Saturday, September 18, 2010

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...

that must be why my hand pulls away

after norman mailer
drunkenly stabbed his wife
w/a pen knife
at a party

he told people, "i just wanted
to nick her
in the heart"

she lived & forgave him

i wonder how many nicks
are on my heart

its surface must look like
a butcher's old cutting board

or maybe the nicks grow in reverse now
instead of slices there are the tiny tips
of each blade that entered

my heart must look like a red pineapple fist
covered in steel thorns

maybe that's why when i am alone
& i attempt to massage that sad thing in my chest
my hand pulls away

an untouchable little bomb
a thorny hand grenade
not quite ready to give birth
to a room of shrapnel

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

no matter how fair

keep looking in the mirror
no matter how handsome
no matter how fair

there's a cadaver
thumbing its rotting nose
at you

do you see it yet?

well, look again,
you shallow sons-of-bitches

it's there wiggling its bony fingers
& flashing its lip-less grin

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...

Saturday, September 11, 2010

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

man to man she goes

man to man she goes
claiming the last one
was always the worst
until one day
when there is nothing
but a heap
of what she considered
to be
the bad ones
& no new fruit
to sink her
weary rotting teeth
into

Monday, September 6, 2010

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...
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.