August 16, 2015
am not asleep
been awake too damn long and I’m sick of it.
nothing to do with the cup of coffee I just poured myself in one of my Vincent mugs.
I suppose it isn’t that late but I am hungry and looking for my angry fix.
I haven’t been sleeping well.
and the windows have faces that I can’t comprehend.
I put on my goggles and peer out into the darkness of the backyard sitting next to my wife who is equally as perplexed as I am but today I did not forget my medications.
I still feel the world spin and note the stench of cigarettes and dying sunflowers.
better than earlier when I could scent out the unique putrefaction of several birds finding only one feather.
but the couch got moved.
generally enervated and bone pain sick of it.
half-banana moon, toothpicks on the highway, sick of it.
skin falling off and miswriting sin, a lack of croutons in soup, sick of it.
tattoos, assassinating public figures, the FBI comes and visits me at six am, sick of it.
or I am in stir, a padded room with nothing but this white computer and the insatiable need to sleep.
or I am in a wheat field with crows thinking about a .38 special.
or I am in bed, lying prone, ready to fire with a hard-on and magazine dreams.
add a new category.
eleven: forty-six pm – my eye lids are heavy and I am over tired.
goodnight.
goodnight.
goodnight.
June 27, 2010
to kill poets
the poet’s word albatrossed
to the secret villain,
hanging on like stink
from decadent fish.
this is our RSVP, their
invitation to KILL POETS.
not with censorship,
with bullets.
– Hoc Scripsi
I have a minor obsession with being assassinated, I think I’ve mentioned this before but sometimes we all repeat ourselves don’t we. Maybe in a past life, somewhere in Argentina or El Salvador I was disappeared permanently. The victim of some nations dictator extreme rendition.
Or maybe I was a cuddly bunny rabbit in hunting season. If so I hope that my name was Theodore and the family that ate me enjoyed the meal.
whatever I was, now I am a poet and consider it a poets duty to be a threat to both the vox popoli and the powers that be.
this is how I get after storing things in the attic, small confined space and all.
June 24, 2010
Thursday
untitled (I sit down to write)
1.
I sit down to write.
and the longing that comes out is immensely
distressing.
disparate writing and thought,
the thoughts are why I am driven here.
it’s either this or murder, rape and drugs.
good drugs;
illicit drugs, but
less the psychiatric form.
paper awash with malaise and frankness
but I get tired of it and just sit for awhile,
watching TV and creation.
but I won’t do anything with it.
may cut myself up more and wonder why;
ultimately it doesn’t matter.
2.
I waste more ink on this then anything.
I could be writing about birds or sick
children.
I could be writing about pavement and
street car fantasy races with a blonde
cheerleader type waving handkerchiefs.
I should be writing about the mundane,
that is what life has delivered me to.
books, children, sex, good food, conversations.
it isn’t all bad. I don’t miss the street living
or sleeping in the back of my car.
I don’t miss the nights without memory at bars
I don’t miss the anonymous sex and waking to
find there are no eggs for breakfast.
I don’t miss anything about school except the schedule of it.
I don’t miss the hard drugs and hard dealers,
or the late night lab experiments resulting
in a high and extreme weight loss.
I don’t miss not having food and not knowing
when the next days meal will come from.
I don’t miss the sexual abuse or neglect.
I don’t miss playing in bands or writing badly in
strip clubs hanging around even worse writers.
all of us thinking that we were going to be the next
HD or Buk or Lorca
no one really wants to be the next Lorca;
or maybe that is what I really strive for;
to be shot.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 