thirty summer

carving words out of willows

Jazz in May #2

The piano starts
simple with a tune like a sonnet.
The Rythm goes ratta-tat-tat
like a mild thunder rolling across
the western sky
in late June or was it early July?
And the bass bends and twists low-
heavy low- clean and clitched.
It’s the pianos song now anyway.

It rittles the air with tremolo
and they let it flow, slow and blow-
then aw- awah- wah-wah.
The main game plan for the main man
converge and for the first time
we hear the song as it was meant to be heard
like seeing the earth from space
and thinking yeah,
it’s a wonderful place
and then it eases up.
All the way to the top.

As the brush beats the skins and the toms
vibrate warmly
we hear the keys swell again
and I can’t help but know
I am part of this
dirty beat
trippy and smooth
smoke-filled
dark room,
some downtown club jam skat to that man
and it ends
as softly as it began.

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This is my soul melting,
wilting from love
and wilting
from
fingers pounding on broken
piano keys.
It’s the last common thought
I have before full insanity
gives in.

It’s sanctuary
felt in every touch
and
every word.

It’s tranquility of
candlelight
and the acrid
perfume
of
infection.

It’s my poetry
dancing in books,
on pages,
in safe places
and over sunsets and burning
hells.

This is my soul
and it has been spilt
on the carpet
and thrown away like
dead love letters
and old memoirs being sold
out of people’s garages
in synthetic cities.

It’s been captivated
obliterated,
tolerated,
excavated,
confiscated,
eradicated,
syncopated
and
worn out.

This is my soul
like White Zinfandel
being
spilt on the carpet.

Here’s to Armageddon

There is nothing more to say
after the world
dies
but for
a fail-safe,
i can say that
it looks like
I will enjoy
at least one more hangover
and at least
one more smoke from
my pipe.
Here’s to Armageddon.

Haunting me like sunsets

Fornication
of one’s mind
so sweetly deafening
to drive a man
from the fuck pump
of paralysis.
“Leave me in
this open gash
state of solitude,”
she said.
A beatnik
now probably dead
from overdose
at 2:37 in the morning.
Left with love
stained on her eyes
and streaking down her cheeks
into puddles of nothing
on her pillow.
Pump it
like that-
into the vein
and fill that void
with sinuet fantasies
and leave the starving
to hunger
for something
else
besides, wasted, rotting flesh.

Midnight marching madness

It was midnight marching madly
in empty asylums.

It was dead flowers
pressed against the cheeks of
children turning to
dust.

Today
the angels crept and the demons wept and catastrophe slept
in my head.

I spent too many hours
dying today
yet cancer seems to be
shy,
in dark rooms and under steel beds
like preposterous stories
of closed-minded prostitution.

Sick love hides well
to cover failing and broken hearts.
It tastes like suicide
in the wanton and gratuitous dreams,
the dreams that don’t seem worth waking from.

Yesterday is dead,
buried like so many tear-less memoirs
and lost like moonless nights.

People love like plagues on television
and burn out their souls like profanity
scraping dryly
across
the sorrowful skies
in senseless hopes that tomorrow will bring light
and today will fail to be another
half-healed wound.

I will die with my love
kept solemnly over my depreciating heart
and life will die with me
and the night will still have its shadows
and the whore will still have her bitter libido
and the ax will swing toward the mark.

I will die with my love
kept solemnly over my depreciating heart.
and when I die
the gods will laugh.

today
the angels
crept and
the demons
wept and
catastrophe slept
in my head.

The ice melts as society sleeps somberly

All the people
I know well
in my life
are killing time
with the knives and guns
they know best
and I sit
in my depression
watching the ice
melt
in my drink.

There are those
that are absorbed
in chaos
slamming their
souls
against the manic music
of the night
endlessly
hopelessly
carnivorously
saintly.

There are those
alone
in their bedrooms
crying over
misunderstood
love
and pain
that I cannot begin
to understand.
Along and desperate
for the hand
that I cannot give
for it hurts too much
right now.
There are those so
beautiful
angelic
innocent
melancholic
saintly.

There are those
confined
to the present
as a result of the past
over grandfather
suicides
and vindictive
monetary mongrels
of times that no longer
exist
and will never exist again.
There are those
that share the same blood
and imprints as I do
and stand as a victim
to a victim
and do nothing but
write endlessly
to sedate emotions
and rid themselves
of vile thoughts and
premonitions.
They cry without
tears of sirens
and live the next day
to the best
of their ability.
these are the souls
that are now only numbers
yet they are
locked into the system
bravely
uniquely
heroically
idiosyncratically*
saintly.

There are those
that eat the night
with salt and dreams
and that cannot handle
the poisons
that I enjoy
and will never handle
what I am through
artistic
individuality
yet though
this is relevant
I still love them so
and with that known
I know I will die with
their love
for they know not
what I am
yet they return
the gift of life
with the fickle appetite
to show their love.
They seem to dream my dreams
and kill my death
and every moment I am awake
I hold in my heart
the thought that
these lovers
of love that will forever
include my unholy existence
are non-the-less
romantically
unconquerable
radically
unimaginably
saintly.

And there are those
that honor
their companions
in ways that
will never
be fully understood
or appreciated
And for these poor souls
there is nothing left
for them but
to be the ones
who fill in the empty
spaces of redemption
for a closed society
that will forever be
under the assumption
that these latter
beings are
saintly.

Reflections and reflections and reflections and reflections

I see it in the streets
and I taste it in every cup of coffee,
I fee lit whenever I type my words
and hear it on the lips of every lost soul in the world.

Pain is the most precious emotion
because it really lets you know
that you are truly alive
and that you have lost,
one way or another.

Mother’s milk,
needles and dirty razor blades,
tooth-filled smiles,
a child in a temper tantrum in the middle of the grocery store,
abortion clinics with protesters and their fire bombs,
suicide notes with tears wrinkling the pages,
eye sores when you wake up because you know you have lost,
reflections and reflections and reflections and reflections.

We see it in our mirrors and we see it
in the faces of those we loved and those we thought we loved.
We taste it on the flesh of whores
and we smell it in hotels and churches.
We eat it every day
and
everything has pain.
Some of us just can’t see it for what it is,
but then again,
some of us learned how to play pretend.

Swords with no blades

We carry swords with
no blades,
our love is a dozen knives
that we call a bouquet.

We fall for suicide in a red dress
and on our death beds
we give
all our regards to the living
who are too maniacal and
narcissistic to live.

We live selfless lies and wear synthetic eyes
and hide our mouths behind roses,
roses that wilt, roses that are replaced.

Lost by the days and weeks
we etch words into our minds
like headlines for the front page of impudence and depression
sold on the naked streets of Hollywood Suburbia.

Fate rests parasitic
on the red skin of rusty, bloody nails.

January comes.
December goes.
People wake every morning.
Some make it through the day.
Some become poets,
some become carpenters and some, vandals.
Some die too soon in car wrecks, others too late in dark allies.
Some of them make what they want of their lives.
Others live downtown and under bridges.
Children dream of things, which they will forget.
Girls will want to get married and have 2 kids.
Boys will become astronauts and firefighters,
police officers and movie stars.
Nobody wants to grow old and die.
Nobody wants to forget how to love…

January comes and December goes.
Some people make it through the naked streets of Hollywood Suburbia.
We are day old words.
We are day old faces.
We smoke to much and hardly say, “I love you.”
We stand wounded at Catastrophe’s doorstep
waiting for an answer.
Tomorrow, we will wake up in empty beds and crowded houses.
We’ll kill each other just a little bit more
and wipe salt in our wounds to remember that we are still here
and not there.
We will find somebody else to cheat on, someone who cares less than the last,
and we will go home after work or school or soliciting or loitering
and with our swords with no blades,
we will let our blood spill from our wrists in cold bathtubs
and welcome the night sky once again
like
fate resting, parasitic,
on the red skin of rusty, bloody nails.

Angel Sky

There’s no beauty left here,
just the desecrated bowels
of peppermint lips
and the misery sung through
keystrokes and the sound
more like gun smoke now
and [the] last palpable feeling
that we once
owned the angel sky.

The dreams here
were washed ashore
many years ago
and now only driftwood
may find the comfort
of a soul not yet
trapped in tear-choked
despair.

The driftwood is angel wings.

Misery danced
my soul through Heaven and Hell
and the muse mused
upon the world misspelled
and I cursed my lassitude
and damned my hands
and wore the wounds
like the pride of every other man.

It is my art and it is my divine
right to die by my swords
yet I cannot stand a witness to
a suicide that cannot exist.

The scriptures are gutted
and the pale moon cries
the warriors are all mute
and the world is Achilles.
I am the mistress in bedrooms
with the sheets covering lust
and the dynasty
is carved out of heart-ache and love

and

the driftwood is angel wings.

A portrait painted,
a story told,
a man ridden wild
and a girl too young to know.
The demons share their secrets
and the judges lay the gavels.
Tomorrows challenged by philosophy.
The death of God on Sunday.
What makes my grave hollow and hallow?
What ruins your tears?
What stands Hell-bound for redemption
and what kills lovers for love?

Words kill the words
but
driftwood is angel wings.