smokestack northern skylines
beckon dusty southern hands
brothers
and husbands
take the rails
trade
muddy water
banks
for
howlin’ bloody
streets
factory fair share
lily white lie,
american dreams
gone in
smokestack lightning
blues collars look best on black necks
wiff of
parking lot
cigarette smoke
wraps me
around
hfstival mosh pit
1999
***
bar bathroom
vapor
stale floor
beer & vomit
and i’m pledging
STG
class of ‘02
***
spliff stank
drifts
on clink from
cheersing friends
snaps me
present and
accounted for
to brand new
Boulder CO.
abode
pint raised revelry
welcoming to adulthood
***
ten years from
now
freshly brewed tea
medicinal only
reminds of mile high
house warming
2010
there is a place
near the Maryland border
where the rock breaks right through the ground
and the gray hands that pull it from the earth
are the same that lay the foundations
of the little gray houses that line the road
cut to fit without mortar
the granite smoothes its
rough edges to gentle parabolas
under two hundred years of gravity
built before the great depression
before the dust bowl migrants
and mr Jackson defied the supreme court
when black was black
and white was white
before The american dream
gray hands built gray windows for gray faces
to, upturned, catch the sun on a sunny day
and the only dreams
are those that came to tightly closed eyes
To create anything
you need
a deep abiding love
of the sound of man
making poetry
from air
Comprehend the drive,
the need to shape the natural world
to our design
sculpt breath and will and
sex into acoustic control
god’s gift and man’s mind
melding together into momentary reality
fixed in that instant of creativity
forever
and fleetingly
in the left brain of those present
Musicians spitting gold
coins from under their tongues like
greek kings in the maestro box
No wonder Apollo was
the Archer
Corner store scumbag
Flashes cigarette smile
And pin up prosti’s
Twenty-buck suck
Fifty-buck fuck
STD on the house
Flash him forty
Call it even
No tip for Jane
Back room jitters +
Belt line bulge
= Trigger finger twitch
Take your pick
And dip your prick
Line crossed asshole
Steel flashes, room redecorated
In femoral firestorm
And brain matter grey
Good deed done
Most writers
eventually
write about cats
They are noble beasts
and if you want
to be a writer
you should adopt one
at some point
I saw Timmy a few months ago
he was doing better
staying clean,
staying sober.
He said meetings
were really helping
hold back the need
to rush out and drink the town.
But his roommate told me
he relapsed once
a couple weekends ago,
spent two days as a puddle.
He seems fine now
roommate assures me,
but I know Timmy
and I know about the bottle
he keeps under the couch.
A bearded skater
honing his craft
in the cement wonderland
under the bridge,
oblivious to me as I pass.
Existing only in the cradle
of baptismal asphalt,
streaks of skin and denim
tag the cement with commitment.
His junky chic silhouette,
a millennial bohemian.
Flame erupts from scarred trashcans as
Dragon’s fire burns pots green hot
Gas fired fury belches
Masterpieces of hand and mud
White men scramble for the samurai’s grace
Ripping off lids in eastern ecstasy
While copper smoke blocks out the world
Figures swirl in the haze
Momentarily attaining bushido
Reaching back to touch the cherry blossom
Time and space be damned
These men caress Earth’s flesh
Into vessels that catch the past
Pink hair and
Upstart anthems
No future for the Pistols
Know your rights as given by the Clash
Manic pits, energy flows
Up through the floor, explodes
Skyward releasing restless
Incandescent rage, youthful
Candor keeps us sane for one more show…
The blood of coal mine rioters
and whiskey revolutionaries
ride down the fog
History waters these evergreens as
roots burrow deep into the
skulls of forefathers and
the spines of gentleman farmers
Men and lives and families
have come and gone
on the steppes of these giants
Ever guarding the commonwealth
from the forgetful tendencies
of human whims
Star sapphires flash
Pale blue possibility
Across the room
Be careful with those
Boys’ hearts break easy
Under a woman like you
Words follow well
Practiced patterns but
We both know how
To speak with our eyes
Cell level logic and
Prehistory guide us as
Thought dissolves into
Shared movement
Heads thrown back
We alabaster angels
Find each curve and
Follow every line
Backs arch and
Momentum takes hold as
Hands clench
Griping harder
Trying to hold it off
We steal a moment
In the softly fading glow
Lives start again with
A clear eyed morning as
Last night lingers between us
Maria always sat next to me
smiling and giggling
hiding her head in my shoulder
all the while exchanging sidelong glances
with the Kappa Sig down the bar
She accepted my invitation
and my ride
she drank my beer
and my shots
all the while ignoring my company
We left her house at the same time
rode in the same car
went to the same bar
but lived miles apart
never coming home together
Every week the same date
and the same disappointment
following her bread crumbs
to a bar tab for two
and an empty bed
The grain silos
stand above the skyline,
keeping watch
for returning prosperity,
guards from a time
when this was the
Queen City
deep explosions rumble in my frontal lobe
bringing bursts of blues and off-whites to a
place behind my optic nerve
like far off artillery fire,
a swirl of every face i’ve ever known
cascades a righteous sleep to my eyes
and i awake sagacious
comfortable with the face of the universe
asked of me outside a bar
‘hey man, can you spare?’
‘the missions here are $7/night’
sure I can spare
5 in his hand
and his foot in the door
before my bills are in his pocket
when I realize missions are free
and beers are 3.50 a piece
charlie chaplin san fran misnomer,
metro chic one floor up
detracts not at all from
basement bar vibe,
smoke curls the stacks
of plastic sound
around aural knowledge,
thomas wolfe hand me down
wrapped black flag
carried by ghosts of
hexagon accelerated junkie hipsters,
bohemian bhagavan asks no supplication
Why are all the sad poems about women
is it just more tragic for them to be in a bad way
or do men keep their sad stories to themselves,
bottled up and hidden away
I feel bad for Brandi and Connie and Ellie
I really do
but what about Timmy and Tommy and Dan
Tom’s wife Bonnie got pregnant a few months ago
and Tom is just so excited
he rushed out and bought arm loads of toys
dolls and army men, just to be safe
and the whole time we was out
running from store to store
Bonnie kept trying to think of a way to tell him
the baby isn’t his
And Timmy, poor old Timmy
we go way back he and I
all the way to Orange Run Elementary
playing on the monkey bars and big blue slides
but now Timmy is five years a drunk and
rehabed twice
but it never really took
he stays sober a while
then something happens,
loses his job, fights with his parents
and it’s right back to the bottle
we talk about it sometimes
when we’re sitting around bullshitting,
throwing back beers,
Larry and Brain and Memphis and I,
the old gang, and we talk about
how we don’t think Timmy has too many
relapses left in him
Finally Dan
we were never really close Dan and I,
more of a friend of a friend thing but
we talked a little, played sports together in high school
Dan came from a proud military family
fathers and grandfathers back to the civil war
serving their country
Dan couldn’t wait to be the next in line
and when his chance came a few months out of college
only a few days out of basic
he was ready, chest full of pride and glory
he led his men into battle
20 men, most younger than him,
on October 3, 2006 outside of Kandahar,
when the mortars and RPG’s died down
they found most of him crouched behind a boulder
and dragged it back to the city,
he still talks pretty well,
if you catch him on a good day
and when you look in his father’s face
and see that little shine of something behind his eyes
its hard to tell if it’s pride in his son
or disappointment that he’ll be the last in the great line
I’m not sure if these stories are any more or less tragic
than any others
but I just felt they deserved a telling
Well shit,
Thelonious is telling me his shit
is gods instrument
and the sax is the
devil’s work
someone get me straight
cause jazz is too difficult
and I’m done with that poetry
too well done
and played out
and performed in
ensembles
and in front of
art gallery mics
i’m gonna write nice poetry
from the (sober) heart
for the (straight) mind
but the truth is
I’m always drunk and
my sister-in-law is queer
so I guess this
is for someone else
baby i feel good
with this bourbon scotch whisky
running through my veins
and your fingers in my hair
my unreliable eyes
reading the unreliable lies of
a clock across the room
which appears to indicate
it’s bedtime
but baby i’m too drunk to fuck
too drunk for bedtime
and what a waste of sacramental southern spirits
to sleep now
i know, i know there’ll be a headache tomorrow
but right now all i care about
is dancing to the panther
with you
and proving
dexter gordon was right
the sax is god’s instrument
leather jacket three chord strut
amphetamine amped adrenal gland
fists precede piss and vinegar vitriol
fervent gutter politico posturing
dime a dozen descendents desperately mine
riff and rhythm from the only band that matters
Another pink haired punk in my face
telling me what’s what
be careful kid
I was there before you’d ever heard of a Monroe piercing
and if you don’t back off I’ll put my Prince Albert somewhere you won’t like
I do like your hair though
looks like the same shade Kelly Osborn had a few years back
I guess you’re as punk as her
Don’t forget to put on your uniform
before you go to the show tonight
all black head to toe
maybe a little eyeliner if you’re feeling real good
bangs across the eyes
ink and metal in full display
hang a bandana in your back pocket
like this is still DC of the eighties
remember your Marlboro Reds
no menthols or filters tonight
pruning peacock in a boozy zoo
Allow me a little advice I learned awhile back
it’s ok to drop that well practiced bored look for one minute
go head and jump in the pit
we’ll pick you up if you fall down
that’s what we do down here
it’s why people say it’s better in the basement
because we all know each other without having to give names
drop that look for one minute
and have a little fun
sonic two step
fuzz tone
glass slide
wa wa
swamp hop
52nd ave.
down chord strut
strummer and th’ wolf
makin’ love to
hat tipped
r-o-b john lovin’
soho dressed
art school hipsters,
hoping not to share in
strychnine straight
whiskey back on ice
dog screamin death
delta chaz and west end john
equal parts sires to
williamsburg watering hole
white boys
with no home in the delta
facebook update
i hate rebecca club
html cornerstone
ca. 2001
IRL proposal
ca. 2008
ring on finger
suitor uncertain
members vetted
via e-mail
her real name’s emily!
engagement annulled
binary breakup
Judging eyes
question
all the way
to the fridge
Is that his
fifth beer?
Does he
need another?
Do I need another?
Didn’t T***y
just check into detox
Maybe I should
pack a pipe
instead
After all
zero studies
show what
every user knows
There are no
addictive qualities
to tea
That white girl’s
blues voice
covers
the green eyed crowd
Her honeyed delta thickness
takes us back
to our poor black days
and twelve-bar nights,
spent sky howling
and
back room crawling
Looking out for that devil we dealt with
down those Memphis crossroads
Wishing our blues history
extended past
safe college classrooms
and
warm cubicle wombs
wondering if
The hellhound would be proud
I saw a picture of Charles Bukowski
in the back of his book today
I couldn’t tell if he was smiling or crying
His wife took the picture
I wonder which she thought he was doing
I wonder if there was a difference for him
