one last MEANINGLESS thought for Sarah.

where the poet can't sing he's not worth a shit.

just kill him. the hell hounds will make him a lovely meal.

living with Sarah,

I could never write a single poem,

nothing. I would just enter the space

between her legs and that kept me sane. the sunflower hair,

the eyes, (skin, smell, touch)

panties under the bed, hot showers and

then putting it inside

like a novelty.

she was out and about, always drunk,

but to be fair - I was drunk too, but alone,

alone with myself and the music but not being able

to write worth a shit.
 nothing. 

she'd come home drunk and it was sex.

it was easy,
long and winding through the sheets.

and then I would think of all the boys at the clubs, the bars,

anywhere but where I was drinking alone,

in my own bar, drunk with classical music and jazz,

while she was out with them...

and I can still hear her voice now,

more clearly then ever...

"Ivan!..."

"I missed you baby..."

monster

I would sever their heads off,

their arms, legs, ears, then

straight across from the neck.

watch the heads roll to the ground,

cut the arms carefully into four pieces

then place them into black garbage bags.

It's easier with the small ones,

the ones that are petite with light skin and

light blue eyes. their cries are

like the whimpers of their

small dogs.

but before this, 

I would strap one to a chair,

mouth duck-taped - hair thrashing violently and

then I would play Brahms or Mendelssohn,

anything meaningful 

but it was never supposed to be this way,

they could of brought chance, 

some sort of light, anything

other then their simple 

denial.

but all men must finally break.

what has been done and chosen will and

must be settled with God,

their lives and my own,

my selfishness and theirs,

for their is nothing to lose when

their is nothing gained,

no future, no chance,
no light and even God has
turned his face in disgust.

but the music will play on.

and as my hands close tightly around
their necks and their last breath of air is
taken, their will be a greater calm then that of the sea
and there will be no God to help them
like there was no God to help me.

new days in normal heights

I got a parking ticket today, and after the
movies I passed out in my car listening to NPR.
I was in fashion valley when
a security guard tapped on my shoulder,

"sir, are you alright?"

"yeh"

two fine blondes walk by,

"I'll be leaving soon . . ."

I pulled out of the parking lot,
two fine pairs of legs neither for you
or the security guard or the officer who wrote
you this ticket.
I light my cigarette,
feel inside my pant pockets but
no cash, only a ticket and the gas needle is
on low. the tires are low.

I make it anyway, It's a
miracle I make it to where I am going with
no police to run the plates
for an impound,
no chance.

I get home to the piano and
play Debussy,
but all I want to do is play the Blues, but
much practice and patience and profound proficiency
will make it all come true.

oh, but those two fine blondes... how I could
only wish for chance and light and
the goodness of their hair so warmly
flowing into mine,
eyes wild with youth and adventure
and I could play them Debussy!

so I play to the thought of them
but they will not appear,
I pound into the keys more desperately for the
sunflower hair and eyes of ocean blue
but they will not appear.

I light a cigarette and fill the deadness
of the white air,
sit in front of this machine
and wait.

and wait . . .

there will be nights like this with great fire
and you will be alone,
more alone then you have ever been
and you will be
entombed with the bodies of 1,000 dead soldiers
upon your shoulders

there will be nights knifing at the blackbirds
in the sky, love poems unfinished
but one too many

you will be alone with whatever is killing you
and your romantic reverie
will be that of your own

a family

they loved the finer things in life,
like cold beers and wrestlemania on sunday nights as
they watched the wrestlers go on stage
like glistening German sausages.

the father drank too much and he beat
the dog, his wife, and
sometimes,
the mother-in-law too

you'd hear the door slam shut and the mother
running out,
"I'm GONNA CALL THE GOD DAMN COPS
YOU DIRTY SON OF A BITCH"

and then the Cops would come and
take the report:

"Yes Ma'm, but please just go back inside
and take care of your husband now,
we've got better things to do"

other days you'd hear the father
working on the boxcar,
it was painted Blue with a white #6

but most of the time he was gone,
thankfully for the dog
thankfully for them

he was a trucker,
been sucked-off by over a hundred whores, he said.
fell in love with a hooker named Moonlight
who got him shot in the dark by a broad
in Blue Springs, Missouri.

the wife was built like a 20 brick-shit houses,
varicose legs shining in the limelight of her balcony
as she smoked cigarettes
(while he was working on #101 and so forth)..

but as they kept drinking,
the boys in blue kept coming
and then someone finally took the dog,
and then the trucker in handcuffs and then the wife.

the mother-in-law was there too,
arm's crossed looking quite justified..

all those late nights with Brahms,
all those nights with explosive arguing fit
quite well into my symphony,
while I was alone and staring at the decaying geraniums of hell,
while the women loved other's when I so
desperately
needed their hair flowing into mine,
they gave me chance, a fire to roast, a reason to exist
when even the walls seemed dull.

but as they're gone now, probably apart,
I remember them
and those white boys in tights as I watched
their TV through their window,
smoking a cigarette and feeling quite
uninteresting.

cat fight

the girls got drunk and they their battle,
their hands were in a sea of hair
pulling and tugging,
screeching and yelling as the
males stood about not understanding any of it

but then after a while, one stepped in
and then another.

I stood there watching as I
sipped my beer,
then looked up as one of
the boys said,
"Hey! We're all ADULTS here! can't
we all just get along?"

and then he too,
was in a sea of hair.

I finished my drink,
grabbed for another,
let them have it, I thought,
good decent violence.

I walked past them and looked
in the fridge, the 18 pack they brought was
almost gone. I drank 3 when they arrived,
the 3 that they offered, and the second one
was being worked on.

when the cops arrived,
everyone turned their attention to them.

and I can remember why I write

and I can remember why I write,
when all else is closing in like the crush of the blue mountains.
when the faces are having it all, those friends
who are in love in their baskets of light.
it's then that you can drive into yourself, into your light
through the venetian blinds where the rose blooms, blossoms, and dies
as a flower is then picked and beheaded by a child.
I am here because I chose to be in my search for light,
but am often in darkness; draw blood in spite of wry madness
write poetry in ryhme, or sit here as still as the planets.
you can scream but nobody can hear you.
the catholic bell's have been tolled, the wine has been spilled
on the graves of a thousand poets
but no one can hear you. the lion devoured the dragon,
the stars move north and there are no kings to follow,
the earthquakes have not killed enough, the meteors, the fires,
the murderers, and the black plague has failed too.
the stink of light is everywhere and the cupid's arrow
is stupid like thunder alike, and still, no one can hear you-
so you write, strike for minor chance, find a reason to be
when even death has failed to follow.