Someone Else

In the building
Where I stay
There is a
Jewish Cowboy
Who wants
To be
An artist
Or maybe
He is a
Jewish artist
Who wants
To be a
Cowboy
Or maybe
He is just
Jewish
Maybe
That is enough
Or maybe at
Night
When he spreads
His bedroll
He is
Unsure
Of
Who he really is
Knowing only
He wants to
Be
Something else
I have been
A fighter
But I
Always wanted
To be
A song
I have been
A junkie
But
I'd rather
Have been
A light
I wonder
Sometimes
If everyone
In this place
Would rather
Be
Someone else

Regret

Regret is
an overcoat
made of wool
and soaking
wet

It weighs
heavy
on me

Dripping
it ruins the
carpets of
the places
that I
go

I cannot
sleep
most nights
because
of its
icky itch and
its stench

Some days
I change from
it into
coveralls
of
guilt

Cowboys

I went to
A gunfighters
Funeral today

Not a
Cowboy hat
In sight

The glamour
Of toting
Pistols

Not quite
The same
Without them

The sad faces
And souls of
The men though

The same now
As a century
And a half ago

The guilt maybe
Or the things
They have seen

Or maybe
All the bandits
Then and now

Started life as
Scared little boys
Of desperado dads

Why Are Your Poems So Dark? : Poetry Everywhere : Video : The Poetry Foundation

Why Are Your Poems So Dark? : Poetry Everywhere : Video : The Poetry Foundation

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not happy

the briefest moment
really
compared to the three
score and ten
if typical
neither beginning
nor end
of personal timeline
of sadness
but the
saddest still
she looked at me
tears welling
"i'm not happy"
the next day
like a lioness
defending me
the bondsman cuffing me
sending me
to jail
and weeks later
the papers
dissolving the union
"not happy"
she said
crushing me
killing me
dissolving me
and all of
these years
the dreams
of her face
the tears
and the most
minuscule
portion
of time
haunt me
still
in sleep

All The While

Sometimes
i wear
a monsters skin
GREEN
jealous of
people
i knew
long ago
i was still
unburdened
Some days
i dont
BELIEVE IN GOD
though i try
very hard
and
i pray
that i will
And
Most days
I DONT FEEL
a(part)
at all
more like
a sad
goldfish SHOUTING
insulated by
half of a gallon of
water
half an inch of
glass
SILENT
This morning i
saw a five year old
POP open an umbrella
watching
and walk to
the childrens
museum
chattering to MOTHER
along the
WAY
and i remembered then
that I am
human still
I have been all
the while

passion

soft curves
bosom
and buttocks

tiny beads
of sweat
above candy lips

tops flung
across
the room

jeans hurriedly
escaped one
leg turned out

bed clothes
pushed down
knotted

and no cares
in the world
for now

rhetorical passions
spoken and
answered

The Night

My lover, the Night

Lays naked save

Jewelry of stars



She holds me

In darkest embrace

Caressing my broken heart



I talk to her

And she to me

In whispers and in dreams



Promises spoken

Go unfulfilled

Killed daily by dawns schemes

For Tami

I will

Remember you

Always

First Love

Simpler and

Purer times

Tinged Purple

As sunset sky

Sadly

Details fade

Each year

Your scent

Though remains

Forever

two rooms

we would


get


two rooms


one for


trickin'


the other for


geekin'





in between


smoking crack



i would wait

while she

my new bride

stolen

fresh

the two of us

from rehab

made more money

next door

getting mad as hell

like a little

boy

kicking and holding

his breath

until

she'd get back

with the cash

i would

walk/run

as fast as i

could

across the

hotel lot

to cop

again

and

we'd smoke

when the next

pick-up

truck

came through

we would

repeat

the whole dance

holy crap

what

takes her

so long

you get all kinds

sittin' in a
rock & roll
chicken shack
on a sunday
afternoon
when
the last mullet
in america walks in
wearing a fat redneck
underneath
who in turn
is sporting a
hunt often T
and a freightliner
ball cap
greasy
from the mullet

when the liquor
store
closes in the
bible belt states
you
get all kinds

bruised life

i saw her
walking from
an alley
downtown

wearing a halter top
and jeans and
hand-picked tattoos
another black eye

like fruit
ripened to fast
to soon plucked
from the vine

never maturing
developing
the sweetness
nature had in mind

the only value that
she placed on herself
the crumpled bills
serving selfish desire

and i knew
that this was
her life
a produce market

reselling the same
tomato until
damaged and bruised
no one else

would buy it

A Pox On You, Criminal

I guess
there are
pagan police
officers in
England.

They are
allowed certain
days off.
Summer Solstice.
Halloween.

I have
been cursed
by the cops
here in the
U.S.,

But never hexed.
I have got to
quit listening
to morning
radio.

Brother George Plays Ukulele

Brother George plays ukulele
Sings Hawaiian songs.
Smiling through the lyrics,
Soul laughing out loud.

People passing by him
Listen,
As he cries
Haunting notes.

I drink wine from
A coffee cup and
Follow rhythm
With my foot.

Brother George sings
Of a wonderful world
Somewhere over a rainbow
Back home.

coffee club

sunrise at the salvation army
i join others milling about
waiting for boiled eggs
and coffee
the saddest people
i have ever known
smiling
through strained sobriety
i see my friend and speaking
unlock the personality
he keeps
secreted away
proudly he shows me
an ezra pound screen saver
on a trac phone
and begins to share with me
the madness and lines
he has entrusted to
pharmaceutical mind
i nod
wondering
what they are talking about
at starbucks this morning

The Value of Poetry

In my senior year

Of High School

I met her and

She smiled

She studied English

Or rather how to teach it

At the local

University

I was quite smitten

Taken with her

She asked us to write

So I did

I wrote stories

And she read them

Poems and she giggled

I tried to be provocative

In puberties most

painful/beautiful way I held

books low and center

while we spoke

When she left

Eventually

I learned lifes

Most valuable Lesson

Love is bitter sweet

They all go eventually

And even bad poetry

Can get you laid

Check Paris or Rome

Sizzling steaming circles of
Red meat at the start of
A fast food assembly line
Pop and burn the scarred
and veiny backs of my hands.
The pen set aside so few hours
ago, so that a shiny silver spatula
can write it's own verse. So
I can trade Time for Money,
Money for Stuff; like the stiffs do.
A pimple faced boy, not much older
that the son that I haven't seen in years
yells at me to pay attention to
the daunting green screen suspended
over my head with it's demands of
Super-sized sandwiches and
french- fried potatoes.
My mind will not focus on these.
Instead I am in Paris.
I am in Rome. I am drinking wine with
Chinaski. I am in Khans Pleasure Dome.

Forgotten

Childhood dreams

Unchained

Free

Unconfined by

The night

Heated at the

Forge of Life

Hammered by Time

Compressed

Beaten and folded

Anvil ringing

Eventually

Smaller

And smaller

And smaller still

Not quite

Gone but small

Enough

To be

Put away

Forgotten

Hippy Buddhist Vegan Wren

My Buddhist

Friend studies

The words of

Men whose foreign

Names I can

Neither recall

Nor pronounce

She blesses me

Though with thoughts

Deep and filled

With meaning



Tranquility



Peace



Being



She is brilliant

And wonderful

Consuming the

Meat of Philosophy

But eating no

Flesh

Just knowing her

Makes me a

Better person

Human


She freaks out when she drives a car

In the end
She is as
Screwed up as
I am
And I love her
That much
More

Demon Dogs

Shadow dogs

swirling gone

and

here again

nipping at

( the remainder of )

my soul.

Liquid Evil

flows. Demons

real

in my mind

taunt me

to sleep

taunt me

in slumber.

Daring me to

betray the day

to embrace

the night.

Haunting

and coaxing me

to forget

all of goodness

to be one

with

the pain.

To be

one of them.

Damned.