Friday, April 30, 2010

A Stream of Consciousness: Rough draft

Cherries picked straight from the tree
can be eaten fresh.
Worn shoes tattered jackets won't keep the rain out:
funky moldy fungal feet swollen like monkey paws
clutching pacifiers licking lips rinsing toothpaste
tobacco smoke residue whitens the teeth
whiten the teeth as history too before us.

Parched throats in need of water
Arid eyeballs look into periscopes with foggy lenses
out onto the fog of war.
Down down down the drain
meter maids make money
monkeys running on four legs knuckles to the ground stone
learn how to speak without American accents:
sign language the universal language
of love only we know our own encoders
signifying speech like bitches signify heat.

Birds don't understand the city,
they see trees and buildings alike
eggs proving not only that the early bird gets the worm
but she also finds the best real estate,
and with interest accrued on profits made
deathless the pale rider comes to rescue us all from herpes.
Rare is the prize fighter punching holes in walls,
thumping charcoal skulls till
iron-cast blood runs from orifices
holes new made in the back of our necks:
projectiles find fingers crawling clawing intercepting the brain.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Fists a Flying; draft #1

Step into the ring fists a flying
blood stained ropes splotches covering the canvas
smashed mouth shakes through my body and I fall backward
ropes bounce me back g-forces whipping sweat off my body
like a dog shaking off after a torrential downpour.
No time to ask myself what's the fighting for.

Rotund Rasputin
snickers mouth full feed dribbles out onto the carpet,
ties tight locks down right
pad locks and dirty knots
dead bolt on the exit door.

I turn to face a battle royal where everyone's my enemy.
Did I once see the finish line as a mirage
rising murky on the highway
or drinking hallucinations from a dream works spigot:
one or the other or both at once confuse my senses,
and what is real what is surreal what is fake
comes round about circling in swirls
in a hot tub rising above a hundred degrees
now full of broth
so hot it burns.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Fists A Flying; brainstorm

Step into the ring fists a flying
blood covered canvas sweat stained ropes
smacked then smashed in the mouth
ropes bounce me back with terrific g-force
My mind rings what am I fighting for?
Where is the exit door?

Rotund Rasputin snickers behind me
ties tight locks down right
pad locks and dirty knots
dead bolt on the exit door.

I turn and face them
a battle royal but everyone's against me.
A battle royal that I'll never win.
Did I once see the finish line?
The mirage rising on a hazy day on the highway
or hallucinations drinking from the spigot,
one then the other confuses the senses.
What is real what is surreal and what is fake
comes rounds about in swirls in circles
of a hot tub rising above a hundred degrees
now full of broth
so hot it burns.

Monday, April 26, 2010

Wanting a Bonfire Blaze; draft #1

My fingers linger on her soft skinned belly
pale red glass of a tummy ring for as long as I've been looking.
The skin stretches thinner after each exhale
lungs vacuum mucous membranes
ribs barely hidden behind flesh
ribs almost pushing against the smooth flesh.
But I want
lips lick tongue kiss up belly button hard hips
hope for internal combustion, a lighter lit flame igniting body
such that our skins touch and
THE WHOLE THING GOES UP!

But she lays still
eyes soft glazed breath
dizzy pain of long workdays:
unable to release as talons of sharp-eyed gold feathered eagle
clutching chinook between claws.

I wish she'd spot me a thousand miles away
grip me bloody tight between her fingers,
take me to her nest and eat my flesh warm and raw.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

City With A Slow Heartbeat; draft #3

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

Knife scratch phone numbers etched in dull stainless steel
seats covered in seventies style thin and stained carpet
violet speckles on soft neon blue.
Ink stain directions smudged in broad crack head script
From the 15th ride the broad street line north
get off at Allegheny
and you're at the Diamond street projects.


Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

From Erie-Torresdale going West
here on elevated tracks high above Kensington Avenue
ride quiet quite like the glance of a bull
in the kicked up dust just before the charge:
just the squeal of breaks
the breathless mechanical whistle of metal against metal
and a mechanized voice announcing the next station on deck
letting us know whether the doors are open or closed.

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

To my left across the aisle two men sit facing each other,
I see them out of the corner of my eye,
each sprawled across two seats,
one sitting back twisted
arms gray anguish folded across the back of the seat
speaking gravel too fast
but not for his brother no he ain't no fool
he won't get fooled again
he ain't no fool and he won't get fooled again.

He speaks and chants and sings
and God bless this and god bless that
god bless these bitumen black-grey roofs that stretch out
endless in the dusk and we only pass by with vacant stares
burrowing holes into windows seatbacks and floor,
or chins notched in books
avoiding cigarette burn holes in my jeans,
even as we ride by abandoned warehouses shit full of shattered glass.

Friday, April 23, 2010

City With A Slow Hearbeat; draft #2

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

Knife scratches are phone numbers etched in dull stainless steel,
seats covered in seventies style yet thin and stained carpeting
violet speckles on soft neon blue.
Ink stains are directions painted in broad crack head script
From the 15th ride the broad street line north
get off at Allegheny
and you're at the Diamond street projects.


Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

From Erie-Torresdale heading West though actually South
this ride quite like the stern glance of a bull before the charge:
just the squeal of breaks
the breathless mechanical hum of metal against metal
and a mechanized voice announcing the next station on deck
here on elevated tracks high above Kensington Avenue,
“Next stop Somerset...Next stop York-Dauphin...Next stop Huntington...
Next stop Berks...

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

To my left across the aisle, two men sit facing each other,
each sprawled across two seats,
one sitting back twisted,
arms of gray anguish folded across the back of the seat
speaking gravel too fast
but not for his brother no he ain't no fool,
he won't get fooled again,
he ain't no fool and he won't get fooled again.

He speaks and chants and sings
and God bless this and god bless that
god bless these bitumen black-grey roofs sretching out endless
and we only pass by,
some solemn with heads held high
vacant stares that would burrow through your brain if you let them,
or chins notched in books to avoid the piercing eye of the Public
that burns hole trough us like cigarettes burn holes through jeans
even as we ride by abandoned warehouses shit full of shattered glass.

But I still feel a heartbeat.
No don't leave this one to die on the streetside
this city with a slow almost silent heartbeat.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

City With a Slow Heartbeat; rough draft

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

Phone numbers knife scratched in dull stainless steel
seats thin covered in cold stained carpeting seventies style
violet speckles on soft neon blue.
And directions painted in broad crack head script
From the 15th ride the broad street line north and get off at Allegheny
and welcome to the Diamond street projects.


Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

Heading South through West out of Erie-Torresdale
not expecting this ride's quiet ride:
just the squeal of breaks in rhythm
the breathless mechanical hum of air against metal
and the prerecorded voice that announces each station's arrival
here high above Kensington on elevated tracks,
“Next stop Somerset...York-Dauphin...Huntington...Berks...

To my left across the aisle, two men sit facing each the other,
each taking up two seats to himself,
one speaks gravel too fast for me to follow
but not for his brother no he ain't no fool,
he won't get fooled again,
he ain't no fool that won't get fooled again.

God bless this and god bless that
god bless these bitumen black-grey roofs we pass by,
solemn held heads high
vacant stares burrow through your brain
or breathful and intentful slumber of chins notched in books
burn as we ride by abandoned warehouses shit full of shattered glass.

But doc,
I can still feel a heartbeat,
don't leave this one to die on the streetside:
this city of two rivers, this city with a slow somber almost silent heartbeat.

Myth of Meritcracy (draft #2)

Lightning flashes across the maddened sky
cuts molecules in half and you can count the seconds
1...2...3 then crack and boom!
Peering down at that moment you see the slow shuffle of yesterday's work,
the careworn and withered movements of dying-eyed
shadow characters best known from a distance
best known as abstract in a less than ideal world
while working-class stiffs think concretely,
lest our own thin skin be ripped
sinews and veins born against an x-ray sky.

Storm moving fast as clouds churned up by a whirlwind
dark masses floating in ethereal airs:
turned hot on its heals an evolution
of stomaching stuffs and growing the belly's bulge.
Fat now made famous
its consumptive powers render supposed evidence of our own will to fight
mano y mano
even though guilty till the last man standing
oink and you slobber over dinner
hwoink and your tongue pale pink lolls out
once more to suck on mother's tit
as anecdotal evidence insulates fallacious theory
in this myth of meritocracy.

That's When She Swallows (finished poem)

I love her curves that lift and cut
through the still air,

and now I’m smiling because I know
what she’s hiding and she’s smiling because
she knows that no one can stop her.
And now,
no one can stop
her head cocked to the sky,
body pushed in and forward. Tight
limbs swaying, saying graceful swans,
long, thin and tan. She’s thinking;
only she knows.

And she’s rolling,
rolled up and relaxed,
walking her way down the street,
and when she walks
everyone wants to talk;
but her top is locked
and she has the key
held close between her lips,
waiting for the day
when someone spreads them wide
and kisses her long.
Waiting for the day
when someone searches with their red-tongue flesh
and finds the key she’s holding
tight between her lips;
and that’s when she swallows.

Outlast the Winter (Draft #3)

In the springy depths of tumbled turves green spiky leaves-full
I lay fetus balled
white tight knuckled fists grasping veiny knees
where maybe I might outlast the winter.

Light shine from the sun crescendos as an arc that too suits the star fruit
carambola eaten at intervals
even though it goes almost unknown among the gringos of the north
and maybe I might outlast the winter.

Reality ice skating scratching patterns
upon an azure deep sky where planes
seen from our shores as what they send
slowly expanding across the atmosphere
streams of thin clouds like long futon pillows
castaway in the basement or second bedroom:
only up there can comtrails become chemtrails draggling behind
or spikes of light become like dagger backstabs at the moment of death:
maybe I might outlast the winter.

Letters written
house or cell phone
communication satellite Skype-like
tech bubbles rising through electronic brine.
IM me FB me Message me
maybe I might outlast the winter.

Adrenaline filled by septic sub-pump
too embarrassed to speak I nevertheless breathe each breath:
exhaling I leave entrails behind;
inhaling, me, the contaminated air;
and then proceeding to pestilent pock marks upon my soul
who want to know who makes me hot as fire on a cold winter night.
Want to tell me what but what
who tell them what?

Monday, April 19, 2010

Outlast the Winter: Draft #2

In the springy depths of tumbled turves full of green spiky leaves
guarded from the stiff breeze
maybe I might outlast the winter.

Shining light crescendos an arc that suits as the star fruit
eaten still at intervals non known among the gringos of the north
maybe I might outlast the winter.

Reality waiting in patterns upon the deep azure sky
planes fly by chem-trails draggle behind
spikes of light like dagger strikes at the moment of death
maybe I might outlast the winter.

Letters written house phone cell phone communication satellite
Skype-like techno bubbles rising through electronic brine.
IM me FB me Message me
maybe I might outlast the winter.

Pumped full of adrenaline in the cold air and too embarrassed to speak
we nevertheless shit out each breath,
leave entrails behind
inhale contaminated air:
white powder waits in hair for the next drug test
heroine courses through veins until the next death...
Pharmaceutical stereotype of human degenerative disorders
pestilent pock marks on our souls
a marriage of cares
stop care about other care's care:
Want to know who makes me hot as fire on a cold winter night.
Want to tell me what but what
who tell them what?

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Myth of Meritcracy: Draft #1

Lightning flashes across the maddened sky
cuts molecules in half and you can count the seconds
1...2...3 and crack and boom!
Storm moving fast as clouds churned up by a whirlwind
dark masses floating in ethereal airs:
turned hot on its heals an evolution
of stomaching stuffs and growing the belly's bulge.
Fat now made famous
its consumptive powers render supposed evidence of our own will to fight
mano y mano
guilty till the last man standing
in this myth of meritocracy.

Outlast the Winter: Draft #1

In the springy depths of these
tumbled turves of green spiky leaves
masses sitting still
but maybe I might outlast the winter.

Shining light crescendos an arc that suits as the star fruit
eaten at intervals but unknown to the white man:
we enjoy Chiquita not understanding that 600 million live on bananas
but maybe I might outlast the winter.

Virtual reality waiting patterns in the deep azure sky
planes fly by chem-trails draggle behind and my oh my they fly by
light like dagger strikes death to my heart
but maybe I might outlast the winter.

Letter's written by house phone call cell phone satellite phone
and Skyped to tears
like techno bubbles rising through electronic brine.
IM me FB me Message me but never speak to me.

Pumped full of adrenaline in the cold air, too embarrassed to speak
we shit out each breath leave entrails behind,
inhale contaminated oxygen
there are worse things...
white powder waits in hair for the next drug test
heroine courses through veins until the next death...
Pharmaceutical stereotype of human
degenerative disorders pestilent pock marks on our souls
if its true
marriage of who cares stop,
care about other people's care:
Want to know who I fuck? Want to know
who warms with me the cold winter air?
Want to tell me what to do when damn them! Who tell them what?

Friday, April 9, 2010

Outlast the Winter (brainstorm/rough draft)

In these depths of green spiky leaves and tumbled turves
masses sitting still
my mind tangled in webs of conceit
bound over for sale signs on the foreclosure of my dreams
for servitude to another man's time
another time's times.

Shining light crescendos an arc that suits as the star fruit
eaten at intervals but unknown to the North American white man:
the ignorance of European descent enjoy a Chiquita
while not understanding that 600 million humans live by principle on bananas.

Return to virtual reality waiting patterns in the deep azure sky
planes fly by chem-trails draggle behind and my oh my they fly by
light like dagger strikes death to my heart.

Maybe I can be heard, maybe I can ask this question but would it be answered
letter's written house phone call cell phone satellite phone
Skype me to tears that incessant bouncing ringing sound
like techno bubbles rising through electronic brine.
IM me FB me Message me but never talk to me.

Pumped full of adrenaline in the cold air, too embarrassed to speak
we shit as we breathe leaving entrails behind,
inhale the oxygen and then contaminate our bodies beer wine marijuana
there are worse things...
crack cocaine waits in my hair for the next drug test
heroine courses through my veins until the next death..
I we become a generic pharmaceutical stereotype of human degeneration
disorders infecting our souls if souls its true we have
a bigger debate than I can answer in one sitting,
God upper or god lower he she it mono poly
marriage of gays of straights who cares stop.
care about other people's care:
and the same people that cry for government to mind its own business
want to know who I fuck, want to know
who caresses my cold airs on a winters night
want to tell me what to do when damn them who tell them what to do.

Silent air is stirred by the barren call of a lost dog
who hopes without knowledge of a kennel come calling:
adoption or euthanization
better more than the meager food pods of shit scattered among leaves
sewers draining periphanalia could ever offer this human discard dreg
not fed
but up to its legs in a spreading hardening cold
whimper cry still air sounds pass through weak windows
cold weak windows but somehow I still last the winter.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Myth of the Meritocracy (rough draft)

Lightning in a flash switches back and forth
across the maddened sky:
bright golds and pale silvers
cutting molecules in half and you can count the seconds.
1...2...3 crack! boom!
Storm moving fast in a whirlwind of churned up clouds
dark masses floating in the glow of an ethereal airs:
not by native supply but by the haphazard human rebellion,
that we must stuff our stomachs grow the belly's bulge.
Fat now made famous consumption
renders supposed evidence of our own superior ways
our own will to fight
in this myth of meritocracy.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Coolness on Cobblestone Streets (brainstorm/ very rough draft)

I stride along a cobblestone street
where three centuries of soft red bricks lean in on me,
where I look left right up down forward and backward
here where history
knowledge like flower scarped mounds
tipping their feather caps to lives that came before,
where trees grow old bearing witness
and to them these mere moments:
a nor'easter's breeze, a blizzard snow squall,
street fights just brawls.

Pants tight, pants black,
sunglasses that scream style from a mile a away.
Deliberate coolness with mean intent:
but my thoughts proceed my actions
my style begets my character,
and least of all that I fit in these jeans
skinny tight all the way from ankle to hip.
Belt bleeds irony set firm against bod.
Coolness drinks cup of chai,
or tea for the masses,
a strong espresso latte cappuccino,
or just liking it black as deep water mud.

The body politic roles and rambles in and out
cafe's full to the brim coffee or tea misunderstands
communication's key role played out across generations:
people speak of oil giant of global commerce.
But I see hipsters and drag queens and low truckers
driving the dirty red knives of the third world:
coffee and tea high in the world's mind.

Future begins with questions
where will these streets lead?
who will beg and who will rule from high above
brick layered canopies and roof top gardens world class views?
Will we learn from lessons of the past?
Will we be blind by the time we can see?