and can you imagine...
all over the world,
not just
here...
there are souls
bleeding like stuck pigs
onto this canvas we call art.

I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water
is their tears.
I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoe
a laundry ticket
it becomes
cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines. . .
it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
what counts
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead

and listen to the dead man's

music.

Rose

from my car

I watch

3 birds

on a telephone

wire.

one flies

off.

then

another.

one is left,

then

it too

is gone.

I am

reduced to bird

watching.

just thought I'd

let you

know.

time warner cable

I smoked pot and drank
before work.
I listened to Pink Floyd, Led Zepellin, and the Eagles.
It was the only way I could deal with it
anymore.
I smoked, drank, and would of
snorted too.
Pink Floyd, Led Zepellin, and the Eagles.
they never checked the parking lots and
we had a suicide once,
it was the most beautiful thing
I've ever seen...
blood splattered on the windshield,
the coroner, the gun on the dashboard, the black zipped up body...
it was all too perfect.
I smoked and drank that day anyway
but they never checked the parking lot.
and as I draw upon this cigarette
I think of him upon that stairway to heaven,
finally free.

bear of time

there's 3 gays guys in Balboa Park.

an old white guy who has

white hair; they call him

Polar Bear

one big guy they call

Bear

then there's one new guy they call

Cub

go to Balboa Park at 8:30,

flash your headlights 3 times

or wave your sell phone and

it's

"OK"

these woman

and those paper-thin lips and

heart-wrenching smiles.

it's when they smile that

they steal your soul

away from you.

it's when it's gone

that you know you're

in a worst

position than

before.

and then your heart aches.

you convince yourself she wasn't

anything special.

she was a body with a soul.

maybe it wasn't her soul

but her body that you

wanted.

but her soul was lousy,

yes,

very lousy.

and like a drug and it's

addictions

you fucked around and

burned

an idiot red.

did you really think you could win?

you think,

as you pace the good earth.

maybe this time,

It's always,

maybe this time.

and

then the anger sets in...

How could she!

but as such things go,

your soul

suddenly

subsides and is

finally

set out to dry...

you're going to make yourself better,

you say.

you're committed.

you'll never get fooled again.

not you.

you've learned your lesson,

yet

nobody is in a greater hell

than you.

why, why, why,

you say.

those paper-thin lips are a

chance for somebody else now.

the smiles in their pictures

are here to stay.

as the devil smiles

blue birds sit upon the

fountain.

maybe there is hope to remember

technical support this is Ivan I can help you.

Ivan?

What's that? What's your name again?

Ivan?

Oh...

you remind me so much of this boy I dated many many

years ago in high school.

He was a Catholic boy but his parents wouldn't let us date.

Oh...

you've reminded me of so many wondrous

and delicious memories

Ivan, thank you

now I will have him on my mind.

rachel

Rachel,

I liked her,

I did.

She wore a black laced glove,

on one hand.

She was an artist,

but she didn't have the

life experience.

She was one of those college types,

but I'm sure she'll figure that out later on

her own.

In the

real world.

But I liked her,

I did.

She was a blonde,

but---

a jewish

blonde.

Not to say that was bad,

not one

single

bit.

Just that,

during sex,

she only had one position and

was not very creative.

She could flex in all sorts of

strange directions,

but what I wanted was the

affection and

power

of being on top.

yet,

something hurt her.

I never understood why.

Maybe it was fear of

going too deep,

She was

a good girl...

I think it took her a good 3

months to get over me.

a flattering proposition,

but when she was gone,

and I knew it,

it was my turn

for the 3 months to get

over her.

my pretty little jewish blonde,

Rachel.

how I miss her so...

buk, h, c

buk buk buk

say my thoughts,

I know who you are.

and I have

HALF

(MORE THAN HALF)

a bottle of jack daniels left,

and see this glass of Jack?

I'm going to

FINISH

it,

just for you,

in your honor.

and then one more,

and then another...

I stare at the glass,

here I go!

taken,

drunk,

like the brave young poet.

brave, brave, brave.

say my thoughts.

5 minutes later and the coil is gone,

is it your turn,

my friend?

the cooking pot

the art is

wrapped around

their necks

like scarves in

orange october

nights.

they were the son's of

beaten house wives,

houses of terror and

violence.

they were the son's of

divorces,

the cheats,

the image of one

strange

strange

man in

bed with their mothers.

they were the son's

hoping for love in

small places like

the back of

car seats.

they were the freaks,

the alones,

the gifts for the

bully

in the schoolyards

from hell.

they understood very little

but knew even

more as they

went quietly about.

the beatings.

this art,

it lands like a red ladybug

upon the shoulder.

it is grown from

karma

going south of the mercury

and

then pulled from

the brown earth into

the white page.

it is not like the

blossom of the rose but

the rot of the withering

weed.

there are nights like this,

strangled.

Juan Tizol

the only hispanic from the

Jazz era.

From Puerto Rico.

Composed

Caravan and Perdido.

A trombone player.

freddie freeloader

Miles Davis's 2nd song from Kind of Blue. It was inspired by a guy named Freddie who would sneak into Jazz clubs to listen.

Soon

I want to drive somewhere far

along a desert highway.

I want the empty road with cacti

on all sides with small pink flowers.

I'll play Hotel California

LOUD

amongst the wisp of

desert wind.

I want to remember of all the times

I've wanted this one simple wish;

more than ideal love.

there is a time to break from

routine and explore the

soul's passion.

a fire that burns holy that

can not be consumed.

I'll stop somewhere along the road at sunset.

I'll write a poem.

but I'll remember this one,

of want with fire of desire.