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