hundreds of poems later

          (lost in my sick head

          i live for you

          but i’m not alive

          -alice in chains)

 

didn’t feel like waiting

for clothes to go through

the dryer cycle

put them wet in basket

basket to the bed

after the short walk

from the laundry mat

 

hadn’t showered or shaved for days

dug through an old pile of clothes:

frayed ancient jacket

jeans with holes

t-shirt stained

and walking shoes i should

have replaced months ago

 

sidewalk

first stop

750 ml bottle

bag i dug out of trash

so i didn’t have to purchase one

for a dime

 

and i’m walking

 

passing by this pretty blond

pierced, tattooed

laying down raps

small scattered listening crowd

 

she sees me

inspires into an improvise

 

“see that lost man

bag in hand

death warmed over

can barely stand

walking without

in a plentiful land

longs to be fed

have his own bed

trade it all for one instead

that a skank like me

would give his dirty cock head”

 

a city bus roars by

i realize she’s done

glaring at me

as if moments matter

the insignificant crowd

awaiting reaction

 

but

 

          i feel

 

                   nothing

 

move on

pull out my outrageously expensive phone

go to my music app

select,

aleah’s “my will”

 

light a smoke from my $10 pack

take a long swig from my bottle

and finally feel something:

aggravation that it’s now empty

and i just bought it

half an hour ago

and must deal with the inconvenience

of buying another

even though i know

i’m already drunk

 

you’re not going to engage

with accusations

they don’t even illicit exasperation

art is self-expression

searching the self

they made or make us put on a shelf

as part of the curriculum

pass or fail pending

your pacification

adding you to their subtraction

 

i’ve put myself out there

but a blog is a pound

filled with unwanted puppies

some eyes pleading “pick me”

some curled in a corner

body language lactating

that they have already been beaten

because they didn’t fill

your measuring cup to the right line

to make the recipe

according to your liking

 

and if you can’t accept me

make the effort to know me

and that is the me

you fall in love with

pass on by

leave me for the euthanasia

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

maslow’s mashed potatoes and gravy

is maslow’s hierarchy the answer to anguish?

predominant thoughts everyone’s taught

self-actualized fully ripened apricots

 

i end the ascend

don’t even begin

the fulfillment

of the physiological

 

it’s all so logical

something’s not right

levels of plight

on an emotional evolutionary scale

 

unthinking shrink

syllabus sure

prescribe a cure

till the level’s level

at the next level

 

it’s been decreed

fulfillment of needs

starts with a seed

where you must determine

like lice on vermin

that you will proceed

on what’s been agreed

in context of wounds

from which you bleed

cause modern methods

remain ineffective

without bargain basement humanism

feeding consumerism

 

of what is right for you

singing the blues

that all truth is relative

 

hierarchy erased

simply replaced

with words,

“what do i want?”

the dangle and taunt

of all i should be

 

emotionally free

of their expectation of me

or meeting their expectations?

 

end the vexation

and be the location

that best suits the geographic

of where you truly wish to be

 

***

 

 

 

 

the names of flowers are letters of the enochian alphabet

(if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee

-nietzsche)

 

she exited bed sheets

unfolded her angel wings

donned her robes

flew into the expanse of the heavens

 

i remained where we fell

in the motel hell of my mind

next to the seamen stain

that had soiled her bedside

and slept till i was kicked out

at check out

 

still pulling on my shirt

i stumble and fumble to sidewalk

buy a bottle next door

regain the softness of concrete

 

shaking

i twist the top off my breakfast

light a cigarette

my apartment somewhere west

i head east

 

release drops into my red eyes

the only healthy thing

i will do today

under the indifferent sun

while i run headlong

or is it away?

 

find my syllabus of songs

select two tickets to paradise

eddie money

and know the honey that dripped

last night from her lips

will not equip the journey

of yearnings this song illicit

that love is enough

 

such thoughts are for the young

i just floated in her waters

till the lake evaporated

 

i spy an alley dumpster

confer with its filth

turn the bottle into

another empty river bed

but instead of tossing it

into the green container

i throw it against the wall

its fragments sprawl

amidst alley debris

where i know i will leave

a part of me

 

put a cigarette in my mouth

find, as i search for my lighter,

a pill i paid someone for

i forget what he said it will do

but i chew

then ignite my smoke

 

sidewalk resume

my eyes groom

the callous concrete containers

for another place

to buy another bottle

 

my thoughts drift to words

by umberto eco

“i have come to believe that the whole world

is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made

terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret

it as though it had an underlying truth”

 

or as woody allen said,

“i took a test in existentialism. i left all the

answers blank and got 100”

 

fuck it

 

my lifestyle has me unhealthy, sick

the grim reaper is on

the other side of the street

sockets fixed on me

waiting

 

the meaninglessness i mantra in my mind

leaves me suckling sadness

under sunny southern california skies

 

new bottle in hand

i will forget the care of my despair

and just drink until i feel better

 

i wink at the reaper

say,

“maybe tonight it will be your arms

in which i am embraced.

i will caress your bony face.

ask,

what took you so long?”

 

(i don’t want to start any blasphemous rumors

but i think that god’s got a sick sense of humor

and when i die i expect to find him laughing

-depeche mode)

 

***

 

 

 

 

john without mary

                  (we learn from the times that we are cursed

                   that things cannot be reversed – from the band

                   daughter and their song candles)

 

a memoir, autobiography

written in the twilight years

recollecting moments, memories

of childhood

not sure i ever would

unless one were able

to reflect the events

with the same innocence

ignorance

we possessed as kids

 

trying to tell you about

something when i was five

trying to understand why

psychoanalyze

through ancient jaded eyes

is not a true telling

of when the moment matter

 

how can my mind

from a million moments since

tell you what a five year old

finds when first discovering a spider

 

my present chasm is wider

and any innocuous innocence

fenced by inexperience

cannot be remade

with a present day theme

where my accumulation

of nightmares and dreams

make me feel like

an insect trapped

within a webbing scheme

helplessly, fearfully watching

the approaching spider

formidable fangs five feet long

 

the me who wrote my first poem

is buried under the sediment

which if this fossil tried to excavate

could only find fragments

of the skeleton

of the boy i use to be

 

carefully pieced together

in a laboratory

reconstructing just enough

that all history is just a theory

there’s a reason eye witness accounts

can be cross examined

and memories, at best

are the verdict of a hung jury

 

***

 

 

i drink to deal with a world that can’t deal with me

am i all you need?

you gentle flower, fragile seed

you steer what is clear

otherwise my near

is to be feared

 

my near is to be feared

what’s that word?

unacceptable

 

can we just be honest?

co-write a love sonnet

erase every line

that isn’t about the vine

that must be nurtured by me

so you can be happy

 

i know everyone else is brilliant

and i’m lacking any thought

because i have not brought

service to your satisfaction

 

justifying your dismiss

 

because i won’t matter

until i flatter

all your chatter

 

and admit

for an acquit

that all my art

should start

 

with repetition

of your definition

of sedition

 

which in complete repentance

and groveling i will be

only your need

 

***