Should I eat the other Snickers in the frig?
Never met you, but I wish we had worked together.
Your original wrapper was black leather. I’d like to think mine is flannel, but it’s probably more like chicken feathers.
You were the original Rock 'n' Roll Animal.
The one Andy wanted to score and maybe he did when you were in need of something more than grotesque guidance or ripped to shreds inspiration.
I’ll never forget the Charlie Rose interview with you, Laurie and her dog. I was so moved by how you spoke of your working relationship with Drella. It made sense to me like so little else does.
We spin like a top or fizzle out like an egg cream. Either way we can fight the riptide as much as we like, but when our time is up there’s no arguing with the umpire.
You seemed able to withstand anything including electroshock therapy and whatever demons hunted you down and fucked you in the mouth when you were blonde and heroin was just another means to tempt fate and leave a young, but battered and weathered corpse in your stead.
The joke was on you as the Sword of Damocles hung above your head toward the end and the fog of wars fought underground became one more Coney Island memory.
I wanted you to hit me with a flower just one time but that was simply not to be.
It’s truly vicious how we never say what we feel. Thank God you never suffered from that sickness and always told it exactly how it is no matter the fallout or shit storm that followed.
I want to slip away. I want to “take the blue mask down from my face” and look you squarely in the eye without hesitation. I want to lay with you in a field of poppies and fall asleep like Romeo and Juliette did when they were young and time was still on their side.
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
This poem was trying to force itself inside of me.
It was the middle of the night. I was watching myself sleep and then all of a sudden I felt the consonants and vowels attempting to conquer me like some Trojan horse or Norse Invader.
There’s no way to prepare yourself for such an onslaught and before I knew it the gameshow Wheel of Fortune was having its way in my large intestine. Vanna just kept turning the letters like she did in the old days. Pat Sajak was his same goofy self.
She lived over Garcia’s Mexican Restaurant. I’ll never forget how incredible their chiles rellenos were before they got in trouble for tax evasion and child labor.
When I finally got to feast my eyes on her Midwestern breasts all I could think was it was well worth the wait. That is until she told me she had herpes and we had to stop.
I never seem to catch a break and perhaps I bring that on myself, but either way masturbation only gets you so far before you need contact with another human being.
This same poem later tried to turn the tables and say I took advantage of it which seemed rather unlikely seeing how my mouth was duct taped shut and my arms were pinned to my sides like wooden wings afraid to take flight.
This poem just another schoolyard bully as I now question why I created it; as I’m sure God often questions why he created the Christians, or Muslims or even the Jews when he’s had a truly awful day and kicking the can down Main Street is doing no one much good.
This poem needs a fourth verse, but I’m at a loss where it should be heading and I’m thinking Lincoln County Road is as good a place as any.
I’d ask you where we’re headin’, but what’s the point when I’ve recently discovered I cannot trust you and going it completely alone is the only way I may actually be able to find shelter from the storm.
The first time I ever set eyes on you it was amid a tsunami of words and unkempt layers of freshly laundered money. You had cocaine on your nipples and a spring in your step that kept me coming back for more. I’ll never forget when you finally had had enough and stood up to your oppressors. I wish I could learn from your example, but sadly I’m just another Hebrew poet wearing the skin of a cowardly lion.
Sunday, September 27, 2015
I cannot try any longer.
The stone is too heavy.
And Lazarus refuses to help.
We are stardust.
In the blink of an eye we are here.
In the blink of an eye we are gone.
I’m a poet.
Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.
Doubting Thomas is my patron saint. I learned that when we were off the record.
The story is written in red ink.
The blood on our hands is just more yellow journalism.
And you cannot raise a politician whose heart is dead.
He is the Alpha.
And the Omega.
The First and the Last, the Beginning and the End.
Don’t worry yourself over the particulars.
Possession is nine-tenths of the law.
If you lose your soul that’s it you cannot get it back no matter how much you pay it forward.
I was a child of God.
I am still very much a child of God.
I don’t have to prove myself to you or to anyone.
Sisyphus proves how fatalistic a perpetual motion outlook can be.
Job got his proof and then some, but he still wasn’t convinced of much of anything.
Get down on your knees and pray and maybe, just maybe you’ll be blessed and none of your actual prayers will be answered.
Monday, September 21, 2015
Going to wear these words around my neck like an albatross.
Going to wear these words around my neck like “Tiny Bubbles” that even Don Ho could not get off the ground.
We suit up for battle even when there are no enemies in sight and the whites of their eyes are just another bedazzled memory like semi-precious gemstones or The Rolling Stones in their actual prime.
I’m not going to drown in a swimming pool or choke on my own vomit to attain some mythical status. I’m trying to come to terms with being just another talented unknown. It’s better than knowing virtually everything about networking, but not a single solitary thing about inspiration and the slings and arrows going along with being creatively driven and creatively spent.
These words are lodestones placed on the front of the refrigerator like a kid’s drawings because pride is a tricky thing when having to do with your offspring and believing in the next generation of honest to God human beings and not just another text message or Smartphone app.
I’ve become all too accustomed to shooting my semen like unholy ghosts into the folds of this or that security blanket and pretending I don’t need to cum and pretending that it’s just another fossilized memory I must distance myself from ASAP.
I’ve always responded to how you don’t pull any punches especially when it comes to your mind over matter politics and how you loved me when it was convenient and how you walked away when I’d become just more baggage. I never pretended to be anything but who I am and I refuse to apologize for all of the madness you were subjected to when we removed our masks and watched game shows all day long in nothing but our Earl Scheib birthday suits.
I have no clue what I’m driving at, but trust me when we arrive you’ll be the first to know why we’ve come so far and how I plan to pay you back for all of your paltry patience and sexual dalliances.
I’m not here to impress you. These days I feel lucky if I can just get up from the floor after I’ve slept for 16 to 18 hours like a koala bear. I stopped making excuses for myself about ten or twelve years back. I decided it was a waste of both my time and energy trying to explain who I am or want to be when I grow up and women stop asking if I need a booster seat when we sit down for dinner.
These words are not elastic nor are they much of a bungee cord so I wouldn’t suggest jumping off of a cliff with only these sentences to keep you from plunging to the ground. We must learn to respect the people who taught us to read and think for ourselves and that goes double for our kindergarten teachers. Her name was Mrs. Jones and she had a large red birthmark on her face. I felt safe when I was around her and I also will never forget all of the doors she opened up in my mind.