Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Monday, July 07, 2008
Yvon Cormier
Yvon Cormier writes from an insatiable nomadic intelligence which obsesses over what is unsaid and the seemingly invisible aspects of daily life. His work is rooted in drawing life pictures where words owe a greater debt to what they represent rather than the reverse.
He has been published in Long River Run, 2007, The Diarist's Journal, Oct. 2002, and in Covert Press # 2 (in print & online), Nibble a poetry magazine, and Heroin Love Songs. His chapbook of Jazz & Blues influenced poetry & prose is titled Life Sketches in Blue (Select Edition)[D/E/A/D/B/E/A/T/ Press].
Yellow Paint
Canary sunset on white sand stolen from the goddess of a tropical island
Mango banana light layered on this abode, layers brushed by many hands.
Silence exudes from this lemon surface with empty windows wide,
split clapboard showing bottomless slits where paint never hid,
pillows untouched on an empty bed. A chimney with no smoke and
a train track where trains never stop.
A porter with memories of that same house when it was blue
A tale not told of raw rum, smoky light, slurred notes, and mason jar gin,
sipped through sloppy grins. Gumbo perfumes intoxicated minds and hearts,
with a thirst in spiritual lust. Candles dwindled while lovers kindled.
All before dawn having to run out back to not get shot leaving the Sugar shack-
as lemonade gin fizz spilled down the steps.
A framed matting with three spotted feathers on a wall in the back hall hung
by a person no one knew who hung those same feathers from a hunting trip,
to commemorate this as a train stop.
No new soul will ever know the three feather ceremony, the juke joint scramble,
the porter whose mind rambled reminiscing of brighter times from blue days or
the brightness outside concealing the darkest brilliance inside. These were exceptional
moments of impermanence.
As birds inflect their clarinet warble and throaty rattled speech, the train whistle blows
and shakes the earth, the shack a clamor as the Metro North rolls on.
Cracked as a clay riverbed, a yellow once risen soaked into hungry walls where
amber tints remain. By night the Milwaukee Special rests in stockyards of Mexico.
Only its ghost light steams past this quiet cobalt friend, this now hollow sunflower dwelling, in the forever night.
Introductions
Compelled by excitement of our shared experience, you tell your family of me, while I sit quietly scanning a response, perhaps an acknowledgment that I really exist. To them I am an abstraction, a mere anecdote at the dinner table, something to wonder about but never tangible.
As I sit questions come from them as though I could whip out a resume of hipness and things that might spark approval in their eyes. Here I sit like a lion caged behind blue eyes, being poked and prodded for signs of life, only entertainment to them based on potential, a figment of cartoon expectations and all seen are reduced to a caricature. A former self I’ve felt but never met.
Reduced to a shaggy beast who swats flies with his tail, and only wants water rather than a few last minute zoo-goers, mocking him by poor imitation and gesture. Their foolish attempts to incite response nearly compelled my reaction.
There are those situations one finds oneself in where people act out the role of who they think you are and summon predictable responses. You’ll go back to those times of childhood even as an old man-- you’ll always be your mothers’ baby. These reflections were safe only for a few moments.
The “Family” in front of me tailored questions which demanded direct interaction. They were unavoidable. At unawares, they bore fangs of friendship, to see what makes me tick. Like the forever child, I felt compelled to give this family what they thought they wanted. At the same time, part of me resisted becoming the dancing monkey and my friends’ kind words about me acted like the grinders’ clarinet.
The regal mane and golden fur were all still here just without attached meaning by these family members because I was still king of a jungle they would never know.
He has been published in Long River Run, 2007, The Diarist's Journal, Oct. 2002, and in Covert Press # 2 (in print & online), Nibble a poetry magazine, and Heroin Love Songs. His chapbook of Jazz & Blues influenced poetry & prose is titled Life Sketches in Blue (Select Edition)[D/E/A/D/B/E/A/T/ Press].
Yellow Paint
Canary sunset on white sand stolen from the goddess of a tropical island
Mango banana light layered on this abode, layers brushed by many hands.
Silence exudes from this lemon surface with empty windows wide,
split clapboard showing bottomless slits where paint never hid,
pillows untouched on an empty bed. A chimney with no smoke and
a train track where trains never stop.
A porter with memories of that same house when it was blue
A tale not told of raw rum, smoky light, slurred notes, and mason jar gin,
sipped through sloppy grins. Gumbo perfumes intoxicated minds and hearts,
with a thirst in spiritual lust. Candles dwindled while lovers kindled.
All before dawn having to run out back to not get shot leaving the Sugar shack-
as lemonade gin fizz spilled down the steps.
A framed matting with three spotted feathers on a wall in the back hall hung
by a person no one knew who hung those same feathers from a hunting trip,
to commemorate this as a train stop.
No new soul will ever know the three feather ceremony, the juke joint scramble,
the porter whose mind rambled reminiscing of brighter times from blue days or
the brightness outside concealing the darkest brilliance inside. These were exceptional
moments of impermanence.
As birds inflect their clarinet warble and throaty rattled speech, the train whistle blows
and shakes the earth, the shack a clamor as the Metro North rolls on.
Cracked as a clay riverbed, a yellow once risen soaked into hungry walls where
amber tints remain. By night the Milwaukee Special rests in stockyards of Mexico.
Only its ghost light steams past this quiet cobalt friend, this now hollow sunflower dwelling, in the forever night.
Introductions
Compelled by excitement of our shared experience, you tell your family of me, while I sit quietly scanning a response, perhaps an acknowledgment that I really exist. To them I am an abstraction, a mere anecdote at the dinner table, something to wonder about but never tangible.
As I sit questions come from them as though I could whip out a resume of hipness and things that might spark approval in their eyes. Here I sit like a lion caged behind blue eyes, being poked and prodded for signs of life, only entertainment to them based on potential, a figment of cartoon expectations and all seen are reduced to a caricature. A former self I’ve felt but never met.
Reduced to a shaggy beast who swats flies with his tail, and only wants water rather than a few last minute zoo-goers, mocking him by poor imitation and gesture. Their foolish attempts to incite response nearly compelled my reaction.
There are those situations one finds oneself in where people act out the role of who they think you are and summon predictable responses. You’ll go back to those times of childhood even as an old man-- you’ll always be your mothers’ baby. These reflections were safe only for a few moments.
The “Family” in front of me tailored questions which demanded direct interaction. They were unavoidable. At unawares, they bore fangs of friendship, to see what makes me tick. Like the forever child, I felt compelled to give this family what they thought they wanted. At the same time, part of me resisted becoming the dancing monkey and my friends’ kind words about me acted like the grinders’ clarinet.
The regal mane and golden fur were all still here just without attached meaning by these family members because I was still king of a jungle they would never know.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
CAGED HEART
I wish I had the strength
to bear the pain of life,
where my caged heart suffers,
and the only one I
ever loved is someone
else’s bride. What God has
made this my gift? Why was
I created at all?
I rise each morning and
face the divine sun’s blows.
At night, I live in dreams.
FIRST POEMS
There is passion in the words
of poets who fall in love with their first poems.
In ecstasy they wave their publication credits
around. They seek praise like a dog that can
roll over, sit, or play dead. The clapping hands
are few, some attached to the hands of other poets,
who seek the same praise for their own first poems
fresh out of their minds or fashioned at workshops
where poetry is trapped and put to death.
A POEM FOR THE HOPELESS
The last time we kissed,
I had no poems in my journals,
no wild stories about beasts or madhouses,
no longing for the music of a woman’s laughter,
no chants about the divine.
The lines came after,
some given to me by you.
I needed you more.
If I had to take score,
I would always struggle
with what life had in store for me.
I did not know what to do.
Without you I feel like nothing.
Who knows how I made it this long?
And I know I exaggerate a little.
I still don’t know if my life is a waste.
Will there be more love before I’m laid to rest?
A twist of fate
might arise out of this darkness.
I would take you back in a second.
There is no denying that.
Whatever is left of this heart,
whatever life I have left,
I would trade every poem I ever wrote for you.
I wish I had the strength
to bear the pain of life,
where my caged heart suffers,
and the only one I
ever loved is someone
else’s bride. What God has
made this my gift? Why was
I created at all?
I rise each morning and
face the divine sun’s blows.
At night, I live in dreams.
FIRST POEMS
There is passion in the words
of poets who fall in love with their first poems.
In ecstasy they wave their publication credits
around. They seek praise like a dog that can
roll over, sit, or play dead. The clapping hands
are few, some attached to the hands of other poets,
who seek the same praise for their own first poems
fresh out of their minds or fashioned at workshops
where poetry is trapped and put to death.
A POEM FOR THE HOPELESS
The last time we kissed,
I had no poems in my journals,
no wild stories about beasts or madhouses,
no longing for the music of a woman’s laughter,
no chants about the divine.
The lines came after,
some given to me by you.
I needed you more.
If I had to take score,
I would always struggle
with what life had in store for me.
I did not know what to do.
Without you I feel like nothing.
Who knows how I made it this long?
And I know I exaggerate a little.
I still don’t know if my life is a waste.
Will there be more love before I’m laid to rest?
A twist of fate
might arise out of this darkness.
I would take you back in a second.
There is no denying that.
Whatever is left of this heart,
whatever life I have left,
I would trade every poem I ever wrote for you.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
DONNIE COX
Before Tomorrow
--- “There is no crime of which I cannot conceive myself guilty.”… Goethe
I’m in no hurry to leave the close-spaced security of the bus, so I lean back in my seat and wait until everyone is out. Then I walk to the front, take two steps down-back in the “real world”.
After four years, three tours in Iraq, and two days of military psych-docs attempting to drive out the bad times with clever talk and good intentions, I am discharged-officially cut loose from a surreal world of free-fire zones and indiscriminate killing.
Citizen X: deprogrammed, purified, and deposited on easy hometown streets.
I am uncomfortable in the uniform, a costume that has defined me for so long-now meaningless. I am a phantom in an empty coat. It’s clear, that in this place, I am lost. Scenes cataloged in heartbreaking detail have no place here. Stories that once burned blood red-gone cold as the ghosts who breathed them.
The low hum of the idling Greyhound mixes with the fumes of diesel fuel to fill the night air with noisy poison. A skinny panhandler wearing a camouflage T-shirt sits crumpled like lost luggage outside the depot. One of those forgotten people living a half-life just beyond anybody’s caring.
At his side, a wrinkled square of cardboard-a kind of faded-brown American business card. Scrawled across the front is the familiar graffiti, “Out of Work.” One look at this guy and I know he’s done for. The whole fucking story is right there in his eyes-like looking at the floor of the ocean.
He looks up at me as if I could save him.
_____
Standing just out of range of a street lamp, I watch the shadows of tree branches move along the empty avenue. Almost every night, I come to stare at this vacant lot on the corner-the spot where the Lighthouse Baptist Church once stood.
One drunken Saturday night back in 1975 my father, lonely for God, broke into the little wooden sanctuary and doused the whole place with gasoline. Then he took a seat in the front pew, lit a Lucky Strike, and burnt the son-of-a-bitch down around his ears-the last “Zippo Party”.
My father spent most of his life in a rage. When the whiskey was talking, the old man would rave about “search and destroy” patrols wiping out entire Vietnamese villages. When there was no one left to waste, they’d flip open their cigarette lighters, and burn everything to the ground-“Zippo Party”.
“Another shithole gone-a few more “dink” hearts and minds pacified.”
There was a time when I believed my father was a mad man. There was a time when I believed in simple right and wrong. There was a time when I believed in all of the “necessary illusions”. Enough to put my soul on the line. Enough to go out and confront things I did not understand.
Bent under the weight of things that can never be set right, I slide a shaky right hand inside my jacket pocket and retrieve a half-pint of I.W. Harper. I raise a toast to the Lighthouse Baptist Church.
Somewhere a lost dog howls. I step from the curb-a windblown bird into the crazy night.
_____
Room 105 is hot. Shades and curtains drawn. Fractured light from the muted television. The air conditioner hums, but puts out nothing.
I stand naked staring at my flickering reflection in the bathroom mirror. My hair is growing fast, and I haven’t shaved since the day I became a civilian. I do not recognize myself.
I turn on the cold water, bend over, and drink from my hand. I smile at the idea of trying to get clean with the tiny bar of hotel soap on the sink. I let the water run through my fingers and watch in a trance-round and round and down the hole. Feeling a little light-headed, I turn off the water, walk into the bedroom, and sit on the edge of the bed.
Each day I draw a new plan in my head. I imagine impossible strategies that I will carry out before tomorrow. I try to picture blueprints for a cause that will somehow fill this void inside that grows dark, and is beginning to eat through.
How long since I’ve been out of this room? When was the last time I ate? Two days-three days-more...
I’ve lost track of time. I no longer feel any obligation to the clock.
I wonder how “time” became so goddamn important-the whole fucking concept. Humans trying to stamp order on chaos. And then, once we’re on the clock, we spend the rest of our lives worrying about how much time we have left before we’re dust-clicking the remote control, desperately searching for a sacred channel that will save us all. How many more bullshit/sleight-of-hand distractions until… poof-and a pile of ashes?
I lie back in bed and close my eyes. I try to empty my brain. I wait for the thing that I can hear coming.
_____
In a half-sleep, I can feel the emptiness that stretches out from my body in every direction-360 degrees of nothing, as dead as a disconnected phone.
I open the back door to my mind and dream-walk through the wreckage scattered across the floor of my memory. A dark room of unrecognizable images. My mind is out of control. Dreams have become one with the dreamer.
A dull thumping in my head-the dragon is at the gate. I open my mouth to call out-to give myself up. My vocal cords are paralyzed. The thumping grows louder against the heavy silence.
I wake up in a sweat. Someone is knocking hard at the door. Still confused, I stumble naked across the room, unlock the door, and throw it open.
Standing in the night rain-five men. All dressed in the same strange uniform-long white coats and black shirts. Black berets with some sort of badge on front. Two of them are very young-steely-eyed boys armed with short-barrel, pump-action shotguns.
The man in front has a full beard, and seems to be the leader of the group. He raises his right hand, takes a short-step forward, and says with authority, “Sir, I arrest you in the name of The Virtuous Circle.”
Unshaken, I stare out into the empty, rain-slicked streets-mute. The traffic light at the intersection blinks yellow.
The honcho points toward the two men stationed to his left. They move quickly. One takes out handcuffs, and secures my hands behind my back. The other slips a black bag over my head.
Raindrops cool my body as I’m led across the hotel parking lot. I am helped into the back of what is obviously a van. The door slams shut. Rain comes down harder, clattering against the metal roof, drowning out any other sounds. For the first time in years, I can breathe out.
_____
When the hood is removed, I am standing alone on a small stage. A run-down movie house. Dark except for a single footlight directed toward my face. The two shotgun wielding kids are positioned on the floor directly below me.
I can make out an audience of silent, shadowy figures standing with arms raised above their heads in a mock-religious pose. The air is stuffy and nearly unbreatheable. I have the strange feeling that I have played this scene before.
The recognizable voice of the bearded leader comes out of the dark.
“The defendant may now voice his plea.”
If my heart was made of stone, I could resort to the fine art of denial and deflection. I could say that I was just doing my job. I could say that it was all about getting even. I could say how fucking tired I always was because I could never let up. Constantly wired together tight, because there was no way to tell the enemy from the innocent civilians, until eventually they became one and the same.
But for me there is nothing left except a desire to be finished.
I’m about to speak, when the quiet is interrupted by a sharp, metallic click. The flare from a cigarette lighter draws my attention toward the balcony. Caught in the light from the flame, the outline of a man’s face. Eyes on fire, he lights a cigarette.
He studies me intensely for a few seconds, then nods a greeting.
I smile, and nod back. Tick… Tick… Tick… nowhere to run-nowhere to hide-no falling to the floor and crawling inside myself…
I glance down toward my silent accusers-back up toward the burning face in the balcony. With some effort, I manage to say the word.
“Guilty.”
Instantly and in sync, the armed guards rack their shotguns.
The cigarette lighter clicks closed.
The room goes completely dark.
--- “There is no crime of which I cannot conceive myself guilty.”… Goethe
I’m in no hurry to leave the close-spaced security of the bus, so I lean back in my seat and wait until everyone is out. Then I walk to the front, take two steps down-back in the “real world”.
After four years, three tours in Iraq, and two days of military psych-docs attempting to drive out the bad times with clever talk and good intentions, I am discharged-officially cut loose from a surreal world of free-fire zones and indiscriminate killing.
Citizen X: deprogrammed, purified, and deposited on easy hometown streets.
I am uncomfortable in the uniform, a costume that has defined me for so long-now meaningless. I am a phantom in an empty coat. It’s clear, that in this place, I am lost. Scenes cataloged in heartbreaking detail have no place here. Stories that once burned blood red-gone cold as the ghosts who breathed them.
The low hum of the idling Greyhound mixes with the fumes of diesel fuel to fill the night air with noisy poison. A skinny panhandler wearing a camouflage T-shirt sits crumpled like lost luggage outside the depot. One of those forgotten people living a half-life just beyond anybody’s caring.
At his side, a wrinkled square of cardboard-a kind of faded-brown American business card. Scrawled across the front is the familiar graffiti, “Out of Work.” One look at this guy and I know he’s done for. The whole fucking story is right there in his eyes-like looking at the floor of the ocean.
He looks up at me as if I could save him.
_____
Standing just out of range of a street lamp, I watch the shadows of tree branches move along the empty avenue. Almost every night, I come to stare at this vacant lot on the corner-the spot where the Lighthouse Baptist Church once stood.
One drunken Saturday night back in 1975 my father, lonely for God, broke into the little wooden sanctuary and doused the whole place with gasoline. Then he took a seat in the front pew, lit a Lucky Strike, and burnt the son-of-a-bitch down around his ears-the last “Zippo Party”.
My father spent most of his life in a rage. When the whiskey was talking, the old man would rave about “search and destroy” patrols wiping out entire Vietnamese villages. When there was no one left to waste, they’d flip open their cigarette lighters, and burn everything to the ground-“Zippo Party”.
“Another shithole gone-a few more “dink” hearts and minds pacified.”
There was a time when I believed my father was a mad man. There was a time when I believed in simple right and wrong. There was a time when I believed in all of the “necessary illusions”. Enough to put my soul on the line. Enough to go out and confront things I did not understand.
Bent under the weight of things that can never be set right, I slide a shaky right hand inside my jacket pocket and retrieve a half-pint of I.W. Harper. I raise a toast to the Lighthouse Baptist Church.
Somewhere a lost dog howls. I step from the curb-a windblown bird into the crazy night.
_____
Room 105 is hot. Shades and curtains drawn. Fractured light from the muted television. The air conditioner hums, but puts out nothing.
I stand naked staring at my flickering reflection in the bathroom mirror. My hair is growing fast, and I haven’t shaved since the day I became a civilian. I do not recognize myself.
I turn on the cold water, bend over, and drink from my hand. I smile at the idea of trying to get clean with the tiny bar of hotel soap on the sink. I let the water run through my fingers and watch in a trance-round and round and down the hole. Feeling a little light-headed, I turn off the water, walk into the bedroom, and sit on the edge of the bed.
Each day I draw a new plan in my head. I imagine impossible strategies that I will carry out before tomorrow. I try to picture blueprints for a cause that will somehow fill this void inside that grows dark, and is beginning to eat through.
How long since I’ve been out of this room? When was the last time I ate? Two days-three days-more...
I’ve lost track of time. I no longer feel any obligation to the clock.
I wonder how “time” became so goddamn important-the whole fucking concept. Humans trying to stamp order on chaos. And then, once we’re on the clock, we spend the rest of our lives worrying about how much time we have left before we’re dust-clicking the remote control, desperately searching for a sacred channel that will save us all. How many more bullshit/sleight-of-hand distractions until… poof-and a pile of ashes?
I lie back in bed and close my eyes. I try to empty my brain. I wait for the thing that I can hear coming.
_____
In a half-sleep, I can feel the emptiness that stretches out from my body in every direction-360 degrees of nothing, as dead as a disconnected phone.
I open the back door to my mind and dream-walk through the wreckage scattered across the floor of my memory. A dark room of unrecognizable images. My mind is out of control. Dreams have become one with the dreamer.
A dull thumping in my head-the dragon is at the gate. I open my mouth to call out-to give myself up. My vocal cords are paralyzed. The thumping grows louder against the heavy silence.
I wake up in a sweat. Someone is knocking hard at the door. Still confused, I stumble naked across the room, unlock the door, and throw it open.
Standing in the night rain-five men. All dressed in the same strange uniform-long white coats and black shirts. Black berets with some sort of badge on front. Two of them are very young-steely-eyed boys armed with short-barrel, pump-action shotguns.
The man in front has a full beard, and seems to be the leader of the group. He raises his right hand, takes a short-step forward, and says with authority, “Sir, I arrest you in the name of The Virtuous Circle.”
Unshaken, I stare out into the empty, rain-slicked streets-mute. The traffic light at the intersection blinks yellow.
The honcho points toward the two men stationed to his left. They move quickly. One takes out handcuffs, and secures my hands behind my back. The other slips a black bag over my head.
Raindrops cool my body as I’m led across the hotel parking lot. I am helped into the back of what is obviously a van. The door slams shut. Rain comes down harder, clattering against the metal roof, drowning out any other sounds. For the first time in years, I can breathe out.
_____
When the hood is removed, I am standing alone on a small stage. A run-down movie house. Dark except for a single footlight directed toward my face. The two shotgun wielding kids are positioned on the floor directly below me.
I can make out an audience of silent, shadowy figures standing with arms raised above their heads in a mock-religious pose. The air is stuffy and nearly unbreatheable. I have the strange feeling that I have played this scene before.
The recognizable voice of the bearded leader comes out of the dark.
“The defendant may now voice his plea.”
If my heart was made of stone, I could resort to the fine art of denial and deflection. I could say that I was just doing my job. I could say that it was all about getting even. I could say how fucking tired I always was because I could never let up. Constantly wired together tight, because there was no way to tell the enemy from the innocent civilians, until eventually they became one and the same.
But for me there is nothing left except a desire to be finished.
I’m about to speak, when the quiet is interrupted by a sharp, metallic click. The flare from a cigarette lighter draws my attention toward the balcony. Caught in the light from the flame, the outline of a man’s face. Eyes on fire, he lights a cigarette.
He studies me intensely for a few seconds, then nods a greeting.
I smile, and nod back. Tick… Tick… Tick… nowhere to run-nowhere to hide-no falling to the floor and crawling inside myself…
I glance down toward my silent accusers-back up toward the burning face in the balcony. With some effort, I manage to say the word.
“Guilty.”
Instantly and in sync, the armed guards rack their shotguns.
The cigarette lighter clicks closed.
The room goes completely dark.
Friday, June 13, 2008
DONNIE COX
blow it all away
--- for Brautigan
tiny voice
of the counter-culture
found-dead as hell
rotting on the floor
beside a bottle
& a .44-loser
in a one-man gunfight
against a deadly hand
caught unprepared
during those minutes
of the day & night
when nasty
black fingers
started to pull
at his dirty shirt tail
abandoned
by the hip crowd
who once waltzed
like children of hamlin
to his clever songs
searching for a little
fucking grace
in the frayed face
of sister suicide-
now
the forever hungry
cannibals circle naked
around his body
tearing away chunks
of another deserted son
no longer watched over
by the fickle
machine of mercy
nightwatch
in the gentleman’s
john-defunct exxon
hiding
out-of-luck eyes
hard as roman nails
bony back
to the wall
dead man
laughing
at nothing at all
shaky tones
falling
into a full-blown
smoker’s hack
bell-cracked
saxophone
rattling ‘round
the unholy sanctuary
top floor of hell
holding cell that smells
like a dress rehearsal
for the cemetery
dust-off
clean-collar commuters
peer from the cover
of stylish shades
taking secret comfort
in a pathetic apparition
wrapped
in an army overcoat
face down
in a pool of piss
baptized
purified
crucified
in the mute humility
of his own guilt
while inside crusty
rust-filled ears
distant city traffic
hums like a “huey”-
spectral medevac
searching for a soul
lost forty years ago
somewhere along
the mekong river
Friday, May 09, 2008
Zachari James Popour.
“dear molasses thick remembrance”
dear
molasses thick
remembrance,
glossy
and
supplement free in
your bathrobe.
i am comfortable
and
at ease
with blinders
narrowing
self severed periphery
and
shake-less hands
sketching the lonely
and
doomed
from the scaffolding
of regurgitated hope;
having snapped
off the spokes of
the forgetful.
it's best
to not look
down
as we resonate
on the wobble.
“call me old fashioned”
"can you believe the girls that are walking around these days?"
said the stranger in front of the urinal
next to mine.
i let out a cro-magnon grunt
stare forward
count tiles.
truth is
i have to.
they strut
their chins cut air
enough flesh on display to cause hard on's
and heartache.
bubbly
sucking blow pops
in thigh highs.
tight, buxom, shaved
an awkward shake
in their asses.
too young
too much too soon
my god,
these girls
could bring any man to their knees
take over countries
and make us beg
like dogs beneath a dinner table.
they know it
but so do I.
the stranger flushes
i give it a good shake
and follow suit.
he turns on the sink
and begins to wash his hands
and i walk out
with piss
on my shoes.
“fluctuation in routine currents”
the ambience?
temporary
like hotel rooms
and perfect
cuticles.
every color
has it's own
tone
and
each tone
rocks you
like a shot to the liver.
there's speculation
behind
and in front of
locked doors/
an easiness in symmetry
and 90° angles.
breezes pace
the emptiness,
particles of dust
scale the vortex.
i fill half a cup,
take a hit,
then level off
the divots
in time
with plaster
of paris,
and step outside
to tempt
the sun.
dear
molasses thick
remembrance,
glossy
and
supplement free in
your bathrobe.
i am comfortable
and
at ease
with blinders
narrowing
self severed periphery
and
shake-less hands
sketching the lonely
and
doomed
from the scaffolding
of regurgitated hope;
having snapped
off the spokes of
the forgetful.
it's best
to not look
down
as we resonate
on the wobble.
“call me old fashioned”
"can you believe the girls that are walking around these days?"
said the stranger in front of the urinal
next to mine.
i let out a cro-magnon grunt
stare forward
count tiles.
truth is
i have to.
they strut
their chins cut air
enough flesh on display to cause hard on's
and heartache.
bubbly
sucking blow pops
in thigh highs.
tight, buxom, shaved
an awkward shake
in their asses.
too young
too much too soon
my god,
these girls
could bring any man to their knees
take over countries
and make us beg
like dogs beneath a dinner table.
they know it
but so do I.
the stranger flushes
i give it a good shake
and follow suit.
he turns on the sink
and begins to wash his hands
and i walk out
with piss
on my shoes.
“fluctuation in routine currents”
the ambience?
temporary
like hotel rooms
and perfect
cuticles.
every color
has it's own
tone
and
each tone
rocks you
like a shot to the liver.
there's speculation
behind
and in front of
locked doors/
an easiness in symmetry
and 90° angles.
breezes pace
the emptiness,
particles of dust
scale the vortex.
i fill half a cup,
take a hit,
then level off
the divots
in time
with plaster
of paris,
and step outside
to tempt
the sun.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
MAKE MAD THE MIND
Pick your poison.
The buffet line
is open.
Let your eyes go blind
with desire,
make mad the mind.
Death by sugar.
Death by salt.
Death by everything
your eyes see
and want.
A craving for booze,
hard drugs, and
loose women.
Let your eyes go blind
with desire,
make mad the mind.
Death by alcohol.
Death by coke or meth.
Death by sexual disease.
Your eyes see
and lust.
I REPRESENT THE HUMAN RACE
I represent
the human race.
If that's not
enough pressure,
give me my madness
and you keep the cure.
I represent
what is real and
what evil
entities I
get my commands from.
I cannot be good.
Let the world have
its heroes.
I'll be the
wildcard, who needs
to be saved or locked
up for the good of
the human race
I represent.
I'll succumb
to the pressure
because my madness
cannot be contained.
BE CAREFUL
I hear voices from time to time
telling me to be careful.
I feel like I am being followed
by no one in particular.
If the doctor set me free,
I have no friends or family to see.
I get a little sad sometimes.
In the streets strangers appear
to me like old, lost friends.
I call out their names, but
they ignore me and keep walking.
These tattoos bother me. I
have one of my old lady’s face on
my chest, but we have gone our
separate ways. Since the divorce
I can’t stay out of psych wards.
The tattoo of my dead mother
on my left arm makes me sad.
I hear her voice sometimes
telling me to be careful, son.
I can’t contain my grief. All I want is
for my madness and sadness to end.
Pick your poison.
The buffet line
is open.
Let your eyes go blind
with desire,
make mad the mind.
Death by sugar.
Death by salt.
Death by everything
your eyes see
and want.
A craving for booze,
hard drugs, and
loose women.
Let your eyes go blind
with desire,
make mad the mind.
Death by alcohol.
Death by coke or meth.
Death by sexual disease.
Your eyes see
and lust.
I REPRESENT THE HUMAN RACE
I represent
the human race.
If that's not
enough pressure,
give me my madness
and you keep the cure.
I represent
what is real and
what evil
entities I
get my commands from.
I cannot be good.
Let the world have
its heroes.
I'll be the
wildcard, who needs
to be saved or locked
up for the good of
the human race
I represent.
I'll succumb
to the pressure
because my madness
cannot be contained.
BE CAREFUL
I hear voices from time to time
telling me to be careful.
I feel like I am being followed
by no one in particular.
If the doctor set me free,
I have no friends or family to see.
I get a little sad sometimes.
In the streets strangers appear
to me like old, lost friends.
I call out their names, but
they ignore me and keep walking.
These tattoos bother me. I
have one of my old lady’s face on
my chest, but we have gone our
separate ways. Since the divorce
I can’t stay out of psych wards.
The tattoo of my dead mother
on my left arm makes me sad.
I hear her voice sometimes
telling me to be careful, son.
I can’t contain my grief. All I want is
for my madness and sadness to end.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)