The rain comes down
Terribly hard.
I sit alone
On my side porch
‘Lifted’
And I hear the nocturnal angels
Singing.
The sky falls down
Lashing
Like whips
At the hands of said attendant spirits
A-buzz
In Gregorian chants
And Mozart chorales
Impassioned
And full of lovely fury.
I radiate
Blossom
Bloom
And become posessed
To take off my clothes
Stripping down to nothing
And stand in my backyard
En plein aire
Challenging
Arms outstretched
The cool, dark downpour
Of this night.
In mere moments
I am soaked
My hair a wet mop.
I am
Slick and glossy
Luxurious in the beating water.
I can not
Imagine
Anyone in a stable
Frame of mind
Avoiding
At any cost
This free and spiritual gift
While they sit
In air conditioning
Clothed like Puritan Pilgrims.
Ashamed of their
Flabby
Pale, unhealthy
Forgotten
Let go bodies
As they watch something
Of absolutely
No importance
Whatsoever
Unfold
In unforgiving
Loud
High def
42” television.
And they gawk
Eyes glassy
Jaw slack
Spittle hanging
Watching the weatherman
Speak of the storm
Just outside of their window.
The lightening flashes.
It’s supposed to
Thunderstorm all night.
They are glad that they are there
Protected inside
Avoiding
Anything of relevance.
They will never
Figure out
That their neighbor
Is free
Outside
Splashing naked in the puddles
With the angels of
Beethoven
Grieg
Chopin
Mozart
Schubert
And Liszt.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Black Market Razors
I just found my razors
At a flea market
For half the price.
I always feel like I’m bending over
And taking it in a big way
When I’m at the drug store
Or supermarket
Forking over $28.00
For eight razors
But they’re the only ones
That work.
But
I’m elated to find
The same replacement blades
Amongst the Louis Wonton bags.
I don’t care if they are stolen
Fallen off the back of a truck
Counterfeits
(As long as they work)
Or made by
Third World lepers.
I only see
Great value
In cutting myself
And making myself bleed
For a fraction of the retail price.
At a flea market
For half the price.
I always feel like I’m bending over
And taking it in a big way
When I’m at the drug store
Or supermarket
Forking over $28.00
For eight razors
But they’re the only ones
That work.
But
I’m elated to find
The same replacement blades
Amongst the Louis Wonton bags.
I don’t care if they are stolen
Fallen off the back of a truck
Counterfeits
(As long as they work)
Or made by
Third World lepers.
I only see
Great value
In cutting myself
And making myself bleed
For a fraction of the retail price.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Poetry Slam (I’m Slurring Cuz Mah Spoken Iz Broken)
Amiss are the days
Of the Poetry Slam.
The sweaty mosh pit
Of literature
The punk fucking rock
And acidic noise of
Poets slam dancing
In circles
Epileptic
Lunging and pulling
The crash junkies
Like warm tar
Into a mess of reverbed words
Spilling stories
Onto wooden floors
With their cheap beer
Dropping rhythm
With the grey ash
Of their shaking
Cigarette
Cadent movement
To the moulded words
Passing through the blistered lips of
Pirates, dykes, drunks and revolutionaries
Ad hoc troublemakers
Painters, musicians, spiritualists
Fags, hip hoppers, eccentrics
Disease survivors and feminists
And always the few people that would
Write the pretty poems
Or the rhyming poems
That would have done better to have
Just stayed home.
It was a place to bury strangers.
The audience could be vicious dogs
Bloodhounding in on the jugular.
They were mostly fellow poets
Drunk on wine and blood.
They neutered the ones with the grey plasma
And flowery words
The ones that thought their homes were good
Their books were read
And shelved in alphabetical order
Book spines perfect and aligned
Gardens tended and watered.
The sun always coming in
Through their windows.
At worst
The price of milk
Was going up again.
That was THEIR madness.
And...
With very little patience
The dogs would set upon that poor poet
Attacking
Teeth flashing
Saliva flying through the smokey air.
They wanted it to end quickly.
They wanted to send the weak
On their way
Limping
To poetry workshops
Held at local libraries
By housewives with free time
And a gift
For giving the respect
The smiles
The pat on the back
That
That kind of poetry
So justly deserves.
Of the Poetry Slam.
The sweaty mosh pit
Of literature
The punk fucking rock
And acidic noise of
Poets slam dancing
In circles
Epileptic
Lunging and pulling
The crash junkies
Like warm tar
Into a mess of reverbed words
Spilling stories
Onto wooden floors
With their cheap beer
Dropping rhythm
With the grey ash
Of their shaking
Cigarette
Cadent movement
To the moulded words
Passing through the blistered lips of
Pirates, dykes, drunks and revolutionaries
Ad hoc troublemakers
Painters, musicians, spiritualists
Fags, hip hoppers, eccentrics
Disease survivors and feminists
And always the few people that would
Write the pretty poems
Or the rhyming poems
That would have done better to have
Just stayed home.
It was a place to bury strangers.
The audience could be vicious dogs
Bloodhounding in on the jugular.
They were mostly fellow poets
Drunk on wine and blood.
They neutered the ones with the grey plasma
And flowery words
The ones that thought their homes were good
Their books were read
And shelved in alphabetical order
Book spines perfect and aligned
Gardens tended and watered.
The sun always coming in
Through their windows.
At worst
The price of milk
Was going up again.
That was THEIR madness.
And...
With very little patience
The dogs would set upon that poor poet
Attacking
Teeth flashing
Saliva flying through the smokey air.
They wanted it to end quickly.
They wanted to send the weak
On their way
Limping
To poetry workshops
Held at local libraries
By housewives with free time
And a gift
For giving the respect
The smiles
The pat on the back
That
That kind of poetry
So justly deserves.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Air Conditioner
Early morning phone call.
First day of a heat wave.
“You better powder yer giblets! It’s gonna be a hot one!”
“Now I know why Jimmy Buffet doesn’t wear underwear.”
“I’m gonna be sweating like Rosie tearing through a bucket of Xtra Grease KFC!”
“Where’s the Bounty? The quicker picker upper?”
On the street corner
With a cup of hot coffee
Chatting with mah homies.
“It’s gonna be another scorcher out here.”
“104 for sure.”
“You’re balls are gonna be dragging in the sand making drawings like an Etch A Sketch .”
“My balls are gonna be dragging like yer momma’s bottom or a rusty muffler. Whichever
hangs lower.”
“Throw some Blue Gold Bond on and it’s like smoking Newports down there.”
Later that night.
On the phone again.
“Jeezus, it’s fuckin’ hot out! I’m melting like Michael Jackson’s nose over here!”
“Coop’s power is out. Her pancake will be so yeasty, she’ll piss beer when
she wakes up.”
“I’d be willing to go down on the Good Humor Man just to get cooled off.”
“Put your cock ring in the ice box with the butt plug.”
And for some reason
The conversations about the weather ends there.
I hang up the phone
Laughing to myself.
That last statement seems
The most plausible...
The most refreshing
Like a giant Slushee
Or a dip in a cool olympic size swimming pool
Or an air conditioner turned on full blast
Icicles forming on the vents.
Sage advice
Offered from a fellow brother
Suffering
As I am.
Sweating his units off
Several different zip codes
Away.
And he’s right.
A frozen butt plug
Up my ass
Would really
Cool me off.
First day of a heat wave.
“You better powder yer giblets! It’s gonna be a hot one!”
“Now I know why Jimmy Buffet doesn’t wear underwear.”
“I’m gonna be sweating like Rosie tearing through a bucket of Xtra Grease KFC!”
“Where’s the Bounty? The quicker picker upper?”
On the street corner
With a cup of hot coffee
Chatting with mah homies.
“It’s gonna be another scorcher out here.”
“104 for sure.”
“You’re balls are gonna be dragging in the sand making drawings like an Etch A Sketch .”
“My balls are gonna be dragging like yer momma’s bottom or a rusty muffler. Whichever
hangs lower.”
“Throw some Blue Gold Bond on and it’s like smoking Newports down there.”
Later that night.
On the phone again.
“Jeezus, it’s fuckin’ hot out! I’m melting like Michael Jackson’s nose over here!”
“Coop’s power is out. Her pancake will be so yeasty, she’ll piss beer when
she wakes up.”
“I’d be willing to go down on the Good Humor Man just to get cooled off.”
“Put your cock ring in the ice box with the butt plug.”
And for some reason
The conversations about the weather ends there.
I hang up the phone
Laughing to myself.
That last statement seems
The most plausible...
The most refreshing
Like a giant Slushee
Or a dip in a cool olympic size swimming pool
Or an air conditioner turned on full blast
Icicles forming on the vents.
Sage advice
Offered from a fellow brother
Suffering
As I am.
Sweating his units off
Several different zip codes
Away.
And he’s right.
A frozen butt plug
Up my ass
Would really
Cool me off.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
