Rant

Teacher Student Relations

You are gonna meet all kinds
of people who will tell you
your words are
not as good or
not as worth mention
as the words they say are
better but the truth is
most of them
have big drinking noses
not big writers eyes
and the truth is
they will gather dust with
chapbooks nobody will ever read
and they will piss off more students
then they will help but the most important
thing you will learn from them is that
you can overcome the urge
to remind them their personality
is drift wood
and not even the cool kind
that artists can fashion
something beautiful from,
just gnarly clenched up shit
that nobody
not even their close friends
really thinks any excuse can
justify.

You will also
meet some amazing and
helpful and inspiring ones,
and you will remember them by the
books they developed to show you that
you were not some extraterrestrial to greatness,
and they will always, pound for pound,
outweigh the bitter ones who should
be locked away and kept from the
hands that scrawl on walls the demands
of a new tongue-generation.

They are the ones you need to
worry about impressing,
because they are the people
who teach you the importance
of only writing for yourself.

So let the drift wood
drape its ageing ideal
on the beach
of someone weak enough
in character to actual give a shit.

You have the Gregory Corso gift.

You will rip what little advice can be gleaned from them,
and shave their existence from your margins, otherwise.

If greatness was something that could be mapped
by washed up never-were much’s,
then they would’ve struck the iron,
they would’ve hit the horse
between its eye in their own time,

not still be repeating the wrote requests of
“don’t write like this,”
“this is not how it is done” or
“I hate vampire stories”.

Whatever it is they tell you.
Keep this in mind.

A teacher is only as great as their weakest pupil.

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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.

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.

being a writer is like

like always asking “what was I just thinking”
but never coming up with the thing
and just continually finding ways to divert from that fact
until no longer the case for a minute or two Halleluiah plays in your key
and you hush all eyes with kindness and grace until
again you are back out in the alley with
the rest of the human smoke

being a writer is
like being a child trapped in a
big world body
that ripples with the moon
and crescents with the sun

intermittently dances like a naked
French weather girl
up some mountain because
gender roles or not,

poetry is always like
being in love with the most
beautiful one in the room for you
and me too, so stop yelling.

I am trying to get you over the exhausting
cringe of not getting the miracle in our every movement here.

It has nothing to do with class or gender or hero,
just listen, you need to know this;

it is just when the story becomes too big to contain,
that it really stars getting good.

onward ho, bitches.
(Jesse Pinkman style)

we only have about a day’s parenthesis head start,
and the Sheriff’s of Sonnet and Formality will be upon us.

They will yoke us in genre and codify our scarred wings.

Won’t we be less then we were without this woe?

Credits Deux

The music of hurt
brought to you by the misery
of conviction
now a subsidiary of
the lie police who,
like it or not
have got your number.

Kicking stones along
the empty John Carpenter streets,
singing Happy Halloween with
Silver Shamrock masks.

Ripping through verses of a variety
of obscure poets can wait, we need
to deal with the waning booze situation.

The courage to belt out Arcade Fire
3 am, rooftops everywhere,
they are calling it some kind of cult,
but you know the rule of haters.

This kiss was brought to you
by Gibran, Jack’s and a sweet look
you gave me 8 summers ago.

Girl in the rain, boy in the blue
kid in the crowd,

talking to you,
just you,
and you.

Come here, into the center of the thing.

Credit where it’s due.

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,

aka
you are.

Wild.
Before my eyes.

Wild.

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.