There is more than
A slight hesitation
Putting pen to paper
I write with pain
Fully behind me
Straight laced tight
Making it difficult
To breathe


This is different


As the pen goes down
Do I jinx that
Which I wish to receive?
A gold star for being
Just me, two thumbs up
That you actually see
An excercise, so foreign
To me

I mean it.
It's getting too hard to know
that people read my words.
And love me for a minute
and never see the 22 years of boyhood
and booze
behind the computer monitor.

Or one amusing taking judo flips
and asking people to hit his fists
over and over
and I don't know why.

Addict state of mind,
children and soldiers.

I **** ladies and shake the hands of gentlemen.

Reinforce the stereotypical drunk boy.
Irish. Angry.
Poet.

But it's done.

I'm ****ing scared. That's the truth.
I only wrap around in words.
It was never art to me. It was being alive.

Poetry
to me
was and is just...
just standing naked in a room full
of people and not being ashamed of your body.

And, men, we worry about
the size of our *****.
Women must worry what their
hair looks like.

And the opposite never cares to either
because we are
we are so wrapped in ourselves -
our own need to be appealing.

So, yeah.
I'm ****ing scared.
I curse and can't...
can't just watch any longer.

They're gonna send me off.
Meds and ECT machines.
That'll burn out the cute part of my brain.
And what'll I do?
I'm not cute enough to get by just on my looks.

But I'll soldier.
Sad, though.
I am sad.

I find a fear and comfort knowing
where I'm going
they'll delete these posts before they're published.
And they will be forgotten.
Okay.

But
I am sad.

So I try to wrap it up.
Wish my parents did 22 years ago.
But then I might have ended up
a ****ing tree who didn't get to scream
how pissed he is at the world.

No, I don't regret a moment.
Blonde or a brunette.
I proved it.
My exception was
except the ones that read
never ever cared for me. And maybe didn't know how.

My novel is carved in fetishistic fantasies
of girls with scarred backs
and my "first day at school" story
wasn't my first panic attack.

You give someone the backstage pass
and just ****ing hope
they'll watch you while the lights are on
and the fake ones clap
and some even stand.

But they go to the buffet.
Not out of hunger... just boredom.
And I'm reminded again

why I dumpster dived
and sniffed H
and faked an orgasm
'cause I was so scared I wouldn't be good in bed.

I laugh now.
But cry.
Because, defyingly... and somehow...
I'm still laughing alone.

I don't want to be perfect.
The road ahead is painful
And there will be nothing left of this world when I
come
back to it.
And all you wonder is, "Did he mean to capitalize 'And' in this stanza?"

Maybe it's that young idealism...
but summer days
were sunnier
when I was even younger.
I wonder does it just go on getting worse.
Declining instead of reclining.

Yeah.
Blowjobs and boiling points.
Yeah,
that's tomorrow.
But today is the sorrowful show.
Where nobody ever shows anything.

So I watch J. Robert Oppenheimer quote the
Bhagavad Gita
when he explains dropping the first bomb
at the trinity center.

"'Now I am become death... the destroyer of worlds...'"

God.
Father.
Whichever order.
Why can't I just find a damned girl who knows why that quote means so damned much for me?

And **** Holden Caulfield.

can't see,
still there,
can't feel,
dirty,
unwanted,
thrown out,
hidden,
worthless,
waiting.


11-27-09

No, really.
No more fiction.
I tied a noose with an extension chord;
I think it was in key of G.

So now you know me.
Slowly you learned.
But lonely.
I am
not really torn.
Formed for performance
and ashamed of its scorn.

Scorpion form -
stinging only at myself.
But I'm the serpect holder -
It's only for my health.

Laugh for me
and **** the ashes.
I'd rather gather them together
and pin them
on the helpless feathers
of birds that couldn't last the weather.

See what I'm saying?
Just delaying.
Just maintaining justice
just as long as it serves
its substance
against my ungrateful urn.

Switch it up a little.
I tell them a riddle.
What's black and blue
and cold as you?
Well, nothing but the piddle
of a drowned alcoholic
pissing on the sheets -
beat dead with braindead head
and a red set of teeth.

So now imagine,
if you don't,
a style conformed
purely in comfort
from a mouth of foam.
So when I'm going home,
I'll write this letter.
I imagine it stained red in blood and black ink -
only better.

Really expressing.
Keep the poets guessing.
The intellectuals questing on a pertinent joint of our lives
but at which point I'm just purely jesting.

This is my laughter (children).
The seizure comes after.
Blasting lines of incisions closed -
God doesn't know the final chapter.

It's written in ink,
gutteral stink,
the pain of throwing up lonely in shame in the sink.

Throats swelling -
there's no telling
how long I took for this verse
but it's perfectly compelling?

Right?
You're so up-tight.
So down on downers
and damned, dog,
that boy's alright!

But nothing's fine...

Oh, nevermind.
You'll find the time to read
when you find your steeds and leave your mind.

Not behind but beside you.
The loneliest ghost that can guide you.
Through a rhyme scheme so mean
than even your dreams will bide you.

So... (gasps for a breath)
**** both.
Ban me from both coasts.
Say I'm desensitized, insensitive,
to my abstraction raise a toast.
But really a piece of bread,
to represent the sad sponge in my head,
soaking up filth until the day it's dead.

**** **** **** **** **** me.
I'm banned.
It's not no-man's land
It's no man's land.
No owning or sewing.
No clothes.
Naked.
We'll bake in the son with our sons owing.

to crush
onion spirits
and garlic souls

^mmm had a salad like that once...nice insertion

this read like something out of "300"...the spartans

"we will reign down on you so many arrows it will block out the sun, well we'll just have to fight in the shade then"

Pernicious

another train passes
along the tracks of an addict
sweet liquid poppy
never was a good parent
although one may be found
at your nearest stop and go
anything to escape
those white picket fences

many clean shaven men
have stepped from the closet
lost in a woman's world
as guilt sends them to repent
within a cenobitic community
it is there they learn true love
yet remain confused
by the closed door of confession
which has become just another closet

a sixty year old maiden teacher
has settled for early retirement
to pursue an education of bliss
forfeited for the benefit of others
deflowered by a tainted gardener
marking an early exit from life
another lesson taught......

My Beautiful Universe

a biafra child
who didn't eat
air filled stomach
echoed drums we beat
SAVE THE CHILDREN!
a phrase we repeat

a soldier's limb
has returned from war
tears from loved ones
who expected more
WE WANT PEACE!
hangs on every door

postpartum depression
is the new excuse
to kill the child
suffering from abuse
WHERE'S THE JUSTICE!
what's the use

villages of genocide
mercenaries rape and rob
stolen booty
benefits of the job
HANDS ACROSS THE WORLD!
to catch the tears we sob

streets littered with vials
of the newest drug craze
while we laugh it off
as just another phase
SAY NO TO DRUGS!
as we idolize purple haze

another homeless man died
a horse with no name
pulling the plow of poverty
we hang our heads in shame
SHELTER THE HOMELESS!
animals of cardboard fame

corruption at every level
robbing its citizen's blind
the constant trickling down
leave two pennies hard to find
SUPPORT YOUR GOVERNMENT!
democracy of a different kind

then there are those
the ones who understand
the poet's of the world
bringing beauty to a hapless land
MY BEAUTIFUL UNIVERSE!
has been created by your hand.....

Dedicated to all the poet's
throughout the world, who
through their words make
life livable....write on!, Peace

I remember feeling dying
no life sighing
no kite flying or falling
balling my eyes out while I'm trying
to stick close to current
words surge in a burning
lack of courage and tour is urgent.

Yeah, baby, I remember,
embers of black of december,
feeding of frenzied fenders
and eating off of the metal
tell-tale sale of a sell-out
about to get of the shuttle,
kettle screaming while I'm dreaming face down.

Call an assignment,
late homework,
what a jerk,
my teachers think I'm still denying it.

Not about addiction,
the classification is fiction,
it's the strict and savage sad **** that'll listen,
when the pistons glisten -
I was sitting beside the freeway,
waving flashlights, going through DT's the high way.
But this guy waved,
laughing and smoking Newports.
He fixed the transition line and I declined offering him
a hit of weed
'cause life was too short.

So that's my lesson.
**** stopping confessing.
Blessing blazed in the dazing light
of a satellite sponsored by Sprite and drugs for depression.
Can you imagine what I'm guessing?
Stuck in the same obsessions,
compulsion couldn't queer the steer I'm dressed in.

Bi or gay.
Easy to say.
And they're funny words to me 'cause they offend you either way.
Sensitivity drains, but pain doesn't.
Come out the closet to a round of applause but hope you're you've got your gauze sent.

I'm waiting for the murder.
I'm waiting for a naked corpse on the road -
when she fell nobody heard hear.
But I'm the reassuror.
Sure, my friend's a ****ed up fiend
but if there was I ever a shepherd to kill
I was his stirrer.

Take me up sideways.
No highways or bi-ways.
Celibate, my sacred set stays,
but still I find myself ****ing.
Waking up not in clubs but next to
a different pair of thug girls who are
used to getting beat and being mugged.

To the point I'm non-existent,
but still remembered.
Oh, friends, rejoice the black december,
with no capital.
I've seen people run like animals
to feed off the flesh of self-deemed demons,
and damn - behavior's damnable.

So I come not with a knife.
I come not with a life to expose
but tags on toes that express nothing but strife.
Regress into regret of my fight.
Never winning is grinning in light.
I'm tattooed with shame with no game in my sight.
Let me explain.
It was a pill for pain that chose to be my wife.

I never asked.
She found herself in paragraphs.
And all these sleepless nights, please believe that.
And leave for it, it's over.
Rat-a-tat-tat over my shoulder.
Not gunfire but boulders
running down colder than the mountain peaks
that made me seek out a life that's sober.

I dwell still in the past, stagnant;
and, no it can't last,
the assurance of impermanence, it sure is ancient.
No assassination.
I see the tube stuck down my throat.
No requiem.
My soul is carried in the rhymes I tote.

But I'm sick and broke.
My bag is open.
My skin soaked in whiskey and tears -
oh, I'm sure open to hoping
there's more than just the morphine.
More seen in the heavens and earth
than the underweight birth of some hated fever dream.

Keep my style and my letters,
correspondence;
I can't help but think the best of days
is already upon us.
Synonymous with suffering.
Buttering up lesions on the treasonous life, guffowing, covering.

I'll hide in the shallow water.
Wait for a girl.
Spill my red slushie and hope it appeals as it twirls
'cause these blackouts run together like rusty pearls.
I'm sick and sad of imagining myself
as my dad in a different world.

A new day, sun is up,
existing.
Walk the sidewalks, shoppers scurring with bags,
existing.
The clock ticks on..minute to hour,
existing.
Days weeks months,
existing.
purpose failed
existing.
save me
from
existing.

11-27-09

can't see,
still there,
can't feel,
dirty,
unwanted,
thrown out,
hidden,
worthless,
waiting.


11-27-09