i wrote for four hours this morning.
and sparsely throughout the evening.
i sat, wrote, drank a whiskey 7,
rolled a couple cigarettes,
and jacked off.
i ordered a pizza
and watched a war flick.
angela called and i
strummed the guitar
singing Blue Moon of Kentucky.
sent a poem into McSweeney's
Magazine with my name,
address,
number,
and e-mail.
i thought about grandpa
and his missing leg.
my mum and all the family
of relatives.
olympia and the chaos
thats growing.
i wonder about
new orleans, Will and the crowd.
Angela and how i want to hold her.
my friend's address in hawaii
as he grows coffee
and plans to travel japan.
the economy recession
affecting people's lives;
falling.
falling.
falling.
a black flag is falling.
we will become sillhouettes
amid great light.
when all our hopes and dreams
are dealt with as morning crossword puzzle.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Saturday, February 7, 2009
today like everyday
ashes to ashes,
dusk till dawn.
life is another,
life is a father.
it will take care
of you.
or put you to
the hell of what is imagined.
ashes to ashes,
dawn till dusk.
life is another,
life is a mother.
it will birth you
inside.
it will kill you
out-right.
ashes to ashes,
dusk till dawn.
a sad smile
upon the angel
whom carries us all.
naked and pale,
an example of people.
ashes to ashes
our saint lord's passions.
we are what we are
as to argue what we're
here for.
dusk till dawn.
life is another,
life is a father.
it will take care
of you.
or put you to
the hell of what is imagined.
ashes to ashes,
dawn till dusk.
life is another,
life is a mother.
it will birth you
inside.
it will kill you
out-right.
ashes to ashes,
dusk till dawn.
a sad smile
upon the angel
whom carries us all.
naked and pale,
an example of people.
ashes to ashes
our saint lord's passions.
we are what we are
as to argue what we're
here for.
today like everyday
i love a low down lonesome lamp
with a lady and her presumptuous thighs
smile or no smile
sittin across from
two smoky ripe whiskey 7s
upon the carpet table
between where adjacent to
is the one windowsill in the office room
with one plant, a dark green beladona mess of hair
holding pose beside what darkness there is outside
-its night
and we're saucy in love, maybe like a debauche
dream of baudelaire
and a good sound of jazz hitting the atmosphere
crisp as shocking as a cold snow fall in northwest
winter shire.
with a lady and her presumptuous thighs
smile or no smile
sittin across from
two smoky ripe whiskey 7s
upon the carpet table
between where adjacent to
is the one windowsill in the office room
with one plant, a dark green beladona mess of hair
holding pose beside what darkness there is outside
-its night
and we're saucy in love, maybe like a debauche
dream of baudelaire
and a good sound of jazz hitting the atmosphere
crisp as shocking as a cold snow fall in northwest
winter shire.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
today like everyday
i'm a poet in the dieing republic of the day.
this, interspersed with ignorance
and a many few chances taken;
upon the grounds of nothing.
i take pride in collar and suitcase
full of literature and thought.
we're a pea pod many.
i'm glad i'm not so alone anymore.
i am more so in a sense,
yet the way john updike praises
the art,
i feel holy in this fitting.
a collar of such a strange variety.
the very insensitivity it takes
to create the senses we want.
i'm a praised lord in myself
a single person
among so the many, in procession
of absolutely nothing.
this, interspersed with ignorance
and a many few chances taken;
upon the grounds of nothing.
i take pride in collar and suitcase
full of literature and thought.
we're a pea pod many.
i'm glad i'm not so alone anymore.
i am more so in a sense,
yet the way john updike praises
the art,
i feel holy in this fitting.
a collar of such a strange variety.
the very insensitivity it takes
to create the senses we want.
i'm a praised lord in myself
a single person
among so the many, in procession
of absolutely nothing.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
today like everyday
i open the door
to let in, a cold frigid air.
it breathes in and consumes my body.
i realize that Earth, is a cold space.
and there will only be sorrow
leaving, all of us, with nothing to say.
yet our cigarettes burn, and we know are useless,
although, keep us company, like old friends.
and then begins a medley of thought, mixed with passion
in our heads,
and we get a little bit lighter or comfortably heavier.
all of the seasons, the places and inner expeditions
come running at us.
we make plans and leave plans behind,
useless like the wind and our direction.
with the inevitability of our lives
and of Earth's chaos we enthrive,
life is a solemn humble song.
a song we sing; a song of virtue.
the passion we reflect
with a brilliant statue.
to let in, a cold frigid air.
it breathes in and consumes my body.
i realize that Earth, is a cold space.
and there will only be sorrow
leaving, all of us, with nothing to say.
yet our cigarettes burn, and we know are useless,
although, keep us company, like old friends.
and then begins a medley of thought, mixed with passion
in our heads,
and we get a little bit lighter or comfortably heavier.
all of the seasons, the places and inner expeditions
come running at us.
we make plans and leave plans behind,
useless like the wind and our direction.
with the inevitability of our lives
and of Earth's chaos we enthrive,
life is a solemn humble song.
a song we sing; a song of virtue.
the passion we reflect
with a brilliant statue.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
today like everyday
portland was high
portland was low.
portland you monster,
you made us grow.
following crows to
the train yard,
we strange birds
held bright eyes
from dusk till dawn,
sleeping next to industry,
in the day and in the night,
we were alive
and felt how life was light,
as we three feathers fell,
began to ascend towards
the greater flock
that travels south
every winter
towards new orleans chamber
but before the mist and bayou,
the desert and hardships,
we made love to san francisco,
its jazz under wintery belt
in rain and wind,
we slept in the italian neighborhood,
made it to the cafe before the doors opened,
talked our symbolic history that hadn't happened yet,
it has now, and still we only feel of a beginning,
the beginning of our future prosperity we dream about.
not vaga-bondage but the surreal maturity we recognized
in finished arts like finished films, real but open to interpretation.
today like everyday
the children
we're all strung along the block
surrounding the stoop
listening towards nirvana.
one of those Frenchman st. nights
of new orleans.
we we're hustling well
all of the passing tourists
with songs and our wild look about life.
"hey Pete, you're going to the store?
well pick me up another beer will yah
- just one, yeah thanks."
too many cigarettes floatin about
peppering the air with a sick
nowhere about.
the night was young, only about ten o'clock.
i shoved my way among the drunken colourful
crowd over to the spotted cat
where washboard chazz was sitting in with some dixie land band.
i was all over the window trying to peek a sneak in at
how they made they're magic sound.
every two minutes the boys on stage would chant
and get the crowd inside to chant back.
they knew they were making some good tips that night.
hunger had been killin me, but with a good lick of jazz
and drink, i'd make it alright till morning,
where at the cafe i usually order a egg and cheese toast
with coffee.
for more fill i use lots of morning tobasco and ketchup.
with hustling over, the gang of kids would meander
down frenchman to where on burgundy a tight joint
was held together.
the name of the bar is The John; where every fool
and crust fuck goes to get a lick of something cheap and hard.
the bartenders fill mason jars up half with the hard drink and the rest
with whatever mix you want.
friends catch whiskey sours a lot, but i prefer the whiskey gingers.
after all said and done, a few pool games shot (lost and won),
people make it home.
groups on a level of straight line bought
from Jeffrey the neighborhood candy man,
walk out down streets like the cockroaches of evening
worked about, over nothing and everything.
the drunks either love each other or fight each other.
and some, loners as they are, sit outside with their
backs against the brick building waitin for somebody, something,
somewhere to happen and be lonely about again.
evening air in new orleans is old, warm - a stench for every block.
jazz radio spinning out of windows as you pass them on your way home.
a few strangers in dark ride by on tall bikes and small bikes, holding the most
absurd of conversation, speeding through Elisian Fields, Mandeville, Press street across
the tracks where ghosts of sillhouettes walk slowly through the mississippi mist.
and a hollow buddha moon glows on as you turn your back towards the night, kissing it all,
wishing it farewell - but knowin you must leave and close your eyes with a baby in bed readin all your books under the beautiful broken light you need to replace, yet without it the piss and shit on your walls wouldn't look as great with the families of mice and cockroach sputtering back and forth on the floor.
you make it back. slam the door to keep out any ghosts.
see your housemate chattin it up over the silence of a cigarette with a few other people.
say "hey" to everyone and wind on down walkin
up your flight of broken stairs
only to find babe, soft and sweet,
stretching a "hello" as you turn on the lights
and roll another cigarette
to have while skimming the new york times
for stories about the dead.
you feel the warm winter wind
blow through your window
sayin "yo".
time is time and it is time to farewell kiss goodnight in bed
as all excuse for love in life comes out
with one another, you and your sweet,
in bed again for tomorrow day to wake up
like every day and breathe again.
we're all strung along the block
surrounding the stoop
listening towards nirvana.
one of those Frenchman st. nights
of new orleans.
we we're hustling well
all of the passing tourists
with songs and our wild look about life.
"hey Pete, you're going to the store?
well pick me up another beer will yah
- just one, yeah thanks."
too many cigarettes floatin about
peppering the air with a sick
nowhere about.
the night was young, only about ten o'clock.
i shoved my way among the drunken colourful
crowd over to the spotted cat
where washboard chazz was sitting in with some dixie land band.
i was all over the window trying to peek a sneak in at
how they made they're magic sound.
every two minutes the boys on stage would chant
and get the crowd inside to chant back.
they knew they were making some good tips that night.
hunger had been killin me, but with a good lick of jazz
and drink, i'd make it alright till morning,
where at the cafe i usually order a egg and cheese toast
with coffee.
for more fill i use lots of morning tobasco and ketchup.
with hustling over, the gang of kids would meander
down frenchman to where on burgundy a tight joint
was held together.
the name of the bar is The John; where every fool
and crust fuck goes to get a lick of something cheap and hard.
the bartenders fill mason jars up half with the hard drink and the rest
with whatever mix you want.
friends catch whiskey sours a lot, but i prefer the whiskey gingers.
after all said and done, a few pool games shot (lost and won),
people make it home.
groups on a level of straight line bought
from Jeffrey the neighborhood candy man,
walk out down streets like the cockroaches of evening
worked about, over nothing and everything.
the drunks either love each other or fight each other.
and some, loners as they are, sit outside with their
backs against the brick building waitin for somebody, something,
somewhere to happen and be lonely about again.
evening air in new orleans is old, warm - a stench for every block.
jazz radio spinning out of windows as you pass them on your way home.
a few strangers in dark ride by on tall bikes and small bikes, holding the most
absurd of conversation, speeding through Elisian Fields, Mandeville, Press street across
the tracks where ghosts of sillhouettes walk slowly through the mississippi mist.
and a hollow buddha moon glows on as you turn your back towards the night, kissing it all,
wishing it farewell - but knowin you must leave and close your eyes with a baby in bed readin all your books under the beautiful broken light you need to replace, yet without it the piss and shit on your walls wouldn't look as great with the families of mice and cockroach sputtering back and forth on the floor.
you make it back. slam the door to keep out any ghosts.
see your housemate chattin it up over the silence of a cigarette with a few other people.
say "hey" to everyone and wind on down walkin
up your flight of broken stairs
only to find babe, soft and sweet,
stretching a "hello" as you turn on the lights
and roll another cigarette
to have while skimming the new york times
for stories about the dead.
you feel the warm winter wind
blow through your window
sayin "yo".
time is time and it is time to farewell kiss goodnight in bed
as all excuse for love in life comes out
with one another, you and your sweet,
in bed again for tomorrow day to wake up
like every day and breathe again.
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