I had a date with Bukowski.
No change for coffee,
So I brought him the piss awful stuff from the faculty room.

He either didn't mind
Or couldn't tell the difference
He wouldn't stop talking.

He spoke to me in the back of my pickup truck,
Taught me things
While America's youth suffered inside without me.

It was all very romantic.
I went home, took a shit,
And wrote a poem.

i want to talk cost

i want
to find my arms without him

i
want
him

clenched,
a fish on a dock
weighing its wants

poetry
has
its
costs

beneath easy gleam
nests a network of need

speak
breathe

speak
breathe

speak
breathe

looming network of nerves
need
beneath easy gleam

Hey WHAT'S UUUPPPPPP!

You ALL BLOW MY MIND! Spring!!!

UNBELIEVABLE!

~*Rabbit

luncheon

there has got to be a foward-flowing thrust.
even if the ceiling fan dissuades this stagnation.

my feet float above the floor
and the flowers fall like rain
and furniture spins and dances
like fingers strumming a violin
strung from the moon
my joy knows no gravity
my joy knows no gravity
my joy knows no gravity

shreds

i find myself in two separate dreams:
a green room
plush and fresh
abundant, clean, concise
embellished by plants
and creatures of the wild,
melodic with the beat
of nature and harmony,
smelling sweet of grapes and passion,
unruly but donning a mask of reckoning
organized with the rhythm of my life
and the life of one other,
flowing together through the written
words
of our favorite authors.
the other vision
deep and red,
dripping with the blood of desire,
yet dry with the air of resistance
having been created by two beings,
each with thoughts similar
but repelling like the opposing poles of
pride.
weakness allows indulge
in a glance at one another
every now and then
longingly
wanting to touch
and feel
and be inside.
[the toughness of the strong animal
being sliced
and picked apart,
pulled back-exposed
is excruciating
yet most satisfying.]
at once when the sun falls
and drags the guards down with it
the floor ignites
and the red turns ablaze
through their defeat.

we muster and fuss,
makeshift,
stuck
in umbrellas and loves,
in musings,
in musts.

The day is the color of oxidized copper
And the warm wind is turning you on
And over
To stretch and arch your back
Slowly rolling muscles
In your stomach and shoulders
See
The red rocks break open
Only for the purple flowers
And you can smell things growing
And wet wood
With birdsong and creek babble
What a good day your having

Floating in twenty something land
With beer, music
A cat and a room mate
Like floating
In a tidal pool
That’s warm and changing

What a strange vacation
And how things are always changing
And it doesn’t bother
Because I haven’t realized
Fully yet
That I’m getting older
Letting the water hold me

And feeling rather free
To roll about carelessly in sand
Or bed sheets
Or bank statements

Because I don’t know
Fully yet
What “having time” really means
Letting the water hold me

adrianna
flicks her cigarette
to often
cuz her soul gets nervous
in pleasant conversation
but the moon
always catches
her lips just right

the winter's been cruel
to light spirits
and wet eyes

to the exhaust manifold of the midnight smooth
to caravans of wandering chilren
to the hearts of women
to poets, drunk with clenched fists and heavey smiles
to stock brokers, pullin their coats tighter
to truck drivers

thankfully the frost has melted
and the wind feels
right
again

warm nights
pass the air across my skin
lightly
as i smoke my cigarettes
on the brick stoops
of houses

and thats when the whole of samsara
doesn't simply look beautiful

it tastes and smells and feels and sounds
with all the wild textures
of perfection

like its swallowing me

supertramp

alex,
you were a saint
and yr eyes and smile
in that self portrait
with the "magic" bus
rusting
as the backdrop
show
the dream and the power
of freedom

i hear all these
prophetic words
like fireside and primordial
of a world amongst
the gravel sides of ghostly rushing roads
and wide open
ness

and i have to wonder if that dream
still breaths

or if it has become
just crystaline myth
all unchanging
in memory
now

or if the American Road is still a wild thing
filled with tramps

sometimes it all seems unlikely

panic unknown yet and racing
and i beneath
this 900 lb statue
of knig neptune
falling

then

next to a towering
faith healer
in the dual engine sesna
with the holy rockies
reclining and sprawling
below

to live just one life
which crosses paths
with both rollercoasters and witch doctors
spitting sugar cane whiskey and blessings
with poets and proffessionals

with dreams all etheral
and concrete, slow and hard

sometimes it all seems unlikely

to be blessed

Trains

I always lived by the train.
went to school next to the tracks
and rode my bike along them
to the rail yard and
the eerie yellow lights and
concrete platform
and names carved jagged
into to the benches

then moved north
and the station was just upstairs
and when it rained
water would run down the stone walls
would smell musty

and the train would take me north,
or I would fall asleep drunk
and it would take
me too far south

and now I can see the
Long Branch train yard
from my window

which is good
because I'm a poet
and trains make good metaphors

i'm sittin on a trian
pt to asbury again
5 stops there
high school kids
fresh off the beach
all shinny sun-screened
hop on and on
not off
but on and on
aways on and on...and on on on
until the whole damn car
is sardined and seeping
with girls
not women
girls
all chat chat chatting
and seriously
there are hundreds of them
squishing in
and they all know each other
so i ask one
a pretty blond
their destination
the PNC Arts center
...a Tom Petty concert

and I'm the pop culture casualty

listening to records in the art gallery

we dance on paint splattered floors
painting the rhythm of our feet
our bodies move together
the way a paint brush glides
across canvas

our chemistry
in red acrylic

first speed -
weeks
the speaking in dreams

next precision -
the teachings

then the days like petals -

yours

yours is a china dream
inside a dirty box
inside shiny tape
you ought to gnaw through the package
tear it open, make it food
smash your china dream to dust
and run

what are you still doing here

jibittY OH YEAH i'm laced with toxins and i like the way i smell like innocence. she ought to be a little less descrete. i'm still amazed that it all became a cluster fuck. i didn't have it in me to scream.

Springtime is a fucking cocktease.
Summer is worse.

My sweater
Fairly reeking of your perfume
Found behind a couch cushion
And my cigarettes
Always shared
Lead me to wonder
If perhaps
I shouldn’t reach
A little further
And ask
For help
Or more simply
Ask
What the hell is going on here

Only one hour left
And I thought
That I would be out of this bar
Unscathed
And then he leaned up and said

“Is that a mirror in your pocket?
Because I can see myself in your pants”

I was drunk
And feeling rather surly
So I said

“No… no that’s just a really shiny bear trap.”
And left
Wearing the worlds smuggest smile.

fuck

i'm tired you see, i don't know. i'm out of terrificly splendid ideas for making you smile.
shut up. i'm a gasoline fueled explosion of what the fuck was he thinking. don't try too hard babe, i'm relaxing in a trash bag waiting for the truck to take me to the rest of the rubbish. throw me out and i'm looking for more like this. just a rebound player from the under skin. got a bug in my head saying take it apart and i'm fine just fine. one little mouse says its okay to feel in a world full of questions im looking for more than answers, thats a trip, a ride on today. right now i'm thinking of drugs i use to take and pains i use to feel. i like all this sullen garbage with a few gallons of screaming guitars and broken glass. just a sore throat away from the end of the middle. and i'm looking to never end up you.

If you want to write poems about women
Stop writing
You're pretty much writing about yourselves

We are the same eyes and knees and shoulders and hands
The same bruises
Every now and then someone puts a bottle in your hand and looks at you

The world is otherwise the same
Lush and bleak and never quite home
We're both poets, let it go.

i will not receive proper questioning
i will not be summed or summoned
my curt greed will take chances
a searing rift to bridge,
i will demand bandages,
ribs -

We circle

We cicle, work,
And work on circles
Nearly crime,
This maze of manic ills
Impeccably aligned.

Crisp beads to carry
Too many left yet
To keep the cords clean
Their tense anxious mass
Keeps tangling my hands.

Strings to pick apart and chew,
Time to tame and temper,
All those orbs to move
You shiver, tighten, pick up speed,
Unfurl and reach for fresh machines.

What will we deliver
But ragged nerves and meager green?
These spheres are squalor, let's lay them aside
Miles of skin still
Tender, blind.

Pink

Are these returning birds?
Spindle prints and glints in the dark
My throat, filled with new air, aches
My hands and feet bound and unbound
My sick skin pink with wine and cold

Williams' Mechanical Bulls

I can see our friend
William S.
hunched over the pedestal
talkin' bout
gravity
and love
and always
mechanical bulls

and Brownstone
finding the longest
darkest roads
wishing us luck
in our journeys
throwing his head back
laughing mad
at the night

I can see
Grayson
stumbling down
narrow pub hallways
and back alleys
to take a piss
always showin' us
and tellin' it
like it is

Ed's at the diner
and Fisher's on the road
convulsing in
nameless hotel rooms
somewhere in the west

and the countless faces
and names
that it takes
to start a movement
or a cult
can be found in
all night diners
and stranger bars with
all of Williams'
mechanical bulls

I welcome the hand fans
and thin blankets
I see on the horizon.

I gather the treats
Clean cups for lemonade
And chill watermelons

And long desperately
For the company
To share these indulgences

When I looked up springs skirt
I noticed she was wearing summers panties
But I only personify out of need

Because time feels unknowable
And if that makes no sense
Let me make less

Time ends too soon
And leaves nothing behind

Like a dream had
During a warm afternoon nap

It is the perfect crime

Happy National Library Week, Kids!

I am crouching over the flute
its body lying in my hands
fingers paralyzed, not touching the keys

I am unmotivated
falling short
one note short of the chord
one string short of an instrument
one musician short of a band

Music needs to flow through
the veins of my body
flow straight to the beat of
my heart
so my heart could squeeze
up against the front of my ribcage
pushing me
telling me to play my song

I have to move
move toward that source
move toward that sound
move toward that rythmn
that allow my fingers
to feel the keys
give me motivation
play my song

I'm spinning
moving
falling faster than my hands
alive
the ground begs for me
I'm solid
with thick spit
and my heart heaves
slamming on the front of me
alive
shaking
sight blurred
bleeding
but just enough to love it
alive

She

She chooses wolves
Lines them up like glass
She lets them choose her and chew at her lack
They abuse form and reason, all reckless and rash
She chooses illusion and polishes glass

walls are mans way of saying hey stop lookking at my insides

i got a mixed message from a woman who eats emotional salads with balsamic vinegrete.
oh the colors she vomits when she's speaking to me about the death of passion and the purpose of peace.
just a letter i wrote that said go if you must but you've got my number if your hungry or lost

i was an abstract painting of
Johnson Park

you
wanted a photograph

5:47am

i drive down the highway
contemplating
trying to reach a destination
come to a conclusion

the fog gets denser
down the road
and it's really hard to see
the sunrise
through all those clouds

Split

Today I twist myself until I snap
Split open
My insides raw and loathsome, old dough
I twist, snap, and call it dance

In a city full of beards and shields
I stand
In cellophane dress
Cold

Everything around here yellows and tears
A cancerous pool
Sick fruit and abandon
These fools upon fools

all the ways

from a sunny balcony with a picturesque panoramic view in Russian Hill

from a staple stoop where birds sing their hearts out all day long in Alamo Square

from a fire escape where NYC eludes to be just blocks away in Lower Pac Heights

from the back alley entrance way perfumed with sweet olfactory essences in Lower Haight

from a comfortable greasy spoon cafe that caters to all senses, destroying hangovers, and feeding the soul for under 10 dollars on Divisidaro

from the 12 galaxies of a dark windowless bar that hosts local bands where on any given night you can find a friend and the drinks are always stiff in the Mission

from an occasionally shady bus stop in the jazz district where the trees that line the street are lit up perpetually on holiday, where footsteps sound like saxophones and the history is as thick as the locals are black on Fillmore

from the window across from an ethnic mural on a secret street cornered by the Beat Museum and the first strip club in the area to go topless so many years past, where the ghosts of Kerouac and Cassidy laugh in the seediness of night over slices of pizza in North Beach

from the front room with double doors and lavender bedding in a house, on the outside, identical to every other one on the block, where the fog lingers longer and the breeze is salty in the Richmond

from my seat on the grass behind me a DJ plays while an eclectic group of beings flared out drunk and smiling playing slosh ball (kickball+beer) watching the frothy spray shine in the sunlight as they slip and slide from base to base in Golden Gate Park

from the entrance of the BART amongst the hustle and bustle, towering buildings, abundant beggars, street vendors, mass transit, business suits, and brand name outlets of Downtown

I love this city

A Warm Kind of Gray

I feel like something I think
A person who trims orchids might feel like trimming orchids
Where the furniture is a warm gray
And everything is clean

And not
Not right now

Like the way a person who wears bruises well would feel like when receiving them
Where the sky is getting lighter
And the gray is cold

on the sand

Wet salty cool air
Has a way
Of making me assume
All my delusions
Have some founding
Down here in the clouds

I water the fern
And the geckos
And the kitteh
And stumble around
The internet
Getting closer and closer
To the future

Once and for all

I’m throwing out this handset
Once and for all
To a cordless phone
We never owned anyway
Because so many things
And people
Just hang around this place
Collecting dust
And bottles in our only corners

My Angels

when i am low
bottom of the trough
dirt in my lungs
rotting
like neglected fruit

when i am so low
only earthworms and anglers
greet me in the morning
that never really comes anyway
for i sleep through it
because the cold and the pain
rarely permeate my profuse dreaming
so low a smiles a burden

when i am that low
angels come to me
without warning
and wake me
lighting my heart
and lifting me up

they never say or do much
or present themselves as such
they leave as abruptly as they appear
they are discreet
and i have yet to encounter one
wearing white

but they sure do fucking shine!
and it's aways undeniable
that i've been touched,
looked after,
by the renewed hope in my heart
and the tears
washing the dirt from my face

my angels
are cab drivers
of all ethnicities
overflowing with wisdom
and drifters crippled
bearing honesty and kindness
in it's PUREST
my angels are quick and beautiful
and when i am low
they change my life
every time

that peacoat in your closet
always
catches my eye
the one you always wore when i was a child
its 50's style
the way it weighed you down
because it was a size too big
you wore that ugly coat
without confidence or style
its musty smell
combined with old cheap perfume
still embedded in its fibers

the coat always reminds me
of that night dad picked you up from nyc
i was lying across the white seat
in the back of that rusty toyota
"aqualung" blasted in the background
while you and dad sat
silently and cold
your eyes heavy
from the tears
the lies
the guilt
finally revealed
the decision to separate
my eyes wide and intrigued by the city lights
not knowing what was really going on

the peacoat remained in your closet
since that night
you had bought a new coat
one with style
one that fit
one you wore with confidence
and your eyes were radiant
eyes i inherited

22 years later
i wear musty old clothes from thrift stores
longing to be in the city

Act One
scene one:

woke up
thought well fuck,
the night had killed me
I died dreaming
the light and sheets and ceiling
white like heaven would be
and soundless
like purgatory
I roll around a bit
it's comfy
clouds or pillows
engulf me
then I feel you
warm beside me
the fog lifts
with my eyelids


Act One
scene two:

make strong tea
of the Chinese variety
love please
I'll smoke cigarettes
on your porch
while the dark haired woman
on the rooftop
of the building
across the street
tells (yells to) me about
her illness
and her kitten
and it's stitches
you invite her over
she just wants a soda
root beer or ginger ale?
we turn our heads
she disappears

when you stop to think
you should hurry up and start again
make every decision based on the breakfast you ate in 1972
all th elimo drivers in all the world and you had to walk into mine
sunsets are pretty and homelessness abundant
but i'm tired of fake smiles and white zinfindel
give me the rude crude bastard child of rock and roll and crooket teeth with fist marked faces
where cigs are 7 dollars and gas is as expensive as milk
where the lights illuminate something worth looking at and where you can get in a fight at a bar with a stranger cause he spilled your beer on your cleanest pair of dirty pants