Thursday, November 8, 2012

Eight Poems

Beautiful Things

Jazz and Poetry are
Too good for me
I don’t deserve their
Unlockable fragrances

Monk and Crane
Told me a story
That I couldn’t hear
And could only
Vertiginously experience
Through some pipe dream
Of Eno’s Faraway Beach

I felt nothing until
The day,
Or night rather
When they stoked the fires
Of my burdened consciousness
And brought me to
A version of life
Where a Blazing-Through reigned
Piano keys and Words
Relieved of their old emasculation
Chafing ears and air
I forgot to seal my gorging

You, undefined, are too good for me
You, a multitude of quarrels buried under wet skin
Don’t change don’t come
Any closer

I saw you dancing to the jazz in my head
Was it dancing?
Or did you sleep
And not experience me
Rosalie moving blank
Her blushing ass mapping
The failed territory
Of all who sought surrender
You relieved him like sleep once did
You, his ticket to the Dunes
I gore through innocent pages the wound of your false interior

Your lip curls
When you’re aroused
And it also curls
When you know it’s bullshit
I’m in love with your choices
Even if they never led you
To my room
Your birthmark, Nellie
Rubbed off on the sheets
Of a bed rejecting treatment
Insisting only that your feet be clean For his mouth

The Popular Fiction Writer

The Popular Fiction Writer
Handled his narrative like taffy
On quadruple-spaced pages
To make sure his legions
Were thrilled
Even if that meant
The sliver of a person
He created
Had to go left
When she kept
Pressing at his brain
To permit her an alternative choice

He played golf
And briefly forgot
About the Mausoleum Of Thrills
He’d erected in every
Major bookstore
Across the century

I wish I could
Take comfort in
His bloated body of works
I wish his series’
And his standalones
And his thrillers and romances
And calculations to a market
Were a constant in my life
And not translucent evidence
Of a problem
That divides me
From my fellow shoppers

They are smart
They don’t suffer
Because they know
He will always deliver
Like the load-bearing driver
Of a usable take

The Popular Fiction Writer
Doesn’t see what all the fuss is about
He was never going to write Ulysses
In the first place
And his books
Make people happy
So if you don’t like him
Read something else


I didn’t have the option
of picking a mate
like you did
from the stacks of waiting mates
you had whinnying, biting, caulked
at the fringe point of every little toe

Stacks and stacks
You fanciful alone
Yet all you had to do
was announce those magic words across Liberty smog
and the militia of the jaded goateed  
would invade your sadness
which remains, still, even as
the victor hotly bites through your cheek

I have caskets
You have stacks
Dead connections trained
like dogs to perfect the limits
of my Dungeon
You ran from billions of winged Predators
Tried hiding in the grooves of promises faint
as dropped calls
and you also tried hiding
in the tower of simulated hate
with flickers stitched
In the ether
of women battered
to pillows of yarn
by men who killed their old names
if not themselves entirely
You reached into the stacks
and the first folder your hands caught
became the pillar where you lay
as “The Bad Thing” lost sleep
trying to find you again

I might have a shot away 
at immortality
but he will die with you
And both will be
rotting forgotten

No Man’s

I’m afraid of myself
Because I am a city
Where rule is lobbed to the introverts
And they transform a metropolis into a writing room

In my city
All prey naked
And each of my friends
Get overtaxed as punishment
For the crime of being thought Free

Every citizen
In the Northern Quadrant
Is a pixieish teenage girl
Chewing on her own pink hair
Staring at a computer screen
In a female nest otherwise Ketchum dark
Playing new music
A genre known as
Locus’d with bobbleheaded bass
Her panties dissolving like the LSD
On Madeline’s tongue
Passed to her
On the tidal crest
Of Judy’s tongue

At the outskirts
A prostitute called Zel
Addresses the robed Daemon:
“These conditions are unlivable,”
she laments
“Uptown the faggots don’t want love
and are left with nothing but
Joycean ejaculate
lubricating their bug stomachs.”

The Daemon,
Stoking the fire with two decades’ baggage
Answers with the feline sound
Of Zel’s first orgasm
Self-inflicted, when she was twelve
And still answered to Rose

Losing patience, Zel says
“The black population is only accessible through their music
and the Jews through their books. And even you, Daemon,
who bleed cheap food and nonsensical follies
know that Left and Right factions have been dissolved
because they give unacceptably sterile Brain.
The price of living here
is to forfeit any desire for sunlight
because it has been usurped
by context. And the value
of human relationships is nullified
by a gerbil’s resentment
and the holy singing of maids
leaking from our adjacent republic.

“And it isn’t a kiss away like Mick said
but of a much extended roping distance
from me to you, which, as we know,
is a gulf subsumed into a cloud
of dense impossibility.

“Nothing is stable or sacred.
I’ve prophesized it
to the most minutely detailed arc.
Books can’t save us.
Money won’t save us, even if we could get it.
Time is a worm.
We’re worms.
And I’ve never been happier in my life.”

I’m afraid of myself
Because my city is flammable
And I’ve lost me only match


My parents are engaged
In a conspiracy
To kill me
With implants of different
For many of life’s unfortunate handouts

They are trying to kill me
By turning off my dwelling’s heat
And by telling me I’m
Too bloated and then
Too sucked-in
By telling me
To pursue someone
And that paradoxically
That or that someone isn’t worth pursuing

They are trying to kill me
By giving me what I want
And not telling me
That it has to stop

They are trying to kill me
But don’t realize it
And would feel guilty if they did
And that’s why
I love them

Nova Scotia

She doesn’t know he’s awake
Until he feels her nude hip
As she props herself up
On the side of the bed
Nearest the window
Gazing at a wall of
Sweaty glass

Hours ago
They slept together for the first time
After an era of minor friendship
She, broken by a single man
Who isn’t this one, now stroking skin
So cold
Each goosebump
A minute in time
That lock-stepped enough
To make their evening possible

They’ll fuck prolifically
Over the constant passage
Of the Sun
Rolling across the sky
Like a tire down a hill of Highway Blank
Never intending coupledom to leak
From her bed
And into their lives

They go places
Neither would have
Gone alone
With Adult Pink sabers
And tools that change
The countenance
Of your adored and lonely face

And when
They walk down the street
She hangs back
And then decides to lead
And is allowed to advance
As he trails close behind her

A strobelight is
Nothing but a wrench


At College
I knew rapists
And abusers of women
Who fucked people
I wanted to fuck
And beat women
I wouldn’t have beaten
And murdered the spirits
Of decent people
And were sometimes defended
By great people
Who should have known better

Every night before I sleep

Goodnight Carol,
I wish I knew you now
The only thing we have in common
In 2012
Is forest and fire
And the music of an era
You left behind 

Goodnight Carol,
You seemed a member
Of the party
Who decided to leave
Without telling anyone else
Backing slowly out of the room
As the others fought on
Not realizing there was
One of them subtracted

Goodnight Carol,
I didn’t think about you
For several years
Until The Bad Thing
Started growing weeds in my brain
And I realized how
The unthinkable contingency
Could in fact

Goodnight Carol,
You were not the first
To cement
A family legacy
The family in question
Would rather not welcome
But everyone hopes
You’ll be the last
Each of us
In the lower generation
Has a private vision of you
Mine is of a woman who
Tragically became photographs
Until the end of time

Goodnight Carol,
I hear you linger
In the secret crying
of every guardian I've loved
And I’m left with
Ambivalent empathy
And eternal fascination
And Roth’s perpetual fear
Of a future where may exist
A pinprick
Of a day
Day when maybe