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