An Insult?
Noooooo.
It’s just that you
are beautiful when you are sad.
Take a solemn beast, born into her sadness, faithful to it,
she is ridiculous if she smiles. Her sadness, her sad face, was a parasite to, then
consanguineous with, and eventually has come to embody the beauty it sought to efface.
The tear has become more peaceful than the violence of the smile, and her face, the stillness of which is now beyond all emotion, is fit for
the sculptor’s eternity
the ink of the painter
or the deformed light of the photographer’s lense.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Writers
Writers
There are 6 and a half billion
on this world
And I don’t know
how many literates
But they all think they’re
writers
And they all probably are
I mean, hell
Even I squeeze off a decent line
Now and Then
Most of us want to
be
Famous
more
than
alone
because
we
lack
even
ourselves
because if we were truly naked
we wouldn’t want to be seen so bad
We go for cheap thrills
and word play
and eloquent nonsense
and zeugma, synecdoche,
and bull shit.
[I hate that part of the poem]
We prefer
beautiful lies
to ugly
truth.
We break ground
with structure
And there is
more
genuine pretension
than sorrow
or laughter
more gimmicks than guts
but maybe guts is a gimmick
and sometimes the only originality
left is
being a
bad imitator.
and it does
n’t
hurt if
the audience is
generally
ignorant
The writer wants to
be
worshiped
by everyone
less clever
than herself
He’s not depressed
He is ill
from a
mouthful
of abscessing teeth
corroded
by
nightly
vomit
from wine
and general
neglect.
He hasn’t brushed
for a solid week
in thirty years
You say you
never talk on
the bus.
I make a
scene wherever
I go.
Women are better
writers, sure,
but they are scared to
walk down
dark alleys.
That’s my edge,
and why I had
to pick a guy up
off the ground
by the dick for
getting violent--and because he wouldn’t give me a story.
I give my money away so I can steal.
But that’s bullshit too.
The status quo
says
to question the
status quo.
The writer
figures
how many words
he can put in a
space of time.
The master,
though he writes
day and night
,
fights to
write
as few
words
as possible.
He still manages two or three thousand a day.
Being a writer is
about as impressive
as buying a lotto ticket,
Even if he wins
he is still profoundly
and fundamentally,
a loser.
A famous no body
Made of common elements,
he thinks himself uncommon.
He will pick up a penny
just to write about it.
His hope is
that he eventually curries
favor with those he presumes he hates.
But he is the bare-bottom of intelligence.
Writing in general is for inferior souls,
and the superior spirits of this world never wrote a word.
Readers are even worse.
So read away
read all the greats
imitate the best
or just
put this trash down
and
write.
There are 6 and a half billion
on this world
And I don’t know
how many literates
But they all think they’re
writers
And they all probably are
I mean, hell
Even I squeeze off a decent line
Now and Then
Most of us want to
be
Famous
more
than
alone
because
we
lack
even
ourselves
because if we were truly naked
we wouldn’t want to be seen so bad
We go for cheap thrills
and word play
and eloquent nonsense
and zeugma, synecdoche,
and bull shit.
[I hate that part of the poem]
We prefer
beautiful lies
to ugly
truth.
We break ground
with structure
And there is
more
genuine pretension
than sorrow
or laughter
more gimmicks than guts
but maybe guts is a gimmick
and sometimes the only originality
left is
being a
bad imitator.
and it does
n’t
hurt if
the audience is
generally
ignorant
The writer wants to
be
worshiped
by everyone
less clever
than herself
He’s not depressed
He is ill
from a
mouthful
of abscessing teeth
corroded
by
nightly
vomit
from wine
and general
neglect.
He hasn’t brushed
for a solid week
in thirty years
You say you
never talk on
the bus.
I make a
scene wherever
I go.
Women are better
writers, sure,
but they are scared to
walk down
dark alleys.
That’s my edge,
and why I had
to pick a guy up
off the ground
by the dick for
getting violent--and because he wouldn’t give me a story.
I give my money away so I can steal.
But that’s bullshit too.
The status quo
says
to question the
status quo.
The writer
figures
how many words
he can put in a
space of time.
The master,
though he writes
day and night
,
fights to
write
as few
words
as possible.
He still manages two or three thousand a day.
Being a writer is
about as impressive
as buying a lotto ticket,
Even if he wins
he is still profoundly
and fundamentally,
a loser.
A famous no body
Made of common elements,
he thinks himself uncommon.
He will pick up a penny
just to write about it.
His hope is
that he eventually curries
favor with those he presumes he hates.
But he is the bare-bottom of intelligence.
Writing in general is for inferior souls,
and the superior spirits of this world never wrote a word.
Readers are even worse.
So read away
read all the greats
imitate the best
or just
put this trash down
and
write.
The Fool’s Genius
The Fool’s Genius
He doesn’t
remember
how many times people
have called him
a genius
because
he
is n’t
one.
He
cannot fill his
solitude
but hates the crowd;
the easy books
are too easy
and the hard books
are too hard.
Nothing is impossible.
Schopenhauer says
there are no level
headed
geniuses
and he is
off .
He doesn’t choose
his thought.
It effervesces
from the
soda can
of his
thoughts.
He is too dizzy
to know when
people are out
to get him.
He harms w/o noticing.
He is the toy of lesser beings
His wife is pregnant and
all he thinks about is books
and writing
all he does is write
or want to
but this
obsession
makes him negligent
and doesn’t make him a genius.
“You have been gone all day,
and now all you care about
is writing some candy-assed
poem instead of
spending time
with your wife.”
He has over 100 notebooks
full of the most unlikely
invention
you wouldn’t know it
but he has novel ideas
for every single field.
If you ask him he will
tell you.
One day
when he was
25
someone called
him
a genius,
then one after the other,
a flood of people
did the same.
friends, professors, preachers,
nannies, enemies
fools
It nearly drove
him
mad.
We expect the
world
from you,
kid,
and he
delivered
nothing.
He never
has time to
publish or refine
his work.
Because he has moved on to brighter things.
Because all of his ideas are wrong.
He is a genius to fools
and a fool to geniuses:
He can never
respect anyone.
He doesn’t
remember
how many times people
have called him
a genius
because
he
is n’t
one.
He
cannot fill his
solitude
but hates the crowd;
the easy books
are too easy
and the hard books
are too hard.
Nothing is impossible.
Schopenhauer says
there are no level
headed
geniuses
and he is
off .
He doesn’t choose
his thought.
It effervesces
from the
soda can
of his
thoughts.
He is too dizzy
to know when
people are out
to get him.
He harms w/o noticing.
He is the toy of lesser beings
His wife is pregnant and
all he thinks about is books
and writing
all he does is write
or want to
but this
obsession
makes him negligent
and doesn’t make him a genius.
“You have been gone all day,
and now all you care about
is writing some candy-assed
poem instead of
spending time
with your wife.”
He has over 100 notebooks
full of the most unlikely
invention
you wouldn’t know it
but he has novel ideas
for every single field.
If you ask him he will
tell you.
One day
when he was
25
someone called
him
a genius,
then one after the other,
a flood of people
did the same.
friends, professors, preachers,
nannies, enemies
fools
It nearly drove
him
mad.
We expect the
world
from you,
kid,
and he
delivered
nothing.
He never
has time to
publish or refine
his work.
Because he has moved on to brighter things.
Because all of his ideas are wrong.
He is a genius to fools
and a fool to geniuses:
He can never
respect anyone.
The Cool Girl
she was the coolest girl around
and every body knew it
she was plain and buxomy
and eventually she made her way
around
and screwed everyone i knew
except me
and lucky with the big sticks
one day she dropped a joint
in my bag
next to an extralarge condom
i'd been carrying around
to fool the girls
to lie w/o having to breath
because the best lies never have to be told
but they don't buy
even my truth
a month ago she was
on the phone with a friend
of mine.
he said, 'i'm here with ryan ralston'
and she didn't say a word
nothing hurts like silence either
and every body knew it
she was plain and buxomy
and eventually she made her way
around
and screwed everyone i knew
except me
and lucky with the big sticks
one day she dropped a joint
in my bag
next to an extralarge condom
i'd been carrying around
to fool the girls
to lie w/o having to breath
because the best lies never have to be told
but they don't buy
even my truth
a month ago she was
on the phone with a friend
of mine.
he said, 'i'm here with ryan ralston'
and she didn't say a word
nothing hurts like silence either
The Excuse
The Excuse
b/c the big bang was neither big nor made a bang
b/c light [last line]
b/c the sex counselor has never had an orgasm
b/c I latch on to the first person who likes me
b/c I’ve been in a new city for one night and
I’m already seeing people I’ve met
b/c I
b/c I hit puberty before I knew my name has
two syllables [TX, Rhine diminutive for Ry-an]
b/c Artists are Charlatans
b/c I fucking hate books, I hate books w/ a passion: Everything else I just hate
b/c the great monuments began as playthings of ancient children
b/c I am immortal only since there’s no time
b/c even an Idiot is 49% genius
b/c I conducted the first nude orchestra w/ my feet
b/c the stranger caught me looking at her breasts and thought--
he is already cheating on me
b/c the small powerful men insist on clothes
b/c the good students don’t have to…..
b/c [fill in here…]
b/c the big bang was neither big nor made a bang
b/c light [last line]
b/c the sex counselor has never had an orgasm
b/c I latch on to the first person who likes me
b/c I’ve been in a new city for one night and
I’m already seeing people I’ve met
b/c I
b/c I hit puberty before I knew my name has
two syllables [TX, Rhine diminutive for Ry-an]
b/c Artists are Charlatans
b/c I fucking hate books, I hate books w/ a passion: Everything else I just hate
b/c the great monuments began as playthings of ancient children
b/c I am immortal only since there’s no time
b/c even an Idiot is 49% genius
b/c I conducted the first nude orchestra w/ my feet
b/c the stranger caught me looking at her breasts and thought--
he is already cheating on me
b/c the small powerful men insist on clothes
b/c the good students don’t have to…..
b/c [fill in here…]
Sephardim
Sephardim
Sephardi
smart like an Indian
crazy like an Arab
We do not fuck
our cousins
but we
cut
your throat
We are
Jewish enough
to be
hated
and not
Jewish enough
to be
loved.
Else they tell us we are not real Jews
or not really Jewish
and hate us
Fit for death
camps
Unfit for
solidarity,
milk and honey,
or
rights of passage.
We are
too brown
to be down
too white
to be tight
They have called
us
Conversos
Crypto-jews
Marranos
Pigs
We have
names like
Perec
Perez
Lucero
de Leon
Rivera
Castro.
You will miss us.
Ask
Jorge
if he is
a Jew
he ‘ll
say
no then
kill
you.
We survived
400
bloody
inquisitive
years
by excelling
in
deceit,
murder,
lies.
And only the best survived.
as picked over
as race horses
or slaves
killed with every sort of ingenuity
“Are you a Christian?”
You either lie good or die good
or go away.
You sell your home
or sell your soul.
you divorce God
and become
a priest
you fall
in love with
a Jewish nun.
You are excommunicated.
twice divorced.
You take your
bride to a
New Mexico
Your daughter
will abandon
her daughter.
You will be the father
of your grandchildren.
And your grandchild
is mother
to my
mother.
the old man
chose a shanty
over God
then
a piece
of ass
over both
and to think
my
dad’s
father
was
a bastard
child.
So I
eat shit
and
have
no
history
either
And
I
know
what
its like
to
be
a
nigger
too
Sephardi
smart like an Indian
crazy like an Arab
We do not fuck
our cousins
but we
cut
your throat
We are
Jewish enough
to be
hated
and not
Jewish enough
to be
loved.
Else they tell us we are not real Jews
or not really Jewish
and hate us
Fit for death
camps
Unfit for
solidarity,
milk and honey,
or
rights of passage.
We are
too brown
to be down
too white
to be tight
They have called
us
Conversos
Crypto-jews
Marranos
Pigs
We have
names like
Perec
Perez
Lucero
de Leon
Rivera
Castro.
You will miss us.
Ask
Jorge
if he is
a Jew
he ‘ll
say
no then
kill
you.
We survived
400
bloody
inquisitive
years
by excelling
in
deceit,
murder,
lies.
And only the best survived.
as picked over
as race horses
or slaves
killed with every sort of ingenuity
“Are you a Christian?”
You either lie good or die good
or go away.
You sell your home
or sell your soul.
you divorce God
and become
a priest
you fall
in love with
a Jewish nun.
You are excommunicated.
twice divorced.
You take your
bride to a
New Mexico
Your daughter
will abandon
her daughter.
You will be the father
of your grandchildren.
And your grandchild
is mother
to my
mother.
the old man
chose a shanty
over God
then
a piece
of ass
over both
and to think
my
dad’s
father
was
a bastard
child.
So I
eat shit
and
have
no
history
either
And
I
know
what
its like
to
be
a
nigger
too
Phineaus the Hypochondriac
Phineaus the Hypochondriac
Gage was skullfucked by a spike
running the length of
a would-be double chin
up through to
his forehead.
That was in 18__.
An accident at a mining explosion.
He used to be responsible
judgmental
calm
courteous
Now he’s flaky
angry-go-lucky
mercury
pissed
He never cussed; Now:
Cunt, fuck, shit, and whore are sandwiched between
syllables.
the way
Cunts, motherfuckers, shitbags, and whores litter
the streets
He used to shave, brush his teeth, make eyes with himself
in the mirror.
Now he admires his crater
on his bald spot
left front and center
And his breath smells like angry onions.
Phineaus used to have plans
Now he never knows where he is going
what he is supposed to be doing
why
Like
The tetrahedron that was ambition, desire, stick-to-itiveness, esteem
have muddied
the melt off
slurry
of icecaps
Unfocused desire is
bad virtue
too many dreams
laxative realities
missing the wasteland
for all the rotten stumps
There are people who drank so much
they can’t tell you what day it is
after you told them just seconds ago.
they have bleeding thalamus’s on their shoulders
Phineaus Gage had his
excuse.
They’ve got theirs.
What the fuck happened to me?
Gage was skullfucked by a spike
running the length of
a would-be double chin
up through to
his forehead.
That was in 18__.
An accident at a mining explosion.
He used to be responsible
judgmental
calm
courteous
Now he’s flaky
angry-go-lucky
mercury
pissed
He never cussed; Now:
Cunt, fuck, shit, and whore are sandwiched between
syllables.
the way
Cunts, motherfuckers, shitbags, and whores litter
the streets
He used to shave, brush his teeth, make eyes with himself
in the mirror.
Now he admires his crater
on his bald spot
left front and center
And his breath smells like angry onions.
Phineaus used to have plans
Now he never knows where he is going
what he is supposed to be doing
why
Like
The tetrahedron that was ambition, desire, stick-to-itiveness, esteem
have muddied
the melt off
slurry
of icecaps
Unfocused desire is
bad virtue
too many dreams
laxative realities
missing the wasteland
for all the rotten stumps
There are people who drank so much
they can’t tell you what day it is
after you told them just seconds ago.
they have bleeding thalamus’s on their shoulders
Phineaus Gage had his
excuse.
They’ve got theirs.
What the fuck happened to me?
I'm Pregnant
I’m Pregnant
Except it is not the I that is
but the She
pregnant
with
hopes, dreams
and our little Echinodermata
come together
in a big crunch
the ecdysis of butterflies
the revamping of atoms
on consignment
from dead time;
and things not yet born
for s/he has only known death
Except it is not the I that is
but the She
pregnant
with
hopes, dreams
and our little Echinodermata
come together
in a big crunch
the ecdysis of butterflies
the revamping of atoms
on consignment
from dead time;
and things not yet born
for s/he has only known death
GaB
GAB
[Dwindlings}
the cams and mainsprings of
Dick Bong
Jomo Kenyatta
when things went timewise
vestal virgin
banshees
too many snarls (drinks?)
Mayblossom
Why, they tell me a woman might be president
a sleek red convertible
brassiere
“Watch the shoes, that’s the tip-off.”
months fall off the calendar
the X buggers off
I lunged out of bed
[Dwindlings}
the cams and mainsprings of
Dick Bong
Jomo Kenyatta
when things went timewise
vestal virgin
banshees
too many snarls (drinks?)
Mayblossom
Why, they tell me a woman might be president
a sleek red convertible
brassiere
“Watch the shoes, that’s the tip-off.”
months fall off the calendar
the X buggers off
I lunged out of bed
Five Minutes of Pleasure, an Hour of Love
Five minutes of pleasure and An Hour of Love
For now
we males lamely pride ourselves
on underdeveloped breasts
and overgrown clitorises.
We are big-small
but mostly small,
breadwinners and pussy eaters
like confidence being the lack of confidence
For now
we males lamely pride ourselves
on underdeveloped breasts
and overgrown clitorises.
We are big-small
but mostly small,
breadwinners and pussy eaters
like confidence being the lack of confidence
Craise
Praise and criticism cancel like a like a swirlee.
Like perfect advice from everywhichway
flushed down the sexy hyperbolic
of my porcelain sarcophagus
with equal and opposite force they annihilate.
Like particle and antiparticle
into a swill of free deity
or the naked zero
(that which does not exist exists everywhere)
before vast spaces of positive and negative I am annihilated.
You would think that I care.
That maybe I should do what you praise
and not do what you condemn.
Surprisingly,
the shit of praise is slicked over
with the waste paper of critique.
The toilet hisses, tinkles, gurgles
like its possessed by hell.
I got my shit out.
No one has to love the smell.
Maybe I’ll shut the door.
Honey, next time I promise to put the seat down
but until then
I can give two shits.
I don’t have to care
any more than
you have to read,
but the difference is
I gotta get my shit out
and if I listened to you
I’d go dizzy with confusion.
There is only one man,
one humanity,
and that is me.
Cuz nothing gonna ride out
the lust of gravity and the grave.
Eventually we all gotta sit still.
We find the bottom of the whirlpool.
For we tumble toward the giant asshole in the sky.
The end at the center of the beginning
Like perfect advice from everywhichway
flushed down the sexy hyperbolic
of my porcelain sarcophagus
with equal and opposite force they annihilate.
Like particle and antiparticle
into a swill of free deity
or the naked zero
(that which does not exist exists everywhere)
before vast spaces of positive and negative I am annihilated.
You would think that I care.
That maybe I should do what you praise
and not do what you condemn.
Surprisingly,
the shit of praise is slicked over
with the waste paper of critique.
The toilet hisses, tinkles, gurgles
like its possessed by hell.
I got my shit out.
No one has to love the smell.
Maybe I’ll shut the door.
Honey, next time I promise to put the seat down
but until then
I can give two shits.
I don’t have to care
any more than
you have to read,
but the difference is
I gotta get my shit out
and if I listened to you
I’d go dizzy with confusion.
There is only one man,
one humanity,
and that is me.
Cuz nothing gonna ride out
the lust of gravity and the grave.
Eventually we all gotta sit still.
We find the bottom of the whirlpool.
For we tumble toward the giant asshole in the sky.
The end at the center of the beginning
Cash
I went from
living
with
my parents
to being a millionaire
and people still
treat me like shit
and I wouldn’t have
it
any other
way.
I could
be
on the streets
easy
without
the people
who love
me
so
We eloped
on April
Fools
Our wedding
rings cost
70 bucks
at Mal Wart.
I paid her back in July.
I think.
We moved
into a rental
in Denver
with no heat.
I’m at home
It’s 9 below
and when
it’s
a 105
I still
didn’t
need
made-up
air
I do not
want
fast cars
natty threads
bloated mansions
I don’t
want
any
it
I want time.
One can never have too much
love or knowledge
while those
who
have
enough love
or knowledge
say
you can never have enough
cash
I want time.
the in-laws
say I
don’t
work
even tho I wrote two
novels this summer.
I just want time for love and thought.
a license to be me
and nothing else.
Time to stare
thru
walls.
I can do it.
My cousin says she’s saved
cash
she doesn’t
know how to
spend.
Yea,
I say,
when you don’t
want
any thing,
to
have
and not
to
have
is the
same.
the
only
sin
in
America
is
to not
want
more.
I
live
like a dog
and love it.
living
with
my parents
to being a millionaire
and people still
treat me like shit
and I wouldn’t have
it
any other
way.
I could
be
on the streets
easy
without
the people
who love
me
so
We eloped
on April
Fools
Our wedding
rings cost
70 bucks
at Mal Wart.
I paid her back in July.
I think.
We moved
into a rental
in Denver
with no heat.
I’m at home
It’s 9 below
and when
it’s
a 105
I still
didn’t
need
made-up
air
I do not
want
fast cars
natty threads
bloated mansions
I don’t
want
any
it
I want time.
One can never have too much
love or knowledge
while those
who
have
enough love
or knowledge
say
you can never have enough
cash
I want time.
the in-laws
say I
don’t
work
even tho I wrote two
novels this summer.
I just want time for love and thought.
a license to be me
and nothing else.
Time to stare
thru
walls.
I can do it.
My cousin says she’s saved
cash
she doesn’t
know how to
spend.
Yea,
I say,
when you don’t
want
any thing,
to
have
and not
to
have
is the
same.
the
only
sin
in
America
is
to not
want
more.
I
live
like a dog
and love it.
Blessphemy
Like Jesus’ bone was Mary’s nine
Born hard
She did not have to lose hers
nor he his
It felt better than God
Born hard
She did not have to lose hers
nor he his
It felt better than God
Bananas
I could give two fucks about football.
Bananas, I love.
They are the reason we climbed into the trees,
and also the reason
we came down.
My first word,
nenal-nenal,
meant banana.
When you boil them
they taste like starchy potatoes
and go well with fish heads and coconut.
Fried, they are a crunchy sweetness;
nectar for the recently upright.
When blackened with time,
they are to be frozen then liquefied.
Of banananas,
food of brains,
I sing.
It is they I live for.
I cannot catch a ball
to save a life
but I am a born puncher
I listen to myself chew
I cry when I knock someone out
and remind myself I haven’t
come that far.
Bananas, I love.
They are the reason we climbed into the trees,
and also the reason
we came down.
My first word,
nenal-nenal,
meant banana.
When you boil them
they taste like starchy potatoes
and go well with fish heads and coconut.
Fried, they are a crunchy sweetness;
nectar for the recently upright.
When blackened with time,
they are to be frozen then liquefied.
Of banananas,
food of brains,
I sing.
It is they I live for.
I cannot catch a ball
to save a life
but I am a born puncher
I listen to myself chew
I cry when I knock someone out
and remind myself I haven’t
come that far.
Bad Reference
Bad Reference
by Link
Well there was
a
drunk night
when
I tried to
steal wine & cheese
It was a crime of Passion.
Well we’ll have
to give you
a call
tomorrow
to tell you
to not bother
coming in for your
second interview.
also, I left
my references
on the couch
me and
my pregnant
wife
borrow
at someone’s
house.
Tough break.
If I can’t get
some penny-annie
job
over a
petty crime
I have no choice.
I have to beg or stop being
petty
by Link
Well there was
a
drunk night
when
I tried to
steal wine & cheese
It was a crime of Passion.
Well we’ll have
to give you
a call
tomorrow
to tell you
to not bother
coming in for your
second interview.
also, I left
my references
on the couch
me and
my pregnant
wife
borrow
at someone’s
house.
Tough break.
If I can’t get
some penny-annie
job
over a
petty crime
I have no choice.
I have to beg or stop being
petty
Alone (in the crowd)
Alone (in the Crowd) link
Chicago
was like so many towns
strung together into rooms
with loners behind walls
that are like so many walls.
Love is at a specified place and time,
or auntie June at a summer reunion
at a picnic table under the sun,
but loneliness is anywhere,
like ubiquity or the void,
and beyond time.
Love and loneliness in this space called Chicago.
The town was grey like graves,
and cold,
windy when cold,
and grey like busy death.
I missed the skin of it:
I tasted the food but not the best food,
I saw books but not the famous ones,
got drunk on cheap wine and loved people I’ll never love again.
Else I walked the streets and talked to no one.
I bet you missed it too,
and why not?
Beauty fills the eye
and converses with the mind
and is forgotten like a perfect stranger.
Chicago is just another building in Paris.
The world is outside
and the universe has heartburn, dementia, and dysentery and is trapped in this cubbyhole.
I am just on the other side of that wall. .
I am my antonym.
I am paranoid like God, and jealous.
I’ll defile myself in a rash of murder and grace.
I am walled in and therefore everywhere,
and I was God until you interrupted me.
Can you see it yet,
that even in the smallest darkness there is confined infinity?
Can you not see that to be alone is to be God and that God is alone?
The hotel costs 59 a night.
Chicago
was like so many towns
strung together into rooms
with loners behind walls
that are like so many walls.
Love is at a specified place and time,
or auntie June at a summer reunion
at a picnic table under the sun,
but loneliness is anywhere,
like ubiquity or the void,
and beyond time.
Love and loneliness in this space called Chicago.
The town was grey like graves,
and cold,
windy when cold,
and grey like busy death.
I missed the skin of it:
I tasted the food but not the best food,
I saw books but not the famous ones,
got drunk on cheap wine and loved people I’ll never love again.
Else I walked the streets and talked to no one.
I bet you missed it too,
and why not?
Beauty fills the eye
and converses with the mind
and is forgotten like a perfect stranger.
Chicago is just another building in Paris.
The world is outside
and the universe has heartburn, dementia, and dysentery and is trapped in this cubbyhole.
I am just on the other side of that wall. .
I am my antonym.
I am paranoid like God, and jealous.
I’ll defile myself in a rash of murder and grace.
I am walled in and therefore everywhere,
and I was God until you interrupted me.
Can you see it yet,
that even in the smallest darkness there is confined infinity?
Can you not see that to be alone is to be God and that God is alone?
The hotel costs 59 a night.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
The Ontological Proof for the Existence of Love
Love
, if it is possible,
must be
, and thus the true lover
is loved in every possible reality
, and in every possible way.
When she leaves
the room
I become an atheist.
But I tell you:
She is my proof
for the existence
of God.
My full
body
orgasm
I use her name in vain.
, if it is possible,
must be
, and thus the true lover
is loved in every possible reality
, and in every possible way.
When she leaves
the room
I become an atheist.
But I tell you:
She is my proof
for the existence
of God.
My full
body
orgasm
I use her name in vain.
Space
No such two feet of cold polite dark air between them.
The bar let out.
The drink is up.
They stand there in the street
Nose to nose
like lovers or fighters
The bar let out.
The drink is up.
They stand there in the street
Nose to nose
like lovers or fighters
She is the Maven of my Ways
Two Lovers
Trace
Eachother’s Backs
as
light
as
clouds
touching
earth
with
shadows.
Though fingers sync,
neither leads
both go where need goes
Only the Correlation is real
Both the lines separating things
and things
Are False.
Entanglement between two nothings
Trace
Eachother’s Backs
as
light
as
clouds
touching
earth
with
shadows.
Though fingers sync,
neither leads
both go where need goes
Only the Correlation is real
Both the lines separating things
and things
Are False.
Entanglement between two nothings
Santa or God
People say they go to war over God
But they really go over Santa
More people have died in the name of Santa than
in the names of God
I do not believe
in Santa
and disdain anyone who does
even if they are children
only in mind
Why should I care
which
imaginary being
that fools
believe in
He has given me
a reason
to fight
for
my
ideas
But they really go over Santa
More people have died in the name of Santa than
in the names of God
I do not believe
in Santa
and disdain anyone who does
even if they are children
only in mind
Why should I care
which
imaginary being
that fools
believe in
He has given me
a reason
to fight
for
my
ideas
On How Information Cannot Decrease In the Universe
I told my wife on the way to the bar.
You either got it or you don’t.
Some people believe in God,
Country, and Family
but baby you are
my god, country
and fam…
But if I don’t write I die
or maybe kill
even if
I kill
me
God died
about
the
same time
romance,
crushes,
broken hearts,
died
in
ontology
and
phylogeny
And I
died
with
my
idea
for-
get-
ting
to
si-
ng
You either got it or you don’t.
Some people believe in God,
Country, and Family
but baby you are
my god, country
and fam…
But if I don’t write I die
or maybe kill
even if
I kill
me
God died
about
the
same time
romance,
crushes,
broken hearts,
died
in
ontology
and
phylogeny
And I
died
with
my
idea
for-
get-
ting
to
si-
ng
Of Me
Of Me by Me
After the punks
the metal heads
then grunge
then I lost track
of
who
was
doing
the
rejecting
After the punks
the metal heads
then grunge
then I lost track
of
who
was
doing
the
rejecting
Neurogenesis
The smell of rat
piss
will expand the mind
of girls.
Sex smells the same.
But I am no vermin
with a snooter
or dominant schnoz
roaming waves
of compressed
sex
tucked up in the armpit
of some turbulent
sigh.
I quit smoking and now all I smell is pollution and body odor.
All I smell is my brain growing again.
I smell like shit.
This only means I haven’t lost my mind.
piss
will expand the mind
of girls.
Sex smells the same.
But I am no vermin
with a snooter
or dominant schnoz
roaming waves
of compressed
sex
tucked up in the armpit
of some turbulent
sigh.
I quit smoking and now all I smell is pollution and body odor.
All I smell is my brain growing again.
I smell like shit.
This only means I haven’t lost my mind.
Not a Pervert but not a Poet either
She merely has the face of a model
and the body of God
the enterprise of happiness
has tacked a smile
on her whereabouts
and posed a
lightness
on her wandering feet
the muse
entreats
to cut in
on her
dance
with the wind
and the sea
but she
denies
and tells the stranger from a faraway land how she had toppled the Colossus of Rhodes with a glance
a very long time ago
for she does not
turn you to stone
she turns you to putty
You see,
I am not a poet
nor a pervert
just a guy
from
where hell
is supposed to
be
staring
off into a dusty sea
and forgetting
the decency
of silence
and unable to
find ugliness
in the world
I cry out
beauty
and the body of God
the enterprise of happiness
has tacked a smile
on her whereabouts
and posed a
lightness
on her wandering feet
the muse
entreats
to cut in
on her
dance
with the wind
and the sea
but she
denies
and tells the stranger from a faraway land how she had toppled the Colossus of Rhodes with a glance
a very long time ago
for she does not
turn you to stone
she turns you to putty
You see,
I am not a poet
nor a pervert
just a guy
from
where hell
is supposed to
be
staring
off into a dusty sea
and forgetting
the decency
of silence
and unable to
find ugliness
in the world
I cry out
beauty
Looking for Pussy
My wife is going to divorce me
she is going to kill me then she is going to divorce me
You think this is allegory
this happened
They wanna
talk about confessional poetry
Well…here she blows
Yesterday she told me she hated me
because I screamed in horror when
she rolled onto one of my books
I also slapped her on the back.
After that, who cares if I called her a bitch in jest?
She feels I am cheating
on her
when I read,
write or masturbate.
You see:
virginity
I was 27
before I got
bagged by a whore
When my penis
had her out-of-body
experience
and lost her
mass/energy
body/soul
particle/wave
I mean:
I couldn’t wake the dead and scared
rather:
There was a limp laughter
in my bed
On the other hand:
my wife despises me
because I took
her virginity.
She says I make her feel dirty.
Anyway my wife
is
off at work
when
I hear a scream.
I am undressed,
and outside,
it is sunny and cold.
For weeks my cat
Ding has refused to come in.
She has lost weight.
I sometimes find her on the roof
meowing at me passionately,
strangely distant.
I am undressed
and I step into the cold sun.
I round the bend and my cat is getting laid.
She screams.
She is mad because I scare her lover off,
and I am jealous because
she is making love.
And like they say:
when the cats away
the pussy will play.
I get dressed
I take a nap
I wake
Then it dawns on me:
I left the door open.
My wife’s cat
is an indoor
cat who’s
never been
outside.
Not anymore.
I search the house
twice over.
all 4000 feet
I go outside.
For three blocks in every direction,
For three hours,
I policed shrubs
porches
under RV’s
alleys
The neighbors see me coming to their door
and would be like
Who is this head case?
hair looking like a grease fire
and stammering
because I seldom finish sentences
[that’s why I write]
I said:
Stark White Cat Lost, Potential Ex-Wife going to trash husband
but I really said…
and scared kids
and saw only two cats [in the alley]
Nothing I do seems to come out right; 1
wherever I go I get pushed around.
I walk the muddy road and my footsteps
falter;
I sit with the other villagers and my
stomach aches with hunger
Since I lost the brindle cat,
the rats come right up and peer into
the pot
A cat, 10
a native of Saturn,
crosses the wall and vanishes
in the pages of a book.
Grass turns to night,
night turns to sand,
sand turns to water
Ah, Pussy, of the Sand, 17
The Hopes so juicy ripening -
You almost bathed your Tongue - D
and after speaking to no one, 20
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.
Not that the cats are puppets. 25
Far from it.
They are living, breathing creatures,
and when any other being is contacted,
it is sad:
because you see the limitations,
the pain and fear and the final death.
That is what contact means.
That is what I see when I touch a cat
and find that tears are flowing down my face
Now Dogs pretend they like to fight; 35
They often bark, more seldom bite;
But yet a Dog is, on the whole,
What you would call a simple soul
Self-reliant like the cat-- 39
that takes its prey to privacy
And so we saw 41
And we conquered
And we came,
While the black cat watched
Turned dead white! 45
Boogie-woogie,
Rolling bass,
Whirling treble
of cat-gut lace
And like a Rocky Mountain cat 50
Making all spheres stink!
Yet at his death, O Lord,
May some prayer rise up!
And so after three
long
cotton mouthed
ours
I searched the house
again.
I found pussy
in the closet
she was
there at home
all the time.
Waiting.
This is what
love
is.
{The numbered stanza was plagiarized from the following: 1-9 Han Shan; 10-16 Octavio Paz; 17-19 Emily Dickenson; 20-24 Pablo Neruda; 25-34 William S Burroughs; 35-38 TS Eliot; 39-40 Marianne Moore; 41-44 Rachel Swiss; 45-49 Langston Hughes; 50-53 Rimbaud}
she is going to kill me then she is going to divorce me
You think this is allegory
this happened
They wanna
talk about confessional poetry
Well…here she blows
Yesterday she told me she hated me
because I screamed in horror when
she rolled onto one of my books
I also slapped her on the back.
After that, who cares if I called her a bitch in jest?
She feels I am cheating
on her
when I read,
write or masturbate.
You see:
virginity
I was 27
before I got
bagged by a whore
When my penis
had her out-of-body
experience
and lost her
mass/energy
body/soul
particle/wave
I mean:
I couldn’t wake the dead and scared
rather:
There was a limp laughter
in my bed
On the other hand:
my wife despises me
because I took
her virginity.
She says I make her feel dirty.
Anyway my wife
is
off at work
when
I hear a scream.
I am undressed,
and outside,
it is sunny and cold.
For weeks my cat
Ding has refused to come in.
She has lost weight.
I sometimes find her on the roof
meowing at me passionately,
strangely distant.
I am undressed
and I step into the cold sun.
I round the bend and my cat is getting laid.
She screams.
She is mad because I scare her lover off,
and I am jealous because
she is making love.
And like they say:
when the cats away
the pussy will play.
I get dressed
I take a nap
I wake
Then it dawns on me:
I left the door open.
My wife’s cat
is an indoor
cat who’s
never been
outside.
Not anymore.
I search the house
twice over.
all 4000 feet
I go outside.
For three blocks in every direction,
For three hours,
I policed shrubs
porches
under RV’s
alleys
The neighbors see me coming to their door
and would be like
Who is this head case?
hair looking like a grease fire
and stammering
because I seldom finish sentences
[that’s why I write]
I said:
Stark White Cat Lost, Potential Ex-Wife going to trash husband
but I really said…
and scared kids
and saw only two cats [in the alley]
Nothing I do seems to come out right; 1
wherever I go I get pushed around.
I walk the muddy road and my footsteps
falter;
I sit with the other villagers and my
stomach aches with hunger
Since I lost the brindle cat,
the rats come right up and peer into
the pot
A cat, 10
a native of Saturn,
crosses the wall and vanishes
in the pages of a book.
Grass turns to night,
night turns to sand,
sand turns to water
Ah, Pussy, of the Sand, 17
The Hopes so juicy ripening -
You almost bathed your Tongue - D
and after speaking to no one, 20
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.
Not that the cats are puppets. 25
Far from it.
They are living, breathing creatures,
and when any other being is contacted,
it is sad:
because you see the limitations,
the pain and fear and the final death.
That is what contact means.
That is what I see when I touch a cat
and find that tears are flowing down my face
Now Dogs pretend they like to fight; 35
They often bark, more seldom bite;
But yet a Dog is, on the whole,
What you would call a simple soul
Self-reliant like the cat-- 39
that takes its prey to privacy
And so we saw 41
And we conquered
And we came,
While the black cat watched
Turned dead white! 45
Boogie-woogie,
Rolling bass,
Whirling treble
of cat-gut lace
And like a Rocky Mountain cat 50
Making all spheres stink!
Yet at his death, O Lord,
May some prayer rise up!
And so after three
long
cotton mouthed
ours
I searched the house
again.
I found pussy
in the closet
she was
there at home
all the time.
Waiting.
This is what
love
is.
{The numbered stanza was plagiarized from the following: 1-9 Han Shan; 10-16 Octavio Paz; 17-19 Emily Dickenson; 20-24 Pablo Neruda; 25-34 William S Burroughs; 35-38 TS Eliot; 39-40 Marianne Moore; 41-44 Rachel Swiss; 45-49 Langston Hughes; 50-53 Rimbaud}
My Suicide Letter
Poetry is one long suicide
song
brief notes
that in the end could be
striped
of titles
and just slapped end
to end
and be one
long
sad song
except
friends and family
call
and freak
out every time
they read
one.
they think
this
sap
is done for
he’s
cashing in
you’re writing
and the door
rings
and you
answer
and it’s your
dad
and you say
Was it that good?
But they got it all wrong
you see
all wrong
it’s when you
don’t send
the song
when its
all too
wrong
because this is
when
the poet’s
happy
the only time
he’s happy
is when
he writes
his
suicide song
the rest
is for
being lame
like a soft cock
the poet is powerless
unless he is writing this
and the longest suicide notes produce the happiest and the best
silence kills
song
brief notes
that in the end could be
striped
of titles
and just slapped end
to end
and be one
long
sad song
except
friends and family
call
and freak
out every time
they read
one.
they think
this
sap
is done for
he’s
cashing in
you’re writing
and the door
rings
and you
answer
and it’s your
dad
and you say
Was it that good?
But they got it all wrong
you see
all wrong
it’s when you
don’t send
the song
when its
all too
wrong
because this is
when
the poet’s
happy
the only time
he’s happy
is when
he writes
his
suicide song
the rest
is for
being lame
like a soft cock
the poet is powerless
unless he is writing this
and the longest suicide notes produce the happiest and the best
silence kills
Lucretius or, lame poetry
Lucretius
or, lame poetry
I’m tired of poems that don’t mean anything
They are little more than a highly improbable
conjunction of words.
I’m also tired of belly-aching and heart aching
and headaches
Whatever happened to poetry and truth
or science that rhymes
a poem that
somehow gets across
a new thought
like
how the toilet swirls
because the earth spins
and
the galaxies spiral
because the universe rotates
like
Godel says
There is no time because there is time travel
Or maybe
likewise
there is no space because I travel in it
but more on that later
or not more
Poetry is lame.
Mine especially
I don’t know
enough math
to become a poet.
or, lame poetry
I’m tired of poems that don’t mean anything
They are little more than a highly improbable
conjunction of words.
I’m also tired of belly-aching and heart aching
and headaches
Whatever happened to poetry and truth
or science that rhymes
a poem that
somehow gets across
a new thought
like
how the toilet swirls
because the earth spins
and
the galaxies spiral
because the universe rotates
like
Godel says
There is no time because there is time travel
Or maybe
likewise
there is no space because I travel in it
but more on that later
or not more
Poetry is lame.
Mine especially
I don’t know
enough math
to become a poet.
Fucking Zen up
I was packing
my books
in the truck
and every one
fit snug
but not too snug,
you know
Then it dawned on me:
I left my notebook
at the bookstore
shit!!
Eight minutes til close
I hop in
I rev it up
I hug it up like a bitch
with hands in the 10 and 2 o’clock
I’ll never make it
and some cocksucker’ll nab
my sketch pad full of poems
Then try to publish them
and get ridiculed.
Never mind
I gun it
and hit ten green lights
and make a 20 minute
trip in 6
I sashay in
and the lights are off in the store
They confront me
and before long I
‘ve raised an army
of booksellers
combing
dark
bookstores.
We find nothing.
Then I remember
the scrape and the clank
on my way
to the
book store.
I almost get pulled
over by a cop
racing off
and my insurance expired yesterday
12 minutes later I
see her waving hi
in the street
No, not a hooker
better
My notebook
She’d slid off the roof
of the car
And there’s parking next
to the door
Sometimes Zen is fucking up Zen
or Dao
or Whatever
Yesterday I lost my wife’s keys.
my books
in the truck
and every one
fit snug
but not too snug,
you know
Then it dawned on me:
I left my notebook
at the bookstore
shit!!
Eight minutes til close
I hop in
I rev it up
I hug it up like a bitch
with hands in the 10 and 2 o’clock
I’ll never make it
and some cocksucker’ll nab
my sketch pad full of poems
Then try to publish them
and get ridiculed.
Never mind
I gun it
and hit ten green lights
and make a 20 minute
trip in 6
I sashay in
and the lights are off in the store
They confront me
and before long I
‘ve raised an army
of booksellers
combing
dark
bookstores.
We find nothing.
Then I remember
the scrape and the clank
on my way
to the
book store.
I almost get pulled
over by a cop
racing off
and my insurance expired yesterday
12 minutes later I
see her waving hi
in the street
No, not a hooker
better
My notebook
She’d slid off the roof
of the car
And there’s parking next
to the door
Sometimes Zen is fucking up Zen
or Dao
or Whatever
Yesterday I lost my wife’s keys.
DUMB PEOPLE; or Avicenna’s Coccyx
If I had to make
a choice
between being dumb
and being ignorant
I would call myself dumb.
Let’s face it
Both know
they don’t know
Avicenna said it,
that the highest among us
know what they
do not
know
And there is a whole lot of
shit not to know
Except:
The Ignorant
are at
peace with
ignorance
and take pride in calling
themselves ignorant.
The Dumb above all
hate themselves
and are going to
make you bleed
when you call them dumb.
The Ignorant know what
they know
and know things.
The Dumb do not know what
they know
and invent things.
The Ignorant are always right
And the Dummy is always wrong.
Ignorance is wealthy
And Dumb is poor.
The Ignorant ignore ignorance
but the dumbness
of a dumb man
eats him up
from within
like
Flesh eating bacteria
AIDS
and Leprosy.
The Ignorant are neutered
while the Dumb
have balls bigger
than any brain
or maybe
all brains
put
together.
Ignorance is staying in
at night
because of danger
Dumb is running headlong
into fire
so it
can burn longer.
Ignorance is trying
to match your clothes
according to arbitrary rules
Dumb is grabbing the
first shirt on the floor
and wearing yesterday’s pants
according to arbitrary rules.
Ignorance is thinking
you actually cleaned the bathroom
Dumb is realizing
the back of your pants
are wet
because you didn’t
tuck it in
while you were taking a shit
an hour earlier.
Ignorance is tailgating
so you can get home
and watch an extra
thirty seconds of commercials on TV
Dumb speeds up fast
so it can slow down fast
or wreck
between lights.
Ignorance doesn’t
eat meat
because ‘plants aren’t alive’
Dumb is
not eating your vegetables.
Ignorance is
the master
of ignorance
and Dumb fucks up
even dumb.
One is not better than the other
And they’re both going
to
succeed at knowing nothing.
And maybe it is true
what I heard the old man say
at the store:
The less I know
The better off
I am
But man is the thinking weed.
Considering how limited we are
and how limitless knowledge is,
We have only one real choice:
Are we going to be Ignorant
Or Dumb?
I,
I hate to say,
am mostly fucking dumb.
Dumb like a scab
or the ass of a philosopher.
a choice
between being dumb
and being ignorant
I would call myself dumb.
Let’s face it
Both know
they don’t know
Avicenna said it,
that the highest among us
know what they
do not
know
And there is a whole lot of
shit not to know
Except:
The Ignorant
are at
peace with
ignorance
and take pride in calling
themselves ignorant.
The Dumb above all
hate themselves
and are going to
make you bleed
when you call them dumb.
The Ignorant know what
they know
and know things.
The Dumb do not know what
they know
and invent things.
The Ignorant are always right
And the Dummy is always wrong.
Ignorance is wealthy
And Dumb is poor.
The Ignorant ignore ignorance
but the dumbness
of a dumb man
eats him up
from within
like
Flesh eating bacteria
AIDS
and Leprosy.
The Ignorant are neutered
while the Dumb
have balls bigger
than any brain
or maybe
all brains
put
together.
Ignorance is staying in
at night
because of danger
Dumb is running headlong
into fire
so it
can burn longer.
Ignorance is trying
to match your clothes
according to arbitrary rules
Dumb is grabbing the
first shirt on the floor
and wearing yesterday’s pants
according to arbitrary rules.
Ignorance is thinking
you actually cleaned the bathroom
Dumb is realizing
the back of your pants
are wet
because you didn’t
tuck it in
while you were taking a shit
an hour earlier.
Ignorance is tailgating
so you can get home
and watch an extra
thirty seconds of commercials on TV
Dumb speeds up fast
so it can slow down fast
or wreck
between lights.
Ignorance doesn’t
eat meat
because ‘plants aren’t alive’
Dumb is
not eating your vegetables.
Ignorance is
the master
of ignorance
and Dumb fucks up
even dumb.
One is not better than the other
And they’re both going
to
succeed at knowing nothing.
And maybe it is true
what I heard the old man say
at the store:
The less I know
The better off
I am
But man is the thinking weed.
Considering how limited we are
and how limitless knowledge is,
We have only one real choice:
Are we going to be Ignorant
Or Dumb?
I,
I hate to say,
am mostly fucking dumb.
Dumb like a scab
or the ass of a philosopher.
Borges Must Die
I saw Jorge in the
I didn’t see him
I told the cop
I didn’t tell
He ran out in traffic
He didn’t run
He was blind
He barely walked
2 am
Empty Streets
I ran him over
I ran away
I killed Borges
He looked ashamed to die
He was too ugly to die
He was born for immortality
I saw Borges in the rearview mirror
I saw him in my back seat
I see him wherever I go
I didn’t see him
I told the cop
I didn’t tell
He ran out in traffic
He didn’t run
He was blind
He barely walked
2 am
Empty Streets
I ran him over
I ran away
I killed Borges
He looked ashamed to die
He was too ugly to die
He was born for immortality
I saw Borges in the rearview mirror
I saw him in my back seat
I see him wherever I go
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)