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