Monday, June 22, 2009

ramble

dog bark trumpet stutters
late night basement groove.
red district kitten meow
sliding desperate up and down.
tea smoke tea cup turkish blend,
ah ooo ah.
open hand open string
running water music slow.
future man running city eyes
foggy red eye watch alert.
distort electric china dao
fingers tap faster now.
static blend in wire pit
electro fire fuzz lit quick!
damp cement droplet drop
lamps forget when alice stopped.
mutter intrigue private life
at home collecting to make a wife.
linger left to see what's right.

Maine Musings

Teenage poet sitting in carpet recliner,
ghost town 400 miles north in a page forgotten in Maine.
Swig whiskey on golf course, dance with dancing singing
seven year old Russian niece.

Drive through hello/goodbye tiny towns,
neighboring rusted stopped trains on rustic grass-
overgrown tracks, passing through farm lands of family roots,
horse drawn carriages, and Kerouac cows, heads down.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

inspired.

when i’m at work,
i feel like bukowski
sometimes.
instead of his cheap wine
and buckets of beer,
i have my grass,
burning, burning, burning.
instead of caps of mescaline,
only once in a while,
i shock my senses with
acid.
we both have a cigarette
between the lips,
to keep the brain breathing
amidst those damn people,
always.
and our nights,
oh the nights!
smoke drifting the air
and the fingers rush to
write.
always have to be quick
not to lose the thought.
but he’ll fuck a fury,
and fuck them all.
me, only life seems to want
to lay me. no.
to fuck me.
sometimes.

Town.

Some pick Jesus or Moe,
or bathtub gin,
But it's in warm music in a breeze in a car
where escape is.

It's almost alien
how mind cleansing it is.

No paper or job or person
can take away what the rolling
summer scented road through
local pancake house town is for a small joy.

Life is a small joy, so
I'll drive now, until
creeks are all forgotten.

untitled.

When I die, and go to heaven,
Freud will stand at the gates;
He'll dig up my love for mother,
if only

he could, And then he'd see where
my conscious sleeps on summer cigarette nights
such as

these. New York midnight traffic lights,
and bass guitars. Beer hall garage electric
concerts and Riverside at red
purple smokey
misty Dawn.