Inside me, there's
always this
one man
who's homeless—
filthy, his greentooth grinning
obliviously,
as he pedals and pitches
what you could only
graciously call his
theories of "general relativity."
But what's worse,
there's also usually
another man in there—
with his black
and stiff collar, so
pious, clean, and holy
that he will not admit
the sheer existence of the other
which would first be necessary
in order to ignore him.
From there, it's always
the same old
stomach
ache of a story—
one of them
feeling compelled
to move around, shiftless
and aggressive, but earnest—
while the other
just likes to take
his sweet time—
saying little, moving
penitently, almost
painfully
slowly, as if
on purpose—
so that everyone else in town
notices.
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
Monday, January 30, 2017
IMITATION GAME
Virile little
cursor—
upright and
seductive—
uniform,
like sculpture,
but
blinking, though,
like—
semaphore.
Ideas flow
(could it be?)
but What's the use?
Can a machine?
Ever really think?
Only light,
full bright
panels of it,
along with a few
steady slits
of its absence, answer—
ping back their
steady irrelevant rhythms,
like questions
meant to dissolve
the opacity
of scientific investigation—
Do words speak?
Do boats swim?
Do airplanes sink?
What's the use?
the thing
now seems
to be pantomiming:
Can a
human being?
human being?
Ever really
compute?
compute?
Friday, January 27, 2017
FUTURE PERFECT PROGRESSIVE
Although someday
Love
is what
all this
will have been for—
it doesn't take
the load off.
it still can't be the goal.
After all,
it's not
like—God
is some
renewable resource.
You and I
are old
enough, by
now, to know—
black
won't begin
to describe it—
nor empty.
immaculate stars
don't
just explode,
they leave
precisely
unfillable holes.
Love
is what
all this
will have been for—
it doesn't take
the load off.
it still can't be the goal.
After all,
it's not
like—God
is some
renewable resource.
You and I
are old
enough, by
now, to know—
black
won't begin
to describe it—
nor empty.
immaculate stars
don't
just explode,
they leave
precisely
unfillable holes.
Thursday, January 26, 2017
COMMON SENSE
When I close my eyes
and sit quiet
at night
posed
just right,
I can finally hear my heart—
but
I'm not talking
about the beating.
It's the rhythm
of each tiny
valve opening
and then
quickly clicking
shut again which interests me—
an implicit code,
like the golden words
inscribed in thought-bubbles above
pictures of those
tortured, pious
Dark Ages saints:
everything that's now silent
must be
heard eventually.
Everything we don't see
must inevitably
be witnessed;
but—just because anything
is going to happen
for certain
doesn't necessarily mean
it'll be
understood.
and sit quiet
at night
posed
just right,
I can finally hear my heart—
but
I'm not talking
about the beating.
It's the rhythm
of each tiny
valve opening
and then
quickly clicking
shut again which interests me—
an implicit code,
like the golden words
inscribed in thought-bubbles above
pictures of those
tortured, pious
Dark Ages saints:
everything that's now silent
must be
heard eventually.
Everything we don't see
must inevitably
be witnessed;
but—just because anything
is going to happen
for certain
doesn't necessarily mean
it'll be
understood.
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
TIPPING POINT
But how am I ever supposed
to know
I'm happy
until—afterward
when things are
worse?
She's looking at me now
as if
she's seeing
I can never actually tell her
everything a CAT scan could.
You must
begin again,
she's saying. Always again, only
each time, try to start
a little sooner.
Bullshit. I start to say
that ignoring things
doesn't sound a lot different
to me than ignorance.
But the difference, now
I can
finally hear
while I'm still talking, is
one of those things
always seems like
some valuable-but-
hard to use compliment—it's
a silver dollar
being tossed to me
out on the street
by a stranger
who looks
and speaks exactly like me
just for mumbling
Agnus Dei,
qui tollis peccata mundi,
miserere nobis—
while that
other thing
just feels
obligatory.
to know
I'm happy
until—afterward
when things are
worse?
She's looking at me now
as if
she's seeing
I can never actually tell her
everything a CAT scan could.
You must
begin again,
she's saying. Always again, only
each time, try to start
a little sooner.
Bullshit. I start to say
that ignoring things
doesn't sound a lot different
to me than ignorance.
But the difference, now
I can
finally hear
while I'm still talking, is
one of those things
always seems like
some valuable-but-
hard to use compliment—it's
a silver dollar
being tossed to me
out on the street
by a stranger
who looks
and speaks exactly like me
just for mumbling
Agnus Dei,
qui tollis peccata mundi,
miserere nobis—
other thing
just feels
obligatory.
Tuesday, January 24, 2017
EYES ON THE PRIZE
Like a dream, the toothwhite
moon looms
far away,
looks
beautiful—
until you remember
this is not a dream,
because you haven't
been sleeping.
And what looks like the moon
is really nothing but
some old rock that got
stuck up there,
lumpy and
pockmarked, freezing,
bald, and barren,
and it makes you
wonder
why you ever bothered
quitting smoking—
makes you
suddenly,
in that moment, very
suspicious of the government—
makes you
want to
take something—
anything,
anything at all
that's out here
under this moonlight tonight—
take it,
make it yours,
and destroy it—
just so it
doesn't feel like it
belongs to you anymore.
moon looms
far away,
looks
beautiful—
until you remember
this is not a dream,
because you haven't
been sleeping.
And what looks like the moon
is really nothing but
some old rock that got
stuck up there,
lumpy and
pockmarked, freezing,
bald, and barren,
and it makes you
wonder
why you ever bothered
quitting smoking—
makes you
suddenly,
in that moment, very
suspicious of the government—
makes you
want to
take something—
anything,
anything at all
that's out here
under this moonlight tonight—
take it,
make it yours,
and destroy it—
just so it
doesn't feel like it
belongs to you anymore.
Monday, January 23, 2017
FREEDOM OF CHOICE
A crowded but camouflaged
city street, so full
it's gone
crooked
with rival
words and melodies
is more
than music
to my ears; it's worse—
it's like someone dropped me off
in a store that sells
only used similes and metaphors,
and I'm sort of a buff,
so I can't help but
start picking them all up
one-by-one, giving them
each a good thump
and turning them upside
down, exhaling my breath
on them, rubbing off
the condensation, then
gazing back with passion
at my neatly
distorted reflection,
and thinking—I know
none of these is perfect
or brand-new,
but they're sure
dirt-cheap―
and they're here
and I'm
here too. . .
and I can't keep from wondering
which vanishing reaches
of otherwise
indescribable light, or
which severe-angled corner
in the close-quartered
jail of human strife
any (any!) any
of these things
might make a decent,
easy to sell
and ready to use
symbol for.
city street, so full
it's gone
crooked
with rival
words and melodies
is more
than music
to my ears; it's worse—
it's like someone dropped me off
in a store that sells
only used similes and metaphors,
and I'm sort of a buff,
so I can't help but
start picking them all up
one-by-one, giving them
each a good thump
and turning them upside
down, exhaling my breath
on them, rubbing off
the condensation, then
gazing back with passion
at my neatly
distorted reflection,
and thinking—I know
none of these is perfect
or brand-new,
but they're sure
dirt-cheap―
and they're here
and I'm
here too. . .
and I can't keep from wondering
which vanishing reaches
of otherwise
indescribable light, or
which severe-angled corner
in the close-quartered
jail of human strife
any (any!) any
of these things
might make a decent,
easy to sell
and ready to use
symbol for.
Friday, January 20, 2017
YOU CAN CALL ME SAL
Language
at the speed of experience.
Now now now—
relentless.
Laughter at the pitch of
ecstasy.
Tickled—til
defenseless.
A visceral effusion
is a.k.a. coughing,
a genius
all the time—singing
ta-ra-ra boom de-ay!
over and over.
Paradise aside,
though,
and back
in our drab houses, let's
face facts,
man: wow—
means absolutely
nothing.
at the speed of experience.
Now now now—
relentless.
Laughter at the pitch of
ecstasy.
Tickled—til
defenseless.
A visceral effusion
is a.k.a. coughing,
a genius
all the time—singing
ta-ra-ra boom de-ay!
over and over.
Paradise aside,
though,
and back
in our drab houses, let's
face facts,
man: wow—
means absolutely
nothing.
Thursday, January 19, 2017
IDEAL READER
Sorry to disappoint,
but I'm afraid
that Art
is usually
those plain ugly
everyday things
whose defeated angles
and gray, depressed hues
keep them uncoveted
and morally invisible
as they accrue unintentionally
against life's somber,
neutral background;
and it's typically—
The Everyday
which is
made up by
those strange,
ruddy things
tending to nag
at our
at our
interest along the way,
those flared, fluted objects
we're often made
to stare at intensely
to stare at intensely
as if
there were magic
frames all around them.
Just consider
the mindnumbing utility
of overabundance:
first, picture gallons
of loose tuna salad
sequestered in the alley
behind a profligate
kitchen somewhere,
swamped
by hordes
of fat, ingrate rats.
Then, try to imagine
the beauty that's there—
that sheer
blind knack,
the unencouraged ingenuity
and practically-
enviable aggression
of those bacteria
currently
colonizing their systems.
Wednesday, January 18, 2017
DEFINE YOUR TERMS
Free Will—meaning
mine, not yours.
Unsure—meaning
yearning.
Truth—meaning
please, be considerate
and whisper your hyperbole.
Constipated—
when you presume
you're full,
but really you're complete-
ly empty.
Third World—
as in:
this must be
(at least) your
third go
through this first one.
Market Place—
where
what is frivolous
makes
what's essential
feel affordable.
After All—
just a curse
we learn to hurl
at the stubborn present tense,
which refuses always
to stop getting there
just a hair before us.
mine, not yours.
Unsure—meaning
yearning.
Truth—meaning
please, be considerate
and whisper your hyperbole.
Constipated—
when you presume
you're full,
but really you're complete-
ly empty.
Third World—
as in:
this must be
(at least) your
third go
through this first one.
Market Place—
where
what is frivolous
makes
what's essential
feel affordable.
After All—
just a curse
we learn to hurl
at the stubborn present tense,
which refuses always
to stop getting there
just a hair before us.
Tuesday, January 17, 2017
D & K
It's like—there are always these
two twin sibling capital letter I's
standing, independent but
right next to each other.
Proud and vertical—but humble,
no serifs for protection.
But sometimes, the sister
can't seem to resist
edging in, somehow getting herself
preternaturally bonded
to her brother
at their extremities, even as she resists this
in her very middle—
and instinctively begins
arcing away,
balooning
just about as geometrically far out
as she can from him without snapping.
Other times, it'll be
her brother who will deliberately
target her,
leap up and go
ballistic, always come crashing down
at an angle to dead center,
only to kiss
a perfect bullseye there
before ricocheting off immediately,
half-mad, but still beautifully
and still fully himself—in the
opposite direction.
two twin sibling capital letter I's
standing, independent but
right next to each other.
Proud and vertical—but humble,
no serifs for protection.
But sometimes, the sister
can't seem to resist
edging in, somehow getting herself
preternaturally bonded
to her brother
at their extremities, even as she resists this
in her very middle—
and instinctively begins
arcing away,
balooning
just about as geometrically far out
as she can from him without snapping.
Other times, it'll be
her brother who will deliberately
target her,
leap up and go
ballistic, always come crashing down
at an angle to dead center,
only to kiss
a perfect bullseye there
before ricocheting off immediately,
half-mad, but still beautifully
and still fully himself—in the
opposite direction.
Monday, January 16, 2017
DRAMATIZATION
In the rain,
a flash
and me left
wondering—
is there some
occult vocation,
or is it
or pure recreation
that causes
men to fall like rain
from holes in the sides of nice silver-
white airplanes?
I guess—as with rain,
it depends
on whether
or not
they ever plan
on landing.
a flash
and me left
wondering—
is there some
occult vocation,
or is it
or pure recreation
that causes
men to fall like rain
from holes in the sides of nice silver-
white airplanes?
I guess—as with rain,
it depends
on whether
or not
they ever plan
on landing.
Friday, January 13, 2017
THIS IS YOUR BRAIN
This morning,
I am the bright
dominion of mind—limitless, immeasurable;
where ideals
are solid—and comfortable
as furniture.
Abstraction is the only thing
that's pure,
and purity is actual here.
The only way I'll ever
abide imperfection
is,
one day, somehow
some way, to not be
connected to this
body anymore.
*
By noon,
I've become the subject.
Hard working, like one of
Van Gogh's peasants,
I'm all-curves and corners;
I'm bone. I'm your
pit sweat and toe-jam,
your muscle and ligaments.
And I've been rigorously
conditioned to believe—
things aren't too bad
if I choose not
to count
those things
which are
any worse than that.
*
But when the day ends
and night comes,
it's dark again; there's no colors
at all,
and I no longer
see how—
the world outside
could have any corners.
Inside, it's Freedom.
It's Possibility; all that yin
and yang energy swirling
around each other (or whatever.)
It's—
lucky, lucky,
lucky me:
I have a mind. Cool.
I have a body. Wow.
But I—the I
that is doing
the talking—I
am neither of those things
right now.
I am the bright
dominion of mind—limitless, immeasurable;
where ideals
are solid—and comfortable
as furniture.
Abstraction is the only thing
that's pure,
and purity is actual here.
The only way I'll ever
abide imperfection
is,
one day, somehow
some way, to not be
connected to this
body anymore.
*
By noon,
I've become the subject.
Hard working, like one of
Van Gogh's peasants,
I'm all-curves and corners;
I'm bone. I'm your
pit sweat and toe-jam,
your muscle and ligaments.
And I've been rigorously
conditioned to believe—
things aren't too bad
if I choose not
to count
those things
which are
any worse than that.
*
But when the day ends
and night comes,
it's dark again; there's no colors
at all,
and I no longer
see how—
the world outside
could have any corners.
Inside, it's Freedom.
It's Possibility; all that yin
and yang energy swirling
around each other (or whatever.)
It's—
lucky, lucky,
lucky me:
I have a mind. Cool.
I have a body. Wow.
But I—the I
that is doing
the talking—I
am neither of those things
right now.
Thursday, January 12, 2017
BRAINFOOD
I know I could do better,
but I never mind eating messes
of over-scrambled eggs
for breakfast, lunch, and dinner
because of the way
they always remind me of something
I can't remember. First—it's weird, how
they didn't come cheap
considering how fragile their
worldviews all turned out to be.
Then there's the way they get
all stringy and off-color-pastel-tired
after their personal spaces get violated,
their pure potential having been (to put it mildly)
overshot in the heat;
but at the end of the day,
it's okay—they're still vaguely
on the savory side
of plain, still contain enough bulk
to seem to count for something.
They still sport some intentional level
of skill-dependent composure
when they're finally all laid-out;
they're usually best remembered
for being warm and homespun,
not for being pretty; and of course,
the dispatch of the whole dire
consumptive procedure itself
usually leaves its executor feeling
both—penitent and satisfied.
but I never mind eating messes
of over-scrambled eggs
for breakfast, lunch, and dinner
because of the way
they always remind me of something
I can't remember. First—it's weird, how
they didn't come cheap
considering how fragile their
worldviews all turned out to be.
Then there's the way they get
all stringy and off-color-pastel-tired
after their personal spaces get violated,
their pure potential having been (to put it mildly)
overshot in the heat;
but at the end of the day,
it's okay—they're still vaguely
on the savory side
of plain, still contain enough bulk
to seem to count for something.
They still sport some intentional level
of skill-dependent composure
when they're finally all laid-out;
they're usually best remembered
for being warm and homespun,
not for being pretty; and of course,
the dispatch of the whole dire
consumptive procedure itself
usually leaves its executor feeling
both—penitent and satisfied.
Wednesday, January 11, 2017
INSPIRATIONS HAVE I NONE
Stone love,
Stardust:
I am no slogan,
I'm just
a blind idiot,
descending
on the deaf.
Inspirations have I none;
all I've got,
you gave me,
careless
in your choosing.
And now,
all I've got left
is my doubt
of doubt—
that doubt
is not nothing.
Stardust:
I am no slogan,
I'm just
a blind idiot,
descending
on the deaf.
Inspirations have I none;
all I've got,
you gave me,
careless
in your choosing.
And now,
all I've got left
is my doubt
of doubt—
that doubt
is not nothing.
I WILL EASE YOUR MIND
I really don't think
of myself as
a hero to anyone,
though I know I'm not
much of a
disappointment, either;
I'm more like a support system
that's also become
its own burden,
all of my pain and suffering
compliantly tucked
and arched into architecture
that's fishy and obscure.
Like a bridge over troubled water,
I'm a fortuitous sign
but also those perilous
and unfeeling
forces it signifies,
a mixture of practical
faith and
blind science,
not a quick fix, necessarily—
but a necessarily-
temporary solution
to some
long-term patently
unsolvable problem.
of myself as
a hero to anyone,
though I know I'm not
much of a
disappointment, either;
I'm more like a support system
that's also become
its own burden,
all of my pain and suffering
compliantly tucked
and arched into architecture
that's fishy and obscure.
Like a bridge over troubled water,
I'm a fortuitous sign
but also those perilous
and unfeeling
forces it signifies,
a mixture of practical
faith and
blind science,
not a quick fix, necessarily—
but a necessarily-
temporary solution
to some
long-term patently
unsolvable problem.
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
DOUBLE STOP
They tell me—
every line,
every part,
every act
of speech
is virgin—
especially
a repeated one:
freedom,
some
brand new religion
for the already-
chosen.
Well I say
maybe,
maybe not.
every line,
every part,
every act
of speech
is virgin—
especially
a repeated one:
freedom,
some
brand new religion
for the already-
chosen.
Well I say
maybe,
maybe not.
Monday, January 9, 2017
HUNGER, PAIN, AND THE U.S. MAIL
Every day,
it's there.
Furled, hung-up,
crumpled, foisted
into containers.
Everywhere.
Perhaps, later—coffee
cup stained, strewn
across the table, whatever.
Yesterday's
all mixed up
with today's.
I really
don't care.
I notice it. Sure.
Deal with it. Maybe.
Or don't bother yet,
since—every day
dirty envelopes,
pristine paper,
impeccable streaks of
bleak midnight letters
are there, lightly might-mattering
(someone wants something,
you're someone's problem)
or literally smeared to nothing.
Either way, fine.
Every single day.
Really.
Every single day.
But what bothers me—is
why doesn't
anything else
feel that way?
it's there.
Furled, hung-up,
crumpled, foisted
into containers.
Everywhere.
Perhaps, later—coffee
cup stained, strewn
across the table, whatever.
Yesterday's
all mixed up
with today's.
I really
don't care.
I notice it. Sure.
Deal with it. Maybe.
Or don't bother yet,
since—every day
dirty envelopes,
pristine paper,
impeccable streaks of
bleak midnight letters
are there, lightly might-mattering
(someone wants something,
you're someone's problem)
or literally smeared to nothing.
Either way, fine.
Every single day.
Really.
Every single day.
But what bothers me—is
why doesn't
anything else
feel that way?
Friday, January 6, 2017
PET SOUNDS
Oh friends, not these sounds!
Let us instead strike up more pleasing
and more joyful ones!
-Prologue to “Ode to Joy”
***
If you're anything
like me,
by the time you reach to hit the keys
for poem number
fourteen hundred and one, I imagine
you'll feel this
cold, arthritic brass-
tax-feeling come threatening—
to stiffen all your fingers
and stuff cement in each ear canal.
If you're
anything like me,
you'll still be able
to hear one thing, but it's
just the dull wheeze
of your own nervous system:
the world isn't singing,
it's saying.
It's saying—who needs immediacy
of rhythms
and rhymes and songs? We've got
catchy memes now.
It's saying—are you kidding?
all men are not even
cousins, not even
drinking buddies—let alone brothers.
It's saying—I got some
bad news for you, friend,
John Wayne's
real name was Marion Morrison.
But again, if you're
anything like me,
you'll say: Fine. Great.
Whatever. I'll just
write it all down,
anyway,
thinking—what the hell,
if I'm not at least tentatively
making music, then I'm definitely
shushing some.
Thursday, January 5, 2017
CRUELEST MONTH
January—is this trap door my
poetry cannot help
but step on.
In a frozen rush,
both the past
and future bug-out
and suddenly my thoughts
feel obfuscated and dark,
falling-but-stuck
somewhere
in the dismal
breach between
the quick
haiku rush of
golden springtime wisdom
and that silvery
tingle of a Christmas
card greeting—
like a desperate
Rudolph, with his
nose so bright
took me
to the river,
dropped me
in the water—
right nearby
that desolate
bank where
Neil Young
shot his baby.
Wednesday, January 4, 2017
REVERSE-HYPOCHONDRIA
I have this one
friend—who got
supersick from trying
to ejaculate
squarely onto this
mysterious, little jade
mirror he found.
He was never able
to get-off successfully, since
all he could
see was how
unattractive it'd be—if
there was ever, visibly,
nothing at all
wrong with him.
friend—who got
supersick from trying
to ejaculate
squarely onto this
mysterious, little jade
mirror he found.
He was never able
to get-off successfully, since
all he could
see was how
unattractive it'd be—if
there was ever, visibly,
nothing at all
wrong with him.
END OF THE WORLD SIMULATOR
In the future, new levels
of complexity—
nano-
rigged,
bio-
amazing,
instantaneous intergalactic everything—
will make it inconceivably
boring
to just sit
and chit-
chat about things.
of complexity—
nano-
rigged,
bio-
amazing,
instantaneous intergalactic everything—
will make it inconceivably
boring
to just sit
and chit-
chat about things.
Tuesday, January 3, 2017
DUDE'LL DO
Dude, congratulations;
you're the sun.
(You know exactly
how the world
will end, can see
the blueness
of prairieland sky
for what it
really is—a dream, etc.)
And your job now
is—to say
and do nothing
regarding these
things, but just
to keep moving,
even when
it feels dumb;
keep going,
keep doing
the same thing, over
and over again.
And not only
that, but do it
in a way that
feels new—not to you,
but to the ones
who need it to.
And so, you
do it. And you do
it, and you
do it 'til you're
in pain. Then,
after that, you do it
again. You do it
'til you're sick,
'til you're numb,
'til you're
half-insane. You do it
so many times
that you no longer
know your own
name. But that's fine,
since by then,
you don't really have to—
they do. That huge crowd
down below you,
they all do.
You can just listen
to what they shout
as soon as you
first appear in the morning:
Survivor! Survivor! they all
crow, almost
in union.
you're the sun.
(You know exactly
how the world
will end, can see
the blueness
of prairieland sky
for what it
really is—a dream, etc.)
And your job now
is—to say
and do nothing
regarding these
things, but just
to keep moving,
even when
it feels dumb;
keep going,
keep doing
the same thing, over
and over again.
And not only
that, but do it
in a way that
feels new—not to you,
but to the ones
who need it to.
And so, you
do it. And you do
it, and you
do it 'til you're
in pain. Then,
after that, you do it
again. You do it
'til you're sick,
'til you're numb,
'til you're
half-insane. You do it
so many times
that you no longer
know your own
name. But that's fine,
since by then,
you don't really have to—
they do. That huge crowd
down below you,
they all do.
You can just listen
to what they shout
as soon as you
first appear in the morning:
Survivor! Survivor! they all
crow, almost
in union.
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