Tuesday, July 28, 2015

bad deal

you really like fish
     and I can't even remember what year it is

most of the time
you like fish
     I can never settle on the year

or;     I mean

I can never get that last number right
     and you like all non-white meat fish

mostly

     lobster is seafood not fish
red when boiled

dyes my hand     slick and red
     buttery

I wipe them on my shirt

the dark figure in the dank archway     by the dock

turn out yer pockets     wallet
     purse

stink of fish     brown water     machine
     gunpowder     oil

the slow moving clouds as the sun sets

a drifting thought

Thursday, July 23, 2015

old forgotten dream 4

suicide I've committed suicide under control of some spirit.
I am no longer under control. I've passed on.
scene shift to
weird ocean impressionist landscape with water rising very high see people,
head above waves the crests, they are thrown out and land on the shore, 
seems like a wave is going to hit me, then nothing, the water recedes and we retreat, 
under the water had been these elaborate sand structures, 
mike tells me people had built them 
but maybe I don't know they were under the ocean, 
scene shift to
I meet some demon spirit thing (I feel he is likely malicious
but we have an understanding from other selves long ago and we go our separate ways.)
it's a type of restaurant/bakery cake place 
I am running around--secret agent style 
some times without gun just hand in gun pose some times with gun hands at my sides. 
scene shift to
dark wooded area firefight against furry alien creatures 
who are really humans in elaborate costume pretending to be furry alien creatures
eventually they realize they are human removing their masks
and now aren't going along with my sound effect gun blasts 
I swing the butt of my toy rifle violently in an attempt to bludgeon them. 

old forgotten dream 3

Here we are in some facility underground
maybe we broke into it
i dunno
do you know?
there is another group of people, hidden...
yeah it's like an airplane cabin
dungeon kinda thing that we can be sure 
we don't have many supplies left
and should get into the safer rooms that are being guarded by that other group. 
But they won't let us. 
We are wrestling with them. 
Another group comes in masked
I have a bad feeling about them, you?
they seem malicious...dangerous, I fear they might be after us. 
we must try to get into the safe rooms and close the door. 
outside is cold nothingness and at an end.

old forgotten dream 2

I realize the meaning of existence, life, death i see it. 
I begin to have trouble breathing. 
A pillow appears above me, like a static image. blinks in and out. 
I know having uncovered reality I am to die.

old forgotten dream

couldn't reach pedal 
kept getting stuck 
in close quarters, 
but no walls, no objects
backing up close to people
that weren't standing there, 
saw this picture of missing girl 
her friend and 
saw her in reality 
pass by on bike 
(later I knew that bike was a man) 

felicia was like you shouldn't have seen her
that wasn't right,
this seemed to be the reason i couldn't find the pedal.

it went like this

the past is gone the mice are dancing--

I read this in a book

in a dream, from when?

I can't remember...

Monday, July 20, 2015

In night we are much like in day

my gray cat
is a gray poet;

in sleep he rages,
awake he stalks
shadows, bites at
imaginary objects--

there is nothing but me
in my dreams; my
waking reality; my
drug laced fantasy;

in night we are much like in day,
the street lights for the sun
line the way; home--

with orange slitted eye,
he watches outside, watches
in; ears twitch, tail snapping,
pupils dilate, muscles taut;
to pounce.

Sunday, July 19, 2015

fat fish fry

fat rat fish fry illuminati
watch this vine
here
[copy paste]
this link is broken
fresh oil fries best
without the burnt
taste
of secret society
fear, as in old food
left to rot,

there're bacterium
in my brain,
I am partial to cats,
paranoid

there are at least 15 places
to get baked ziti in orlando
(even tho the city is imaginary
fantasy)
a cursory incorrectly
directed internet search;

I searched my own name.

seems they know I'm Italian
on to the silent e,

this poem is a google search result,
spiders crawl inside

sizing my bandwidth up

don't worry I've just about lost myself
you're not alone

follow the prompts the directional boxes
take a bow

stuff your face
it's basically nothing
and nothing can be done

there's always time for another lie

I'll set the pace.

Saturday, July 18, 2015

Cat Nap

this glass a demon in my bowels
ringing out what's left of my watery soul
eternal dehydration;

last night I carried nibs through
apartment elevators,
like dorm at Rutgers,
cold old unadorned,
headed to concierge,
     "my door won't open,"
thick brown water, still,
impenetrable to eyes,
sat at waist level,
there was no one at
front desk, I noticed too late
nibs was no longer under my arm,
bobbing in the water beside me
head down legs down,
coated in the brown unguent
I pawed at him
memory becomes thin
see-thru
he was then in my arms
wet chewing gray
     "door might be open when we get back,"
I mused as floor rose to ceiling
rose to roof rose to room,
waters carrying us up.

Potomac River and Harpers Ferry 263' to 315'

ascend the spiral stair

     chain-link line fence

families stroll maryland to west VA

      hiking polls held horizontal to ground

          I have walked 12 miles since morning

white blazers pass me ask
   
     how far the next shelter south

I point to Garvey some-when in my past

          this a day and several miles behind

taste of ice cream milkshake before me

     Gabow put the idea there on my tongue

in my tired hiker's mind

          sky is mid-afternoon

town is red white blue madness

     I am dried of rain soaked with sweat

eyes to the sun

          walking now on sidewalked streets

walking south

walking home

AT Poems XIII

Friday, July 17, 2015

In This Time

in all this time
     I've not written one divine line,
     I've sown not one bountiful field,

I will leave for my child
     a vast unreadable work,
     a collection of journals for the fire,

I am slowly starving to death
     most of what I eat is digitally prescribed

in all this time
     I've built up the cancer particles that will kill me
     I've worked in boxes called offices on rows called floors

I will leave for my child
     Crippling debt and a decayed philosophy
     old bones of the oldest man alive

I am slowly starved to death
     by the long lines of the loudest bank

In all this time
     our trees have grown and been cut down
     I have grown and been cut down

I will leave our children
     the future of the human race
     to do with as they please

I am slowly starving to death
     of my own and rightful accord

I am slowly becoming death
     which I will embody for all but an instant

I am become death
     of the poem and the world

I am death
     everlasting in nothingness

I death
     am a phantom in a dream that never was

I
     is meaningless in the void

A short non-linear American poem (So I will)

Ginsberg set them up,

Bukowski knocked them down wouldn't let them get up,

Kerouac was too weird, too off time to make any visible impact,
     "I write poetry not prose",

Corso was a romantic was too italian,

Ferlinghetti published books had a cabin in the woods,

Whitman lived too long ago to be easily recalled,

the modernists were all suicidal like Crane,

William Carlos Williams got caught stealing plums,

Pound pledged his heart to fascist dictatorships,

Snyder cared too much for turtle island,

Elise Cowen they wouldn't publish your thoughts
     and nobody asked if they were scared,

Gdowik bit into pineapples, cracked his tooth
     on ungodly spires,

Welch drew rings of bone around the earth,

Hughes started a renaissance and is remembered
     for one line in a play he didn't write,

Whalen wrote invisible words across the sky
     became invisible himself,

Tavella walked the concrete medians of Broad street
     imagined unread words,

Rexroth was old and new and couldn't decide which way to go,

McClure jizzed all over everybody came off too cool,

Mcknight fought the structure, lines and rhyme and voice,

Plath said fuck you,

Taratut sung a song of a song not yet heard,

Hemingway never gave shit enough to try,

I intend to follow my words to the grave.

C&O Canal Towpath 290'

like opaque green sledge
pools of my worst dreams
canal is motionless
stagnant lime green
john deer tractor green
thick nuclear waste gunk
of the world,

on opposite trailside,
the mighty old Potomac
crisp and blue-brown,
flowing from upper valley
toward Chesapeake shore,

raining too hard to see,
I remove my glasses,
shirt soaked, pants, bandanna,
head, arms, feet dry under
wool socks, hiking boots,

I hope my poncho rigged
as rucksack cover holds,
not much in there that will
suffer if wet anyway, still,

mosquitoes out,
mark my right arm,
return mark return
again, fuck the C&O
my swelling arm,
my tired fucking legs,
these fucking bugs
won't let me go
unscathed.

AT Poems XII

Thursday, July 16, 2015

Keep Tryst Rd, 320'

cloud cover
thick

sky ominous
dark
almost
indigo

quaking thunder
rolls in distance

.4 mile race down
switch backs 700 ft.

we climbed this
section two nights ago

it seems darker now
rain begins to fall

boots hit concrete
strange

seems my feet
so used to rocks

I remember now
how the road feels

how heavy everything is
how new

AT Poems XI

Wednesday, July 15, 2015

Crampton to Weverton 1000' to 780'

from the gap
thru Gathland
rain slowing
to stop     misting
in still gray morning,
July;

sun is warming
beyond tree canopy
yet to dry my clothes,

cross Townsend road
up the hill
and
follow those
white blazes,

muck and mud
of stewed trail
by Garvey Shelter
     --I've enough water,
making good time--
moving on,

hiking sticks clang
on rocks
support aching knees

I missed Weverton Cliffs
     --must have
been watching the
wrong way, must
not have been set--

determined to walk straight
breath steady
stomach empty
     --no
rest--

if all goes, I'll
start up the car
     --in my memory
parked by old
abandoned school
Washington St
unmolested
un-towed--  
hit the road by three

AT Poems X