(no subject)
I needs my place
where I feel comfortable making
the worst
shit-poem in the world
where no one has to know how truly bad it can stink
stale baloney poems
compost pile poems
trying to bear your team losing at home
----------
sitar flung from the empty bedroom
on crystal faery trebuchets
the young, flexible people painter sips tea
and reads the books of Christopher Moore
in her "looking for Mr. Happy" t-shirt
sitting at butcher-top kitchen table
commented on the light-
"combien beau!"
burners taking over San Francisco
in dancing twin banter
quoting, "Walter, you're just an asshole!"
the Fonz busts in dancing new samba
with old dogs wearing new leashes
(invisible fishes push buttons on wireless hi-fi
old skool high-fives and Lexus leases)
Günter Wilhelm Grass is making an omelette
and I am smoking grasses
drinking Negra Modelo on an overcast day-
moist and dreaming
of Henri-Edmond Cross'
"Beach at Cabasson"
Fort de Brégançon
in electri-plum shade
on soft downey beaches
I sit with 3 local boys and write poems
about the oceans endless nature to inspire
endless poems and end it
with class
taking the bottle caps off my third
(and even fourth) eye
dying laughing gut cracking busting up
snickering at myself
trying to make something that's making me
some almond, bitter gets train-salt
nailed in
hobo-chalk out with your caulk out
saves you off, on the back of road signs
and fence posts peeling red teardrops
dreamings of better margaritas and things
etceteras, flattered in bow-ties
and birthday cakes
sounding off like Polish verse
on the night's rusty razor
edge of beauty and death
decay in the faces of angels
one-day Pączki
once a year
in MIchigan-youth
russet from birth
still
burn me in California sun
and turn my DNA over to the authorities
feed me breakfast for dinner
of nothing but water an oil changes
and cute-smiling beer
tomorrow, work
and forgetting
No-Name and William Blake
hold a dialogue in my ghost-attic
pointing to the evening light of east and north
paraded like a captured animal savages
looking to escape on a cold pyre Seattle day
living on fruit and granola
off the grid for a few years
hiking, camping, beach-bumming
staying with family, friends
and in middle-of-nowheres for months
for next to nothing to paint
draw, point to things in and out
and develop and do all the things y'wanted to
time
c
o
m
e
s
time
shoots time in the flank
fall down tall-down first & fir forest
fur-burger soirees
for eager prom queens looking for American
Express
dreams
fall down narco-stare muscle relaxed so mind sprung
traipsing through trap laden edens
hoping for a sweater and quarter for coffee
and poems with exuberant strangers
manifest
transform
bloom infront of eyes
to new and exciting acquisitions
of cherubic assault rifles
with a rumble-pack
multi-sensory spray
punching starholes into blackskypapier
praying for a quick end
to a corpse of a plastic linebacker
banker tank trash-talker skims equations on
periwinkle lips-
lawn shorn
gladiator blind from fame
falling behind
sinking loose ships
getting the be-bop
license from a bum
drunk on a drunk on
habitual crank
someone
is come, one
come to cancel bad checks
bub,
hold your head higher
afloat atop your fresh beer
higher than never knows now just then
yesterday, poppies and strawberry jam
on British muffins and e.e. cummings' cotton bed
are laid out- symmetrical, theatrical, occult Cambozola
portmanteau
curses spun by the original gods
middle finger to sit n' spin on and not in the power
to write the wrong rightings within-
write in!
stay thin on the blood highway
I'm smiling down on lost poets again
where I feel comfortable making
the worst
shit-poem in the world
where no one has to know how truly bad it can stink
stale baloney poems
compost pile poems
trying to bear your team losing at home
----------
sitar flung from the empty bedroom
on crystal faery trebuchets
the young, flexible people painter sips tea
and reads the books of Christopher Moore
in her "looking for Mr. Happy" t-shirt
sitting at butcher-top kitchen table
commented on the light-
"combien beau!"
burners taking over San Francisco
in dancing twin banter
quoting, "Walter, you're just an asshole!"
the Fonz busts in dancing new samba
with old dogs wearing new leashes
(invisible fishes push buttons on wireless hi-fi
old skool high-fives and Lexus leases)
Günter Wilhelm Grass is making an omelette
and I am smoking grasses
drinking Negra Modelo on an overcast day-
moist and dreaming
of Henri-Edmond Cross'
"Beach at Cabasson"
Fort de Brégançon
in electri-plum shade
on soft downey beaches
I sit with 3 local boys and write poems
about the oceans endless nature to inspire
endless poems and end it
with class
taking the bottle caps off my third
(and even fourth) eye
dying laughing gut cracking busting up
snickering at myself
trying to make something that's making me
some almond, bitter gets train-salt
nailed in
hobo-chalk out with your caulk out
saves you off, on the back of road signs
and fence posts peeling red teardrops
dreamings of better margaritas and things
etceteras, flattered in bow-ties
and birthday cakes
sounding off like Polish verse
on the night's rusty razor
edge of beauty and death
decay in the faces of angels
one-day Pączki
once a year
in MIchigan-youth
russet from birth
still
burn me in California sun
and turn my DNA over to the authorities
feed me breakfast for dinner
of nothing but water an oil changes
and cute-smiling beer
tomorrow, work
and forgetting
No-Name and William Blake
hold a dialogue in my ghost-attic
pointing to the evening light of east and north
paraded like a captured animal savages
looking to escape on a cold pyre Seattle day
living on fruit and granola
off the grid for a few years
hiking, camping, beach-bumming
staying with family, friends
and in middle-of-nowheres for months
for next to nothing to paint
draw, point to things in and out
and develop and do all the things y'wanted to
time
c
o
m
e
s
time
shoots time in the flank
fall down tall-down first & fir forest
fur-burger soirees
for eager prom queens looking for American
Express
dreams
fall down narco-stare muscle relaxed so mind sprung
traipsing through trap laden edens
hoping for a sweater and quarter for coffee
and poems with exuberant strangers
manifest
transform
bloom infront of eyes
to new and exciting acquisitions
of cherubic assault rifles
with a rumble-pack
multi-sensory spray
punching starholes into blackskypapier
praying for a quick end
to a corpse of a plastic linebacker
banker tank trash-talker skims equations on
periwinkle lips-
lawn shorn
gladiator blind from fame
falling behind
sinking loose ships
getting the be-bop
license from a bum
drunk on a drunk on
habitual crank
someone
is come, one
come to cancel bad checks
bub,
hold your head higher
afloat atop your fresh beer
higher than never knows now just then
yesterday, poppies and strawberry jam
on British muffins and e.e. cummings' cotton bed
are laid out- symmetrical, theatrical, occult Cambozola
portmanteau
curses spun by the original gods
middle finger to sit n' spin on and not in the power
to write the wrong rightings within-
write in!
stay thin on the blood highway
I'm smiling down on lost poets again