The Cuff of Doom

Sitting on the ledge
of the doctor's table
fidgeting, the new white
patient's paper cover
crinkling beneath my jeans
the doctor finally comes in
to take my blood pressure
she pumps the black ball
the cuff tightening around
the sweaty hinge of my arm
her face gets serious
Is it bad? I ask
after she deflates her cuff of doom
It's elevated, she says
Are you nervous? she asks
I feel my heart in my throat, I say
I haven't been here in ten years, I add
Okay, I'll go check on someone else
and be hack in about ten minutes to
take another reading, she says
Think calm thoughts, she says
then she closes the door
to the horrible little pink room
my pulse slows down finally
as I stare at a jar of cotton balls
& allow my mind to drift back
twenty-five years ago,
to my two favorite cousins
Petey Boy and Benny
the way they used to bring us
smaller kids out on the lawn
at dusk in the summertime
how they'd set up a semi circle
of old wooden folding chairs
how we'd sit on our legs waiting
the two of them facing us in the center
fireflies flashing in the air around us
& the steady repetition of crickets
then they'd start retelling their
favorite Twilight Zone episodes
they'd team-tell each tale
trading off on details and dialogue
I remember I'd forget everything else:
about school the next day, my dog
my friends, my father and mother
I'd lean on the edge of my chair
waiting for the next scene to unfold
my favorite episode was the one about
the camera that took pictures of the future
my cousins would love to watch
our faces as they retold the mysterious
twist of the last scene
That's why we do it Benny, Petey Boy would say
pointing at my wide-eyed face with
my knees pulled up to my chin
For expressions like that, he'd laugh
then after that Benny would play the guitar
& they'd harmonize Beatles' songs
moving from one song into another
in the thick summertime night
even back then my favorite was "Yesterday"
then afterward, I always felt sad and quiet
in the shadowy backseat on the long drive home
like I had left something behind
Fade. . .
the door swings open
once again the doctor pumps up
the cuff of doom
& we both wait
I keep looking at her face
her mouth scrunches up to one side
like she's almost disappointed at the drop
You were just anxious, she says
It's a lot better than the first reading, she says
But I'd like to keep an eye on it, she adds
as the cuff shrinks back down, defeated

1st draft is kingpin

the
1st draft
is kingpin

revisions
remove
the knobs
of the poem's
spine
1
by
1

you
dont
practice:
weeping
puking
shitting
bleeding

so
ditto
for
the
fucking
poem

of
course
if the poem
doesnt come
from deep
inside of
you

if
the poem
is merely a
game of the brain

ignore
all this
shit

license for the blues

there is always someone
clutching the edge of a table
dizzy from being so alone
in need for another set of legs
to keep them from falling down

there is always someone returning
to a place they shared w/another
a little cafe-turned-cemetery
& standing there speechless
while the great teeth of change
grind in their ears

there is always someone
who'd be willing
to pay somebody just to say
goodnight to them
as they reluctantly recline
on the old mattress
insomnia creeping up their shape
starting w/the cold toes

there is always someone
who dreads sunrises
more than a three a.m. phone call
announcing someone else's death
the yellow disc like a circular saw blade
buzzing for their neck

there is always someone
collapsed in a cab
the wheels turning & turning
& them mumbling to the driver
"any address, any address
except for home"

one for the lost

the critics will
never take
this knife away

this blade w/which
i carve
these things

some call them poems
i'm not sure
what they are

& it doesn't matter
the label
b/c they seem
to save some
of those who are lost
or foaming at the mouth
or so alone
they get vertigo
etc...

the critics
will never take
this blade
from my hands
never get me
to quit carving

b/c for all
their sloppiness
for all their
lack of technique
these poems seem
to save a little

& that's enough for
my hand to never
let go of this knife

stagger & type

between a suicidal
exuberance
& a loneliness that brings
about insane dizzy spells
where i must clutch
the edge of a table
to keep myself up
i stagger along
this fucked-up tightrope
towards that big fat Zero
somehow finding time
to type some things
that may make yr madness
& my own pause
& leave us be... 

why the motherfucking poems are made

poems aren't made for saying, Hello

poems are made for screaming, Fuck you!

poems aren't made for saying, I love you

poems are made for screaming, Notice the still-open eyes of that roadkill!

poems aren't made for saying, How's the weather?

poems are made for screaming, An ice storm is approaching in my sou!l

poems aren't made for saying, Beauty is truth

poems are made for screaming, Ugliness is King!

poems aren't made for saying, How are you?

poems are made for screaming, We're all doomed no matter what!

poems aren't made for saying, Ah, home sweet home

poems are made for screaming, We're so full of Lostness our tongues float in it!

living in the ether, dying in the ether

living in the ether
dying in the ether
being a drunken asshole in the ether
blacking out in the ether
banging the typewriter in the ether
fucking in the ether
frying eggs & sausage in the ether
battling blood sucking hangovers in the ether
contemplating suicide in the ether
loving someone until there's only hate left in the ether
cursing birth in the ether
staring at legs in the ether
jamming hands into empty pockets in the ether
chain-smoking cigarettes in the ether
melancholic in the ether
nothing but a walking orphan in the ether

eventually

eventually
the
roses
become
a
bouquet
of
butcher
knives

edges
endlessly
sharp

tips
pointing
forever

coffin nails for everybody

i lit a cigarette while waiting for the train
& a man standing there said,
"i quit smoking those coffin nails years ago"
& i looked at him in his wool overcoat
& his beady eyes behind wire frames
& his perfectly parted hair
& his smooth cheeks
w/the financial section of the paper
tucked beneath his arm
& i wanted to scream,
"i see the nails of the coffin everywhere!"
coffin nails holding up the barber shop
coffin nails keeping the bank together
coffin nails in the hem of long coats
coffin nails in the beams & sheet-rock
of the long rows of houses
coffin nails pinning the cribs together
coffin nails riveting the automobiles together
coffin nails hammered into everything, everywhere
especially love, especially fucking love

this business no-one sees

right now i am just a very still body
really mostly a bunch of involuntary movements
everything at work at the cellular level & not much more
as i sit quietly w/my elbows pressing down upon this rickety card table
my temples cupped in my hands like someone
who's a master at emptying their mind
tossing out the clutter, the brutal baggage
& if you looked at the way my eyelids are closed
you might even think all is well w/me
no, you wouldn't think i am a man being torn apart by tigers
you wouldn't think that about me by the way my legs are crossed
& outstretched in faded jeans
ending at old, black thrift store shoes
loosely laced & calm
no, you wouldn't think that one of the tigers was busy pulling my guts out
& another has what little is left of my Love in its belly
would you?
this business no-one sees
this business that is just my own
repeated daily
if you didn't know
but i go on
i take up my my guts, shortened, tooth-marked & return them to w/in
& finally after reaching down one of the tiger's throats i lift out my Love
it's a little more dissolved by the tiger acid but i hold on to what is left
i'll die performing this task
saving my guts, rescuing my Love
even if there is nothing to fight
even if there is no one to give it to

in this orphan-hood

we are all orphans, in a way
some feel it more than others
& sometimes if we're lucky
we find somebody else
who makes being an orphan
not such a lonely thing
yes, sometimes we find somebody
who makes this orphan-hood not quite so bad
& you both run hand-in-hand through
the wilderness of space even
if it's only for a little while

even tho stuffed w/blood

we are all puppets
in a way

stuffed w/blood
& guts

but still puppets
nonetheless

manipulated upon
this fucked stage

until the final curtains
come back together
& it is night

3 a.m. inventory

he has a belt fixed w/a loop
that'd fit around a human neck
upon the coffee table
he has a long folding razor
upon the desk resting on a stack of books
he has a bottle of pills in the medicine cabinet
next to the deodorant
& in the kitchen is the gas oven, of course
every room contains a different method
except the bedroom that is the torture chamber
then there is the mattress
that keeps him awake till dawn
the four walls of isolation, of waiting, of no answers
& the twisted sheet like a straight jacket

THERE'S A FIST DUNKED IN BLOOD BEATING IN MY CHEST (EPIC RITES PRESS 2010) BY ROB PLATH NEW RELEASE.

"It is extremely difficult to write poetry about Love without sounding cliché. The great poets over the years have all covered the topic of love so meticulously there is little room left for originality yet with Rob’s second full collection, THERE’S A FIST DUNKED IN BLOOD BEATING IN MY CHEST, Plath found a way to carve out a masterpiece unlike anything you will have read before." - Casey Quinn, author


There’s A Fist Dunked In Blood Beating In My Chest
by Rob Plath

179 pages
$15.50 + $4.50 shipping
Epic Rites Press


love

this product may cause one or more of the following: dry mouth, grinding of the teeth, abdominal cramps, peptic ulcers, diarrhea, vomiting, loss of appetite, loss of personal hygiene, loss of simple motor skills, loss of financial freedom, loss of material possessions, loss of job, loss of friends, loss of family, loss of vision, loss of self, lethargy, blank staring, insomnia, jaundice, disintegration of the vertebrae, testicular shrinkage, hypersensitivity, extended bouts of weeping, wheezing, chain-smoking, excessive use of alcohol or other recreational drugs, driving while intoxicated, walking while intoxicated, continuous use of inappropriate language such as “bitch” & “whore,” angina, aggravated hypertension, internal bleeding, bone pain, confusion, disorientation, migraines, swelling of the brain stem, anxiety, paranoia, hysteria, domestic violence, racism, war, & hatred for all humanity.

- Rob Plath, from "There's A Fist Dunked In Blood Beating In My Chest"


“In the war over the heart and soul of modern poetry, Rob Plath will be the last man standing.” - John Yamrus, American author


“Read Rob Plath at your own risk. His words will stick behind your eyes. His heart may even expose a shadow you've kept hidden from yourself.” - Dan Fante, American author


“Plath is a merciless poet. He is not afraid of drawing blood, even his own. He will blow psychic holes in your being. He will leave you wounded.” – Todd Moore, American author


“Rob Plath’s poetry does what powerful writing should, mercilessly exploring the human condition in all its horror and banality. He journeys to the dark parts of the soul not talked about in polite company. He takes his readers along, refusing to let them look away.” – William Taylor Jr, American author


If “A Bellyful Of Anarchy” was Plath’s monster, then “There’s A Fist Dunked In Blood Beating In My Chest” is the monstrous bride of the creature. Eighty-two new poems by Plath are presented in this volume, with an additional six poems riding shotgun in the footer of every page.


An autopsy of the creature would reveal the following contents:

• sandwiched between lust & loss • to hell w/all the so-called cities of love • two cigarettes in the dark • fifteen hundred days & she was still a stranger to me • although it can be torn to shreds • sitting in the bar i see lovers racing to their doom • fuck you, gravity, you bitch • Cupid has made us all into junkies of love • love • do you remember Ithaca • the faith healers • this dark dance of replication • the hunger of endings • six feet eight inches & still lost • a pinch of sand in the hourglass • as the sharks forever swim through my cigarette smoke • for now i wait w/the worms • dear l. • as if it wasn’t crowded enough • this takes guts • brief letter from a cheating ex • honeycomb of pain • i don’t think she ever knew it • as the blade floats in the air punch the keys • only problem was • instead of a love poem • other ways to get inside • the monster in the fog at 5 a.m. • what my mother was dreaming while anesthetized in order to get her left hip replaced • daydreaming about wild childhood backyards • the simplest fucking story • the sun doesn’t stop • always on the verge • & the lint trap is full • Don Juan of melancholia • pessimist’s love song • getting the black ants of despair shit-faced • to the whore who relieved herself in my heart seven years ago • defeated & whistling for detachment • thirty-six, thinking about the night of my conception • maybe, just maybe • sewer blues • oozing doom • before the monsters came • beds & coffins • the unart of poetry • while the masses laugh holding the pin to yr hand grenade heart • how a poem should be • irretrievability • what on earth does this thing in my chest beat for? • hearts full of war paint • in-between love • just a mesh of disconnected lines • if you want to hemorrhage go right ahead • some hearts are wood chipper machines• that loveless peaceful shape • arranged marriage to the void• dance in yr meat threads while you can • if shared enough, all beds gather bad karma • double-fisting w/Li Po • eating alone w/ghosts • he died before i was born but i am told i am the spitting image of him • quit pretending that the end is merely a dream • hope doesn’t dream here anymore • year after year • i cringe in shapes besides my own • the real goddamn battle • forget flowers, knives make better bookmarks • waiting it out • my goal • waiting in the brilliant dust • i just want to look at the winter stars • Bukowski’s wish • one for Li Po • seven characters in non-pursuit of an entrance • moving again down here on earth • for some hearts just these two factors alone are enough • a good night • tonight i imagine the dead lonesome • sitting alone in thinned-out rooms • 12 a.m. epiphany • skin magicians



Order your copy of "There's A Fist Dunked In Blood Beating In My Chest" at http://www.epicrites.org/theres-a-fist-dunked-in-blood-beating-in-my-chest.html.

Copies won't reach the Small Press Distribution warehouse until mid-November but read the press release at the sales page here: http://www.spdbooks.org/Producte/9781926860022/theres-a-fist-dunked-in-blood-beating-in-my-chest.aspx?rf=1


There is a light that never goes out
A review of Rob Plath’s "there’s a fist dunked in blood beating in my chest"
by Zack Wilson

Reading Rob Plath has often reminded me of the Ramones - booze driven repetitive riffing and a knowing insouciance posing as deliberate dumbness - often infuriating simplistic but never, ever pointless and capable of killer insight.

This collection delivers more of that grinding same but also new, and welcome, subtleties. If you’re looking for variety of language, flowery metaphors and a crippling embarrassing self-conscious ‘outlaw’ pose, then there’s thousands of mediocrities cramming themselves into that particularly well-stuffed niche at the moment. Plath is still more leather jackets, stark, short lines, New York nights and urban despair, usually, and there’s certainly plenty of that in this packed volume, but there’s also more. There’s love here, all over these poems actually, and, tellingly, loss.

The poet of this collection ruminates upon love and death through different prisms. A mother’s mortality, a lover’s infidelity and a growing awareness that even evil bastard fathers had their reasons. Much of the poetry here speaks of sparks in the darkness, honest appraisals of the reality of love to individuals. The couple sits “marrow to marrow” in ‘to hell w/ all the so-called cities of love’, not heart to heart. This is love stripped down by desperation and, more often than not, cigarette smoke. There is an often-occurring contradictory desire for the burning brilliance of life-affirming love, even if Plath spends much of his time raking the ashes in a grey morning rather than watching the fireworks burn against a blue-black sky.

Sex and cigarettes may not seem much to some, but to Plath they are the very bones around which life is constructed. Blow jobs and the “cannibal” smoke of cigars mask a desperate celebration of love. Even in the humorous list of unpleasant symptoms caused by love in ‘Love’ there is an acceptance that “testicular shrinkage, hypersensitivity, extended bouts of weeping,/ wheezing, chain-smoking, excessive use of alcohol or other/ recreational drugs, driving while intoxicated” are maybe worth going through for the tiny moments love promises, and the fear it brings. Love leads to apocalypse, according to ‘this dark dance of replication’ after all, and death is merely ‘unmagic.’

Plath is Old Man Winter, content in his cold smoke and wise in his cynicism, but with a spark of regret that burns as brightly as his Zippo when he thinks of the last (always the last) time he touched his first lover. Betrayal and infidelity lurk like sharks in a tank, biting off the poet’s fingernails now and then, as the smoking signifiers at the foot of each page turn into mini meditations on self-torture, eyeballs and cheese graters, morgue slabs and mothers about to die.

But this Plath is a witty old chap sometimes, as in ‘brief letter from a cheating ex’ – it’s this that we really like, bitter ruminations on the stupidity of people with no comment passed just the plain bones of their idiocy exposed. Laughter as best medicine for death. “i was head over heels/ for her/ but she preferred heels/ over head” as he puts it. ‘Instead of a love poem’ has crows on a freeway pecking a squirrel’s corpse, almost a reworking of the old Scots poem ‘The Twa’ Corbies’ as the scavengers triumph once again with their “horrible hop(s).”

Meditations upon his mother’s mortality and the passage of life and time produce moments of genuine poignancy though. The poem as list may have been done to death but Plath shows lesser craftsmen how it should be done in ‘what my mother was dreaming while anesthetized in/ order to get her left hip replaced’. Indeed, Plath speaks of his mother a lot in this collection, as though as her own aging process has allowed him to understand his own mortality more clearly, and in much more humanistic terms as he meditates upon “love/or the lack of it” and takes what he claims is a pessimistic delight in falling leaves.

There is no life without death, after all, and this book may just be the light that never goes out being switched on. Then again, it might just be someone sparking up a ciggy...

http://www.epicrites.org/theres-a-fist-dunked-in-blood-beating-in-my-chest.html.

Epic Rites Press: "because all our fingers are middle ones"

seizing the poison

i had this crazy uncle
who b/c of the
line of business
that he chose
to work in
always had to worry
about someone
poisoning his wine

others would whisper
"how could he live
like that?"

always seated
w/his back
to the wall

staring at his cup
which might contain
his last sip...

i always thought
that type of life
seemed not
too uncommon

to me,
it seemed
a lot like
being in love...

a quick note on genius

no,
you
don't
have
to
be
a
genius
in
yr
lines

you
just
have
to
be
willing
to
bring
yr
balls
to
the
fucking
table

&
let
that
whore
Death
cup
them
in
one
icy
hand
while
holding
a
blade
in
the
other

risk
&
nakedness
are
far
better
than
genius

the lack of everything

my car in shop
i am under-the-weather
insomnia on top of that
the gods already took away
everything else: love, wine, cigs
now stranded
between the walls
& w/in this weary shape
poetry is all that is left
like one fucking wooden match
in jet black space
but enough i suppose
to start some kind of heat

un-jump-startable souls

three days after the tow
i'm at the old familiar garage

the jumper cables wouldn't
have worked
on this one,
says the first mechanic

you were right
by just calling the tow guy,
says the second

the battery
is completely shot
dead
corroded,
the first mechanic says

nothing could've
jump-started that thing...
the second adds

& i felt it then
that particular feeling
at the center of my core
unknowingly articulated so well by
the wise old mechanic

the fucked-up human stain

it's disturbing that
no how matter how settled
no matter how safe
no matter how tightly held
smack in the middle of things
comes the burning urge
for an unraveling
& on top of that
a new beginning

if only we can die like this

as the cancer glides around the glass slide
as the unsteady peaks weaken towards a flat line
as the flesh no longer stretches but rather folds
as the bones rise like islands in the weary meat

the leaves release themselves from the tree
after a long summer's reign
surrendering their green
their points still intact not curled like hands
grappling to save themselves
just this calm slow shower of majestic reds
dropping through beautiful trapdoors in the wind

if only we could die like this--
like old resigned kings on fire
leaping from the world's arms

i feel like

Damage
w/ten fingers

Ennui
w/ two eyeballs

Melancholy
w/a spine

& Death
w/a pulse

i can smell the stench from here

rest in the arms of love?

never again...

that's like sitting
in the lap
of a cadaver
who's been dunked
in warm tar
& then placed under
a rain of
rose petals...

born w/a cemetery in my chest

there's a cemetery
around my heart
& if it were to vault the gates

i know it'd land impaled
on a wrought iron rail
a red shredded balloon

raining blood down
the black rungs

gazing right through the dancing girls

the buddha gazed through things
w/ancient x-ray vision

through dancing girls' tight bellies
through glittery gyrating hips
through the smoke screen of meat
through the steamy window of Fuck

in order to wink w/his right eye & then his left
at the Dying & the Dead

as if each of his wise heavy lids
were tattooed w/ the same word: Dream

unwantingly speared

see the newborn
screaming
impaled upon the umbilical
you mother, you father
have speared it
lifted it
from its peaceful sleep
not in the womb
but in the sweet abyss
how can you be proud
as it rides out
on slippery blood
into this war

the gory game

after the last one
watching people in love
is like studying someone
up-close
& in slow motion
falling face-down
upon a bed
of long sharp blades
disguised as newly
opened flowers
you scream for them
to stop
but their eyes roll back
in ecstasy
as they drop hard
onto gory knives
hiding in fresh colored glory

darkness retained

i'm starting to count
the cigarette burns
in the livingroom rug
these fossils left behind
by the junky tenant
a dozen dark grooves
like agony branded
into the brain
beneath my bare feet
& i know that happiness
is written on water
& darkness retained best
as my toes braille them
as i pace in the dark
on thick sleepless nights

where the fuck is the relief

not having the pleasure to have contracted
one of the deadly diseases
we suffer the small nonlethal ones
w/smaller yet still torturous symptoms
every day symptoms: itching, burning, headache, gut cramps
insomnia, panic, nose bleeds, rash, vertigo, bone pain
hemorrhaging hemorrhoids, etc..
like i said, not fortunate enough to just outright fucking die
we walk around battling these little deaths
swatting them off our surfaces like insects
until the big one arrives
horizon-enormous
crushing us
in one splat

ah, relief...

one of yr animals dies

& some say it's rehearsal
for when a closely related human dies...
i say it's worse when yr animal dies
innocent & far from being an asshole human
i weep more for them
while i rehearse human deaths all the time in my head
both close relations & acquaintances
but the problem is they keep fucking living
as my poor animals keep dying...

yawning at the sun

my cat is sprawled

across the carpet

all afternoon

a fuzzy bum

in the slanting rays

yawning at the sun

my miniature god

why is the human form

mimicking an existence

such as this

looked down upon

isn't bumhood

all the same

across the board

wait, don't answer

only look within

i looked

for peace

in love



only

found

war



i looked

for love

in love



only

found

hate



i looked

for softness

in flesh



only

found

knives

my only lover

pain
is
my
only
lover

a
dark
delicious
nympho

&
my
confessions
my
only
offspring

the true poet

while they all sleep soundly & safely
in the arms of lovers

the gravedigger is awake meditating
upon the blade of his spade

which unmakes the worlds
they've so carefully created

worlds they foolishly think they own

pick ax philosophy

if
you
dig
deep
enough

you'll
always
hit
agony

the
core
of
mankind

happiness
is
a
surface
thing

exists
only
w/in
the
first
few
layers
of
strata

anything
beneath
is
mouthfuls
of
dust

then
all
fire

farther reaching than all the bridges i've burned

i write
like
my life

there's
not much
in it

but what
little there
is

is larger
than all
the lbs
of fat
i've cut away

farther
reaching
than all
the bridges
i've burned

higher than
all of
the dreams
i've crushed
beneath
my own feet
etc...

one man
standing

stripped down
to the
basic frame

his spleen
dripping w/bile
in one hand

a paint brush
in the other...

until Loss moaned his name

night by night, part by part
the woman he was with
eventually transformed

her pair of tiny wrists
becoming rivers of Desertion

her arching spine
a bow of Abandonment

the roots of her hair
the threads of Retreat

each rib of the cage
a baton of Betrayal...

until the complete shape
of Absence shuddered
beneath him & Loss
moaned his name

july beauties

the july beauties pose
on fine white sand

their meat covering
the bone much better
than most

these shining shapes
well-oiled, polished
w/not one edge

i'm amazed by this
trick of the magic skin
diverting us from
the framework
the marrow

even their smiles
their teeth, so full
of seductive promises
you'd never believe
they're merely
chips of bone

i awoke nauseated

i had a dream
in which a pair of
my favorite writers
had gone quite unmad...

there was nietzsche
waxing an automobile

while baudelaire purchased
a dining room set

i would've understood
the symbolism if either were
sweeping w/a broom

or perhaps scooping
shit from the litter box

but these two acts
these blatant visions
of normalcy disturbed
more than any nightmare
of an apocalypse

the mad lengths of the poet

like crazy
crows on
the asphalt
dodging fenders
in order
to pull out
the guts
of roadkill

the poet
must go
to mad
lengths
to unravel
the ugly coils
of his
freakhood
within

fools & demons

insomnia
after 3 a.m.

so i count
my numberless
demons

5:30 a.m.
still adding
them up

dawn sharpening
the edges
of things

my head impaled
upon the pike
of delirium

demons cackling
at the foolishness
of human endurance

staring at the plants

i stare at the plants

green stalks standing straight up under the sky
sunlight on their green leaves

they sway slightly but only b/c the wind
works upon them

i really dig the plant's way of being

the way they'd stand there even
if you were being murdered or if you
were murdering them

b/c they don't have a clue what murder is

their stalks just standing there
w/the sunlight on the leaves

only unplant-like beings know what murder
is & on top of that perform it

& it's funny we think we are better than the plants

that's why i feel bad when plants go the way of plants
back into the ground

& i don't feel bad when unplant-like beings
go the way of plants

they deserve to return to the dirt more than
anything on this planet

ah, but how i love & mourn the plants

this strange lonesome 40th summer

a
door
is
strictly
a
human
thing

a
way
to
close
out
the
world

people
talk
about
the
metaphorical
door
opening
to
bright
new
futures

but
to
me
a
door
is
a
sad
rectangle

a
rejection
of
the
world

tonight
i
drive
the
streets
alone
&
notice
all
the
closed
doors

one
after
the
other
in
this
strange
lonesome
40th
summer
of
mine

i
want
to
park
along
the
curbside

knock
upon
all
of
the
closed
doors

see
the
white
or
yellow
porch
lights
come
on

the
curtains
swing

the
blinds
turn

the
brightness
from
w/in
throw
itself
across
the
dark
ground

across
the
tips
of
my
shoes

but
i
keep
driving

until
i
get
to
my
own
place
&
then
i
do
the
same

close
this
door

this
strictly
human
thing

this
rectangular
rejection
of
the
world

wrecking balls & backbones

most confuse the long, tiresome process
of initiation for education

education should be a wrecking ball
smashing the building that is yr life

& you pissing upon the remains

while noting the smoke in yr throat
& the ash in yr hair

as yr blood jumps in a circle thru yr shape
& yr backbone is the only thing left standing...

hollow ghosts

the sunrise
w/its many arms
erases all of
our stars

giving us a low dull
ceiling of clouds

the hollow ghosts
of all our silver hopes
& shimmering wishes

sadly afloat in a pale
aquatic blue sky

dying savior

a
poem
should
be
a
verbal
siren

preferably
an
ambulance
wailing

forcing
its
readers
to
pause

the
poet
both
the
damaged
body
on
the
gurney
&
the
administer
of
resuscitation

in a blink

it's strange
how moments go

from up-close
like cells upon
a microscope slide

to very far away
like stars thru
a telescope lens

until one day
all of yr life
is up in space...

the burning man

there's
the obvious
sources of pain:
war
fire
flood
the big c
the nut house
incarceration
amputation
divorce
poverty
etc...
the list
is long
& mighty
but then
there's
the man
who is
on fire
just sitting
there in an
easy chair
gazing at
objects standing
on the surfaces
of things
that are made
up of 90 degree
angles
or things
leaning against
one or more
of four walls
he is burning alive
like the monk
in vietnam who
doused himself
w/gasoline
& sat there
crosslegged
& ablaze
only this man
isn't physically
on fire
it's subtler
than that
it's his cells
that are burning
each one
a small pool
of gasoline
aflame
each mutinous
nucleus
like the
burning
vietnamese
holy man
only these
trillions
of miniature monks
are protesting
not war but
peace

that searing singularity

it feels like the time
before i ever loved

that searing singularity
that weighty waiting

the only difference
being i don't have
that crazy desire
to love another

it's like i've been
reborn w/out a heart

just lustful blood
& dusty days
of nothing much

the greatest con

capitalism: biggest promoter of endurance, longevity & persistence

it wants its citizens to never quit feeding the big pigshit money machine

eat more viagra to churn out more & more generations of cog-babies

then one day you can be lucky enough to pick out yr own coffin

& pay for yr deathbed & a 6 foot ditch

misfit living

there has always been
the minimal here

no dining room set
no living room set
no kitchen set
no children's beds
etc...

no purchases of newness
no uniformity

only rickety cardtables
third-hand chairs & shelves
hand-me-downs
from the dead

faded, mismatched,
chipped & scratched

a roomful of misfit sticks
of furniture

& to top it off
an old mattress upon the floor
the lopsided raft
of a capsized soul
going nowhere

just floating...

absurd peephole

two eyes

in between
two sides
of the abyss

looking back
& weeping

gazing ahead
& trembling

two eyes

sandwiched
between
two slices
of darkness

shut them
tight tonight

close the absurd
peephole

staring down yr wounds

i remember once
a few years before
her death
my grandmother
had an operation
& afterwards the doctor
wanted her to look
at where the long incision
was on her side
to confront the stitches
but my grandmother refused
she never looked
she said that knowing it
was there was enough
& i understand her fear
it's one thing to know it's there
but to confront the zigzag
zipper of stitches sewn
into the skin
to stare down yr wounds
to braille yr scars
is something else, yes, it is
something far different

bombs & splinters

i've
never
known
that
thing
called
"safe
&
sound"

how
could
one
be
safe
w/a
heart
in
one's
chest

a
ticking
blood
bomb
we
bear
from
birth

& sound

what
a
laugh

that
3lbs
of
gray
mush
full
of
the
splinters
of
living
can
never
be
anything
but
mad

bugs climb my abyss

there
are
kafkaroaches
running
up
&
down
my
arms
while
i
lay
in
my
sartretude

their
absurd
antennae
itching
my
nothingness

at the back of the cell called the world

some nights i want
to take a tin cup
& run it along
the cold black rungs
of cemetery gates

a prisoner of Life
begging to be released

but the warden, Birth, snickers
& the ugly human guards
swing their nightsticks

i am dragged to the back
of the cell called the world

& fire-hosed w/ennui
& agony

love & furnaces

it is an evolutionary advantage
to understand what causes pain

but it is neither hot coals
nor red stove-top coils

it is flesh-upon-flesh
the flames of love
that really make skin scream
scar the human shape
over & over & over

baudelaire's ghost is better than the sandman

i couldn't sleep
4 a.m.

i shut my eyes
cursing

that's when baudelaire's ghost
showed up

he had some poor shit's soul
under his one arm & in the other
a phantom cheese grater

he kept shaving soul motes
over my face

sprinkling flakes beneath
my weary lids

& as my eyes grew heavier
he began whispereing
misanthropic slogans in my ear

"the body isn't a temple
it is a shithouse"

& so on & so forth...

i awoke at 11 a.m.
rewired like a motherfucker

some notes upon my sickly crew

my Suicide has lost both
its physique & its mystique
it lags hind me now
an obvious ugly cow

my Birth crawls at my heels
its one big tooth a constant reminder
digging into my Achilles tendon

my Madness walks
arm in arm w/me
i elbow it in the ribs
when its sneaky other hand
tries to pickpocket
the sane parts of my brain

my Love collapsed
miles & miles back
i attempted to give it CPR
it puked in my mouth
& then died

my Loneliness rides
heavy upon my shoulders
grinding its sad gray crotch
against the back of my skull

& my Death, ah my Death
is wagging its sweet ass in front of me
i keep kicking it a few feet ahead
not quite ready for its hot lapdance
full of maggots

give me the one-way chute

love
is
a
temporary
emergency
exit
from
the
flaming
building
of
life

a
pause
from
entering
burning
room
after
burning
room

&
some
say
death
is
a
revolving
door

fuck
that

i
want
a
one-way
chute
to
the
abyss

when it's yr every third thought it makes you yawn

slouching
on
a
precipice

smoking
a
cigarette
on
a
cliff

nodding
off
on
the
tip
of
the
plank

my
cap
tipped
over
my
eyes

legs
crossed

shoes
untied

laces
dangling
over
the
mouth
of
the
end

one day yr bones will tap you on the shoulder

life
is
a
game
of
hide
&
seek
w/yr
own
skeleton

as
soon
as
yr
born
it
starts
counting
&
you
learn
to
crawl
&
walk
&
run
from
it

all
you
ever
do
is
a
form
of
hiding
from
it

until
one
day

no
matter
what
land
yr
in

how
big
yr
house
is

no
matter
how
many
sticks
of
furniture
you
own

how
much
horsepower
the
engine
is

no
matter
what
yr
uniform

yr
bones
will
finally
find
you

tap
you
on
yr
shoulder

&
you'll
become
IT

sink in the fangs

poetry
shouldn't
just
ruffle
the
feathers
of
the
reader

it
should
sink
its
fangs
into
them

like
the
cat
w/plumage
stuck
around
its
jaw

its
whiskers
speckled
w/blood

&
its
yellow
diamond
eyes
shining

all my life i've given nods to nothingness

today i think
of shapes
of white clouds
that parade
past my window

& i admit
i'm jealous

they're nothing
in the best
way possible

those peaceful
strings of islands
in cloudland

but although
all my life i've
given nods
to nothingness

been a devotee
to dust

all poetic posturing
aside--

i don't actually
love nothing

just its characteristics

its calmness

its guts
to not do

& to just float...

one finger unsalute

raising
yr
middle
finger
is
unsaluting
the
sheep,
the
empires,
the
stifling
son-of-a-bitches
on
the
planet

manure & the other side

you
may
believe
the
grass
may
be
greener
on
the
other
side

but
that
just
means
more
horseshit
comes
along
w/the
turf,
motherfucker

give me a one-way chute

love
is
a
temporary
emergency
exit
from
the
flaming
building
of
life

a
pause
from
entering
burning
room
after
burning
room

&
some
say
death
is
a
revolving
door

fuck
that

i
want
a
one-way
chute
to
the
abyss

my moments are a string of piss stained empty cups

moments
offer
themselves

string
after
string
of
chances

empty
cups
to
fill
to
the
brim
w/
yr
soul
juices

i
attempt
to
piss
in
them
as
pass
me

i
know
better

in
the
end
something
turns
them
face
down
anyway

the
juices
of
the
soul
seeping
back
in
the
skin
of
the
planet

the same song forever

the cat sits upon
the windowsill
staring at ghostly
dandelion seeds
floating through the air

she paws at the
mesh of the screen
thinking they're
alive, something
to catch

& i think of when
they'll finally dump
my urn by the sea

how the specks
of ash will drift
on the wind

looking like a swarm
of something living

then as sea birds cry
it'll be all scattered
on the surface
of the ocean

moving again

in & out
in & out

ironically it's the only thing holding it up

this
body
is
studded
w/loss

braced
by
the
beams
of
pain

it
pivots
on
pegs
of
affliction

in the hands of the clock

in their turning
you can hear it

the sound of love
retreating

all night long

through sunrise
& back again

always retreating
steadily, dependably

w/just enough emptiness
in between clicks

in order to show
a man just how
easy death will be

no voltage in the soul

for some
day & night
do not alternate

for some
only darkness
fills the mind
& the soul

like an electrical
black-out
24/7/365

my definition of hope

standing
in
the
kitchen

my
cigarette
begins
to
"canoe"
as
they
say

a
sliver
of
rolling
paper
unbitten
by
the
cherry
ember

it
hangs
on

&
altho
that's
its
destiny

it
refuses
to
go
up
in
fucking
smoke

loveless

just
like
the
most
meaningless
sex

my
heart's
just
not
into
life
lately

it's
pumping
away
in
an
empty
world

ennui
coats
my
tongue

&
everything
tastes
stale

today the void is a pearl

today
i
am
making
my
loneliness
a
virtue

my
scars
beauty
marks

i
will
visit
the
kiosk
&
purchase
a
package
of
cigarettes

smoke
half
of
them
&
bow
before
the
ashtray

today
as
the
grey
wisps
pass
my
face
drifting
upward

i
am
making
nothingness
the
apple
of
my
eye

the
Void
a
pearl

mightily & voluntarily

i grew involuntarily in the womb

& after seeing this world for 40 years

i have the urge to dissemble myself

to take a large sharp knife & strip off my skin

tossing it over the telephone wire out there in the street

then to pluck out all my organs

first drop kicking my heart over that suburban roof there

& secondly my spleen over those green trees

& so on & so forth

then to crack off each rib, tossing them to all the stray dogs

& finally to pull out my backbone & throw it like a javelin

at a passing police cruiser

& bowl my skull beneath the rose bushes for the slugs

to have for a home

yes, i've the urge to dissemble myself mightily & voluntarily

unlike most men who are just merely broomsticks in life

& then are thrown in a hole

the middle man will break yr heart everytime

this
longing
for
love
is
merely
the
longing
for
nothingness

what
we're
really
after
is
not
this
backstabbing
skinful
bliss

not
this
middle
man
so
to
speak

but
the
kiss
of
the
ever-faithful

the
abyss

the unamerican dream

i had a dream that i saw Ambition in a wheelchair
paralyzed & slumped over...

& some smiling bum was skipping around
handing out trophies for all the things
in our lives at which we miserably failed...

& some one-toothed hobo was pinning medals
upon the tattered shirts of those brave enough
to have a long line of things they never even began...

& some howling madman w/a gown & tassel was handing out
honorary degrees in Inertia to all that were well-practiced
in the art of resignation...

tonight i cannot recall

i have this broken-down suitcase
filled w/old photographs

only one latch works
one of the hinges is busted

its surface is scratched
& chipped

the handle is intact , though

on certain nights i grab it
gently set it upon my desk
& one by one, stare at the photos

tonight is one of those nights

i look at the shots & it occurs
to me most of the people are dead
a long, long time

then i come to an image of me
5 years old
standing in a schoolyard

& no matter how much i try
i cannot recall how i sounded then

my god, have i forgotten the voice
of that boy, smiling against
the chainlink fence?

i toss the photograph back
snap the workable latch up

slide the case
back into the closet

i light a cigarette

my heart exhausted
by this trip to nowhere

where i live now

the landlord
tells me
over a beer
that this
house was
a wreck
8 years ago

he tells me
the addicts
that used
to rent
the place
left over
5,000 lbs
of garbage
in a fenced
off section
of the yard

that even
after he
hauled it
all out
the dog
kept digging
things up
in other
spots

he dug up
a plate one
day, he says

then he walks
me out
to the side
of the house

see here?
he says

there used
to be
a mound
of cigarette
butts
two feet
high

he points up
to the window

they'd toss
them out
from there,
he said

the dog
still digs up
shit & when
i mow
the grass
i find pieces
of things,
he says

i try imagining
the tenants
before

junk in their veins
their stationary shapes
living in junk

like ghosts bound
to the perimeters
of a mini landfill

i understand
a large part
of this all

primarily a scar

i sit there smoking
one hand holding
a cigarette
& the other brailling
the rash on my back

lots of hardened circles
w/soft centers
like someone punched
packs of camels out
on both sides
of my backbone

some are on my thighs
too, back & front

raymond carver once
said that he was 'a cigarette
attached to a body...'
which i relate to very much

& i'm more like the hole
from a cigarette
attached to a body

a crater
a fossil
a scar

the body,
secondary

luckily one day
to turn to smoke

all smoke...

the myth of the blood red tattoo

there's a red splotch
on my back

where anatomically
a wing would sprout
on a mortal
if angels & demons
actually existed

but in my case
it looks as tho
a wing was torn off

the other
never budding

& if i was the subject
of myth

the story might go that
i had torn it off myself
in a mad fit

consumed it
& defecated it out

& it has gone back
into the earth where
it belongs

b/c i'm not concerned
w/flight or heaven

my wish is to be mortal

i wish die like the rest
of living things

& i wear that
blood red tattoo
to prove it

if only they could see my insides they'd run

at the barbershop
jack the barber whips the cape
around my neck

i observe him in the mirror
attempt to clean up my skull

every few minutes
he uses a large shaving brush
to wipe the stray clippings
off my forehead & face

it occurs to me that jack
is a sort of cosmetic mortician
for the so-called living

later he puts some shiny gel in my hair
flips the front up

when he's all done he shows
me the back of my head by holding
up a hand mirror behind me

i nod in approval

he finally brushes fine smelling
powder on the back of my neck

this upright perfumed corpse
appears quite presentable

i walk out into the fumes
of the street

gradually you realize there's a dead dog strapped to yr spine

altho i love
the night

it's an effort
to somehow
get thru them
now

i long for those
effortless nights
as a boy

when thunder
was exciting

rain a game

darkness a thick
mystery

& sleep a chore

but one that came
w/ ease

full of
good dreaming

once a lovely hole to wholeness

that
cracked
remains
of
a
tire
on
the
shoulder
of
the
road

parts
of
it
shredded
like
something
skinned
alive
or
dead

i
remember
a
certain
tire
that
was
once
suspended
in
a
tree
by
a
lovely
swinging
rope

that
held
laughing
childrens'
shapes
that
cut
back
& forth
through
summer
wind

now
there's
that
flat
mutilated
tire
on
the
road

&
another
kind
of
rope
&
hole
awaiting...

madly dancing in the furnace

sylvia
stuck
her
head
in
the
oven
once
&
caput

me
on
the
other
hand

i
have
my
head
in
the
kiln
24/7/365

&
obviously
it's
not
the
one
time
hiss
of
the
jets
only
cadavers
hear

the
goddamn
pilot
light
is
ON

it's
everyday
flames
motherfucker

it's
the
third
degree
burns
of
endurance

the grass & the children are green

the
children
are
jumping
rope
over
graves

they
are
bouncing
rubber
balls
off
mausoleum
walls

they
are
making
tic tac toe
boxes
w/chalk
upon
tombstones

they
are
as
merciless
in
their
innocence
as
the
spears
of
grass
that
sway
as
you
murder
me
&
i
murder
you
in
this
strange
game
called
love

the world is wall to wall w/them

what do you need those eyes for there is really no world to see

what do you need those eardrums for all you can hear is the buzz of bullshit

what do you need those feet for there is really no place worthy of yr arrival

what do you need that 3lbs of gray matter for the brain is a hack organ

what do you need that spine for there isn't any virtue in the vertical race

what do you need those four pumping chambers for the heart is a small factory of pain

what do you need that skin for surfaces are a sham

what do you need those lungs for when you can only gather emptiness into the branches

what do you need those guts for you can fit the dust of a hero in a large ashtray

what do you need an asshole for the world is wall to wall w/them

what do you need seed & an egg for nothing beats the peace of never being born

you only need a spleen, a liver & ten fingers so you can get drunk & spew bile & record it for

the rest of the assholes making use of all those other body parts

the third arm in the crowd

i use two empty
bottles of cheap wine
to prop the kitchen
window open

i blow the smoke
from my camel
thru the dusty mesh

the cat sits on the sill
curiously gazing out

she never had a view
of a street before this

a car comes by
& she leaps down

frightened by
the movement
of this strange
new thing

i don't blame her
as i am frightened
of the creatures
maneuvering them

every time i 'm in a crowd
i've an invisible third arm
that repeatedly hits me
upon my head
w/its invisible fist

i prefer to exist behind
the window frame
blowing smoke out

my skull unbruised
even peaceful

devolving

it's an evolutionary
advantage

to remember what
causes us pain

so we may avoid it
in the future

but some of us retain
every memory

of when something
stabbed us, drew blood

& then we devolve

hiding in our little caves
from the world

painting our agony
upon the walls

sweet undreaming

the gravedigger
is our final caregiver

performing
a mother-like task

tucking us in
the cozy dirt

the back of the spade
patting the loose
earth smooth

for that long
last sleep

love eventually becomes a ghost town

it closes faces up

that's what it does

where once there
was laughter

& the windows
of the soul shined

that's what love
does

closes faces up

like a ghost town

it's sad you see

b/c once the faces
opened up

wide as a new city

love does this first

all laughter & shining

but the same force
closes them up

it's sad i tell you

what else needs
to be said

the world is filled w/a bunch of goddamn captain obviouses

they
say
one
cigarette
takes
7
seconds
off
yr
life

they
always
seem
to
pin
danger
on
some
obvious
demon

but
tell
me
how
many
seconds
does
love
take
off
or
the
lack
of
it

how
many
years
does
the pettiness
the jealousies
the loneliness
the searching
the betrayal
the loss
shave
off
all
of
this

besides
that
who
the
fuck
really
wants
to
grow
too
old
anyway

pass
the
ashtray
over
here
please

does it fool you, does it rob you?

the face
of the sun
is just
a cheap mask
the
VOID
wears
like
a
thief

robbing us
of
Truth

which
is:

out
there
beyond

is
Nothing

the slow dripping of melancholia

i
have
shunts
shoved
under
the
skin
of
my
wrists

i
was
born
hooked
to
an
IV bag
full
of
tears

i
live
on
the
slow
dripping
of
melancholia

suicidal
thoughts
are
my
nourishment

how a poem should be

although
i
only
saw
it
in
movies

i
love
the
image
of
someone
cracking
a
bottle
on
the
thick
lip
of
the
bar
&
using
it
for
a
weapon

the
jagged
glass
neck
in
their
drunken
hand

a
bad-ass
makeshift
blade

unpolished
&
sudden

capable
of
severing
the
jugular

for now

the
boys
keep
taking
turns
running
over
the
flat
possum
in
the
center
of
road

mini
gods
on
wheels

giggling
at
the
hairy
pancake

their
spokes
shining
in
the
sun

mad inmates among the abandoned, the discarded & the dead

1/4 mile west of me there is a large nursing home

1 1/2 miles east an enormous landfill

1 mile north a sprawling cemetery

all that's missing is an asylum & a penitentiary

but i see them down every street

beneath the rooftops of every business & every home

& the people walking everywhere w/that fucked-up thing called hope

pinned upon their eyeballs

the shit kicking demons

the
demons
kick
the
shit
out
of
the
dopamine
every
fucking
time

&
they
float
on
their
horny
spines
in
tears
&
wine

reclined
like
privileged
princes

that son-of-a-bitchin' eye of the soul

some
souls
always
have
one
eye
open
even
during
the
deepest
of
sleeps
or
darkest
of
narcotic
black-outs

that
is
why
some
souls
are
ancient
even
when
the
body
is
young

that
one
bottomless
eye
swallows
the
world
24/7/365

&
that
is
why
some
murder
their
own
body

to
shut
that
lid
on
that
bottomless
eye
for
good

self-sufficient universe

this
kiosk
is
all
i
need

one
package
of
cigarettes
&
a
girlie
magazine

sitting
on
a
bench

inhaling
smoke
&
photographs

all
just
dreams

b/c
anything
else
is
like
stepping
into
a
furnace

standing at the center of a stripped down room

i
stand
in
the
center
of
this
old
place

its
completely
bare
now

the
march
wind
&
rain
hit
the
uncovered
windows

someone
else
will
come
&
fill
this
space
up
again

that's
what
we
do
here

fill
holes

pretend
to
be
something
we're
not

but
we
can
never
really
close
up
the
void
w/in
no
matter
how
much
we
try

if
these
four
walls
of
this
stripped
down
room
were
suddenly
gone

i'd
be
pretty
much
the
same

just
a
wet
dog

howling
in
the
elements

to
some
this
idea
is
worse
than
a
bomb

the thin averageness of the masses makes my soul puke

the other day
i saw a movie
where two
big thugs
held this guy
while another
ogre hit him
over & over
in the gut
& when they
finally let him
go he collapsed
blood streaming
out of his
mouth

i've never
had this happen
to me
but i feel
like i'm
being assaulted
in the same
manner
when around
people too long

two holding
the arms
of my soul
while another
pounds
their knuckles
into my angel's
abdomen

but they aren't
big or thugs
just quite
thin & average

& later
at my
tiny apartment
i wipe
the blood
from my
spirit's lips
& drop
on my
mattress
finally
out of
their
clutches

there's always a heap of pain between us

when it comes
to loving
we're both
always haunted
by loss
to the point
of possession

vomiting
our pain
so fiercely
that love
gets covered
by chunks
of our guts

there's
always
this stinking
heap
between
us

then alone
again
we stick fingers
down
our throats

weeping
&
drying heaving
through
the
nights

trying
to
puke
up
emptiness

never learning
that,
unlike pain,
ennui
cannot
be
purged

this
is
the
stuff
the
stomach
is
made
of