Graphic prose
Lurid sentences
And such freeing, wicked thoughts...
Such delightfully perverse innuendos
And delicious, horny suggestions...
Set within our conversation
Like industrial concrete
Firming up solid...
Daringly told...
Nothing that could be taken back...
It was all or everything...
HARD ROCK SOLID...
The heat from the chemical reaction
Spreading
In an expanding mushroom cloud
From the giant Sex Bomb
That just dropped
In
‘Hot Fuck World’.
Words
Rigid
Yet giving with some play
As the rubber of a tire
Compresses
Greatly
For a moment
Upon the long ago poured and set cement
Of a curb
On a busy corner
In a hairpin right hand turn
Made by a wild n’ crayzee
Sexual banshee
Squirming
Slippery
And alive
Like an eel
Screaming
Behind the steering wheel
Veering the vehicle with one hand
Taking the corner
Way too close
Meeting the oncoming traffic
With pervy abandon...
The lights are all on and neon
Pimping 24 hour sexual
Depravities
In
‘Hot Fuck World’...
Blues
And pinks
Red
Purple
Green and orange
Reflect off of the fine still hairs
Standing erect
On glowing smooth skin
As the rain falls
Outside.
White noise
Quietly noticed.
Leather
Silk
Glass
Nylon
Wood
Metal
All become terribly erotic
In
‘Hot Fuck World’...
As much as secret skin opening
And giving the wanted
Desired
Aromatic nectar
That keeps eyes open
For hours
Goosebumps
Pimpled on flesh...
The consumate addict
Returning
Again and again
Throughout the minutes of night
As neon flashes
Bombs explode
Tires grind pavement
And such remarkable, holy words
Are spoken...
Monday, April 16, 2012
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
The Artist
“Are you an artist?”
He asked me.
I didn’t know how to answer him.
I felt a little uncomfortable.
I mean
I’ve been an artist
In my past.
I’ve painted
Drawn
Done sculpture
Printmaking
Performance art
Music
Writing
Installation art.
I like taking pictures.
I’m told I'm good in bed.
I don’t know what he was asking me really.
I know that it’s because of the way that I look.
I’ve heard this question before.
“Are you an artist?” “A musician?” “A designer?”
Truth is
I haven’t touched a paint brush in years.
I pick up a pen only to write a note to myself.
I sold my four track studio
A long time ago.
But he continues...
“Have you heard of Rollo May?”
He asks me.
“He wrote this amazing book called ‘The Courage To Create’.”
I shake my head.
“He was this great existential psychologist associated with the humanistic movement in the
70’s.”
“He pushed the idea of creativity being at the core of everything, including logic, science
and happiness.”
I was hanging in there
But I really just wanted to eat my lunch
Sitting on the park bench
Next to me.
My stomach was way past empty
And I was feeling dizzy.
But he was deep into it.
“Blah, blah, blah...did this study of adopted children vs underprivileged children...blah, blah,
blah...”
I was barely listening
Thinking instead of my avacado sandwich on poppy dill whole grain
And pickles, chips and fruit
Waiting for me.
“My grandfather was a great artist. He used to paint marquees for Broadway and movies.
Three story portraits of Cary Grant and such...40-50 stories up in the air. He had to use
brighter colors than normal so that they would be visible from street level.”
“Studios and theaters would pay more for him because he had great talent.”
“He quit school in the third grade and went to work for the same company until he was 72.”
“They recognized his skills early on and when he was 17 they paid for him to go to
Cooper Union.”
“I still have some of his paintings. They’re beautiful to look at.”
I let him finish.
I was left wondering what he thought an artist was.
I waited until he walked away
So that I could sit on the bench alone
And eat my lunch
Creatively
Inhaling deeply
The paintings and music
Around me.
He asked me.
I didn’t know how to answer him.
I felt a little uncomfortable.
I mean
I’ve been an artist
In my past.
I’ve painted
Drawn
Done sculpture
Printmaking
Performance art
Music
Writing
Installation art.
I like taking pictures.
I’m told I'm good in bed.
I don’t know what he was asking me really.
I know that it’s because of the way that I look.
I’ve heard this question before.
“Are you an artist?” “A musician?” “A designer?”
Truth is
I haven’t touched a paint brush in years.
I pick up a pen only to write a note to myself.
I sold my four track studio
A long time ago.
But he continues...
“Have you heard of Rollo May?”
He asks me.
“He wrote this amazing book called ‘The Courage To Create’.”
I shake my head.
“He was this great existential psychologist associated with the humanistic movement in the
70’s.”
“He pushed the idea of creativity being at the core of everything, including logic, science
and happiness.”
I was hanging in there
But I really just wanted to eat my lunch
Sitting on the park bench
Next to me.
My stomach was way past empty
And I was feeling dizzy.
But he was deep into it.
“Blah, blah, blah...did this study of adopted children vs underprivileged children...blah, blah,
blah...”
I was barely listening
Thinking instead of my avacado sandwich on poppy dill whole grain
And pickles, chips and fruit
Waiting for me.
“My grandfather was a great artist. He used to paint marquees for Broadway and movies.
Three story portraits of Cary Grant and such...40-50 stories up in the air. He had to use
brighter colors than normal so that they would be visible from street level.”
“Studios and theaters would pay more for him because he had great talent.”
“He quit school in the third grade and went to work for the same company until he was 72.”
“They recognized his skills early on and when he was 17 they paid for him to go to
Cooper Union.”
“I still have some of his paintings. They’re beautiful to look at.”
I let him finish.
I was left wondering what he thought an artist was.
I waited until he walked away
So that I could sit on the bench alone
And eat my lunch
Creatively
Inhaling deeply
The paintings and music
Around me.
In The Classroom Of Death & Dying
I heard you dying first.
I opened the front door of the house
And stepped in
And heard you wailing
Like a dying animal.
Of course
I didn’t know that it was you.
Then.
I thought one of the dogs
Was sick
Or hurt himself.
It wasn’t until I followed the sound upstairs
To the back bedroom
And found you curled up in the fetal position
In the center of the bed
That I actually saw you dying.
You were soaked in sweat
Hair matted to your skull
Framing insanity
Set upon teary eyes
A milky fog.
You moaned and groaned
And bubbled
Incoherently.
I tried sitting you up.
It was impossible
Like trying to balance
An 80lb bag of concrete
On top of a handrail.
You simply refused
To cooperate.
It smelled like you hadn’t showered in days.
Your breath
Your body...
Your pussy and ass
Were all unclean...
Fragrant of
Hopelessness and surrender
Piss and shit.
Pungent of a mind and body
Given up
Ready for the ghost to take over.
I found out later
That you had drank an entire bottle
Of 190 proof Everclear
Which vapored out thickly
From every pore.
I went to get a neighbor
To come and help me
Haul you down the stairs
So I could get you to a hospital
But when she stepped into the room
And saw how far gone you were
She ordered me to call 911.
Which I did.
Then we sat together on the bed
With you
After we had opened some windows.
We listened to an animal
Deep in the throes
Of death reaching inside.
We didn’t hear the sirens
Or the doorbell
Or the dogs barking
As the rest of the world
Outside
Went on
As if
This
Wasn’t happening.
I opened the front door of the house
And stepped in
And heard you wailing
Like a dying animal.
Of course
I didn’t know that it was you.
Then.
I thought one of the dogs
Was sick
Or hurt himself.
It wasn’t until I followed the sound upstairs
To the back bedroom
And found you curled up in the fetal position
In the center of the bed
That I actually saw you dying.
You were soaked in sweat
Hair matted to your skull
Framing insanity
Set upon teary eyes
A milky fog.
You moaned and groaned
And bubbled
Incoherently.
I tried sitting you up.
It was impossible
Like trying to balance
An 80lb bag of concrete
On top of a handrail.
You simply refused
To cooperate.
It smelled like you hadn’t showered in days.
Your breath
Your body...
Your pussy and ass
Were all unclean...
Fragrant of
Hopelessness and surrender
Piss and shit.
Pungent of a mind and body
Given up
Ready for the ghost to take over.
I found out later
That you had drank an entire bottle
Of 190 proof Everclear
Which vapored out thickly
From every pore.
I went to get a neighbor
To come and help me
Haul you down the stairs
So I could get you to a hospital
But when she stepped into the room
And saw how far gone you were
She ordered me to call 911.
Which I did.
Then we sat together on the bed
With you
After we had opened some windows.
We listened to an animal
Deep in the throes
Of death reaching inside.
We didn’t hear the sirens
Or the doorbell
Or the dogs barking
As the rest of the world
Outside
Went on
As if
This
Wasn’t happening.
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