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.