| — | Big Sur, Kerouac |
Wanting warm blankets instead of
Cold nights
.
Wanting realizations we’ve dreamed
Instead of realization that goes against dreams
.
Wanting friend’s understanding
Without understanding friends
.
Wanting bright constellations
Without rough clouds to sort through
.
Wanting declarations of independence
Before remembering to appreciate
What we depend on
.
It’s not art, not poetry, not lofty sing-song
Hype, not even Sinatra, not nothing but
Beauty before function.
| — | Robert Frost |
Steps
Ironed
Quest
Hear me
Howl
Siren-ed
Text
Hear me
Silent
‘Round
Unrest
Hear me
Chant
Modern
Dress
I.
I’ve written more poems for
you than I’ve written for myself.
I don’t know how to make
desperation sound like something
beautiful anymore.
I no longer have a sweet tooth, and
I’ve realized that
sugar-coatings dissolve in something as
neutral as water.
II.
I’m about to destroy..
I’d like to think
Deep inside our earth
Lies a black box
With all truth inside
.
Statistics that would teach
Poetry a lesson
.
Reality that would silence
Ego-fueled bias
.
Concrete that would turn debate club
Into a group therapy session
.
Abstract that would put
Missionaries n’ terrorists out of work
.
No, life wouldn’t be any easier,
And black box conspiracy theorists
Would arise. And debate teams would
Start again. And once again we could
Be mis-informed in our information age
.
Maybe it’s not truth we’re after
But self-assurance
The lady was the most unfaithful and terrible I had
ever encountered and I knew it and she knew it and she was
both ugly and beautiful at the same time and the
two of her just sat there on the window
ledge of that open hotel window
in New York City on
one of the hottest days of all time, no
air-conditioning, no fan, we sweated and
suffered and waited for something
to happen.
I was drunk, she was on drugs, we had just
concluded a slippery bit of
copulation and afterward she said, “you son-of-a-
bitch, we’re stuck here in hell!”
“good,” I said…
sometimes you live and stay with a woman and have no
real idea why.
with her I knew; it was the simple, fascinating,
unrelenting mystery and terror of
her self.
| — | Bewitched in New York |
Taken arise
Through moonless night
Listening to drunks
Feeling their size
.
Snapshot captured
Emphatic laughter
Pot-shot-punks
Smoke thick rapture
.
Then came a peasant
With peasant presents
Got eyes like funk
Lips like resin
.
Laying down Lit
Tossing soft fibs
Don’t need a chump
Chanting ‘bout tits
.
The show lays low
Jail-baiting crows
Scavenge some hunk
Then let it all go
.
Temporarily loved
Alley-bred sluts
Go-going-fucked
Talking cocked slums
The most marvelous day of all was when I completely forgot who I was where I was or the time a day just with my pants rolled up above my knees wading in the creek rearranging the rocks and some of the snags so that the water where I stooped (near the sandy shore) would flow faster
A whole mess of little joys like that amazing me.
| — | Big Sur, Kerouac |
Shaking
Blue and bloody
I crawl towards a golden monument
Foggy rays fill my eyes
Though I can still hear seagulls
And smell ocean
.
I die at dawn
Reborn in the evening
Under purple orange sky
Celebrating language unknown
.
Slowly I turn over and graze my palms
across cool-calloused brick.
.
Wind blows into my holy clothes
And carries me to my heels
towards water
.
I don’t understand my body
and the mystery stirs my blood
Here, I’ve traveled countries, mountains,
great lakes, and was it for nothing.
.
Floating through forest deep into night
the wind lets me go, My heart beats a warm
orchestra, and tonight I’m here. Wherever the
hell ‘here’ is.
