death

Death

You slow moving creature of strings

Vibration of eternal nothingness,

Skin that I felt.

The kind of drip which exists in

The mind.

You were a bodhisattva,

I wouldn’t know this until much later,

My only experiences with death,

Showed great confusion for the sounds

And scents,

Like Carlin once said “Why send flowers

When you’re dead? You can’t enjoy them”

Now at twenty-two

Death is an abstract thing,

Musical,

Some day I will die, and

If nothing else it will be a chance to slow

The hell down.

You focused on the breath,

I am now learning,

These sentences one long

Uninterrupted chorus,

Mingus playing,

I lie below naked paintings,

I want to believe there is a connection,

But I just can’t fear death,

Because it’s just sleep,

It’s just sleep,

It’s just rest.

But the mechanic who hacked his lungs

Making the end of his Lucky wet

With spit and phlegm, said he was dieing,

And I believed in him then,

As I do sometimes now.

God damn my logic,

Preventing me from knowing it,

The more silent I try to become,

The less I understand.

Beginning with madness: ending with love

Beginning with madness: ending with love

I.

Heaven is hysteria in a fine rolled joint.

The trigger of air pressed between objects,

Echoes caught between the books.

And the answer is Christ

As a perfect triangle.

And the answer is wine

As a solvent.

Repetition: reminds us.

Repetition: is candy-coated

Pushing us to starvation/salvation.

Repetition: is the weight of soft music pushing old mops

Against the wheel of life.

What about that connection is surreal?

What about that connection knows itself?

II.

Whatever is beautiful,

Whatever is just,

Give me these with naked eyes

That I might not spoil their truth.

Rid us of the rotten apple boiled in salt.

Here we must eschew the wild herb,

Which leaves us drained and savage.

Bliss or unfocused resilience,

Shifting between the water and the wine,

In the end, let me scrawl my poems

Into the wall and regain fragments of the whole.

III.

I have been missing the point all along!

One thousand catatonic poems,

Blessed with revelation,

Busted beards of bliss,

O mysterious cigarettes of sunshine!

　

　

　

　

IV.

Dose this make us insane?

With plastic purchases

Steamed in mountains of genetics,

With repeated rhetorical allegorical books,

Assumption of ascending thought,

Drunk strangers mad with glow of

Antiquity,

When will you teach your millions

What they already know?

I purchase desert silhouettes

With Abrahamic morality,

Building up towards the great eye.

The definition of insanity is reproduced/cloned

And cool eyed ramblings. Juxtaposed salvation with…something…

Blue collar crying satanic tears for revolutionary Trotsky’s and Che’s,

While suckling the breast of Manhattan’s

Factories of Gold,

Burning black smog along

NJ’s Turnpike.

The definition of insanity is two joints

And half a bottle of wine,

Three day hazy indifference,

Trying to grasp significance,

Repeating tasks with empty mind agony.

　

The definition of insanity is unknown

And relaxed.

Acceptance in the form of hysterical bits.

V.

I have been missing the point all along!

Now you got it!

Now you got it!

Go outside, get drunk: notice anything different?

Roll around in it, kiss it,

Follow the breath/catch it,

Notice anything different?

Sit/stand

Stagger/swagger,

Stumble…do you notice anything different?

Now you go it!

Now you got it!

Now you go it!

Now you got it!

Architecture

Architecture

The pigeons who struggle in thick heat,

To presume their worth,

Perched atop crumbling shelters.

The orange vents/miniature cites

Scrambling up their backs.

Along those steps/agonized bliss/

Still poised after drunken nights.

Succumbing incessantly to out-stretched awe!

That I could sink between chipped paint,

Or soar over electric lines and understanding,

The shifting of feet or clicks of doors/ignitions,

Plastic, or rustled vegetation,

Overturned crates and bales,

The bounty of which chirps at it’s own

Random distribution.

Goals

Goals

Goals.

I want to constantly ask:

What is this?

I want to get rid of I.

I want to write poetry, paint stories,

& play music.

I want to know what my face or yours is.

I want to memorize the excitement of your

Eyes in climax.

I am the saintly bum,

Nothing more nothing less.

I contain every variable

Choosing silence instead.

Flathead

Flathead

What to say of this nature?

Paddled to the middle of this self,

Water lapping at stone,

Immovable and time bent,

Breathed in obscure color,

Snow capped laughter,

Pine and sun/affected and unmoved.

The water churns and rises, never halting.

I fix myself against the backdrop of Heaven

As if cloaked by the very thought,

These dusty places give birth to every breath and bone.

Skimming the surface,

Every drop of water,

Reflects and returns.

Find no clinging!

This moment will soon disappear:

Have you swallowed it’s fatty juices?

Rising over each crest,

Every bang whipping us out of our monkey minds,

The bell at the beginning and end.

Soak the dust,

And it becomes mud

& sticks to our bones,

Forms us and breaks our flesh.

I am dieing quicker than this scene.

How wonderful to know

It will be here long after I am gone!

Roots stretched over,

Grains meditating in the wind:

What secrets do they know?

Quit

Quit

I watched your lips, inhale existence

Sighing ecstasy with tongue and stone.

Knowing my own limitations,

To endure love/dripping from the vine,

Dew drops ascending,

Angelic certainty, endless yelp of womb

And prick.

Steal and cotton soaked in language and light

This simplistic song and sense.

I the ignorant child,

Listening to sauce boil,

Along with the burnt offerings of us

21 years latter

Done with birth,

Done with god,

Done with mystic enunciations

Cross and bread/

The milk of mothers tainted & just,

Anxiety:

The godfather of wanton lust.

The city sleeps with me,

The city burns with me,

The city eats me with all

The fine soul of blue notes

And suspended electric organs.

And I’m done with self mutilation

Of ageless aphorisms

Breathing new soil and flowers/

Blades of grass uncountable curls,

First shames breaking through the

Breast of this earth.

Jaw lock stitched hack against the rushed scene.

Gone is your perfection or idealization,

Gone with scent and sighs piling debts and

Cries.

Toothache

Hand against my sides

I sighed and urinated on the pavement.

Cigarette bouncing on my lips,

The slowness of breath and movement (death)

Still got this toothache and anxiety /

Cold sex against the static hum

Of horns and candy,

Reaching deep for comfort.

Hard drag hacking habitually,

Wild laughter in balls of sleepy salvation,

Exodus into holy routine and shame.

The agony of words:

Which words or word begets language?

Money and material dripping from cracks /

Angels in bright cities dancing along the bridge:

Who satisfy longing and madness,

Who eat boiled eggs and salt,

Who paint hallucinations of bleak nostalgia,

Visions of dinners / shadow faces

Gnawing on biscuits and grease.

The howl of summer skin and jeers,

Gestures of clenched teeth and erotic tears,

With bawling eyes / shameless kicks.

The windows of alleyways expressing

Love and music,

Scent of shit and brick,

Hazed glow of coal, burning ash.

With garbage rooms cynical eyes,

Resting from dizzy abandonment:

Paint cans, notebooks, cigarettes & Buddha.

Resting and silent,

Worries and calm mutations /

Solo collaborations,

Steady hack and blow thru chipped walls;

Death, a strange lethargic beast smiling in

Front of televised Christ, who swears my

Silence and sex and scent and sense

Will damn us all.

Another hack slacking illusion for our

Dualistic obsessions,

Radically reductive to random acts of radiance,

Lotus sits on worn mattresses /

Gazing longingly at oxygen and light,

With noodle breath and complacent urges,

Beautiful slug caught in slush and slime.

Wild eyed marveling singers,

Blowing their blues to whiskey and wine,

In Philadelphia’s strange clock motion,

Which binds us all to fury and frankness,

Spitting ageless loquacious aphrodisiacs

Into solace and despair…

And my tooth still hurts.

Holy Ruins

Such anger!

The crumbling crack of

Industry’s ghosts,

Eating smack along the rivers edge,

Poverty statistically stereotypes derogative hymns,

Angels of Tioga & Fishtown

Sprinkle cancer on my cigarette,

w/ it’s deep drag and exhalation pouring

Over steel cased skies,

Uninhabited rooms echoing through plywood

And newspaper headlines read Democracy for Middle East,

Young woman pokes holes in these papers,

Let in this light of rickety Els and Golden Cathedral

Domes…

Oh yes, even in the Ghetto, god is rich.

Skewed Stars

Small mind

Streamed bliss walking against

Skewed stars,

Hidden before glowing half moon

Street snap and crack of pavement

Adjusting itself everyone’s

Asleep in toe curling erotic euphemisms,

Bland/no rhythm

(SHAP-SOCK-LETS-GO)

Watching over the hills

These all knowing blessed

Little critters, now they sleep

Evoking Allen I kneel before

Shrubs/sucking their dirt and herb juice

Cut off like crosses clumped in Victorian

Bouquets,

Piss and drink water from

Chrome faucets, dispensed from heavens

Whirling fans, circulating cool

Enumerations from boxed.

Steady blinking of four-thirty

A.M. glows red against the wall

I am counting moments til’ light.

Visions

The Prophets in the desert,

I am in the desert!

Among fools with their smudged aces,

Starless trench of mountains and heat,

Horizon bleeding triads of color/

Between squinting eyes and silhouettes,

Smokey air like a dirt road bar

Whiskey feet against microscopic stones,

Dancing wildly,

Abandoned steel roasting for perfection

In praise to emptiness and hunger.

I stepped out as if it were

Some new moment,

The barrage of color and scent

Indiscriminately howling against

The backdrop of laughter and coos…

Pounding and chanting/ no difference

All little red devils swaying in the electric breeze.

I want out! I want out!

Want to pause and drop all clinging and sense

With everything sick and stumbling.

Bedford

Bedford

Under the deceptive silence,
my thoughts/stale cardboard
chipping at the brink,
soft brie of exposure
rotting in the winter sun.

What I saw was the belly of Brooklyn,
bursting with 200 years of
sentiments and angst.
The rusted green pillars of the El,
like unwanted weeds leaving cracks
in the garden of Eden.
The impressionistic haze of
drunken lights swirling in
the milk of ecstasy/ shaman dance
in abandoned hotels/ among that pounding rhythm,
older than the first orgasmic sighs of liberty,
older than your original self
tracing back to first drops
of water on ancient seeds.

I roll my bones in underground steel &
vomit in chain kitchens.
Yellow-cab anxiety & fried grease
water from corrupt NYC water department,
quenching the thirst of millions.

Long hours in Trenton waiting
for trains, watching towers
swallowed by the red haze
of mechanical dusk.

I spend my time waiting for
machines to deliver me,
I spend my time absorbing the mystery
of dharma,
watching the play of this planet
with cool detachment.

Existentially

Existentially

I.

That is the rain; or first step,

Breathing through agony & pills.

See \ myself withered and dusty,

Before I look…what’s next?

No god or awakening,

Or reunion.

No breaths or cigarettes,

Or touch,

Strange air…my mind blooms

In wet cardboard box,

That will eventually just eat itself.

And then what?

And then What?

II.

The prophets are in the desert,

I am in the desert / among fools

With their smudged aces.

Starless trenches of mountainous heat,

Horizon bleeding trinity of color /

Between

Squinting eyes and silhouettes,

Dense air, hanging like smoke

Between notes in a wailing chorus.

Whiskey feet against microscopic stones,

Dancing wildly,

The abandoned steel and flesh

Roasting for perfection,

In praise to emptiness and hunger.

Riff

Riff

Rift, raft/kinetic coherence

White eyed saints,

Scratching flecks from ashen palms.

Catholic guilt smeared bread:

Choking on croaking crosses

And whiskey superstitions,

Rushing for exchange.

Outside:

Smoking burnt skin,

Light reflection of dark

Blue March,

Sparkling eyes of hunger/

& crazed plaid / hat / tipped

Irishmen shitting in public.

Communion of the lost,

Their bread and butter rough / smoked / mechanical

Heavy sighs.

Dilated souls expanding under artificial lights.

55 Bar

55 Bar

Snap/clap

Scent of whiskey and wine,

Seeps up Christopher Ave. (55 Bar)

White haired men/tonic & gin,

Find their seats against the unpolished wood of the bar.

He is drinking for two…

The blare of horns

Barely moving him.

Crowded, dim,

All lonely souls dancing for skin

And reminiscence.

Sorry

Sorry

“We’re sorry to inform you that

Your having a nervous breakdown.”

Well, okay: but I’m just a fucking poet.

I’m not trying to suck biology

Through a straw/

I’m just chain smoking and drinking

And having episodes.

Note to self: confession works

Much better with a cynic present.

Okay so here it is:

I’m refusing to accept objects

As just objects, objectively or

At least optimistically I should just be.

I am drunk on the big why?…

　

The center of the street is quietly cold,

Somewhere in the distance

Someone is receiving a miracle,

The planet lets out it’s language

Solid/beneath the surface,

Every croak in its skin/

Groaning ghost groaning…

Fungus sustains light,

Like smack for the queen,

Like the-shit-that-grows-when-you-stir,

Like repeated conversations when you’re stoned,

Like words you cling to

until the mouth forms tones.

Phone call confessions

During all hours

To drive the point into heaven,

In case you were unsure…

YES.

I admit to watching years without

Attachment craving delicate scents/sights/sounds/

And understanding.

Direction goes every which way,

So: I am facing a thousand points

And carving 62 notches into stone,

One for each trace I left in myself

Of that certain something.

I want conversation without

Excessive salt and spice likewise

For love.

18yrs catches up fairly

Swiftly, its good to see

So many old faces.

II.

Brass rings strung over pipes,

Our work has just begun,

This house with echoes of stone

Enumerations crept up on every wall.

Tone carrying itself cocky and

Unstable through rattling copper pipes,

Fumes mixing with the velocity of water

And the strength of wine.

Tattered abstract pillow cases

Against the form which holds us,

Binding our hearts to explicate longing.

How many years starving off

Sacraments and delusions to wind up

Here and anxious?

Our work has just begun.

　

Walking, Messanic Whine

Walking

Walking down Rising Sun high,

Ice crunching beneath worn shoes: a siren,

Then nothing, & back to my idle fantasy

of sex and brick, by the old Princeton

Cursing under breath at these “pigs”,

And vomiting through bulimic masturbation's

Of the tongue.

Cheap wine and electric touch screen thrills,

Dancing in the street light impressionistic whirl

Of plastic ridden sidewalks.

I left everyone to find myself,

Excited and cold/a thousand hands

Touching and kissing with the scratch

Of gravel and stench of liquor,

& light feet with heavy heads,

Not as fun as watching strangers

Undress from third story windows,

Under the cross and bread of row home apocalypse,

Foaming at the asshole for carnality's, desire,

And the breath of words scrawled on convenience

Store napkins.

With love,

With angst,

With trying to detach unsuccessfully

From labor and strife,

With phone call promises of

You-have-no-idea-how-fucking-great-I-feel-right-now.

I’m creating a myth propelled by desires,

To break even with debts I owe to myself.

Messianic Whine

The sky is moving ancient scripture,

With clouds burning below the navel,

The slow, steady turning of a hundred wheels,

All spokes returning to the hub.

The battery of time,

Surely drained of it’s roots/seeks water in the desert,

Like a junky’s messianic whine.

Hang over smoke stake bales on 7^th avenue,

Eyes the color of street light fog,

Seeking the divine.

The Fall

The Fall

Between agony and bliss,

The Christ like bright labels,

Shimmering against the backdrop,

The rotating pop charts croaking

Through blown speakers,

Sprinkling their sweet scents over

Fruit and balding skulls.

Mustard packet of unknown age and volume,

Hidden among the dust and sticky substance

Of concatenated sugar.

Outside frozen with self-help hypnosis,

The cars and buses repeating

Geometric patterns blissfully,

The stench of 100 years of Americana/

Burning at the fleshy heart of its’ fat

And cynicism.

It is the food of television and whores,

It is the stuff of substance and emptiness,

A choir of angels proclaiming

The great trade off of the species,

Phallic and cunt of Greek suckling,

Their holy cites now long forgotten,

My holy self now long forgotten,

Wanton lust and the smack

Of rejection lingering scents and

Whispers now long forgotten/

everything glistening in new rain,

Starving masses buying smack

On rationed stamps, caked

Specks of wine on dry lips,

Praying and feeding on spit and anxiety.