Month: November 2013

This Is Goodbye (Poem for the Girl I called Olivia Wilde)

You are Blue Foundation
that song that grips the sublime contusion
and makes it sing.
You are the very shallow thought
I have had since 12

rolled up into the redeemed power of a star
a kiss
a dance move previously unknown
I rest my heart on the thought of you
despite us having known nothing of one another.

It is in the casual way you answer a question.
With a buried sense of delicate hope to be taken seriously and not
seen for nervous you are, like all of us, like that.

I have no idea if you know it but
you can learn a lot about a person
through details.

You are a smile away from staling my every sunshine filled day
and replacing them in terms of valuation.

You are a clinical yes you are going to live
in the face of dreams all week of terrible terminality.

I may have given many poems
to many beautiful people in my life so far,

but each one remains special,
and you are no different,

you are.

Before my eyes.



Rebel Kind

I want to round up all the money lenders also.
I know how it sounds.
All messianic and counter to love.

I assure you of my virtue,
through ignorance and rant
layered over a couple of firebugs of truth.

Opening a can of worms is impossible since
people started doing it,
so I usually spend a chunk of all my days
finding alternate versions to compliment
or to encourage something like “it”.

Tedium is the paradise of the poet.
That is an ageless fact, like
money and taxes.

Pursuant to your recent enquiry,
the stars do in fact taste like fame.
The odour is infamy. It eats your nostril raw.
It leaves you like
a meth head
with nar bitta tooth lef ‘in yuh’ jaw.

If you stay away from star dust
you stay clear of hot tar.
If you close out the sun though,
you turn to a ghost, which isn’t currently in vogue,
and mine as well me the morgue, how bizarre.

If you turn enough times in your grave you
can create energy for unborn post nuclear kiddies.

If you broadcast the inner machinations
of a conch shell to the cosmos
you will cause a cataclysm of falling stars,
which Benson & Hedges Corp. will envy and try to
find a way to sue or outlaw or destroy or corrupt.

If you listen to Nick Drake at the back of the bus
you can hear everyone’s thoughts and you glimpse the
certainty of the sublime, the twitching corpse
of people conjoined.

Look! –
the Child’s pompous head turned up and
crazy guy dancing with his
cd walkman circa 89
and the factory eye s
and the girl with 12 inch soles
and the one with eyes like Mennonites
and you a little half tipsy from years of cid
sitting back with a notebook and-

this is my stop.

Poe’s Girl

You are sure of it
with Portishead’s Roads
on the bus
you find the perfect harmony between
the sublime terror and
the sublimity of love

and you suggest to me I
might want greater things
than between lines
and hung out to dry later

I might do well now
to respect that and
all that other in effect
noise language
had little to no effect;

I was born in a black and white rainbow
with the volume ‘pumped’ into the noise like
liquid slaughter for a feast of fools and clergy
all indistinguishable in the intellect’s dark,
an abysmal landscape, watching Dark Crystal
with no understanding of legend or fantasy yet,

but it was better than nothing at all
and no time exists to lament
an un-had level of opportunity,

so I bury the curse words in my kids backyard
and I know the story of
Freddy Krueger and The Tell Tale Heart,
and Frasier read a violent version of Dickens
to me when I was but 12, so it’s only a matter of time,

and patience,
and dirt.

Before something’s uncovered.

Blind Melon, Soup.

Constricted hand out in the air.
Crowd kid, around the house,
singing out your lungs top heavy hurt.

Pluck your little river song,
the pace is insignificant,
lint-like albatross,
hocus pocus.

Give me the torrent
of your womb on fire
out in the middle
of all this red madness,
give me something to write
home about
give me a signature in fire
in a field of screams,
give me enchanting
or nothing.

We aren’t about to rehash
the history of every kiss and kick
between us or anything, bud god be damned,
it is divine to see from you again.

Let out the arrow that you pick with
let the bow go heavy as you make
it sail, come on now, make it a weaving,
coarse end, before you kick the door
down again, and stay another week, friend.

Dance for my ears. They are older now,
but still remember every nuance,
maybe even a few new to the jangle.

axe, the question

The secret glances
between two musicians
the one that explains
a hundred jams that
preceded that moment.

This is what the
world spins upon,

this and dancing crowds
whose laughter,
and whose open joy, prevents
all out anarchy.

total destruction.

the axe
and the question.

Lou I Knew Ya

for L.R.

Took me all week to get thru to ya,
I heard the lines in NYC went black
flickered quickly without a notice
and that the hobo kings and queens all
danced for you that night I heard that
the songs were played in every country
and that every musician who had never
said it before was now saying it over and
over. How you were the greatest Lou.
I heard someone awoke from a dream
of you and Nico on some Henry James joyride,
her on the handle bars you in the clouds.
I heard it went overhead the state of Russia
and Denmark then Home, to the borough,
to the suburbs, and then downtown, back to
the easy commotion and hustle and drip.

Back to the light to bargain with.

Poem for Norman Greenbaum

First off,
about fucking time.
This is an opus.

Let me raise my chalice to you sir.
Let’s sing like back in the day.

Let me casually conceive of a good line or two,
because you made my youth a little more slender,
slick, and sly.

Let me congratulate your rhythm on exhausting my
limbs ability
to rap a tap tap.

Let me crack you a quiet beer
under a pillow
we have elders in the house.

I’ll crack you something frosty like
a hitman takes out
a pillow gagged victim.

Quick, and without regard for human life or love.

Quick let me set another game along the ledge of us,
our time is so short it hurts,
but I prefer this to nothing at all.