Alive In 85

look back in anger, look back in anger, look back in anger.

FLATFOOT 

You—watching,

I see you, blossom eyed

eating me, not knowing it.

 

O why?

It’s her—but you

don’t know that,

 

you don’t know

Columbus, her in

my Columbus.

 

But I can’t call

her mine—neither

you, or Columbus.


It is ours!

Our travel—

are you tired?

 

Cold throated,

nervous Columbus

running from

           

daylight and cops,

eaten by floral

patterns on couches.

 

Columbus

Columbus

Columbus.

 

How much can

you know—about

Columbus?


Her Columbus

that I want,

want, want—

 

O Columbus

come close.

Hers is too far.

 

I want nudely,

Can we dance—

flatfoot?


Warm Nights In Columbus (A Song For Allie) 

broken lee rd. has been trying to get me down in a ditch for years ; or is it you?

Allie, be honest. I want to know; be angelic.

Keep me from forgetting that night in Columbus
dead rat I passed on the road, violent clouds, gaudy ankle milk tit fairy girl, veins on walls in and out of coffee shops, mannequins, suburban cum angels, gelatinous bored fast food dog trash, the point, billy-club vagina gods, dancing jews, taffeta skin, red bellied angel dust goat eyes, pink nose, ankles, cheeks, puffy cloud virgins, rancid snaggle-puss vicodin lips, esoteric nightmare girl, brown skin dust bunny psychotropic fetus slurping steampunk machine gun anarcho faggots, dead everything, dead lover, dead blue shirt, point of clarity, shit devil, money, spics, chinks, niggers, communism, fascism, socialism, faggotism, bad plumbing, the system, green rays of pussy, the obnoxious empire we despise, GOP god fearing cocksuckers, tired eyes, sleepy eyes, a eulogy.

 

I drove home through ohio in a van full of lesbians

Allie I can hear you now, whimpering in the American night


gaunt legs

lacking the verve

choking each other at the red canine lights at dawn.


An early education on Courting 

Bullshit,

seven days of that sound?

the sound

of womenbeing

eased

 

every time

I hear it

I’m reminded of

Camiar

 

Camiar

was a car salesman

and, we knew him well.

he had black hair

the color of my brother’s hair

           & our father let him sleep on the couch

when his wife kicked him out

that summer

but

he left often

to drink

so we didn’t see much of

him

in the evenings

 

however

 

he

would slither back

we would hear

his pounding boots

 

             that sound

 

he went back to her though,

(his wife)

 

leaving with us,

on that Tuesday

 a symphony of bad cologne

and boots

that no amount of nostalgia could sweeten

but

 

several days of that summer

that summer

offer white boring eagerness

          

early Tuesdays

I hold it

in remembrance of

courting


prey 

I saw her
thin legs
tearing me apart
licking me off her fingers

my life
is
an itch


it hurts days
but nights
the pain is excruciating
it causes a
lack of sleep

but her eyes
ever numerous
they humble me
at least
I think they humble me

however
I’ve never been too smart
that’s why she takes to me
I think
its always easier
to make those that adore you into prey


no one will ever love you and you will die alone 

lying
in
your
mold
smiling
into the window
and the pretty
young
nurse

you look at her
with your
right eye
half open
she may be your daughter
holding a bouquet of flowers
or she may be your ex wife
holding the paper
spitting on your rotting corpse
or she may be the sun
smiling
at you


Whores Are Poetry 

Apr 24th at 7PM / tagged: poetry. poets. prose. whores. Love. / 1 note

I’m on your floor, looking at the back of your head, I tell myself, things about love and such, but I know that shit is too godam hard. But as I slap myself I wonder if this is even healthy, to actually have to justify someone hanging around. I doubt it. But hell, I can tell a mean lie to myself. 

Sitting there smiling, saying 
a lot of bullshit

But I’m just kidding myself real bad. 

My attention span loosened now as I start to look at your roommates feet on the kitchen floor. They look strange and they are bothering me. They’re just so ugly and nubby. I mean, its bad, the way they curve at the bone it makes my lips curl. But they’re not deformed, not missing any toes, or anything that would count as a medical condition that would henceforth make me feel guilty for my critique. So I just say to myself “You’re going to be one of those repressed cunts and you know it.”

But her feet has gotten me thinking, instead of you, the ones I should idealize are the whores. I know this sounds cruel but it aint. Hell, at least they don’t hide anything. They leave it all out there for you to see, because you have to know at a glance what their aim is. But they’re not just careless, they’re smart as hell, they’re smart because they make ‘sorry bastards’ pay for it. They’re smart because they never have broken hearts, or shame, or pride. They’re like sages, they’re like Siddhartha Gautama. I mean, sure, they may be just a little fucked up on the inside, but they wouldn’t be the first. But hell, they have my eternal respect, and you baby, do not. 

And if you want to know the truth of it, it’s only the whores and poets that I truly love. Actually, when you think about it, whores are poetry, really…

…I know what you do

                      ~                        ~                           ~                                 ~

You lie in bed, wanting to be a sorry bastard that pays for it. You want to fuck around with them, but you don’t have the courage or the talent to do it well enough. You realize you don’t have the money to keep it as any more than an afterthought or a hobby, driving down the street, pondering actually getting enough nuts to go through with it one day. But you’ll never be able to be a part of the real world if you do fuck around with them. You’re fully aware that all the people on your block will look at you strange if you do for some reason get the fortitude. Hell, they’ll see it in your eyes. They’ll know what you did last night. “I saw into your window.” “you should really close your blinds”

But you’re smarter than that. You know that it’ll make you lose all you’re money. You’ll become a drunk, resent your family, leave your spouse, leave your kids, live alone, and loose who you were. Well, at least, what you thought you always were.

Hell, while you’re at it, you’ll loose your job too. And you know well enough that you’ll spend that last pay check on the rent and enough booze to kill any forty three year old. You’ll lock yourself in your room until your landlord comes knocking, you’ll tell him that you’ve just got a new job and the money for rent will be by the end of a few weeks. Buying you enough time to sell your furniture, leaving town after tossing everything you cant pawn off or shove in a bag.

You know you’ll have few bus tickets to make it to Wisconsin where you’re brother lives. But you know wont make it. You’ll end up in Ohio, or something. Sleeping in a hotel with the money you got from selling your couch. 

And with the money you sold your lamps and end tables for, you know you’ll buy enough booze to last you longer than you can afford the hotel. You’ll stay as long as you can, pack up and go through the phone book and your memory, trying to find out if you know anyone you can bum a couch off of.

But you know you wont find one. You know you’ll sleep on the street, not daring to spend your endtable money on hotel when there are perfectly ripe bottles of low end fortified wine to buy. You’ll like the living, because its summer, and you dont have to pay taxes. But as the bottles of Mad Dog go away, you’ll find out that you have no more money. You’ll see that it is winter outsize and it is cold. You’re shivering, looking at the dirt under your nails. You’ll lose your pride and start asking for change. Eventually you’ll be able to get a forty ounce. You’ll drink it faster than you should, but it’ll taste like water. Just not as nourishing as a bottle of Mad Dog. You’ll lie there, dying, starving, when no one else is chucking dimes and nickels your way. It takes you a week to get enough money for a bagel. But you die alone.

But it isn’t poetry’s fault. It isn’t the whores fault. It isn’t that guy that didn’t toss you a quarter’s fault. And I may even go as far to say it isn’t your fault. But hell, it all sure beats not living. It sure beats never getting the balls to do at least one of them. And I dont think you ever really live until you do.


A thank you letter that sat at your door for a day 

Apr 1st at 11AM / tagged: love. poetry. sick. NaPoMo. / 0 notes

Thanks for getting me sick

you whore

getting sick, swapping spit

yeah

yeah

I wish

In my dreams

go to sleep

go to sleep

grateful morning


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