white silence

It's harder to write the poems
without smoking
or drinking
although
I was never much of an
alcoholic or
smoker anyway.
it did
bring some strange
courage
to the words that
fell flat on the edges.
envelope words
more fitting for the literature of
magazines and
clinics.

good words should be
powerful and
poetry needs
to be humanized
disturbing
like Kurt Cobain
sticking the barrel of
gun into his trembling mouth
and the fans asking
why?

I once tried writing a novel
but to write a novel is a rare and
exceptional thing.
you have to live life,
have meat to pick off your bones
and some way to
pick it
without being bothered.

solidarity is the gift.
to be terribly alone and breathe life
into art
forever
is the only way.

there has been no other way.

too much
too little
or too late

laughter or
tears
or immaculate
unconcern

haters
lovers

armies running through the streets of pain
waving wine bottles
bayonetting and fucking everyone

or an old guy in a cheap quiet room
with a photograph of Marilyn Monroe.

there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movements of
a clock's hands.

there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the blinking neon
in Vegas, Santa Monica, Venice
SAN DIEGO

people are tired

mutilated either by love or no
love.

we are afraid..
we think that hatred
signifies
strength.
that punishment is
love.

what we need are
fewer police
more good teachers

we forget the terror of one person
aching in one room
alone
unkissed
untouched
cut off
watering a plan alone
without a cell phone that would never
ring
anyway.

dogs piss upon rose bushes
the killer beheads the child like taking a bite
out of an ice cream cone

the ocean comes in and goes out
in and out
in the thrall of that senseless moon.

angels sing to me

was in the tub this afternoon
shaky
depressed
when the phone rings
and it's this girl I dated from
Chicago who used to sing
folk songs;
she's been keeping up
with my writing and
she's quit her new man,
she threw all his clothes out,
she tells me.
I tell her how those things work-
you're together then split
together then split
over and over
again.
yeh, she says, wanna hear my new
song? sure, I say, and she sings to me
over the phone.
now I'm sitting at the
edge of the tub
naked, wet,
listening, thinking, damn
she's gotten pretty damn good!
and I laugh, the song is funny,
and I say I like it, and she says,
I'm glad.
and I say, look, I've got to
get ready and meet up with my
ex Rachel. keep in
touch.
I will, she says.
and then I saw Rachel.

when I got home,
I picked up the phone to call her,
then gently put it back
down.
she doesn't want to hear about Rachel.

I turned on an old Jazz record and
started listening to the sounds.
stone cold crazy
once again.

I don't know how they find me...

sloppy lover

Sarah was a sloppy
leaver. she was good with farewell
notes,
but she wrote them long and hard.

she almost always took her
clothes,
but it'd stand and look about-
listening to classical music
drunk
while she was out
getting fucked.

I'd
find a pair of
stained panties under
the bed
and their were hairpins everywhere,
stockings
earrings
shoes

Sarah was a sloppy leaver.
in the top drawer next to the Kleenex
It'd find all the notes I'd written her,
neatly bound with rubber
bands.

she'd leave and an
hour later
the cell phone would ring
and it would be
Sarah
and in the backround
music from the
club, some song I
hated, and while she talked
I'd hear men's
voices too.

"Sarah, Sarah," I'd say,
"come on back,
Baby!"

"no," she'd say, "there are other men in the
world besides you. but
I could have loved you forever, Ivan."

"go fuck yourself," I'd say and hang
up.

I'd pour a drink
fire into this machine and
after a while
the cell phone would ring again
and It'd gently
put it on
Silence.

I'd go to bed
and after a while,
I'd be awakened by a sound I had never
heard before-
a pounding at my door
and there he was,
some white guy named
Gavin.

"your girlfriend is on the stairs"

"my girlfriend?"

"she says she wants
you to come get her..."

"all right, it's
possible."

"can you come get her? I don't
want to drag her over here and she says
she won't move
until you come and
get her... and, dude..."

"yes?"

"... we didn't want to call the
police..."

"yea?"

"she's laying on the floor in the
steps and dude... she has
pissed all over
herself."

"o.k." I'd say and
I'd go get her.

I'd walk out in my shorts
to her and there she would be
like a broken up barbie doll,
Sarah.

I'd
pick her up and
carry her out of
there.

I'd get her to the apartment
throw her on the bed
and pull off her wet
panties, skirt and stockings.
then I'd put a drink of water on the coffee table
nearby
sit down on the couch
and
wait.

suddenly she'd sit straight up and
look around the
room and
she'd ask
"Ivan?"

"over here," I'd
wave my hand.

"oh, thank god..."

then she'd see the drink and
gulp it
down. I'd get up,
refill it.

then she'd sit up again:
"who took my panties
off?"

"me."

"me?"

"Ivan"

"Ivan, you can't
fuck me right now.'

"you pissed
yourself."

"who?"

"you..."

she'd sit straight
up then:
"Ivan, you dance like a
queer, you dance like a fucking
woman!"

"go fuck yourself!..."
I'd say.

then she'd put her head back on the
pillow: "I love you, Ivan, I really
do ... "

she'd start snoring then.
after a while
I'd get into bed with
her. I wouldn't want to touch her
at first. she needed a bath.
It'd get one leg up against hers;
it didn't seem too
bad. I'd try the
other.
I'd remember all the good days and the
good nights
slip one arm under her neck,
then I'd put the other around her
belly
gently.

her hair would fall back
and climb into my face.
I'd feel her inhale, then
exhale. we'd sleep like that
most of the night and into the
next afternoon. then I'd be the first to get up and
go to the bathroom
and then she'd get up and
have her turn.

heart breaking

moments of agony and moments of glory
march across my memory.

the cat walks by
seeming to know everything.

my luck has been better, I think.

I have been loved by many woman,
and for being a complete fuck up at times,
that's lucky.

so many fingers pushing through my hair
so many arms holding me close
so many shoes thrown carelessly on the bedroom
rugs.

so many searching hearts
now fixed in my memory that
I'll go to my death,
remembering.

I have been treated better than I should have
been-
not by life in general
not by the machinery of things
but by women.

but there have been other women
who have left me
standing in a bedroom alone
doubled over-
hands holding the gut-
thinking
why why why why why why?

women go to men who are pigs
women go to men with dead souls
women go to men who fuck badly
women go to shadows of men
women go
go
because they must go
in the order of
things.

the women know better
but often chose out of
disorder and confusion.

they can heal with their touch
they can kill what they touch and
I am dying
but not dead
yet.

I will never write of you.
all the things you thought of me
were wrong and
I am back to myself now.
the poems are
filling in
without smoking or
drinking
and as I set
myself out to dry
I can't help but think of you
one last time.

never empty

my beast comes in the afternoon
he gnaws at my gut
he paws my head
he growls
spits out part of me

my best comes in the afternoon
while other people are taking pictures
while other people are laughing
my beast comes in the afternoon
across a dirty kitchen floor
leering at me

while other people are employed at jobs
that stop their thinking
my beast allows me to think
about him,
about the graveyards and fear
and stale flowers and decay
and the stink of ruined thunder.

my beast will not let me be
he comes to me in the afternoon
and gnaws and claws
and I tell him
as I double over, hands gripping my gut,
jesus, how will I ever explain you to
them? they think I am a coward
but they are the cowards because they refuse to
feel, their bravery is the bravery of
snails.

my beast is not interested in my unhappy
theory- he rips, chews, spits out
another piece of
me.

I walk out the door and he follows me
down the street and
into my car.
we pass lovely laughing girls
on the streets
and the sun opens and closes like an oyster
swallowing my beast for a moment
as I cross at a green light
pretending that I have escaped,
pretending that I am far more meaningful
than the parted legs of their being
pretending that the beast is gone forever
and that the torn parts of me are
still there
under a black shirt and blue jeans
as all the faces become walls
and all the walls have become impossible.

Brian

oh god oh god

my gut quivers like christ man

oh god oh god

here it comes again

oh god

it quivers Ivan

I need you to take me somewhere

956 Lauterdale street

9 - 5 - 6 

LAUH-TER-DALE

you got that?

it's just up the street man please

I need you to

do this favor for me.

I need to get this

injection man

it will fix me up real good.

but I didn't take him there 

and that's how I left him,

circling the street

with a snowboard on his back

I went for a pack of 

smokes
afterwards

but when I returned he was no longer there

maybe he found god or christ but

what I sensed was that his urgent need for H
was much stronger than any of that...

with nothing at all

tear the limbs

off the flower slowly

carve your heart out

with a knife

look into the brown eyes of

millions and see 

nothing

cry into the words 

cry into nothing

the woman without love

and the men searching it for it

underneath fingernails  

the earth stands still but who put

heavy heaving heart inside me and why?

there is no murder here

the calves have been sliced at

their knees

but their eyes know nothing

all the wrong heads

the executioner has been wrong

the noose has been wrong

Bukowski

how I ache for your dead bones.

I spent many nights
clutching the sheets like
grass
like dirt I
clutch those sheets
in madness
seeking for truth

Rachel Kern

when I came by to see her,

she looked beautiful in all-black.

I watched those eyes,

those lips move

as I watched her read

poem after

poem.

we read together for some time,

listening to each other on the bed.

missing much of what we had,

I held her and kissed her,

the knife inside running deep,

twisted.

my quivering soul,

and her existence having nothing

to do with mine.

her mind like fire,

her heart like a canvas for me

to paint upon for centuries

and then losing it all.

I drew from her soul.

breaking for it behind glass 

and chasing for fireflies in the wind.

beautiful in all-black

bending for light in the dark.

do you see
the tired plants in the sun?

do you see
now that you see that
everything they told us
was wrong?

the elephant trapped like that?
caged like that?

how sweetly sad it seems
how sad and sweet
passing lonely people on
the street
the skulls beneath
the skin
the arteries bravely
pumping liquid
as they rush to do
all the foolish things that
they must do.

but what you don't see
is this clock that says
midnight
and this heart in my
self
running on empty

what you do see is that
what mattered most
doesn't matter so much
anymore

what you do see is
the dog on the freeway
that doesn't move.

what you do see are,
as the other writers say:
frogs and dandelions!

dead sparrows in the road...
lovers lost in the rain
the hangman swinging in the wind.

now you see.

hank

still feeling ill

I don't know who put this pain

inside me and why.

I would not of chosen this luck
for my damned self
if I had it any other way
but there isn't any other way
and as such things must be:
lets call this pain Hank

Hank

is always there and
he sits quietly in a folded chair
smoking cheap cigars 

"Here I am!"

he'll say, sexless and

profound

to drive you mad

or worst,

into the noose

of the hanging wind

"But no! 

that's not so bad..."

I say,

"Lets make it a quick and

senseless death.

to where my love sits quietly

with dark brown eyes in the murdered light"

dizzy

walking inside with my horn, the bassist is already strumming as

the drummer taps on the drums like

that soft cool breeze.

the tenor is assembling, he's a big black man they call Blue,

he's quiet but when he plays he's like a dancer,

one of those like a snake in a basket.

we have this guy Mike on Piano from Brazil,

he fell in love with jazz in the slums, one I always felt I could relate to the most.

growing up and loving jazz, alone from everybody else, nobody understanding why.

but we did, and that's why we were here. bound by this rare magic.

there is Gilbert going up on stage again with his trumpet.

he likes to wear these damn white suits like Duke,

like Duke Ellington you know.. and sometimes I think he would wear the hat too,

but no, not tonight. there's more rare magic to be made here in this small place in San Diego.

this loft with high wooden ceilings, red brick walls.

sometimes a few will venture through with the dark in their eyes.

sometimes they wont at all. Gilbert stands in the corner now,

Blue dances like a snake and not the other way around. he's almost done,

but no, not yet. he's too hot right now. but I'm ready.

I'm ready with the narrowed dark in my eyes.

and so my horn goes up,

to where the lights turn to steam.

everywhere and

here,

the poets tears

turn to

steam and

vanish.

I draw

strength

between the

legs of the Gods

and fire immortality.

the knife inside

blonde girl with

kind eyes

when it comes time to

use the knife

I won't flinch and

I won't blame

you,

as I drive along the shore alone

as the palms wave,

the ugly heavy palms,

as the living do not arrive

as the dead do not leave,

I won't blame you,

instead

I will remember the kisses

our lips raw with love

and how you gave me less than I expected,

but I offered you what was left of

me,

and I will remember your small room

the feel of you

the light in the window

the record in my car

our bodies spilled together

like tiny flowing currents

immediate and forever

your smile and the warmth

of you

blonde girl with kind eyes

you have no

knife. the knife is

mine and I won't use it

yet.

stardust break

as gentle as a butterfly

fluttering in the

murdered light

you came through here

like fire singing

and when it was over

the walls came down

the flags went up

and love was finished.

you left behind my heart

and a couple of ticket stubs

wrapped in a green rubber band

break .2

good weather
is like
good women-
it doesn't always happen
and when it does
it doesn't
always last.
man is
more stable:
if he's bad
there's more chance
he'll stay that way,
or if he's good
he might hang
on,
but a woman
is changed
by
children
age
diet
conversation
sex
the moon
the absence or
presence of sun
or good times.
a woman must be nursed
into subsistence
by love
where a man can become
stronger
by being hated

that's what it must of been like, to sit and hide

if I was alone again,

it'd probably let myself rot or

stand ablaze like a confused rat.

it'd be back at in hell,

tightrope

suicide

the empty wine bottle almost seemed

romantic back then,

the cigarettes flaring and

the the poems

pouring

pouring

pouring

like a sweet rain upon

bukowski's grave.

to be back at war again,

leather jacket pen.

bad boy of poetry