Bukowski

Seeing Permanent Red

They say us red heads have
tempers like East Coast weather
unpredictable and vicious.

I would argue this point but
it would only send me into
another full blown raging whirl wind.

I turn into a Snickers-less Joe Pesci.
I become Oppenheimer.

Without a moment’s notice.
Even my Jekyll is more like
most people’s Hyde.

Today when I could not find my hat
I felt like I needed it
like some average Junky,
then the more I couldn’t find it,
the more I became Herbert Hunke.

Suddenly I was a barrel short
of 12 angry monkey’s.

I miss a bus and start mumbling
to my room:

“How in the history
of all the holiest fucks
of fucking fuckers
have I lost this goddamn hat
when I have yet to leave the
house today?”

The theories get elaborate, fast.
Some kind of starving, stray
micro-goat-like creature
which normally subsists off odd socks
has not found one lately and has
decided to get brazen.

I must still be wearing it I say,
and pat my red, slowly
sweat-gathering
heavy hair.
Nope.

I check the legs of jeans
startling my bed’s frame
like crusty farmer clothes on
rickety, birch fences.

My inner Shining
declares that
Genes got me here
to begin with.

I go to punch air
and I hit the corner of my door
gashing open my hand,
now I’m bleeding and
cursing and mumbling and
tossing clothes around
like a baglady at the last
Sally Ann sale of the Earth
positive that any second I will
start to shit out everything
I have ever lost
and that’s a lot, a lot, a lot of shit.

By the time I give up and
put my hoody on
I’ve missed another bus
I’ve screamed in italic’s of cuss
I’ve prayed like a desperate Catholic
to a Mexican pick up truck’s Jesus-rust.

Curse this temper of mine.
All it was ever good for
were broken Super Nintendo controllers
dry wall craters covered in NIN posters
and a good post-meltdown chuckle
like the one just now,
while writing this poem.

Maybe that’s enough.

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Several Short Blackout Poems

A smorgasbord of drugs a
stuffed animal dancing
in feverish commotion
and a hyper middle distance
that begs before force is
imbibed and passed around
again and again
until you call It pleasure.


Flipped,
rampant,
un-encouraged debate
between gravity and
full speed ahead.
Corked, bottled, bound
and ship berthed.
Sit and split the hammer
with your rusty,
rickety, family tree.
Climb until the haunting
speech is your own,
then disown it and own
the other,
less likely pursuit.
Open aisle ways
of apocalypse
the scripts split
between for keeps
and drips which
drop, drops, dropped.

Caught with the
minimum.
Symbolically set alongside
symbol wings.

Crushing into commonness
and holy about it,
perched.

….
Corrupt dancing,
a criminal undertaking,
rocking the centerpiece,
evaporating wine into smile
into shine.

Accomplice and converts,
a jungle-scape of prompts
and communion.

An overtly undeniable working
of a million necessary
gears and levers.

….
Hopefully a futuristic
causative heuristic
can consign this
bottomless chest and
its unknown content
hopefully services can
be convents.
Prayers are a contest,
nobody sincere is
wrapped up in game.
Every old now renewed
room is returned upon
and the holy uncertain curtain
gets cold again.
Nothing remains in
eager wait for hope.

I Spit Your Reason Out

You stated in some circumstances,
we were only meant to work
and slumber in the after-party.

I fought with you I renamed you
cascading demon titles.

I even learned your enemies signatures,
paraded them out for you,
easy like a dealer, then hungry like junkies.

Complicit I charge in all you do
is an angle of you, you, and you.

I won’t go any further
around the room,
just stew on it as you feel fit.

Permit me the moment though
to wave my finger in the air
and tell you just what the whether
has dealt- whether it was rape or capital
assassination of character, whether it
was art science and political
or just another junglist off on a rant
about their own caved-into-stronghold.

I will not re-right your arrows.
Gibran was right, their sentience
it narrows so ol’ natural that
you reminisce about the subtlest
inference of it, like oil of olay
commercial, jagged little glass
plucking the skin in imperfect melodies.

You know what kind of like I like,
the kind of hate you hate to hate.
We are simple side by side
wallet photos
fridge magnets
matching joggers.

We are the constellation anyone can name.
We are easy.
Not simple
Sexy, not sultry.
Unless we wanted to be.
Unless it got out
of hand and turned
out that way.

I spit your reason out,
you judge me perfectly.
We dance on the floor like
marbles
eating through a mason jar
onto hardwood, we hard hoods of
hipster pre-destinations and
another amalgam of personal,
preliminary muses.

You and I are like two magazines,
thrown arbitrarily onto
the same laundr-o-mat floor,
in a hold up that became a
flash mob and ended in
a kiss that had virus’
named after it later,
and love songs, too.

The Meta-Movie-like Hangover Experience

Head like a Hellraiser cube.

Eyes like Demons.

Feeling about a foot tall like Puppetmaster,
or some remnant of Harryhausen’s Ghost.

Woke up this morning like Groundhog Day.
Wanted to Lennon Bed-In my way out of it.
Couldn’t find the light switch like Waking Life
meets Philip K Dick meets 12 Monkeys,
or Mice of Men meets T-2, making robotic motions
slowed down like Fear and Loathing’s
man on an ether binge scene.

I’m stuck in my own meta-remake like
Last House on the Left meets
Cabin in the Woods.

My head feels like Blow Up.
I wanna throw up, like the
intertext of Stand By Me.

I want to crawl up inside a replicant,
I want to be Deckard, I want Daryl Hannah
from Clan of Cave Bear, to teach me about fire,
and how to be a better warrior, like Braveheart.

My fucking head feels like Scanners,
just seconds before the bang, like original
Total Recall, just before “Two Weeeeeeeks!”
and even a little like the Red Mist leftovers
of Hurt Locker opening scene.

My stomach is like Videodrome.
I could reach inside and pull out a pistol,
long as any of Eastwood’s, but surreal
like one of Nicholson’s Joker props.

My sinus’ like that guy in Crocodile Dundee
in the New York House party, eyes red like the infected in
Return of the Living Dead, Jonny about to scream
“Ginaaaaaaa!”. My nose filled with shit that alternates
between Slimer in Ghostbuster green and
the 80’s The Blob’s pinkish hue and the yellowy rust of
the alien in Enemy Mine.

I’m propped up at the table,
like Texas Chainsaw family,
or even the elder zombies in Dead Alive.

I feel like Gilbert Grape. I try to talk,
sound more like Mumbles from Dick Tracy.
Pale like Powder.

My memory is all Memento meets Hangover
meets Being John Malkovich.
I feel like the actual New Jersey Turnpike.
Like Kafka woke me up in a script for a
Basketcase remake
and all I can do is try to scream but my mouth
is all Mr. Anderson shut, or
even Twilight Zone movie-clamped up.
Either way it’s Eyes Wide Shut darkness.
Event Horizon of the holidays.
Candyman mine as well be in the shower,
and I’ve begun to turn like American Werewolf
in snowstorm. I just want to get back to school
like Dangerfield or Slater or Cusak
in any number of films.

I just want to dance,
like the guy in Dazed and Confused.

Where’s the easy voice over of Daniel Stern?

Yesterday I Wrote

Open season on
aisles of apocalypse.

The script, split
Between, for keeps
and lazy drips which
drop, dropped, drop.

Caught with the
minimum .
Symbolically placed alongside
simple wings.

Crashing back into commonness
And camp; holy about it,
perched forevermore,
thus.

Aphorisms for the Ugly White Page

For two and a half hours I stared at you,
you sexy white thing. You endless white thing,
you blank, ugly fucking whore
of a blank, white, single screen.

I wonder what you were thinking
while I was tripping over a closet of memories
like a black out at a party
while everyone rummages to smoke outside
in someone else’s shoes.

Like people about to go down in a ship.

My step father rolling his oversized
cotton sleeves in messy pastry mixing up with the
coffee stained back office of his garage and the
coffee in white Styrofoam,

creating a place where none existed before,
but where nothing but smell and longing
are able to say enough in their statement.

There was good in here but it was
only ever enough to keep warm, singly by.

Even the character feels weak and goes head-first
into a plate of glass as some bad homage to something.
Not even the reference seems worth it.

But we do it anyway don’t we?
It’s the only dedicated relationship I have,
so it has to be like this sometimes.

Even when there is nothing to say,
we have to live like this.

I know you don’t like me when I write to Miles Davis,
but I do it anyway.

You know I veer toward a schedule only for you
to smash it into new mosaic.

But we work together somehow.

We block out the blindness,
bad line after cliché after shaky reservation.

We work in record stores and on buses and other random,
non-momentary states.

Got married back in high school.

Have nothing but boxes of us now.

Boxes and ticket stub match pack haiku’s.

Ann’I still love you now, for every
new white fucking page.

Black Dog Boy Named Drake

(more drink than poem tonight)

I call on nobody and nobody replies
“keep it to yourself”
I call up the minor in me
and we drink a little more than we should
because it is a comfort and snow brings
the hibernating urges to form.

I scream to death in a factory at 51.
I am sure of it lately. I can hear it from the tip of 30.
I can hear it go bawling down the road.
My sanity.

I am the intense moment of every Blind Melon album.
The voice quivers with a mad purview into unknowns.
I start to cripple of my coaxed, confused filmic informed class.
I break a glass. Smash a bottle, irrevocably destroy dreams.
Start around the room looking for something else to throw on the bonfire.
It’s Burning Man every weekend in my heart. It’s Woodstock on day one, too.
A Wonderful Life Sunday morning, then Event Horizon by Monday again.

Nobody knows you like you know you. Secret listens to the Cranberries.
Romps down 1987 Hollywood lane. Crying with stranger bagladies.
Screaming into Atlantic stomach.
Chameleon Kid.

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.

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.

This,
the axe
and the question.

Like This

It’s like this.

The day one of it is heavy
with the love of studying
for a hanging tree to hide
in and it is a for sure
not going further than for
a coffee without getting winded
with anxiety and brows beaten with sweat
and then it is escaped,
by a margin,
the ability to sleep is
what saves you on day one
from doing anything rash
that can’t be undone.

Day two is pretty much more
of the same, with new added memories
from the last time you committed suicide
to the first time you punched something.

Day three is pretty much all about the crying,
and more of the same tree hunting,
rope is now even considered.

There are a few interesting moments
where you try to climb out of the cave
and you get all the way out in the middle
of your day only to have it come crashing,
some sudden hunger pang misread by the mind
as more come down gut rot and now the trees again,

and the rope, whether it would make that movie noise
and whether your mother will die from it,
and how hard it will be for everyone to get off work
and come see you off and whether everyone will hate you,
how they’ll tell those who haven’t yet heard, in significant phrases.

How they will find the body, discover it.
As though you were just a lost island until now.
People say it is selfish but you spend an awful lot of time
thinking of how others will cope, in the throes of its ride.

After that it just sits for a long while on your stomach and back.
You will ponder whether any little mundane act, cutting nails, making food,
is even worth it if you aren’t going to live it through.
Why bother smiling at that girl. It has no bearing on your death march.
Who cares if the coffee has anything in it, just drink it!
You’ll be fucking dead before it rots your guts you cowardly little whelp.

A week will go by hiding in old sitcoms from your youth, and you’ll sink
deep into a hell that awaits the living dead, those who tried but couldn’t get out.

You’ll have to make your way up off the dirt floor and back in a chair and
you can always have flu or worse to cover the tracks but you yourself
you begin to notice the difference in each returnee self. It’s like a copy, of a
copy.

It’s like this.

And after awhile you lose the ability to even lie to yourself about changing.

It’s like this.

And that’s that.