Monday, December 21, 2009

born into a bedpan

i wonder
if anyone
was ever
born
out of
the asshole

you know
one of those
freak things

a bizarre tale
but true
nevertheless

even if it's
never occured
in the history
of the world

perhaps there
are some that feel
like they were
born this way

i wonder if anyone
besides me
is thinking of this
right now

surely i can't
be the only
one

well maybe not so good

i can
feel
it
shifting

if
i
really
quiet
myself

this hour
week
month
year

these people
these places

shifting
slower
than
smoke
dissolving
in
a
room
on
a
sunday
morning

this
marvelous
gravy
of
the
present

turning
into
the
proverbial
"good
old
days"

Sunday, December 20, 2009

FYI: I Am Lonely All The Time

The other
night
someone
told me
to
dream
sweet,

and later
in bed
I dreamed
of swarms
of
horseflies
and
snakes.

That's
me
in
a
fucking
nutshell:

my soul
thriving
upon
the
flip-side
of
things,

the
gears
within
performing
a
sadistic
masochistic
switch
of what
is
asked
of
me,

so please
forgive
my
not
answering,

forgive
my
absences.

I'd
surely
perish
without
my
empty
spaces.

Saturday, December 19, 2009

neither death nor life

people always
complain
to
me
about
writer's block

& i don't understand
this phenomenon

a while back
a good friend gave me this
old typewriter

which i don't actually write on
but one night when i was drunk
i put a skull
that i use as a paperweight
on top of it

resting where
the blank page would be
the empty sockets
stared back at me
the jaw hovering
over the tiers of keys

maybe they wouldn't be
stumped for poems
if this skinless head
greeted them
before
they
wrote

but no, they neither
see death
nor
life

philosophical thoughts while smoking in a blizzard

i walked out
to have
a cigarette

in the flood light's
wide beam
the night air
was filled w/swirling
crystals

they were tapping
upon the surface
of my jacket
&
the peak
of my baseball cap

it looked
& felt
like electricity
was all around

charged particles
much like
the ones
we are made
of

like the ones
inside
of
us

i realized
more than ever
the inner
&
the outer
are
no
different

everything
is
identical

my visible
curls of breath
&
the smoke
i exhaled
the
same

when this
jar-like
body
finally
smashes
open
one day

it'll be
dancing
everywhere

Friday, December 11, 2009

graffiti between a nightmare & a wet dream

i wish
i could
tear myself
open
&
graffiti
my
own
organs

in hissing
black spray paint
write:
'fuck love'
upon
my
heart

'drink up,
sons-of-bitches'
on
my liver

'keep yr
ashtray full'
on my
lungs

'why budge?'
on
my
brain

'the soul
is
bullshit'
on
my
colon

but
instead
i
graffiti
these
outer
pages

which'll
definitely
outlast
my
innards

but not
really

this
whole
universe
is
something
between
a
nightmare
&
a
wet dream

unsubstantial
as
god

Friday, December 4, 2009

like the tar from one thousand cigars (dedicated to wolfgang)

i once was a young man w/death coolly dangling
from my mouth like a marlboro

now i am somewhere in the middle
& the thoughts of dying men
have permanently invaded my shape
like tar from one thousand cigars

& one day i will finally become what possessed
me my whole life through: an expired man

someone asked me the other day what poetry
was & i failed to answer them
but i will right now:

it's brailling
yr own urn

it's licking yr fingertips
& dipping them
inside & tasting
yr own ashes

it's the silt of
yr skeleton
on the tip
of yr tongue

don juan of melancholia

i realize
while
humbly
drinking
yesterday's
flat beer

that
i am
not
beyond
hurt
yet

in fact
it's quite
the
opposite

like my so-called
"achilles heel"
metastasized
like cancer
& made my
entire shape
a target
every cell
a bull's eye

every hour
contains
60
arrows

everything
stabs
me
these
days:

two sunnyside
eggs
popping
in the
frying pan

the crunching
noise
that occurs
while buttering
toast

the cat
stalking
sparrows

the recycling pail
overflowing
w/empties

a bloated
cigarette
floating in
a rain-filled
ashtray on
the bench
outside
my door

every
exhalation
i
make
in
the
dark

love
& lack
of
it
This blog is updated irregularly and has nothing to do with the poet's output. The poet is actually disturbingly prolific. He writes about 5 poems per day. The pages are everywhere, even stacked in the bathtub.