerned with linear handcuffs
i don’t think twice about falling
touching unloved parts that whisper now
thick, creamy impulse, lips exploring pure sugar
no need for artificial sweetener
then i enter you
& you enter me
two crows
a makeshift altar is circled by two crows
that aren’t mistaken for angelic messengers
there are no candles throwing shadows
on exposed brass organ piping mood muzak
there are no sacraments hidden
behind spit & polished pseudo-perfection
but none of this matters
we have our own sacraments, our own prayers
tucked under shiny, black aerodynamics
that somehow are never dropped
when we lift off
searching out the highest scene
perched on spring’s branches
not yet blooming
still bare, brittle, deceptively unsure
but this isn’t a concern either
we need no guarantees
no safety net, no pinpoint accuracy
no preordained target
because right now we’re not going anywhere
at least in the physical sense
though we rub beaks until sparks catch
& we find ourselves within a ring of fire
that heats april, dragging its feet
burns any hesitation into silky ash
there are no legally binding signatures
there are no strings that require cutting
so we can do our dance while in flight
if that’s what we desire
or balanced at this head spinning world-view
unfettered diamonds throwing off light
unafraid of plunging full throttle into matchbox squeeze
much too small to contain any heaven
at least that’s what we’ve been told
but we know otherwise
a scratched record spinning at thirty-three & a third
a glory be hosanna straight off a sun record label
a raspy hallelujah with a mussel shoals groove
a knee-buckling devotional as hard as jet black 78
though the song repeats
it rings our ear differently each time
never growing old, with beautifully subtle nuance
& swinging, scratchy backbeat
that contains more soul in twelve bars
than endless assembly line cookie-cutter can’t miss
sonically layered track upon track
enhanced for mass consumption, the bottom line dictates
no freeze-framed choreographed stiffs
only liquid moves, abandoned self-consciousness
no numbered step by step keeping us in line
no inked puzzled jerry-rigged next big thing
that’s been softened with vaseline lens
& smeared expensive, but nauseating perfume
incredulously watching shattered shells fall to the floor
left behind, what use are they to us now
innocence exposed as crazy mad mind-fuck
not jaded play it by the rules
aluminum foil halos rolling in no predictable pattern
hungry circles stripped down to chaotic shake it
rubbing out mathematical proof
that such a place can’t possibly exist
it would appear there’s been a miscalculation
because we’re laying down binary codes
or hugs & kisses
however you choose to see it
though that’s hardly our concern
that no else can read, no one else understands
no one else will ever crack
the indecipherable poetry of lovers
asking too much i suppose
inhaling last night on my clothes, i draw in deep
while savoring our taste on cracked lips
my mouth watering with pavlovian hunger
i’m driving in the opposite direction of where i want to be
i curse the machine age & economic considerations
that jerk us around, twist lubrication from our souls
because apparently blood is too sticky to be effective
& orgasms must be coaxed out
but time is not of the essence, time leaves a paper trail
& we chase after it like clownish parodies
until we can shake its spell
that is, if we can ever wake to natural desire
instead of pumped in streamers
caught in sterilized test tubes
i curse glossy ink-stained fingers
that tempt me with come on looks
that cameras catch flawlessly
stapled to jets of to-be-continued origin of species
i question whether i’ve transcended advertising teasers
or am i simply growing old
narcotic nightmares leave me
limping toward cracked mirrors & receding melody lines
& i pray you can save me
though it might be seen as sacrilegious infidelity
& besides, i realize it’s too much to ask of anyone
which is why i fall to my knees
right in front of the executioner
instead of calling in my request
still i hang on to the hope you can pluck me
from the jaws of powdered beasts
without tearing me apart in the process
i wrestle with my faith in you
if only you could read my thoughts
i curse our inability to count beyond a handful
reveal it to me
a force-fed matriculation, a perfectly reasonable replica
held against my confusion, threatening
to pull the lever on the greased trapdoor
smearing me across contractual obligation
because we sign our names left to right
unlike foreign correspondence
so perhaps i was born into the wrong tribe
i wish it were that simple
i carry my weakness with me on the meaty side of southpaw
constant reminders that i never scrub off fast enough
my literary output will be confused with confessions
i will stand before judgment
not allowed to scratch at smoky glass
forget myself, sink into pure poetry
before i’m corrupted, tempted by flattered numbers
that might only be quasi-mystical stooges
more than an animal need to bleed virgin impulse
or click off bursts of angel-faced splash
a jaded frustration sweeps the table
leaves me a fucking mess
& there’s nobody here i can turn to
who can blow out my blue veins
point out something beautiful
tell me—look here instead
a tattooed heaven with a glass third eye
doesn’t hover over us
it’s beneath every step we take
listening to every word
wanting to lean in closer
though hesitant to spook one another
the dance has begun baby
i hear charlie parker’s horn
or maybe eric dolphy’s alto
cutting through metropolitan clatter
rising above thousands of distractions
& i haven’t seen a single building over four stories
since we hit the south side
from the urban gentrification of the last bus stop
dissolved into a relaxed vibe
a miracle considering my agoraphobic bolts
walking streets as close as possible
without actually touching
only occasionally brushing against you
& the electricity (overused simile that it is)
is undeniable, a holy conformation
i must be swinging in the right direction
& i admit i need this supernatural chicken skin
because i’m not always in tune
with my biochemical demands
until the song has stopped, the needle lifted
before ultimate consummation
the future a mere few second traces
that pull me near
though i should stress willingly
& i hear a bass line
that i haven’t heard in so long
a classic motown number
synchronicity
a formal invitation isn’t necessary
nor required, thank god
but i know you’re going out of your way
to accommodate head taller, sprawled, gangly limbs
though i ask you
please don’t make a fuss over me
& hinting factiously, but not entirely
to pretend i’m not even there
but you never deny my presence
you never glance away
when i want to make soul to soul contact
listening to your brown eyes
never seeming to be embarrassed
or uncomfortable in any way
& i’ve told you about this desire
yet i don’t feel as if you’re faking it
for my pleasure, my need
i believe i would pick up on that immediately
& when my chemistry suddenly dips
as it’s genetically predisposed to do
my mind abruptly shifting into reverse
rushing toward a dark place
where no one can reach me
i have to ride it out on my own
this is what i’ve told myself forever
but you sense this
you move behind me, seated in a kitchen
a perfect tactic in this situation
then wrap your arms around my neck
laying my head against your warmth
i’m caught off guard
which is exactly the right answer
& i wonder
how could you know this
thursday night at her house
talking for hours, my mind racing haphazardly
without worrying where it will land, or possibly crash
not a concern, as long as i can say
but what a fucking ride it was
stimulated with your brilliance
stealing your word because it applies
your life much more interesting than mine i think
wishing i could have been there too
no shuffling silence, no frantically reaching for right words
because i’m afraid truth will rip us away from each other
unaware of time, not willing to let the clock intrude
i’m feeling selfish
tonight i want you all to myself
no interruptions from the world
that’s on the other side of the door
but feels like a million light years
unreachable in that many lifetimes
i have no use, no patience for stern warnings
not to let myself be pulled into your gravity
i won’t listen to smug insistence
that it’s for my own good after all
fuck that dirty adage
i didn’t acknowledge it then
i certainly don’t believe it now
& eventually
though i’ve never cared for the implications behind that word
we slip into black velvet comfort
& for the first time
i notice the light behind the headboard says 4:30
almost ready to crack open a new day
but i refuse to let go of this one
i’m unconcerned with linear handcuffs
i don’t think twice about falling
touching unloved parts that whisper now
thick, creamy impulse, lips exploring pure sugar
no need for artificial sweetener
then i enter you
& you enter me
two crows
a makeshift altar is circled by two crows
that aren’t mistaken for angelic messengers
there are no candles throwing shadows
on exposed brass organ piping mood muzak
there are no sacraments hidden
behind spit & polished pseudo-perfection
but none of this matters
we have our own sacraments, our own prayers
tucked under shiny, black aerodynamics
that somehow are never dropped
when we lift off
searching out the highest scene
perched on spring’s branches
not yet blooming
still bare, brittle, deceptively unsure
but this isn’t a concern either
we need no guarantees
no safety net, no pinpoint accuracy
no preordained target
because right now we’re not going anywhere
at least in the physical sense
though we rub beaks until sparks catch
& we find ourselves within a ring of fire
that heats april, dragging its feet
burns any hesitation into silky ash
there are no legally binding signatures
there are no strings that require cutting
so we can do our dance while in flight
if that’s what we desire
or balanced at this head spinning world-view
unfettered diamonds throwing off light
unafraid of plunging full throttle into matchbox squeeze
much too small to contain any heaven
at least that’s what we’ve been told
but we know otherwise
a scratched record spinning at thirty-three & a third
a glory be hosanna straight off a sun record label
a raspy hallelujah with a mussel shoals groove
a knee-buckling devotional as hard as jet black 78
though the song repeats
it rings our ear differently each time
never growing old, with beautifully subtle nuance
& swinging, scratchy backbeat
that contains more soul in twelve bars
than endless assembly line cookie-cutter can’t miss
sonically layered track upon track
enhanced for mass consumption, the bottom line dictates
no freeze-framed choreographed stiffs
only liquid moves, abandoned self-consciousness
no numbered step by step keeping us in line
no inked puzzled jerry-rigged next big thing
that’s been softened with vaseline lens
& smeared expensive, but nauseating perfume
incredulously watching shattered shells fall to the floor
left behind, what use are they to us now
innocence exposed as crazy mad mind-fuck
not jaded play it by the rules
aluminum foil halos rolling in no predictable pattern
hungry circles stripped down to chaotic shake it
rubbing out mathematical proof
that such a place can’t possibly exist
it would appear there’s been a miscalculation
because we’re laying down binary codes
or hugs & kisses
however you choose to see it
though that’s hardly our concern
that no else can read, no one else understands
no one else will ever crack
the indecipherable poetry of lovers
asking too much i suppose
inhaling last night on my clothes, i draw in deep
while savoring our taste on cracked lips
my mouth watering with pavlovian hunger
i’m driving in the opposite direction of where i want to be
i curse the machine age & economic considerations
that jerk us around, twist lubrication from our souls
because apparently blood is too sticky to be effective
& orgasms must be coaxed out
but time is not of the essence, time leaves a paper trail
& we chase after it like clownish parodies
until we can shake its spell
that is, if we can ever wake to natural desire
instead of pumped in streamers
caught in sterilized test tubes
i curse glossy ink-stained fingers
that tempt me with come on looks
that cameras catch flawlessly
stapled to jets of to-be-continued origin of species
i question whether i’ve transcended advertising teasers
or am i simply growing old
narcotic nightmares leave me
limping toward cracked mirrors & receding melody lines
& i pray you can save me
though it might be seen as sacrilegious infidelity
& besides, i realize it’s too much to ask of anyone
which is why i fall to my knees
right in front of the executioner
instead of calling in my request
still i hang on to the hope you can pluck me
from the jaws of powdered beasts
without tearing me apart in the process
i wrestle with my faith in you
if only you could read my thoughts
i curse our inability to count beyond a handful
reveal it to me
a force-fed matriculation, a perfectly reasonable replica
held against my confusion, threatening
to pull the lever on the greased trapdoor
smearing me across contractual obligation
because we sign our names left to right
unlike foreign correspondence
so perhaps i was born into the wrong tribe
i wish it were that simple
i carry my weakness with me on the meaty side of southpaw
constant reminders that i never scrub off fast enough
my literary output will be confused with confessions
i will stand before judgment
not allowed to scratch at smoky glass
forget myself, sink into pure poetry
before i’m corrupted, tempted by flattered numbers
that might only be quasi-mystical stooges
more than an animal need to bleed virgin impulse
or click off bursts of angel-faced splash
a jaded frustration sweeps the table
leaves me a fucking mess
& there’s nobody here i can turn to
who can blow out my blue veins
point out something beautiful
tell me—look here instead
Friday, March 7, 2008
poems for people
poem for ron androla
first time i came across an androla poem
might have been blank gun silencer
which dan neilson published
when i was getting into the underground poetry scene
i’d started writing poetry after many years
writing primarily lyrics for songs
last time i heard from neilson
he told me he’d given up on poetry
& was playing tennis instead
he may or may not have been joking
not sure if i still have this particular issue
since i threw out a few boxes of the old zines
when i moved to this small apartment
i remember the poem took place in a factory
though it wasn’t about the factory
it was exploring one poet’s life
no holds barred streams of insight
it fucking knocked me out
in the same way kerouac & blake had years earlier
nothing was taboo in ron’s work
i thought he was the best out there
publishing in the paper underground
now he’s doing it online
same immediacy, same gift of language
though the medium has changed
& also the exposure
because when you put a poem on the internet
it’s out there for anyone to see
which i had trouble getting past at first
androla’s poems focused on blue collar mule work
trapped in a bad marriage, two children he loved
which mirrored my life at the time
we grew up about thirty-five miles apart
& are the same age
so our frame of reference is very similar
still, that was only a small part of what drew me
to his words—which can’t be lumped
into any “school” of poetry
ron said on a cassette letter
that sent me many years ago
he was going “poetry world” that saturday morning
i’ve written an essay on androla’s work
which anyone who owns the pressure press anthology
can read—so i’ll try not to repeat myself
he’s one of my closest friends now
it began with exchanging letters a few times a week
then one saturday night
after i’d finished working afternoon shift
he called & introduced himself
i remembering saying—ron androla the poet?
& he replied—sometimes
but that’s not accurate
because ron has always lived the poem
androla’s poetry inspires me to write
& i can’t think of a better reason to read him
poem for lonnie sherman
received an email from lonnie today
who was the last person i’d imagine going cyber-space
but he said he did it mainly for access to the music
lonnie has the same love of music that i do
the only person i know
who has a broader knowledge of music than i do
lonnie sends me cds on a regular basis
as i do for him also
much of the music he sends
i recognize the name
but have never actually heard the music
the cds he sends are always interesting
we have similar eclectic taste in music
lonnie’s a great poet
but seems to have no interest in publishing any more
two years a go i set up a chapbook deal for him
with my publisher at pudding house
he said thanks, but no—which i thought he might say
but i had to give it a shot
he often includes long letters with the cds he burns
his letters read like poetry
lonnie is a sensitive, beautiful man
with a truly poetic soul
not afraid to show this side of himself
when i send him something i’ve written
he always responds with heartfelt thanks
& comments on the work
on a planet populated by so many assholes & pricks
strung out tv zombies unable to think for themselves
& people, who for whatever reason, refuse
or perhaps can’t let their souls shine through
i’m very lucky to have such a friend
thankful there are men like lonnie in the world
poem for larry tomoyasu
five years ago i sent larry a cassette
explaining my recent absence
since we communicate on a regular basis
my life had psychologically swan-dived
into craving an end to the pain, seeking oblivion
larry said he may never have found out
that he would have continued sending books & music
which we’ve turned one another onto for fifteen years
all my closest friends are writers, musicians, painters
i have trouble communicating with others
maybe i don’t try hard enough, maybe i don’t really care
initially i remember being drawn to his drawings
which would show up in underground zines
though larry doesn’t draw anymore to my knowledge
that’s a shame because his art is amazing
i’ve used larry’s art for many of my chapbooks
but he continues to write, which he excels at also
though he doesn’t get the exposure he deserves
one reason is his choice not to put any of his work online
larry thinks artists should get something for their work
in the same way plumbers are paid for their work
how many plumbers would fix your toilet just for the exposure
this has more to do with the way society perceives the value of art
as opposed to any stance on his part
he isn’t even online at home
which is highly unusual in this day & age
though he emails me daily from his job
i believe the majority of great artists toil in relative obscurity
working for the sheer love of it
& the absolute necessity of laying one’s soul on the line
sometimes all we have is each other as an audience
i have encouraged him to get his work out into the world
by whatever means possible
however i respect his position
as i respect him as an artist
but most importantly as a kindred soul & friend
poem for david berman
initially i picked up berman’s book “actual air”
in the small poetry section at the library
nestled between robert frost, t.s. eliot
william butler yeats & maya angelou
i knew the name because a friend had told me
i should check out the silver jews—the band he fronts
but i’d never heard the music
when i took the book home
though i own all their records now
i borrowed it a half dozen times
until i finally bought it
though it was hard to find in this cultural wasteland
i sometimes call home, other times hell
berman’s a great songwriter
but an even better poet
i send all my books/chapbooks to david
he asked me if i wanted to publish in open city
which i wasn’t familiar with
but when i went to their site
i saw they’ve published many of my favorite writers
i rarely publish poems any more unless someone asks
a couple years ago i sent some out
to around two dozen publications
most university affiliated
because a friend sent me the addresses
& asked me to give it a try
but it was a waste of time
main street rag was the only acceptance
open city took three poems
which berman sent them
it’s a great book & cool to be apart of
but being recognized as a fellow poet
especially a poet i dig so much
is the best kick in the head
poem for jennifer bosveld
she’s my publisher at pudding house
& a fine poet also
being with them is great
but i could move on now
& she’d still be one of my best friends
when my youngest daughter erin
was getting married three year ago
down in selma, alabama
i was terrified of getting on a plane
because i’m seriously claustrophobic
though i did overcome this fear
with the help of a handful of xanax
& shutting my eyes the moment i was seated
until we landed
when i traveled to florida
for my other daughter’s wedding
i didn’t trust my car
also i have meniere’s disease
which can unexpectedly cause extreme vertigo
i was talking to jennifer on the phone one day
telling her about my predicament
with no intention of hinting i could use a ride
but she immediately volunteered
to drive down with me in her van
in addition, she paid for everything
aware that i had little money
because my disability case was still up in the air
how many people would do this
you can count them on one hand
if you count any at all
i’ll never be able to pay her back
or thank her enough for her concern & kindness
she once told me she believed every time
someone did a good deed they’d be rewarded
i’m not sure if i share this belief, though i’d like to
of course she doesn’t do it for this reason
which i think would be cheating
but i know she would never do that
poem for mikey welsh
the paint is slapped down hard
but never into submission
there are days i lose time, but the art remains
waiting for me to return, angels & demons
often somewhere in-between, defying description
call them whatever you fucking want
they won’t listen
they won’t do your bidding
no matter how much is laid on the table
the stage lights were preying eyes
pure improvisation became spectacle, an inhuman ritual
i had to escape, paradoxically i escaped
by being locked down, where i picked up the brush again
now i work alone
at least that’s what someone would say
if they saw me at work in my cluttered room
in paint-splattered clothes
but the demons, as well as the muse never far away
sometimes i swat at them with my free hand
other times i let them whisper in my ear
sometimes they tell me ugly stories i don’t want to hear
other times their poetry is so beautiful
that i have to paint through tear-filled eyes
poem for nicholas morgan
psychologically, emotionally, physically we’re all flawed
either we make the best of it or we beat ourselves up over it
sometimes i do try my best, though it never feels good enough
like i never met anyone’s expectations
other days i throw my hands in the air
surrendering to the inevitable crash
i’m convinced is trailing me
my friend nick understands this all too well
unfortunately this past year
three days left in 2007—thank god
has been a rough one for him
i won’t go into many specifics
it’s not my place to splash his private life on the page
however he lost his father a month ago
i was sitting in my doctor’s office
waiting for my appointment, & checked my voicemail
nick had left a message telling me about his dad’s death
he was crying, i’d never heard him cry
i lost my father this year—though he died last year
but i found out only a few months ago
our circumstances were very different
it obviously hit him much harder than me
having been raised by his father
mine being not much more than a name
a few photographs, a few hard facts
i tell nick all the time, & he probably gets sick of hearing it
that he’s being too hard on himself
though i’m exactly the same way
i can forgive others, but have great difficulty forgiving myself
for all the mistakes i’ve made
nick for all his mistakes
i hope one day he listens to my advice
(do as i say, not as i do)
because he’s good man, a sensitive individual
& a first-rate writer
perhaps some day he’ll see
all the good qualities in himself that i see
maybe one day he’ll realize i’m right
poem for cheryl townsend
recently cheryl (aka cat)
commented on a batch of poems
i’d written about family
& posted on androla’s pressure press board
where i post nearly everything i write
except some long fiction
& some poems so bad
i wouldn’t inflict them on anyone
cheryl said she wished she had a father or a brother
who loved as i love family
so i told her i was “adopting” her as a sister
& i meant it, we’re all blood anyway
which dna has proven
& should be a lesson to racists
flag-waving nationalists of every stripe
& cowardly terrorists
but i doubt it would teach them a thing
because these people can’t see past color
organized religion, or borders
where they happened to spring up by mere chance
hatred gives them an identity
since most have no true sense of self
when we had readings at cat’s bookstore in kent
she was always gracious & kind
& had a smile for everyone
she would even stock the small refrigerator upstairs
with rolling rock, since that was what most preferred
she shied away from front & center
though she was one who organized the gigs
she gave me a cd of her reading her poetry
reading as well as anyone i’ve heard
she’s not actually shy, though humble
& i could learn a lot from her
when i’m on a manic high
or high horse might be better description
or just fucking obnoxious
& since she’s my sister now
hopefully such good qualities which she possesses
will rub off on me
first time i came across an androla poem
might have been blank gun silencer
which dan neilson published
when i was getting into the underground poetry scene
i’d started writing poetry after many years
writing primarily lyrics for songs
last time i heard from neilson
he told me he’d given up on poetry
& was playing tennis instead
he may or may not have been joking
not sure if i still have this particular issue
since i threw out a few boxes of the old zines
when i moved to this small apartment
i remember the poem took place in a factory
though it wasn’t about the factory
it was exploring one poet’s life
no holds barred streams of insight
it fucking knocked me out
in the same way kerouac & blake had years earlier
nothing was taboo in ron’s work
i thought he was the best out there
publishing in the paper underground
now he’s doing it online
same immediacy, same gift of language
though the medium has changed
& also the exposure
because when you put a poem on the internet
it’s out there for anyone to see
which i had trouble getting past at first
androla’s poems focused on blue collar mule work
trapped in a bad marriage, two children he loved
which mirrored my life at the time
we grew up about thirty-five miles apart
& are the same age
so our frame of reference is very similar
still, that was only a small part of what drew me
to his words—which can’t be lumped
into any “school” of poetry
ron said on a cassette letter
that sent me many years ago
he was going “poetry world” that saturday morning
i’ve written an essay on androla’s work
which anyone who owns the pressure press anthology
can read—so i’ll try not to repeat myself
he’s one of my closest friends now
it began with exchanging letters a few times a week
then one saturday night
after i’d finished working afternoon shift
he called & introduced himself
i remembering saying—ron androla the poet?
& he replied—sometimes
but that’s not accurate
because ron has always lived the poem
androla’s poetry inspires me to write
& i can’t think of a better reason to read him
poem for lonnie sherman
received an email from lonnie today
who was the last person i’d imagine going cyber-space
but he said he did it mainly for access to the music
lonnie has the same love of music that i do
the only person i know
who has a broader knowledge of music than i do
lonnie sends me cds on a regular basis
as i do for him also
much of the music he sends
i recognize the name
but have never actually heard the music
the cds he sends are always interesting
we have similar eclectic taste in music
lonnie’s a great poet
but seems to have no interest in publishing any more
two years a go i set up a chapbook deal for him
with my publisher at pudding house
he said thanks, but no—which i thought he might say
but i had to give it a shot
he often includes long letters with the cds he burns
his letters read like poetry
lonnie is a sensitive, beautiful man
with a truly poetic soul
not afraid to show this side of himself
when i send him something i’ve written
he always responds with heartfelt thanks
& comments on the work
on a planet populated by so many assholes & pricks
strung out tv zombies unable to think for themselves
& people, who for whatever reason, refuse
or perhaps can’t let their souls shine through
i’m very lucky to have such a friend
thankful there are men like lonnie in the world
poem for larry tomoyasu
five years ago i sent larry a cassette
explaining my recent absence
since we communicate on a regular basis
my life had psychologically swan-dived
into craving an end to the pain, seeking oblivion
larry said he may never have found out
that he would have continued sending books & music
which we’ve turned one another onto for fifteen years
all my closest friends are writers, musicians, painters
i have trouble communicating with others
maybe i don’t try hard enough, maybe i don’t really care
initially i remember being drawn to his drawings
which would show up in underground zines
though larry doesn’t draw anymore to my knowledge
that’s a shame because his art is amazing
i’ve used larry’s art for many of my chapbooks
but he continues to write, which he excels at also
though he doesn’t get the exposure he deserves
one reason is his choice not to put any of his work online
larry thinks artists should get something for their work
in the same way plumbers are paid for their work
how many plumbers would fix your toilet just for the exposure
this has more to do with the way society perceives the value of art
as opposed to any stance on his part
he isn’t even online at home
which is highly unusual in this day & age
though he emails me daily from his job
i believe the majority of great artists toil in relative obscurity
working for the sheer love of it
& the absolute necessity of laying one’s soul on the line
sometimes all we have is each other as an audience
i have encouraged him to get his work out into the world
by whatever means possible
however i respect his position
as i respect him as an artist
but most importantly as a kindred soul & friend
poem for david berman
initially i picked up berman’s book “actual air”
in the small poetry section at the library
nestled between robert frost, t.s. eliot
william butler yeats & maya angelou
i knew the name because a friend had told me
i should check out the silver jews—the band he fronts
but i’d never heard the music
when i took the book home
though i own all their records now
i borrowed it a half dozen times
until i finally bought it
though it was hard to find in this cultural wasteland
i sometimes call home, other times hell
berman’s a great songwriter
but an even better poet
i send all my books/chapbooks to david
he asked me if i wanted to publish in open city
which i wasn’t familiar with
but when i went to their site
i saw they’ve published many of my favorite writers
i rarely publish poems any more unless someone asks
a couple years ago i sent some out
to around two dozen publications
most university affiliated
because a friend sent me the addresses
& asked me to give it a try
but it was a waste of time
main street rag was the only acceptance
open city took three poems
which berman sent them
it’s a great book & cool to be apart of
but being recognized as a fellow poet
especially a poet i dig so much
is the best kick in the head
poem for jennifer bosveld
she’s my publisher at pudding house
& a fine poet also
being with them is great
but i could move on now
& she’d still be one of my best friends
when my youngest daughter erin
was getting married three year ago
down in selma, alabama
i was terrified of getting on a plane
because i’m seriously claustrophobic
though i did overcome this fear
with the help of a handful of xanax
& shutting my eyes the moment i was seated
until we landed
when i traveled to florida
for my other daughter’s wedding
i didn’t trust my car
also i have meniere’s disease
which can unexpectedly cause extreme vertigo
i was talking to jennifer on the phone one day
telling her about my predicament
with no intention of hinting i could use a ride
but she immediately volunteered
to drive down with me in her van
in addition, she paid for everything
aware that i had little money
because my disability case was still up in the air
how many people would do this
you can count them on one hand
if you count any at all
i’ll never be able to pay her back
or thank her enough for her concern & kindness
she once told me she believed every time
someone did a good deed they’d be rewarded
i’m not sure if i share this belief, though i’d like to
of course she doesn’t do it for this reason
which i think would be cheating
but i know she would never do that
poem for mikey welsh
the paint is slapped down hard
but never into submission
there are days i lose time, but the art remains
waiting for me to return, angels & demons
often somewhere in-between, defying description
call them whatever you fucking want
they won’t listen
they won’t do your bidding
no matter how much is laid on the table
the stage lights were preying eyes
pure improvisation became spectacle, an inhuman ritual
i had to escape, paradoxically i escaped
by being locked down, where i picked up the brush again
now i work alone
at least that’s what someone would say
if they saw me at work in my cluttered room
in paint-splattered clothes
but the demons, as well as the muse never far away
sometimes i swat at them with my free hand
other times i let them whisper in my ear
sometimes they tell me ugly stories i don’t want to hear
other times their poetry is so beautiful
that i have to paint through tear-filled eyes
poem for nicholas morgan
psychologically, emotionally, physically we’re all flawed
either we make the best of it or we beat ourselves up over it
sometimes i do try my best, though it never feels good enough
like i never met anyone’s expectations
other days i throw my hands in the air
surrendering to the inevitable crash
i’m convinced is trailing me
my friend nick understands this all too well
unfortunately this past year
three days left in 2007—thank god
has been a rough one for him
i won’t go into many specifics
it’s not my place to splash his private life on the page
however he lost his father a month ago
i was sitting in my doctor’s office
waiting for my appointment, & checked my voicemail
nick had left a message telling me about his dad’s death
he was crying, i’d never heard him cry
i lost my father this year—though he died last year
but i found out only a few months ago
our circumstances were very different
it obviously hit him much harder than me
having been raised by his father
mine being not much more than a name
a few photographs, a few hard facts
i tell nick all the time, & he probably gets sick of hearing it
that he’s being too hard on himself
though i’m exactly the same way
i can forgive others, but have great difficulty forgiving myself
for all the mistakes i’ve made
nick for all his mistakes
i hope one day he listens to my advice
(do as i say, not as i do)
because he’s good man, a sensitive individual
& a first-rate writer
perhaps some day he’ll see
all the good qualities in himself that i see
maybe one day he’ll realize i’m right
poem for cheryl townsend
recently cheryl (aka cat)
commented on a batch of poems
i’d written about family
& posted on androla’s pressure press board
where i post nearly everything i write
except some long fiction
& some poems so bad
i wouldn’t inflict them on anyone
cheryl said she wished she had a father or a brother
who loved as i love family
so i told her i was “adopting” her as a sister
& i meant it, we’re all blood anyway
which dna has proven
& should be a lesson to racists
flag-waving nationalists of every stripe
& cowardly terrorists
but i doubt it would teach them a thing
because these people can’t see past color
organized religion, or borders
where they happened to spring up by mere chance
hatred gives them an identity
since most have no true sense of self
when we had readings at cat’s bookstore in kent
she was always gracious & kind
& had a smile for everyone
she would even stock the small refrigerator upstairs
with rolling rock, since that was what most preferred
she shied away from front & center
though she was one who organized the gigs
she gave me a cd of her reading her poetry
reading as well as anyone i’ve heard
she’s not actually shy, though humble
& i could learn a lot from her
when i’m on a manic high
or high horse might be better description
or just fucking obnoxious
& since she’s my sister now
hopefully such good qualities which she possesses
will rub off on me
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