Pilgrims, Pilgrims All

Ohm at the dark curtains
the fishy smell suchness,

I'll write whatever I wish
but it'll get me nowhere
it'll tell you nothing--I can't seem to
get down what I should say
only what I don't want to--
and that leaves us right here
where we left ourselves
on the pages of this poem
that reads forever without saying
what I've felt, just
endless useless words WORDS words

don't bother reading
you've wasted my time
the silent office
the bashing staple machine
that can't seem to shut up,

there's no voices in the halls
no movement bah
blah baah bam blam

sound the sheep fire the guns
ahem ho ho
it's closing december
boiling water

Ohm at the dark curtains
the wintery snowy suchness

good day.

Jump!

Momma I'm lapping the
birds on the way down
watching the ledges and
counting the dark curtains
on the cellophane walls,
I'm tired of walking on the
streets robots, and me
being one of them, building
more robots for future
generations of surrendering,
we can be martyrs for the truth
I could swear it casting off
these shackles that you can't
see so why not believe they
don't exist? Because because
it's harder to trust the creeping
black acne of the skull-mind-
intuition--
we could see what I/we see
it would be blasting off sparkling
endless dreams, it would be truth
of the eternal stars, it would be
motionless eyes forever
grinning
baby
grinning

Goof

goof and I've left
one bottle red wine
at 3pm close to christmas
tree's unadorned branches and sits
cold dark corner of rooms in
pastel-sherbet aftermath
swirling in the starless afternoon
goof and with cat's
all on their own and I am
alone and asking the king
slinking by my chocolate floors
what's my eyes have to
do with seeing the
goof when I feel it like
I feel it glancing off my swinging
wobbling drowning arms
obscuring the wails of the kitchen
wailing from missed faces,
left spaces winds wailing against
newly installed window panes
goof pains and I've left
my senses behind to feed on
recognition and only escapes.

of every no-thing

And so I return to the machine
of every no-thing and golden
oblivion--I step forward
watching past and future recede--
a chilling wind on my perception
mind--I am a battered hopeless
shell losing more of myself
everyday--decayed--
but is that right or wrong?
sometime--often times--
the wrong pieces tear at me,
I'm forgetting where they
begin or how much they know,
if it is they know at all--
without memory or peace,
there is no goal but to
forget in sublime failure
the reason--the cause--
the foundation of all things
being one thing but now many
sad individualized separate things--

And so I return to the machine
of every no-thing and golden
oblivion each night to confess
my sins

Never to be found

there's a gulf of years
between landing here
and fading here, and I recall
your smile in each child's memory
much more than my own failings
or never beings or never wasings,
which you never cared about
and still don't, tho often I find
in your eyes what I think is
some hidden sadness, some
longing, some dream that might
never come or has passed from being,
and it's hard to look away--I
admit it--and it's
harder to stare into the truth--
so I swallow it and write it here
never to be found.

Some Change for the Time Man

Anchor me down with the past...
I'm a floating helium-centric
goon of the heavens babbling
incoherent love songs to the sick--
oh well, it was a mighty cause
when I fought it, when I remembered
what it was, but now I'm ground
up in old groundhog day
senility starting 8 hours behind
the sun and escaping into the night
only to sleep never to live
never to live--I'm a layabout--
society bites me, keeps me moving,
I've fallen so far from my feet--
they're dragging toward the gorge,
an endless plastic coffin filled
to the brim with only the faces
I've known, the ones with
concentric circles spinning round their
golden heads--that'd be us Joe--but
they stick the swords to our backs and the
planks vibrate to the frequency
of the queen's machine--
there's no footing, there's no branch
only falling--

Newton's wait

Buddha beneath
a fig tree
Newton beneath
an apple tree
equivalent in biblical terms--
Eve and Adam bit one
or both--anyway,
one understood
in an instant
where there seemed to be
everything there was
nothing,
the other a classical aged
enlightened fool capitalist
saw something where
there wasn't--and has
wasted an entire civilization
on the idea--a folly
which we've been
wearing like an albatross
and making others wear too
until they're all smeared with
shit and evil and corrupted and
submissive or dead--believing
in made up shiny ideas
dressed up in experimental
clothes and called science--
but the Buddha sat and aged
and perceived and
the Buddha took one look,
got it--

and Newton
Newton's still waiting
on
no-thing.

Poets

Poems are an old window
to an old world that's all
but meaningless,
the poet has been
meaningless for 100 years
or he's/she's been dying for that
long--worrying, cracking
bursting with nothingness
and everything-ness finding
poverty and society are
standing in the way
so sitting alone on rooftops
needing not screens or glass,
howling at shit-stained moons,
drowning in the cold fog,
the poet is the great
anachronism of life,
the poet is ever-wanting and free
and never wanted and
doomed.

Windows

I see them drop dead.
from their perch. Yeah the one
right beneath me. it's digusting.
just right there. splat. their
insides must have burst. I guess. I can't see it
and I don't have to clean it. but still.
they should think about it
before they go off and do it. just dropping.
dropping dead like that. like flies out in
the open. Bam. Gone.

Banking on Christmas' Time

I don't know--the tree
dominates the room--
purple monster
of anglo-saxon breath--
crane--I crane--crane my
neck to look at this decadent
(used to be green) violet
triangular god tree--It's
Christmas at the bank,
or almost christmas, slick
floors and flavored coffee
from one side--or else stand
aside--Ha, I'm kidding,
I mean stand aside--

Oh, who am I
to say I've no authority--I write better
when the deadlines
are past anyway, and
it ain't easier to
submit this drivel than
it is to write it--just hurts
more--burns your eyes
more--watching those
guidelines legitimate--

Now place your ornamant
at the alter, god the purple tree
says so, no tangents just
submission submission
be a good boy keep your head
down--
watch out for a hanging branch

Without a night stand, my cup spilling

I left my bowl of
cereal in the sink unwashed
thought for a moment by
your empty chair
turned down the lights
removed my clothes
climbed into cold bed
under cold sheets,
closed my eyes
listened to a solitary car horn moan in the night
reminded myself,
"You must remember your dreams,"
then drifted
just drifted without thinking
until I slept
a black endless vision-less dead man's sleep,

In the morning I opened my notebook
and scratched a big X onto the first empty page I found,

"Shit,
          what a waste," I thought,

But hell,

you know, there wasn't enough time or ink
to fill the damned thing in anyway.

untitled

She wants nothing of me
but my presence
and I can't even give her that