Saturday, November 30, 2013

some love


I could let you go right now
if you want me to
if it was the one thing you wanted,
I would give it to you
we couldn’t look back
we could never have it again
if it made you happy.
no one really feels like
they’re good enough
and none of us are
but we don’t know what
we mean to someone else
unless they tell us.
how does it make you feel
when we’re together?
is there hope
in your quaking chest?
it’s not enough to be wanted
there must be need too.
that lonely feeling in the middle
of the night when we’re alone
and for a second, we see the
face of love and the storm
is quiet once again
no more than the last time
our heart seized
tight.  

shit luck

I sometimes wonder
if there’s any luck at all,
or if people inherit it from
long lost Uncles and Aunts
on their way out.
a large portion of life is luck
luck of the draw
luck of the game
lucky number seven
I haven’t seen any of it
just the small portion that
keeps me breathing.

If I had it, I wouldn’t know what to do
with it anyway. I suspect it’s hard keeping
all that luck in line. the effort must be back
breaking.

But I still wonder what it’d be like to
wake up in the morning and not have to
wait for the shit to hit me on the chin.

I’ll take a walk and step in a pile of crap.
bend over and throw my back out. find five
bucks in the street and get hit by a car. tie my
laces and cut my finger on the thread. it’ll get
infected and I’ll try to smile.

I suppose there’re others like me. I see them on the
street every day like flies on rotten fruit, shooting
up with dirty needles and begging for change on the
off-ramp.


. . . maybe there’s a little luck after all.

Friday, November 29, 2013

gone

he used to sit out in front of
the liquor store every day
with his dog.
there was always a dish in front of
the dog where people that walked
by could make donations.
   I gave some cans of dog food
   sometimes and cash other times
   I knew if I gave cash, he would
   buy something to drink
   what would it matter?
   let him drink if he needed
   to.
some guys stole his tent and some
supplies from the river bottom where
he made camp - he had an extra tent
hidden, and the supplies he could replace
   it was cold that winter. Not
   a miserable cold, but damaging
   enough to get sick.
 He did get sick
     sick enough to die.
A few days later, I saw his dog
out in front of the liquor store
with his bowl placed in front of him.
 
   we exchanged glances

there was a can of food in the bowl,
but he didn't have an opener.
I wondered who would do that,
who would donate a can of
unopened food to a lonely dog?

I popped off the lid and poured the
food into the dog's bowl and he gave
and excited wag of his tail.
he had a head as big around as
my torso and he lapped up the food
quickly.
I expected to see the old homeless man
come around the corner any moment,
but he never did.
after that day, I never saw the dog again either.
but the bowl is in the brush
behind the liquor store.
it's been there a long time,
longer than it had any right to.

wet Angels make for entertaining nights

it's always moist
that place on the back of my neck
where the essence is leaking out.
a
damp spot
like glue to hold
the pieces together
as if this weren't bad enough,
I'm pretty sure I'm seeing angels -
small ones with crazy eyes
and dirty feet.
looks like they could have walked miles
in tar,
on
hot asphalt to get to me here in the West
of nothing.
it's true and I don't think they give a damn.
but they're watching me all the time through everything I do:
it's a religion to them now. They can't get enough of me. Maybe that's why there's
that sticky shit leaking out of the back of my head. It's my essence and I can't do without
it. They're aware. So it only goes to show they're trying to kill me slowly with staring eyes
and
dirty fucking feet.
don't get me started on that incessant music they play at all hours of the day and night
to beat drums out of my goddamn mind.
but they're Holy and some restraint is necessary if you're going to make it through
this shit alive.
If they kill me, you'll never know.
It'll be some sort of disease.
Could be a tumor,
or a growth.
Maybe cancer, but I doubt that, too cliché.
Never mind Spanish Harlem,
they live right next door and they beat those fucking drums constantly.
They're Angels.
They're your neighbors.
They might be your best goddamn friend.
But they'll get you in the end.
Be sure of it.

take flight

The bird flew overhead.
Its wings turned in the air and gathered the wind,
a dart of black smudge against brilliant blue.
It traced a faint cloud and
tore downward into the tree line,
vanishing as quickly as it came.
And then back over the treetops
as it soared into the sky.
Second coming
of grace in air.

It tempted the breeze,
turning tight and lingering
as if it weren’t moving at all.
Then it was gone below the pines
and the moment was lost as if it had
never occurred.

The trail ahead was tight.
Nothing left to chance,
no way to detour,
or turn back into the brilliance that was left behind.

Ahead,
the sun and
the flight of a bird both vanished and dreary in
the escaping memory of what it was,
or had been.
And the sounds came from all around.
The forest buzzed with life
and insects scooped at the air,
unaware of their nature.
Tufts of cloud, here and there,
dotted with life
so was life in that moment;
life for life’s sake.

And the air was sweet,
The taste was pine and lake and river
winding through it all,
nothing left but the air and the taste and the growing need to move on through it all in sweat and soil and gracious,
pulling need.

In that moment came a thought of tranquility and loss as if some great tear had opened up
in the fabric of consciousness,
washed out in the morning grey
that turned in on itself,
giving way to blue and violet and salmon.

The idea was clear and drifting of its own will
and nothing was left to chance
in that moment.
It was clear and defined as it was
elusive and coy.
Both wanting and feral,
not of this time,
but of another.

And so it was gone as quickly as it had come.
No real answers exist beyond
the taste and
the flight and
the air which brought it to unsuspecting souls,
out for a walk in the
morning mist,
all alone on that dreary day which gave light to
the sky and
the dreams are never as vivid as they are remembered when the blue washes out the clouds overhead.

A smudge of black against brilliant blue,
it all turns back on itself and the meaning is lost on the wind to unsuspecting eyes which see and
the sounds are lost too from ears that never heard and
the taste is still as sweet as it had ever been or ever will be from this day forward.

So the scope of imagination
is lost
in youth
if it is allowed to flee from hardened eyes.

divine chaos

erratic form
mimics the chaos
we continually endure
throughout our lives.
short,
poignant,
grasping its
nature
and
releasing it into the wild from whence
it came.
the very
essence
drowns us on
our own
bloated tongues.
it saturates our souls,
our nerves,
our undying grasp of hope
and tranquility and
our greater nature.
failing ourselves
leads to greatness
in cause;
to find what we’re meant to do –
who we’re meant to be,
our love affair with death,
our own personal tragedies.
moving forward always
sets you one step back.
the nature of endurance
at its very core.

wilt

let us wilt
   falling
   falling so
   falling so slowly
   letting go
   in this as
   madness in rain
   as dry as desert
   as deserving as pain
   let it stop
   from time to time
   we must
   or be forced down
   to dust
   and drain
   force the cutting
   back
   or lose the
   very last
   vein
let us wilt

Thursday, November 28, 2013

Sex. Delicious. Sweet.

in agony is relief
fine threads of pain
bubble up the sticky sweet
along the surface,
grazing the fine hairs,
working its way along
the milky white.
for what do you suffer but for
the hope of suffering again
decadent
luscious
filled whole with this for
torturing tomorrows
and
bellowing mornings, lapping,
savoring forgiveness
all of this arousal and only
ecstasy to be had
so much more
so very
much
more
if you are willing to
take it in
and keep it there behind the eyes
where memory plays and faint pain
is but a breath away,
lingering like the repressed,
cowering in the dark
crying
soft
whimpers for
the suffering to return.

certain something

five to seven lonely days, considering the temperament of soul
and where it comes from and what makes it bend.
the days held firm together.
it was raining and the clouds were darker than I had ever seen before.
for five to seven days this
went on.
the rain only stopped a few times during the night.
long enough to dry for the next day's rain.
and it was perfect that way.
no one goes out to visit others in the rain.
it's just not done.
so there I was in solitude, regarding the soul and what it was all about.
and if there is such a thing as a soul, then all things alive must have one.
I've seen the spark in an animal's eyes when it looks at you.
I've seen the wonderment when it tries to figure out whether you're going to kill it or let it be.
I always let it be.
and when I do, I can see that je ne sais quoi that stirs within them.
a certain look that says, "thank you."
try not killing and it will happen to you too.
I wondered if this is the same look that humans give other humans when they are not killed and could be.
could we eradicate murder with a glance?
but as for the soul:
  all things have one.
  if there is a look in their eyes, their soul is somewhere beneath that, staring out.
just look.

sad daisy

the sad songs are the kindest
there's truth in certain matters
                  a vision of dew drops
                        settling
             in a wasted mouth
crazed spit from upturned lips
            gnashing away
                   at the wrongs committed
                        the most beautiful music
          tainted
               raspberry
                         vomit
erased                      smeared                   transient
               deathly                      corruption
the most beautiful music is rancid on your tongue
        held                       in                       your                     hand                      breaking
                   forevermore
Good God,
                          your sadness is a drug.

stronger still

in a winding whip of time
the world comes crashing
and all that remains
is to be seen
grabbing on with your
last breath
and hold tight
until they drop
                        a
                          w
                              a
                                y
and leave you be
can't you
                  understand
     the words have no meaning
                          ?
                 gently passes
                                      a
                                        w
                                           a
                                             y
                                                 and no one notices
glass breaking
      you're not dreaming
               until you're asleep
you're a shard of glass on the palm
                        that broke you
             something sweet
                   you taste
                      no more tears
yesterday is a faint freckle in time
                             passing
                                         a
                                            w
                                               a
                                                  y

some naked moments are

She had it right there in her heart the whole time.
What they said were
     lies.
They said
          it to make
   her eyes 
                   wet.
But over her years on 
               the good,
     gracious dirt
              she had learned
                              so much
 and she wouldn't give them that little part of her
"It's all about soul," she said, 
                                  "and how well you retain it.
             They can't take away everything."
         She took off her shirt and
                they saw.
   She exposed her chest and that small part of her was there
                                                   to be seen.
Above it all was her smile,
                        how it overshadowed their reactions.
           For in that moment,
   she couldn't hear them speak.
           And in that silence
   was the most perfect moment 

                                            of all.

Work a Day

You break your fucking back for them
day after day.
The sweat rolls down your face
and it's goddamn miserable.

Everything hurts, especially your neck
from nodding. It'll all get done. You assure
them. They frown.
   You're back to it again, the invisible servant
   with brittle bones. Always complaining on
   the inside. On the Inside. But it's too quiet
   for them to notice. You want to shout. You
   want to loosen your belt, unravel it from your
   pants, and wrap it around your clenched fist.
   You want to beat them to death with it.
              But
                  first things first.
You refuse to die in prison, but you're already
there. There's little difference. But you cling to
freedom. It would be easier to just walk away.
Be like that guy you pass on the street corner
every day on your way to work. He doesn't
seem to mind. Maybe you won't either.
              But what about
                        all the shit you've collected?
                            Fuck . . .
   You'll give it away and start fresh.
   You could be that guy. Or maybe
   like the little old lady without teeth,
   gumming her way to nowhere. She
   seems nice even if she smells like
   piss.
                  No.
                     They've got you by the
                                                     throat.
You're doomed. You can never walk away from
all of this. It's in your veins when you cut yourself
from the wrist up. Does anyone else get this shit?
Maybe it's just you. Maybe it's all of us.
           Maybe you'll just keep
                    breaking your fucking back
                          for them day after day.

night night

Being sober, you turn off the lights and walk
into your bedroom, remove your clothes, and
look down at yourself.
A small nod and you pull back the covers,
throw down the comforter, and slide in.
The day comes up as soon as you close your
eyes.
   -the mistakes, every single one is a thorn, puncturing
   your frail state of mind.
A soup of garbage whirls, bubbling up old ideas
and lost love. Where are they now? Why would
they leave? How could they have said those
things?
       No matter, it's time to sleep, to
       let
         the day
                 end.
But it keeps on mounting you like a pig. There
are children being tortured every day and you
wonder where God fits in.
       So many starving
             restless and abandoned
                  crying for dead mothers.
Your boss is a dick who has a dick for a boss.
They've seen shit. It's hardened them. If you're
late again, they'll both can your ass.
What about those dreams you used to have?
Where are they now? No one understands.
They can't relate. And you're in bed all alone and
the house moans and it's good to hear something
even if it is just your imagination. But what about
tomorrow, what'll you do then? Will it ever
                                                         end?
Tomorrow is another day.
              now it's time for
                              sleep.
You wonder if there's anyone out there going through
the same things. Surely, you can't be the only one . . .
Surely, there's someone out there who understands.
They're not like the people in those stores that only smile
because they're trying to sell you something.
    When's the last time you had a friend, someone to
    honestly confide in? Years? But they'll just do the same
    thing to you that the others did. Better not pay attention
    to that now.
Your eyes are closed and for a moment, it feels like you're
about to nod off. Did you turn off the stove after dinner? Is
the porch light on in case someone decides to come over
and see you? What was that sound?
                      Is the toilet running?
                      Damn it, you have to get some sleep!
       The alarm goes off.

life lessons

Stand Up!
Sit Down! Shut up
and do what you’re told
don’t question authority
if you jump on the bed,
you’ll break your fucking neck
swallow the lies
eat the truth
deliver with passion,
or it will go on your
permanent record
Sit up Straight!
Kneel when you Pray!
Prey on the weak
Don’t do Drugs!
no horseplay
get your act together
don’t slouch
stop Daydreaming and
get a job!
Or you can just live life
and appreciate  the

experience. 

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

closer

these tired hands reach out for momentary bliss
an orgasm for the touch
a timid virgin of broken innocence
a wilting flower,
burning in the sun.

there are so many questions to be answered
they get caught on the back of the tongue
never to be spit out,
fading like every
other memory.

as tired as it seems, it makes no difference-
nothing changes.
everything changes.

at times, it's too much to bear.
like being naked in the dark:
you're exposed
but no one
notices.

every breath is a whimper,
every tear is a shame,
every minute
brings us that much closer
to the end.

so many questions
that no one has the answer to.
so many violations
we must endure.

only so many breaths until we expire.

there doesn't seem to be enough time to wait.

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

be still

the singular act of existing
   of being
   of scattering the ashes
   hoping to make it through
   to the end unscathed
the love of others
   the need of being needed
   to coming home to
   someone who compliments
   the very act of existing
the knot that forms in
   the throat right before
   crying
   the tears that stream when
   you realize it's too late
the sound of sin on a
   distant shore lapping
   at memories now too
   faint to recall
the regret that pushes
   from the back into
   swirling waters to
   drown you from the
   other side
the look on their face
   when they tell you
   they love you
the gasp when you say it too

Monday, November 25, 2013

sentenced

the the hands circle faster
gaining speed in mechanical
disorder
a privilege to abide the MACHINE
a prison guard-
a jury handing down sentence

watch it as it passes
through carvings on the wall
a moment to eat and then
back to staring at four corners
again, too afraid to let the
breath pass
unnoticed
yearning for release

wait and scratch the numbers
into the skin on the back of
your arm
pacing back through yesterday
it never ends

OLD shoes tap beats to a
song that was never written
and the garbage collects there
a hidden thing doing time
waiting for the moment to
punch
the clock
and come

back tomorrow
                  at least you're paid

Sunday, November 24, 2013

suck it up

All
the
DRUGS
IN THE WORLD
won’t make it go away
it’s a snuff film in High Definition
needles
and the puss runs
so slowly
when you’re standing still
like chicken shit
spread across
toast
Just give in
and fuck it all away
it won’t matter much
if you don’t look too
hard
Bring it down to your groin
and lather up
it won’t come clean
put on your best suit and
fuck it
it won’t matter that much
anyway
it just numbs the commotion


white

this
is sudden
with the television blaring white noise in the background
and a warmth down deep where I’ve pissed myself
static
and commotion
the smell of ammonia
the blare of sound
takes away everything else
concentration is not possible
they keep on talking and the noise
is too much
the idea is sickening
it is stained in puke
vomit is everything
sound pollution
but they like the grinding
they like the booming pain
in bloody ears
the gunshot explodes like it’s
right next to me
right up my ass
I wait for the bullet to drop
down through the roof and
kill me
it never happens
there’s silence afterward
and
I can’t
catch
my
breath
if I was
someone else
it wouldn’t be this way
and if I die
so does everyone else
so it’s conducive to keep me alive

for now

Down the luck Swallow it whole

I struggle with being poor
to find new levels of
poverty to aspire to
great hidden treasures
that do not exist
tax refunds
too small to count
lottery winnings
that don't quite
pay off the losses
lines of credit
no one in their
right mind
would sign
when you're poor
you know what
poverty is
that it won't just
go away like the
flu you still have
to pay some doctor
to remedy
poverty is an art form
some people snap
and do disastrous
things because of it
while others bide
their time
and get a burger from
some fast food place
that is trying to kill them
poverty isn't a trend
no matter what they tell you
it's a way of life:
a guaranteed pension right into
the madhouse
and it stinks like
unwashed laundry
and plain wax candles
when the lights are off
but they make you think
it won't last forever
better jobs
better objectives
payments on maxed
out credit cards
and payday advances
don't mind the predators
they're only here to eat you
and me
and anyone else
down on their luck
they'll give you a
better credit score
so you can pretend
you're not an asshole
too
they call it bad luck
but it's more than that
it's a way of life
it's a profession

Saturday, November 23, 2013

it works out from time to time

After my first divorce, after three years of misery and great sex, 
I turned away and left her alone
and I wondered at how hard it was
the feeling of isolation and worry-
not having someone there to argue with and worry over
wondering who she may have been with that night
how they were fucking
how deep it went

I wondered what it would be like not to be lied to anymore-

how it would be in the future and if I would believe anyone again
surely they all couldn't be liars
what then? would I be the crazy one? for not lying
maybe but that's who I am and I couldn't start doing something
I'm not inclined to

She came back a few times after

I called it closure
but she wanted to fuck like old times
and I bit my lip and shook my head no
and she said I was fucking someone new
I shook my head and said, "no."

I thought about her for a while

it might have been a year
but I finally packed my stuff
and threw away the things we had collected together
and I moved to a new place with three cats and a futon

I began to meet new women

women who were wonderful in bed
each one special in their own way
they became the cure
at first I counted every triumph every momentary lust
and at a point I stopped counting because they were no longer victories
for a broken heart
but notches in a faltering heart

one morning I met a girl at a coffee shop a few miles from my place

she was young
and I saw her through the front window and the light was hitting her
in a special way
there was a glow
and I introduced myself to her and brought her a coffee
and a bottle of water for myself
and we talked and went to see a movie together
and we talked through it
and we ate diner when the movie was over
and she had to bring her sister to work
but she wanted to see me after she dropped her off

we watched movies at my place that night

and I asked if I could kiss her
and she gave a shy nod
and our lips met
and she hasn't went home since

Friday, November 22, 2013

just walk away



"what are you
writing?" she asked

"silly poems."

"why are they silly?"

"most poems
are," I said

"I host a poets
group on
Wednesday
nights," she said, "you're
welcome to come."

"no thanks."

"oh, why not?"

"I'm not very social."

"you wouldn't have to socialize,
just read your poems."

"I'm kind of an asshole,"
I said

she snickered
"you seem nice to me."

"I'm not," I replied,
"I'm a total fucker."

"you can come by
anyway and just listen."

"seriously,"
I said, "I don't trust
anything on two legs."

she laughed and her eyes brightened
"you don't trust yourself then?" she
asked

"what are you implying?"

"surely you walk upright."

"how fucking dare you!" I shouted
got out of my chair
  and
    crawled out
         of the
            Café

some something or another

their silent words get
in your guts
right up there
with all the other
shit you've taken in
your life
you start to believe
that everything is a lie
opinions stacked on other
opinions where nothing
remains valid
and you wonder about
yourself - your own opinions
and if they have meaning
you question yourself at every turn
we try to be so sure of
our thoughts
our reactions
our crimes
our justices
that we lose our minds
to the nonsense that
batters it from day to day
it begs the question:
is this the end
have we gone too far?
some find peace in pain
others find peace in religion
even more find peace in both
but there's always greed
and destitution to keep
you warm when nothing else will
and they tell you
you should work for
these things
fight for a better tomorrow
even if that tomorrow never comes
or ever was
there are too many of us here
we drown each other
and the time has come
where it is harder and harder
to get away from it
in no time
we'll be bumping shoulders
indefinitely
eating processed foods
that block the shit
talking on handheld devices
to people we don't identify with
pretending we care
that the news reports
violent crimes like
melted candy on all the streets
in all the countries of the world
and we won't realize we're
alone through any of it
because everything else
is extinct
or polluted
or costs more than any of us
can afford
and our votes never
mattered
in the first place

Thursday, November 21, 2013

weather

the rain is special
in California
I almost never see it
so when it comes
I enjoy every moment of it
I open all the windows and let
the cold in-
let it envelope me fully
it's in my nose
dampening the cracks in
the sinuses
letting the skin moisten
the sound of it is golden-
driving away the noise
keeping them all inside
where it's warm
but I still let it come for me
the cold
the wet
the smog free air
and I smile at times
like these
because no one else is

rent

I had this old place
I could barely afford
one bedroom
hardwood floors
and solid walls
noise
couldn't get through
It suited me
I didn't have to pretend
to be human

One morning
I noticed
a cockroach
stuck
on
a
glob of
dried Maple
Syrup on the
counter
it twitched there
and flailed wildly before
twitching again
curious

that night I turned out
the lights
once my eyes adjusted
I could see the walls moving
churning in the darkness
I flicked on the light by my bed
and the walls scattered with roaches
they were everywhere
later I discovered a hive beneath my kitchen sink
I don't know what they were eating
I was too broke to bring home groceries
I put the legs of my bed in coffee cans filled
with water so they wouldn't crawl over me while I
was sleeping
days passed by and I got used to them
they were a part of the scenery
we were roommates
until a little white mouse moved in

I heard crunching late one night and flicked on the light
there was the mouse chewing on a roach
he had its body in its tiny paws
chewing on the legs while the roach was trying to get away
every night was the same thing and I learned that that was what life was all
about: there's always someone out there waiting to chew your goddamn legs off

when I moved out
the roaches were still there
I could have sworn I saw them wave
at me when I left
but the mouse was nowhere to be seen

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

self

Being alone is
being haunted
the search for
what rests beyond
the outside world
developing
identity
control
assuming what the sickness is
and how it began and where it
sleeps
solitude is solidarity
looking inward imagines
the outside and manages
the inside again to cope
on a grander scale with
the living things that push
and prod and try our very
last nerve
we step away from you to
become
closer to you
to find a common thread
to make the pain a memory
to find empathy in an empty
world
to tremble in the darkness by
ourselves to save you from
ourselves to identify with
ourselves to pretend we are
ourselves
we do it all for you

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

chin up

if you
   keep your
    chin up, it's
      just easier for
        life to cut your
              throat

tingle

There are
some people
who inspire
the deepest
form of hate
It's that
tingle that
comes over
you right
before your
eyes ignite

feed

I used to starve
when I was younger
I had money for rent and bills
but nothing to feed myself with

I lost fifty pounds in six months
and another thirty in the remainder
of the year.

It was fine
I had been a plump teenager
so this was new
almost welcomed

At a hundred and eighty pounds
I looked good but I didn't have
money for clothes
so I cinched my pants tight with a belt
and worked every day saving dollars
in a tin to clothe myself

I bought second hand suits from
the thrift store before it was cool
and wore them out before I knew it
No one gives away good suits
they wait until they're almost dead
before handing them off

No one gives away anything good

simple

I
looked
into
the
mirror
turned
sideways
and
saw
who
I
was
beneath
it
all
a
simple
nothing
among
all
the
other
nothings
screaming
in
the
darkness
waiting
to
be
set
free

paid forward

i've seen the
garbage gather
in the gutters on
long forgotten streets
the diarrhea runs down
the walls of old trash
pits all across America
silent activism
crap for a cause
just like all the
other shit we drop
behind us for
someone else 
to clean up
and when it rains 
the stench doesn't
go away
it mingles with
all the others
becoming one
enormous stain
that smells of
every piss and
shit that's ever
been taken or
received
but at least it's 
quiet here
there's triumph in that 
waste
a small victory for all
of humanity
it makes you sick
but you can't get
away from it
it's always there
waiting for you to
take it in_ to
absorb its tainted glee
and someday you'll
leave one just like
it for someone else
to swallow
and the motion goes
forward

on and on

until we're all 
swimming
in 
shit