Two kids my age
kicking the shit
out of another younger kid
in somebody's front yard
on 7th St. in Oregon City.
Not avoiding the face,
but
aiming at it.
The teeth are gates
to a pearly white
hell
and
somebody is going to
pick them up off the sidewalk
like they're a string of pearls.
Okay soooo here's the plan
my righteous big brothers,
we're gonna introduce
the young men specimen to bloodshed
in a manner of expectation.
When you get this angry it's just like
Dallas Cowboys
all in your backyard
rodeo call for
pure Texas fuck you syndrome,
passing on what's presented
where the teeth are going to make way
for a tongue
of steel.
not anything here
but
when the wolves
don't show no mercy
be the beast
that the sheep would fear.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Desert exclusive
Out on the other side of the
mountain range, a pasty fat
god-fearing man won by a
fat landslide and cowboy hat.
Built a tower on a
mud hill where you, the blood was
boiling inside. Some dust, out of
the cold intolerance but didn't dare spoil
because it was desert
and by that,
desert exclusive.
The backwards integrity of some holy zealot
sad piece of shit to back of
my chafed throat wanted guns racks for council
like it wanted steam horns in depths of sleep.
Bottom half smelled of sea
salt seasoning the seasoned
proverbial sailor lost.
Warm mud slugging the neurons.
When the ghost train comes knocking
on the door, you better tell it to go running
for the cascades, cuz' hey babe
life's not a surprise party,
you're not subject
to these assholes
and a preacher in the flock
is infinitely worse
than a boxing match with the
pacific spirit hunt line,
anyone would take that any day
it's quite well worth
a chipped tooth, and a black eye.
mountain range, a pasty fat
god-fearing man won by a
fat landslide and cowboy hat.
Built a tower on a
mud hill where you, the blood was
boiling inside. Some dust, out of
the cold intolerance but didn't dare spoil
because it was desert
and by that,
desert exclusive.
The backwards integrity of some holy zealot
sad piece of shit to back of
my chafed throat wanted guns racks for council
like it wanted steam horns in depths of sleep.
Bottom half smelled of sea
salt seasoning the seasoned
proverbial sailor lost.
Warm mud slugging the neurons.
When the ghost train comes knocking
on the door, you better tell it to go running
for the cascades, cuz' hey babe
life's not a surprise party,
you're not subject
to these assholes
and a preacher in the flock
is infinitely worse
than a boxing match with the
pacific spirit hunt line,
anyone would take that any day
it's quite well worth
a chipped tooth, and a black eye.
Nate and Maggie
Nate dying in his sleep,
laying in a hospital gown
with his brother fast asleep in a chair next to him.
Me doing all that I can not to cry while Nate is
dreaming.
As he takes off his shirt and jumps into the ocean to swim
I know that he is free, and that this means he is gone forever.
Piano keys playing notes in a
minor scale,
hanging on after they are supposed to.
Feeble and simple final breaths,
and how they're not even whispered
resembles a paper blowing past in the wind,
more than it does a conversation.
These piano keys are
holding on to existence
dancing for the hand of God
which is really just
the hand of a piano player.
All art is derived in this fashion,
and whether it's
a full cup
a half full cup
a half empty cup
or no cup at all
the polar bears still belong to the snow
and the parrots to the jungle.
A map is still a map,
and you have to wonder
why the notes hang on after they are supposed to.
Nate collapsing to the floor.
after he has just made sweet love to Maggie.
Piano keys hanging on.
Domestic tabby cats and Koalas
meeting for the first time in the history of all things,
cocking their heads at each other,
wondering what to do or what this could mean for the future.
wondering if this could mean no future.
Nate knowing this day would come.
Piano keys running away
from a certain fate;
holding on.
The way a penguin holds on to the frost
knowing that the clouds will always separate him
from the universe.
He is misunderstood.
He wants to circle the earth;
a sweet and friendly bird from the bitter cold
longing deeply to orbit
the suburbs,
the cities,
the wild and the wind,
more than anyone at NASA
could say they do.
The penguin wants to be an astronaut
more than I want to lick your soul,
and more than I want Nate to live.
Teenagers in retirement homes,
Senior citizens drinking vodka that tastes like motor oil
on swing sets,
and you have to wonder
just why the notes hang on so long after they are supposed to.
You see it in the parks,
You see it in homeless old men,
but mostly you see it
wherever there are
children.
Thought I saw it in a little girl holding on
to her favorite penguin doll.
Growing up, she forgot about it
with a love more beautiful
than that of piano keys desperately clinging to life,
and with a love still more short
than that of Nate and Maggie.
laying in a hospital gown
with his brother fast asleep in a chair next to him.
Me doing all that I can not to cry while Nate is
dreaming.
As he takes off his shirt and jumps into the ocean to swim
I know that he is free, and that this means he is gone forever.
Piano keys playing notes in a
minor scale,
hanging on after they are supposed to.
Feeble and simple final breaths,
and how they're not even whispered
resembles a paper blowing past in the wind,
more than it does a conversation.
These piano keys are
holding on to existence
dancing for the hand of God
which is really just
the hand of a piano player.
All art is derived in this fashion,
and whether it's
a full cup
a half full cup
a half empty cup
or no cup at all
the polar bears still belong to the snow
and the parrots to the jungle.
A map is still a map,
and you have to wonder
why the notes hang on after they are supposed to.
Nate collapsing to the floor.
after he has just made sweet love to Maggie.
Piano keys hanging on.
Domestic tabby cats and Koalas
meeting for the first time in the history of all things,
cocking their heads at each other,
wondering what to do or what this could mean for the future.
wondering if this could mean no future.
Nate knowing this day would come.
Piano keys running away
from a certain fate;
holding on.
The way a penguin holds on to the frost
knowing that the clouds will always separate him
from the universe.
He is misunderstood.
He wants to circle the earth;
a sweet and friendly bird from the bitter cold
longing deeply to orbit
the suburbs,
the cities,
the wild and the wind,
more than anyone at NASA
could say they do.
The penguin wants to be an astronaut
more than I want to lick your soul,
and more than I want Nate to live.
Teenagers in retirement homes,
Senior citizens drinking vodka that tastes like motor oil
on swing sets,
and you have to wonder
just why the notes hang on so long after they are supposed to.
You see it in the parks,
You see it in homeless old men,
but mostly you see it
wherever there are
children.
Thought I saw it in a little girl holding on
to her favorite penguin doll.
Growing up, she forgot about it
with a love more beautiful
than that of piano keys desperately clinging to life,
and with a love still more short
than that of Nate and Maggie.
The birth of legacy
Lightly quivering
upper lip
I know what you
want to say to me
but I am not going
to say how it makes me feel
when you say it.
It will go something like this:
When they put Gary Cooper
in front of the cameras.
That falling out of your mouth.
Your trees are shaking early
fruit on the orchard.
Spoiling the craters
of the uncertain,
the war zones
out of luck
out of speech.
When my mother spoke
At my grandfather's funeral
she started off with the word
"earnest."
Let this be the birth of legacy.
Lord, the piano strings
pulled so hard in my
thudding heart
that the rubber bands
were on their last stretch,
high noon for the taut ropes
keeping the sailors
near to wives
now mothers of fatherless
namesakes.
Felt an ancestor leaving
the family for far distant lands
tucked the sensation away
put it in wooden barrel
with hundreds of apples
far too ripe.
Counted two separate inadequacies,
shortcomings and surpluses between you and I,
tragically comic
and more tragically
not amendable.
It's the imperfection that makes
it more bearable to be with
than without.
and there was my grandmother
sitting in the pews tearless
so sad and so strong,
while my grandfather was hovering
above the box where his ashes were,
hallucinating the re-assurance.
upper lip
I know what you
want to say to me
but I am not going
to say how it makes me feel
when you say it.
It will go something like this:
When they put Gary Cooper
in front of the cameras.
That falling out of your mouth.
Your trees are shaking early
fruit on the orchard.
Spoiling the craters
of the uncertain,
the war zones
out of luck
out of speech.
When my mother spoke
At my grandfather's funeral
she started off with the word
"earnest."
Let this be the birth of legacy.
Lord, the piano strings
pulled so hard in my
thudding heart
that the rubber bands
were on their last stretch,
high noon for the taut ropes
keeping the sailors
near to wives
now mothers of fatherless
namesakes.
Felt an ancestor leaving
the family for far distant lands
tucked the sensation away
put it in wooden barrel
with hundreds of apples
far too ripe.
Counted two separate inadequacies,
shortcomings and surpluses between you and I,
tragically comic
and more tragically
not amendable.
It's the imperfection that makes
it more bearable to be with
than without.
and there was my grandmother
sitting in the pews tearless
so sad and so strong,
while my grandfather was hovering
above the box where his ashes were,
hallucinating the re-assurance.
Mighty universe
I want to bury the hatchet,
but I don't want
to forget how it felt
to walk into the blizzard.
I carried a hatchet and compass
seeking out firewood to burn.
In the blinding white
the forest saw me as I was born
I was naked, so nude
and the frost
swallowed me up whole
bitter cold in my bitter bones
gave way to bitter bourbon
and serpent friendships,
they gave me bitter drugs
to make senseless out of bitter sense.
I wanted to play fair
but when I was losing
I wanted to pull out the bottom
of Connect Four because I was a bad sport.
So many times I fussed and fought,
but I grew up. Some people don't though
Karma kindly gave me plentiful
and rewardingly. Gifts
plenty of them, wine in my face,
board games tilted over on me
carpets pulled out from under, just like Connect Four chips
and hard shoulders at the end of the match.
Who wins when none of us
can control the things that
make us hurt?
Not you or I for sure.
Probably not any of us
in this whole goddamned
puddle of a city.
Maybe if we dug a hole
all the way to China
like our fathers told us to
we would find that over there
people have more honor than us
but it's probably not the truth.
With each passing year, I get the feeling
that everybody is the same everywhere.
I bet even the Cro-Magnons
had the same shit happen to them.
The same shit that we have all experienced.
Some people probably fell in love, some probably died,
and some probably laughed.
What can I say?
The holes I have put in my brain
have helped me to become a
whole, when I was only half.
Spiritual enlightenment,
life changed, re-birth, etcetera.
Call it what you will, but I call horse arse on you,
higgledy piggledy, shenanigans – you can smell it all for miles
Candidly speaking, exactly the same
yet so far from what used to be,
just trying to bury a hatchet in the mighty universe
with hatchet and compass. Zero plus zero?
but I don't want
to forget how it felt
to walk into the blizzard.
I carried a hatchet and compass
seeking out firewood to burn.
In the blinding white
the forest saw me as I was born
I was naked, so nude
and the frost
swallowed me up whole
bitter cold in my bitter bones
gave way to bitter bourbon
and serpent friendships,
they gave me bitter drugs
to make senseless out of bitter sense.
I wanted to play fair
but when I was losing
I wanted to pull out the bottom
of Connect Four because I was a bad sport.
So many times I fussed and fought,
but I grew up. Some people don't though
Karma kindly gave me plentiful
and rewardingly. Gifts
plenty of them, wine in my face,
board games tilted over on me
carpets pulled out from under, just like Connect Four chips
and hard shoulders at the end of the match.
Who wins when none of us
can control the things that
make us hurt?
Not you or I for sure.
Probably not any of us
in this whole goddamned
puddle of a city.
Maybe if we dug a hole
all the way to China
like our fathers told us to
we would find that over there
people have more honor than us
but it's probably not the truth.
With each passing year, I get the feeling
that everybody is the same everywhere.
I bet even the Cro-Magnons
had the same shit happen to them.
The same shit that we have all experienced.
Some people probably fell in love, some probably died,
and some probably laughed.
What can I say?
The holes I have put in my brain
have helped me to become a
whole, when I was only half.
Spiritual enlightenment,
life changed, re-birth, etcetera.
Call it what you will, but I call horse arse on you,
higgledy piggledy, shenanigans – you can smell it all for miles
Candidly speaking, exactly the same
yet so far from what used to be,
just trying to bury a hatchet in the mighty universe
with hatchet and compass. Zero plus zero?
The new necessity
Well, I suppose, if you look at it like that...
if we forget the buildings and the clothes and the cars
and the shit and the grease and the stardom and the stars
and all of the sticky dung stuck in
adobe walls,
we will remember
that there are an estimated 6.77 billion loose cannons
running around.
But you've got to love the whole thing
even if it folds in on itself.
Everybody's got a plan, man.
It's the new water,
food,
shelter.
The new necessity.
They've all got big plans for the commonwealth
and they’re all so goddamn big that that all they need is hope.
When in doubt about the ones you love
and the ones that love you,
remember that the generals massacring
indigenous populations,
were humans
just the same as the natives,
although one might not have thought so
of the other.
For the believers – could I see what you saw?
Was it
the new necessity,
aging wood on
young flame?
Was it turtle dove pain
on some smoky wing
bound to note?
note tied to foot?
Impoverished children
smiling
while my friends cry at the end of cheesy movies.
The pope wearing Bono's sunglasses (totally cool)
while bums and street preachers spout wisdom,
High divorce rates while
student teacher relationships make headline news.
I loved each and every one of you from all the way
in the back of the class.
Celebrity drama beating backwards blood
into the hearts of jaded punks in faded jeans.
Counterculture eroticism,
symbiotic polarization,
hope on a rope
through the uncertain showers of federal/moral prison,
the new necessity.
if we forget the buildings and the clothes and the cars
and the shit and the grease and the stardom and the stars
and all of the sticky dung stuck in
adobe walls,
we will remember
that there are an estimated 6.77 billion loose cannons
running around.
But you've got to love the whole thing
even if it folds in on itself.
Everybody's got a plan, man.
It's the new water,
food,
shelter.
The new necessity.
They've all got big plans for the commonwealth
and they’re all so goddamn big that that all they need is hope.
When in doubt about the ones you love
and the ones that love you,
remember that the generals massacring
indigenous populations,
were humans
just the same as the natives,
although one might not have thought so
of the other.
For the believers – could I see what you saw?
Was it
the new necessity,
aging wood on
young flame?
Was it turtle dove pain
on some smoky wing
bound to note?
note tied to foot?
Impoverished children
smiling
while my friends cry at the end of cheesy movies.
The pope wearing Bono's sunglasses (totally cool)
while bums and street preachers spout wisdom,
High divorce rates while
student teacher relationships make headline news.
I loved each and every one of you from all the way
in the back of the class.
Celebrity drama beating backwards blood
into the hearts of jaded punks in faded jeans.
Counterculture eroticism,
symbiotic polarization,
hope on a rope
through the uncertain showers of federal/moral prison,
the new necessity.
The quiet earth
Months ago
we walked around the city plenty dizzy and hot enough
for all of the important people that live in it,
or at least enough for the people who thought they were important.
(is there really a difference?!)
For better or for worse,
we bounced off a wall into
a phone sex call center
and waited for the employee lunch break.
A plain looking girl came out to have a cigarette and
walk to a diner a few blocks away.
I told her I wanted to ask her a few questions about her
occupation.
She told us we could walk with her.
I asked her if she ever felt like her job
was more sexual than
socially acceptable
and if she maybe thought
it was morally reprehensible.
I was so out of it that I didn't realize I was dreaming the whole thing up!
or how goofy I looked in my own dream.
She told us that her job wasn't really erotic
and that she felt more like a nurse;
talking
nasty
to sad souls,
putting bandages on their wounds.
Helping lonely people along,
a fantasy away from heaven
or at least an improper climax;
washing their feet.
"Strictly platonic," she said.
A real Mother Theresa at work in a foul place,
although I am not quite sure what a person's options are.
I can't judge.
Some ghosts are just forced
to take care of other ones.
She made me feel uncomfortable,
as if I would someday be diagnosed
with a rare brain illness.
It slid away because at that point we fell through the ground
through the quiet blackness
through the quiet atmosphere
and landed back on the quiet earth,
where myself and my second self soon realized
it was a big ol' coincidence
that we had ever been born.
we walked around the city plenty dizzy and hot enough
for all of the important people that live in it,
or at least enough for the people who thought they were important.
(is there really a difference?!)
For better or for worse,
we bounced off a wall into
a phone sex call center
and waited for the employee lunch break.
A plain looking girl came out to have a cigarette and
walk to a diner a few blocks away.
I told her I wanted to ask her a few questions about her
occupation.
She told us we could walk with her.
I asked her if she ever felt like her job
was more sexual than
socially acceptable
and if she maybe thought
it was morally reprehensible.
I was so out of it that I didn't realize I was dreaming the whole thing up!
or how goofy I looked in my own dream.
She told us that her job wasn't really erotic
and that she felt more like a nurse;
talking
nasty
to sad souls,
putting bandages on their wounds.
Helping lonely people along,
a fantasy away from heaven
or at least an improper climax;
washing their feet.
"Strictly platonic," she said.
A real Mother Theresa at work in a foul place,
although I am not quite sure what a person's options are.
I can't judge.
Some ghosts are just forced
to take care of other ones.
She made me feel uncomfortable,
as if I would someday be diagnosed
with a rare brain illness.
It slid away because at that point we fell through the ground
through the quiet blackness
through the quiet atmosphere
and landed back on the quiet earth,
where myself and my second self soon realized
it was a big ol' coincidence
that we had ever been born.
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