Once again, a slew of old ones. Some of these are the genuine prosety I talk about: not poetry, not prose, some kind of narrative, an essay perhaps, something inbetween. A number of them aren't all that good. Sorry.
1.26.02
Work that visine that extra sugarfree
divisadero down
I lied to you
work that artful dissaray that morning after casual calculation
work that charming wreck you know they like it
you know they do
broken dolls are pretty and they wanna fix you
its hard to resist
------
1.23.02
So again I find myself become a rainstorm
and again I call a friend
some say these days should be alone
I think that’s madness in the end
cause I am no safe harbor
my waves are full of sharks
And in my head’s six walls of steel
this stupid striped hair holds the fodder
of a driven mad barreling run
between its knots.
something unspeakable,
unwriteable.
Try to think of something else.
1.22.02
deifying an event after the fact
happens so often in history book and oral accounts,
mythologies and mysteries revealed as sacrament,
like rivers that tend to flood in spring
turn into a thousand creations...
I was on a roof. I could have fallen. It was dumb. The sky was
dark because it was night,
and light with a violet glow because it was Los Angeles.
I think everybody but me was on acid. There was music.
With language as my glamour, my way of painting the eyes onto the gods
the way they did in ancient places,
bringing their images to life
piercing the eyes with a pin after the inks had dried,
giving it sight,
making it real,
bringing down the darsan,
letting it have thoughts of its own.
I’d throw blood on the screen
if I thought it could make the words more real
if I thought it could etch that moment into my days
more indelibly, changing me forever
in the ways I’d like to be made.
1.17.02
And the blood’s built up on the canvas.
A dozen little crosses etched from me,
the bit that slid down my leg to cool
an icy gelatinous drop when I recovered it, minutes late.
I’ve blessed it repeatedly
now it's safe.
Time to leave this place.
Feeling like a death camp escapee
the sun shines overbrightly in my free eyes,
reality seems overreal,
and I’m too full of the indescribable
to ever say the words.
Not a small thing coming from me.
light slants down thru the tree branches as I walk down in the wind,
the hill where I live,
sun flares on me
and I’ve got time on my hands finally
instead of my own blood.
------------
It’s not great but its good
its decent
for 24 years old
for 25 years even
dont forget you are a child still.
Maybe at 65 you’ll create something timeless.
For now content yourself with good.
still
how I’d like to escape the confines of age,
how my perfectionist impulse wants to believe
I could be genius, stricken with wonder,
and am instead failing abysmally at age 24.
1.21.02
shes cleaning it up now
realigning the life
moving it all into place
it slides in, the final zero
an equation completing itself
a year and six months
adds up to
78 weeks
546 days
13104 hours
786240 minutes
47174400 seconds
I’m over you
I’m over you
jesus, this time, this life lived
during those tiny increments as they ticked by
feel like that much weight around my neck
how can time haul so heavy on us
how I got through I’ll never know.
Stronger than I thought, though.
And it’s like a reville
waking into predawn light
seeing a future of mean and tiny things,
of vast and lovely expanses,
feeling the past crushing on me,
a weight that accrues value like gold
I won’t be lost in this
I won’t be sold short.
----------
monday
Stare at the screen for hours
as you dont write back.
I think its funny
I knew this from you
should be expected
you cant take my honesty
you run all directions
and its all okay,
you and your friends
a shattered bunch all,
and you handing out judgement
our arbitrarily appointed arbiter of taste
I sometimes feel the stablest of all of us here
but I guess that’s okay too,
and quite a delusion if you put it to me.
Tell me something new.
show me the thing I want to see
you’ve got inside of you
I’m too real and sick of this.
life’s too short for evasiveness.
Words become so easy to pronounce,
air so easy to move in your throat
when alternatives are weighed,
throw off that gag
the hand over your heart,
execution-style,
an assassination of our living.
But you won't find me at gunpoint:
the order's off on me.
I can say anything I want.
its laughable
the predictable unfolding of your terror
in the face of my torrents of words,
words which said in no uncertain terms
how lovely I think you are.
How can anyone be afraid of that?
I never understood,
but I do understand,
and I will wait patiently
for you to get drunk again
some night.
Plastered and tell me your wonderful story.
I love to hear you go on,
you diamond shining,
seen through the tree branches that screen your backyard from the canopy of the sky,
how thoroughly, you dear friend,
you make my tired heart smile.
I'd love to kick the chair from beneath your feet
to find you walking on air,
your little magic loosened,
your shutdown eyes unblinded.
-----------------
now look at the people
in the streets, in the bars
we are all of us in the gutter
but some of us are looking at the stars
look round the room
life is unkind
we fall but we keep getting up,
over and over.
Your eyes are blue like the heavens above.
-the pretenders.
---------------
death valley
And hey.
I ruled you out with iron wills,
that desolate rock and silent sliding clouds the only witness to my vacating of you,
where I’d staked a dry claim
that gave no return.
Abandoning the lyrical altitudes
you’d inspired me to.
All unknown to you.
And know this
you could still have me back with a word,
your quiet truth
worth more gold
than is hidden in all the vast dry wastes
this wide world over.
I’d weather ten thousand desert storms more.
This wide world
over.
Give me the reason.
posted at 4:04 PM
Here's a gob I recovered. Dates are flexible; I never know when I write these things.
3.13.02
i'm sliding sideways
slipping away
a subtle break
an escape
i'm slippery sidewalk
beneath your feet
you can't
walk on me
anymore
and if you fall down
we've evened the score
it's your own fault
faultline, sidewalk cracks
a broken back
makes for lovely writing
confined but
wish i could go back
missing what's now past.
3.8.02
a fire flower
you burn underground
the earth is hot
what a lovely thing
what a lovely thing
incendiary
a human heart
i buy more blue flowers
and keep them for me
you only get red ones now
blood roses
on our hotheaded firebug hands
we're a hazard baby
accident waiting to happen
come on and skid that 747
across the tarmac to my Texaco
a lovely destruction
seeking that glorious end
in my gasoline eyes
you're a lit cigarette
2.14.02
shoot the moon
won't kill
just wound
tell me now
is this how
we walk away
4.1.02
lost at sea
i am no grip
for a drowning man
sorry and you know
i love you dearly but
i want to shake you off like spiders
your little attempts to hold on
a cold and calculated blow
the way i strike to kill
and would your brother
be such a hero
had he survived?
would you be so desperate?
i guess we'll never know.
Life's sickening sea waves
drove us far from shore
wonder where we'll
wash up,
opposite sides of the world,
same red sky
at dawn.
3.11.02
dark bar room view from here.
wonder what you whisper
in her sweet little ear
as you smooth down her shoulders
like you'd do to me
sorry i followed you here
does she find them compelling
like i did not
does she see some brilliance
like i did not
sorry i followed you here,
i see you are busy getting
what you never got
from me.
good luck and i wish you well
my swaggering marlboro man,
my hash-slinging john wayne
call me if you'd like the lay
i could use you that way
like you'd do to me.
Maybe.
posted at 9:11 PM 