Not a Good Day
10/14/2004 11:40:44 AM
this girl...
I see angles weeping on the curbs
and stray dogs
sad-eyed and starved.
This is your New York Minute
One year of Hell. Broke and due
you are rent
from the dim bedroom like a cheap rag
Not one cent.
Our hearts pounding against
the white cage.
This girl...
culled from the ribs
by dreams.
There is blood on the rug
and a deep need for a smoke.
This girl ...
is off to prison.
And this is a waste of good pussy.
And it goes to show
that the fat white guys in charge
want to kill anything
with a soul
Their charge
is to smash anything beautiful...
This is our wreckage.
The raindrops spell my name in erosion and sewer draft suck and orange leaves pasted to the pavement which remind me of Salem, Massachusetts where once I had led a good fecund life of Jack OLantern poetry coffee shops and warm cunt in the fall. Those days of down comforters and the girl with forest hair and raspberries are long gone.
Today I am off the mark. I am a train wreck. Bed head disaster with a desert in his eyes. I am an eighteen wheeler of fatigue, Michelin baby tired. Dawn of the dead coffee guy whos content to sip his coffee and look at the pretty girls who enter this pathetic excuse for a coffee shop in Manhattan.
Several accounts about to expire. Cancer in both lungs. Quite inoperable. A malignant pustule of cancer in the brain. There is the jailing of a girl I do not know who has creeped into my sleep. I try to imagine what she did. I try to figure justice. State retribution and its punitive measures for its pathetic laws. I can not dwell on this.
Within the light of this news, my own abduction has fallen by the way side of concern. Since I was rescued by Sleepy D. (Not to be confused with D.) the horror of what happened is negligible. I was able to escaped with a fat lip and a black eye.
But Uncle Ivester has returned. Hes packing his bags today for the long trip back. Ill have some time alone soon. Today Im collecting the shards of my broken love. With the help of Hector whose eyes are better than mine well pile it in the center of the living room, the gray and red guts of whats left of my heart for a sacrifice. For Sleepy's father. For the girl... Hopefully the neighbors wont complain about the smell or the wailing. After last night, even Matilda has come around and begun to plant flowers along the window sills of this jail. Babys Breath. Tiny white flowers in this Marshmallow light. I can hear her weeping beneath the microwave. Theres not much more I can say about this, except as Ive said before: Theres really not much more... I wish the cruelty would end.
Grief
(for Melissa, Doris and Zach)
What goes through the mind
of man about to die?
Can anyone save me?
Can anyone tell me?
Please dont: I have son
and the killer tells em
to turn around.
Turn around
or Ill blow your fuckin head off!
Turn around reader
Because he blows it off anyway
and its not like in the movies.
Here he takes his bullets back
with a hammer
and needle-nose pliers,
makes a necklace out of the bullets
for his girlfriend,
and cuts you into tidy pieces
for easy disposal.
Theres not much left to break really
but they always seem to find something.
Something distant and delicate.
Something quiet and hidden.
The tiniest toy beneath the quilts of your childhood,
your baby sister bashed against the rocks,
the monsters of this world
they find it.
They dole it out:
Pain in buckets
in wind
in rain
in a passing leaf.
And I want to smash things and kill
because there are no words!
There are no Gods!
There are only devils
and
Humanity smells of shit!
The futility of this poem fills me with a rage
larger than anything you could conceive.
So pull a razor across my gums
And drive Ten penny nails through my testicles,
I want to stab myself
in Central Square
in protest of this fuck-all world!
So tell me again how easy it is
not to hate.
Tell me again how easy it is
to forgive.
Tell me again what Christ
would do.
Tell me again how Buddha
would weep.
Tell me again how there
are no monsters.
And tell me again that good men
walk the earth
and that children
wont suffer.
Tell me again how sweet
the air is,
that the rain
wants me
that the sun
is waiting
that our footsteps
are forever.
Tell me over and over again,
Wrap me in this mantra
and dress me in tears
because I feel the universe contracting, imploding
systems breaking down
and I know
it isnt working.
10/14/2004 11:40:44 AM
this girl...
I see angles weeping on the curbs
and stray dogs
sad-eyed and starved.
This is your New York Minute
One year of Hell. Broke and due
you are rent
from the dim bedroom like a cheap rag
Not one cent.
Our hearts pounding against
the white cage.
This girl...
culled from the ribs
by dreams.
There is blood on the rug
and a deep need for a smoke.
This girl ...
is off to prison.
And this is a waste of good pussy.
And it goes to show
that the fat white guys in charge
want to kill anything
with a soul
Their charge
is to smash anything beautiful...
This is our wreckage.
The raindrops spell my name in erosion and sewer draft suck and orange leaves pasted to the pavement which remind me of Salem, Massachusetts where once I had led a good fecund life of Jack OLantern poetry coffee shops and warm cunt in the fall. Those days of down comforters and the girl with forest hair and raspberries are long gone.
Today I am off the mark. I am a train wreck. Bed head disaster with a desert in his eyes. I am an eighteen wheeler of fatigue, Michelin baby tired. Dawn of the dead coffee guy whos content to sip his coffee and look at the pretty girls who enter this pathetic excuse for a coffee shop in Manhattan.
Several accounts about to expire. Cancer in both lungs. Quite inoperable. A malignant pustule of cancer in the brain. There is the jailing of a girl I do not know who has creeped into my sleep. I try to imagine what she did. I try to figure justice. State retribution and its punitive measures for its pathetic laws. I can not dwell on this.
Within the light of this news, my own abduction has fallen by the way side of concern. Since I was rescued by Sleepy D. (Not to be confused with D.) the horror of what happened is negligible. I was able to escaped with a fat lip and a black eye.
But Uncle Ivester has returned. Hes packing his bags today for the long trip back. Ill have some time alone soon. Today Im collecting the shards of my broken love. With the help of Hector whose eyes are better than mine well pile it in the center of the living room, the gray and red guts of whats left of my heart for a sacrifice. For Sleepy's father. For the girl... Hopefully the neighbors wont complain about the smell or the wailing. After last night, even Matilda has come around and begun to plant flowers along the window sills of this jail. Babys Breath. Tiny white flowers in this Marshmallow light. I can hear her weeping beneath the microwave. Theres not much more I can say about this, except as Ive said before: Theres really not much more... I wish the cruelty would end.
Grief
(for Melissa, Doris and Zach)
What goes through the mind
of man about to die?
Can anyone save me?
Can anyone tell me?
Please dont: I have son
and the killer tells em
to turn around.
Turn around
or Ill blow your fuckin head off!
Turn around reader
Because he blows it off anyway
and its not like in the movies.
Here he takes his bullets back
with a hammer
and needle-nose pliers,
makes a necklace out of the bullets
for his girlfriend,
and cuts you into tidy pieces
for easy disposal.
Theres not much left to break really
but they always seem to find something.
Something distant and delicate.
Something quiet and hidden.
The tiniest toy beneath the quilts of your childhood,
your baby sister bashed against the rocks,
the monsters of this world
they find it.
They dole it out:
Pain in buckets
in wind
in rain
in a passing leaf.
And I want to smash things and kill
because there are no words!
There are no Gods!
There are only devils
and
Humanity smells of shit!
The futility of this poem fills me with a rage
larger than anything you could conceive.
So pull a razor across my gums
And drive Ten penny nails through my testicles,
I want to stab myself
in Central Square
in protest of this fuck-all world!
So tell me again how easy it is
not to hate.
Tell me again how easy it is
to forgive.
Tell me again what Christ
would do.
Tell me again how Buddha
would weep.
Tell me again how there
are no monsters.
And tell me again that good men
walk the earth
and that children
wont suffer.
Tell me again how sweet
the air is,
that the rain
wants me
that the sun
is waiting
that our footsteps
are forever.
Tell me over and over again,
Wrap me in this mantra
and dress me in tears
because I feel the universe contracting, imploding
systems breaking down
and I know
it isnt working.