A family picture framed in calico living-room intervals; plastered to hollow ply-wood: collecting adoration while mounting an narrow staircase (the portrait froze an artificial moment on a non-existent timeline; your loved ones younger in their years). In southern Philadelphia corridors, evening hours dwindle delicately to dusk- dimly lit city street corners perpetually breathe in stale night air; fluctuating through noon-day seasons. Dry summer playgrounds of steel swelter infernally through morbid afternoon inflection, pigeon-peasantry and chlorine contaminated swimming-pools. Private grade school tuition; familiar childlike pageantry of holiday insinuation. The daytime schoolyard penetrates warm flesh-like pores thrice over, Italian mafia eulogies spread fervently throughout neighborhood front-door stoop vestibules.
I mentally fornicated with distant bloodline relatives loosely over decades of rambunctious anecdotes and frugal baked-goods; twelve-year old burgundy marketed in cheap glass handled jugs. I rented a room deep within the hearth of salami and steak Stromboli central; the subway circuit sweeps through underground channels of uncouthly garbage and loose cellophane cigarette marketing.
Miserably drunken over unkempt years of toxic sprees, overlapped between soul-soup-kitchen pilgrimages and Schuylkill river sponge-bath upheavals; the homeless are home-bound tonight to counterfeit warmth permeating up through metal sewer drains; aloft in an starless night-sky of native misconception. The locals solemnly make promises and misplace them with their card-plastic finances along midnight taxi promenades, returning lucidly home from center-city sojourns off the Roosevelt Boulevard; all lit up for anyone beside the awful tourists who Ride The Ducks and stay in five-star hotels lucratively betwixt Broad and Market.
Someone forgot to count the minutes it takes to lose your youth, sell your primordial soul to the black market for a couple grand; reflect on your misconstrued principles, priorities, and mortality.
(You cannot take "it" with you when you die)
For years I wanted to die; and in a completely selfish way, I miss the freedom in living that way: in thinking that I had nothing to lose.
A woman with soft limbs at her side; once a mother. Angelic features amid an heavenly visage. Darkened in bedroom pallor; she stretched scarlet bedsheets undauntedly with dainty feet; (she awoke from an long Winter nap) as an church bell pealed 5:30 P.M. from an remote courtyard, I made it known her reality in cold and doleful recapturing, "dear our children are dead, now remember your children are dead now"
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
A Millennium Discourse
Time and time again we fooled ourselves into thinking everything was alright; that events would unfold smoothly. Our future livelihoods would be mapped out with firm interest, adolescent passion and perpetual curiosity. Unknowingly beaten into bleak submission; dark crevices remained in dark residential corners of urban basement laundry-rooms. Who paid the utility bill in the beginning? Who put in the dreaded leg-work? Occasional sidewalk strolls down cemented pathways, sauntering adamantly home from corner delicatessens
on maple evenings in Autumn.
The sky bled red and grey patterns from a windswept stratosphere. Five 'o clock family-dinner sorrow
coming down,
back home on planet earth;
wearisome and fatigued amongst daily routines. Teenage stigma beat me into an bloody pulp; carried me absent-minded into my thirties.
In earlier days we anticipated this time-period in radiant premonition of ethereal tapestries, spread out against faded living room ceiling cornices; pillared July windows haunted youthful imagination amid sullen yesterdays of expired vaccinations. Withered oak-tree firmaments enveloped an hollow backyard perimeter; where in sweltering summer myriad swarms of lake flies hovered in and out torn screen window openings
into suburban bedroom translucency
Decade old window air-conditioner units dripped tepid moisture into second story gutter drainpipes.
Relationships took time to work through; always did and always will. We still won't sacrifice any effort. A warm day in January; post-Xmas depression: the nation's suicide rate sky-rocketed to it's annual zenith; as it usually does this time of year. Siblings quarrel throughout pensive Saturday playground upheavals, aside early afternoon river embankments. Family-trees adorned in maladjusted boredom along tenuous state-lines of domesticated incest. Queer feelings arose while recapturing blackout incidents among timorous pastimes; shamed intervals of deceitful words derived from drunken hearths of indignant vanity.
(Things said and done cannot be taken back; cannot be repaid in deliberate apologetics.)
Do not feed us euphoric horse tranquilizers beside bucolic pastures filled with brazen livestock foliage. Do not take me out past phosphorescent city limits to watch remote lights flicker from an nocturnal skyline. I will not make-out with you on the baby-blue hood of your '96 Cadillac below incoming commercial airliners. You do not have to buy the latest perfume and spread it all over your pale body; I want to taste the real thing. Want to walk you home as our breathing diminishes to seething shadows along wintry forest floors, carpeted in moonlit boughs and swaying cypress branches; evening village streetlamps illumined dusk-tree silhouetted outlines. Streetcars solemnly rasped past wary pedestrians in modern syllables.
(Fashion died and was never to be born-again; someone decided that it wasn't, then everyone followed.)
A dead man in his early twenties currently visits me amongst putrid morning hours, terrestrial communion through my chamber window; snowy sleep and florid moments aside neighborhood radiators; he hasn't a corporeal anatomy to touch, though he lost not his head; he counsels me beyond his humanly years and conception; sexual immorality wasn't his motto; no lies frequent his limited vocabulary; he knows tempestuous gusts of wind coming in off the vast Atlantic perimeter
below crescent moon cycles of Mayan descent;
we believed their millennium old lies
below the fallen rain that collects in muddy pools
throughout cemetery parking-lots;
smash me in the face with your clenched fist,
then weep
like embryonic children
crying out to
primeval dungeon deities.
on maple evenings in Autumn.
The sky bled red and grey patterns from a windswept stratosphere. Five 'o clock family-dinner sorrow
coming down,
back home on planet earth;
wearisome and fatigued amongst daily routines. Teenage stigma beat me into an bloody pulp; carried me absent-minded into my thirties.
In earlier days we anticipated this time-period in radiant premonition of ethereal tapestries, spread out against faded living room ceiling cornices; pillared July windows haunted youthful imagination amid sullen yesterdays of expired vaccinations. Withered oak-tree firmaments enveloped an hollow backyard perimeter; where in sweltering summer myriad swarms of lake flies hovered in and out torn screen window openings
into suburban bedroom translucency
Decade old window air-conditioner units dripped tepid moisture into second story gutter drainpipes.
Relationships took time to work through; always did and always will. We still won't sacrifice any effort. A warm day in January; post-Xmas depression: the nation's suicide rate sky-rocketed to it's annual zenith; as it usually does this time of year. Siblings quarrel throughout pensive Saturday playground upheavals, aside early afternoon river embankments. Family-trees adorned in maladjusted boredom along tenuous state-lines of domesticated incest. Queer feelings arose while recapturing blackout incidents among timorous pastimes; shamed intervals of deceitful words derived from drunken hearths of indignant vanity.
(Things said and done cannot be taken back; cannot be repaid in deliberate apologetics.)
Do not feed us euphoric horse tranquilizers beside bucolic pastures filled with brazen livestock foliage. Do not take me out past phosphorescent city limits to watch remote lights flicker from an nocturnal skyline. I will not make-out with you on the baby-blue hood of your '96 Cadillac below incoming commercial airliners. You do not have to buy the latest perfume and spread it all over your pale body; I want to taste the real thing. Want to walk you home as our breathing diminishes to seething shadows along wintry forest floors, carpeted in moonlit boughs and swaying cypress branches; evening village streetlamps illumined dusk-tree silhouetted outlines. Streetcars solemnly rasped past wary pedestrians in modern syllables.
(Fashion died and was never to be born-again; someone decided that it wasn't, then everyone followed.)
A dead man in his early twenties currently visits me amongst putrid morning hours, terrestrial communion through my chamber window; snowy sleep and florid moments aside neighborhood radiators; he hasn't a corporeal anatomy to touch, though he lost not his head; he counsels me beyond his humanly years and conception; sexual immorality wasn't his motto; no lies frequent his limited vocabulary; he knows tempestuous gusts of wind coming in off the vast Atlantic perimeter
below crescent moon cycles of Mayan descent;
we believed their millennium old lies
below the fallen rain that collects in muddy pools
throughout cemetery parking-lots;
smash me in the face with your clenched fist,
then weep
like embryonic children
crying out to
primeval dungeon deities.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Reflections (Vol 2)
All was said and done in the Autumn
on the second story landing of an
roach-infested apartment building.
A three-o-clock sun infernally made its way through
doleful damasks of antipathetic cloud formation
radiantly interwoven anon eternity's entirety
(celestial magnitude)
How carnivorously; afternoons' monotony gnawed at our souls individually; as nail-bitten fingers incessantly pressed to elementary blackboards, chalked and grey-
impetuously bruised bare flesh finger sores
bled reluctantly onto the porcelain
floor of a Westminster classroom .
Now I'm back in high-school mailing Christmas cards in frost-bitten February on stale Tuesday mornings to
Joan of Arc's great- lascivious-granddaughter: the cumbrous bitch that fervently nits her way beside a warm residential mantel, into my lackluster world of hollowed-out antiquities:
Star-Wars figurines and Muppet Babies' bedsheets
Bourgeois in her parents mahogany bedroom
we dry-humped after school in catlike desperation
She digressed on me; her smile was all I coveted.
Wintry boughs swayed in withered latitude. Wool covered her itchy nose; pale skin etched to complexion incarnadine. February moss subsided off our rock-jagged precipice.
On the cool crags of a moonlit coast
Our gulf grew olde beyond the silhouetted buoys
In wind-ridden vales; the hunted lamb howled- hauntingly leavening
the ethereal silence;
reposed in our neighborhood hearth we quarreled 'till placid daybreak ascended
then malingered..........
upon the frail deserted street
the liquor store would open; but your mind wouldn't
our cats pronounced dead on the same din stroke of midnight.
both inflected gloomily in morning obituaries
through living-room window tapestries
she set her reading-glasses onto a glass plated coffee-table
folded her newspaper then
went to back to bed.
on the second story landing of an
roach-infested apartment building.
A three-o-clock sun infernally made its way through
doleful damasks of antipathetic cloud formation
radiantly interwoven anon eternity's entirety
(celestial magnitude)
How carnivorously; afternoons' monotony gnawed at our souls individually; as nail-bitten fingers incessantly pressed to elementary blackboards, chalked and grey-
impetuously bruised bare flesh finger sores
bled reluctantly onto the porcelain
floor of a Westminster classroom .
Now I'm back in high-school mailing Christmas cards in frost-bitten February on stale Tuesday mornings to
Joan of Arc's great- lascivious-granddaughter: the cumbrous bitch that fervently nits her way beside a warm residential mantel, into my lackluster world of hollowed-out antiquities:
Star-Wars figurines and Muppet Babies' bedsheets
Bourgeois in her parents mahogany bedroom
we dry-humped after school in catlike desperation
She digressed on me; her smile was all I coveted.
Wintry boughs swayed in withered latitude. Wool covered her itchy nose; pale skin etched to complexion incarnadine. February moss subsided off our rock-jagged precipice.
On the cool crags of a moonlit coast
Our gulf grew olde beyond the silhouetted buoys
In wind-ridden vales; the hunted lamb howled- hauntingly leavening
the ethereal silence;
reposed in our neighborhood hearth we quarreled 'till placid daybreak ascended
then malingered..........
upon the frail deserted street
the liquor store would open; but your mind wouldn't
our cats pronounced dead on the same din stroke of midnight.
both inflected gloomily in morning obituaries
through living-room window tapestries
she set her reading-glasses onto a glass plated coffee-table
folded her newspaper then
went to back to bed.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
"A primitive allegory"
(parasol evening)
Sauntering up neighborhood walkways in deadened November. Hollow and capricious; I walk, an infertile man upon a dry season; soliciting stale expired girl-scout perishables; Bloodline ancestress; immersed in gold and scarlet shirtsleeves, embalmed in promiscuous glitter. A cat; a feline mistress, darkened and lascivious, embroidered nightly corridors, peering down windswept dooryards whilst autumn shadows descend to delicate dusk.
(Primitive allegory taken as the ascetic barometer)
Infernal heat shrouds an apartment livelihood. Taking things down a notch to midsummer complacency, thyme and barley misplaced among kitchen cupboard upholstery, a cedar coffee-table aligned in antique damasks, velvet drapery adorned shutters mutter rhetorically against tenement window pane, and pillared shelves nest idly in silhouetted corners.
This residence is forlorn on statutory Monday; illumined in radiant sunbeams stretched out across maroon carpeting amid domestic forenoon. Fatigued and cumbrous, my hand clasping your pale fleshy palm; gilded you past the upstairs terrace, past a stone-etched vestibule of erect marble edification, out onto the brass rail of a third-story balcony; ( this is where we stood candidly; and you started in again, about "the rapture."
(White male republican demagogue mistaken for the twenty-first century Antichrist, alluding to the inevitability of these events as "signs that must occur"; proving the Book of Revelation accurate)
In lukewarm decades prior; I dry-heaved upon your transient globe, wore a special vest to your family dinner party, then threw up rum and coke on the garden daffodils; smoked seedless pot in a neighborhood forest chamber. Went back in time to visit your mother while she was young, then banged her. In residential suburbia I went to bed while the morbid sun was at its frivolous peak; all the neighbors' kids were half-naked playing on a slip and slide. I awoke profusely sweating in anguishing convulsions and delirium tremors; I experienced a nightmare in which I awoke, in residential suburbia at 3:00p.m. to those damn shrieking neighborhood kids (half-naked) frolicking on a slip and slide.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Nwo Premonition
A conflagration of ultraviolet stars illumined-up the crest of a bleak November skyline, months of pallid fingers interwoven by minimalistic interpretation; in recollecting poison spirits being recklessly whirled down the primeval hatch. I delicately recall a young woman's face, pale and apprehensive in the beginning. Time unraveling inevitable mysteries of young adulthood to me without questioning. Alcoholic manifestations of decades prior; on drunken sprees beneath the tranquil city-lights. Crossing motorized intersections in search of something I'd never find: a woman's touch; a nose full of designer dust; or maybe a syringe full of hep-c blood; bottom line is that none of them ever sufficed.
Her apartment resided on the main st. of town; domestic and carpeted; conveniently next to my place of employment. She quickly became everything to me; overnight; my one and only; fervently endeavoring to impress her more and more in my erratic barroom antics. Hole-in-the-wall taverns up and down the main-drag; hungover knowledge never paid off; stale midnight maelstroms of thoughtless indulgence before the coming rain found me down upon my feeble knees in a cruel vortex of windswept winter vertigo.
Laboring in customer service; pounding through the dreadful holidays of benevolent December; running on fermented carbohydrates; an empty acidic stomach full of amphetamine and convenient store hot-dogs. I'd purchase new pairs of socks and underwear instead of washing the old ones. My roommate slept on a roach-infested living-room floor on a gun-holed mattress we found by our apartment dumpster. For toilet paper: we'd routinely steal napkin packages from the dry-storage cage of the restaurant we worked in. Waiting tables; suffering through poignant Sunday afternoons; demonically maladjusted through Easter's delirium tremors; on the side-patio profusely sweating out cheap vodka and puking up prescription perkiset upon the myriad aisles of flower-bedding..
Blowing lines in the employee restroom; sauntering up to busy Saturday dinner patrons in a timorous stupor, giggly-laughing; bleary-eyed; cackling wildly to combustion- running on bad breath and broken faucet nostril alignment.
Last night I rested providentially upon a soiled bedspread; being tempered in tepid dream-state actualization: residential perimeters through rose-colored lenses seemed amiable and middle class enough for me; everything seemed pleasant amid transient intervals of futile premonition; I awoke in dank morbid reflection; to awful inextinguishable anxieties concerning "The new world order".
Her apartment resided on the main st. of town; domestic and carpeted; conveniently next to my place of employment. She quickly became everything to me; overnight; my one and only; fervently endeavoring to impress her more and more in my erratic barroom antics. Hole-in-the-wall taverns up and down the main-drag; hungover knowledge never paid off; stale midnight maelstroms of thoughtless indulgence before the coming rain found me down upon my feeble knees in a cruel vortex of windswept winter vertigo.
Laboring in customer service; pounding through the dreadful holidays of benevolent December; running on fermented carbohydrates; an empty acidic stomach full of amphetamine and convenient store hot-dogs. I'd purchase new pairs of socks and underwear instead of washing the old ones. My roommate slept on a roach-infested living-room floor on a gun-holed mattress we found by our apartment dumpster. For toilet paper: we'd routinely steal napkin packages from the dry-storage cage of the restaurant we worked in. Waiting tables; suffering through poignant Sunday afternoons; demonically maladjusted through Easter's delirium tremors; on the side-patio profusely sweating out cheap vodka and puking up prescription perkiset upon the myriad aisles of flower-bedding..
Blowing lines in the employee restroom; sauntering up to busy Saturday dinner patrons in a timorous stupor, giggly-laughing; bleary-eyed; cackling wildly to combustion- running on bad breath and broken faucet nostril alignment.
Last night I rested providentially upon a soiled bedspread; being tempered in tepid dream-state actualization: residential perimeters through rose-colored lenses seemed amiable and middle class enough for me; everything seemed pleasant amid transient intervals of futile premonition; I awoke in dank morbid reflection; to awful inextinguishable anxieties concerning "The new world order".
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
"Katy dear, make me a road-map"
Katy dear, make for me an old country road-map, knitted among southern quilts of residential comfort, rustically rooted in torn domestic idolatry; transcending worn patterns of embroidered evenings beside candlelit windows, dwindling in stale afternoon hours and warm sullen nights beside road-sign motels; where phosphorous constellations fuel-up a twilit horizon.
Katy dear, the tractor-trailer season will soon be behind us. Our wary two a.m. kitchen outings, out through a backdoor vestibule, below fiery backyard awnings; while a windswept tide creeps in off the vast Atlantic. We danced recklessly in counterfeit living-rooms to colored vhs anthems, drunk on cheap burgundy, reciting the Gettysburg Address in forsaken tongues; how I wish I got to know you better.
Early morning telephone calls to your illiterate stepfather in the depths of his dementia; begging for a couple of bucks for gas and beer; Katy dear, our food-stamp camaraderie expired monthly. In an inherited ranch-house you once owned; fresh out of college in stylish stupor.
With your mothers vintage records and your sister's prescription drugs, we created a dying season within reptile eternities. An autumn of juvenile lust, we attempt reconciling; weekly illuminating downtown, while frail cathedral footsteps linger down county pathways.
A summer of greed where you stole my heart from me, I snagged your virginity too soon. A tired teenage girl in the hearth of bucolic delirium. With our rolled cigarettes and sunburned agriculture, in jagged midnights we lay past out on the grassy dooryard landscape, naive winter reckoning spilled piles of fresh-fallen snow in soft white drifts. We grimly decorated the front-door lobby with flickering red and green dollar-store luminescence.
Springtime was carnal and of the pilgrim earth, dewy green pastures stretched out languidly beyond our unkempt lawn, magnificent auburn heaps of unmarked foothills, intoxicating our spoiled senses in rural aromas.
Then Katy, our resources fell abruptly short; pride came before our fall. A pale rupturing aftermath of sober realization, dead pets and morning-after clinics, a red beat-up mustang convertible and a pair of torn soiled dungarees. Our devices left us bewildered, in gods naked world; more was revealed to us, below soap-shrunken planets of ultraviolet demagnetization,
Our drugs and money seeped down dingy basement drainpipes, gnawing a gaping hole into our future.
Katy dear, the tractor-trailer season will soon be behind us. Our wary two a.m. kitchen outings, out through a backdoor vestibule, below fiery backyard awnings; while a windswept tide creeps in off the vast Atlantic. We danced recklessly in counterfeit living-rooms to colored vhs anthems, drunk on cheap burgundy, reciting the Gettysburg Address in forsaken tongues; how I wish I got to know you better.
Early morning telephone calls to your illiterate stepfather in the depths of his dementia; begging for a couple of bucks for gas and beer; Katy dear, our food-stamp camaraderie expired monthly. In an inherited ranch-house you once owned; fresh out of college in stylish stupor.
With your mothers vintage records and your sister's prescription drugs, we created a dying season within reptile eternities. An autumn of juvenile lust, we attempt reconciling; weekly illuminating downtown, while frail cathedral footsteps linger down county pathways.
A summer of greed where you stole my heart from me, I snagged your virginity too soon. A tired teenage girl in the hearth of bucolic delirium. With our rolled cigarettes and sunburned agriculture, in jagged midnights we lay past out on the grassy dooryard landscape, naive winter reckoning spilled piles of fresh-fallen snow in soft white drifts. We grimly decorated the front-door lobby with flickering red and green dollar-store luminescence.
Springtime was carnal and of the pilgrim earth, dewy green pastures stretched out languidly beyond our unkempt lawn, magnificent auburn heaps of unmarked foothills, intoxicating our spoiled senses in rural aromas.
Then Katy, our resources fell abruptly short; pride came before our fall. A pale rupturing aftermath of sober realization, dead pets and morning-after clinics, a red beat-up mustang convertible and a pair of torn soiled dungarees. Our devices left us bewildered, in gods naked world; more was revealed to us, below soap-shrunken planets of ultraviolet demagnetization,
Our drugs and money seeped down dingy basement drainpipes, gnawing a gaping hole into our future.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Harlequin Angels (Vol 1)
An arid city skyline spread out behind section eight project housing. The inner-city breeze bled black transparency through the urban maple's glisten. Through a tumult of scattered shadows refracted off poignant skyscraper rooftops. Sweltered city streets bred frugal hope and endless futility; abandoned promises and reconciled reckoning.
Noah's ancient ark's fragments carelessly distributed throughout native garage establishments. Industrial steel playground facilities and embedded silver parking-lot routines; afternoon sweat beams razor-sharp heat off patriotic edifice countenances; a native sun submits inevitable life to a counterfeit populace. Plaza fountain masonry dribbles grayish mortar off dampened sedimentary cisterns. Autumn trees slumber in summer gusts of subtle wind off the vast Atlantic perimeter; an unrewarded coastal penitence.
Prayer readings in quaint non-electric corridors. Humble installments made daily below seven-branched candelabra; silently etched towards placid evening . The atmosphere's delicate phosphorescence dwindles majestically down a brass-frame horizon. But what vulnerable metals and frail materials are we to work with, oh ye of little faith? The migrant swallows sordidly circle round a windswept dooryard. Forlorn lady of casual providence in modern exile; pre-madonna of rural upstairs balconies;
Let us go through backyard kitchen vestibules out to the ravenous night ; where ominous wind whispers nocturnal secrets of transmigration.
Harlequin Angels ( Vol.1)
Be condemned then; and keep on living. Now is forever; as the son of man.
What was in her heart tore her apart. He being part of her,
threw away what came on tranquil days of gluttony.
My soul is not to blame; it is framed in picture.
What hangs from familiar walls of unimaginable sorrow?
Maternal candle-light warmed the vacant sill.
Below dark drapery that hides the day.
from blind eyes and warped minds of miserable sinners;
it is they who suffice the harlequin angels insatiable appetite.
Noah's ancient ark's fragments carelessly distributed throughout native garage establishments. Industrial steel playground facilities and embedded silver parking-lot routines; afternoon sweat beams razor-sharp heat off patriotic edifice countenances; a native sun submits inevitable life to a counterfeit populace. Plaza fountain masonry dribbles grayish mortar off dampened sedimentary cisterns. Autumn trees slumber in summer gusts of subtle wind off the vast Atlantic perimeter; an unrewarded coastal penitence.
Prayer readings in quaint non-electric corridors. Humble installments made daily below seven-branched candelabra; silently etched towards placid evening . The atmosphere's delicate phosphorescence dwindles majestically down a brass-frame horizon. But what vulnerable metals and frail materials are we to work with, oh ye of little faith? The migrant swallows sordidly circle round a windswept dooryard. Forlorn lady of casual providence in modern exile; pre-madonna of rural upstairs balconies;
Let us go through backyard kitchen vestibules out to the ravenous night ; where ominous wind whispers nocturnal secrets of transmigration.
Harlequin Angels ( Vol.1)
Be condemned then; and keep on living. Now is forever; as the son of man.
What was in her heart tore her apart. He being part of her,
threw away what came on tranquil days of gluttony.
My soul is not to blame; it is framed in picture.
What hangs from familiar walls of unimaginable sorrow?
Maternal candle-light warmed the vacant sill.
Below dark drapery that hides the day.
from blind eyes and warped minds of miserable sinners;
it is they who suffice the harlequin angels insatiable appetite.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
"auburn streetlight itinerary " (these are teatime intervals)
No time for abandoned lovers, or wooded birds of drudging song below fallen rainclouds, rapacious thunderstorms heave dry city landscapes . Dreary and irreproachable; lurking in moist fragrant density. Disintegrating gray-mists of afternoon shrubbery. Lucid garden-hose imagery. Nut-rooted squirrel grounded in a stale Autumn roadside retrieval. Auburn streetlight itinerary (these are teatime intervals). A daily ink-bled newspaper awakening: sultry oak-tree insinuations. Female and preoccupied on pensive Friday; loot-day-loot: darkened chamber of residential cupboards and frail antique upholstery; imposing on fine frayed fringes of ambiguous luxury; though how preposterous! The malingering thought of having to wait until tomorrow; the trouble of every mortal soul; left swayed out upon rural footbridge boundaries.
Promiscuous fall lover awaited thee, upon venerable afternoon balconies. A painstaking migraine; proposing the one unanswered question: how does one make it through a twenty-four period free of casual headaches and unpleasant routine subtleties? Pretentious is each and every inevitable morning flavor (while hidden in it's native foreground). English breakfast or Earl Grey luncheon? Her petite pale hand gradually reached for my bloody spanner; an old beige hand-me-down tourniquet. Shower dew sweat emerged from a suburban bathroom window, making its way through an upstairs residential hallway. Evening-shaded window left open amid daytime preference; translucent moon vibration in purple-red alignment; vibrant shades of blue descend down from a silver-silhouetted skyline. Windswept grayish hues; lipstick infiltrations and industrialized chemical tendencies. Sheer sullen mechanics; left nervy upon eccentric after-hour despondency. Blood-red, frail and minutely dwelling. Intricately subdued and belligerently vacant. Naked, vulnerable and intoxicated: drunk in woolen velour pantyhose while mounting a pinch-penny staircase to venetian midnight landings.
Drunk on casual Tuesday. Nocturnal mourning symphonies of ruptured illustrations. Comfortable magazine jewelery premonitions; a forbidden household demeanor. Proposing the one unanswered question: on what time and in what season does one let-loose? Childish bedtime readings upon dull-bidden drapery; velvet and marble ancestry. Four-story shades drawn in lucrative livelihood perimeters. We've grown preferably frost-bitten, devoid of modern folly, exempt to premature tidying. Cleanliness is endless and eternal. Flesh-like philosophies are now and treacherous. Seamen walkways of elementary youth; cement cemetery gatherings. Freemason mortar molds between porous seminary sinews. Leaf-like courtyard promenades and adjacent courtyard symmetry: Persian-pillared corridors structured in hieroglyphic reckoning.
Promiscuous fall lover awaited thee, upon venerable afternoon balconies. A painstaking migraine; proposing the one unanswered question: how does one make it through a twenty-four period free of casual headaches and unpleasant routine subtleties? Pretentious is each and every inevitable morning flavor (while hidden in it's native foreground). English breakfast or Earl Grey luncheon? Her petite pale hand gradually reached for my bloody spanner; an old beige hand-me-down tourniquet. Shower dew sweat emerged from a suburban bathroom window, making its way through an upstairs residential hallway. Evening-shaded window left open amid daytime preference; translucent moon vibration in purple-red alignment; vibrant shades of blue descend down from a silver-silhouetted skyline. Windswept grayish hues; lipstick infiltrations and industrialized chemical tendencies. Sheer sullen mechanics; left nervy upon eccentric after-hour despondency. Blood-red, frail and minutely dwelling. Intricately subdued and belligerently vacant. Naked, vulnerable and intoxicated: drunk in woolen velour pantyhose while mounting a pinch-penny staircase to venetian midnight landings.
Drunk on casual Tuesday. Nocturnal mourning symphonies of ruptured illustrations. Comfortable magazine jewelery premonitions; a forbidden household demeanor. Proposing the one unanswered question: on what time and in what season does one let-loose? Childish bedtime readings upon dull-bidden drapery; velvet and marble ancestry. Four-story shades drawn in lucrative livelihood perimeters. We've grown preferably frost-bitten, devoid of modern folly, exempt to premature tidying. Cleanliness is endless and eternal. Flesh-like philosophies are now and treacherous. Seamen walkways of elementary youth; cement cemetery gatherings. Freemason mortar molds between porous seminary sinews. Leaf-like courtyard promenades and adjacent courtyard symmetry: Persian-pillared corridors structured in hieroglyphic reckoning.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
"An Insufferable Sequence"
(1) "A Late Reckoning"
Dense midnight-evening chimney smoke ascends below soft fallen rain of a lead-pencil sky. Gray cigar stenciled clouds darken a pale omniscient horizon; while off in the remote distance a freight train decibel flickers to transparent disposal. A late-county block; one frail and silent perimeter. Neighborhood primates slept through soft quaint intervals of dead-bred retrieval. Amid late slumbering corridors; dull vulnerable minutes breed within a living room grandfather-clock's residential summoning. Awaken to an ungodly presence; pensive and disillusioned since childbirth. Silhouetted shadows scatter along grim-faded carpeting;
( yield to network error responses amid prototypical communication breakdown routines).
(2) "My nerves are wrought and ache in a subtle season"
I put on a cryptic morning face when the sky is asleep. Coffee never fills my lethargic void. My stomach experiences unnerving cycles of thwarted mechanics. Thoughts dwindle aimlessly beyond reasonable conception. An immortal clay-air recoils at the back of my soiled neck-hair. I mercilessly capitulate decades amid backyard household maintenance-chore abandonment. Suburban wind-chimes shrill: annoyingly penetrating, frost blood-bitten fingernails claw at an old forgotten aura of lost inclusive nostalgia; dated and useless. I curse my subdued imagination.
(3) "Dead And Selfless/ or "A Frail Deliberation"
Women of light-maroon blouses and slave-driven under-garment apparel; temperamental at best in silver sun-wedding material and scarlet entrancement. Boredom along these illustrious roadsides is gorgeously inevitable . A game of uninspired croquet. Flourishing in remedial nothingness; dry-martinis in complacent noon-time banquet halls. Graciously nibbling into Italian olive livelihoods: not enticing enough to entertain thoughts of scurvy or malnutrition.
solidity
I occasionally peer through open afternoon bay-windows. The harbor is drearily colored below the darkened lull of a beckoning storm. Anticipatory skyline wreckage. My narrow birdlike-head yields to the torrent lifestyle of a man in the midst of subdued self-inflicted torture. I spend my incomprehensibly demoralizing time here at a private beach residence that lies on an exclusive eastern peninsula. I just sit here, recklessly indulging: playing solitaire by the morning-window moonlight
Dense midnight-evening chimney smoke ascends below soft fallen rain of a lead-pencil sky. Gray cigar stenciled clouds darken a pale omniscient horizon; while off in the remote distance a freight train decibel flickers to transparent disposal. A late-county block; one frail and silent perimeter. Neighborhood primates slept through soft quaint intervals of dead-bred retrieval. Amid late slumbering corridors; dull vulnerable minutes breed within a living room grandfather-clock's residential summoning. Awaken to an ungodly presence; pensive and disillusioned since childbirth. Silhouetted shadows scatter along grim-faded carpeting;
( yield to network error responses amid prototypical communication breakdown routines).
(2) "My nerves are wrought and ache in a subtle season"
I put on a cryptic morning face when the sky is asleep. Coffee never fills my lethargic void. My stomach experiences unnerving cycles of thwarted mechanics. Thoughts dwindle aimlessly beyond reasonable conception. An immortal clay-air recoils at the back of my soiled neck-hair. I mercilessly capitulate decades amid backyard household maintenance-chore abandonment. Suburban wind-chimes shrill: annoyingly penetrating, frost blood-bitten fingernails claw at an old forgotten aura of lost inclusive nostalgia; dated and useless. I curse my subdued imagination.
(3) "Dead And Selfless/ or "A Frail Deliberation"
Women of light-maroon blouses and slave-driven under-garment apparel; temperamental at best in silver sun-wedding material and scarlet entrancement. Boredom along these illustrious roadsides is gorgeously inevitable . A game of uninspired croquet. Flourishing in remedial nothingness; dry-martinis in complacent noon-time banquet halls. Graciously nibbling into Italian olive livelihoods: not enticing enough to entertain thoughts of scurvy or malnutrition.
solidity
I occasionally peer through open afternoon bay-windows. The harbor is drearily colored below the darkened lull of a beckoning storm. Anticipatory skyline wreckage. My narrow birdlike-head yields to the torrent lifestyle of a man in the midst of subdued self-inflicted torture. I spend my incomprehensibly demoralizing time here at a private beach residence that lies on an exclusive eastern peninsula. I just sit here, recklessly indulging: playing solitaire by the morning-window moonlight
Saturday, September 22, 2012
"Requiem for an unimportant b-actress"
Robust city apartment studio of young flaunted Italian actress; paper-doll windowsill in rustic portrayal. Phoenix-red sun-beam fragments spread out against a scenic livelihood photograph: pensive shades drawn in morbid afternoon translucency. Middle-aged mother in hopeless coma downtown and: what is your favorite dog?
Tuesday cinema village uptown; cement sidewalk heels patter along concrete avenues. Wallflower abandonment; virginal landscapes unravel before me. A crimson shadowed evening lulls momentarily in a town's commercial epicenter. Towering movie billboard advertisement: I knew her before the tragic climax; was she really that lonely? : she did it to herself through toxic neighborhood upheavals.
Shakespeare In the Park foreshadowed a complacent noontime retrieval. Waiting tables: a frail anecdote to abrupt personal aftermaths. She created a deadlier sin than the first seven combined. Nocturnal bangs fluttered before a tall shapely mirror with brass rimming. Everything was it's own imitation in the end: Whatever fat-free yogurt spoons had to offer amid Broadway show-theme intervals. Her super-fans inquired about an occasional spectacle usage: did she really need reading glasses?: no- she wore contacts amid a short-lived prime,
On a pink cloud; wondrously strung out against black sofa cushioning . Everything was fluffy and silver upon decadent white loveseats in the beginning. "Warhol was great, did you know her?"- she'd ask me between rapacious gasps of drunken lasciviousness. Her neurotic episodes increased inevitably toward the epic finale. I do recall she wore a velvet garter-belt meticulously in a semi well known love scene.
A friend's second-story apartment; this routine setting marked the fatal ending to the insignificant lifestyle of an unimportant b-actress,
Monday, September 17, 2012
Flesh-wound Manuscripts (vol 1)
Desktop pens journal below bled-yellow bulbs of a den's residential perimeter. A domesticated refrigerator breathes in the dull faded background. We all have morbid tendencies: even her among two narrow wrists. Window curtains pulled to the dingy corner of a dusty apartment bedroom. Dark secrets die within sunlit exposure of a dreary winter afternoon. January feathers dwindle aimlessly between withered boughs of a deserted tree; aligning frost-bitten sill imagery. Myriad flocks fled south to scenic enhancement. Seasonal migrants of suicidal ancestry.
Schoolhouse teachings: I tried to tell her before the Fall; pride just gets in the way. A bloody needle in abundant hay burials. Beaten and bruised on farmland equators; passionless heat got in the way of flesh-wound manuscripts:
Flesh Wound Manuscript vol 1)
In 2,000 years we piled on meaningless centuries of pointless ideas and desires.
It is now time to retire below the fallen rain
of vain attempts at sorrow. I loved her once: a soft ocean-tide coming in from the vast Pacific.
Evening descended a blue-green wrath of sea-crest foam .
Sand-dunes peaked and assembled footprints molding shadows of a dying December.
A frail feted breath followed her echoing voice outward: from the autumnal earth; and into
lost forbidden heavens of heaviness: a new grief awakened many stale quaint mornings
desire retired.
From new eyes of a foreign face; amid casual neighborhood walkways
across windswept city streets she hurries to meet no one. Towering skyscrapers that refract heat at a day's transgression. I yield to changing traffic lights; then assume depression.
Dusk carried nightingales that rest below clouded skylines; along silver trees: I could not see them; but only heard a distant cry from night-branches: I knew it was too late. The death of song, the bottomless serenade. A panic shrouds my diseased soul: my heart assumes position.
For I knew the soul that mirrored mine.
I saw the eyes that peer and pry. (crying out to thee)
I've felt the arms that know all strength.
I've tasted tongues bittersweet
(that speak no more to me)
Schoolhouse teachings: I tried to tell her before the Fall; pride just gets in the way. A bloody needle in abundant hay burials. Beaten and bruised on farmland equators; passionless heat got in the way of flesh-wound manuscripts:
Flesh Wound Manuscript vol 1)
In 2,000 years we piled on meaningless centuries of pointless ideas and desires.
It is now time to retire below the fallen rain
of vain attempts at sorrow. I loved her once: a soft ocean-tide coming in from the vast Pacific.
Evening descended a blue-green wrath of sea-crest foam .
Sand-dunes peaked and assembled footprints molding shadows of a dying December.
A frail feted breath followed her echoing voice outward: from the autumnal earth; and into
lost forbidden heavens of heaviness: a new grief awakened many stale quaint mornings
desire retired.
From new eyes of a foreign face; amid casual neighborhood walkways
across windswept city streets she hurries to meet no one. Towering skyscrapers that refract heat at a day's transgression. I yield to changing traffic lights; then assume depression.
Dusk carried nightingales that rest below clouded skylines; along silver trees: I could not see them; but only heard a distant cry from night-branches: I knew it was too late. The death of song, the bottomless serenade. A panic shrouds my diseased soul: my heart assumes position.
For I knew the soul that mirrored mine.
I saw the eyes that peer and pry. (crying out to thee)
I've felt the arms that know all strength.
I've tasted tongues bittersweet
(that speak no more to me)
Saturday, September 15, 2012
"Recollecting April"
Her conditioned hair is raven-black and falls all-down her slender shoulders: in subtle winds; her pleasant portrait is fresh to me, brisk and fashioned: resembling daytime's seasonal imagery. A decrepit falling; dry crumbling leaves of oak trees and crescent maple boughs; sullenly fading: turning amid late-Autumn. A good feminine infrastructure can go a long way these days; while semi-consciously and gradually: I search for lost promises and unfulfilled desires. I'm well acquainted with her and know where she lives; in this quaint and deserted outskirt county. She resides on the main-drag across from a chain dollar-store; on the third floor of an old apartment building above a used-book store.
I delivered a vegetarian pizza to her place once. Her third-story flat has beaded canopy windows that look out onto the slumbering neighborhood street. A lavender aromatic incense aura spreads out among her building's hallway. She wears too much eye-liner; with pale chiseled cheekbones articulated by the omniscient Greek gods themselves. She owns a different pair of girly shoes for everyday of the passing week; her bedroom walk-in closet overflows with velvet shoe-boxes and old assorted handbags. I sometimes see her on the way to a Zumba class amid late Wednesday afternoon. The workout she attends takes place in an old nineteenth century Methodist church that I frequent NA meetings in. Concrete deity and perverse demi-gods pervade old manufactured stained-glass window cathedrals. A dingy musk lingers on the upstairs landing beside a pillared restroom corridor. I can hear routine exercise music bumping while approaching the men's laboratory.
Dusk descends languidly upon residential sidewalk perimeters. Casually strolling back to my recovery house upon nocturnal village walkways, below silver silhouetted trees: I imagine her comfortably curled up on a beige queen-mattress reading Proust. A long list of abandoned lovers fill her illustrious resume. She loves robust Starbucks drive-thrus that rest off the route 309 interstate. Occasionally around dinnertime; as warm sunlight dwindles from idle gray clouds of a tangerine-yellow horizon; I catch her walking a cute domesticated short-haired chihuahua named Freda.
Tender are the personal years we spared for each other; in selfless intervals we waltzed to queer Celtic hymns. Amid full continental dance halls we stepped on each others toes; and out of the music's rhythm: How I wish I knew who you were these days.
I delivered a vegetarian pizza to her place once. Her third-story flat has beaded canopy windows that look out onto the slumbering neighborhood street. A lavender aromatic incense aura spreads out among her building's hallway. She wears too much eye-liner; with pale chiseled cheekbones articulated by the omniscient Greek gods themselves. She owns a different pair of girly shoes for everyday of the passing week; her bedroom walk-in closet overflows with velvet shoe-boxes and old assorted handbags. I sometimes see her on the way to a Zumba class amid late Wednesday afternoon. The workout she attends takes place in an old nineteenth century Methodist church that I frequent NA meetings in. Concrete deity and perverse demi-gods pervade old manufactured stained-glass window cathedrals. A dingy musk lingers on the upstairs landing beside a pillared restroom corridor. I can hear routine exercise music bumping while approaching the men's laboratory.
Dusk descends languidly upon residential sidewalk perimeters. Casually strolling back to my recovery house upon nocturnal village walkways, below silver silhouetted trees: I imagine her comfortably curled up on a beige queen-mattress reading Proust. A long list of abandoned lovers fill her illustrious resume. She loves robust Starbucks drive-thrus that rest off the route 309 interstate. Occasionally around dinnertime; as warm sunlight dwindles from idle gray clouds of a tangerine-yellow horizon; I catch her walking a cute domesticated short-haired chihuahua named Freda.
Tender are the personal years we spared for each other; in selfless intervals we waltzed to queer Celtic hymns. Amid full continental dance halls we stepped on each others toes; and out of the music's rhythm: How I wish I knew who you were these days.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
"Recalling a broken series of unremarkable events."
I managed to set one semi-conscious foot in front of the other for quite a period of time; finding myself abruptly degraded in a too familiar setting; four walled institutional boundaries. These patients stories are boring; and I do not care for them one bit. Everyone wrapped up in their own personal tragedy of drug abuse, jail and desperation. I don't even like the staff or the so-called therapists.
People tend to run away from their own problems together. Mother's cabinet aroma; recalling fondly a fine wood-scented varnish. My friend: a cutter who romanticised past-gone relationships, I love her to death, most of the time she wishes she was. I met her upon rehab-playing fields; even looked her up on the outside. Phoned her from a late-afternoon rural intersection. A fluorescent orange glow descended down upon the slumbering residential streets. Garbage alley trash still had that firm distinct putrid odor of the populated city (forty miles or so north of it though). Called my friend at home on a drunken Tuesday; going through old high-school love scribblings: some received, some never sent. We agreed to meet at a suburban pizzeria right off route 309 at 6p.m., the strip-mall included a Rite-Aid pharmacy that came in handy prior to our engagement.
The pharmacist on this particular day was a purebred home-schooled middle-aged Asian American male with genuine mannerisms and restraint hostility in his narrow eyes. He warned me thoroughly about the third refill of a three-month old Xanax script. He said that my dosage was the maximum legally allowed, I said I already know this and don't care. He then said I would need a new prescription If I needed more Xanax in the future. I said I already know this and don't care.
Late-morning, lost and confused. What hospital is this? Why? and how bizarre? I set myself up for failure again. There are no underlying themes or issues to my madness, nor any past trauma I can hold accountable. Just further additions to my chaotic self proclaimed memoirs. She was the type of girl that I would date If I had courage. She being wild-eyed, promiscuous, Italian-looking, dark featured-she pierced her clitoris once and showed me in the local Starbucks bathroom, I felt cool and involved; like I belonged or fit-in. I was speeding pretty heavily on government issued amphetamines at the time though. For a couple years we'd meet at the corner barroom, she'd sell me pills; or we'd swap one thing for another-never sex. Although I do recall her adamantly telling me about how she used to be a successful escort in Manhattan; and how she was happy then and missed the lifestyle.
During this time I resided in a one-room efficiency on 8th and Valley Forge just a few blocks east from the Main St. 7-11. The police only grew somewhat aware of our operation towards the end of our partnership; by this time it was too late for them to proceed any further investigation. Winter crept in early that wind-swept year; the yard on the prison outskirts of Montgomeryville PA: The medical ward, boredom has a natural way of presenting its victim with evil actions. That is why currently, I teach myself that there are not enough hours in a day to go back to my old ways.
People tend to run away from their own problems together. Mother's cabinet aroma; recalling fondly a fine wood-scented varnish. My friend: a cutter who romanticised past-gone relationships, I love her to death, most of the time she wishes she was. I met her upon rehab-playing fields; even looked her up on the outside. Phoned her from a late-afternoon rural intersection. A fluorescent orange glow descended down upon the slumbering residential streets. Garbage alley trash still had that firm distinct putrid odor of the populated city (forty miles or so north of it though). Called my friend at home on a drunken Tuesday; going through old high-school love scribblings: some received, some never sent. We agreed to meet at a suburban pizzeria right off route 309 at 6p.m., the strip-mall included a Rite-Aid pharmacy that came in handy prior to our engagement.
The pharmacist on this particular day was a purebred home-schooled middle-aged Asian American male with genuine mannerisms and restraint hostility in his narrow eyes. He warned me thoroughly about the third refill of a three-month old Xanax script. He said that my dosage was the maximum legally allowed, I said I already know this and don't care. He then said I would need a new prescription If I needed more Xanax in the future. I said I already know this and don't care.
Late-morning, lost and confused. What hospital is this? Why? and how bizarre? I set myself up for failure again. There are no underlying themes or issues to my madness, nor any past trauma I can hold accountable. Just further additions to my chaotic self proclaimed memoirs. She was the type of girl that I would date If I had courage. She being wild-eyed, promiscuous, Italian-looking, dark featured-she pierced her clitoris once and showed me in the local Starbucks bathroom, I felt cool and involved; like I belonged or fit-in. I was speeding pretty heavily on government issued amphetamines at the time though. For a couple years we'd meet at the corner barroom, she'd sell me pills; or we'd swap one thing for another-never sex. Although I do recall her adamantly telling me about how she used to be a successful escort in Manhattan; and how she was happy then and missed the lifestyle.
During this time I resided in a one-room efficiency on 8th and Valley Forge just a few blocks east from the Main St. 7-11. The police only grew somewhat aware of our operation towards the end of our partnership; by this time it was too late for them to proceed any further investigation. Winter crept in early that wind-swept year; the yard on the prison outskirts of Montgomeryville PA: The medical ward, boredom has a natural way of presenting its victim with evil actions. That is why currently, I teach myself that there are not enough hours in a day to go back to my old ways.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
"Coming To"
On the midday quays of the urban east-side approaching broken evening. Luminous city afternoon light-beams pervade odorous refuge, amid stale prior yesterday, with it's unfortunate endeavors: all along the same four-story apartment balcony. A beige sunflower vase in bloom, rests upon a pale dusted sill. April was cruel with it's paper machete overtones, July presented us dried flowerbeds emptily, with unfulfilled promises, and brimming living room shelve-surfaces. Audio and out-of-tune, I walk you down these dimly-lit residential hallways. Insects of the north breed beneath pillared building wall entrances. Twentieth century portraits align the landlords poorly-lit kept office, darkened in dingy drapery. A miniscule five day grace period: this is all I have to work with of late. Mad drunken outbursts over custody children, dully painted upon a somber and melancholy canvas.
Into the center homelands now, a fortunate son who's just been deputized, somewhere along the vast outstretched flat-lands of Missouri's cornfield axis. Where day and night break together, the milkman and postman: blue collared entrepreneurs, who slay the past and modern housewife; all tuned up on sex and Valium. An expired state I.D., let us make our way to the first highway entrance south: A 24-hour truck stop diner, weak coffee and stale pastries. Watery eggs over and over again, easy, like the liquid that ran down mothers panties back in her prime period. I elude to the current recklessness one possesses while in this delusional grip, the verge of desperation or humiliation. An overwhelming agony that wears the interstate dweller down to the bruised and diseased marrow. One wrong turn off of death's narrow roadway cliff, they'd say it was all an accident. The hungry salt-eyed vultures know the taste of blood in it's raw crescent futility. The years of silken sweat and unrewarded effort. One's discreet ethnicity of no matter, we all taste the same: delicately fresh blood-red sinews tear off the vulnerable tenuous limb-bone.
Winding Down: A gentle conclusion
I initiate a friendly game of badminton with the neighborhood boys after supper. Early September hours dwindle wearily to resignation. The local delicatessen's window lights flicker through placid evening. Hungry police officers strive to make their anticipated quota off poor fatigued traffic-ticket violators.A soft drizzle pounces steadily off soft plastic awnings that suffice for rooftop drainage. These are the times in the day that I yield heavy caution to. The unmerciful gods have us in their grip. One Ice age away from a deadly violent unforgivable shake of Yahtzee dice.
Into the center homelands now, a fortunate son who's just been deputized, somewhere along the vast outstretched flat-lands of Missouri's cornfield axis. Where day and night break together, the milkman and postman: blue collared entrepreneurs, who slay the past and modern housewife; all tuned up on sex and Valium. An expired state I.D., let us make our way to the first highway entrance south: A 24-hour truck stop diner, weak coffee and stale pastries. Watery eggs over and over again, easy, like the liquid that ran down mothers panties back in her prime period. I elude to the current recklessness one possesses while in this delusional grip, the verge of desperation or humiliation. An overwhelming agony that wears the interstate dweller down to the bruised and diseased marrow. One wrong turn off of death's narrow roadway cliff, they'd say it was all an accident. The hungry salt-eyed vultures know the taste of blood in it's raw crescent futility. The years of silken sweat and unrewarded effort. One's discreet ethnicity of no matter, we all taste the same: delicately fresh blood-red sinews tear off the vulnerable tenuous limb-bone.
Winding Down: A gentle conclusion
I initiate a friendly game of badminton with the neighborhood boys after supper. Early September hours dwindle wearily to resignation. The local delicatessen's window lights flicker through placid evening. Hungry police officers strive to make their anticipated quota off poor fatigued traffic-ticket violators.A soft drizzle pounces steadily off soft plastic awnings that suffice for rooftop drainage. These are the times in the day that I yield heavy caution to. The unmerciful gods have us in their grip. One Ice age away from a deadly violent unforgivable shake of Yahtzee dice.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
" A Domesticated Sequence"
1) recalling a lost gem) Love and laughter surrounded the late grievances of our beloved aftermath. The shutters now drawn in our two-story suburban playpen. Pencil shards and comfortable contraband. Your legs remain two untidy cylinder-like circumferences, while petrified doom envelops the evening foyer. Children of uncomfortable suffrage now that daddy's gone to war. December's frozen lake arena and vast cold morning tundras spread out across homeland recreational surfaces. Diplomatic bright blue ribbons of ancient battlefields, Sunday and smiling. These township streets slumber in pensive delusion. Your soft Velcro head leaves sweat stains upon maroon pillow cushioning. Those letters of mine you currently receive and retrieve from the neighborhood mailbox are blood scribblings. They manifest nightly in my chamber. How you've grown from a promiscuous catholic school peasant into an attractive shallow trophy wench. Scarlett and burgundy, long-nylons of grim realization. Your night-red lipstick lips heave mordantly to narrow eastern wind tunnel canals.
2) introducing Daisy and the comedown king) The El-stop into center city. A vintage promised land. Moonbeams refract steel and metal shadows off filthy sewer drainpipes. Grandmother, the belligerent alcoholic octogenarian, put Grandpa through the ageless wringer two decades ago. He rests six-feet deep beneath placid cemetery rock foundations. Billboard mustangs and month-old laundry heaps in the food-stamp corner of raw-curbed basements corridors. I awake to an afternoon headache and stare into my 82' black and white television. Bottle caps and ashtray ash carpet assorted tabletops. These walls breathe in the night, wriggle in morbid daytime-imagery. I'm seeing a French girl these cumbersome days. She lives in a non-electric flat uptown, and goes by the name of Daisy. We drink cheap Italian table-wine through the crimson night, making sordid love upon soiled bedsheets. Cockroaches and bedbugs infest our livelihood. We swear angrily in momentary intervals of lustful deceit. The hepatitis c syringe, or the 7-11 rock stem, 40z.'s of Silver thunder, I remain the comedown king. Royalty of these sleaze-ridden projects. Daisy's got a couple of motherly thighs that could initiate a cold-war or two. We walk these tenement embalmed blueprints like there were no seasons or holidays or diseases.
On the city transit line down into to Spanish Harlem, we make a pit-stop at Snake's place. He owes me a .45' pistol (that operates). Daisy and I make our way to the apartment building's front stoop. Cigarette-burns and peephole prostitutes inhabit the south-side of Spanish Harlem. Snakes phones me on his minute prepaid cell, says he'll be here in a minute. Daisy and I wait in the wood-rotted vestibule. Unleashed and violently domesticated. The Super is a snot-nosed pimp named Luigi. He runs these high-rise section 8 stomp-flats
3) A night to remember) You took me in to your romantic den of womanhood. Scented oils, candles and well grooming utensils. The hearth of your heart's home. I, a broken man, pungently aromatic, and penniless. You gave me a chance to get myself together, you loved me then. I had nothing, you asked nothing of me. You even trusted me to stay at your apartment while your were at work. Alas! I can't recall the last time someone treated me the way you did!. You showed me how to open a savings account, even put forty dollars in it, (I sat back and watched interest accumulate). I kept the summer fridge stocked with cheap bottled beer that sweated from the glass neck amid noon-time endeavors. Eventually I got my own place on the west-side with a girlfriend of yours (Juanita the Huerta-Rica). I got a part-time apprenticeship with the well established plumber, Gregory "The mortician" Hendricks, he quickly took me under his wing, (tried to get me into his bedroom, I politely declined the offer). I got into crystal meth for a little while but somehow managed to maintain my job and apartment. To this day I can't get that portrait of you in your wheelchair out of my head.
2) introducing Daisy and the comedown king) The El-stop into center city. A vintage promised land. Moonbeams refract steel and metal shadows off filthy sewer drainpipes. Grandmother, the belligerent alcoholic octogenarian, put Grandpa through the ageless wringer two decades ago. He rests six-feet deep beneath placid cemetery rock foundations. Billboard mustangs and month-old laundry heaps in the food-stamp corner of raw-curbed basements corridors. I awake to an afternoon headache and stare into my 82' black and white television. Bottle caps and ashtray ash carpet assorted tabletops. These walls breathe in the night, wriggle in morbid daytime-imagery. I'm seeing a French girl these cumbersome days. She lives in a non-electric flat uptown, and goes by the name of Daisy. We drink cheap Italian table-wine through the crimson night, making sordid love upon soiled bedsheets. Cockroaches and bedbugs infest our livelihood. We swear angrily in momentary intervals of lustful deceit. The hepatitis c syringe, or the 7-11 rock stem, 40z.'s of Silver thunder, I remain the comedown king. Royalty of these sleaze-ridden projects. Daisy's got a couple of motherly thighs that could initiate a cold-war or two. We walk these tenement embalmed blueprints like there were no seasons or holidays or diseases.
On the city transit line down into to Spanish Harlem, we make a pit-stop at Snake's place. He owes me a .45' pistol (that operates). Daisy and I make our way to the apartment building's front stoop. Cigarette-burns and peephole prostitutes inhabit the south-side of Spanish Harlem. Snakes phones me on his minute prepaid cell, says he'll be here in a minute. Daisy and I wait in the wood-rotted vestibule. Unleashed and violently domesticated. The Super is a snot-nosed pimp named Luigi. He runs these high-rise section 8 stomp-flats
3) A night to remember) You took me in to your romantic den of womanhood. Scented oils, candles and well grooming utensils. The hearth of your heart's home. I, a broken man, pungently aromatic, and penniless. You gave me a chance to get myself together, you loved me then. I had nothing, you asked nothing of me. You even trusted me to stay at your apartment while your were at work. Alas! I can't recall the last time someone treated me the way you did!. You showed me how to open a savings account, even put forty dollars in it, (I sat back and watched interest accumulate). I kept the summer fridge stocked with cheap bottled beer that sweated from the glass neck amid noon-time endeavors. Eventually I got my own place on the west-side with a girlfriend of yours (Juanita the Huerta-Rica). I got a part-time apprenticeship with the well established plumber, Gregory "The mortician" Hendricks, he quickly took me under his wing, (tried to get me into his bedroom, I politely declined the offer). I got into crystal meth for a little while but somehow managed to maintain my job and apartment. To this day I can't get that portrait of you in your wheelchair out of my head.
Friday, July 20, 2012
"Love in the South"
Southern thermometer flatlands, through dust-filled screen windows. Invisible heat surfaces, refracts; penetrates dry heaving background foliage. Backyard kitchen automobile highway blues; we go digging up soiled grass stones. Grandma in her Sunday vacuum get-up too early, just awoke. Rural summer sweltering highway patrol forums. Pawnshop clearance arenas, strip-mall delicacies. Scotch whiskey daytime fantasies; Cecilia in her rolled torn garters; exhibiting pale naked body. Exposed thighs on symmetrically intricate feminine portrait wallpaper framing. Petite at sunrise, in hand-me-down sundress garments.
Mercury sand mirages reflect sultry outlandish desert outskirts. On suburban perimeters lazily outstretched before predictable pink sunrise. Dawn awakenings and ceiling fan entrances. Languid vestibules of Confederate lineage. Rooster crows at breaking noon; daytime television and lemonade spoons. Something dies around here every lingering second. Eternities washed away at the swipe of a brow; sweating profusely in tap dance intervals. Gun shop teenage girls turning August neighborhood corners in maladjusted vanity; inferior, scrutinizing Lame Billy the auto mechanic (talks even slower in this heat that boils the beating blood).
Upon making love in abandoned parlor settlements, shuttered corridors and Patsy Cline died in an air crash a long time ago. Tapestries of unfolded wax paper dolls. Curly eyes get stuck in electrical sockets and tied frayed knots. Majestic sequins outline bible-belt princess incest standards. Take me little mama, daughter, family, lover, penetrating forbidden dripping lust and stubborn desire; she kicks like a frustrated mule in temped heat. Tumbleweeds of ancient song; illustrious designs of station wagon-wheels and high heels, riding up so high; beseechingly grazing the northern sky. Tax-free bastards in Delaware, stale merchant vagabonds reside in Virginia. The west was won when Robert E. Lee signed up for food stamps and dismal welfare checks.
Kiln blue phosphorescence, of sacred sky constellation chambers hang like dead ladles full of thick, dense porridge pouring savory meteorites into abundant havens of fiberglass. Burial ground antics; sediment and sentiment (she came here to die, let her be). We all start here with bad directions, wanting money through salvaging slavery and sharecrop. When the village rests through dusk-filled corridors, make your visit to me. Anticipating your arrival with a box full of condoms, and a turn-of-the-century-dust-bowl-filled jar of clay molasses and tater-tots
Mercury sand mirages reflect sultry outlandish desert outskirts. On suburban perimeters lazily outstretched before predictable pink sunrise. Dawn awakenings and ceiling fan entrances. Languid vestibules of Confederate lineage. Rooster crows at breaking noon; daytime television and lemonade spoons. Something dies around here every lingering second. Eternities washed away at the swipe of a brow; sweating profusely in tap dance intervals. Gun shop teenage girls turning August neighborhood corners in maladjusted vanity; inferior, scrutinizing Lame Billy the auto mechanic (talks even slower in this heat that boils the beating blood).
Upon making love in abandoned parlor settlements, shuttered corridors and Patsy Cline died in an air crash a long time ago. Tapestries of unfolded wax paper dolls. Curly eyes get stuck in electrical sockets and tied frayed knots. Majestic sequins outline bible-belt princess incest standards. Take me little mama, daughter, family, lover, penetrating forbidden dripping lust and stubborn desire; she kicks like a frustrated mule in temped heat. Tumbleweeds of ancient song; illustrious designs of station wagon-wheels and high heels, riding up so high; beseechingly grazing the northern sky. Tax-free bastards in Delaware, stale merchant vagabonds reside in Virginia. The west was won when Robert E. Lee signed up for food stamps and dismal welfare checks.
Kiln blue phosphorescence, of sacred sky constellation chambers hang like dead ladles full of thick, dense porridge pouring savory meteorites into abundant havens of fiberglass. Burial ground antics; sediment and sentiment (she came here to die, let her be). We all start here with bad directions, wanting money through salvaging slavery and sharecrop. When the village rests through dusk-filled corridors, make your visit to me. Anticipating your arrival with a box full of condoms, and a turn-of-the-century-dust-bowl-filled jar of clay molasses and tater-tots
Monday, July 16, 2012
"Wild Irish Rose"
I first encountered her among weekday group outpatient settings; along residential neighborhood outskirt buildings; thick brick brown mortar. Cemented in intervals of primitive masonry. Bleak September afternoons, crisp wind permeated the dank cedar. The withered oak hung solitary below a brisk seasonal sky. Imaginary cloud formation chambers crept in from the vast coalescent Atlantic. Coastal ocean tide levels rose with breeding anticipation of autumnal folly.
She exhibited tight ripped denim-blue jeans; amply gripping her pale supple thighs; very nicely complimenting her dyed pitch black hair. A sexy and immaculate feminine portrait. The kind of body in which adolescent middle-schoolboys only dreamed of in beseeching lust and frustrating desire. I fell in love with Rose almost instantly.
As a beautiful young woman Rose became a dark disillusioned mistress to many including the lost huntsman, deluded sailor, dismal merchant, disarrayed vagabond, it didn't matter whom: she discreetly belonged to the sordid pigeon peasantry that aligned soiled midnight alleyways of old forbidden refuge. Shadows of seething impermanent frost shadowed parking lots. Illustrious Winter premonitions; failed to reconcile, burning past formalities. Rose as a child thriving; along desolated rural Indiana villages. Off soft scattered highways; sultry afternoon cornfields residing on state sweltering boundaries. Her mother drank cheap Kentucky bourbon; drunk by high noon screaming; shooting bottle caps into brown backyard foliage. Rose never had shoes growing up; frail bare feet scurried into forbidden cities and urban street playgrounds . Broken bottle shards and mangled blood-glass protrusions. Rose depended on the men in her life to fill unfulfilled childhood voids. Parents drunk or stoned; past out behind the backdoor outhouse, or abandoned silo.
(Here is the poem I wrote for her; before she was raped and murdered back in the Fall of 2008)
WILD IRISH ROSE:
Where do you run to girl; along the corn row or vast ancient barley?
blaring sun rays refract in meticulous 2:00 a.m. retinas
In laborious afternoon fields; your ancestors swatted in prayer
Stalking their woes in grain, malt whiskey and gin
In deserted time frames: you were the rain girl
Fables and disbelief tear my soul apart; when you left.
leaves of Autumn trees and translucent bottles of old
Alone you will be
with me
beside
the wild
flowers
of
rain in cemetery
tombstone
gardens
She exhibited tight ripped denim-blue jeans; amply gripping her pale supple thighs; very nicely complimenting her dyed pitch black hair. A sexy and immaculate feminine portrait. The kind of body in which adolescent middle-schoolboys only dreamed of in beseeching lust and frustrating desire. I fell in love with Rose almost instantly.
As a beautiful young woman Rose became a dark disillusioned mistress to many including the lost huntsman, deluded sailor, dismal merchant, disarrayed vagabond, it didn't matter whom: she discreetly belonged to the sordid pigeon peasantry that aligned soiled midnight alleyways of old forbidden refuge. Shadows of seething impermanent frost shadowed parking lots. Illustrious Winter premonitions; failed to reconcile, burning past formalities. Rose as a child thriving; along desolated rural Indiana villages. Off soft scattered highways; sultry afternoon cornfields residing on state sweltering boundaries. Her mother drank cheap Kentucky bourbon; drunk by high noon screaming; shooting bottle caps into brown backyard foliage. Rose never had shoes growing up; frail bare feet scurried into forbidden cities and urban street playgrounds . Broken bottle shards and mangled blood-glass protrusions. Rose depended on the men in her life to fill unfulfilled childhood voids. Parents drunk or stoned; past out behind the backdoor outhouse, or abandoned silo.
(Here is the poem I wrote for her; before she was raped and murdered back in the Fall of 2008)
WILD IRISH ROSE:
Where do you run to girl; along the corn row or vast ancient barley?
blaring sun rays refract in meticulous 2:00 a.m. retinas
In laborious afternoon fields; your ancestors swatted in prayer
Stalking their woes in grain, malt whiskey and gin
In deserted time frames: you were the rain girl
Fables and disbelief tear my soul apart; when you left.
leaves of Autumn trees and translucent bottles of old
Alone you will be
with me
beside
the wild
flowers
of
rain in cemetery
tombstone
gardens
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Sometimes Things Happen in Winter
Sometimes things happen on long Winter days in the city. Streetcars grudgingly motor past cemented sidewalks splashing muddy puddles on grim merchant pedestrians. Interpersonal relationships get sordidly kicked to the gritty curb. Tumultuous societies of feeble men and women feed off each other in vulturous expectation.
We drank wine across from each other on lucid evenings among outdoor seating arrangements. Illustrious vehicles whipped past dark cornered intersections, along soiled alleyways of old barbaric ritual. We both worked for a living. Friday night was the time we looked forward to the most. Now going eight or nine years back; I vaguely recall an amorous aura circling meticulously around a young woman's expression. Delicate feminine features below straw rustic hats. We looked into each others eyes, fatigued and interwoven. Nighttime chemicals and promiscuous charades of intermittent folly. Her name was Maggie.
P.M. rooftop shingles layered with frozen sludge water. Prior to morning speculation, through dusted glazed eyeball framing. Residential weariness. A subtle glow permeated narrow fluorescent hallways. Bedroom vestibules that led to staircase landings; residing below dimly-lit attic storage canals. Eastern and civilized on defiant timelines. Ancestors remain only in well-furnished living room portrait portrayals. Scented candles and afternoon wallpaper refracted furnace heat; in remission from brutal December days. Midwestern elementary school education delirium. The foundation of wondrous teenage premonition.
Now there was another woman I used to refer to as "a manipulator". I adored her adamantly; never desiring another woman the way I did her. Years later finding out it wasn't so; that is a different story. In fanatical dreams I lost sight of her. Through suburban outskirt windows, new lust took hold of me. Learning the hard way how to avoid kicking in '96 Ford Taurus windows in toxic drunken frenzies.
Decades later I presently refer to loose manuscripts describing past suffrage. Screaming and kicking in morbid agony and defeat; through long thwarted January nights. Adorned beige hospital beds in northern urban arenas. The malnourished city took my tenuous sinews for a brief thunderous ride down deaths narrow corridor. I bled like a wild pig in fertile heat. Shook it away in methadone tremors. They put me in rehab, only to come out with new misdemeanor charges.
Snowdrifts embalmed entombed February landscapes. In school: juvenile thoughts escalated to isolated, trivial, and calamitous incidents. What took place on distant adolescent thresholds was nothing glamorous. A dark globe of self abuse and indulgence. Frail skeletal infrastructures that ache along with frigid weather climates. In bleak solitude; dismal and naive. A treacherous Calvary of naive fortitude. Put everything away. Lie the past down next to coiled cotton blankets; piled upon sullen soiled bedsheets. A friend and I found a gunshot holed mattress leaning up against the apartment building dumpster. I helped him move it in to our fourth-story haven of supermarket garbage bags and cigarette ends. Cockroaches and filthy maggot dishes. He was the lonesome degenerate poster-child of generation X. A two-fisting bum. I sometimes wonder what happened to that guy? I'm sure he probably perishes somewhere along the unmistakable boundary lines of skid row and vacant county city project slum lines.
I remain more aware now of the possibility; sometimes bad things can happen in Winter
We drank wine across from each other on lucid evenings among outdoor seating arrangements. Illustrious vehicles whipped past dark cornered intersections, along soiled alleyways of old barbaric ritual. We both worked for a living. Friday night was the time we looked forward to the most. Now going eight or nine years back; I vaguely recall an amorous aura circling meticulously around a young woman's expression. Delicate feminine features below straw rustic hats. We looked into each others eyes, fatigued and interwoven. Nighttime chemicals and promiscuous charades of intermittent folly. Her name was Maggie.
P.M. rooftop shingles layered with frozen sludge water. Prior to morning speculation, through dusted glazed eyeball framing. Residential weariness. A subtle glow permeated narrow fluorescent hallways. Bedroom vestibules that led to staircase landings; residing below dimly-lit attic storage canals. Eastern and civilized on defiant timelines. Ancestors remain only in well-furnished living room portrait portrayals. Scented candles and afternoon wallpaper refracted furnace heat; in remission from brutal December days. Midwestern elementary school education delirium. The foundation of wondrous teenage premonition.
Now there was another woman I used to refer to as "a manipulator". I adored her adamantly; never desiring another woman the way I did her. Years later finding out it wasn't so; that is a different story. In fanatical dreams I lost sight of her. Through suburban outskirt windows, new lust took hold of me. Learning the hard way how to avoid kicking in '96 Ford Taurus windows in toxic drunken frenzies.
Decades later I presently refer to loose manuscripts describing past suffrage. Screaming and kicking in morbid agony and defeat; through long thwarted January nights. Adorned beige hospital beds in northern urban arenas. The malnourished city took my tenuous sinews for a brief thunderous ride down deaths narrow corridor. I bled like a wild pig in fertile heat. Shook it away in methadone tremors. They put me in rehab, only to come out with new misdemeanor charges.
Snowdrifts embalmed entombed February landscapes. In school: juvenile thoughts escalated to isolated, trivial, and calamitous incidents. What took place on distant adolescent thresholds was nothing glamorous. A dark globe of self abuse and indulgence. Frail skeletal infrastructures that ache along with frigid weather climates. In bleak solitude; dismal and naive. A treacherous Calvary of naive fortitude. Put everything away. Lie the past down next to coiled cotton blankets; piled upon sullen soiled bedsheets. A friend and I found a gunshot holed mattress leaning up against the apartment building dumpster. I helped him move it in to our fourth-story haven of supermarket garbage bags and cigarette ends. Cockroaches and filthy maggot dishes. He was the lonesome degenerate poster-child of generation X. A two-fisting bum. I sometimes wonder what happened to that guy? I'm sure he probably perishes somewhere along the unmistakable boundary lines of skid row and vacant county city project slum lines.
I remain more aware now of the possibility; sometimes bad things can happen in Winter
Thursday, July 12, 2012
"Hazel"
"HAZEL"
In elderly vision, prevalent shades of morning trees perish.
Pain being a formative lesson.
A keen sense of vague photography
Hazel was her name
Darkened trees align subtle shadows of yesterdays circumstance
Who took you from me?
Solitary paths of shallow sinking sedimentary.
Sordid building foundations and interwoven manuscripts.
Parallel and informative
How my world unraveled around when you laughed.
I loved the way midnight moods
commenced your endless strategy
of inseparable voyages
Transcending unfathomable myths of old dirt roads
I loathe being without you hazel.
Casting immaculate pearls into
desolate formidable seas of languid symmetry.
How youth escapes me exponentially and permanently
Then seethes through deserted footprints of inevitable quicksand.
What I would not sacrifice for one everlasting moment
along your promiscuous terrain.
How autumnal branches sway to withered breeze
on coastal shorelines of Mediterranean outskirts
Take my long predictable presence and strain every tenuous sinew
We will never have children in vulnerable Winter upon fallen snow drifts
descending immeasurably beyond cloudless havens of mercury
Mother and daughter sift through rupturing piles
of priceless antiques and pawnshop jewelery
gone to painstaking settlements on abandoned equators
I see your image moving vast sand-like mirages of heaving desert.
Your frail voice spoke of broken wind and soiled rain too soon
so soft and delicate angels wept in silent syllables
upon heavy chambers of majestic skylines.
Two weeks ago, on returning homeward
from my laborious studies of crushing discontent
I was traveling beseechingly through a local village when
a street car whipped past me splashing muddy puddles of filthy rainwater
on my torn and sullen shoelaces.
I noticed a woman sternly striding wayward across from me
on the other side of the city sidewalk
She had your face but not your eyes.
Maybe it was you reincarnate but
I know way down inside
that you're dead
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