i feel these girls
out like rubik’s cubes
and then i feel them up
like braille picassos
almost reading their minds
i thumb thru their thoughts
and ear-mark their insecurities
getting inside their heads
i pour over past pains like
passports and catch a train
of thought straight to their hearts
where i piece together their
pensiveness like a puzzle
creating mental pictures of happiness
that thru their imaginations look
more like masterpieces and less
like the crudely traced knock-offs
they actually are—
when the world helps a sad lady
get back on her feet again
and truly start to believe again
and laugh out loud
in the wide-open-like-a-flower,
sun is shining,
birds are singing
outside world again
and takes her out dancin'
and buys her drinks
and shows her the glittering path
to new and fabulous romance.
But, how does a fella
get his groove back,
his nerve to follow through
on the follow-through,
or, is he like a race horse
come up lame
or a ball player
that's lost his game,
for most intents and purposes, ruined?
That is to say,
once he starts losin'
is he doomed
to keep on losin'
and with little hope
for some new precedent set
to stop his slow, grinding
into the funky, foul-smelling pit
of compounded booganism?
And if (as some would say)
a man is his game,
and the groove
is what maketh the man,
then is a man that's lost his groove
less than a man;
maybe a bumbling, buffoonish,
hybrid kind of a man,
a mildly amusing Charlie Chaplin tramp
or Giligan-esque court jester always good
for a tumbling pratfall kind of a man,
maybe a skittish little Woody Allen
without the jokes or geeky, boyish charm kind of a man
or a poor Little Oliver with wide, hopeful
kitten eyes and empty bowl kind of a man,
a "right away, on the double, sir" kind of man,
an "of course I wouldn't mind
dancing your Cutty and water
over to you, sir" kind of man,
a "my lord, the Royal Chef assures me
your Hasenpfeffer should be ready
any minute now" kind of man.
And whereby and therefore (in accordance
with the universal laws of God, woman
and natural selection),
should anyone but this man's mama
really even give a damn?
And once the “It,”
Which so vitally composes and contributes
To “The Shit” (which it seems he must
At all times and with supreme
Believe himself to be), is lost
is there really any chance
of getting it back again,
any probability or possibility
of hope, left in Pandora's
little black grab bag,
for a monkey-boy to be a man again?
Or, is a man,
once his spirit and stature
have been properly dismantled
(and the parts all sold for scrap),
best led out back behind the wood shed
or to an open pasture, somewhere,
and the fabled diamond bullet
of clarity put through his head?
'Cause sometimes there seems to be
a mighty fine line between
the merely walking wounded
and the dead that just don't know
Your ignorance confounds me
I corrupt your closed-in world
with a shot of cum in your mouth
And some eye candy
The death of your friends
And everything you’ve known
to be safe and secure
and comfortable in your home
WHEN A MAN IS DEAD
When a man is dead
he does not rise
to check the morning mail
He doesn’t barge in
on his wife and her lover
lying naked in the bed they shared
before he put a pistol
to his head
something recorded near the end of his life
he sounded like chocolate
was ravaged by heroin
In Europe, Jazz is revered
crowds jam darkened doorways
and tiny tables lit by unscented candles
at clubs like Ronnie Scott's
or The Vortex
which could also be a metaphor for all of this.
The shoulder cracks under the weight
I stop for a moment to consider the red sky
and why they jump from buildings
they wore their scars
softly, I think
second time in as many years.
Room heavy, sweaty, warm,
jostling, bumping, squeezing through,
“excuse me” the most frequent words,
no place for a wallflower to hide.
Free wine, all you could want, but
ate dinner before, too full to drink,
too depressed to chat,
too self-conscious to flirt.
Wanted to leave immediately,
forced myself to stay an hour,
remembering my therapist’s words,
people unwilling to face their fears
isolated and withdrawn lives.
But what about those of us
who go out and brave
that bewildering world
other people inhabit, only to find
it’s not for us?
my Life; NOW.
in this weird slot straddling centuries
appliance times may vary.
radio on back door open occasionally a friend will call. her
listen to blackbird cry out flies slowly over.
Life Fire and the Death TV.
whisky flows softly to douse the burnout of my brain.
appliance times may vary.
I attempt Werds to not die useless
but its all coming out as barren self portraits
appliance times may vary.
Write New and Write Again- yes
tonight there will be drugs
tomorrow I work at the desk coffee cups and small lamp.
must Write Werds like burning forest painting ash on flowers.
must not die useless don’t know how long I have
appliance times may vary.
are slow cold
are stale tired
are difficult and stubborn.
attempt to file accurate reports when home safe.
awful blank head!
demented clock hands spin round I am sitting in the kitchen
so light so late sky rich deep rock blue blooms black
air is empty eager for autumn to rush in and die.
I lived in the attic back then,
and late those evenings I had to study
and couldn't afford to go drinking
I'd run down to the deli and buy
bagels and smoked lox.
I'd watch the lame son
wrap each item in white paper
while his father, coughing at the register,
pointed to the cans on the wall
and screamed, "Serve yourself! Serve yourself!"
I'd grab a tin of baked beans and he'd smile.
Now, years later, I return to the deli
and find that it's closed.
The sign on the door confirms
what everyone else already knows:
There has been a death in the family.
Father: Every Morning of His Life
The cup he took his tea from
all those years was Army surplus,
made of tin. It whirred
to the spoon he wound in it
15 times per lump of sugar.
We who slept in rooms just off
the kitchen rose like ghosts
to the winding of that spoon.
In my house, now, mornings
Sue’s the first downstairs. She
scalds the leaves and wonders:
Will the winding ever end?
and the she
gets uncomfortably close
colors blurring the lines till they
become muddy hues muddy uncomfortable hues
til one day she sees a light raises her eyes realizes
art is her meditation realization of truth of life of getting
back to real to feel to remember to forget
she frowns a brown frown at the colors she has made
paints it black
starting from the neck of the dove who dared to
in hungry dark chocolate hues
cries a glass of tears in your waterpark blues
homesick subterranean alien
everything in here smells old. moldy. filthy and covered in sweat from the seventies. sixties. my parents when they were my age and horny.
it is suede it is maroon. it is cracked and dry. it is my skin. it is my chimney stopped up for decades for fear of tenants burning the damn building down. utopia. thats what they called my apartment building. in nineteen twenty. when ladies had creme coloured lace gloves and wore perfume and crossed their legs.
(if i pull this last bit of nail off i will bleed.
i have to pull it off.)
in line with ipod ears buzzing signs flash buy this overpriced banner
a woman dressed to kill .herself. with some feathers and is that a clothespin sticking out of her head
a man with sportscoat and store-bought wrinkles ironed into the back of his stonewashed gap jeans
inside i am laughing at everyone and somber as can be
on the walk home i shoot out a first floor office window to push the button on the monitor of a computer left on overnight.
(to save electricity.)
Lighting a crooked cigarette in a bus overfed
with bushed Sunday people. The young conductor
too effeminate to bring back order, with the smoke
stirring silent angry looks.
Sipping some stale
Coca-Cola while being already drunk, with the
body swaying to every whim of a hungry bus driver.
Watching then the tragic landscape
for a bit of elusive escapism.
Feeling too hot, and a bit frustrated
with someone’s beautiful wife sitting just in front.
Trying to swear in a language not resembling the
mother tongue but that of a faraway father’s habit.
Falling asleep after a few drags on the cigarette
that rebels and falls down
after being left alone between stinking fingers
as good as dry ladyfingers without balls.
Being laughed at by neighbors,
by well-dressed and perfumed neighbors
with intentions darker than lethal black ants.
Waking up to have a second drag on a cigarette
that is missing. Starting to
swear heroically, searching for the cigarette that
has rolled into someone else’s temporary territory.
Aggravating the situation by releasing
from the pocket a handful of stolen,
old and bent coins onto the ground, with them rolling
everywhere like the rapid shells of paralyzed tortoises.
The review are pouring
halfway through the season
of “John’s Life,”:
an unmitigated disaster!
A situation comedy more sad
Poorly acted, sparsely staged,
the villain too evil to be believed,
the hero unlovable.
Like watching a car wreck
in slow motion.
The only bright spot
those two up-and-comers,
ages five and two.
Maybe they can spin off successfully,
giving viewers something beyond
a numb ass
and a bad memory.
HORSES ARE BEAUTIFUL
Horses are beautiful,
contentedly snorting, coats glimmering
as they eat their hay.
Cicadas are beautiful,
making chittering calls in the sycamores,
flicking lizard-like wings
for eagerly waiting lovers.
Sparrows are beautiful,
battling pigeons for crusts and turf,
losing and trying,
Pigs are beautiful.
Geckos are beautiful.
Suckerfish are beautiful.
People are not beautiful.
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