The road to hell is paved vol. 2

Chaos of vision

kick down the windowsput some tunes on the radio
open the hole and let the words flow
down

inside i'm so afraid
to fail
to dream

still chasing the chaos of vision,
incomplete.




passing present

in the spaces between the moments
of the passing present there are stark revelations
of passed mistakes, future lives
a heart beat
a heartbeat
never ceasing
pounds on the walls we erect
to pass the judgment of life,
the incantation of time.





vacation

we exhaled
our delusions and dreams danced away
in the breeze.
out on the ocean
the moon a signpost
in the scattered scars of clouds
our kisses were fraught
with her terror of rejection,
my will to possess.
close, under all this beauty
who could not fall?







Find inspiration

the new beast children
digging me for sex in the a.m.
I back myself away
tension twisting round itself
to the radio tunes
or the voices in my head.
driving now, through the highlands
in central Appalachia
cemetery road flashes by
with angry dreams,
stupid poems.
I'll spend the whole day smiling though,
trying for something more than friendly,
more than interested.
but I suppose these strange women
know me well enough on sight to guess what ill expect.






Frame

Outside now, and it’s cold
autumn in august
Pennsylvainian mountain seasons
I exchange with the house matron
rambling, because it’s my way,
but, I always talk too long,
and too often.
she doesn’t get me
and I don’t pretend to care.
unscrupulous,
i’m dying by degrees
my love severed
trust tolling empty.
monday will bring its new job
and another truckload of work
i’m as ready for life as ill ever be






i’m easy

Were I easy, I would find a BIG lady
with a BIG ass (the kind with dents)
and flopping tits (enormous)
and I’d fuck every hole she offered
loving the degradation of it all.
(BIG women need lovin' too)
especially from uncaring guys.
sure, it would make so much SENSE
until we came, spewing out our intentions
plainly for each other to see.
then, dressing quickly
no longer wanton
just ready to get somewhere to forget
the sloppy tits and ass that brought you to bed
a beast with a beast.
led by your cock to the bitter end





Illumination

God
I thanked the sun this afternoon.
a week so grey the temperature dropped
by 10 degrees.
with my back to theses mountains
staring west, the sun sets
pale golden
casting clutching shadows through an upstairs window
it’s the only illumination in weeks,
years, maybe
and I think if things stay this way
just waiting for the sun
I shall shoot myself before 30 days are up.
but I doubt in 30 days
it will make more or less of a difference.
i’m as old as ever right now
I know as little as ever
in the face of the sun.

thanks again.







Fuck me

another fight, leg fracture
my neck torn and swollen,
a new job in the wings
new hatreds on the march
I have stopped noticing whether or not
people like me, or really care.
I just go on ahead,
prostrating myself before all the pretty eyes
and kissable mouths.
(the FedEx girl, the racquetball queen)
burning for one penetrating moment
and hating what will not let me in.








Sleep schism on sex

pacing, pacing
racing my brain to the dawn
there's a girl one thousand
miles from here planning time
to spend with me.
here I am, pacing, thinking, pacing
just wanting to fuck
dreaming tits and eyes to gaze into;
come through
I am a beast walking in my own shadow







Trash

so,
I sat and wrote at my convenience
needing only nicotine and depression
smoking both to the butt,
letting my beard grow, wearing unwashed clothes
sleeping on borrowed time
digging into the sheets with my girl now and then
and whoring everything out to this pen
and this page
my whole existence spilling out
over the edge of my brainpan
mixing on the clutter of my desk
to create poems better discarded
like me.






Monogamy

straining for the next orgasm
handfucking myself to completion
hating the discharge
without the smell and slick of woman
the gliding-dancing wet
to close over
in mock consumption

I am tortured by memories of real sex
sex beyond myself
relishing flesh
sweat and scent

my cock is dying of boredom







Corroded

I’m making a calculation,
throwing up my hands
at the place
people, lies and magnitude of
thus.
tempering a hot magenta steel within me
come for me, you fuckers!
I will overwhelm you with words and intellect
a conundrum of semantics!
I wade in this shit of life but it does not touch me
I am far as the stars now
too much of the fruits of good and evil
to pass any more judgments
ive eaten them like layers of my own prejudice.

but, I would sell the temple,
watch the cities collapse as the economy falls,
a green apocalypse in dollar signs
and bottom lines.






Muse

I light a cigarette butt and look into my empty coffee cup,
kick the muse down a notch and reflect;
she's best when coming out like molasses,
black and sugary like the pain from razors
best when she tells the brutal truth
to me, at me or the World
not caring who hears, only that its finally said.

she looks at me.
"failure" she says. "liar"
"lunatic" "cheater"
I nod my head in time to the truth
"martyr" "racist" "deceiver" "coward"
every shot through my arm, my third eye,
always right on the money
I pity anyone at whom she takes aim,
noone ever holds up






at last

waiting in silence
while my head ticks off the phrases
"I should’ve" "you should"
"you are" " I am"
ultimatums, edicts judgments
all these absurd absolutes
none of them real or even serious
once you contemplate the extraordinary dissolution
caused by the addition of the solvent "truth"

it makes our beliefs as unreal as our lies,
our grasp as infirm as what we hope to catch.
yet we spin through this cascade of years,
inflicting ourselves on one another
our words multiplying like viruses and
our actions as meaningless as the end.






contradictions

I have made staring into the hard mirror of truth
my disease.
a flail to beat me with, and you as well
if you come too close, looking over my shoulder.
It is self immolation
when I turn to flee I just smash back into myself again
no where to run behind my eyes.







melodramas in the key of real life

what a sad and horrible farce
the ex-junkie girlfriend that I couldn’t fuck
but got the best massages
the ex-gangster me that never existed
the tired reality that I was farm-bred
white bread, a wimpy little kid who never fit in
and got fucked and fucked with by the other boys.
I was always too sad and sick to fight,
nearer to a girl, looking back.
so I dreamed for me a past,
one day at a time
perfecting a lie that got too real to avoid.
I remember her calling my name when it caved in
she was in the tub on her methadone naked and shining
in the midst of wanting and hating her I said
"don’t you see?" " i’m as broken as you are"
that’s the most truth that ever passed between us.







these things happen

I watched the full moon rise in a tree
ate sparks from the fire that tasted like blood
thought of my lover and my heart in too many pieces to fix
the door slammed in my face
I ran the strings till my fingers were a sore and lined mess
smoked resin
"I could die," (someone would reap my head)
"smoke another cigarette"
its 4am, me, the ragged clouds,
a candle for the moon







final draft

death whispers
always in my right ear
"winter's here"
the cold white to whip the word
and life from me
the leaves dying faster and the days are too
the cycle ends, maybe for good this time.
well, to hell with life anyway, I never pretended to live well
bury me with paper in my mouth
a pen in my eye
a guitar string lacing up my spine







lessons taught by girls
1.
looking at the pieces with no will to put it back together
better to be numbed, empty
a girl observing my dilemma said, "I can fix it"
but she had a bad schematic from the start
and I was inside out then, cracks showing, pieces missing,
"I can't help you" she said, pushing me to the waiting arms of a new mistake,
"fill that hole."
but we couldn’t love and one christmas eve I cashed in my increasing loneliness
and walked.
it was a long winter until the strawberry blonde catholic complex, who said,
"Fuck ME" and cried in my lap for an hour after I did, her virginity being too much,
I guess, for the likes of me.
I was dying in it then, unable to make it work.
I said, "I think i’m settling, its not that I could just care less.........but I doubt it."
harsh and angry at this chiseling of my heart
I then picked up the pace on my own, throwing myself into each waiting chance
then leaving
with ice pick words and unpaid debts pouring from out of my mouth.

2.
heart is still broken, years in the process
not black, but grey-green, the color of bad meat
just begging for a last resort
a silver barrel to suck until the leaden orgasm blows all the confusing moments away
a mind free from unwant and untame and undone
lips and eyes now the entrances to a new mausoleum.







the good man

father was a healthy man
never too sick to work leastways, and never in bed past 8.
he walked the line just like the song said, had no weaknesses for women
or, really much of anything.
he left home at 8:15 and returned home at 5:30. always first to work
and the last to leave, and when saturday morning rolled in,
while most fathers slept late, watching football or golf in the afternoons,
he was up wrestling me from bed and headed to the family farm.
(his second job)
I remember him mostly in his little LUV pickup, going to work of one kind or another.
except sundays, when the seven of us would all pile into our blue ford
and head for church.
its a simple life, sure, if you’re a hard working tough son-of-a-bitch
and you don’t give in easy.
I used to wonder, at six o'clock when the evening news was watched
and my father sat in his orange recliner knocking back a beer or two
what went on behind his silent eyes?
he already knew what there was to do and what had to be done,
and I never heard him complain about that, so what was it?
we five children always had clothes, food and sometimes money
when we needed it.
every night, all seven of us circled the dinner table
five school-crazed children
and two tired parents busy with keeping us alive.





I would

bring the rain: insomnia
my brain screaming for sleep,
for someone’s death
an entrance to the silver-gated madness I locked away inside my other lifetime
where are your barbs to prick at me now, o life?
slobbering slave-saint, hoarder of minds?
I am called to another priesthood,
into the nightmare sleep
the draining dance.
I would kill what I am
I would take this from me
with the truth







sums

life is emptying this pen,
the outpouring of notes
my head bleeds darkness down my spine
with a grimace for the cramping taste of blood in my mouth
I hate, I am
I am what I hate
could it be less real?
will memory blot and fade this rising horror?
or will it grow?
for time has lost its meaning
running blind, I am a rush,
a speed, greater than my tongue
I am no heroin dream or
a space in existence
I am a hate filled life for the laughing hole in my head.






work

the faces of people become clocks
their teeth ticking out syllables at the dirt job
sweeping the floor of tomorrow
biting at the tiles of decay
one last cigarette;
RUN.

till the moment is chiming in time to my death
till we crash together again
everyone doused in gasoline promises
and primed to burn with a match labeled
"gain" or "profit"
staring into the mirror of our flammable denial





days awake

without sleep
it’s like dirty acid (you know what I mean)
like
copper and hexes
a divine moment in the innermost chamber
closest to who you really are
all the horror and pieces of reactions
the denial with which we swindle the truth





muddy and howling

the blues is slowly dying
played by fat white men: inarticulate
as a style instead of a way
it’s getting mixed up with gospel and dead eyed women
and dying of boredom
its tiny organs still pump
in the dark corners of back alley bar bandstands
and someone is still singing
blue slavery
the dark and stormy literature of displacement






words in the fire

truth is on a pike in washington
the populace mourns
weeping on black veils and lapels
no surgeon can excise this cancer
the greed and laziness is in our bones
we the people
too grown in comfort to worry
until it hits home
then people will gather screaming,
"What’s to be done?"
but our blackjack politicians have already
played the tune
it is up to us now,
to dance.





no more doomsday poets

WELCOME!!
( commentator shouts through a megaphone )
Our country's vast land holdings were first acquired through attempted genocide!
we have: CIA death squads! Patriot Acts! Original Sin!
be careful what you say, God and the Government are listening in!
to avoid messy investigations it is best to do the following:
do not buy, browse or check out from your local library any of the books from lists A-Z in your 'good american guide' and also no music from categories 1 through 50.
you CAN join supremist groups, militias, political organizations, or churches
but from list A1 and A1 ONLY unless you don’t mind harassment!
you may purchase and hoard any weapons of your choosing,
but DONT KILL ANYONE!
and Remember: we celebrate racism and genocide at LEAST 4 times a year so,
LOOK OUT! your people, beliefs, sexual preference, or ideas could be singled out next!
So, enjoy your stay in the United States of America!
land of the FREE
home of the BRAVE
(don’t loose your 'guide')
Let genocide and racism reign!
toll the bells of inequality and classism!
(if unused to the caste system please read page 172 in the 'good american guide’ or GAG, for short)
Certainly hope you’re not dark skinned!
ENJOY YOUR STAY!!




mirror

wiping off my cock
the coarse towel pulling at my skin
grabbing at the snarls of hair
it reflects that,
like tearing at ones self
the wet shuddering embraces of sex
are of the same substance,
gripping and realizing acts mostly,
when deprived of completions.
one questing death
the other, life
each seeking closure of the immediate temporal world
each escaping the gamut of idiosyncratic existence
yet
we will all embrace one as surely as the other
no matter where the soul flies in between





how you get there

to have a woman
who craves
sex
long and punishing
like the dark light from past lives
a gag for her second mouth
so she may howl through the other

we could blow away all this accumulating dust
with a cataclysm of flesh
each thrust pressing the sweet intersection of her thighs
my soul stretched over my cock

we dance in cotton sheets
made from yesterdays and tomorrows
dreams






unclear

Fifteen-year-old sex queens
are trying to jail me in a town fifty years ago
nerves are tingling with the threat of lynching
(i've done nothing)
Adrenalin is better than amphetamines
for looking over your shoulder.
i’m a sore thumb in this hick town
sticking out all over
impaling social stigmas
while the nymphs are burning
unquenchable






noticed

I must smile best
when my heart is boiling black
my teeth tightly gripped
as though they could pay for themselves
with the song of their own dust,
when I walk, footsteps cracking the pavement
taste of blood sweat on my tongue
poisoning the thoughts behind eyes that can FLASH hello.
this is how I can become noticed
beautiful
mixed weird features split by a grin
exposing the void beyond





waiting?

dark hindrances
evil plays
with school children and knives
to cut away frustrations
a solid chop of effect.
doubtless, effort will kill in time
what hate and the world cannot
it is a very certain mode of living
beyond death we do not understand
before it, we only await its arrival:
for a final rebirth
ending the disease of self-inflicted wounds





Self-taught

a sick comedy;
life is
constant infrastructure
lie upon lie
onion peels or flower petals
sometimes a truth, blatant as a sore
pricks through the layers
too obvious to escape notice.
we’ve been taught to regard them as defects
to be cut out with bad egos
instead of embraced
like ourselves






whys

stringing the words along a phone line
between NE and mid W
between my heart and hands.
my mouth seems impure
cursing, stuttering
the fluid express of pen across paper
is more exacting
more real
Truth, she says is why the words are enjoyable.
I say it’s the only reason to write.






on burning out

we're searching for immortality
in these words and notes
something to carry on after we shed this meat sack
and spring for the light.
how many will burn out trying?
we are a strange breed of human,
eyes that light up like a child's,
we still believe
beneath the tragedy and the layered scar of living.
most of us will age
reading poetry in small coffee houses
disc jockeying at local bars or radio stations
still trying to mingle with the college crowd
and making like we truly once held the scepter of greatness
within our art.







only friend

here I am
running out of time again
ready to move one last time before the end.
suicide is creeping up my spine
supplanting ideas
that only leap to death
scratching to get out of myself
out of life, i’m out of life
really just running back to the end of another cycle
why debate?
why care at all,
when death sits, mocking?
right in the room
winking at me under a knife blade
or through a dusty smile of pill teeth
i've acquired but one frantic acquaintance
in this melee'
even this news is a black wave
no light for miles,
it’s the sightless season
just me and the mourning fog...





anything else?

all this life could just fall away
lost in one thousand miles of driving
between here and ever.

will I remember how to be tender?
do I love,
or is this pumping cardiac
arresting only the dust within itself?

I feel filled with a grey residue
clouding every emotion I could show.
to say 'I love you' is to spit
and some piece of me knows it

it’s as though I were
freshly born
a new kind of beast
other than
or more purely
human







crisp clean white

each new page presents its problem of empty space,
the mass and energy of words to sprawl across the expanse
like buildings, trees, an animal now and then, oceans,
things eroding.
and when to stop
spilling guts or whatever
into the hateful white space?







what I learned in Pennsylvania

people and their loves, ideals and truths
are shallow puddles to be stomped in and cursed at, mostly.
never believe anyone can separate emotion from reality
that’s a lie in and of itself,
most people just want to hear a lie they can believe
instead of a truth that makes them uncomfortable, anyway.
race, religion and ideology are mostly just tools for
racists, bigots and politicians,
no one else with any sense cares, as long as you're cool.
friendship and brotherhood are stronger than
delusion, time and any pettiness.
don’t take advice; it only breaks the habit of thinking for yourself.
(which I thought was at least half of the point to begin with)
problems don’t change with travel, but sometimes motion
and change give us the tools to solve them.
depression is only as useful as dying, it solves life too, but much slower.
kindness is rare and often is only intention and expectation in disguise,
both of which, basically, are just excuses.
it doesn’t matter where you’ve been it’s the lessons you learn.
and when its time to leave don’t plan too much,
sketches are plenty to get you by and the more times that the plan fails,
the longer the wait.





a reason

time is a dying thing
closer to life than we humans,
struggling to rise
some hate it or merely ignore its passing
like strangers on the downtown walks
but that swift razor
shaving our moments and days
swiftly will sever our lives
surely as this instant you are breathing and beating life.
so, the suicides are just beating time
and life goes on
with
or without you






appliances

the ice cream freezer growls every hour or so
as though it would rather have been
a stove or an alarm clock
I suppose even the appliances get discontented now and then
modems with 'garbled information'
toasters that burn everything for days
at any setting
then miraculously
begin working as if nothing had been wrong at all
and gas ovens that turn themselves on murderously in the middle of the night.






growing older

sitting here
stirring memory, imagination
looking for a key to the verse in the soup of thinking.
moving for so long
I can’t seem to remember my last real bed,
or caress.
i’m losing pieces of myself along this wandering
im dead
or dying
my emotion gone stale like the film on your refrigerator top
dusty grey
and just collecting







to be a degenerate

I want this,
rolling and sweet
the taste of an unfamiliar pussy on my chin
the smell of soul slow sliding through my lungs
and nostrils
a new scent for delusion soup,
new breasts to distaste
a woman's voice for me that’s closer than a telephone call.
nubian girls are calling me to fuck
to torture orgasms from ourselves.
flushed with want, and I deny, deny, deny.
put on my granite eye
my coal face.





running away

self worth is questioning self importance
interrogators warring
using every psycho-
analytic trick
stuffed in notebook pages and receipts,
up alabaster sleeves.
they drive a red-faced torment
inside the thickness of my skull.
I'll consistently ask questions to which there are no answers
the lines so fine as to be lost
in the microscopy of self evasion





say it aint

the beds we lay,
like our ideals
are shallow, inconsistent.
believe until there’s no reason left,
turn on yourself,
turn on
but then that clarity is never so peaceful
once you discover the horror of being ultimately human
and desperately trying to rise





not again

winging it back to the hard nosed republican atmospheres of my ancestors
driving across states is to reset not only the time
but the calendar year as well.
in the middle states, once again heathens,
we will break the backs of their minds
and their judgments.
terror stricken mommies in suv's and
gutless suits with stomachs for necks and ties to prop them up.






what’s left

bare the ritual blade
cutting from myself the cross of loathing
i’ve so longed to hang upon.
ill pack and leave to avoid one more confrontation
with myself and reasons why.
I am,
but the deliberate staining of my years.
in my minds eye there are pale guesses
that i'm one more average disenchanted fool.
when realization finally sets in a tired frantic mind
the only cutting left
is the cord.







afterglow

we should stay awake
after
smoking cigarettes
interlacing between us snakes of our charming
till we greet the dawn eye
slipping sleepy and golden through the trees.






weather

rain, (i can tell your wet footprint outside my window)
while I try sleeping for a change,
is cramped and old.
as if this region were taken over
by aged and soaking spirits chanting for crows.
the morning fog rolls over as they
whisper and squelch under its cover
ancient and weeping.
sky,
plod me unevenly to sleep





crow

writing to the crows
cackling at me
from the abandoned house across the road
having claimed it for themselves.
each morning they laugh
while I write critiques of my spirit.
ask a question and the crow quiets,
having found a different glimmer
in the grey shadow of morning to mock.
(leaning at the window, concentrating, I could nearly see the future in his eye)
another crow, further up the hill
began to laugh.





coming words

I masturbated and words fell from out of my cock
rolling down the hallway
to wait for me under poor sheets
ambushing me just in time
before I could sleep








disconnection in dreams

I dreamt a strawberry haired girl
with roly-poly thighs and
I was throwing my money away in department stores
then running back to get it.
my brother, taking the nutmeg from the cupboard,
was obviously leaving forever.
I started an argument,
rolled and fucked across my childhood kitchen,
down the stairs and out into the lawn.
then I was back where I am,
and there are girls shaving
naked feet propped on doorknobs
showing pussies and breasts not fully filled.
the Mexican from Chicago made me,
and noone trusted me after that.






insomnylvania

awake
but my mind is screaming for sleep,
spinning dreams, arguing with itself.
I toss, grumble with the covers
attempt to become dormant
but the mind is pulling me back.
I read the wilderness
instead of raising the shade to look at it.
the sun is too much,
devouring unprepared retina.
the ground has frozen and thawed,
spilling a brown soup everywhere.
anyway,
nothings good or even realistic in this kind of
weather
it’s difficult even to find yourself.






how I get it

just need to relax
shut the eyes and it comes
blue-black waves from wordy unknowns
to master or brutalize myself
in diary or poem.
intent is a clinging constrictive horror.
ego has one
self, another
commanders of my mind
war within the frame of a page,
words for weapons.







memory of version 1.0

the wind sweeps the lot of dreams,
schemes
things averse to me.
bringing a child
gladly running towards home
the enlightened sun falling,
crowding the houses together with shadows in the neighborhood.
a small chest heaving
father at home
mother cooking
the grass in the front lawn waving hello
like an acid dream.
it’s almost flying;
riding the wings of a youth just remembered







decisions, decisions

humanity is falling on me like rain
eroding me slowly though,
steel instead of stone.
flat shedding this skin
draped over my meat
too long trapping me
with modes of thought
time
right now, i’m just balancing
on the thin edge of;
back?
or
beyond?






if only

we should be...
...summer in new york
...winter in l.a.
...playing on bandstands
...all of us poets
...in Europe to gaze on dark gargoyles and ancient churches
...Venice
...fucking dark whores in lavish beds
...satin unity
...sultry significance





frozen

winter is howling in my poem mind and
outside the window.
snow, driven to crease the landscape
like a workman’s hand.
I wait in the cold silence for meanings
barely a whisper from the pen
never an outcry





the state of american religion

americans will fight,
and write trilogies for their lamb of hocus pocus
their son of dog.
"i'll fight for Jesus! and my right to own guns!"
seems the popular refrain
automatic sin machines with bible turrets
BOOM! BOOM!
360 degrees of christian guilt complex
leveled at the world.
god has sent spies for the end times to reel
in information
death tolls, earthquakes, solar flares and particle storms.
christ is returning from the tomb to judge the constitution.
"do you know Jesus?!?"
-- ah, fuck yourself
i'll never tell.
they’re screaming for an end coming swiftly,
even though 2000 rolled by without a shudder.
black beasts, a whore from the sea, 666
a mark on every hand.
some people need a sightless season
eclipsing everything
turning all of us
into the demons in their heads.





relations

father, an enemy that will not fight me
mother, a wraith with tombs in her brain
dead areas for memory, my name
sound again the death knell, family
want forgiven from all of this
but its only sliding through another day
the wounds are still open.
returning to my memory,
there are long forgotten chains that bound me young.
a piece shriveled and died in a grade school urinal
and i’m still digging the moist earth of my mind
for its absence.





which?

a father and his son
a car, mother driving
father in the passenger seat
with cardiopulmonary resuscitation.
their blue baby,
dying silently on a regular day.
like a hammer in the face,
that’s crushing.
I wonder if (my birth)
it was
a wave breaking along the beach
or a wall
for breaking a man






getting out

truly now winter,
the branches are lined with cocaine snow
the bitter earth
mother receded
tucked neatly in a cave of under
murmuring spells of safekeeping
spells of death
memorizing
spells for spring
when we will be raised
high on mountain tops
where the earths crust folds back
to reveal our mothers jewels






hiding

finally found
the mode
the neural gear
the strings between the voices
where I hid myself.
leaving,
I was leaving.....
going to a more certain and safe place
to lick my wounds and heal.
(the contradiction was swiftly becoming too much)
but
last night I woke from dreaming
just like me





leaving, leaving

its time
to roll down off the mountainside
like a bad rain
vitriolic and angry
casting curses at memories
of children
cold houses without beds
ragged snarling women and their noisy dogs
rubbish peddlers
whore daughters of Pennsylvania sleaze culture
grey skies
and evil dreams





come off it

your bickering bitch
your bleeding christ's rolling eyes
a mortal wound weeps from the side of a native humanity
for the memories of lies
for a shamans wisdom
for an ancestral fire
for a god to trust
for a raped silence in a valley of graves






so far away

childhood summertimes
when work stuck to you like glue
when we were just mad boys
out for thrills
mile per hour highs
and basking in the sun
through t-tops
shouting (sometimes obscene)
at the passing girls.
now,
jade and turquoise
vibrant
but striped with black
we seek the ease
of a warm fuck
low rent jobs
cafe' waitresses
dead men’s dreams





sometimes

we burned for love
but it did not wish for us to enter
the keys of my heart too twisted to fit the lock
looking into her eyes there was nothing
black restless holes
spinning their vacancy back at me
is this all I need?
a dull fuck
an anvil mind to grind and bang against
to kill the shrieking windstorm of my own misery?
that’s the only real question
and the only answer i'll ever need





highest point

there was a sign on the interstate
'highest point east of the Mississippi'
but that was bullshit
there wasn’t a green anchor to be found
in a sea of filthy autos
strained diziens
hell, you'd think there'd be some pot.
but grass was as scarce as smiles
and more takers than I had ever seen,
like a whole countryside sucking us
and themselves
until
like cocks that wont come
we were cast back
rigid, raw and wet
ready for the next ride





blank truths

carving out ancient spells of protection
from my ancestral conscious
the scissors of the fates are too dull
to clip the cords of a friends biologic disharmony
(we dream the same dreams and do not wake from them)
the dust of insomnia littering my blue eyes
strong soul and listing mind
in a fog of sleepless waves






family value store

quiet is rare
there is always insipid shouting on the lower levels
dog children out to get fucked
sex is a confusing hammer
to bludgeon relatives and parents
the 10yr old got a boyfriend,
but they don’t speak,
so she'll be pregnant by 16
barking at some other male
some newer father
to bring her treasures,
riches of answers and whys.
cycles, circles
they never run out of lives to spin 'round






sick

brain's a rambling mess
comedies and killings
wrench out the same laughs.
rape@ ten o'clock,
so what?
it’s getting tiring to give a shit.
another atrocity, always
whether its here at home,
or living in the television.
even apathy is rotting,
swelling and putrid.
There’s no place left to dream
only the unavoidable now







nearer to

death is close enough
without a constant reminder
suicide dolls
waving knives in the face of their own apathy
pill queens
porn kings
a living, bleeding guess
try to see that "things aren’t supposed to be this way"
but repetition and delusion
are clear and straight courses
walking
by degrees
into oblivion






this is it

so, this is life
a thought, a light
a miscarriage, a move
a reconciliation, a word
a gesture, a heartbeat
we get confused by all this
blackened from walking continually
through the fire
outbursts from ourselves and loved ones
tormented by desire of unattainable things
we walk in circles in our heads
never faltering, never fathoming
the freedom beyond what we know





discomforting truth

telling the whole truth is to
overcome everything
expectation, your own selective perspective
gazing at the intention of ourselves this way
usually, is uncomfortable at best, but necessary
for the element of change to rip across the screen,
shake things up, and get the pen moving.
it’s only hard because we already know it too well.
it’s all the bad decisions that have hacked us to pieces
and a knowledge that we do it all to ourselves.






on fitting in

our lives can be rent
by impulses alone
if you want to fuck too much
or too often
if you cant stand the entrapment of your own skin
and you’ve gotta travel.....
all the things that make us individuals
tend to push us through society in the wrong direction,
out to the fringe
where our thoughts go farther than they should
where you attract all the lunacy you could ever want
and where you either
meet your end
or find the beginning.






impatience

bright white flashes of adrenaline
anger
aching teeth and migraines
this seems to be all that’s left
of the cool mountain summer
lazy days when sleeping was still legal
and drunkenness wasn’t yet the escape.
now charity is crippled
and wears a martyr's crown.
demands are made and never met,
everyone's so miserably unfulfilled.
the leaving just isn’t coming soon enough.







sleaze

disregarded
by cunts and drunks
so pathetic,
to have to pump liquor into women
to get wet moments.
sex used to be easy
now, it’s like 'waiting for the rain'
or maybe just 'standing on the gas'
because the years are flying by
and either the hands that are outstretched
are too blurred by the speed
or i’m just staring in the wrong direction.
perhaps
it has always been as unbeautiful as now







wanting

could there be one more sweet dose
of mouths and thighs, naked buttocks and ripe necks?
anything more than this headache
and these fruitless chains of moments?
fifteen year olds try to entice me to prisons
twenty two year olds to rings or insults.
if my face were a package
i'd leave it on the interstate.
there’s nothing left to point at blame
this loneliness could be less final






the road to hell is paved

there is nothing more honest
than a friend
drunk on pity or haste.
we do as we please
but get in each other’s way.
we go back to beginnings
fade and reappear
in ourselves and to each other.
we are dreaming ways out
and tender moments
but this damned life keeps rolling
between intention and action, selfish and selfless






irony of agony

sick of hating
sick from needing to
unfilled
emptying still
over the broken ends of faults
ragged cigarette butts of misery;
smoking memories
family
blame
endless mocking doubt
chained to all these things and still
trying to fly






engage the enemy

living is torment
caught in the separating mesh of truth
the dry dust ruin of life
my shovel is discontent
scoops of self-hatred
and blood red moments
line the ashen trench.
digging in for siege
on mouths that open only to lie
and biting at the words that repeatedly
flee its open sore






draw

the wet sea night
criminal complacence
asleep in my bunk before the afterglow expired
I came
across the black satin of her dress
and for a moment
felt rather presidential.
oh god,
the amount of lingual work
that went into conning such a whalish mate into bed
so humble as to take any offering
self esteem crumbled
into the wake of our vessel
a poor moment
out in all that richness
weakness gave way to hatred
noone wins these fights




in the name of the bothered, the dumb and the goat

here is the great benediction:
liars, thieves,
screaming dog faced women
nasty children, gutter sluts
mouths that swallow themselves with semen
persons with wrist-watch faces
advertisements
for abortion and misogyny
are window shopping on the main avenue
let us think it,
oh god,
let us play it away.
make sure you’re close enough to the highway
to be able to sleep.





last days

the sodden muck of northeastern towns
where things are kicked across the line of reason
one more day of wet hole valley sinking
one more hour for the screechers in the house
fat laden whores who force instead of kiss
families of clowns
marionettes
bible abusers and hallway minds
lights out for you
sleeping, dying, gutless place
lights out for the lot






mistaken

the fifteen year old knows everything
the ten year old shits herself in sleep
the mother keeps trying to get fucked
by a shade with coffin eyes
(but she made all that up)
two brothers, or stranger,
arrived instead
putting hatpins through dramas
dancing, themselves, with newer ghosts
setting fires
running, mad
frightening the hill people over breakfast
in small cafes.
the farce could only be collapsed this way
while assuredly and silently leaving






nightmares

rotting chancre faces
cracked wounds
skull crushed mothers with exposed brains
split penises and rotting vaginal caves
bullet bodies with piercings the size of fists
leaden flies buzzing in the thunderclap of automatic weapons fire
nails through my shoulder
the smell of human meat
shredded faces and empty sockets
the dead crawling to life
I, the dead,
I
rotting funeral wives
grandmothers satin scent
these dreams
most hated of things
sickly quick babies
grey green hearts
my chest bare of reasons
a hole of rotten in my left breast
slighted walks with candlelight demons
childhood rape seasons
death mocking in corners
a cat on my back
and an owl at the door
locked into dark weeping places
life seems a prolonged hallucination





greed

an angry virgin at eight
sanctified
crossed thrice with semen at nine
fires stretch the span
between then and now
too awkward ugly to make the score
head is swelled or pinioned shut
timing is always reading 'out of order'
oh so lustful
greedy
for life to become a kingsnake charmsong
sirens on every block
singing sex for three or more




fucking rain

dancing on a stone plate at the forests edge
weather whips through
seemingly unguided
the heave and rush
of wind and rain
fucking against the earth and trees
scouring with slow, wet friction
licking and streaming sweat
down the back of the mountain






everywhere in common

travelers are kind
when you know where they’ve been
thirty-five year olds with eyes like
brown lights
they are going to Chicago
or new york
they know the places you’ve seen
your eyes know each others memories.
a nice meeting
Hispanic and African friends you never knew you had
and likely will never see again.






after the night shift

a black cat napping on the seam of my dreams
its two o'clock
a long scene from seven days working
is spinning on replay charging up the spinal socket
outpouring strange dramas,
expectations, nightmares
and visions got from leaving.
looking out of the window at the silvery wet day
still clinging to bone trees.
dwarf mountainsides are crying the roads full
of bad water;
veins over ash
she is upstairs looming
a shrew
a widow
shadows dancing grimly and with purpose
behind her eyes.
flat, blank holes
windows for the voices in her head





write with the thinking

a crow scales the sky
(the cat's ear flutters)
clouds pass in the cadence of the wind
slashing at the rain.
(somewhere, its Time)
here is becoming a memory
as the raindrops joining the stream.
as the clock’s ticking
as the rain tattooing the voices of word-
music across the void of mind
as fingers circling wood grain,
a new clitoris
a comrade in terror arrives
to invade the slinking kitchen stillness.
low voices, nervous smiles
another voice to wreck my head





orbit

the mind seems locked steering circles around itself
a state of absorbing mourning and mixing
revulsion and horror.
but often still, a quietude arrives
a moment of beauty
stabbing awake and painfully aware
can remind you
of what you will never possess.





falling slow

vapors in the love eye
hours for the slow fire
dance and weave
(our lifetimes are never expected
to burn this hotly)
kisses for the mouth which cannot lie
the snake that will rise and die
a way out
space for time
stealing from the sleeping
treasure words and violin minds






the lure

reel the words in slow
be careful not to get caught on the i's
don’t stumble over the idea of your own self-worth
change up your lure now and then
to keep them guessing
and don’t ever try to be what you aren’t
inside the white walls and prison bars of the page





dreams

transmigrate across space
prod the ethereal body through loopholes of consciousness
you can fuck your way to the end of the world
separate the strands of fate between your lover’s legs
force the hand of death and carry your will
across the threshold of time
leaving all the shouting masses
to resound across an empty eternity








yes, even then

riding past the no vacancy signs at eleven years grown
pedaling a bicycle out into the deep night
the stars are still fresh
and the spring midnight smell is long and secret
even then, looking for a place with no streetlights
the thought being:
to strip naked
instead of pedaling,
to run
bounding across black silent grass
face smashed upward, drinking the sky
"you never were level headed", he said
"well, to hell with convention," I said
"and the last fleeing gasp of boyish dreams"






the battles

death is a face we wear all too often
facing into the fire
these half-creepy whores and mongrels
serve only to incite the blood-lust
"Fuck or Die!"
we all scream together,
and try to take their heads
as they cut for our balls.
the verdict, either way,
(death) is the same.
physical or spiritual
emotional or empty
the long roads down all lead
to the same hell.





realization

our desires
insignificant reminders of our own inadequacy
no self image
no love
blackness bound
ego dying, growing smaller, more corrupt
self discovery is
mental surgery
cutting open brain doors
peeling walls of thought away
to reveal a place without boundary.
the maze is seemingly unending
the way back is lost
in the forgetfulness of history







green

desert sun and granite mountains
sparkle and glow in the cool dawn
green warriors, dressed for marching
call booming cadence to be heard for miles
the instructors give pride one day
and strip it away the next
there is the 'Chinese television watching position'
the pairs and pairs of blood spots on the marching pad
we escape to bars, bottles and women
once twilight arrives
anything, to convince us we're real
and still capable of feeling something
until,
sitting at the bar,
alone
never speaking to anyone
just drinking
blacking out
drinking
waking up cold in parking lots
you suddenly realize
'you’re in the army now....'
and all the whoring, drunkenness and fighting
are just dreams
extensions of a mind vitally warring for singularity






zoom out

floating over the white foothills
looking for the immediacy of creative momentum
spark-hot lines for troubled desire
wrestling the demons of
god, law, prison, death
I go to fuck away the now
I go to skin moments
flesh fires
fighting excess while drowning in it

two faces
one glares
one growls
the first, intelligent enough to know hate
the other evil enough to know lust
then grafting realization across the eyes
we see what we are
what will happen
what we will never have
we see that we walk a thin line
between insanity
and dying






empty metaphor

an ancient tool stirs the clutter of my mind
knocks over a shelf
breaks clay pots
pries free another door
so the night can seep in
black and familiar
you cannot run from it
even while it consumes you
so know this
sun whores
you pity thieves
the night will soon follow
in the echoes of dawns treading





agitators

awake to the blasphemer's bathroom shouting
witches, thieves, lesser demons
they all bleed the same at six a.m.
they are agitations of hormones
like menstruation
only, it happens at least twice a day:
the bitch in heat growling
(her cubs bring unapproved strangers in
to fuck under the winter moon)
they snarl and shout
I get up from my pallet, thinking,
'none of this means a goddamn thing,
it’s an incomprehensible puppet show'
marionettes with obscene eyes,
they spin and scream the 'f' word at each other
faster and faster
louder and louder
until the strings bind them up
or they fall to pieces







ridiculous thinking

the surmise of dreams
taunting,
desires weigh out truth in white powder
watching from a distance that’s more than safe
detached from beliefs
needs
habits
it is outside reality
or, at least what people construe
mixing
blending everything back to a common 1
until it makes more sense than sanity





pornographic intermission

cute Spanish noses
warm Asian eyes
looks push
with a fever against my mind
wet pictures of hair pressed flat
in short slashes
across the small hilltop of a pubic bone
between the valleys of intersecting thighs.

fingers piston into vaginas and asses
furies of lust
dark red cries
spitting 'fuck' for orgasms
then

Grind
face and pelvis
lips and teeth
clitorises straining to complete
jamming cycles of thrusting
full cocks parting wet secrets
as, dying, they scream their own




going back

loves gun is leveled at my head
we race for friday
to get out
the stale smoke house
northeast hick towns
unappreciative women
ghouls for children
we seek warmer climes
better disasters






excuse

arguments never have rational endings
its verbal fighting to expel our selves
vain and angry
we seek knowledge
unconvinced of truths obscured by reasons
only too sure
of ourselves
this wintertime
and these rotten expectations
for, the bad versions of us
are continually yelling out of our faces






lingus

a kiss for the sweet, wet rose
a feminine ace to trump the suicide king
with dark enclosure.
we reek with desire
chins coated in slick candy
tongues lick mouths and necks
flushing and straining
minds tasting the flavors of nerves
kisses for heel and wrist
fingers and the butterfly
pulsing, testing
the flex of wings that bring bliss
exquisite torment
these things are to get,
to know before dying




before the crash

waiting for tomorrows barren womb
and the strawberry girl with rape fantasies
she learned to love under her father's hands
strawberry and the Two Year Lap dance
both hardened products of father’s cocks
they came with pleading eyes
sometimes crying because

these were love songs to me
something to feed a black-mouthed mind
they were coiled, suffering knots of people
only beautiful while unraveling






where I got it

exhaustion as inspiration
riding waves of sleepless seas
hanging over the darkness
interacting with its rich tide
it knows me
and I know it
this way, we are, at least
friendly enemies
I have produced a razor of self awareness
to shave off slivers of myself as offerings
as bait
to bring it within reach
to sip its turbidity
and breathe in its acrid perfume
freeing and binding
in the same frozen instant







the ride

corpses of trees in the snow
of Ohio skylight driving
with the burn of leaving
emptying my mind
memories of rages
evaporating in long trails of exhaust
(and if they are a pig, we must be sure
at least, to maim it)
we worry about our futures
(which are unknowable)
and on the ride strange threats carry diseases
across the telephone wires of our pasts






curse

spirits claw at the air
fingers dance across the dawn windowpane
leaving cold prints of passing
uttered words
are spells
freezing to the air
hanging
marking the time of our departure.
in the drawer of the blue room
is a present
for unlaid cunts and demonlings
I hope you find that which you crave
I hope it eats you alive






come and get it......

the knife of my cock splits you into blonde nothing
a ragged cry in the night
a lusty bitch to bite
at the peaceful moments of midday
you
who suckled one daughter to destruction
and another to dependence
you
with cocks for dreams
large enough to fuck holes through your head
how ravenous now, you soul sucking beast?
are you striding across the stained rug
to stretch yourself over the bedpost?
mashing your clit with the binding of books until there is blood?
what could you know of a wanting so heavy handed?
you were exposing yourself for dimes
perhaps now you could fuck for a dollar.

where were you when all this happened?






entertainment

it’s late and the television is on
I hate it for all its prepackaged moral conundrums
but it’s packed with stars who’ve long since
burned their way through the media atmospheres
and are still groping for another close-up
me, i'd say,
"give me the drug wave of celebrity,
high and hard. I'll run the needle till even my veins
are pointless."
then, instead of popping up
for the next three decades to play across old dramas
ill eat a bullet on Adams st. bridge
in five o'clock Chicago traffic.
at least then all the sympathy won’t contain embarassment





be careful

many places and people will pick you up
strapping you with words
like 'artist'
'poet'
'musician'
now, they will not pay to hear your work
or words
or to see your newest producement
instead, once your seeing or living has gotten old,
they will say 'he has lost it'
these meanderers
between the experience and the telling
never seem to perceive
that
the struggle and the blood
the painting and the singing
is not for them





long term

sometimes the agony of it grows old
in the wet weather night
the girl sleeps on the sofa
tired and drunk enough to let consciousness
fall through the cracks
even with this ancient pain
which glows and rattles in my skeleton
and mind
I cannot give up the word for sleeping
it seems a waste of twenty or thirty years
in the end
years to spend drinking or smoking
listening to fear shout its endless rebuke
curiosity has led me this far
now,
will it lead me to the end?





crazy

an author is - regardless of credits
bukowski was lucky
Hemmingway strong
Thomas unscrupulous
and Matthew (who i’m sure you haven’t read)
was great
when he had enough caffeine and wine
or was on roller-skates
spitting stinging strings of words
so quickly that you'd forget the first
as he shouted the second
but the emotion always came across
even when (on roller-skates) shouting
"Hooray for Ice cream!"
none of us in that smokey, filthy poet hole
had been published
but we read our poems every thursday
and I think we all secretly hoped to one day
be as mad and free as Matthew




One day it all ends

all of our lives
society attempts to dunk and drown
the individual in seas of conformists
in the schoolyard and the classroom
the majority has selected names for you
goading
daring you to be anything but different
in the workplace you tend to fit
because, well,
there are so many miscreants already,
what’s one more?
but in the end even the false belonging of toil
fades
then you begin to cut a path
finally on your own
families come and go
lovers turn away and sprint back
to join in the running crowded circle jerk
but who could blame them?
we only do what we know,
and only if we venture past the stopping point
often enough
are the memories of the high-strung jangling mass
defeated
by the open road
faces we have not seen
and landscapes you’ve only tasted in dreams