Film Poems

Lying, All Week

I went around with
The Blower’s Daughter and Delicate
in my ears
because I wanted to
look at every person in the street
like we were in the
credits of a movie,
of a great life,
together, and
we didn’t even know it.

I try not to do this anymore
it is too hard to go home
after that rush of eyes
meeting for once,
for only one moment,
just one brief smile,
and a hundred moments

that flicker in futures
that are no more real

than love at first sight,
left alone in an elevator
or peace on earth,
rolled up in a newspaper,
or a last unicorn,
scratching on maps
its last whereabouts,

or anything else they’ve sold
out of existence,
cornered into stalls
of soundtracks,
made typical like
lucky trolls or
Marguerite umbrellas.

I still go out.
Music is still my wet street.
It’s still filled, too,
with eyes like that.
I just don’t write about it anymore.
And that, more than any of the rest,
is the best lie I’ve told,
all week.

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.

It’s a fucking miracle we survive every day.

This poem is best read to this:

It’s a fucking miracle we survive every day.
I don’t ever forget that fact that the internet shows you
that every single terrible piece of shit you thought was out there
is just the first stage of the real hell of them all out there, in their undecided,
cynical, high and drunk and violent natures, casting their own shit in verse all over the world.

You can tell me that you see a world of rainbows and honeysuckle at midnight
out there in the one and the zero forever fields, but it is also slain bodies of a million
and it is the empty crevice of idiocy that drives all of them together to fight for their
own pop star suicide and it is the end on repeat in your room for three days and
it is the spectacle of it all removed of all repercussions and given all manner
of righteousness and it will always be this way until we finally go right over the edge.

Some of us will praise
the coming back
of the night.

Some of us will go right on back to our supermarket mimesis,
wandering through a burning, rat-filled Wal-Mart
aisles of melting celluloid and human fat,
everything seeping into the new history and tainting all the fresh ideas again,
it’s a fucking miracle we are less like the matrix trilogy than we are.

But I guess we have Baudrillard
and Nietzsche to thank for that.

You can tell me all you want that it is just a movie, that it is just reality,
that it is just Africa, that it is just truth, that it is just some beat poem or elegy.

I will be left,
in the night of reason
to fiddle my way into
seeing something more.

It is just in some of us,
just in some of us
to be curious with anger
to have an angry
curiosity is the only
healthy aggression you can
ever hope to inherit from
anything you take into your body
your eye
your mind.

Treat them with some fucking Respect.
Then tell me you don’t see the potential for doom in everything else.

Tell me it’s not a miracle,
every day
we get another.

Desperate Times

Film-Speak

 

(Poem for Kiddo)

 

They need a word for

that moment where

you have a Saturday with

nothing left to re-watch

but “A Return to Salem’s Lot”

and, like, fuckin’,

The Stepfather,

and you can’t bring yourself

to watch Michael  Moriarty

single handedly hold it together

like Marlowe with an ex wife.

 

And another for that

moment when Willis re: 12 Monkeys,

where he’s bleeding out

in front of his child self

who also is Jim Morrison in The Doors

and Garrison’s kid in JFK, incidentally.

Eulogy for a Labtop

I Give You, A Laptop Eulogy

She was drawn from the earth
in silver and copper first.

Even some really crazy shit.
Like stuff entire continents
suffer through conflict’s over.

She is born of cultural impropriety,
and she is born of the Vaio-Sony Corp.

She has cradled over 100,000 movies and audio files
yearly now, but once she was just the cold,
precise sum of her factory-slid-into-place parts.

I got her in my place,
and she was ready to go.
I filled her up with every
piece of media we could raise.

She taught me all about feminism too
so don’t get bunched in your Haynes.

That shit is just year 4
so we have to behave.

My vaio deserves a full send off, ok?
So where were we oh yes, the first days…

How they went on and on,
I left you on all night a couple,
I fell asleep with you once
in the bed and woke up to you
screen-down, left to what I thought
might have been choked on your own bits,
face down though I re-lifted and
breath of button flicked you came out of it,
you were a champ even then in the
early virgin years, you know that Vaio?

Year two I, like all pc-men, got sloppy with how I treated you,
and we had our moments, a couple reformats if you don’t recall?
(hahaha get it Vaio-la? Because your memory was wiped and all?)

Oh fuck it, by year three we settled
in again like that was all nothing,
and we have some recovery discs now just in case,
right my little digital honey bunny?

Year four and I count every
day we still have as blessed,
we’re like Deckard and replicant
played by Sean Young, heading West!
Maybe we’ll freeze you awhile
and make a 7 year stretch?

What all I can I will do, to postpone your cyber-death
to this alone I pledge.

My (V)aiolo!
(insert Perry Ferrel reference here)

No Reference Left

Ok fine, you don’t want
the gravy that couples everything
in shiny black shadow when I am high.

You don’t like this meta-business,
it makes your head hurt?

Then let me give it straighter
than Russian Vodka.

Let me give it to you like a football
from Africa kicked
into Spain’s net.
Hot and Fast.

This world is a mess of amazing
and terrible moments.

We all have our respective
backpacks or trunks,
you fit what you can
I’ll go for mine.

And everything else is fine,
bump the table once to get back
to faithful metric and rhyme.

So you’ll have to repeat the
reference or obscure question in
braille of bullets screaming at me
like Neo before he uses the Force,
and you better make mine shaken,
not stirred bitches, because when

I get going I’m part Walt
to wit with
some Pinkman tweak,
some bait and switch shtick.

I can Hyde another skin
on the fire for you,
but you better have mine
Mad Max medium, rare,
I want to flip the Bird
on a Wire

to Fred Astaire
like the head of
the Griswold homestead,
give me acid instead
of Tylenol though,
these Purple Patch
Addams Family Pills
go
to the stomach lining
like Alien/s or The Blob

and I prefer to see
babies on the ceiling
if I’m going out like that,

and maybe some fucking laser
guided shark-creatures as well,
because without a laugh
you aren’t going to Escape from Alcatraz,

whether you’re Good, Bad,
or Ugly as sin, like The Mask,
uglier than Fast and Furious
and just as fucking predictable,

I bet you’d like that wouldn’t you?

You want to come into
tomorrow on some
sort of multi-pass Jovovich
but I’ll have none of it-

I’m up in the Canadian Bacon now,
and we have Nunavut
the way Alex Supertramp
had Alaska and the
way Star Wars distracts
from The Conversation,
so too will poetry take
from the vein of film
running in my arms,
a fucking Spike’s worth
or re-run’s and watches,
and the Marathon Man
like Power of One,
all in the back pocket
of Carol’s Dicaprio shadow,

-but you cannot just
petition new poetry for
a pamphlet to take back
to your little literary Stasi.

We aren’t taking new members.
Come back in May
with the embers,
and bring the cat
from the freezer.

And if you didn’t catch that last one,
don’t bother coming back,
at all. I’ll be here in
The Yellow Wallpaper,
clawing at the wall,
etching my initials in it,

and picking through
the last couple references left
like The Omega Man,
tripping on blue meth,
i’ll be here until i’ve referenced
myself to Death.

Can You Do It?

Can you do it?

It is 2002 in BC, somewhere the ghosts of that night still haunt.

She went around the hotel and
asked if any of us knew Johnny
and none of us did all we knew
was fix and formula
to get some more
but she went around anyway
really just hoping to run into
anyone even a new
Johnny.

It feels like House of the Rising Son
is always playing in some room.
The hallways are all slanted.
I could be in the movie The Doors right now
when the boys meet The Velvet Underground,
but I am not and it smells like piss and sweat and cunt,
altogether, in one stank, rank miasma of odor.

But I am alive and there is some rock left in the room
past the bitch crying into a microphone
and the one filled with darkness and eyes,
and I can taste it now, covering me in sweats
and dry, insipid heart beatings, and I am there,
whenever I get caught off guard by someone on
some corner in some shitty bad place, I am there.

And then, I am not.

It is still the same cracked out place I am sure,
and the bulldozers when they finally do take it,
a plume of soul smoke will erupt in the air like Poltergeist.

She went around the place
like some dour, damsel or Susanna,
finishing the corner of every ladle,
but the corner eats everything too long
left around it, a whirlpool that leaves tragedies
hungrier than she is, before she shuts down.

She looked at me that one night
and out of nowhere asked,
pointing at the crumb on the floor,

Can you do it?

The Nightmare of the Zombie

It was the way it always is.
I was in a cemetery with Judith
and we were talking about how
bizarre the whole fame thing is.
How it’s absolutely the work of
bad ju-ju, of hocus pocus, of mice
transformed into the size of men,
of ants and birds and bad things like that.

I guess it was the wine, and the moon,
and the small vortex that opened up,
sort of like in Quantum Leap, so
damn conveniently at the end of each episode
before little Jerry O’Connell got shot by
angry white men or run over by a truck.

We ended up in Los Angeles, but it was
more like a Ridley Scott L.A., and I realized
I was in one of my dreams again, or
I took too much, man. Then I chuckle
while repeatedly saying,

“You took too muuuuuch, man.
Took too much.” just like
del toro’s Gonzo, until Judith
points out the old cemetery
and we wander over.

It’s huge. Like,
a shopping mall of carcass’.

And of course the song from
Return of the Living Dead
plays on some ghetto as a punk
with a Mohawk and a chain
from ear to lip walks by
and spits near my feet.

And then the first heads
start to pop up,
and before you know it
they’re all there.

Orson Welles.
He looks about the same. Belligerent, too.
Hemingway. His head is sort of a mess.
But he has the same jovial spirit!

Bukowski is there.
And Marilyn Monroe
looks pretty damn good.

Which Judith notices me noticing and
makes some ridiculous comment about

how I can only get it up for the paranormal and
cartoon chicks, and I say something like

Jessica Rabbit is practically human.
It’s all her voice.
Shut up and let’s meet some
zombie celebrities!

Everything was going really swell.
I was like a kid in a decomposing candy shop

I talked about Fitzgerald with Ernest ,
and about drinking with Chinaski,
and movies with Welles.

Then we made the mistake of going to some
fucking party and you just knew something
shitty was going to happen, it just felt bad.

The kids at the party just dissed all of them,
if they knew them at all, and called them misogynist
or said they were drunks, or both.

They said Orson Welles was
slow and over-rated.
And no Tarantino.

I wept.

They said Hemingway was
just a representation
of the patriarchy,
and a dirty man,
and Bukowski they
said made Ernest look
like a fucking saint.

I sank.

I don’t even want
to re-describe the way the
feminist crowd devoured
poor Norma Jean.

I understood
where they were coming
from but at the same time,
even a zombified Marilyn was
exhaustively enchanting.

In the end, the old stars left.
Bukowski and Hemingway said they

were gonna go to a fight,
or have one themselves,
whichever happened first.

Poor Orson went looking for some old woman.

Marilyn went out the window rather than
spend another minute with all the bores.

That’s usually when I wake up.
Sometimes me and Norma make out first.
There I said it.

She Took My Hat

I danced with a girl in the mud once.
It was sloppy. Our feet made schlepping noises
as we strove to disengage them from each
wet, mucky step. It was like fly paper for flies.

I remember she had this big, brilliant smile like
a clown the whole time, there for my amusement.
At some point she absconded with my salt and pepper cap,
like it’s an old skipper hat black and white freckled in color,
not the hip hop all female act, Salt n Peppa.

Nobody would ever steal that shit.

Women have always been good at stealing my hats.
There was my “New York Fuckin’ City” black with white letter,
a ball hat I cherished a gift from my aunt.
Lost that one in a hospital after a friend of
a friend od’d on E like the first night I met him,
and I forever the Gordie Lachance, went along
in the ambulance along with some random blonde.

What her deal was I am not sure.
Ambulance chaser in a skirt?
I couldn’t have been any more blind.
I tried my classic lean in on her in the elevator but
she was just in love with that hat. And she got it.
Didn’t even cost her a kiss.

I’m such a lush for people.
I’ll take anything you have.
A word exchanged in an empty hospital bed,
in the dark, where nobody is around,
or a deep muddy dance to George Clinton
on some old abandoned air strip.

My fedora in 2011.
Liberated by a wild night at
some after hours bar.
Another two skipper caps at least in BC.

It’s really been a pleasure though.
Who the fuck am I kidding?

What In The Holy Demon-Fuck Is Going On Around Here?

It is getting to the point
where aliens
would be a blessing,
and that is when
you just know
there is nothing out there
but star dust
and inattentive,
non-existent,
or too damn proud God(s)
but most likely nothing,
but particle after particle
of cold steely space
that creeps up every old woman’s
spine just before
she makes a final,
upward arch.

Even Cassiopeia
had to break her back, once.

It is getting really fucking ugly
in the desert oil states,

and the opposite but parallel offices
where the next moves are made

are looking an awful lot like
where paedophiles and terrorists
go to dream and play and pose
next to pictures of Satan

like at some fucked up,
godless bacchius carnival,
where babies roast on spits and women
are ripped apart for sport and pheromones.

It’s getting a lot like
Mad Max Fucking
Thunder-dome
Or Home Alone redux’d a la David Lynch.

Soundtrack is Badalementi fused
with Dj Bl3nd,
touch of the 9”Nails.

Something to keep the fuckers
up on their cross,
my guess.

I’m tired of the end of Spartacus.
Rudy needs a new Jersey.

I’m picking up for the Kids in the Hall.
I’m wondering where the fuck we are.

Killing over paper, oil, and hate.

That is what the fuck
is going on
around here.

That, is where we fucking are.