2022
Take me to the place where we would plant butterfly
kisses on each other’s lips like the little kids we are,
Burning holes through our ocean skin,
Never quite understanding why we rejoiced when
the bright flame licked up any sense of meaning.
How our heavy feet made the world reverberate with
every slow step on unnamed streets-
And dissolve completely on sloping dunes.
And when we buried ourselves in sand from head to toe,
The waves,
With snow-white uniqueness, ever-changing-
But still waves all the same,
Would lull us gently to sleep.
Take me to the place where snakes writhe hidden,
Beneath our checkered protection-
On which we lie unaware,
Tugging on shining blades of grass.
Where our lazy fingers would draw random lines in the Earth.
And we would scream every obscenity that found
itself parasite to our bleeding tongues-
Never questioning this unobserved will,
Never wondering just how far down the water
reached under our outstretched, paddling arms.
Take me to the place where everything we touch
turns to flame-
And kiss me as we douse ourselves in gasoline.
How could I be anything
But totally and completely
relaxed-
As I gaze out the window
from my seat on the
train, and observe
the fleeting landscape
of graves?
Across from me the seats
are empty and full at
the same time.
When I close my eyes
and chant I am dead
and alive at the same time.
Open them:
More graves, more peace.
I’ve died so many times.
And lived to tell the tale.
Ah!
A beautiful lazy river-
It’s corrupt.
By dirty concrete and
pollutants.
Graves again
Oh!
A corrupt lazy river
interferes with concrete.
So:
I sit on my train seat
Uncorruptible.
Do ya need an explanation?
If I give it to you it
won’t be explainable
Anymore.
The most I can say is
this:
Rusty iron statue!
Flat, to an extent
Of mother and child
holding hands.
Old man
Hat man
Little kid
Wait!
Up high
Down low
Too damn slow!
Bike man
Windows
Train man
Three boys
Hanging out in the pavement
Stretching.
Bridge-crossers
The bridge being crossed
And powerlines.
Walk in when you need us
Not a second before,
not a moment too late.
Relax:
You will always be on time!
Suburban purpose is
A tanker full of oil
Burning itself up as
it shoots past a
replica of itself going
in the opposite direction.
Clouds or waves or
Dead baby birds.
Have you ever seen a dead baby bird rotting beneath a dusty wood
staircase?
The ants form very tight formations across its tiny limbs and bulging,
deformed belly like a clove hitch tied over a horse’s face. Its mouth is
wide open awaiting its mother to feed it. Never given the chance to lay
hatchlings herself and feed them desperately, dead baby bird is still a
mother of ants.
Mother of ant
Mother of an
Mother of a
Mother of
Mother
Mother
Mother of
All.
Basically:
Everything is clouds
They form
They dissipate
They form from what’s dissipated
We are clouds who
think we are clouds
Angry thunder
Sad rain
Calm air
Let go of form and become everything.
I have never been
born and I will
never die because I
say
"Hello old friend
death, I recognize
you.
Hello old friend birth,
I recognize you"
We're all old friends
Smile to concepts
and watch them pass
Sometimes I think
I do things and I
suffer
Sometimes I think I
am me!
But then I breathe
and remember who
I truly am:
The 9:05 Katonah
express train to
Grand Central Station
Breath:
What a gift!
Bird is so busy only existing in such a state as devoid of
unnecessary brilliance yet a total prerequisite like color in a 1,000
piece puzzle to the non-compassing portrait of my vision.
The murky surface, unknowingly green, mirrors like a funhouse
Total fantasy.
Bird now disappearing, (the games never cease)
Other senses diminish the bounded eye.
And I can hear EDM reverberating a car maybe two blocks down.
Neon corner
Street corner pageantry
But still the green two-way is ever rising.
While neon corner
Or rather
Everything there ever was, is, or will be minus neon corner,
exudes light
Stolen for your sins from the constantly dwindling pre-conceived notion
of what dusk should look like.
Just check out
In deep solitude, one-sided voice of forgiveness pours deeply into
itself with tremendous steel ladle
Upheaves the churning definer, soup of the pointer finger-
That I know anything at all!
Concepts morals morels and definition
fade dutifully into the places between non-being and being
Well I get itchy just singing the songs of the birds and showing off
my wings like they do.
I get silly, holding the door open for Mind At Large,
Seep through this hand of hands
And entice me with fragile grace.
Cheap beer and cigarettes
Funny guy’s too drunk laying in a tub and tearing at the wall’s
insulation
Roll up with the dudes in the math-rock band
God I smell so bad
And this time Colin with one L lets you climb the ramparts and hang out
dangling your feet above the crowd on the catwalk
And you can’t seem to catch anybody’s eye
Totally in love with red illumination
$20 3pm to 3am and thank God the beer’s free for bands
We will check IDs except we won’t
Everyone’s family here.
So structurally sound this plywood stands yet I curve with endless
impunity. (Losing vision of the pencil in front of me) I leaf through
all my outfits and pick something at random.
Now listening to “The Pull’’ by The Microphones and sinking into the
slow breath of unconsciousness, I consider the relative-ness of
ephemeral contact.
“The Glow surrounds you
And when you breathed in I felt the Pull”
I think I’m starting to get it-
Baby holds baby and burps baby’s back
Keep baby in the shade because baby will get scorched by huge ball of
fire in the sky.
Hardly a risk,
For the funny liquid Earth is so totally worth it
(to play in).
Here I lay:
Journalist of my own desires-
Totally enraptured.
Living-knowing
Knowing without living
Knowing yet living noncommittally,
I play my games
I am a million shining-sea-silvers of slivered-star dust.
The aesthetic leaves me quite enamored
Who is this poetry-writer and do you do something like I do?
Do you see me like I see me through your eyes?
I only have a minute but I’m not a writer like that
I’ll go skinny dipping and lose my shirt and lose my wintered
youth
I’ll wander and catch the wind with my arms if only I have the strength
to lift them and grow feathers
And my heart will break so many more times
And maybe in a couple years I’ll recognize who exactly to blame.
The exact words fade so quickly
How can I care?
When the significance is a shining something in the sand
Breathing in
Crashing, white existence
And breathing out
A happy return to nothingness.
Currently I am hit by waves of nausea relating to the stretching of my fingernails and knuckles as I slip and scratch off the cliff of what my rational mind calls reality-
Slowly
My breath reminds me
That the cold sea-water redefines
If only I jump in head first unhesitating!
And also
The fact that if I scramble my way up the rocky surface and stand
courageously with my back straight and chin up
I will be shot
Proud soldier of the firing squad
And the sheer force will propel me backwards anyways.
So with deep breaths
Deep, slow
In, out
Totally aware yet completely relaxed
Slip with dignity!
Breathe out and
I’m sober.
Some months later... October I think
-Feeling a little wired,
kinda caffeinated
-Sitting so lovely,
picturesque, we're sitting
so lovely
The scene:
Red hair
LSD Rave
trips simulator
The spotlight pans to
everyone and everyone knows you've been
caught by the glare
"oh, it's me now?"
what could I possibly do under this pressure?
but examine the
changing pulse width as the scenery imposes
on new layers.
Trust the gut of the universe:
It knows all because it has consumed
all
Everything beyond the veil is also veil
Until you focus on the intuitive heart inside
And watch it get ripped apart
Just to lay open-
Trials by fire.
Ah.. so
So here we are:
Empty of our separation
All ears for the lover
Listening close to the pitter-patters of the intuitive heart
Swaying this way or that, gently tugging, an open brochure
Read the fine print closely
All the instructions are there:
How to find a home inside
How to hear what it is
This body must do
While I’m sitting here
Just sitting, so lovely
And watching the dance go on, the wheels turning
The old man’s hands withered and decaying
just as they should be.
Driving the car to go visit friends and also destroy innocent
lives
in places that just so happen to be rich with oil
Man of oil-
He has many faces and limbs. And all of us,
Lost children
Running straight into his open, loving arms to horrible endings.
Every possible pain
every possible scrutinization
are all ours to share.