still life of shoes on a table

“It seems more probable this just suspends the whole cycle of tension, discharge and rest. The orgasm has no function in the junky. Boredom, which always indicates an undischarged tension, never troubles the addict. He can look at his shoes for eight hours.” – William S. Burroughs

 

there is me exercising

two and half hours this morning

then there is me

sitting in silence

near an oscillating fan

pen in hand

my dog-eared copy of naked lunch

close by

 

every day it’s a different high

whatever i can get my hands on

 

i wake up and try not to be

addicted

but as predicted

at some point i succumb

become numb

and finally feel fine

 

three times three may equal nine

my math is a bag that cost a dime

 

the affliction of addiction

there’s no real contradiction

there’s the morning after

and the day of

donning my weight lifting gloves

penance for my sin

then i give in

while i pretend

with all apology

that this is not me

while people’s personal perception

has yet to perceive

just how dark

my darkness is

 

i function

and my usefulness

gives me value to others

but my druthers

is when i spend eight hours

staring at my shoes

 

***

 

 

what has been seen cannot be unseen

“Have you ever been experienced? Well, I have, let me prove it to you.”

- Jimi Hendrix

 

walking in the shadows of an all night cinema

ghost whiskey haunts my mind

 

tonight has followed today

a day when i got a rejection email

 

my publisher is printing a collection

of love poems in a volume titled

Droplets in the Sea of Poetry (seriously?)

and solicited me for a poem

i sent them the one i wrote

on my last acid trip

 

“once i had a 1,000 heads

and they all said let’s go to bed

let’s close our eyes let’s get some sleep

and here we’ll lay no more to weep

 

can we please rest our weary minds

forget that the world is so unkind

forget how they teach us to be blind

 

did you hear about president ronald

he had a friend who owned a mcdonalds

who sold some burgers made lots of money

so he in turn endorsed some honey

 

have you seen the cat scan of his brain

doctors say it looks like a russian terrain

said it must have caused him lots of pain

 

do you know what happened to lennon

is he in hell or is he in heaven

and if in hell is he doing well

does he have old nick underneath his spell

 

can you please tell me where the truth lies

here on earth or way up in the sky

oh won’t you tell me before i die”

 

hence the rejection email

 

i know, i’m an ass

but if you don’t know that by now…

 

anyway, i ran away

from the dark streets of decay

but now i’m back

 

packing half a pack

and a flask

hope sandoval and the warm inventions

in my ear

like a willow

3 a.m. is meant for pillows

but you know me

 

and meaning

 

***

 

 

 

i only write when you say i’m wrong

“Whenever we seem surprised or confused about some aspect of the universe, it’s because we have some pre-existing expectation for what it ‘should’ be like, or what a ‘natural’ universe might be, but the universe doesn’t have a purpose, and there’s nothing more natural than Nature itself—so what we’re really trying to do is figure out what our expectations should be.”

- Sean Carroll, Theoretical Cosmologist

 

never said i was right

never said you were wrong

i only said leave me alone

 

i believe what i believe

in this land of the free

 

my thoughts are not original

what i perceive

others see

 

like the difference between the

writers who can produce well

written and entertaining stories

and the writers who attain

literature

 

i am neither

ground control to agent seether

the library of congress only

copyrights original works

writing about breakfast beer

is a quirk

 

i failed english when the professor

assigned an essay be written

on the purpose of poetry

 

i turned in a blank sheet of paper

 

subsequently

i was laughed out of the poetry club

afterwards

i was beaten up by bullies and thugs

for carrying a copy of rod mckuen’s

poetry

 

but then everything is perception

for me

poetry is the smell of

her perfume that lingers

long after she is gone

 

proprietors of intellectual poetry

are posers

 

i guess this would get me an F as well

 

oh do tell

that where i fell

is where i linger

at the end of your

pointing finger

 

judgment is a hornet’s stinger

while you represent the man

who had no condemnation

for the whore cast at his feet

 

if my fragrance offends

then join the contend

of my insignificance

 

the universe is

and is so without purpose

so are my words

so is everything else

 

***

 

 

squid ink and the whispering shadows

“give me a bottle of anything… and a glazed donut” –david lee roth

 

the leaves were raked by a violent wind

 

she sits silent and alone on her birthday

staring at the flickering screen

a half eaten cupcake on her lap

the candle she lit for herself and blew out

still stuck in the center

 

the concrete of dreams is shattered

by the sledgehammer of memories

 

dreamers debate with the disenfranchised

as to whether the state of the half class

has a mass that is empty or full

 

but the broken soul knows

the glass never existed

and delight or debunk

is merely a perception

 

you stake a claim

in the mines of knowledge

life experience, books or college

a mind is a terrible thing to waste

on a reality populated with absolutes

 

once again ugly or cute

is in the eye of the beholder

 

sadness is what we shoulder

and your word balm does not calm

it only constitutes

that you are resolute to reject

unless we accept your view

on what matters

 

i have morals

there is a right and wrong

i will quarrel

 

but i will not entertain

your rejection

where you disdain in refrain

that if i just swallow your colors

my farts will smell like roses

and we can occupy the same room

 

sadness is not a conclusion

it is worn from a lifetime

of wardrobe changes

 

stagehands rearrange the props

the producer demands

the scene be re-written

but it is all just acting

and it is nowhere near

approaching art

 

i will not write with delight

as i insight on the painted faces

going through the paces

performing like the day

is more than our side of

the earth having a moment

in the sun

 

you talk to me as if i need answers

to only the questions you have asked

 

i do not need to change

 

my thoughts are a

predetermined motion

that all motion is without meaning

and therefore it does not

need to be done a certain way

 

today i play with shadows in my mind

whatever else you are hoping to find

it will not be among words whipped up

and served from a recipe i concocted

called, “nothing matters”

 

decay dances until

there will be nothing

left in decay

nothing else holds sway

except the moment of the day

that you endure

in hopes of something pure

a reward for all your

hard work and persistence

 

you waste the moment

for a perception of reality

that requires your abject slavery

and sacrifice for a future slice

of pie that’s been sitting too long

on the windowsill

 

***

 

 

 

the furniture you have placed under the sun

“but i’m hoping to kick but the planet is glowing” – david bowie

 

does the morning make memories matter?

when evening’s recipe made membranes scatter?

 

earth became a legend when i crawled out of the sea

my cooler and beach towel were stolen

i searched for cabbage on a cabbage tree

my confusion left me starving until swollen

 

haze hung on the horizon

heavier then it hung in my mind

the sand as hot as the sands of zion

by my addiction i am defined

 

sanctuary at a sand bar

i ordered a black widow

the ice melted faster than i could drink

the liquid spilling onto my grip

 

the radio played radio head

i closed my eyes

let the music ride the waves of my mind

ordered fifteen tacos

forgot i was waiting for food

walked back into the blister

 

forgot i was on something

took another

my body ran for cover

while my mind made unicorns dance

 

i couldn’t find the perfect stance

so i returned to the scene of the crime

the indent left by my cooler

became my stool

 

a sky-writer wrote “fool”

while i contemplated effort

cool water invited

but my mind was already

in the deep blue sea

 

i didn’t surface till the moon

was higher than me

i was hungry but couldn’t agree

it was worth the earth

between anything and me

so i found fetal

and dreamt about a water prison

 

the sun found me shivering

in need of everything

no water to drink

i chewed the chalky pill

began to walk

hungry, thirsty, cold

a little sick

a half hour found me in front

of a warm café

 

but the pill had made its way

and i forgot my troubles

crawled into my bubble

and wandered

i remember not where

 

***

 

if stars had memories

i walk the shore and swim the sea

the tide will hide inside of me

the moon is full and raining bright

i’m naked in the dead of night

no seamless cloud above me drifts

the stars and sand my fingers sift

my footprints weigh upon the sand

i add the palm print of my hand

i make a wave into a cave

but there’s no need to try and save

another wave will soon appear

upon the shore or by the pier

i walk to where my towel waits

dry my skin and gird my waste

sit and watch the sand elope

with waves that surge with restless hope

the night will leave to catch the sun

the crowds descend in search of fun

i’ll be at home upon my bed

the midnight sea inside my head

within my dream i know i’ll dream

i am the river or the stream

that flows into the ocean

 

***