Poem #86

We haven’t spoken in a while,
i was away, or you were away, or we
had stopped talking over a disagreement…?

i’ve seen things since last we spoke.
remember how we used to tell each other everything?

my father died. since last we met.
pancreatic cancer, like patrick swayze.
but dad was no patrick swayze.
he was more like bogart, had he lived too long.

it was not heroic. his death i mean.
it was bed ridden death, long death, medical.
had you been there we could have talked about
the small rebel flag that had blown loose
from his porch, sitting in the grass, in a windy rain.

we would have talked about how he still hated
that i was an atheist, unable to relent
to his jesusgodcreator who would have him suffer
to enter a disneyland of the mind.
a jesusgocreator whom i find empty,
replaced by quantum mechanics and poetry and art,
on my own terms. a reality in place of daydream.

i tell you now that i have written to him
on his facebook account these past 3 months.
i told him things i will not share here with you,
i regret this omission, truly, but we have been estranged.
i think of his account being cancelled any moment,
and that idiot connection i have being broken, a final death.
the internet cares nothing about humanity or life.
its about immediacy. fame. connections but no substance.

it was all very medical. like an injury. a final injury.
i hope we can speak of better things soon,
don’t give up on me. i still see some beauty.
i’ll bring you some, next time we talk.

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Honed Jr.

Honed Jr did sorry work thru his soft knuckles,
Hunks of time innuendoed the poetry in between the pain and the release.
Indirectly varied I Dr the numbers until I can win just one more bag of nickels.
Jr conducts osmosis through the cooked book until he no longer needs to toil.

Ironed inside and outside by 5th grade,
the rest of the sites were not able to make a difference.
Iweptinthehallwayasyoufuckedmyrival.
I will always be that broken link below you.

404’d until i.give.into.defeat.

Jr learns hide and seek so well he never sees himself again.

I looked for an afternoon but settled instead to eat General Cho (Joe? Tso?) chicken with my hyena landlady, reclining in plastic, a month behind on my student loans,waiting for a new rebirth of poetry.

no black hole

coitusing away too long in the demigod swagger,
humans invent the immortality
that is no fate of star or black hole.
humanity is good at horrors, but no black hole.

electric candled spruce trees wore us down
until the only way became the only way to prey.
i believed for a time, afraid of living more than death.
comic con cosplayers shuttled the theme from hero to
victim, to heroic victim, samaritan, to hippy beaten down by cops.
we will only ever be free of having to be appeased by release.

i went walking out in to the waves of a hurricane,
became tossed, beaten to the sandy bottom, scraped,
water boarded, blinded by brine, lost in the moment,
things could have become quite serious.
and in the wake no deities vying for my love,
no beatific cherubim escorts,
no sad eyed hippies and no demon pushing me under.
i found the end of me in the pummeling, and became lost at last.
alone in the sea, i caught the tide back to shore, saved.

Poem for Mingus

57 years, not long enough for a Charlie Mingus,
so much more music to make,
more cigars to toke up, more teeth to knock out,
and what about Epitaph? was it done Mingus?
there’s plenty of people to take those extra years from,
meth heads and republicans could serve humanity better
with a little less time walking around.
i know a few drunks that aren’t living well too.
but if we give some extra time to Mingus,
surely Basquiat deserves a few more months?
but can you give a junky extra time?
and who gives?
can we take from one junky artist and give to a
better junky artist?
what if they were going to get clean, in a week or two?
Should we give Braque some extra minutes also?
Or do you not like the cubists?
perhaps we should ask for volunteers,
transfusions of a sort, give up a little time,
maybe that time given up would be bad days anyway,
wasting away from liver cancer, or being beaten
by the day nurse in a final hellish room.
it sure would help humanity, or at least me,
to get things going in a more beautiful direction,
not a less dire, doomed direction by any means,
but a better view on the way down.

Poem #85

Nuisance jackets onceworn, whatever happened to the revolution!?
Won’t karaoke to a tune I don’t know.
Silent island palm tree cutters, making boats of broken notes.
Brick will float aboard corpse raft titanics.

Is dodo the Franciscan dream of men?
Winced once, missed the drop kick to the nether region paper boys.
Gaining toward dawn a new form Of wondering where the species ends its run. Guns or nuns or puns?
You would never mistake God for green lantern.

Irritated by Buddha skinned iPhone otter boxes I wish for equality in all irrational life jacket fantasy.
Why prey on salivation? Taste the rainbow only with thine eyes.
Wait and be rewarded, or warded wait for rewind.
Payback your debts because Neocons will have us all in chains before Saran rapture descends.