ever wonder

why nobody ever has ever
grown a mustache like Hitler?
he's fucked it up for everybody else.
what an asshole...

musings of a big world

I can't smile.
I can't move.
anything I do is
without interest.
I can't love.
I can't miss love
when it has not come along.
I can't finish
this poem.
and I certainly can't
give you a clever end
or a beautiful line of
colorful words like the
other writers have.
I guess what must come
in the end is not to
care about those readers
after all.
there aren't any.
just the essence of yourself
and your pride.
choked up on small thoughts
to an ever widening world.
watch as the world moves without you,
turning and turning on the wheel.
one would be selfish to think
he deserves more when in
the end, he is just a piece
of the turning wheel.
there are more better and more beautiful things.
if only one could so easily grasp it,
but not like this,
not like some cancer baby poet.

the wrong type of bars

playing jazz like
breathing
fire.
love tied
down in
the wrong
cage.
it's always
the wrong
cage.
lost
on the
wrong side
of the
one-way
street.
always
a white knight
running on
empty.
driving
downtown
from a bar.
then finding
yourself
in a cold
dark room.
they have all
the wrong
type of
bars in there.
there's a couple
there with you,
with eyes, and
ears, and yellow skin.
I decide to
name one John Coltrane.
hello,
John Coltrane.
there's another one.
he's a crazy,
somewhere from
Nevada.
he thought he could
avoid them in
California.
I named him
Sonny Rollins.
it's always
the wrong
cage.
the wrong
woman
the wrong
job
the wrong
car
and then theirs
the cage,
the cage of yourself,
smiling stupid at
empty faces,
saying,
"hello"
"goodbye"
"i'm good, how are you?"
and worst,
"i love you".
I look at Sonny Rollins
and say hello,
he blinks
twice.

gemini II

you know,
the thing that bothered me the most
about her is how she
thought she was some
great
god-damned writer.
not a poet
(that's even worst...)
but some talented
lyrical genius.

my gut was off
when I was with her.
I should of known
better than to mix
with another fucking gemini.

they fuck with your mind,
man.
I tell myself,
that game-playing bitch
that whore
that cunt
that bitch.

yes,
rejection
is the bitch.

and being on the receiving end is
certainly
no fun at all.
not one single bit
at all.

magen

lets face it,
my favorite poet
was
DRUNK
off
Classical music
or
WINE
(or anything alcoholic for that matter)
courage,
of course,
is alcohol
in its liquid form.
there was
also
heartbreak, woman,
bad work,
in-grown toe nails,
hotels, and
bad diet.

it all
came so
easily like
karma on the
sharpened edge.

this,
of course,
continued
upon the weary
keyboard,
for the eternal
fire,
line after line,
until
finally the
woman, fame,
and
fortune,
came along.

by then it was too late to
grapple the cock
for a good one
on her
face.

now he drives a
porche,
listens to classical music
in a beautiful neighborhood,
but has all forgotten the
sexless
poets.
the
wild-eyed
pieces of shit
lying in their dark rooms
listening to Jazz
Coltrane, Miles Davis, Bill Evans, Sonny Rollins,
Cannonball Adderly
and Davis and Sonny Rollins, and Parker and Bill Evans
and Thelonious monk, and Gilbert Castellanos.
waiting for hard luck.
waiting for hard luck.
like trying to understand
jazz.

these poets will surely have
their head upon the guillotine for
final show.

I will write like,
one line like,
green leaves of autumn resemble her,
summer smile can take you far,
but not in a world of
madness.
a world of poetry and
Jazz
confined.

Magen,
after all these years
and hiatius of bad poetry...

you're still on my mind,
every single
day.

for this,
I am sorry,

But I know better then
to ever get involved, and I wont.

The greatest love is to love and let go
and see the one you love be happy.

I do not even watch from a distance,
I just assume what I briefly see or hear.

I wish you happiness, romance, and self-respect. for each other,
I know, I've learned a lot sine you've been gone! lol

see ya magen

magen

she's changed her hair color
three times.
been through 3(4?) guys.
has tried modeling and
community college.
she's now in fashion school.
she's embraced romantic love
and found her soul mate quite
possibly more than once.
she's dated military, domestic,
foreign, local, and long-distance.
she's had a new car, an old car.
she even took the trolley at one time.
I believe she has 2(3?) tattoo's now.
one of a heart.
one of her key words is:
"love"

she's called on me twice but I've
never responded.

too much
too much
too much

If I knew more about her
then I would
know a lot less.

september night

not here for the
inspired word
or for any
reason at all

just smoking a quiet cigarette on this
hot September night.

I take a draw
and exhale death

the woman of the past
somehow seem to appear
by accident, out of mutual friends or
seemingly simple facebook connections.

love in sandals
love in high heels
love in shoes worn and walked in
over and over
again across
our heavy
hearts.

they've got us caged like this,
pacing back and forth
against seemingly
vertical
walls.

the good times were the hard times.

it was the learning
and the final act
of letting it
all go with great pride.

there is now a siren outside,
that ends suddenly and
so does my second cigratte.