Proletarian daughters kiss the earth
And I’d take them any time over those castle mistresses
From towers, from North and West,
I protect them with my arm’s umbrella
That forms neatly over their bodies
Those quiet moments when we are most alive
Tenderly tucking arms between the folds
Lifting the covers up yurt-like, we play
For hours and sometimes days
Lost in the folds; I sing your song:
A girl who practices her
Pirouette by night
Without instructors
Against a broken mirror
For the circus beneath our feet.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
At the Periphery (Fragments)
A Gypsy band of oranges cross the street
And my friends and I watch them
Move to the periphery where the night disintegrates into the horizon
We talk about it for a moment
About the sound of poverty and the sound of theft
Then forget what we’re talking about
Like blank drips out of your forehead; reverse Chinese water torture.
More music comes from a yogurt shop of European flavors
Flavors not for a fat American pallet
But for the anorexic and dying
Decaying tastes of the periphery that will be crowded out
Soon
The sound is three middle aged women who play middle aged music
Old feely folk from 60’s south or southern green as Keats would say
Or Southern desert draught of skeletons and Mexican kids
As someone else would say
I open my mouth with something about youth
My friends nod about youth
We grab some free samples of yogurt and swallow without tasting
Red velvet
We take a wrong turn, or the right turn, and people dissipate into groups
Each with its own tagline and music that rages against particulars
A movement of bodies and minds and body-minds of kids
With their special pens to write special thoughts for their friends
That no smart publisher will publish
Although this is the greatest poetry of the twenty-first century
And further down the wrong or right street the kids of the publishers
Of the editors and the policy makers
These kids paint on apathetic stares ghosts of their realism
But underneath life lies a current that life derives from:
Plates break against the jagged earth creating sea shells resemble faces
They talk and break into smaller pieces until the void becomes vastness
There is a fire in them, I know it, well
I hope
We hear another song come from a peripheral alley:
Babies teeth and masticating dentures
Lick the same foods, milkshakes;
That’s when we see her face and blue dress
She runs from the third world with her voice
Calling to take me and take me underneath
Not to elevate onto some inhuman heaven
But underneath with the workers and the spit
I say I love her
My friends and I leave
On our return down the same lost street we spot her putting away her guitar
And she looks sad but no one cries in the city streets
We save that for French movies
Where we cry for those lost poets
She leaves the black hole that sucked her up for the night
Now the alley is just an alley of no metaphor;
Nothing is serious and everything matters.
And my friends and I watch them
Move to the periphery where the night disintegrates into the horizon
We talk about it for a moment
About the sound of poverty and the sound of theft
Then forget what we’re talking about
Like blank drips out of your forehead; reverse Chinese water torture.
More music comes from a yogurt shop of European flavors
Flavors not for a fat American pallet
But for the anorexic and dying
Decaying tastes of the periphery that will be crowded out
Soon
The sound is three middle aged women who play middle aged music
Old feely folk from 60’s south or southern green as Keats would say
Or Southern desert draught of skeletons and Mexican kids
As someone else would say
I open my mouth with something about youth
My friends nod about youth
We grab some free samples of yogurt and swallow without tasting
Red velvet
We take a wrong turn, or the right turn, and people dissipate into groups
Each with its own tagline and music that rages against particulars
A movement of bodies and minds and body-minds of kids
With their special pens to write special thoughts for their friends
That no smart publisher will publish
Although this is the greatest poetry of the twenty-first century
And further down the wrong or right street the kids of the publishers
Of the editors and the policy makers
These kids paint on apathetic stares ghosts of their realism
But underneath life lies a current that life derives from:
Plates break against the jagged earth creating sea shells resemble faces
They talk and break into smaller pieces until the void becomes vastness
There is a fire in them, I know it, well
I hope
We hear another song come from a peripheral alley:
Babies teeth and masticating dentures
Lick the same foods, milkshakes;
That’s when we see her face and blue dress
She runs from the third world with her voice
Calling to take me and take me underneath
Not to elevate onto some inhuman heaven
But underneath with the workers and the spit
I say I love her
My friends and I leave
On our return down the same lost street we spot her putting away her guitar
And she looks sad but no one cries in the city streets
We save that for French movies
Where we cry for those lost poets
She leaves the black hole that sucked her up for the night
Now the alley is just an alley of no metaphor;
Nothing is serious and everything matters.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Upon a Palanquin
Long ago when violence was muted in black
And loneliness was crippled crawlies under beds
And fires were only in stoves with gray coals
Closer and closer into the harsh pillow fumes
They all went
He was brought in with mother upon a palanquin
From which she sang songs of love and birth
With soft lips creaking soft whispers through curtains
Drawn back in dawn as time creates cracks in fabric
But He has been torn up since he first heard
And it tears with time until the light comes
Rushing in
Father Time fought against the room receding
Into the brink with other men who work, then
A burnt house with timbered love,
Timbered sensations, whisked with cracks
Creasing across her forehead that melts
In Inferno
In days long ago when songs were heard
In misty light, in fading bright kites floating
In fabric red gliding into the sky until wind
Let’s go.
And loneliness was crippled crawlies under beds
And fires were only in stoves with gray coals
Closer and closer into the harsh pillow fumes
They all went
He was brought in with mother upon a palanquin
From which she sang songs of love and birth
With soft lips creaking soft whispers through curtains
Drawn back in dawn as time creates cracks in fabric
But He has been torn up since he first heard
And it tears with time until the light comes
Rushing in
Father Time fought against the room receding
Into the brink with other men who work, then
A burnt house with timbered love,
Timbered sensations, whisked with cracks
Creasing across her forehead that melts
In Inferno
In days long ago when songs were heard
In misty light, in fading bright kites floating
In fabric red gliding into the sky until wind
Let’s go.
Rocky Asterisms
A Song for the Astronaut
I
By the river where the little child wept
She skipped stones across the surface of the water
Half-way across the old country it dropped into eternity.
At night the rippled water seems so hard to remove
From the gravel of the shore, gray and black in moonlight.
II
The meteorite ripped the sky in fire
It tumbled into the ocean with a black crater
That quickly dissipated in smaller swells
And this is all that we see
As the marvel falls under the shroud
The mass of the earth is slightly heavier
III
Slowly turning and spinning into decay
Slight hiccups break the white and blue
In the vast oceanic abyss dividing by zero.
The sand speckle floating in the water and drifting like seaweed
All lonely, not healthy, but determined to continue rowing
With an untold number of rowers
Tilling space with hooks and hairs sweeping up the colors in their cloaks.
Skipping across the universe pollen disseminating into giant clouds
Surrounding, all surrounding, so distant and lonely.
I
By the river where the little child wept
She skipped stones across the surface of the water
Half-way across the old country it dropped into eternity.
At night the rippled water seems so hard to remove
From the gravel of the shore, gray and black in moonlight.
II
The meteorite ripped the sky in fire
It tumbled into the ocean with a black crater
That quickly dissipated in smaller swells
And this is all that we see
As the marvel falls under the shroud
The mass of the earth is slightly heavier
III
Slowly turning and spinning into decay
Slight hiccups break the white and blue
In the vast oceanic abyss dividing by zero.
The sand speckle floating in the water and drifting like seaweed
All lonely, not healthy, but determined to continue rowing
With an untold number of rowers
Tilling space with hooks and hairs sweeping up the colors in their cloaks.
Skipping across the universe pollen disseminating into giant clouds
Surrounding, all surrounding, so distant and lonely.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
A Dream When I Was a Child
There was a trailer, kind of like the one auntie lives in. Everything was orange and hot. I went in and the carpet was green, or blue, and there was a TV and an oval coffee table, and a mirror, a big round mirror where I looked at myself and I see me although it don’t feel like me, like I was somewhere else with and my eyes, I can’t remember them, but there was a glass on a counter on the side and I tried to pick it up, I don’t know why I did, but it slipped from my hands and shattered on the ground sounding a shrill go up my back, while just then I hear footsteps to turn and find this big man with no hair showing this cone-shaped head and he was up to me and I couldn’t move because he was close to me in an instant like I never knowed it, I just remember he was chocking me with his hands, so it must have been his water and his glass, I broke it and now he was mad at me, and he lifts me up chocking, and I turn to the mirror, I broke his glass, and see myself dying, the water spilled on the carpet, and then I wake up.
I keep having this dream every night. I always try to take the glass of water. I always drop it. The man always chokes me. And I always wake up.
I keep having this dream every night. I always try to take the glass of water. I always drop it. The man always chokes me. And I always wake up.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Faceless Cloudless Entropy
Oh Olivia, you are being rained on
The colors are in rainbow patterns against your backdrop
Pretty enigmatic and foggy hallucinatory hairpins
Plucking the leaves and sweet Olivia from the air
Like meadow larks of pierced holes in stomach spots
Saintly sacrament of Olivia in her bedroom diner
A wine to go down and drink away spots of colors
Above the gloomy ground that we know is certain
And the dark shadows that the post forms
From the light of the television illuminating
Olivia I know you are waiting for someone
To take you away
And Olivia I know you’re in pain
From your bound ankles you shake in sleep
A man who sneaks into your window each night
A new brown breather for every season
The milky white of the walls you painted away
Because of him
Who hid and fled to a prison somewhere
In Mississippi or someplace dead.
May your rhythm spark, Olivia
A winter coat for you
To keep you warm when I don’t
Come through that window anymore.
The colors are in rainbow patterns against your backdrop
Pretty enigmatic and foggy hallucinatory hairpins
Plucking the leaves and sweet Olivia from the air
Like meadow larks of pierced holes in stomach spots
Saintly sacrament of Olivia in her bedroom diner
A wine to go down and drink away spots of colors
Above the gloomy ground that we know is certain
And the dark shadows that the post forms
From the light of the television illuminating
Olivia I know you are waiting for someone
To take you away
And Olivia I know you’re in pain
From your bound ankles you shake in sleep
A man who sneaks into your window each night
A new brown breather for every season
The milky white of the walls you painted away
Because of him
Who hid and fled to a prison somewhere
In Mississippi or someplace dead.
May your rhythm spark, Olivia
A winter coat for you
To keep you warm when I don’t
Come through that window anymore.
Strange People
There are strange people in my house. I’ve met them a five or so years ago and they keep showing up at my house. I do not know what they want. I do not know. But they keep coming from the fringes of highways, rolling lost hills, the crevices of rocks bound to desert sand slowing moving across leaving trails. There is the father. He is lame and an idiot. The mother is foreign. Two daughters. One is gone off to her own devices; the type off girl I need to explain words to, so many increasing in numbers, birthed from a failed system, they are the system, from it they are born like cockroaches. The younger one is downstairs. I bet she sucks cock. Or a lesbian clits. Not particularly attractive, plays basketball, ignores words, a child, not my type. Still dirt accumulates under her fingers leaking to cover her being, maybe leaking from underneath, pure filth from her being, something lurks in her depths. I am worse, nothing to give me away. I play it cool. I am the master. I am worse than them all because everything is under control. Or all under chaos. I am ordered through chaos, the math provides direction that I can delineate, manipulate, transform into shapes that are frightening and alluring. My fingernails sparkle. I don’t speak to them, the family downstairs. They converse with my family. I let them be. All they are is be. When I talk to you; a sign that you are something more than be. Leave that insidious hive you buzz around bees. It wants to waste your body on wasteful stings. Stings the skin and CLAP! I need to leave the house.
The tessellated roads lead to Olivia. I turn my head, when I pass driving, to Olivia’s home. I could hit a car and I wouldn’t care; I’d be staring blankly at Olivia’s house as my blood pours out with consciousness. She is tall and a tight cunt. I get hard for redheads and she was my first. The second I fingered in a studio someplace dead, for the rest I just fuck casually forgetting names that form Olivia. Now I turn my head for the hundredth time and she is not there for the thousandth time. I remember the taste of the hundred tastes. She had the sweetest juice. Her things convulsed and the bed sheets twisted in her hands as I made her come with my tongue flicked her clit in waves and waves and waves. Between her thighs she squeezes my head and messes my hair. That is what I remember the most, the taste, of everything the taste. Besides that she was terrible. She destroyed me. I thank her for that.
I will forget her. Then remember her. Every time she enters my memory the image will be weaker. The time span between remembrances will decrease exponentially as it approaches infinity; when I die she will be the image of death taking me to sleep. I need to get home.
Burial plays on my laptop speakers. The rhythms I write to, I write with this rhythm superimposed onto the rhythm of life. All is life and music lives. The beat and popping sensations like a virgin destroyed or freed and I am with Elena and she massages my spine and my temples and Elena soothes me and Elena rubs my neck and I fall asleep and Elena is there and she sleeps next to me. When I wake up I leave. She dreams of someplace else. Somewhere she is still whole.
I go home and take a shower. The exterior is clean, cleanliness only goes epidermis deep. Why am I so self-deprecating? Deprecation is violent. Ennui needs violence to whisk it away and I commit self-violence to free me from my self-stricken bonds. The modern psychiatrist seeks to cure unhappiness; the common unhappiness of living has become regrettable. How are you so strong? You are such a survivor! They say this and you must exaggerate this in you. Do they know how to deal with masochists? Freud is dead. I’m fine with him being dead, not his complete death where not even the dust of a corpse remains. Happiness is the drug. The medication, a supplement. You will cease to understand yourself as you create a persona you become lost in. What darkness lurks deep? Who are you? These clichés no longer matter, they are all that matters. The only knowledge that matters are self-knowledge as the lama says. Not Chopra, he forgets what is human and his divine emptiness fills to the brim with rainbows, rainbow colored shit. All I need. All I need is to understand. Fuck all else.
I’m reading By Night in Chile and wonder if I was meant to live in those punishing time, those glorious horrible times in a gloriously horrible stretch of land. Meant to, crawling up walls, stone birds perched, ancient texts, Bolano and a priest. Where are you Roberto? Poetry is shit. I write a poem about the night, delete it, empty my recycle bin, 3 am and I am asleep.
Dizzily I fall off my bed and dance across the room. I pour a cup of coffee and sink into my couch, my body falls endlessly into the cushions. I drink the coffee. Sip after sip after sip.
This coffee! This is the greatest fucking coffee I’ve ever had. Oh my god I’m so in love with you, a pleasant smile on, in love all the way. Who wants waffle cones? Why is everything brown and murky so yummy? This coffee is damn good. Warm down my stomach churning, probably looking like shit, another cup and I’ll be pissing every hour. It worries me that days must continue when all poetry in the world can be found in the morning sipping coffee. I must go on now. We all must go on. Hot coffee transforms the essence of being like a penetrating will into the swollen motherlessness of life we hang on like a crutch with our fingers resting on the little edge, to stimulate the world into consciousness until you feel it and I feel it and it comes.
What is it I think of when sipping the mug of light? That the only thing you can trust is your dick, but even that lets you down in the end. You have empty hopes with empty genitalia, you sit up and lean on a wall as a dizzy spell comes over you, in the moment of dizziness you see men with holes in their backs spilling acid, leaving trails that follow them through dead streets that smell like formaldehyde and semen. Semen? Whose Semen? With alcohol breath and raging cocks, they move across blurry lines; this they can count on day to day until time sprinkles it away. Too soon. We have not come far enough and now what is left? The curtains spread, the cunt closes, the door opens, the day scares away night. Here we are awake and in need of coffee to keep from lulling into the certainty of sleep, certain that not waking up isn’t that bad of a thought or half-thought or full contemplation. So we sit on the edge of our seats waiting for the climax to occur, but sex and novels give us the wrong impression of life and the climax never occurs. We sit and sit and sit. All when flags need to be burned and put with the cremations of fathers who first put spots on maps, when abysses need to be danced wildly upon, and when there is still passion at the bottom of cups never finished. Make me move fragile wings I will not fall into numbness again!
The tessellated roads lead to Olivia. I turn my head, when I pass driving, to Olivia’s home. I could hit a car and I wouldn’t care; I’d be staring blankly at Olivia’s house as my blood pours out with consciousness. She is tall and a tight cunt. I get hard for redheads and she was my first. The second I fingered in a studio someplace dead, for the rest I just fuck casually forgetting names that form Olivia. Now I turn my head for the hundredth time and she is not there for the thousandth time. I remember the taste of the hundred tastes. She had the sweetest juice. Her things convulsed and the bed sheets twisted in her hands as I made her come with my tongue flicked her clit in waves and waves and waves. Between her thighs she squeezes my head and messes my hair. That is what I remember the most, the taste, of everything the taste. Besides that she was terrible. She destroyed me. I thank her for that.
I will forget her. Then remember her. Every time she enters my memory the image will be weaker. The time span between remembrances will decrease exponentially as it approaches infinity; when I die she will be the image of death taking me to sleep. I need to get home.
Burial plays on my laptop speakers. The rhythms I write to, I write with this rhythm superimposed onto the rhythm of life. All is life and music lives. The beat and popping sensations like a virgin destroyed or freed and I am with Elena and she massages my spine and my temples and Elena soothes me and Elena rubs my neck and I fall asleep and Elena is there and she sleeps next to me. When I wake up I leave. She dreams of someplace else. Somewhere she is still whole.
I go home and take a shower. The exterior is clean, cleanliness only goes epidermis deep. Why am I so self-deprecating? Deprecation is violent. Ennui needs violence to whisk it away and I commit self-violence to free me from my self-stricken bonds. The modern psychiatrist seeks to cure unhappiness; the common unhappiness of living has become regrettable. How are you so strong? You are such a survivor! They say this and you must exaggerate this in you. Do they know how to deal with masochists? Freud is dead. I’m fine with him being dead, not his complete death where not even the dust of a corpse remains. Happiness is the drug. The medication, a supplement. You will cease to understand yourself as you create a persona you become lost in. What darkness lurks deep? Who are you? These clichés no longer matter, they are all that matters. The only knowledge that matters are self-knowledge as the lama says. Not Chopra, he forgets what is human and his divine emptiness fills to the brim with rainbows, rainbow colored shit. All I need. All I need is to understand. Fuck all else.
I’m reading By Night in Chile and wonder if I was meant to live in those punishing time, those glorious horrible times in a gloriously horrible stretch of land. Meant to, crawling up walls, stone birds perched, ancient texts, Bolano and a priest. Where are you Roberto? Poetry is shit. I write a poem about the night, delete it, empty my recycle bin, 3 am and I am asleep.
Dizzily I fall off my bed and dance across the room. I pour a cup of coffee and sink into my couch, my body falls endlessly into the cushions. I drink the coffee. Sip after sip after sip.
This coffee! This is the greatest fucking coffee I’ve ever had. Oh my god I’m so in love with you, a pleasant smile on, in love all the way. Who wants waffle cones? Why is everything brown and murky so yummy? This coffee is damn good. Warm down my stomach churning, probably looking like shit, another cup and I’ll be pissing every hour. It worries me that days must continue when all poetry in the world can be found in the morning sipping coffee. I must go on now. We all must go on. Hot coffee transforms the essence of being like a penetrating will into the swollen motherlessness of life we hang on like a crutch with our fingers resting on the little edge, to stimulate the world into consciousness until you feel it and I feel it and it comes.
What is it I think of when sipping the mug of light? That the only thing you can trust is your dick, but even that lets you down in the end. You have empty hopes with empty genitalia, you sit up and lean on a wall as a dizzy spell comes over you, in the moment of dizziness you see men with holes in their backs spilling acid, leaving trails that follow them through dead streets that smell like formaldehyde and semen. Semen? Whose Semen? With alcohol breath and raging cocks, they move across blurry lines; this they can count on day to day until time sprinkles it away. Too soon. We have not come far enough and now what is left? The curtains spread, the cunt closes, the door opens, the day scares away night. Here we are awake and in need of coffee to keep from lulling into the certainty of sleep, certain that not waking up isn’t that bad of a thought or half-thought or full contemplation. So we sit on the edge of our seats waiting for the climax to occur, but sex and novels give us the wrong impression of life and the climax never occurs. We sit and sit and sit. All when flags need to be burned and put with the cremations of fathers who first put spots on maps, when abysses need to be danced wildly upon, and when there is still passion at the bottom of cups never finished. Make me move fragile wings I will not fall into numbness again!
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