Alcohol and albuterol,
And the blessed goings in the night.
I’ll take a stroll over ethanol,
And fill my straying’s delight.
Birth a la mode and being blandly blue,
Filling my gullet with mussels and mullet,
While waving hello
To the dinky and the True.
Now the cold wind blows o'er my freezing toes
But I just smile and say,
“I’ll walk where I choose with the holes in my shoes,
And I’ll not suffer though you may.”
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Friday, November 12, 2010
Peace in My Desk Drawer
Parading amongst the hollowed stacks
of boiled books and cataracts,
a busy bee or Burt Blue-Green
covers the books and magazines.
Dirty, keyed fingers and mouse and screen,
Buddha, black with smithareens,
coffee-maker, you belong to me,
must cast all out with a feather's beam.
Sitting silent, queer, and cool,
quaffing coffee, keep back my drool,
but it drips, desperate, bored, and lonely,
and drenches through my moving pictures-
Must always think, "If Only, If Only."
of boiled books and cataracts,
a busy bee or Burt Blue-Green
covers the books and magazines.
Dirty, keyed fingers and mouse and screen,
Buddha, black with smithareens,
coffee-maker, you belong to me,
must cast all out with a feather's beam.
Sitting silent, queer, and cool,
quaffing coffee, keep back my drool,
but it drips, desperate, bored, and lonely,
and drenches through my moving pictures-
Must always think, "If Only, If Only."
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Ghosts
They prance about in the now, their time.
Peering out my doorway at the torrential storm, I can see them, darting and dashing, wailing and splashing,
With a pleasure I shall not know.
They’re ghosts, the ghosts, they certainly must be, their ghastly reign in the times
of rain keep us inside, in the calm quiet shelter, avoid the wet swelter, and we
are safe from them.
Might I suffer a fear of the watery wetness in the stead of something ghastly and
begotten?
Such a fate I’m certainly not in as I cower in fear of the awesome and
severe, the kind that defines me, the kind that reminds me, the kind that is not
for me to know.
The sheets fall hard and show us their flippant runnings-about, two, four, ten at a
time, in wispy weaves they wind, doing their deeds, nerving our grind at
untraceable speeds in protean rind,
Mysterious as they are, their function is there to see, to us, to all, to know who
really turn the seasons and take the harvests, who spin the strings and burn
the forests, the mealy larvae we truly are.
I tremble to write.
But, after all the awe and angst, the probable peace of the Proteans pokes through,
though none have sought to pry, to prod, to prove the profound novelty of the
apparent thesis.
I hope they don’t.
For the eeriness with which a man is stricken is colder than the storm that beckons
him inside, the thunderous stirring of paranoia emanates, vibrates,
menstruates, salivates, and levitates through the endless hallways of his mind
as his jaws, spread wide, scream silence at the fear in front of his endless
cohorts, I beseech thee, Let Me Be.
Let this be the sufficient warn: let still the souls of the dead, the former men, the
outcast ideas, the gatherings of the despicable what-was, and I, too, shall,
much as they must have, learn the expected of a dead It, their diligence, their
efficiency in completing their tasks is too great and obvious to think I shall
not,
So as for now, I huddle indoors and seek things due and ought for living mankind,
for it flutters and fades and blossoms in haze, but to finish fast and
furthermore:
I venture to my frosty work, run beaten mitts through black-white Earth writhing
alive in the slithers of the slight and dead and slightly dead, and soon.
So if the sound and solemn obligation of the dead should shower Life with more
until it pulses again, I proudly crawl amongst the copious, the wormy masses of
blackened flesh, regrets, and I-wishes, for come whoever come who may come who
white and come who black, coming forth from Charon or coming forth from
Aphrodite, I must continue Life, I must continue Death until I might at last, at
long lengthy lasting lubricated Last, hang in the void and know nothing again
for I have been a man and I have conquered it all.
Let the rains fall.
Peering out my doorway at the torrential storm, I can see them, darting and dashing, wailing and splashing,
With a pleasure I shall not know.
They’re ghosts, the ghosts, they certainly must be, their ghastly reign in the times
of rain keep us inside, in the calm quiet shelter, avoid the wet swelter, and we
are safe from them.
Might I suffer a fear of the watery wetness in the stead of something ghastly and
begotten?
Such a fate I’m certainly not in as I cower in fear of the awesome and
severe, the kind that defines me, the kind that reminds me, the kind that is not
for me to know.
The sheets fall hard and show us their flippant runnings-about, two, four, ten at a
time, in wispy weaves they wind, doing their deeds, nerving our grind at
untraceable speeds in protean rind,
Mysterious as they are, their function is there to see, to us, to all, to know who
really turn the seasons and take the harvests, who spin the strings and burn
the forests, the mealy larvae we truly are.
I tremble to write.
But, after all the awe and angst, the probable peace of the Proteans pokes through,
though none have sought to pry, to prod, to prove the profound novelty of the
apparent thesis.
I hope they don’t.
For the eeriness with which a man is stricken is colder than the storm that beckons
him inside, the thunderous stirring of paranoia emanates, vibrates,
menstruates, salivates, and levitates through the endless hallways of his mind
as his jaws, spread wide, scream silence at the fear in front of his endless
cohorts, I beseech thee, Let Me Be.
Let this be the sufficient warn: let still the souls of the dead, the former men, the
outcast ideas, the gatherings of the despicable what-was, and I, too, shall,
much as they must have, learn the expected of a dead It, their diligence, their
efficiency in completing their tasks is too great and obvious to think I shall
not,
So as for now, I huddle indoors and seek things due and ought for living mankind,
for it flutters and fades and blossoms in haze, but to finish fast and
furthermore:
I venture to my frosty work, run beaten mitts through black-white Earth writhing
alive in the slithers of the slight and dead and slightly dead, and soon.
So if the sound and solemn obligation of the dead should shower Life with more
until it pulses again, I proudly crawl amongst the copious, the wormy masses of
blackened flesh, regrets, and I-wishes, for come whoever come who may come who
white and come who black, coming forth from Charon or coming forth from
Aphrodite, I must continue Life, I must continue Death until I might at last, at
long lengthy lasting lubricated Last, hang in the void and know nothing again
for I have been a man and I have conquered it all.
Let the rains fall.
The Subway
Sitting on the subway, watching the lights go by
Man in front seems okay, a woman begins to cry
But good to know that we’re all here, sharing a piece of day
Hope we all stay when we get there, together burning man's time away
Man in front seems okay, a woman begins to cry
But good to know that we’re all here, sharing a piece of day
Hope we all stay when we get there, together burning man's time away
A Celebration of Detachment
I’ve thought crazy things tonight,
things that befuddle and bamboozle,
send the brain all-zerfuddle and zarfoozle.
I thought the craziest things just then
Things about flyin’,
And things about dyin’
And how we’re headed towards an uncertain end
Oh, yes, the craziest things I thought
I thought how the forests,
With all their trees
Were like the dogs
With all their fleas
Oh, what crazy, whimsical thoughts were these
I saw the men,
With all their cares
And how they swelled
Beneath their hairs
And as they, the men, grew again
they destroyed the earth,
With knife and with pen
Crazy, splendidly foolish,
Pre-fucking-posterous things
Of the impossible feats
of the daywalkers and nightsleepers
All the lingo-talkers and when-sad-weepers
These deeds of the doers have bested all pursuers
And so they all walk on
This modern day
It is not altogether, this, what is me
And this, you might gather, is how it is to be
For if I’m to be free, and my heart aglee
I must think these crazy things
Or else I’ll no longer be
things that befuddle and bamboozle,
send the brain all-zerfuddle and zarfoozle.
I thought the craziest things just then
Things about flyin’,
And things about dyin’
And how we’re headed towards an uncertain end
Oh, yes, the craziest things I thought
I thought how the forests,
With all their trees
Were like the dogs
With all their fleas
Oh, what crazy, whimsical thoughts were these
I saw the men,
With all their cares
And how they swelled
Beneath their hairs
And as they, the men, grew again
they destroyed the earth,
With knife and with pen
Crazy, splendidly foolish,
Pre-fucking-posterous things
Of the impossible feats
of the daywalkers and nightsleepers
All the lingo-talkers and when-sad-weepers
These deeds of the doers have bested all pursuers
And so they all walk on
This modern day
It is not altogether, this, what is me
And this, you might gather, is how it is to be
For if I’m to be free, and my heart aglee
I must think these crazy things
Or else I’ll no longer be
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Pages from a Himalayan Diary
This as good a page as any, I reckon:
The Nepalese. They do know it, Peace. Have to, given what’s around ‘em, and they still live here. Might be the gin talkin’…you think you come to a place, ‘specially place like Nepal, and think these are the things that are expected or cliché, but it’s true. Something there, some force, it won't let you miss it. Consider:
I woke at 1 am. I’m not used to the time, and I’m trekking the southern Himalayas, which ain’t necessarily easy, so my clock’s a bit off. So I’m up and I’m thinking ‘bout the regrets of my life, mostly girls I never told I loved, particularly the one got the better of me before all the others, as much as it shouldn’t mean so much to a man, but it is and was to me…still itches me today…I should call her, if she’s still around somewhere. But that’s not what this is about. It’s one o’clock in the morning.
I’m staring at the window. The window thinks, “Goddamn, it’s one o’clock in the morning, and I’m staring at a man. Well, maybe a man, maybe a kid. What the hell am I doing?” But the man-kid, he’s equaling the intensity of the stare. Mostly, I’m taken by a flash from the glass. The window, it’s blinkin’ at me. Not lightning, goddamnit, and certainly not the alcohol, that thing is blinkin’ at me like I’m a high skirt, and it’s 1955 again. Of course, I’m not buyin’ it, not buyin’ it for…well, not buyin’ it past the first or second, but I’ll admit that I am the impressionable type…
I regret a little more while that window’s still playing his game, and the thunder cracks…and the regret hurts a little more. I don’t know what she’ll say, but I hope I laid on thick enough back then. I hope I love her- 18 years old and then gave her, her and everyone else, years to think I wasn’t human- I hope I am now. Hope.
I can’t stare at the window anymore, and I try to use my legs and do something about it. I have two big and old enough to take me outside, but they shrink up quick. Stepping from nice, warm, soft wood inside to the cold, bare stone outside- there’s gotta be miles between the two…but probably not. Whatever the case is, that’s the one biggest step I’ll ever take.
The new moonlight feels cold, much colder than the American brand. Way I’m feeling tonight, coldest I’ll probably ever feel. It’s funny, though, right there in the midst of it- it takes a second to rule out yellow, and I don’t think anyone’s ever decided on blue, white, or any conceivable mixture of the colors, but you’re bathing in it, looking at it, perceiving something right in front of you that you don’t understand. And somehow you keep your wits about you. It’s filling your lungs, invading your pores, telling sweet, eerie lies to those peepers of yours, and, all the while, you’re the most irresistible mannequin ever to venture into the Nepalese night. Peculiar, wearing a color you perceive and don’t recognize; maybe a little like first meeting your mother at age 50…feeling the relief of quenching an unknown thirst after so long.
God, heave-ho, I hope she gives one one-thousandth the thought to me as I’m givin’ her this evening. That would be more than enough for what I’ve still got to do…why is this attacking now? It must have to be, commanded by the specters going about in this light…the color of the light might drive me batty- the color of ghosts, it must be. I hope I love her, or anything even. It’s been a long time, and, as strange as I am, I think it’s mostly to her now, that I seem strange, that is. Jesus, that’s really not me. Really, heave-ho, heave-ho, and tell me you love me. But I don’t know who I’m talking to anymore.
The glow of the night- scary as hell, but I’ve never seen this before, and I can’t step away from novelty so easily. I guess I’m the impressionable type. It’s weird, doing it, this travelin’. I ate food, talked to people- that ain’t the new part, travelin’, not like this. I’m scared here, and probably reasonably so. The sky, deep gray-blue, like the kind of water nobody ever comes back out of, blinks some macabre blink, like something bigger’n me’s warnin’ me of something. “Go back, this isn’t your hour, old man, go back,” somethin’ like that. Scary, but exciting, even for a man feelin’ cold in his skivvies in front of the lodge. Old man, he came out for the rain, but he felt it on his face, and, now, well, now, he’s just sober and scared. Something touched me on the face, changed things. Old man, he don’t know where the hell he is.
The opposite wall of the valley is lit up with 12 lights, yes, electric lights, but electricity’s normal, and he doesn’t believe much in the symbolism of things, just that coincidence occurs arbitrarily, even if there is a 13th way high up off to his right that his conscious wants him to doubt. Was it there? Yeah, probably it was, but can’t say for sure. Hell, it might even been lit by real flame, which makes it the first of its kind, not the 13th. Old man, he can’t take his eyes off it though, even if the goddamn sky won’t stop warning him to go back inside.
I shivered and walked inside at my own pace, clouds be damned- old man, he ain’t that scared. Even if he is spineless, cold, and unsure.
It’s going to rain tomorrow.
The Nepalese. They do know it, Peace. Have to, given what’s around ‘em, and they still live here. Might be the gin talkin’…you think you come to a place, ‘specially place like Nepal, and think these are the things that are expected or cliché, but it’s true. Something there, some force, it won't let you miss it. Consider:
I woke at 1 am. I’m not used to the time, and I’m trekking the southern Himalayas, which ain’t necessarily easy, so my clock’s a bit off. So I’m up and I’m thinking ‘bout the regrets of my life, mostly girls I never told I loved, particularly the one got the better of me before all the others, as much as it shouldn’t mean so much to a man, but it is and was to me…still itches me today…I should call her, if she’s still around somewhere. But that’s not what this is about. It’s one o’clock in the morning.
I’m staring at the window. The window thinks, “Goddamn, it’s one o’clock in the morning, and I’m staring at a man. Well, maybe a man, maybe a kid. What the hell am I doing?” But the man-kid, he’s equaling the intensity of the stare. Mostly, I’m taken by a flash from the glass. The window, it’s blinkin’ at me. Not lightning, goddamnit, and certainly not the alcohol, that thing is blinkin’ at me like I’m a high skirt, and it’s 1955 again. Of course, I’m not buyin’ it, not buyin’ it for…well, not buyin’ it past the first or second, but I’ll admit that I am the impressionable type…
I regret a little more while that window’s still playing his game, and the thunder cracks…and the regret hurts a little more. I don’t know what she’ll say, but I hope I laid on thick enough back then. I hope I love her- 18 years old and then gave her, her and everyone else, years to think I wasn’t human- I hope I am now. Hope.
I can’t stare at the window anymore, and I try to use my legs and do something about it. I have two big and old enough to take me outside, but they shrink up quick. Stepping from nice, warm, soft wood inside to the cold, bare stone outside- there’s gotta be miles between the two…but probably not. Whatever the case is, that’s the one biggest step I’ll ever take.
The new moonlight feels cold, much colder than the American brand. Way I’m feeling tonight, coldest I’ll probably ever feel. It’s funny, though, right there in the midst of it- it takes a second to rule out yellow, and I don’t think anyone’s ever decided on blue, white, or any conceivable mixture of the colors, but you’re bathing in it, looking at it, perceiving something right in front of you that you don’t understand. And somehow you keep your wits about you. It’s filling your lungs, invading your pores, telling sweet, eerie lies to those peepers of yours, and, all the while, you’re the most irresistible mannequin ever to venture into the Nepalese night. Peculiar, wearing a color you perceive and don’t recognize; maybe a little like first meeting your mother at age 50…feeling the relief of quenching an unknown thirst after so long.
God, heave-ho, I hope she gives one one-thousandth the thought to me as I’m givin’ her this evening. That would be more than enough for what I’ve still got to do…why is this attacking now? It must have to be, commanded by the specters going about in this light…the color of the light might drive me batty- the color of ghosts, it must be. I hope I love her, or anything even. It’s been a long time, and, as strange as I am, I think it’s mostly to her now, that I seem strange, that is. Jesus, that’s really not me. Really, heave-ho, heave-ho, and tell me you love me. But I don’t know who I’m talking to anymore.
The glow of the night- scary as hell, but I’ve never seen this before, and I can’t step away from novelty so easily. I guess I’m the impressionable type. It’s weird, doing it, this travelin’. I ate food, talked to people- that ain’t the new part, travelin’, not like this. I’m scared here, and probably reasonably so. The sky, deep gray-blue, like the kind of water nobody ever comes back out of, blinks some macabre blink, like something bigger’n me’s warnin’ me of something. “Go back, this isn’t your hour, old man, go back,” somethin’ like that. Scary, but exciting, even for a man feelin’ cold in his skivvies in front of the lodge. Old man, he came out for the rain, but he felt it on his face, and, now, well, now, he’s just sober and scared. Something touched me on the face, changed things. Old man, he don’t know where the hell he is.
The opposite wall of the valley is lit up with 12 lights, yes, electric lights, but electricity’s normal, and he doesn’t believe much in the symbolism of things, just that coincidence occurs arbitrarily, even if there is a 13th way high up off to his right that his conscious wants him to doubt. Was it there? Yeah, probably it was, but can’t say for sure. Hell, it might even been lit by real flame, which makes it the first of its kind, not the 13th. Old man, he can’t take his eyes off it though, even if the goddamn sky won’t stop warning him to go back inside.
I shivered and walked inside at my own pace, clouds be damned- old man, he ain’t that scared. Even if he is spineless, cold, and unsure.
It’s going to rain tomorrow.
The Air
The air, that’s what it is, the real stuff. Something about it, I’m not sure- it blinks now and again. That beat, that flicker, it goes in and out, man, it’s a pulsing vision- black on the outside, a blinding globe in the center. It’s gotta be what tells me what to think, to know. I know what this is, and I think I believe it. I do, I do believe it. I have to. It’s all different, and whatever it seems, it IS. It isn’t, but only because you’re different as you read this, but that’s the point. Every consciousness is a different person, personality, and reality, but it’s all valid. Accept it, the intelligence, or, at least, what seems to be intelligence, is equally the drop of the ocean as that which seems not to be is. It’s more, it’s bigger, and that’s okay. Just don’t pretend to know, and the doors will open. Although it may be our grandchildren that finally pick the locks…but who knows if we aren’t those grandchildren themselves?
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