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
Friday, July 20, 2012
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
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
"Reminding Me Of Mother"
When you look at me that way I want to crawl mercifully back into a depraved fetal position. Upon exhibiting Catholic schoolgirl uniforms in early Autumn. September breezes flicker right up the long-tightening sleeves of my pressed-elastic-gripped-fluorescent-windbreaker. Afternoon trees sway and diminish in various seasonal folly. Birch and oak, poplars all soaked with morning dew manifestations. Darkened brown eyebrows and: I'd like to invite you over for supper dear. Your feminine frame so subtle and supple. We'll make eyes at each other over doily-like table linings. Fruits and vegetables of primitive pilgrimage assorted in leaf-like baskets of brisk awakenings.
You remind me of mother my dear, when she was your age. The way your adolescent legs unravel beyond juvenile premonition. How your stockings are worn meticulously with narrow garters. I would like to see you smile for the camera in decadent decades of illustrious narration. Black-and-white over-toned photos of you tanning on Eastern coastal shorelines under majestic suns of trivial despair. Then later we'll pass through sordid establishments, catching up on some sea-salt rimmed margaritas. Chasers of O.J. and cran, topped off with drunken intervals of Cuervo Gold, we'll invite the fine Colombian over after-hours, staying awake through moonlit masquerades of frivolous restless timing
I like the way you walk. You got that groovy uptown hipster 1978' and I'm 30 thing going on. I like how you are extremely photogenic, like mother was. You even wear your hair like her. Neatly tied into a bun at the back. Crimson evenings envelope residential beach houses. We'll switch to White Russians early, mixing in some Tchaikovsky to set the background mood. Cousin Larry and the Moose-boys will be there dressed in black as always, we'll celebrate nocturnal transformations of pretentious insignificant realizations. When brutal sunlit morning presents itself barbarically we'll curse the myriad money we spent at the midnight casino. "You said you can count cards you shithead!", she'll wail violently through her towering smoker lungs. Which reminds me: you smoke the same brand of cigarettes that mother used to chain-smoke. Then in sweltering anger you'll whirl your left-high-heel at my dull thwarted cranium. I will have to explain to the badminton boys at the golf course where the protruding rupturing shiner came from.
You know I'll never leave you. You suffice an old abandoned childhood void left unfulfilled. Mother made me feel the same way before the operation.
You remind me of mother my dear, when she was your age. The way your adolescent legs unravel beyond juvenile premonition. How your stockings are worn meticulously with narrow garters. I would like to see you smile for the camera in decadent decades of illustrious narration. Black-and-white over-toned photos of you tanning on Eastern coastal shorelines under majestic suns of trivial despair. Then later we'll pass through sordid establishments, catching up on some sea-salt rimmed margaritas. Chasers of O.J. and cran, topped off with drunken intervals of Cuervo Gold, we'll invite the fine Colombian over after-hours, staying awake through moonlit masquerades of frivolous restless timing
I like the way you walk. You got that groovy uptown hipster 1978' and I'm 30 thing going on. I like how you are extremely photogenic, like mother was. You even wear your hair like her. Neatly tied into a bun at the back. Crimson evenings envelope residential beach houses. We'll switch to White Russians early, mixing in some Tchaikovsky to set the background mood. Cousin Larry and the Moose-boys will be there dressed in black as always, we'll celebrate nocturnal transformations of pretentious insignificant realizations. When brutal sunlit morning presents itself barbarically we'll curse the myriad money we spent at the midnight casino. "You said you can count cards you shithead!", she'll wail violently through her towering smoker lungs. Which reminds me: you smoke the same brand of cigarettes that mother used to chain-smoke. Then in sweltering anger you'll whirl your left-high-heel at my dull thwarted cranium. I will have to explain to the badminton boys at the golf course where the protruding rupturing shiner came from.
You know I'll never leave you. You suffice an old abandoned childhood void left unfulfilled. Mother made me feel the same way before the operation.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Reflective Vulnerabilities
They've tried restraining me articulately in four by four padded cells, safe and cushioned from dull walls to vague ceiling surfaces. They commenced feeding me through unraveling prosthetic tubes, injecting me with myriad antibiotics and endless saline fluid. Telling me to attend group-like settings permanently (for the rest of my undesirable existence), subjecting me to random urine analyses. They said that I couldn't have it all no matter how horrid the odds were against me, perhaps they were correct. Perhaps I don't give a Fuck. These people do not care for my personal well being, on the contrary, I wouldn't care if their darling precious little ones got terribly flattened by a heavily penetrable trailer tractor semi.
Another psychiatric weekday along institutional boundaries. The clock on the wall times itself into sociopath-like suicidal submission. Waiting my time out in remote repulsive reptile zoos, attempting to appear somewhat acceptable before judicial officials. When you're in the system, they'll get you. I live my life correspondingly aware of potential circumstances and likely consequences. Subtle peers and acquaintances remain interchangeable along temporary time-lines. Family and friends, indulge yourselves, have a cigar, maybe a nice towering tumbler of single malt Tennessee scotch, live it up while you can. While I'm incarcerated at the county sweating out inevitable hunger and dirty soiled socks. Perishable bactericide peanut butter in month old Tupperware.
Word on the block is you got yourself a nice obese obtuse pregnant-again baby's mama waiting for you on visiting Tuesdays. I had myself a girlfriend once who came to visit me in jail, it didn't last though (go figure). The romantic charm wears off when you exit the can. "Oh we're gonna do this, we'll accomplish that", Bullshit. Well maybe we could remain friends? Uh OK, there's a better chance I might hit the lottery and never have to see your sorry pathetic ass again. "How are you anyhow? Tell me about your problems, I'd love to hear about them". I don't think so, already got enough of them.
Black smoke enveloped the darkened village plaza square. Modern centuries furtively overlapped themselves through thwarted naive passage-ways and cunning primitive measured prejudices, We sat together through moist fertile seasons, listening intently to heavenly drizzle soak dampened neighborhood flower beds. Our love was new and old. Ancient and fresh. We drank translucent vase droplets, bottoms up, glass nozzle pressed to youthful lipstick. Your flesh was our flesh, timelessly amounting your frail skin's prevalent vulnerabilities. I savored your thick pulsating loins aimlessly with precarious tongues of mythological merchant seamen.
We were not immune to subtle reflective correspondent invisibilities.
Another psychiatric weekday along institutional boundaries. The clock on the wall times itself into sociopath-like suicidal submission. Waiting my time out in remote repulsive reptile zoos, attempting to appear somewhat acceptable before judicial officials. When you're in the system, they'll get you. I live my life correspondingly aware of potential circumstances and likely consequences. Subtle peers and acquaintances remain interchangeable along temporary time-lines. Family and friends, indulge yourselves, have a cigar, maybe a nice towering tumbler of single malt Tennessee scotch, live it up while you can. While I'm incarcerated at the county sweating out inevitable hunger and dirty soiled socks. Perishable bactericide peanut butter in month old Tupperware.
Word on the block is you got yourself a nice obese obtuse pregnant-again baby's mama waiting for you on visiting Tuesdays. I had myself a girlfriend once who came to visit me in jail, it didn't last though (go figure). The romantic charm wears off when you exit the can. "Oh we're gonna do this, we'll accomplish that", Bullshit. Well maybe we could remain friends? Uh OK, there's a better chance I might hit the lottery and never have to see your sorry pathetic ass again. "How are you anyhow? Tell me about your problems, I'd love to hear about them". I don't think so, already got enough of them.
Black smoke enveloped the darkened village plaza square. Modern centuries furtively overlapped themselves through thwarted naive passage-ways and cunning primitive measured prejudices, We sat together through moist fertile seasons, listening intently to heavenly drizzle soak dampened neighborhood flower beds. Our love was new and old. Ancient and fresh. We drank translucent vase droplets, bottoms up, glass nozzle pressed to youthful lipstick. Your flesh was our flesh, timelessly amounting your frail skin's prevalent vulnerabilities. I savored your thick pulsating loins aimlessly with precarious tongues of mythological merchant seamen.
We were not immune to subtle reflective correspondent invisibilities.
Friday, July 6, 2012
"Old House Metaphors"
Popcorn evenings in front of converter box television corridors. Your mother's house, darkened evenings spread out against night sky horizons. Silent neighborhood thresholds and suburban bicycles. You were babysitting one day amid Summer vacation intervals, I quickly scurried over, derailed upon two-wheeled handlebars. A sixteen speed, (as they used to make 'em) you invited me in to hear casual vague stories amid briskly fanned hallways of 1996. You, a sexy feminine-feline-like fifteen year old tanned-line creature. How meticulously your thighs unraveled lucid mysteries of adolescent desire. I entered god's kingdom too soon, only to be turned away by the juvenile footman.
On the crimson sofa I listened abruptly as you described eloquently Julia Robert's performance in "While You were Sleeping", you said you liked it, I believed you. I had to. I remember taking you to the sophomore dance, the first time I ever got stoned on Marijuana. Maintaining an impressive physical portrait, my hands temporarily caressed your firm buttocks. The local boys and I conspired dreamlike manifestations of reality. Euphoria was more surreal and less toxic in primitive decades of high school intuition.
These were the days to remember. Ice cream havens and adjacent street barber-shops. Coffee nooks and afternoon outlines. Suburbia slept among languid terrains of slumber. Music was magic amidst nigh time lulls of wondrous surroundings. The neighborhood kids and I yearned and possessed anything we wished for, or so it seemed. I was in love with myself for the last and only time. The folly of existence was yet to graze my fertile naive vision. We friskily drank ourselves into myriad endless awakenings of unawakened folly.
Moving along into progressive barbaric eras. I awoke to desperate isolation and futile terror. Years passed beyond recollection exponentially. Where did you reside after my long awaited dismissal? This one bedroom apartment on the city river's outskirt breathes bad tidings of carnivorous torture and odorous rapture. Lust and amphetamines permeated moon lit vestibules leading out to cockroach balconies. In the undeserving year of the famished dragon the elephant remains king. School time luxuries existed only in artificial post-work arenas. On returning home from work with two six packs and a load already tied on, I cursed my narrow one-sided world.
Thrown away with loose trash and yesterday's papers. I grew angry and irritable, bitter at the world and my acquired misgivings. Love oh love, do tell what has become of me? The frustrated migrant who frequents these empty solicitous pastures in search of stale striped mystical zebras who once warmed my hungry soul with ancient lust and mythological desire. Perhaps I climaxed too soon? Now I am resigned to leftover cigarette-ends and an empty room. I shall perish along with luminous moons, torn bitten lips pressed to stained glass trimmings. With a nose full of badly-cut cocaine, I pass an old man on the second-story landing. We grimace together with shared understandings of circumstance. He is alone as I am. No one leaves the light on in an old house where nobody lives anymore.
On the crimson sofa I listened abruptly as you described eloquently Julia Robert's performance in "While You were Sleeping", you said you liked it, I believed you. I had to. I remember taking you to the sophomore dance, the first time I ever got stoned on Marijuana. Maintaining an impressive physical portrait, my hands temporarily caressed your firm buttocks. The local boys and I conspired dreamlike manifestations of reality. Euphoria was more surreal and less toxic in primitive decades of high school intuition.
These were the days to remember. Ice cream havens and adjacent street barber-shops. Coffee nooks and afternoon outlines. Suburbia slept among languid terrains of slumber. Music was magic amidst nigh time lulls of wondrous surroundings. The neighborhood kids and I yearned and possessed anything we wished for, or so it seemed. I was in love with myself for the last and only time. The folly of existence was yet to graze my fertile naive vision. We friskily drank ourselves into myriad endless awakenings of unawakened folly.
Moving along into progressive barbaric eras. I awoke to desperate isolation and futile terror. Years passed beyond recollection exponentially. Where did you reside after my long awaited dismissal? This one bedroom apartment on the city river's outskirt breathes bad tidings of carnivorous torture and odorous rapture. Lust and amphetamines permeated moon lit vestibules leading out to cockroach balconies. In the undeserving year of the famished dragon the elephant remains king. School time luxuries existed only in artificial post-work arenas. On returning home from work with two six packs and a load already tied on, I cursed my narrow one-sided world.
Thrown away with loose trash and yesterday's papers. I grew angry and irritable, bitter at the world and my acquired misgivings. Love oh love, do tell what has become of me? The frustrated migrant who frequents these empty solicitous pastures in search of stale striped mystical zebras who once warmed my hungry soul with ancient lust and mythological desire. Perhaps I climaxed too soon? Now I am resigned to leftover cigarette-ends and an empty room. I shall perish along with luminous moons, torn bitten lips pressed to stained glass trimmings. With a nose full of badly-cut cocaine, I pass an old man on the second-story landing. We grimace together with shared understandings of circumstance. He is alone as I am. No one leaves the light on in an old house where nobody lives anymore.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
A section 8 daydream (vol.2)
Section 8 housing aligns the sordid urban streets of Northern Philadelphia. Thunderous cloudbursts descend myriad raindrops that sprinkle along cemented city sidewalks. Diseased pigeons fester in assorted slum village territories. It is the subtle food stamp folly that promenades to dive bar jukeboxes. As a shepherd keeps his flock by night, the pedestrians hustle and flow down filthy sewer drainpipes. Rusty tetanus needles, glazed eyeballs and embalming fluid cigar tips. Stenciled out cloud formations, hyacinths weep to stale morning delights. Evening cemeteries thirst for a .40 oz. of Silver Thunder or two. Drowning in the bittersweet citrus of concentrated orange juice.
Narrow remote doorways open out onto cracked wooden staircases, leading out to second floor landings of domesticated warehouses and counterfeit bodegas. Cut wrists and frail fingertips. These sultry maidens weep through afternoon slumbers and dedicated imprinted tombstones. Corner boys and pawnshop women. Out through darkened horizons a dusty mirage appears of Newport loosies and glass flowered crack-stems. Penitentiary early morning curtains rise to ink poisoning from jailhouse tattoos and hepatitis C awakenings. Gun shop clothing and hand-me-down polyester slacks.
I'm feeling rather saucy mama, pour some of that sparkling soda water into my chilled hurricane, add in some of that delicatessen cranberry, have myself a ghetto poinsettia, got some cold water ice trays? throw in a splash of o.j., make it a thug street mimosa. No one plans to reside on these neighborhood blocks, they all start out with bad directions, headaches and heartburn. Papa needs a new pair of county shoes in prison, it's a shame he had to pull that damn trigger. He did what he had to do, we all knew he was drunk though. All along the blue printed terrain natives lie, rob, and burglarize imitation diamond chandeliers and gold rimmed hubcaps. Around here we don't watch the evening news, we live it, and we sure don't care to talk about it.
They say that the Philadelphia Zoo subsides on the northern outskirts of the city, this being a rather broad statement, I'll say THEY are full of shit. Take the 'el down to K and A. Make a pit stop at Margaret-Orthodox or Somerset-Ontario, find out for yourself. Watch juvenile children lingering on corner intersections, elbows bleeding maroon pools of red death, protruding shards of broken glass penetrating fragile and vulnerable flesh patterned sinews. You sit on your comfortable velvet residential recliner, complaining, thinking you're a critic, a scholar, a politician. You are not. You want to make yourself noticeable? Go become a correctional officer at a Philadelphia county prison. You wouldn't last a day. Think your educated?, you want a taste of this shit? Blow me, you middle class white right/left wing T.V. spectating Fuck. You want a whiff of the real life? Think going out drinking with the boys on a Saturday night is getting wild? You won't know what hit you, after the streets take you in and spit you out, six feet deep down into the fertile embedded soil of Northern Philadelphia..
Narrow remote doorways open out onto cracked wooden staircases, leading out to second floor landings of domesticated warehouses and counterfeit bodegas. Cut wrists and frail fingertips. These sultry maidens weep through afternoon slumbers and dedicated imprinted tombstones. Corner boys and pawnshop women. Out through darkened horizons a dusty mirage appears of Newport loosies and glass flowered crack-stems. Penitentiary early morning curtains rise to ink poisoning from jailhouse tattoos and hepatitis C awakenings. Gun shop clothing and hand-me-down polyester slacks.
I'm feeling rather saucy mama, pour some of that sparkling soda water into my chilled hurricane, add in some of that delicatessen cranberry, have myself a ghetto poinsettia, got some cold water ice trays? throw in a splash of o.j., make it a thug street mimosa. No one plans to reside on these neighborhood blocks, they all start out with bad directions, headaches and heartburn. Papa needs a new pair of county shoes in prison, it's a shame he had to pull that damn trigger. He did what he had to do, we all knew he was drunk though. All along the blue printed terrain natives lie, rob, and burglarize imitation diamond chandeliers and gold rimmed hubcaps. Around here we don't watch the evening news, we live it, and we sure don't care to talk about it.
They say that the Philadelphia Zoo subsides on the northern outskirts of the city, this being a rather broad statement, I'll say THEY are full of shit. Take the 'el down to K and A. Make a pit stop at Margaret-Orthodox or Somerset-Ontario, find out for yourself. Watch juvenile children lingering on corner intersections, elbows bleeding maroon pools of red death, protruding shards of broken glass penetrating fragile and vulnerable flesh patterned sinews. You sit on your comfortable velvet residential recliner, complaining, thinking you're a critic, a scholar, a politician. You are not. You want to make yourself noticeable? Go become a correctional officer at a Philadelphia county prison. You wouldn't last a day. Think your educated?, you want a taste of this shit? Blow me, you middle class white right/left wing T.V. spectating Fuck. You want a whiff of the real life? Think going out drinking with the boys on a Saturday night is getting wild? You won't know what hit you, after the streets take you in and spit you out, six feet deep down into the fertile embedded soil of Northern Philadelphia..
Monday, July 2, 2012
Dr. Ruth/ Twins
Dr. Ruth.
I walk around this sullen town broken and empty. Tedious days run together like smeared watercolors on a dull canvas. Whatever events that transpired, well I don't have much to say about them. I will tell you this however, that I've seen a few things there and here. My friend never awoke once, with a needle hanging out of his arm, pools of drool lingering from his stale mouth. They said I was a criminal, maybe I was and/or still am. Perhaps I'm not that much different than any other thrill seeker. I need to start being more grateful for the things I take for granted, don't we all.
Springtime enveloped the outer city limits. Corner barrooms, and lucid talk of bucket lists. I listened vaguely to others warn me about that or this. Upon awakening I'd do my best to feel alright. This is all that mattered to me. Night time's toxic escapades of sedatives, booze, and midnight rambling. Loose conversations filled gaping intervals of desperate dialogue. There are cemeteries that need to be filled with rotting corpses, still decomposing. Desolate hungry souls ache miserably along with the damp weather. This Winter shall be a cold, deserted, withering Winter. The summer shall be boring, petty and sweltering.
Seasons overlap, a solitary moon hangs silhouetted in it's silent chamber. Residential trees align evening gardens that unfold unmercifully beyond sububan perimeters. Afternoon appointments made in vain proximity, let us go and see the doctor, he'll prescribe medicines you recommend to him.
Twins
Once upon a time I knew a pair of sexy twins, built for speed, full-figured if you know what I mean. Brunettes with dazzling dark hair that descended down to their exquisite waist line. Thick thighed beauties. Substantial domesticated white girls. Back in high school's decadent decades. Trophies they were, at least while they were young, before losing grip of naive adolescence. We would make-out sometimes at school dances, behind the green dumpster in rural parking lots. Sometimes on the weekend I'd meet them at the antique strip mall, holding both their bone- frail- hands, I'd walk them around, on the weekends.
In my younger days I played with fire and
enjoyed it, very much. Still continuing, to
this day forward, attempting to relive
those very same moments,
though failing miserably.
I still try, and get
rewarded with
nothing but a lukewarm
40 0z. Miller High life and a soiled
pair of
trousers.
I walk around this sullen town broken and empty. Tedious days run together like smeared watercolors on a dull canvas. Whatever events that transpired, well I don't have much to say about them. I will tell you this however, that I've seen a few things there and here. My friend never awoke once, with a needle hanging out of his arm, pools of drool lingering from his stale mouth. They said I was a criminal, maybe I was and/or still am. Perhaps I'm not that much different than any other thrill seeker. I need to start being more grateful for the things I take for granted, don't we all.
Springtime enveloped the outer city limits. Corner barrooms, and lucid talk of bucket lists. I listened vaguely to others warn me about that or this. Upon awakening I'd do my best to feel alright. This is all that mattered to me. Night time's toxic escapades of sedatives, booze, and midnight rambling. Loose conversations filled gaping intervals of desperate dialogue. There are cemeteries that need to be filled with rotting corpses, still decomposing. Desolate hungry souls ache miserably along with the damp weather. This Winter shall be a cold, deserted, withering Winter. The summer shall be boring, petty and sweltering.
Seasons overlap, a solitary moon hangs silhouetted in it's silent chamber. Residential trees align evening gardens that unfold unmercifully beyond sububan perimeters. Afternoon appointments made in vain proximity, let us go and see the doctor, he'll prescribe medicines you recommend to him.
Twins
Once upon a time I knew a pair of sexy twins, built for speed, full-figured if you know what I mean. Brunettes with dazzling dark hair that descended down to their exquisite waist line. Thick thighed beauties. Substantial domesticated white girls. Back in high school's decadent decades. Trophies they were, at least while they were young, before losing grip of naive adolescence. We would make-out sometimes at school dances, behind the green dumpster in rural parking lots. Sometimes on the weekend I'd meet them at the antique strip mall, holding both their bone- frail- hands, I'd walk them around, on the weekends.
In my younger days I played with fire and
enjoyed it, very much. Still continuing, to
this day forward, attempting to relive
those very same moments,
though failing miserably.
I still try, and get
rewarded with
nothing but a lukewarm
40 0z. Miller High life and a soiled
pair of
trousers.
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