Ma Chérie,

let's tear the world apart,
bring back bleeding alive a perfect art
that lives for us alone
and (once we're dead)
will settle in collector's homes.

Ulcers

In bile emptiness
I pray to the ages
that they'll rest herein
and restore these pages

from a sinking bed
yellow shrinking
behind shutters

I confess
with folded hands
over bleeding belly
and drift one in
the unrelenting,

voyage
when I forget
who I am
and who I trek with
when I forget
fumbling futures
like one ageless
if I'd stretch
retreating light.

The bleeding sore erosion
lifts me to embark
without limp legs
that'll never move
now,
drift,
shock mellows then fades
into sonorous breath
of woodside roads
off to the numberless.

Fuzz of pined mountains
rolling horizons ...

. . .. . . .

Lionel Johnson Earnest Dowson

Loved poetry to death. Rhymers, dead.
Through stupor,clunking heads
against a hand rail.
Loved

to death. Another's to you two

what did you write?

i don't know yet
but another drink
to you
you all.

G.A.D.

Shock's sprinting
expectations
galore rend hive
head worse spiked
forms penetrate
spine pumping
blood hypes
derranged
lone thumbs
twiddling
sticks
go where
do what
need to know
circuits reving
vessels
sparking
pressure poppers
rolling
in dirt
exposed brain
retreating light
all need'll
all want'll
all desire'll
go with
ending show.

To a Fine Human Being

So much there is; Can't contain it all here,
but on my pen flies and it I won't veer
and stand against my calling for art
though most this age would rip their ears apart
or repeat so in Journals with a scribbling mess.
I'll affirm it, teacher, this music's timeless.
So let's travel back with an inward gaze
and extend the limits of paraphrase:

Twelve years I listened to the dronings on
about chemicals or dates without reason,
remember so many expressionless faces
at lectures too gunshy to make their cases,
ending with the animals roaring in their zoo
while the shaking teacher went 'what to do?'
From here reaching your class, you told us the sum
showing us to our seats, not like a mom
but like one vanquishing dragons within,
mastering a game that always you'd win,
all while joining students on their turbulent turff
in stunning fearlessness and equable worth,
as many that age are no less than Grendel
considered outcasts, up shit creek without paddle;
where a fire'd break out, you'd bring them around
with voice moral and gentle, their actions unwound
and if not--watch out! You'd call 'unsex me here'
sieze a cruel crown and then out they'd clear.
--What a will, but, the dumbest being sages,
you'd soon fight Grendel's mom in email exchanges.
Such shows were the day to day occurance,
and I observed all, if that's an assurance.
Anything between these lines is owed to you,
first to say questing with Rimbaud's the thing to do,
or that you hung out with Morrison, he's one man
of once I said 'I'll follow anywhere I can'
(of how many have I said that since then?)
--and it's true, bearded Jim wins in the end--
and long dicussions we had of that Holy Book
--though a bit faded, as today's freeways are stuck--
and in pinning Cassady's picture to your wall
we wrestled and you brought it down as I recall.
Just as well, though I myself forget some words
between your sparkling room and wine-flooded cupboards;
in it there was much you must of had to forgive,
with blustering teens you know how to deal and live.

All is in flux Hereclitus knows; no more
come through your course, the next pass another's door.
And when you stand before Vienna and Rome,
the Colosseum, arches, Florence's dome,
and any monuments for the existing today
among gellati shops, cycling crowds, buffets,
know in there all turns with the stretching mold
those influenced by you, now out in the world
who live and love with the passing events
and strive to shape their own true monuments.

Looking at You Looking at You

I see you walkin' sideways cap and cap o' seven up;
rollin' in life complete.

lo' i hear thee
msgn them yo peeps of master plans
to task the days with chillin'
we hear thee
bob up and down the night time alley
waving flags
in black of washed out stars
we hear n make of it what we heard
whatever

bob up and down in daylight concrete
near by the mechanized highways
and to you a star is shown
(If you could comprehend)
as more free than even those who look at you
and comment,
in fragmented print.

My Woman Will be Cloaked

Lady,

You chat on; if you'd like to know,
where these feet have treked
between ellum leaf
I'll show you.

I've wrested from God's
claws what is,
From electric star
and such suns
no more consider
what swirls below.

I mean you,
you're the one.

The severed heads of youth
took us away
but, alas, was flightless.

I'll wrap you in burqa leaves
behind my fire,
one of uncivilized meanderings
one of law, sharia, sharia;
my fire fierce of Mullah's blade
which with one false note
will off your tongue!
as you look on,
that much you are aware,
I see.

Penelope,
wait for me, wait,
caged in linen
no matter where I'm going! (don't ask)

I'll return,
sometime, this year?
Next year . . .?

Taper taper taper

[save my work, blog, so I'll dream it out and do no work]


05/27/2009 RIP Kyle Lane one year dead, I've heard nothing else, no indication he's anywhere but gone, his friends have heard only silence after tears

As I can tell, the ground drys with consciousness
no colors, warmth, or calousness.

eh, and so day today winds down to the quick sensation which will be forgotten,
and legs strain the burden,

take the vitamins, check your depression, the doctor prescribes,
but what keeps his words from winding down lickwise?

the day today no memeory, sensation fleeting with all concern.
Legs cramped, sit stand no matter, wander where to my cure?

that we'll meet again inward weeps,
but those moments too are done.

it must be we'll meet again,
shoddy beliefs shown a sham and wishful
thinkers, idiotic louts blind to reality
unfolding, and so i reject.

reject it once and for all
liveout my dying days correct.

but what inside seeks for truth?

is that something sensation only,
but again in asking i'd like to know,
only truth
only truth, returns, drowned in century's vanity,
has it a place now? well there,
there it may once again reside
that i wanted proofs and nothing less,
setting self above sensation.

and what story then do i give myself?
opening possibilities, contagion,
it won't limit itself,
but rises and says
restoration, resurrection, we'll know it's true,
meet again wherever but again

and springing I go toward that goal
with no exertion of my own
legs unhinged, were they ever cramped?
they're too light now,

as toiling workers
all the day, in shops, offices, fields,
look to the end of that shift,
to see daughter, son, wife, husband
and know it's near,

even gladly does the task,
no matter what it is
so long as he live in the truth
of seeing them again, again!

So too, I'll stride
repeating, is it true!?
and pray for a transformation,
a resurrection today in me alive.

Youth

Having youth is little more
than keeping the exit in plain view
beyond to new follies, lead ashore
to lands of hardened jewls.

White Bread

Can we feed a white bread
stuffed head?

Calories never burning
cept in nourishing

how rich
is this?

Too much,
down with poverty
once they said.

Well,
we've paid that price,
the idles, nothing done
down with what,
when will we starve?

--Dear God,
take away from us this day
our daily white bread
stuffed head.