the poets

I must not push my luck.
confidence is great but so is struggle.
ever heard of the caged man learning the face of God?

look at the white mess of the page as a human
creates art and the creatures live
not wanting any of it

but poets are the measles in the crowd. let them
try to bring the words. let them try. let them try.
they could of been a firemen or
a mindless rat fighting a war somewhere.
but
no no! not a poet.
the poets are all emotional babies licking their wounds, man.
they're cowards turning tears into
words.

bunch'a whinos.

who would want to read anything like that?

a lesson

I must know something very well,
that even in the crookedness of a cigarette
it is still a cigarette.
it lights the same way,
and the smoke curls in the same wind.
it is also very clever. pleasure is suicide.
that is the lesson we can learn from the cigarette.

untitled

I begin with the clock moving slowly
across midnight
into the forgotten hour.
it is into my world
where
I do not truly find comfort,
but a means to exist without it in harmony.
I write moving slowly like a symphony
giving much thought as the keys are pressed with
fearful appendages of the human spirit.
I do not have much of anything interesting to write.
I write from the gut of my soul.
inside I hear a heater humming like an engine in a car.
inside I feel not love, or hate, or the strumming beat of a broken heart
but confusion. I do not feel like pacing. I do not feel like struggling. I do not feel like trying.
I am like a dying beast in the meadow crying its aliens sounds.
fear lest I be forgotten.
the ego is great as is self-preservation in the most murderous of souls.
even the suicides long to leave a mark in this world,
for that is why they ended their lives.
arranging these impossible sentences, not trying, it is a miracle
of self-preservation.
would the dying not try in their final moments to remember
all of which was important? one last time before the culling of death?
the human spirit is resilient, I must admit.
but death must come its simple and insidious way,
it is the greatest harmony we know,
to be simple and done with it like the
end of a poem.

3 am again

I think of the writers and
wonder of the struggles. I'm not talking about
the ideas, those come naturally. that's why they're into the
damned thing. what I mean are the distractions.
maybe there is a woman in the other room. or worst, a child.
the typewriter has run out of ink. there is a deadline to meet. readers to please.
a bottle to drink. a cigarette to smoke. a habit to please.
for me, it's the 3 AM virus scan on the computer. a crackling hard drive.
simple ideas and beautiful words come, but in what context I'll place them I do not now.

it is a different time now. modern music is slamming a fist on the piano. proper
punctuation is dead. love letters are 3 letter words and art has finally
run out of ideas.

it has all come down to mediocrity and this is a mediocre poem.

bullfight in an ivory bowl

today
I have read more bullshit than I dare
stomach and have listened to
pricks tell
of all the good poems they've
written.
they never forget to bring
the numbers
as if they'd be something great if they continued.
for whatever reason they have not.
the knife inside has since faded.
they now accept what is. but
they never forget. they never forget
to mention their artistic proficiency like a
bull through the cape. they dance
before the slaughterhouse assault.
I watch their mouths move as
the words come out and their is nothing there.
having now forgiven them I shake for any
extra fluid, zip up, and let the flush
take care of the rest.

impossible

I watch my fingers go deftly
from key to key like a piano
player as I
write another impossible
poem
devoid of common
rhyme and formality.
It has cost me less time and
more soul.

this

word poetry is an insanity
in itself,
it should of been
symphony, endurance, wreckage or
assault,
anything but
poetry.

gambling with coltrane

John Coltrane
Resolution
on LOUD.
I pull out of the parking lot
bar. A Highway Patrol pulls out and
follows.
I turn it up it goes
LOUDER.
alright cowboy, lets play.
a complete stop at the
light.
NO TURN ON RED
it says.
pull forward
he follows.
piano solo soars.
alright mother fucker, you want to play?
GREEN
turn right
onto the freeway
curve at 35 MPH.
I hit
20
30
40
resume.
lets go cowboy, lets go.
I see you behind me
red and blue lights on
faint.
I continue.
turn the left shifter
middle lane.
he turns left as
well.
I'll play your game.
Sax solo,
now it's Coltrane.
he turns to my right lane
halfway
between
slows down then
turns to my left
teasing,
waiting for it all.
I continue, speed to
40
50
65 MPH.
he speeds past to
my right
again.
65
70
80.
he dissolves into the
night.
I'll play your game, but
I wont
lose.
I've now memorized the
front frame crown victoria lights
through my rearview
and
I see another behind me,
thinking they've
fooled me.
I step up to
70 mph and onto
the 8 freeway off-ramp
from the
125.
another follows
close behind.
now it's a bass solo
stringing along it's hard way.
I pull to the right
and off
main and
he disappears too,
off to others not so
lucky.

it is a strange

thing to fall in love
with a
woman
for 10 minutes at a time.
you decide you'll
talk to her
but
you can't do it,
her friend's are there,
she is ordering a drink,
she doesn't like "mexicans",
or even worst,
she is with somebody else.
you're the
coward your ego will not allow.

you turn around and
order a drink.
you're too good for that,
you think,
and to that you take
a drink with great confidence.

you have now decided that
love
is a once-in-a-decade miracle
and that art is the only
pursuit
worth chasing.

you know the word
awaits
like a whore
across the bedspread.
you will see her tonight and
sink into her with great
desire.

she will listen.

how I order my favorite drink

I'll take a martini extra dirty with
double olives,
absolute,
shaken, not stirred.

then for some reason everyone stares.

not so lucky

I remember this one night when I was with
Sarah and Jonathan and Sammy and Rachel.
I was with Rachel and
Jonathan was with Sarah
and we walked around
downtown
thinking we were
lucky.
I saw old men
snoring on the streets
and beautiful woman walking by
in heels
as I pretended they were not there
while I had a woman
under my arm.
It felt empty, like holding onto
nothing,
nothing at all.
the cars drove by and the sleeping bags
kept piling all around me
as I thought of the real
lucky ones.

writers

we like to hear that writers are
often
told what
to create with their inner fire

I will tell you the secret: there is none.

writers chase back and forth
trying to find the word.

are you the word?

they will ask.

they are desperate
like the lover.

a writer will not tell you his greatest secret
of trying.
a writer
in fact,
will not tell you anything at all.

some only speak to nothing.
they will look at nothing
and
they will hold themselves
as the greatest challenge to conquer.

the ones that try find that their
is no challenge.
they are better off
doing something else like
falling in love
or filling the empty space
with nothing
at all.

it is the ones that surrender that
move on to entertain the
masses.

but what they don't understand
is that they began
to
stay away from them
in the first place.

but what no one seems to
understand
is why anyone
would want to stay away
from them
in the first place.

day

I leave for work
get in the car
start the engine
put the music on classical.
it's a warm mid-november day.
the birds fly
the traffic rolls along as it always does.
their is rain pouring in some corner of the world
there is a woman reading a newspaper on a bench
but the piano plays on.
like burning fire writing is prolific
it is stupid. stupid.
I listen to a dead man's music
as the world slowly leaves him behind.

these are nights
gutted like a fish
crawling through the edges of my skin
and, please
Oh please... do not forget
loneliness.
it is an art to be lonely,
but a chain to be unhappy and
taken.

the classics

I've listened to them
all.
frank sinatra
miles davis
dave brubeck
john coltrane
thelonious monk
duke ellington
charles mingus
art blakey
ella fitzgerald
louis armstrong
tommy dorsey (before he brought in frank)
benny goodman
count basie
and If I've missed one,
please forgive me,
I did not have time to name them all.
and I know you are all in your graves
and
tonight I gracefully dig you
to listen to you
once again when life has
itself
dug its own
miserable grave.
except you were anything but,
you were the life in your death that
I never had in
life.
at least not yet.
it's all playing
playing in the backround
as they
begin to bother you
questioning
what exactly it is that you're
doing.
it's all so strange to them
too.
and I don't blame them;
they don't know where I am
(I don't know either)
frank sinatra plays
another song
and life
prevails.

the gray moon

love prevails in all these strange
places
I almost can't seem to
understand
it anymore.
it's all so strange to me.
like,
you can lay listening to
frank sinatra
ages behind on your time
and
wonder why it does not go in your
favor.
and then you blame fate for it
all.
and you take a drink.
smiling, knowing that the moon
is ages behind on its time too.
except it has no love.
no rythm.
just the gray dark
emptiness
of it all.

all of it

I think it's all part of some grand
majestic plan
all of this:
yes
you and me
and I
and them
and they's:
all of them.
the man in the bistro
the man in the bar
the man in front of the screen
writing away
into some
estranged world
it's all part of some grand majestic
plan
all of this
this poem
this night
this moon
this galaxy far far away.
it's all the same old shit
these words,
their are 36 of them in the alphabet and
millions and millions more of different colors.
the
stray cats and
the
hot brass trumpets and
red hot saxophones on a 12 bar solo
play into the night too.
it all makes sense as much as the
end
of this poem
this night
and all of that other
stuff
in between.

spirit

the word finds itself
often
as love brims and
blossoms at the edge of a rose
dancing in the fiery
sunlight of a day gone
wild
wild with love
gone
free
love is free and is so is the
spirit and
mine as flown away
far
far away into
the wind.

welcome

this is my world,
this is where I run on empty.
where the lights brim with courage and
the music playing is vivaldi,
a cello concertino in G minor.
a word
is carefully written and
brushed like a painter.
a medieval cannon is loaded
FIRE
FIRE
across the world.
the ship is the captain and the
captain is the sailor.
the word is cast and so is the curse.
the night goes hours past
midnight.
sometimes days
sometimes weeks
in front of the screen
once more I watch the clock move.
I am not unhappy,
In fact,
humor is my companion,
wont you come on board?
tonight
I'm a one-legged pirate and
tomorrow I'll be a serial killer or a
suicide

warrior

this pain is like an army
coming from all sides
like a warrior fighting in all
directions against
different shapes
with
odd colors and sharp edges.

sometimes I wait for the night to begin my
transformation into something,
anything,
to deal with it all.

I become impatient at the clock nearing into the night.
why can't it come sooner?

it is cold, it is cold tonight.
the radio plays something uninteresting.
the drink is too sour
the drink is too sour.

I take it in anyway and it hits me
like a hot flash.
there are no cigarettes left to kill me.

the piano on the radio plays something happy. it is
a terrible mix. I think of a whiskey sour.

why can't it be so easy
but too easy
to off oneself?

it is very simple,
possible
too simple.

nobody likes a crybaby much
less a coward
and
nobody remembers a suicide after
too long anyway.

so I'm not gonna go that way baby,
at least not yet.

I'll stay and fight,
I'll stay and fight.
it's all black and white, and
sometimes I've gone blind
and my soul is in between the balance
of confusion
lost
and
fith.

I live in the moment
of this.

it's 2008 and there are
not many
left
of us.

I would like to think
that they all
live
behind closed doors: but this is when
mediocrity begins to take over.

progression
will
finally runs its course.

a new era comes.

a black president. a black president scares the whites and
the conservatives
alike.

it scares the shit out of them.

the black will take us over,
they say.
the arab
the muslim
the un-american
the not--
american ENOUGH.

watch their faces go pale. their fear
and anger ignite
alike as
the political caravan
goes in 2009.

he smiles like a sword
and excites.

Miles Davis, Duke Ellington, Monk,
and Frank Sinatra would of
startled
and smiled
alike.

when it has all
gone.

there is nothing left but
the judgement
of time.

there is no finality.

in all fairness, there is no use in turning
and
thinking of it all.

there are no planes sailing in the ocean,
no velvet rain,
and even tears seem useless,
or sometimes they do not come at all.
blame masculinity
blame time
or do not blame
anything
at all.

blame my inability to finish this poem.
the radio plays.
and I have nothing
else
good to say.
if it was ever good at all.

all right,
lets get down to it.

the drinking,
the poems,
the line,
the way.

it's all the same old shit.

and like I've said before,
I do not apologize for this.

you can call it the
song of the universe or
the most terrible
poetry.
(if you can call it that)

I have not starved.

I have not written a classical symphony,
I have not even written a
decent
poem about flowers and
sunshine and love.

I have
NOT !
gone beyond
my means in this world
of
"Jazz"

but make no mistake of it.
there is an embrace for passion and for this
I toast a drink to all the martinis in the world.

I have watched the man attempt love at the
corner of the bar.

I have read the book and
set it down.

I have sorted the ideas from
the past,
over and over again and
questioned their true meaning.

fuck you

marty marty,
why did she leave you?
because you're a fucking ASSHOLE!
that's why.
hey FUCK
you man, it's not my
fucking
fault.
it is,
it is.
all you wanted to do was FUCK
FUCK
FUCK
how many fucks is that?
3!

hey man can I have a cigarette?
FUCK YOU.

never enough soul

I have a thing for writing strange and
unusual things.

God created many of these.

some souls were condemned, born to be strapped and injected
with death.

some were sent to fight wars,
cowards were chosen to write about them
far away from it all

brave and fearful never created a decent art

I've once watched my car get towed
by the cops, all that soul caged for
thirty days and nights for 1,300 dollars.

I have continuously questioned my curiosity, sometimes starving in defeat,
my confidence strained,
fighting the word for its meaning
in a wrestle through the dictionary

I never had much drive to do what had to be done in my younger years
or that intelligence or the leadership
that needed to be had.
just arrogance.

tonight I wish to redeem that: I am
NOT
the all-knowing.

I repent. I repent.

I could of done better, of course.
but I don't have a good excuse for that, or a good reason. I blame no one for my starving curiosity
to be great.

politicians interest me for a control of power. the need to be heard,
a growing flower in the sun,
a star in the sky,
a leader to crucify

I have stumbled through many nights,
I've read the kings over and over.

I exaggerate and
rupture in the hot sun.

I am
space dust evolved on the planet earth.
I've read myself and cringed.

I've looked and harped
IMPOSTER IMPOSTER!!!

I have strange and unusual things
to say.

but never enough

above my head

I opened this book by Keoruac and
could not understand it.

I closed it and
set it down.

the meaning was too great for me.

I turned up the radio and stared at nothing, I
liked that a lot better.

I opened it again tonight and gave it another go,

struck
down
again.

I think of throwing the kitchen sink at it.

-no no, that's stupid.

I stare at it,
defeated.

I gingerly flip through the pages:
16,
48,
100.

sigh...

I set it down
again.

it now stares at me at night before I sleep
with little or no meaning
at all.

well shit

I don't know many more calls
how many old
helpless ladies
and men
I can help before insanity
ensues

more empty faces sent to the
slaughter as another
phone rings,
another transfer
another night
gone right
sometimes terribly wrong

(the holidays are always the worst)

but the phones still ring and
the people still call and I'm
often left with this pining for the first
word

they tell us the economy has gone bad,
but how often does the average american really understand what's
going on?

this overtime is killing me,
but they say their is a bigger gain on the paycheck.

I dream of moving down into the city

I want to live in a loft only blocks away from the Jazz club.
I want to see the beautiful woman pass me by, unattainable and
blessed by the Gods. Just one more piece of ass gone to waste. I dream of a loft with high ceilings and a balcony, I dream of a wine cabinet full of good wines from foreign countries, I dream of living on the 15th floor. I dream of frank sinatra filling the loft with his song and drinking that fine wine.
but you can't forget the martinis,
extra dirty with double olives: Vodka, Absolute.
I dream of the tiring elevator ride to the 15th floor, hearing that classical music playing and knowing what it is. I dream of seeing all the big buildings towering beside me, I dream of seeing Spider-Man swinging by for a drink.
I dream of playing jazz in the clubs once a week, I dream of nobody showing up, just a hopeful brown-eyed soul.

dreaming is an ordinary idea caught in an
unordinary world.

at night

the depression stings like a bullet,
like a bee flown drunk into a venus

no form of therapy
no pill
no woman
no soul
could ever cure me of this
disease

I was chosen for this
as I have for many of other
discreprencies,
an incumbent drunk and
enraged maniac could not be any different

I've often felt angry and misplaced for
little or no particular reason.
wild-eyed and crazed I've searched meaning when
there was none

instead
I found less and less
tonight as I think of the ghosts
in the graves.

to the two asians in my world

honey please,
I came here to listen to jazz and
not to talk to you

there wasn't another seat
available
so I had to sit next to you
and your friend.

forgive me,
but my martini was extra
dirty and the double olives tasted
better than the cranberry vodka you were enjoying.

after you left,
I finished your friend's
drink and your drink too
for
that matter.

I could tell you from from UCSD,
Congratulations.

is this the first time you've ever listened to Jazz?

so many blank faces, I wonder why they are even here at all.

I don't claim to be the elite or the all knowing,
in fact
I know very little if anything at all

but I do know that the song they were playing was Caravan
after the 2nd measure and
that it was written by Duke Ellington and Juan Tizol

in the end I had three empty seats,
a candle,
a table,
2 martinis,
and one hell of a drive back
home

ah hah!

the pidgeons lie dead in the gutter and
the homeless remain
alone and loveless
on the streets.

the philosopher's are dead and religion is not so far behind.

it's 10:34 PM in 2008 and
I can't find a 24-hour drive-thru liquor store.

there are an equal number of writers and
first-daters in starbucks
than there are all the ibooks in the world.

be patient,
be patient like the tiger and let it create you

go into the bookstore,
open a book
and gently set it down

call yourself an artist or a writer and
you're really going to fuck it up for yourself

I am respectful,
I am respectful of all the flowers and the tree's and the woman
in the world.
I respect the old men watching them, and
in their case as in mine they needn't find it necessary
to look any further.

It is now 10:53 and tomorrow I'll be in the jazz club

yup

a real fucking intellectual...

I have to tell you,
vyrna took green tea pills
to keep her figure, she thought
she could shit it all out in the morning

sometimes she liked to fuck in front of a mirror
and her eyes would roll
behind her skull and she would say
some remarkable if not
unusual things

5'9 , platinum blonde hair

her mother was crazy.

she was a biker and a pot smoker
and completely in love
with Jesus.

anyways,
a few months later it all ended and
I was OUT a girl and IN a
terrible job doing
tech support

oversexed and uninterested
I quit
and 3 months later I found myself
doing the same old shit.

I'm scared of this page
shit,
I'm terrified.
I can't write
what am I doing?

I can't do most other things,
so I try
again and again.

I image the woman of
the past.

in your case as in mine
I find confidence
a
difficult task to obtain

I take a drink knowing the confidence
will come soon

this world's youngest writers could not
be so cursed by such
mediocrity

modern caravan

in the romantic battle for love
the souls of many good men have been left for dead.
the romantics
and the gents
who died with the age of
battleships.

the men in suits
drinking their martinis
have all gone fishing
in the wind.

the time well-wasted,
the calls and the voice mails,

the loveless drinking in their
downtown street corners
have
watched them all go by
with their new girls

drinking in a jazz club
alone
with all the blank faces
I wonder why they are even here

the beautiful thing about jazz is not knowing
what's next

and that's dangerous in a modern time like this...

autumn air

There is something interesting in the autumn air.
It's those high school football nights on the green grass,
it's the young fillies on the benches of love,
it's the loss of innocence and broken pink,
it's the hot brass from the horns on the track,
it's the flaring egos on the field,
it's the loss of a girl you once called yours,
it's the five dollar game tickets at the door,
it's the dreary college life ahead
it's a job
it's the girl that came back
and the air that kept you cool afterwards

a letter to self.

I'm at the stoplight on Jackson and the 8 freeway.
I'm shitfaced,
he's shitfaced.

Guy in a convertable
"WOO-HOO I"m having a fucking awesome time!!!!!!!!"
"That's great Pal!!! congratu-fucking-lations!!!"
there's a cop on the other side of the stop light.
"LET US FUCKING GO HOME!!" he says
"WOO-HOO-HOO-HOO!!!!" he says

I laugh, pull up my windshield, tune up the classical
and think of the nights sweet victory.

I will wait five days, and I will call her and ask her for a date.
and this asshole will get a DUI and I will go home because for once,
my luck as turned, yes, tonight
I am the luckiest man on fucking broadway.
CONGRATU-FUCKING-LATIONS!!!

Love,
The Jazz Man

way to break a wound old pal
now you're here and you're at it again.
Jesus Christ,
could you not learn the first time around?
the second?
the third?
that memory bites,
but only temporarily.

Good Call.

better remembered forgotten

I must confess that
those deep blue eyes reminded me of that Frank Sinatra charm
that so deeply captivated me on those lonely nights.
like fire,
it burned into me.
those eyes beamed and smiled and
charmed,
how could it of been so unusual, when typically it's been usual.
one deserves better, I assume.
but the kind go with their kind,
and being as I am,
classy,
I have begun to lose when I never learned to begin.

whiskey sour

love is not so easily found as it is forgotten;
crushed sweetly to its bitter end.

I see her smile
but it's really for somebody else
she will go home with somebody else

it is the inherent fate of the universe, I assume
love crushed sweetly through the soles of the gods

and I will be sitting there,
my fate
my drink,
wishing that I was anywhere but here;
that tonight, like all nights
was not my night
and like fate and love
it will all be forgotten by the end of it all
like the bitter-sweet taste of this marvelous whiskey sour

lets give it all tonight

fate has not been good enough to me
I haven't been good enough for fate

I'm confused

am I a poet or a maniac or neither?

am I suicidal?

fate has not been good enough for me to be suicidal

fate is fate

and suicide is suicide

tonight I should be dead

ceased of existence

and gone forever

that is my biggest secret of all

and now you know

it's not a poem
but a statement

and tonight if only I had a gun I would end it all
because that's the best way to go
there has never been any other way to go

love is a hurricane

love is like the burning of a cigarette on the side of the highway

forgetting is like driving back and looking for it

but you won't find it....
(you look anyway)

merciless love is like the beginning of a bad poem

not enough heart
not enough soul

love is like the rehearsing of a line over and over again

love is like a hurricane
and we all know how that one goes...

love is confidence and so is writing
but only after you've had a good drink...

love is the thicket
love is in the air
love is not here
not today
tomorrow

or the day after that

woman theory

woman do what they want
because they can get away with it

but if you're involved
and she does it then she has lost all
respect for you

and that
my friend
is the worst thing of all

this is where I release

this is my unpredictable shit hole
of relief

I was born this way.
I was self-raised this way.
I AM this way.

I thunder my ignorant words: passions fueled

I carry less than the day before as you carry more the day ahead.

I shit and I shit and I shit and I write and
it feels so indescribably the same-IT'S INSANE
I can't handle it, it fuels and it breaks
and it burns and it fires through the flames
that run through the veins
IT'S INSANE
It's stupid it's immature to stand
to the ledge but it's the fury inside that
pushes us to pitty you... do not pitty me.




it's a clean slate....an angsty slate

beautiful page

beautiful page
only you know my true behavior
only you smile the white of the Gods
only you bask in your glory for the poets
of dreamers and dreamers beyond

you created the poets
the songwriters
the screenwriters
the authors
the word
the phrase
the line
the way

and the madness beyond
all of that within

destittue

let fate rear its ugly head towards the beginning
have I been missing my roots?

I sink faster than famous destitude
love run dry from the well of hope
invulnerable heart you must come true
temporarily have you been there
not so long enough for me
not so long enough for them

I am destitute

forgotten
laid waste in the chasms of space
butterfly with ashed wings
spear me of hope
a given truth
of love to not be truth
and all beyond such

I lay waste a gnome of
ashed spirit and
destitute love and library
memories

i am destitute
of love and fiery beginnings
and inetivable ends

burn me cigarette of your
cancerous glory
a touch of death so
easily welcomed by the desperate;
give me wings to fly
away from my
none
spirituality
a winged of a class act
and I smile upon fate
like a maniac smiles upon
the walls of genious

I am destitute

sealed up virgin waiting
to bleed once again
I am here for you
destitution
genious glory and
love of nothing
absolutely nothing at all
and precarious fate

tugging at the tracks and the heart strings

on
a trip back to San Diego
from L.A. to S.D.
missing writing - missing nothing
missing a good woman (missing nothing their either)

I must find me a woman I say
I must hatch me a master plan (while I have time)
but their is no master plan

no scheme
no agenda

all the reasons have
all been bad
and repeatedly
unnecessary

I look around to
nothing thoughts and
nothing people

the rivets are making love
the tracks are making love
the embryotic train cars carry
the dead
and I'm just one stop away
from coming back home

I met a Michelle Pfeiffer

her eyes smiled like plumes and
turned my stomach like roadways

soul slipped like a banana.... yes a fucking banana

heart fluttering like a feather
like a bird
like a vulture

like a flying species
from above the earth
she flew away
blonde hair
tattoos
green dress
and everything
till I had nothing
left but her loss and a
rotting banana peel.

what's on my mind you say?

well...
by now,
I've probably killed all my exes and
buried them
somewhere. (I'm kidding)

let go off the edge because
that is as good as you are going to
feel until you
hit
the bottom of the
canyon.

some truth we can both
rely on.

finishing up the drag

listening to Frank Sinatra recordings from
1939 to 1942
at end of my endurance
I near my 100th poem

what a fucking miracle, I tell you

it's been a great journey through the night baby, so
thanks for sticking by

but before this song is over I want
to tell you that
not much has changed

the nights are still lonely and
the love has been
coming around
since February of 2006
(same reason I started in the first place)

and the voices haven't changed either,
Frank Sinatra with
Tommy Dorsey and Count Basie
have been playing from their
grave for years now

the bone trombone and
skinny trumpet have shaken this
soul to the edge of vibrato

Dean Martin has the crowds fickle
as I dream of a time
when he would ascend the grave
and say: "hey baby-o, don't worry bout' the dumb broad!"

Yea Dino, but can you believe it though?
I'm almost there, poem 100 and
all I have to do is find a way to finish and be
done with it.

"the ultimate mystery is one's own self" says Sammy Davis

yeh tellmeaboudit!

but listen,
you think I can make it?
the hell you can!

cat

HELLO again.
I am here! yes, come on in...

would you like a drink?
of course you would...
mind my manners!

the radio is playing on high and
it fills this chamber in full baroque.

today a cat came inside,
little beads curious
as the shifting skull

I offered him a drink but
he didn't understand.

he listened to
Shubert, Brahms, and Tchaivovksy
tonight

I turn around.

I see you there, watching me.
come on little buddy
we both know you're full
of it.

what do you mean I'm full of it?
how about you shove it pal.

noose

when the eyes meet
in that small divided second they
smile, cry, and love:
history written in pools
of liquid

they've laid together and
fought the great fights and
sailed through
the romantic moments
moments often
needed as
chores after the
love has gone dry like
rose pedals in their final moments

crushed
rose pedals, loveless, dry
captured in the diaries of the past

agony bears existence for the willing
and this noose only
grows tighter
with time

waiting line

the night has
opened it's burning
chasm and I am here again
standing furiously on
the edge of its fiery inferno
cutting through
flesh
I am
here:
deadlier than all of the
demons of hell
as I am chosen for
them
I am
here:
braving through
the rivers and flames
and battling all the
great battles of the soul
I am here:
tearing at the chains
of my foundation
being the chosen
unchosen
in line
with poets
from babylon
to portland

driving in the middle lane

I'm driving 63 in the middle lane
in this lazy hot sun and you
should pass me;
I'm uninterested in your
mundane urgency and
ordinary thoughts

crushed feathery
creature on the road
how did you die so?
tire-tracks in oil, cut deep through
the bone and skull,
beautiful.

the sun beams its image on
this hot earth
and life above

two cars pass the
divider

a bmw and a honda

life is urgent and death is nearer

I don't think they quite understand

I'm just a Mexican driver

the radio

one night I couldn't
stand the silence
so I drove to the
grossmont wal mart

drove out with
gas at 4.57$ a gallon

walked inside

brought a radio to the
counter

how are you?

God Damn...

it's like being asked
if I've found Christ.

good, good, I lie

I guess she didn't hear me

I walk back to the car
key in keyhole
engine

drive home

unpack the radio
turn on the radio
will not pick up
Jazz 88.3

got pissed
almost through it
out the door

then turned it to
the next best thing,
classical,
something about Haydn
playing his orchestra for a king
for 9 hours straight
(this was before radios and unions)

an 8 piece

late at night when the sun has come down
and the moon rules
above I am often
left with
my dreams and
this insatiable fantasism that
runs through the pores of the
skin
and the brain
and the heart
and the soul and
then finally to through the
wrists
for its final form.
and when the night has come down
and the woman love others
often
I turn to this
radio and listen
to it machine
away a beautiful melody
written in 1825 by a 16 year-old
named Mendelson.
a boy with grit,
soul, and
guts.

you know what baby,
I thought about writing this poem
once, twice,
even three times.

it was bad, real bad
because I've been drinking
drinking
drinking
that's the funniest part of all.
as I'm listening to Monk. Thelonious Monk.
Blues-influenced Jazz musician. how I love the pressing of the keys.
how I wish I was there, on 52nd street in New York.
with my people.
often I think even then,
even in the mecca of my being,
I would be sad. eternally sad.
after love has run dry, I'll be in the flower of my blooming
decaying.
dead.

that's how it is.

Louis Armstrong plays now,
"A Kiss to Build a Dream On"
you know, this might not be fantastic.
but it's the mecca of my being.
my soul.
a memoir.
a memoir of my being.
this crazed soul statically running through
the walls of this eternal imagination
run dry.
run dry.

dreaming of it

we'll be in the car and
she'll smile and pin up her hair.
"yeah baby! lets go!"
and we'll go.
we'll drive somewhere.
somewhere wild.
lightning in her eyes
with a road map on her lap.
"lets go here!" she says
pointing into the wild.
"yea, sure baby, sure"
and I'll drive, one hand on the
wheel, as if the Gods had spared me.
I'll watch her, giddy on the leather seats.
almost too beautiful to describe, she is.
but I deserve her, I think.
she'll watch me drive and I'll be tough, I think, Real Tough.
"what's on your mind baby?" she'll say
"nothing baby, nothing"

Sharon Olds

I couldn't do this anymore...

looking at this book of poetry
brought
some great fatigue.

I put it book down and decided
to wing it myself.

not that she was
a bad poet, but she re-affirmed all
the reasons why I never liked
female poets in the first place:
couldn't relate.

it's neither her fault or mine. it's
one of those strange
cheats of fate.

that and I don't have a vagina.

complex form

you couldn't possibly
BELIEVE
it

but this:
it's
always been
here
in it's
simple
form.

It's
changed
throughout
the years
but it's
always
been here

you couldn't
possible
BELIEVE
what the fuck
I am
talking
about.

this offers
very
little
vision
(if any at all)

the easiest
poems to
write are
the ones
about
writing

com
ple
xi
ties?

you want it?
you should check out Robert Frost.

and then
I think,
Jesus,
not an
original
thought
to my name,
because often
I feel cheated
by the writers
of the past.

I'll pace back
and forth in my room and think:
THOSE MOTHER FUCKERS! THEY STOLE IT ALL!
THEY WROTE EVERYTHING!
THEY LEFT ME WITH A BARE SOUL!
THOSE MOTHER FUCKERS!

then I read and I feel tamed by
their wild words. I'll sink
back and bear my soul
for a penny less than
they ever did.

it's 12:42 with joe

how sweet it was in its short return, joe. how sad and sweet, desperate and vulnerable in its last minutes. this is love,
vulnerable, vulnerable
it's insecure, in a box like a crab in its shell. It's desperate, lke the rim of a cigarette to the filter. like frank sinatra on warm summer nights in 2006, 2007, and 8. like the madness in the walls, all painted white, this is love, this is love
smiling that cary grant smile is that
cool and coy dean martin confidense
martini in hand, cigarette in mouth
spilling into the air, shades of darkness in his eyes as
the music plays
this is love, joe! this is amore
closing his index finger and thumb
pinching the air in that cool crooner style.

this frank sinatra song playing,
"You're Driving Me Crazy!" recorded in 1963 with a mistake. a screw up. yes
even the giants of time past made mistakes, the king of class. and you see the problem with poetry in all its complexities is that it has no humor. no class. as I sit here typing this shit with my greatest jack nicholson smile. thinking of my favorite philosopher who lives in a pineapple under the sea.

lunch break

walk inside this Chinese restaurant,
one of these family-owned places,
you know: smiley face bags with "THANK YOU" all over, fortune cookies
real Chinese at the grill.
the whole enchilada.
Middle-aged Chinese lady
at the counter.
I look down at a business card for real-estate,
I look up,
It's her.
Can I have the Mongolian Beef?
Yea, Shore.
fried rice or white?
fried.
I pay, sit down.
An 8 hour old is trying to make up time with the old man.
"We'll come back here again because this place is good, they have good fish" he says.
the kid's feet dangle like noodles
eating noodles.
"I like baseball" he says
"Oh yea, why do you like baseball?"
"your food is ready"
yea, thanks.
back in my acura,
drove 5 minutes back to work
up the flight stairs
into the break room
I open the fortune cookie:
"You are going to have a new love affair."

coming around

several years ago I had it with a brunette,
it was the best love had to offer. a year after that I tried it
with a blonde, she fucked me well, and
my best friend after that. I tried it with a redhead, a poet, her
writing was worst than mine. had professional differences.
got the fuck out of there.
I tried it with a budding model, tan skin, black hair.
one night I was at a house party
and I invited her over. out of dumb luck, the house was where an ex lived.
she pulled in and thought it was a joke,
came crashing through the
door like rambo
in high heels.
looked around,
ex boyfriend, new boyfriend.
fire in her eyes.

raw luck.

never saw her again.
I tried it with a married woman from Chicago, married to a marine.
was trying to get even with fate(she thinks she's a model too).
She got divorced, flew back to
Chicago, and sends me pictures now and then.
I still thought of my brunette.
I tried it with an artist. worst than the redhead,
easier on the nerves. got lost somewhere in Santa Barbara and
never wanted to go back. bad in bed, bad at love, and worst at art.
too much ambition. not enough life.
came across another blonde- no soul there- too much life.
fell in love with a mermaid at best buy. no luck there.
lost sanity in May,
wrote life in its raw form and
came back around sometime in June.

long lost is our hearts and men

I couldn't believe it, I had fallen for it again. this love
and lost probation teaches us nothing.
the male ego is a most fragile creation! what great
sense of humor God must have to throw
the hearts of men into the beastialities of an amazon woman.
how dare you hang us from our necks! alive and burning in our hot skin
to the touch of the female flesh as spears so deftly pierce our hearts.
the gents of time past were commanding and
chivalrous, rising to the call of a distressing maiden.
now the maiden is her own defendant: she can do it herself

pepper spray
femenism
and a bad case of oprah

the great bravado

it has to be the confidence that must give the writer his bravado. it could be a bad case of insomnia. alcoholism. bad woman. bad luck.
they read a book and now they want to become be a writer (but often give up on the first chapter) the first sentence, the first line into their infinite immortality.
it's the verse
the engine in the machine
the pyramid in the sky
the walk through the darkness in the all inclusive universe of it all.
intimate poetry is for intimate people. depressing is earthly.
suicidal is just outright crazy.
It's a habit that can't be broken. it must not broken. it is all we have left
to move forward in this generation of ours.

the works

fuck it
she can have him,
his soul as unoriginal as hers
they can fuck themselves to sleep
over and over again:
the soulless with the soulless.
she'll flounder like a flower and
their knees will scrape through the sheets
like
tectonic plates as their worlds collide; earth below them
and hell further than that.
they can have it all.
the world is my symphony
the word is my company
I'll fuck it
day and night
sometimes
sober
(most of the time not)
the nights will thunder with great fury and
I'll be here,
accentuating the lightning from the fire
oceans amongst oceans
seas amongst seas
hells amongst heavens
the soulless against the soulless

I'm not going to lose this one, promise

I started writing this love
poem about you
not
so long ago
and I
I often twitch at
the thought
of writing
the word
"love"
but
then again the word
"dating"
wouldn't
work so very
well
either.
it's so complicated
between you and I:
you're
"confused"
you say,
but
I know better than
that. I might not be
George Clooney but
I certainly know
better.
anyways, I finished that
poem and it was rather good
but when people showed up
they interrupted me and it
somehow vanished by the pressing
of the keys on this keyboard; my 6th symphony.

I sat there, mesmerized,
thinking of you as I lay
picturing the electricity that lights up those eyes.
what beacon of hope you might be giving to some poor
soul as I sit here writing, trying to think of a way to
write you away into the night.
I'm a crab lost at sea,
a ship sailing through the thunderstorm,
a bird holding strong on the powerlines.

what a hot summer day

I might write like Bukowski, Celine, Hemingway, or like any other
depressing
alcoholic
suicidal maniac,
it comes with jack of the trade.

Michael Buble got away with singing like Frank Sinatra and
so did Sarah Vaughn too. So why can't I?
we're so much alike,
Buble and I.
rising from the ashes of our fallen Gods we kindle
the flames of the unoriginal verse once again.
the same words
the same lines
the same 12 bar blues.
Christ, couldn't you write your own shit Michael?
but that's OK. the Jazz standards do that to you, and it's unique that
way. no other style of music covers itself over and over again as much as jazz-
no other style of music plays the most original works of improvisation either.
but you see
Jazz is dead and so is
Bukowski
Celine
Hemingway
and that leaves me with this terrible sadness as I
sit in a lawn chair next to their graves sipping a lemonade on this hot summer day.

hiding in the cubicle

hiding in a cubicle

I always seem to be hiding from something:
the police at the intersection with their red and blue lights
sirens,
crown victorias on the
freeway,
streets and DUI checkpoints.

If I saw an ex I
would jump in a dumpster.


I'm at work and I'm hiding again.


the boss runs up and down the aisles and
I should be anywhere but here, on some beach in malibu writing
some bullshit novel (this has to end soon)

the waves crashing on the shore, lots
of red wine and a black porche carrera parked in the driveway.

the boss runs up and down the aisles and
I don't think it'll be much longer she sees this bad habit so
I'll end it here, not a faboulus ending, but I have a call on hold.

another love poem

you might think I'm crazy, waiting to tie the straight
jacket around me. I am a romantic, you might think.
too emotional,
entangled with thoughts that
often run like blades through the neck;
red velvet viscosity dripping like shampoo to
disentangle the fragilities of a broken heart.
the red pools flow through the edges on the floor
as the wingless fly through the cathedrals of my mind. they
break through like the deflowering of your first love and their is a riot,
a riot like I've never seen before. the windows break, the races collide, and
the police will never cut through the flesh of these wrists(and neither will I)
There is nothing now, just remains of the broken,
flesh, bones, newspapers, glass
the coherence is like the rubble and there are even pieces of this tin garage. like
Salmon I write under this pressure, the typing
less remorseless
less order
less love to work under and a
woman less than all of that combined.

NO TURN ON RED

Driving home on a Sunday
afternoon
25mph (trying to conserve gas)
blasting count basie at
the stop light.
It says: NO TURN ON RED
I see a patrol car in my rearview,
not today officer.
you see I just fixed my break lights
and my car is far too clean for the tow yard.
the patrol car drives by as
the birds conquer the power lines.

at the bookstore

I walked into the book store and worked my way into
the poetry section.

Bukowski
Frost
Cummings

Mary Angelou (I once dreamed of sailing her poetry in a fiery ship
through the hudson river)

Other nights I've had nightmares.

Over my shoulder, a beautiful
brunette
skillfully goes from
book to book
pretending
to be into some newfound interest.
maybe she does yoga and has a small dog
named bubbles and a boyfriend named matt

she avoids me.
I pretend not to care.

many many others in that
poetry section

others
who have gone insane and
smiled upon death
few who have wormed
through the walls of asylums.

"I'm a genius!" they yell.
how damned RIGHT they are!

the sky
the flowers and
the earth
beneath them

these poets have
used it all.

All the Paris and Romes and
many many Greek Gods

They wrote the whole damned universe.

I sneaked a look at
her legs but
quickly
turned
away

wouldn't be fair for matt.
what dogs men are, I thought.

no need to mention bubbles.

a few minutes later I found myself reading a
book about love and relationships.

I got the fuck out of there.

flowing with the tide

it's a miracle that I'm able to sit here and
flow with the tides once more

I wouldn't want it to be any other way

it shakes the frame of my foundation and
entertains me with some untapped wisdom
otherwise
lost in the deep expanses of my mind

not saying that it's very large anyway,
but rather humble
with thimble roadways
and drive-ins through memory lane for
all my single-celled neuron viewers

it's all so confusing and young
and fresh, a deep growing root

this writing:
It's loyal and it
grows and grows past the
roads
highways
moons
stars
galaxies

and the fan spins in silence to the midnight desperation

a letter to sarah

I know it's late and you're probably out with your friends
but
you see
you're on my mind right now and I can't help
but write
other
than send
a less than meaningful text.

but the night is warm
and young
and entertaining
and I sit here
writing
for some strange intentions
that neither you or I can
understand

it's supposed to be that way;
some unfulfilled mystery waiting
to be discovered

I hold the red curtain and
think that maybe
underneath
is something
completely crazy as a
submarine
with torpedos
or maybe even Egypt

wouldn't you like to go some day?

It's almost like a dream,
sitting atop a pyramid

we'll be like the kings of the earth!

and yet the curtain is there
with all its mystery

a parachute to our sky-diving
adventure to the tops
of the pyramids

we'll conquer egypt
for all of its grandeur
above
paris and rome

we'll ride the desert winds
to perfect laughter as we
sail acorss the sahara desert past
yellow sands
and a red blazing
sun

muse

I know you're
out there
and you'll
probably read this
eventually

maybe not today
or tomorrow or
even months after that

but I know you must
check up on me
eventually
out of some
undying curiosity
(since I never make
much of an effort to get a
hold of you, for my own sake anyway)

too much pride
between you and I

and I know
you're probably
guessing it's you

and it probably is you

but that would ruin
the whole fun of it all,
don't you think?

sometimes you have to be a little clever

and a little curious

but whether clever
or curious:
curiosity killed the cat
and the most clever of
all were pretty
fucking insane.

but don't worry,
I haven't gone crazy yet,

well,
maybe I did for a while... but
I'm not that smart.

so before you go,
I want you to know
one thing:

you were
the
biggest
baddest
muse
of
them
all

and
baby,
I dedicate this
to you in your loving memory:

EAT SHIT

fuel

you see
I'm only
20
but I
think
I still
have a
lot left
in me.

the blondes
feed me;
the alcohol
feeds me
and the
moon
feeds me
too.

it's like a
battery
charging my
soul when
it usually
runs on
empty
while
I try to
write a good
line.

but the
blondes
always provide
a quick
run
as well.

they run
desperate
as the lines
get shorter
and sometimes
longer but
they usually
run on
the same old shit.

blondes
full moons
and 5%
alcohol.

idle thoughts

idle thoughts with idle meanings
about love, life, and unavoidable
devastation

idle
idle
idle

all
unavoidable
like stepping on snails on a rainy day
or
kissing in the wind

it's all just an idle thought
about an idle you
and idle me

are you getting sick of that word yet?

you can't possess words
they possess you!

and yet the words and lines
of our time find less and less meaning
as more become dull and art
becomes a bore

the classics are forgotten
and the modern are revered
for them applebottom jeanes
and boots with them furs

we've all forgotten how to be
entertainers for ourselves

are you still reading?

idle
idle
idle

like a pot belly alcoholic
watching Bill O'Reilly

he would of made a great poet

so that leaves me,
filling the libraries of our time
with the blood of a young warrior

what makes you a better writer often is

the alcohol most certainly does not make you a better writer
but it
certainly
gets you through the nights where past love affairs
remind you of days when you danced in the high school dances
singing
into the ear of your beloved sweet honey-haired magen.
or the time when you drove into the middle of nowhere off the 8 east
freeway and fucked your precious blonde blue-eyed-swedish model vyrna.
or the time when you met rachel and you fucked her too;
but it wasn't as great as vyrna or magen(because you weren't really in love)
the alcohol most certainly did not make you a better writer,
it was the woman and the heartbreaks:
these were the people who made you a better writer
and the walls too
they sing in perfect harmony with the punching of the keys
on this keyboard

nobody knows your a genius but you.

the worlds drunks praise you in your terrible good fortune.
the Gods smile in your favor.
bukowski dances in his grave to his successor.
hemingway dances in his grave to his reader.
ee cummings writes past 900 poems in hell where I shall soon meet him.

the alcohol never made you a better writer;
the heartbreaks did
bukowski did
hemingway did
shit
even frank sinatra and ee cummings
and maybe even shakespeare and
miles davis

but the nights are long past 5 am and the alcohol
flows through the channels of my veins (Glenn Miller died in the English channel during world war II)

text messaging

1)was he bad in bed?
2)you have NO idea. nor do you want to, for that matter
but that's the reason we wont work.... just a contributing factor,
1)then you really need a man who can pin you against the wall and drill
his way into perfect ecstasy ---
i'll give you a fucking workout tonight after my show.
2)that's about what it's going to take to get that post breakup taste out of my mouth... Lol...
2)he was just too immature, i'd like a boyfriend, not a teenager to babysit.
1)FUCK all that shit, i'm neither.
and neither was he and maybe not the guy after that.
1)i'll call you when I'm home.
2) ok

and drilled he did
until he struck oil in the texas of dreams

just a thought

to the coupled to the sad to the happy to the whores to the drunks to the poets to the drunks to the dead to the living to the poor:

the dogs of hell will eat us all

hell

take me to my
my stone temple palace
in hell

look below :
see hundreds
upon hundreds
of beautiful Swedish blondes

see chains
on their wrists
and necks
and ankles

demon dogs
with spiked collars and everything

it's all redder than hell

flowers of their innocence
sway in the fiery inferno

I overthrew hell
and now there's a5 piece
jazz band playing some miles davis shit

It's too red in here,
lets make it black and blue

yes,
we'll put up a sign
"Under new management"

lets put up a some bars and give the
drunks alcohol and the stoners pot
and the rapists woman and the killers the living

lets dump the pitch forks for
dark alleys and starving cats

and more and more alcohol

we'll all be drunk in hell

to the living:
you're all missing out

empty

it's all quite shitty really
living in this negative world
with so little positive

it's a miracle we're all still alive
to wake up in the morning

to which we have so little to offer

it has even less to offer us

what a joke.

it's a fucking gamble

you either make it big
or you don't

and though this sounds negative
it really isn't

maybe it's cynical
but it's not

maybe I need Jesus
I say he can go fuck himself

arms pillows legs dreams

it isn't all real

we're all just pieces within
pieces of atoms
with no gods
hopes
or dreams

just pieces of ourselves
within the collective
soul of nothingness

and this
this is nothing too

I'm in a circle full of losers

I'm in a circle of losers
alcoholics with no futures
a meth addict from rehab
a sister who likes to fuck her
sister's boyfriends
an open gay
a closet gay

some are not so genetically gifted
some are

I'm in a circle full of losers
two shoot at a pool table
and take a draw from the line

the sister kisses her sisters lover on a
chair as his growth angsts
her inner thigh

the other sister doesn't
seem to mind,
she found somebody else to
leech onto tonight

I watch them all like
some hot shot winner

I'm in a circle full of losers
that spin on the axis of this earth
where there are more and more losers

and maybe there's even
more losers beyond that

aliens with a paper-wrapped bottles
on the side of their intergalactic highways

but the world is run by the winners
who
jail the losers and
beat them
bully them
cuff them
raise their food prices
their gas and
lie for a vote

and then these winners grow old
and start wars for the young and the poor
who are tricked into some sick idea
of stars and stripes pride

these are the most innocent of all

I'm in a circle full of losers
spinning all around me
inside my tv
at the courtrooms
in the history books
in your bookshelf
in your radio

and I watch you all
like some hot shot winner

shadows of my thoughts

memories of broken hearts
three times over
regenerate like
some sick freak
in a horror movie

and yet this is where it's
made

marked on a tombstone
I carry fresh writing
to not so fresh soggy
brown graves
under
grass, worms, and roots

I look at the graves,
and they're all the same,
gray stone slabs
and
dirt
dirt
dirt

I look towards the beginning
and I see a mausoleum for one
that I visit every so often

I would leave flowers but that
would be pathetic

the past does not go
further down than it already is,
past and hell and back around
through China

I would lay there with them,
but they're dead,
and it there isn't a good enough
reason to do that

writing about woman

you know I really
like to write about woman

it's not because I love them or hate them,
it's just easy

and there always around,
at the store, at a school, at work,
on your bed, in a car, at a jazz club, at a party,
on your best friend's arm, you name it they're there

they make the greatest poems and stories
sometimes they even like to read them and beg
to read the rest

but you see the saddest part about it is I don't write much
about a woman until after she's gone
that's when the best shit comes;
when you don't have to worry about what they think
-not that I ever worried anyway
it just seemed more appropriate that way

those legs, the black, red, blonde, brown, hair is unforgettable
but the legs are always the best
I never forget a woman's legs

there will be no tears

there are no tears,
water and wine
heineken and jack

so you take a shot at writing
but you're probably full of shit

you try love
and its even worst and
you end up with this

but there are no tears,
the walls are lonely
but seldom silent

you can't be an alcoholic because
you know that wouldn't be right

you don't try to save the world
you make it worst

but there are no tears
the clock rings midnight
(there are 5 hours to go)

you scratch away at a tattoo
memory that's here to stay

but there will be no tears
not tonight
not tomorrow

welcome back

it's been absent and now
it's here again dancing
with the flames
in your eyes

the night opens its doors
and you take a seat in its
velvety blue

you remember fighting
the good fight alone-
arguing with the rose and
its thorns

when the walls of yourself smile
in your favor because they knew
you were wrong-
you smile back because
you knew you were right

these were the best times to write,
when you could scrape the meat
off your bones to put down in words
what you knew
was a cynical gift with its curse

when you could hold the demon
by its tail and smile a serial killer
smile as you
typed away with the fury
of the Gods

let only them bear witness to
the rattled soul in its cage

they welcome you back and
smile upon your terribly good fortune

welcome back pal

nothing at all

I couldn't find my little red
lighter,
the damned thing must of grown
legs and walked away from me

but I did find a candle

I lit the candle on the stove and put
it on a plate,
that way I could use the flame
anytime I needed a light

I looked at the innocent orange
flame for a while like a cat stares
into nothing

I didn't find anything
at all

I did this until the end
of the night's writing

the ultimate need of our thoughts

even with the ultimate need
of our solidarity we can often
find time for ourselves

lines from the soul
that thrive in their
isolation

the perverse and most
deepest thoughts
alive
burning in time,
waiting to be
unleashed into the wild
of our dreams

it is only then that we
are free

the good songs have
already been heard
and the old composers
dance in their graves
even in their
end times

but they are free as
free as they've always been,
inspiring the flesh
in our brains to write
the best,
and only the best
for that ultimate need
to be heard

lost flower child of the 60's

lost flower child of the 60's,
lover of this chapter in my life,
why is it that you make it
so difficult
for me to write?

I can still
smell you from
tonight,
I tasted you
tonight

I craved you,
and held you,
and then you were mine

before I could remember,
I was thriving with this
art of drunken
madness,
poetry and jazz

this is my gift,

scraped meat from
the empty soul
of my heart.

it is now
full,
full of you.

and poetry is only
a reminder,
of an insecure line,
waiting for a moment
like this

flight of sense

the nights are
different
and the wine isn't so
frequent

eyes sink into the soul
as the heart bellows new

the car is lost to the
murderous urbanites

never touch another
man's car,
touch his woman,
take his wallet,
wound his pride
and fist for it

write, don't forget
to write, even if it's
terrible.
keep trying till
you get lucky.

don't fuck
till you're ready.

use your heart,
soul,
and head,
(not that head)

don't forget to stay up late,
evil rules the night.

get even with the word,
blindly of what I feel.

the world never makes sense,
so why should I?

road like that

listen to me,
you have one chance
to make it.

leave,
take what you need,
leave the rest behind.

don't worry
about saying goodbye,
they wont care
until later.

pave the road,
don't worry about
covering your tracks.

they'll find you
eventually

don't worry about
being careful,
you learn the
most not
being
careful.

but if you can,
and you're mad
enough,
take the other road
with the wicked woods,
yellow moon and poe birds

they wont care to follow you there

you'll save yourself from Jesus.

many of the greats have
fought the great fight here.

oil watercolor skies
carved the best.

the lovers hanging
in the wind.

white roman pillars high.

lines of paper poetry
flying
then
burning to ash as
another strange sky
fills with rain.

a cat follows the two-lane
highway to another time.

don't follow.

my hand-written dream

I had this dream where
she gave me a key.

there were two
lockers and the key
only worked on one of them.

I keyed it and stepped
into this black and white world
of gray sand and colossal white
roman pillars on both sides of me.

every once in a while a breeze
of white paper covered my eyes
but I would shade it with my hands.

I could see her at the end,
deeply sad into herself.

I fought harder.

now I could see she's in a paper dress.

her eyes fill brown with color as I read
the line,
When you're sad, I want you to read this
and think about how much I love you.

she tells me she misses me,
that she wishes things were the same.

I hurt, but inside I know
it's her demon love that
twists inside of me.

I touch the written words
on her dress, and
she disappears.

I'm at the two lockers again,
both square like high school gym lockers.

I open it and try to step
inside to see her again, but I can't.

It's too small.

I dig deeper with my arms
but only letters start to fall.

she's gone forever in that
fucked up world of sand and
pillars.

I hold the key stupidly
in my hand.

spoiled rotten

when you
love
and you know that
loving is as useless as
spoiled bread
you love more
and more and hope
that maybe, just maybe
there's a chance.

but usually there isn't.

and
then you're left with your
spoiled heart
rotten.

---

those pieces of me,
swirling
chunks of vomit
on the side of the street
on this empty heart,
empty bottle of wine
in someone's trash
that could have
been used for more honest poetry
in a night where there's only
one spoiled
rotten
thought of her in a
paper dress
smiling

welcome

I like being bitter,
I think maybe because it's the truth,
the bitter truth.
and there's nothing that
feels better than being
bitter and knowing the truth.

but maybe I'm fucked up,
but I kind of like being fucked up
because when you're fucked up
you start to see things clearly
and then
you realize that you're not so fucked up
after all.

not like them anyway.

living their lives,
canned worms,
saying hello,
goodbye,
pretending they really care
when they ask,
"how are you?"

but we both know they would
rather be somewhere else,
anywhere else.

and
you see,
the bitter truth
is
that we all live in this
fake world of
fake people
(fake bitter people)
like the idiot
who razored his hair to the side
to one mysterious eye
and writes and rhymes
to terrible
poetry

immortally
terrible

long after this is
gone
because it's IN
and this is OUT

but
shit!

I know this is
better
because I find myself
entertained with the word
that's never felt so
GOOD
but
BAD
for you !
(sucker)
for being caught in my spider's
web
in something much
bigger
than this
JESUS
world.

so I bid you
welcome.

there's plenty of room for us all!

straight jackets to go around
cigarettes and wine and maybe
even some Frank Sinatra

happy

Think of dandelions floating in the wind and yellow sunsets in warm summer skies. Think of blue moons on countrysides with stars, lots of stars lined together like they were meant to be. Think love, your first real love that put you in the clouds so good that you can still think of her now, smiling at you, telling you she loves you. Think of how good the love was. Think of punishment for your crime that left you- seeing black and white, gray moons, and red sunsets all year long till hell, you don't even know when.

Remember how good that was? how bad, how terrificly wonderful and tragic like the twin masks of comedy and tragedy. Soon you find yourself with a change in the plot where one leaves another.
Will it be you?

The terrific part of it all is that we expected it to end so perfectly and ideal, beyond our expectations to the point of grandeur. How wonderfully stupid and rose-tinted we were. Invinsible to the possibility of the inetivable destruction. We thought we were so clever, that we beat the odds, we were so fucking high that shit,- nothing else mattered because we were so perfect.

Maybe we need to think twice before buying the big diamond for yours truly. Diamonds. Hardest substance found in nature, they cut glass, suggest marriages, I suppose it replaced the dog as the girl's best friend. But can you really trust it?

but you're so fucking high, remember?

Jesus Christ, just seal the deal, but when it fails, I want you to read this. Then I'll laugh in my own self-absorbed shell of an excuse for a writer for finally being right for a change. I'll think of you silly fucks and I'll just smile with my lips pursed to wine before I turn this computer into my next midnight wack-job.

same old same old

yes I fell in
love
same
old
script
she fucked up
I fucked up
same old
line
I died
bitched
until I lots 20
pounds
and here I am
writing about
love
the birds
the bitch
who
broke
my heart
what else is
new?
one night no sleep
a morning feel likes
shit
a bottle of wine
I'm
drunk
a
new
poem
the whore who
fucked
up
did I fuck her over?
I probably did
I was
wrong
she was
wrong
it wasn't meant to
be
I fucked up
she fucked up
we all fucked up
she got
dumped
she felt like
shit
knew what it was
like
but I was still
wrong
until I lost another 20
pounds
and wrote
the same old
line
about the
same old
script
about the
same old
poem
did I repeat myself?
who cares
this one is for me
the
bitch
for me
for us
for them
for you (sucker).
for fate who threads
her threads with no
remorse
a god of the
gods

classical fries

In my car at the drive-thru
radio on Classical

fat ape of a man
hands me a drink.

he's all ass,
a big ass
up to his face
and around the
tank of his rear.

there is no
crack
in the middle.

he should
not be here
of all places.

I wait for the rest.

I turn up Haydn
1777 in the key of Bb.

watch for the
Adagio section of
strings

air conducting the
string section

a riff of a
finger and a
trumpet dances
on the strings
like
raindrops in some
far off tropical rain-forest.

a flick of a wrist and
hold
on the harmony

fall of the wrist
resume

the melody
continues.

the sliding window
opens.

food comes through
the window in a
brown paper bag.

the 6th symphony
ends.

good timing
fat man.

he could
of been writing
symphonies
for us in another
time

it was too bad
fate fucked him
in that big fat ass
of his

I bet you can figure this out on your own

It must of been September or November
a few years ago
I can't really remember which it was
but it was cold and the moon was hazy
that night and there really wasn't much
else to do but go
dancing
at West Hills High School.

I was 16, she was 17
always a year and a half
older
and I had short brown
hair no furry chin
and those long button-up
polos with khaki pants
and ugly shoes.

she wasn't any better
with that elfish face,
pointy nose and corn-husk
hair in a ponytail.

she was wearing this pink sweater
that was really fury, rough, but
tight around the edges.

her jeans had holes in them
and looked dirty even though
they were washed.

anyways,
we ditched the dance
and ran through the school
ripping posters instead.

they were posters about
"beating santana high school football"

we didn't really have much
school pride back then.

somehow we tried to make up for it.

so we went from hall to hall
ripping posters and
every once in a while we would
split up and take separate hallways.

I was quiet as I tore them down
but she was laughing loudly
enough for me to hear it from
the other side.

at the end of each stretch
of classrooms we would
run into each other and
make out in between the
kissing and laughter.

we even ran through the
amphitheater taking the
left and right sides until
both sides were littered.

my hands were starting to hurt
and going purple mostly
from the cold but our
lips stayed red and we
certainly did find a way
to keep each other warm.

it felt great getting away with
it while everyone else danced
like awkward fish in some
estranged pond.

I thought about those
boys standing in
the sidelines nursing their cokes
as they watched the pretty girls
dance with themselves.

they must of felt real awful then.

I thought about them
wasting their hours after school
making those glitter-shit
posters and putting them all around
the school.

I thought about how pissed
they would be if they found out.

those ASB pricks were shit to me.
I didn't really care.

I felt real lucky having a steady girl.

and we were alone too,
just like we always were.

and we also found an even better
way to desecrate the school.

and so you see,
I would tell you the
end of this story...
but I'll let you
figure it out
on your own...

can you keep a secret?

what a clever way
to hide the hidden
truth from you

come on baby,
you know who
I'm talking about

you couldn't risk
exposing us to foreign eyes.

but fuck those half-dozen skulls;
all boring like the rest of them

I want those wild eyes
and that
hair tossing in the
wind going 80' fast
nowhere,
anywhere.

we're gonna' smoke
and drink wine and
we'll see the grand canyon
and the alamo too

we'll sneak in the back,
and I'll be a Mexican Solider
and you can be Davy Crockett
and we'll shoot at each other
with the tips of our fingers

we'll fog up the windshield and drive
into the town knowing we got
away with murder.

it would all be so great,
if only you knew.

so stand next to me on a
dangerously narrow ledge and
I'll take care of the rest.

and remember,
no one can know I love you,
not even you.

don't try

Learn about
yourself
what you can't in
thought
what you feel is what you
think
then write
work the word
and
listen
to the rest
it's
rythm
a festival of
words
on a musical
score

you could
learn something
about who
you
are

but remember
of this one
rule
when you
write:

Don’t Try.

what I don't like

I never liked war heros, Iraq, Pot, Marines, Adam Sandler, English teachers, stop lights with "No Turn On Red", Mormons, Jazz flute, Geminis, Republicans, homeless at the intersection, Betthoven, or the word "Poetry"

but If I could put all these together,
stuff them in a blender
and swirl the tornado

I would break the blade.

an English teacher high on pot
Adam Sandler in Iraq
a Mormon Gemini

Betthoven at a stop light-
writing Poetry
in traffic,
but would lose his thought
when a transient holds a sign:
"Why lie? I need change for a Beer!"

and that...
I do like.

high

I'm laying there watching the smoke drift from the ash tray.
surprisingly it looks beautiful.
it's deadly and I never liked cigarettes.
but I lay there mesmerized.
woman are as deadly
as they are beautiful too.
they give you a high,
but when it's gone you want more.
it's too bad they don't come
with warning labels.

a hangman's noose for the willing

a woman can chain
your heart so
good and
hang you with the
same rope,
all in one,
until you've realized you
gave her the rope
to do the
job
all along.

lately,
I see
them falling into
this hole and
so desperately
wrap the noose
around their necks
until it
snaps.
but by then it's
too late
to have figured
it all out.
they are blind
to their mistakes
when they had the sack
around their
heads before it
ever happened.

they're
just another pile of
bones
with the rest of
those god-awful souls
wondering where the hell
they went wrong

In the all-inclusive truth of it all

when you're
an oddity of a man walking your frame
through the all-inclusive hive of towers
you wonder if in in the end everything
will just go to hell.
will God discover and
disembowel us all?
will the ulterior truth
behest be known?
how naive we are to
each other's interest
divided by
class, economy,
and segregational ideas in the
all-inclusive system we
so-faithfully machine for our survival.
there is no unity.
I write for the birds.
when they fly, they must know
that history repeats itself
in another fall of Rome.

freckles

I met this gorgeous Australian
girl with freckles who always
smiled and said I was this
great guy,
so refreshing and new;
she wanted to take it slow.
once a week she came over
but her legs stayed closed and
the kissing got boring.
she told me not to fuck her
because she believed in God.
she told me about how great God
is and how I needed to discover him
so I could save my soul.
I told her I was a writer.
then one night I told her to stop
coming and she turned pale
and started crying as I walked her
to her blue nissan.
she came by next week anyway
and handed me a hand-written letter
about how much of
an asshole I was and
how in my poems I never
wrote anything about her.
I felt better being an
asshole than great,
I am also at a loss because
woman love both.
anyways she never came by
again and this poem is the
last thing to remember her by.
are you happy now?

don't swing both ways, but look both ways

I went to a party
with
mostly gay men
looking for one night
stands,
hustling
the
gay
or straight

I met this
drunk black girl
from Kenya
with a thick accent
and ivory body
like
the Queen of Egypt
with ear rings
and legs that ran up
to her neck

I walked her to the
apartment
across the street
and stood
10 feet from the door

she pulled me in by
the collar and started
to unbutton my shirt

I pulled away,
but I found myself
sitting on her cheap
spring mattress
looking
stupid
with my
shirt halfway
unbuttoned
as she started to
undress

she played
god awful
music with drums
before she went
into her room and
changed
into nothing
but a
skirt

she danced
to the terrible
music and I began
to rise

I walked to the
door
but she shoved
me onto the bed,
pinned me,
and begged me
stay
I threw her off me
but the challenge
made her
want more

I told her I wasn't
over an ex
she said,
we could make this
work
I told her I was
Christian,
she pulled
a Mormon bible
and was
Christian
too
I told her I was
gay
she grabbed it,
ran to the bathroom
and screamed

I ran for the
door
but she was
faster

I tricked her into
the
bedroom
naked,
went to the
bathroom,
sneaked out
the door,
ran
to the
car
buttoning
my pants and
shirt

middle of the
street
stopped
a police car
and and covered
me in spotlight

stand right there,
don't move!
put your hands above
your head and walk
slowly backwards
to the car

two more cars
came

I was
groped for
drugs

I smiled
at the woman
in blue

do you
want to
touch me
too?

paper wings

there's an angel with paper wings
and strawberry red hair.
she walks the urban concrete
naked at night
and she's all leg.

her eyes are gray and blue
but all the fire
is at the top where it falls.

holding to her sides the wind blows hard
and her arms are like noodles.

the moon showers
her in gray
until her hair
dusks red
as the paper wings
fall.

at night

half moon,
half heart,
half-crescent smile on
the red-tailed demon
clawing for a quarter-burned
cigarette.
it flakes away and
burns like time as
the clock goes forward
for another day, another night,
another burn that rims
at the filter like the end
of all things
desperate.

trace your heart out

last time I saw her was
in a parking lot
at a
Jack In The Box
on
Main Street.

I got
inside her
Chevy F150
with the broken
right side of
the windshield
and
stared at
the cracks
as the
little pieces
of light reflected
like veins.

I looked
at her
and she still
had those
easy blue eyes
and platinum
blonde hair
that was just
outright
sickening.

everything
about her
screamed
freedom
while
the
pit of
my stomach
just ached
as I traced
and mapped
every
line like
a palm
reader.

it was
then
that I
knew it was
all finally
over
and
I would
never
see that
platinum blonde
hair that
was just
outright
stupid.