When young birds come of age to fly the nest
the mother flies too
But occasionally the hen is mutant
nature’s depraved retard
Lead bones and razor beak
on molten wings of guilt
And there is always one mother bird
Who is too stupid to leave the nest
Forgive the gold
Beg quiet the cold
And I was told
to ask the dust
But all I know is that
if there is a way in for me
it’s gonna be through the back door
over and through it all… the realm of the third eye and the overwhelming beauty of the intangible..
rats glittering like diamonds
and blisters in your spirit
fire to keep you forever facing forward
and a love that knows no dollars
and no man’s folly
even then…
…some days you want to trade it all for a Cadillac and a fat checking account…
Woody Guthrie said
he never knew which niece of Walt Whitman it was
They could not recollect
and under the Great Western Sun
a world, a century
and a coast away
I knew which Italian Angel it was
and she thought she knew me
and as Mr. Guthrie couldn’t, I will
Yes, she thought she knew me
and it was a greeting with comfort
and warmth shaking your spirit
like a friend who is five lifetimes old
a familiar prescence and a memory
begging you not to forget
“Haven’t we met before,” she asked me?
“No, but I get that a lot”
Far from the east coast, Guthrie and his friends
Under the setting Los Angeles Street Scene
and Main street being bull dozed into a new millenia
I met her and we knew each other
and I can say exactly who she is
where we were
and what she said
and it didn’t take me long to remember
dedicated to a certain Mrs. Cohen
She sent me a poem…
And now it hurts~
He said I spoke largely on theory
I said experience is not theory
It’s just personal
very very real
and it’s more alive
than any dead Jewish Carpenter
I redeveloped a long lost skill as I became older
I remembered teachers from grade school
pointing stupid fingers at our despicable habits
spitting was bad, it was wrong
it was lashed out at and frowned upon
like all things misunderstood
but it took on new and sacred life for me
and things were never as absolute as our
simple teachers made them seem
anyways
Thankfully, I found it again
It was an accident really
But I could have been anywhere
and it could be anyone
I would be walking along
Tending business and pleasure
and the men would stop and stare
I would glance once, look away
and I could still feel their black eyes
trying to penetrate me, and for free
It just took one look at their eyes,
those barred shut windows to their loathsome souls
to know what they were thinking.
I had once looked at people the same way
maybe
they were sizing me up
they were fearing me, they were hating me
they were judging me
and they didn’t need to know my track record
or my name, they hated me
So I discovered spitting
Every time I would look away
from these poetic and spiritually delinquent cretins
I would get the vilest taste in my mouth
The old judgments would come back
And I tasted murder in my soul
I needed vengeance and violence
So I would spit
I would spit out the toxic disgust
and I would spit out the poisonous contempt
it was cleansing, it was liberating
and no one knew
It kept us all safe
and I still didn’t want to be bothered by any one
I spit for roses, I spit for flowers
I spit for hours and I spit for free
I seldom had to spit when I felt a woman’s gaze though
I knew what they were thinking
And it was flowers for my brain
candied morphine for my aching organs
I would just swallow
And hope they would do the same
It’s the piss on the bathroom floor
and you look down at it
and you look down at your graying black and worn
running shoes
and the laces are undone
laying like a dead snake
in a musty puddle
of someone else’s acrid smelling, neon urine
and you know you have to do something about it
and you look up
and you see there’s more piss on the toilet seat
and you know you have to do something about it
and you don’t want to
unmanned spaceships to Pluto and
people still can’t figure out where to
aim their cocks
and you don’t want to
but you clean it up, anyways
There is no comfort here
they will build a self-cleaning toilet seat
before man is appropriately trained to use the rest room
no comfort to be had in any of this
so you sit down, but your bowls revolt
it’s like the whole greasy scene has turned
your digestive track off
your shit is like a foreign dignitary
far too regal for the likes of this hole
royalty does not deserve this
It’s not working
not after all this
a series of events out of your hands
doing things you didn’t want to do
besides, you’ve always hated public bathrooms to begin with
yes, your shit is too grand for
these widely abused commons
so you look down to make sure your shoe laces are tied
and you get up to leave
and still, you don’t want to
I was not starving
not that day
I was not an artist
just a man with paper and a pen
a dusty laptop, failing now
I was full, undignified in this
discontent with even
the sun’s promise of rise and set
I did keep odd company
it isn’t necessary that a
good writer go hungry
or live in squalor
the roaches ate my feet
gnawed the flesh of my toes
as I sat up late
side by side with the night
working on my computer
It was beyond consciousness at first
an accident
the cosmos didn’t care
God shrugged and it wasn’t an issue
I had to do it
the choice was gone
I tried to stop for a day
but ended up writing this
I knew I had to do it, no matter what
I would get a wife to dictate to
if I were to go blind
or pay a prostitute to do it
it would be even cheaper that way
If I lost my hands
I would steal a monkey from the zoo
the only protégé that might work out
feed it lots of LSD
roll the dice, take the ride
hope for the best
a culmination of years of failure
that dazzled even Skid Row’s bums
these were the only sorts of plans I ever kept for my future
I found it isn’t necessary to be published
it isn’t necessary to ask for critique or critics
it comes when you order
the rotten fish
whether you beg, please, prod, fuck
or fist your way in
Innocently and savagery alike and alive here
Childhood remaining an untouched mystery
I think of days in Public School Religion
for those of us too poor to afford Catholic Schools
and for half-ass parents
who really didn’t give a damn
about our supposed and immortal soul
we spent nights being educated at the Catholic school
we stole their books, broke their toys
we pissed on the walls
whole hallways glowing dark yellow
smelling musty with fresh urine
and new hopes
all the makings of brilliance a few
short years after graduating from
my learning disability classes
I couldn’t read or write
there were no magic tricks at this show
you know better
accidental luck and timing
I work hard
snakes in the eagle’s claw
struggling upwind burning
tomorrow’s laughter bright
and it’s weird here, with
the angels always screaming
we are coming, we are coming
we are coming!
and I just couldn’t stop
and it’s still weird
I still work hard
and out of all this
I have nothing to say
Influence Runs Wild and Deep Without the Pink Sheep
My parents accidentally built the temple
Bukowski was the first to knock on the door
loud enough for me to hear
in came a rush of a hundred nameless street poets
that ripped me apart
Hesse and Gibran helped put me back together
Thompson made sure a few bolts were lose
spare parts missing forever
as I evolved, Nietzsche held the microscope
to make sure even this growth was challenged
living an endless question
Whitman came too late
he was supposed to be
a cornerstone
along with Emmerson & Thoreau
Hemmingway still circles on the outskirts
maintaining distance
making sure that I know he’s there
Fante happened to be one of a few
that showed up right on time
kindred and subtly sweet
savage honesty
needed most
while the muse was out and over
slinking in the shadows with my confidence
the other launguages beckon
and I dare and I dance
on time’s wish
there came poets from the Far East
Unkowing to my city’s streets
but they smoked
with me just the same
and I still don’t know the french
but I must thank Rilke for being
the gatekeeper to my childhood
and unlocking it to me
And there are others
countless others
probing my brain, wiring
electric in my veins
an unquenchable thirst
a hole in my head and soul
with only one answer
to seek
to seek
to seek
to create
to give up
and begin tomorrow
all over again