Not at all what I feel this Christmas but still a poem

Your esophagus burns
this Christmas eve,
wondering where it all
went so sour.

Loneliness is a
paycheck,
cashed.

Kandinsky's Pyramid

The arts are encroaching one upon another, and from a
proper use of this encroachment will rise the art that is truly
monumental. Every (whoa)man who steeps himself in the spiritual
possibilities of his art is a valuable helper in the building of
the spiritual pyramid which will some day reach to heaven.

What I shoulda wrote in the City

I’m drowning like Staten Island

Ferry during Hurricane Sandy, self-

Deprecation not as bad as emotional

Wreckage, Woody Allen knows that

New York has some baggage.

But you got some baggage too,

Look at your eyes. You’re running from

It, she cares so much ‘cos she thinks

That actions make people. I think

She’s wrong. People make people,

Action only makes reaction, meanwhile

Thought poisoned by this charade,

“yes, mom, I’m fine.”

No, you’re not. Lying only prolongs

Everything, and what makes a person

Isn’t action or other people but the

Thoughts inside your head, the feelings

In your heart. I hope you and her

Will work things out, for everyone’s sake.

Cheers

scramble nixon bison lichen
shamble tasers misers fighters
ramble blue balled weights in gold
inertia sold to those who uphold
the absolute power of boredom.

its claws work magic via television,
vicariously bicuriously swimming
in the sea of DirecTV, swimming
in the sea of ghetto-fabulous,
swimming in the sea of mindless
mindfulness, swimming in the
seas of your eyes.

Shop Macy's 48 hour sale. Introducing
dog toothpaste. New season starring
Stephen Seagal. And now, back
to Cheers!

A Hindu once told me about two
birds in a tree branch. One bird is
reaching for fruit, the fruit of the world;
the other only watching.

Now the question arises-- do we
do, or do we watch? Which is
right? You tell me.

Dinner served cold

Firsts

Jelly on the table,
hands on the floor,
eating your feet,
and you want more!

Your face a
burnt apricot,
my lips saying
"this is what I got."


Seconds

Farewell to dreams,
I bid you farewell,
a poem a day
comes out of its shell.


Thirds

Whistle a tune,
be happy, don't worry,
For you know that
God makes a mean curry.

"The snow falls,
each in its appropriate
place."

Falcon Kafka

"Do you not realize you are in the land of the dead?”asks Francis.

Kid stares. Thunder booms around him.

“Look around you,” Francis points. Kid does so. He looks before this forsaken desert, cold and unrewarding. Crags sweep through, signs of water long ago, humongous towers of limestone, fingers that reach up to the gray, cloud-blanked sky. Kid takes this in for a second before he sees Francis walk off, toward a group of thunderheads, dark violet and full of flashes of lightning. Thunderous balls of air clash together, making a falsetto boom. Before Kid's eyes he sees Francis shift forms, from a dark-eyed bureaucrat in a black suit and tie, greased hair, and Czech accent to a pair of naked legs, a loin cloth and golden bronze torso. His arms are covered in feathers, placed carefully, layers upon layers, with coats of wax. His head, Guy sees, is the head of a Falcon, with the same dark eyes.

“Francis! Kid yells. “Francis!”

In the same Czech accent, “I must leave now.”

“Wait. Where are you going?”

“When you first met me, I was just an insurance agent. Now, now I see. I have seen too much, Kid.” And with that, Kid sees Francis fly away, his arms flapping to take a current of wind into the storm, leaving Kid sinking into the sand.

“Where am I going?”

“You are a cage without a bird.” Francis remarks. “I am now a bird without a cage."

Kid watches in his direction, and notices the campsite, the wind blowing fabulously tough, as Kid feels an oncoming wave of sand wash over him. Kid becomes lost in the sea as it makes its way past all life. This sandstorm takes Kid into the desert darkness, where he loses consciousness for a time.

Kid wakes to the footstep of a camel upon his head. He digs himself out of the sand and sees this camel as without rider, but with saddle, so Kid takes hold upon the sack of the camel, and is dragged along the dunes.

Shang-ri La Road, Phoenix, AZ 7:34pm
Saturday December 15th,
FM 88.3, just rained, choir music and
I can't wait for the day when I can
say, "yeah, I've been there."

Inner turmoil-- when food has no
taste and the world is in grayscale,
everything floating so you carve out
of your day to day moments of silence,
of peace, attempts to make things better.

A bird on the porch.
Orange and pink across the late afternoon sky.
Movie-goers.
Watching holiday shoppers.
Other generations had the Vietnam War, Desert
Storm, Charles Manson.
Mine has public shootings.
What's goin' on?

Compass moral north points

ego satisfactions south points ego-

lessness, tho if you're william

s burroughs you pronounce it

(eggo)lessness.

East is Athens, where the Parthenon

crumbles. West is Jerusalem,

where the cross is fumbled.

I'm all too comfortable grumbling

about the rumblings of my spiritual

stomach, left of center but without

vertical standing.

I see now the contours
on this wide road into
hell.

"The Lord is my Shepherd"

I am a shepherd without a flock,

a comet without a trail,
fire without smoke,
a ship without a sail.

Or maybe I'm a sail without a ship,
a direction without a vessel,
an engine without a plane,
a bridge without its trestle.

Or maybe I'm a pen with fresh ink,
waiting for the Nile when it floods,
'til then, exercising word banks
and drawing vials of my blood.

Lorca Christ

Boy approaches the mystic from Galilee.
'You will go west, boy, to fetch for me
a tooth from the mighty iguana who lives there.
Remember that the iguana bites those who
do not dream.'

Wednesday Koan

There is no

truth outside

the Gates

of Gethsemane.

The Mystery is

alive.

This dog stretches

and wraps itself

in a circle.

November Seventh

Hey now, don't despair, the carnival clown show isn't over

yet, you just gotta let it go sometimes, The Dude Abides somewhere

in us all, in me anyway and I'm no frigging alien. At least, not inside.

The Master Game might be living the early morning, said to

be (divine) by Emerson. Aside, sunshine mimes touch,

even if its contact between me and my dog, his name's Zorro, me and god.

Me and you, owl-minded you, on the rocks over a California

coastline rugged on a perilous trail in the hot sun, or maybe me and you in my queen-sized staring at the ceiling or the television watching Spongebob Squarepants.

The Dude Abides, circumference-building like Magellen to the Philippines,

circles sacred to those who believe in the sun, but this Vegas

sunshine dips me in lead paint and takes me out of this game.

I'll be glad when it's over. Not me and you, mind you, snowy

barn owl you, but this giant Dostoevsky novel starring clowns,

sad, sad clowns. You, however, I want the moments we had to last forever.

Hey, we had some good times! And in my opinion, more to come! If

we can jump over hurdles like racing dogs, the ones Bukowski

used to bet on (tho he bet on horses, didn't he?)

Even if we aren’t any of the above I can hope cus the only thing I know

how to do is write poems and hide my face in naivety, of whom has been

so good to me in the past.

You may be in Oregon but I can't stop thinking

Older brother Abe, off in your own,

I trust the universe brings us together

again. Built a fire for you today,

brothaman, in the Arizona empty.

Hope you're well.

I'mma Jackson Pollock your face with this poem!111!!!!
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sdc,/a,

gibberbrash the jellyfish out on the lawn,

in and out in out in out til the cream

creams ocean water bath Jerry fix the sink! splatter adjectives with calculus

kinkade astrophysics with infinitives and paint.

Leading lead labors liters pitching tents in Liverpool, nonsense

is sense in a sense. more than one sense, really.

Thus sprake  virtuoso,

ossef.

Brahsef.