Sometimes the day is discarded
like a dirty dish rag, scummed and mildewed,
draped over a broken-leg table tray.
Or maybe the tossed wrapping paper
having wrapped an unwanted gift.
I regret the forlorn emptiness this day
may express, this neglected song
singing major notes in a minor world,
mocked at their naiveté - how can art
be bright and loverly
in this shit-ass world
they may haughtily say.
Why is Beauty so mistreated?
Why is Pain so often given to her
as her only lover, blue and grey
with tarnished cuff links?
I pick up dirty dish rags, sniff them
like an ancient god, sniff that dirty
life with a longing and a lust
only naked bodies in snow
can capitulate to.
I want to use that rag to wipe my ass,
throw it back in the face
of the one who dismissed it so
effortlessly. I can laugh
I can hit a ball, shoot a clay bird.
Let her who has ears to hear, hear.
Or she? Gender qualms are such a human
narcissistic obsession - yes that pronoun is
denouncing your worth, you should retaliate
with all the overcompensating testosterone
you can muster.
I know: oppression is real.
Reality is oppressed and suppressed,
translated for the lowest common denominator.
Yet the dirty rag lingers in the air
in slow motion, like Trinity of The Matrix.
There may be no spoon, but free will subsists
in the gutters and the golf courses,
the gutters of the beautiful golf courses,
so green, so cared for. But
they're golf courses...for whiny rich people.
Yes. And they're beautifully manicured
by the green artist making $35,000 a year.
Landscape architects draw the course
but the work is done by Karl's laborer.
Not far removed from the bourgeois Labrador,
fetching slobbery toys of their own making,
subjected to their putative master's
It's a shame the world is so unknown,
so uncertain. μυστήριον is a wonderful glimpse
of lapsed happiness, but something
in some slight moderation of known
unknowableness would suffice
for the flicker of learning, for
the mystique of growth -
the yellow-green light that seeps
through a setting forest. I know
we need something not to know.
But we need some things to know.
Some things that put us certainly in
our context, our world, our battlefield.
Why are we fighting and for whom? I feel
I need to understand
who drowns her 3 children
in a scalding bath.
Poetry is dying and I'm not strong enough
to resuscitate her. She is gasping
like a hooked fish, lusting and flopping
for the oxygen lurking in brown water.
I cannot bring her back to our poetry-
impeached world. But there are those who can.
Jonesmann is one. The entirety of his words
condenses into an algaeic lake of suggestion
creativity and craft. You may learn
of the Germanically named Markus.
Listen to him. Il paroliere meglio.
Billy is another.
The visible breath of the drunk
in the snowy world is a sight
worth sipping on, no matter how mixed.
(I hate metaphors so I mix them)
I like to grasp at my cold breath
the way an acid tripping frat boy
grasps the invisible girl he met
at last night's bar, then fatly calling
the operator, asking for the number of the
"beautiful blue-eyed girl
I met tonight."
Snow is corporeal silence,
still and soft - like a woman's breasts:
thoughts quietly freeze.
I like to lick the falling snow
with my hot tongue also, lustily
encircling the frozen air.
Lust is a wild horse desperate to buck
and fuck all your muscled whips
and breaking ins. He sees and inhales
the beauty and scent of the brandished
woman - but we are so sophisticated
we ostensibly debate the honor of
Socrates and Jesus until our hearts
fail, until our eyes plead
for one more vision of the heaven
and hell of the blossom of a backyard
ghost orchid, so mundane and so perfect.
So right with the word.
The world really is a word, Λογος,
a remnant of creative power,
of creative will, creative knowledge -
not gnostic or subliminal or esoteric
but the plain knowledge of the birds and bees.
Words fly and cogitate and habitate,
sometimes sleep under the
star-eaten blanket of the sky,
cozy and warm.
(pardons to Hulme the Master)
Words may wander the world
walking like the recent dead,
abrogating attrition and stomping over
the long words of the long dead ancients,
cozy but not. I like to lie in cozy beds
under cozy blankets but the words of the world
are not so innocent and not so warm
when they fiercely create
our embodied ideas from nothing
but brotherly hate.
I want to write a poem.
A poem that matters to someone.
A poem that matters to the wordy world.
Yellow lines and red lights constrict
Yet these words seep out -
Seeping out of a mind with a self-imposed
traffic light regulating the hormones and
synaptic firings in dull fermentations.
I forgot the meaning of the eucharist
until I found my way along a smoky road:
a smoky, drug laced road
that should have slapped me in the face
and turned me away.
But the word will not leave you on your own.
The word, the Λογος, wills more than emptiness.
A vacuum may limit horizontal exchange,
but eventually it collapses.
Or so it seems.
Logic is as diversified as pop music.
Philosophy cannot replace our hearty lust.
A dish rag lives in the sink or the machine.
Useful or rejuvenating. I should be so lucky.
I need a quarterback to hop on his feet,
point toward the end zone while mouthing the words
“Yes, this is your path and your way.
Your way is not the way of duplicitous
Todo es mintera en este mundo.
Todo es mintera la verdad.
The words just plopped into my head,
courtesy of Manu Chau.
The bourbon is done, as am I.