Saturday, August 29, 2009

Gonzo Poetry

thinking of the greats that have passed
horrible examples of moral fiber
indecent people slinging one indecent thing
I want to drink with these swine
I want to laugh at inappropriate things
garnering curious looks from passers by.
I want to offend the offensive
I want to comfort the outlaw
the horrid man in the corner
holding a microphone in fear.
I'm worth hearing.
Stop crying!

Questioning the world
leads to many strange characters
a following of weirdos
freaks of the same flag.
I love these people
the perpetrators
the outliers of society
my coffee drinking brothers and sisters.

Swathed in a bathrobe,
a feeling akin to the pride of the pharaohs;
strutting about with a drooping cigarette.
Where are my sunglasses?
and where did the party go?

Nervous eye movements,
unconsciously sucking caffeine,
there are droplets on my brow.
Waiting for the words to line up just right
and I'll blow them out of my mind.
Chopsticks are worthy adversaries at this hour
even for skilled hands
my cup chatters against its saucer.
Glancing from typewriter to computer
am I showing favoritism?
damn that gorgeous machine
sitting in silence
looking down on me and my illuminated keyboard.
I'll get to you in a moment!
I lied.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Downtown, then back home.

A man on a crate
a weathered guitar
notes whining out.
There is beauty in his voice
not of a hardened soul
but of a man that will never suffer
the constraints
of another man's chains.
down the lane there are speakers
and crowds looming
around brightly dressed performers
screaming of love lost.
Here on the corner
the man sings

Looking into an everyday portal,
parked on the side of the road,
wondering what could be
on the other side.
Glorious visions of luxury
a grandiose lifestyle;
or simply,
a life apart.
Beyond that reflection
lies a seat
and cold.

Glass, paper, metal and wood.
A collection of material things
close to my heart.
Silently stacked on shelves
a thousand eyes have moved over,
hands have held,
caressed and thumbed through.
Lips have touched some,
and hearts were made to flutter.
They do not define me
but they often comfort me
They will outlast me.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Love and Journalism

Glimpses of love are better,
wandering in and out,
viewing from afar.
Hearing of romance
and genuine contentment.
Clumsy hands
don't work well with butterflies

Watching joy wander about in a glass box
Slowly sucking in its last bits of life.
To break the glass would be selfish,
to watch it suffer is agonizing.
Someday the glass will melt on its own
and I will breathe the same air.

A notion comes to the end and
slapping the platen back into place
I begin again.
I wish I could have heard
a press room full of sound,
a typewritten cacophony.
Watching the paper work its way out
looking like corn hurriedly eaten at a fair
moving steadily across the roller
and eventually hearing the intermittent bell
of a line completed.
The gentle click of keys in a coffee shop
is far from this delight;
an audible storm of words
whizzing about,
making their way onto a page.
Where has the romance of journalism gone?
Quiet writers exploiting from behind lattes,
outspoken ones splattered on television.
I wish I was there when papers landed on corners
wrapped in twine.
A frenzy of nickles flew from eager hands,
and people wept
until the next edition.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Looking through windows is a curious hobby.

Falling down
A nightmare
slow enough to feel the fear
of an approaching doom
miles to go
clouds obscuring the way.
I wish to be
on the platform again
happily unaware
of my own discontent
never questioning my safety
high above harm.

is dangerous
it leads to complacency
lethargy follows
then atrophy.
Being discontent
as a writer
is allowing the same fate.
Sitting alone,
working towards a transparent goal
all the while
your legs are rotting.

Walking down the street
as I never do,
I came upon a fast food joint
and sat within
wondering why
I felt so tired.
I ordered a meal
onion rings
a burger
and tacos.

What a lackluster moment
when the night becomes the dawn
the romance and mystery are lost
sitting here in stretched pajamas
wondering how holes have formed
on such docile clothing
An empty tea cup sits beside me
a brown ring inside.

Running Errands

I strongly dislike
people who tell me not to use
the word "hate".

I love tinted glass bottles
undetermined liquids
sodas from the orient
from the middle east
meat hanging
hand-tied twine
smells of freshly sliced peppers
the flying droplets off chopped lettuce
landing on warm cheeks
The smell of fresh bread
in the back of my nose.
a family jokes behind the counter
working together
supporting a business

How can a memory kill you?
By becoming a splinter
A shard of rotten wood
slowly pressing through
flesh, bone and soul.
You can't outrun a demon
that lies within you.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

I'm tired.

When the rooster crows at the break of dawn I'll be gone.

I miss it.
I miss the comforts of a forced love.
I miss mashed potatoes just because,
and the warm smile that handed me the spoon.
I once loved a woman
but that's gone.
Fiction is based on fractions of reality
but not enough to take solace
in the idea that it will come to pass
for me.
I sit empty looking for eyes to fall
lids to become lead
but that comfort cannot be forced.
I'm so lonely.
I wish I was a satellite, content in my purpose
whizzing about the earth
rerouting simple data
to places below.
but then I would gaze back and envy the moon.
There is no escaping beauty.
Where is my Brandy Alexander
where is my statue
to kneel before
and want nothing more.
Something in my chest aches
but it's not my heart
it is something without name.
Looking at what could be
and discarding the reality
is my bane.
I am wanting.
I am needing.
The time will come,
or it wont.

Tears fall on this piano
but there are no black keys
only letters meant to be joined
by my will.
What will come
my compositions seem to sit
in the ether
someplace between water and air.
Who will care.
I will cross many bridges
to find the right order.
All along envying
songs that describe my soul
with greater ease.

My thoughts go to and fro
wondering if she is typing to me
creating things that I will understand
and when our words dance
across a smokey room
then she will know
that I am here.

Where is her dirty laundry?
I wonder why my floor is bare
save rags of my own.
Where is the mess of soap
and lipstick?
My hovel is too clean
singularity is what I find comforting
until the silence settles
and the floor shines without a single scuff
of her heels.

Tonight the air is thick with my sweat
my thoughts ache in my head
but no matter how fast my fingers fly
the notions remain
banging about.
I'm common
a dime a dozen
but even the coals
have solace in knowing
that together
they will make a fire.

I'm not done.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Poetry dancing with Lucky Strikes, this air is my own; coffee on the way.

Sometimes affirmation comes from knowing
that you needed to hear a song
at a certain place
at a certain time.
You needed to cry
for its beauty
its familiarity.
In that moment,
there is no question;
you were meant to be.

Owning a bed was great,
constantly being kicked out of it.
I never wanted a full nights rest.
Episodes of Cops,
Bottles of wine;
A good book of Noir,
Police knocking on the neighbor's door.
More enjoyable than any dream.
Couches are more my speed
I can hear her snoring,
in my bed.

Am I a writer?
Romance floats around the persona,
agony is the reality.
I'm in agony,
roasting from within;
does that make me a writer?
I suppose it's more important
why the agony exists.
Is the reason good enough?
fuck em'
I'm a writer,
and it's a good burn.

I'm in a good place tonight, the air is cool, and my energy is not driven by coffee but the desire to do something great. Many people tell me that both the agony and the joy of writing lies in the long summer nights of crumpled papers and ink on fingers, tonight I agree. I feel as if I don't need to think twice, it's going to be alright. The waves of my mind will carry me to a soft beach, and the words will present themselves along the way.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Selections from my recent meanderings.

Ashes and steam,
a fan blows in the corner.
Flesh and discarded sheets,
cool air returns,
lungs regain composure.
Tossed hair making delicate shadows,
fingers though curls.
Tomorrow I will kiss sweetly,
tonight I have danced across coals.

What a strange sadness, to be alone in a group.
Sitting in the corner of the room, looking at friends;
their faces melding together.
All of them are people you know
but tonight common ground is lost.
Lashing out to see if they're really there
not some dream, a league of impostors
trying to lull you into relaxation;
stealing your appetizer dishes.

Late night ads;
penis vacuums.
extension pills.
Grey haired men
looking in good spirits;
increasing girth, length and longevity.
Terrifying glimpses,
such a bright future.

Cigarette smoke curls over the bed
dancing up to the ceiling;
disappearing into the black.
Sore eyes stare into the void.
Insomnia gives more time
but the notions drag, the mind simmers
and the lust strengthens.
Words dance into view,
attempting to fill misshapen blanks.
Incomplete sentences are pondered;
left in ambiguity.
Coffee brings momentary clarity
the heart flutters;
the caffeine drifts away;
A fine mess this is.

Sunday, August 9, 2009


I've been sending out submissions, and attempting to get some rest the past few weeks; more posts soon!

Until then please take a look at a wonderful blog about lovely little things...