my life 6 words

never did manage to understand you

or

aspie child to prosody proponents foe

or

Pittsburgh Jew Lacked Much In Faith

or

Faulting pulchritude did it with guile

or

Cautious examination leads to strange result

or

Rain falling.
Smoke rising.
Suck Blood.

Give nourishment.
Breathe fire.
Live art.
Wail sacrilege.
Make love.
Show scars.
Create beauty.
Destroy yourself.

blah

during my worst times
Alone and cold
fear jailed
or passing with
whores
life contained a certain
contentment-
I wouldn't call it
happiness-
it was more a grand
balance
that guised

itself as fullness
and it helped in the
cubicle
and when life
collapsed
with the
girls.

Mi primera poema en espanol!!!

El tiempo es el único retablo familiar, último punto de referencia.

Incluso tu sombra cae sesgadamente aquí, imitándote de manera extraña,

¿Ó eres realmente encorvada y escapas a toda prisa o por la banqueta?

¿Cuándo te volviste tan pequeña?

Es fácil volverse nostálgico. Es algo fácil.

Claramente el tiempo no es un paisaje para construir un hogar.

Tu amado, en cuya querida ciudad tú ahora moras,

está de acuerdo en que uno de ustedes tiene una ventaja.

¿Pero cuál de los dos?

Le haces recordar a tu amado que “morar” proviene del antiguo Castellano,

significando así el “descarriar”, “deambular” le señalas, retorciendo tus llaves entre tus dedos.

Entonces permanece. “Di que permaneces aquí” sugiere tu amado,

recordando demasiado tarde,

que permanecer también significa soportar, tolerar, cargar.

¿Son acaso todas estas palabras para ‘quedarse quieto’ tan problemáticas?

Ambos se asientan en ‘residir’,

libre de interpretaciones erróneas,

balanceando sus piernas sobre el balcón

que tiene vista al parque

a donde a veces van solos, los dos,

para alimentar los pajarillos negros

que te hacen recordar tu hogar de la infancia.

Ni tú ni tu amado sugieren que clamas el vivir aquí.

Secretamente piensas que aquí moras,

te estás enredando,

te estás desenredando

y lo opuesto de lo opuesto

Sólo tu sombra vive aquí,

conservando aún todo lo que siempre ha tenido.

Por que tu cuerpo es su techo.

Porque eres su hogar.

Su hogar sin hogar

a loveless world

I was fairly drunk when it began

and I took out my bottle and used it

I was working the next day

I did not look pretty, but I brought it off

Finished in Bar Americas

I drank scotch, beer, tequila, vodka

and noticed a nice one sitting next to me

Buck toothed she grinned at me

lovely. and I put my arm around her

and began loading her with bullshit, When I awakened at 10 am the next morning

I was in a strange house

In bed

with this

woman, she was asleep but looked

Familiar

Paulina

Captivating, Callous

In equal measure

Or perhaps

infinitely so

the hard sun

dancing

so brightly

across the flower bed

beautiful

she looks at me,

or perhaps through me

a rusty shell

battle-wrecked

Drunk from the war

Ha!, and I become

quick with the world

and more so with a cruel word

your gaze beats them back

just like it was meant to do.

In My Dreams

You approach me quickly

Mouth Agape

with sharp isosceles teeth

Gnawing now

through Muscle, Sinew, Bone

Gorging yourself on the delicate offal of my body

My nightmares are much worse

you're not there at all.

Our Relationship Ended When you Started Crying

The magnificent violence of a drop of rain,
Enough to carve chasms,
profound as the grand canyon,

expansive as the space between us.

Drawing the jagged coastlines,
and winding rivers
inter coastal highways really.

our worlds shaped. Shattered.

delicate lines,
false permanence endowed by our maps.
The maps will fade, and the lines will erode.

Falling fast by life's wayside

A single drop is the beginning.
The start of our world,
and for us, the start of the end
a single drop magnificent in its violence

grandiose in its semiotics
your tear draws a minimalist painting
that splits our shores forever.
divided for all our history

By the magnificent violence in a drop of rain

They're getting better

Dwelling in a foreign land. Time is the only familiar
tableau, last locus. Even your shadow falls aslant here,
aping you strangely, or are you really hunched and scurrying
along the sidewalk? When did you grow so much
smaller? It is easy to become nostalgic. One easy thing.
Clearly time is not a landscape to make a home in.
Your beloved, in whose beloved city you now dwell,
agrees one of you has an advantage. But which one?
Remind your beloved that dwell comes from the Old
English, meaning to lead astray, to wander. As ravel
has come to be both unravel and also its opposite, you
point out, twisting your key ring in your fingers.
Abide then, say you abide here, suggests your beloved,
remembering too late that abide also means to endure,
to tolerate, to bear. Are all the words for holding still
so fraught? You both settle on reside, free
of overtones, swinging your legs over the balcony
that overlooks the park where you go sometimes
alone to feed the little black birds that remind you
of your childhood home. Neither you nor your beloved
suggests you claim to live here. Secretly you think
you dwell here, you are raveling, you are unraveling—
becoming opposite, and opposite’s opposite. Only
your shadow lives here, still having everything
it has always had. Because your body is its roof.
Because you are its home. Its homeless home.

Brain Hive

The secret hives are aligned
near the lianas of heaven,
among the luminous nests.

Gather nectar there, bees of my thoughts,
little bees winged with sound
within the pregnant cloud of silence;
laden yourself with resin
perfumed with stars and wind:
we will seal all the gaps
communicating with the tumult of life.

Laden yourself also with stellar pollen
for the prairies of the earth;
and tomorrow, when there will be wreathed
the wild roses of my poems,
we will have celestial rose hips
and sidereal seeds.

coffee shiop amsterdam
1. hot tub
2. steelers
3. beer?
4. dj?
5. breakfast
6. lunch
7. chris sandy roy

On my sunday

I've been thinking about what makes me want to be a writer, and what I've come to realize is, it's the other writers. So many people I read are able to establish connections with both the fictional (or fictionalized real person) characters they write about, and relate this connection with the people who read it (for me anyway). So I figured if it's the writers then they must be reflected in my writing. So I pulled out my dog eared copy of poems by blake and got to reading. He was not angry, and was not especially sad. I say this knowing almost nothing of who he was. However the fact he's so good made me angry, and thus I desecrated a bunch of my older writing is inferior. I now greatly regret this. If I've ever given you a poem, I kept a copy. I no longer have these copies. If you have a copy, and you see it's not on my site please send it over to me as I now have no back catalog, and want to vomit over my drunken destructive stupidity. That's the last fucking time I try to read and abuse drugs at the same time.

Why I write the way I do

Because I can be better than this dip shit

A Supermarket in California
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit-
man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees
with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images,
I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of
your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole fam-
ilies shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives
in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you,
Garcнa Lorca, what were you doing down by the
watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old
grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator
and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed
the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my
Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of
cans following you, and followed in my imagination
by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in
our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every
frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors
close in an hour. Which way does your beard point
tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets?
The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses,
we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming ofthe lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent
cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-
teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit
poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank
and stood watching the boat disappear on the black
waters of Lethe?

Allen Ginsberg

Why I Don't Write in any rhyming schemes

Because I'll never be as good (or close) to those who came before me
Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

William Blake

Invalidation (I don't know why this didn't post right the first time)

Invalidation

The snapping intensifies
my senses aroused
I know she's trying to get my attention

*Slap*

Perhaps a bit more than physical

She gives in to her qualms
I give in to my idiocy
I can't help the coward within

She lashes
I wilt

Well this isn't the sort of S&M I had in mind
No leather
No whips

Just myself

Beaten red
no release
no satisfaction

(unsure if this needs more lines. Does it get the point across? I mean what it says. The expectation of one kind of give and take of pain, and the reception of something else. I'm just not sure if that gets across.)

For Liz part Deux (written with her words)

I believe

soulmates who eat sunshine.

butterflies and babies;

finally at peace.

giggling because I've found her,

finally found her,

I found her.

alone and decrepit.

Cerebrally vacant.
Metaphysically evil,
but

vivacious in body
My perfect soul mate.

Written right after I came back from Amsterdam with Chris Bill and Dough

Amsterdamnit

How agreeable it is to be touring Amsterdam this winter,
wandering her streets and ascending her breakneck stairs.
A pleasure to cruise these local, familiar streets,
fully grasping the meaning of every road sign and billboard
the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots.

There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous
domes and there is no need to memorize a succession
of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon.
No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon's
little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass.

How much better to command the simple precinct of home
than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica.
Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps?
Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyes camera
eager to eat the world one monument at a time?

Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice,
I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress
known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning
paper, all language barriers down,
rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way.

And after breakfast, I will not have to find someone
willing to photograph me with my arm around the owner.
I will not puzzle over the bill or record in a journal
what I had to eat and how the sun came in the window.
It is enough to light a joint and smile

more fucked up shit I wrote after molly dumped me.

Suicide Note
If I die
It will be by my own hand
The rest of you will be left to wonder
why I
was trying to get away from
me.

Wow I was depressed when I wrote this (but it's pretty well constructed)

Ending

flaccid seated upon the couch,
midnight, lapping cheap vodka
from a cup, Jesus, have I come
to this?
I once battled at parties
for a laugh.
now I'm not laughing.
I swallow joylessly and wonder,
How much time will be asked from me?
how many days?
my soul is empty and
a stupefying clarity rests in my brain.
things arrive; they pass
they go to nothing.
I understand the fall of cities, of
nations.
Light shimmers on the cock pit
of a large crane.
I look towards it as if it made sense to
look upward. it's true, the sky has rotted:
it won't be long for any of
us.

Another one along the same lines. This is the worst shit ever.

Do you think of me
When the music of morning
First begins to sound,
When his barks and their horns
stir your world with their singing?

Do you think of me
As the sun lengthens shadows,
Until all the world
Fades into one big shadow,
And the night music begins?

Do you think of me
As your eyes close, and the night
Folds in around you,
Like the arms of a lover,
To hold you until morning?

You are in my mind
During all of these moments.
You are the music
Of my life, but I wonder,
Do you ever think of me?