Anxiety Nursery Rhyme

Anxiety Nursery Rhyme

That tension
is green
and electric
it trickles from
dark corners
a head’s turn
away
at all times

and before you can
meet it eye to eye

it pains your stomach
regions by and by.

Another Breakfast Poem (for Michelle Anna Jordan)

Another Breakfast Poem (for Michelle Anna Jordan)

Yes,
please place logs in my stomach,
slow
burning
logs
with my morning stomach acid
as hungry as fire,
and please jolt my rat-caged brain
with electricity
from the cup
so that my efforts and
musings and sideways glances
will all ring iron
with sharp edges-well defined,
against odds,
on Sunday mornings.

Old

Am I really this old?
Perhaps that’s why
I am now growing mad-
all this early growth
piled onto
this young frame,
a heavy load
(too heavy!),
all this forbidden perspective
crucifies me
and the blood just gets
everywhere;
on the friends
and the walls
and in my walk
and on any woman unfortunate enough
to crash into me
on randumb drunken freeways
(and alleys!)
and other meaningless
excursions.

(sorry,
space has been explored.
everyone just go home.)

Curse the Puppet Show

Ah Karen-
fictitious ghost
haunting a beautiful
idea
in my mind,
you can feel the falsity
of all this
yearning
of all this
anticipation,
you come from a clan
which fights this nonsense
with razor sarcasm
and a bitter, bitter love,
all of you
with your poor caged hearts,
growing tenderer by the minute;
overprotected,
yes, your smothered heart
and my naked infant one,
bouncing off each other now
with a sound louder than fate
and much louder than tendency
and much more painful than both.

Ah Karen,
we suffer the bondage
of slot car tracks
and curse the puppet strings
that we actually hold
ourselves.

Aching For Some Sort Of

Aching for some sort of
beauty or grace
in this barren land
as my blood rusts
and I turn to stone
and watch the vultures
tear away flesh and cackle
and spin
fueled by final knowledge
of death
being the only truth
and life being that
meaningless
void
/////////////in between/////////////.

11:35

11:35

Here at the Petaluma Center for the SRJC
the clock is stuck at
11:35
it has been
11:35
for two weeks now
here at the Petaluma Center for the SRJC
my educated
guess
is that tomorrow will be an
11:35er
as well.
Probably the day after that
too.
Oh how
I wish it were possible to climb up that
clock tower and
twist those hands up
making them say some impossible time
like 57:65PM
or even something cute like
12:34 or
the old traditional
4:20

anything
but
11:35
11:35
11:35
11:35
11:35
11:35
11:35
11:35
11:35
however
soon
on another humdrum day here at
the Petaluma Center for the SRJC
some computer science major
will lift up his
standard issue head
and see the holiest of sights-

11:36!

and he will pass the word and
announcements will be made
and plans planned
and there will be an 11:36
celebration
and all the administrative assistants
and career path hopefuls alike
will bask and roll
in the glory of this monumentous development
called
11:36
and a plaque will be cast
and awards handed out
(the first one to the famed computer science major who first caught the sight,
it will be called the Amerigo Vespuci Award)
and pictures taken of the clock
with all the administration
including one wacky photo of the dean
pretending to pull the minute
hand one more minute
in order to prompt another day of celebration
so that he can get out of his office
and into the fresh California air....
...........
so perhaps 11:35 is okay with me.
At least it keeps things
quiet
around
here
for now.

The Chinese Mafia

Eat with your left hand
write with your right
in this Chinese dive,
the Chinese mafia
watch me eat,
check my progress
(or am I just paranoid?).
More water from an old Gator-aid bottle?
certainly,
heavy on the MSG
please.
THAT GUY
from the kitchen
never takes his eye off me
for too long,
its as if he suspects me
of getting up
and assassinating the cook
with my fork.
I think I'm in an experiment
of some sort:
"will he eat it?"
"I think he's eating it!"
as the young Chinese daughter
sits in the first pew (church-like)-like table,
in the strange silence of
of this Chinese sanctuary,
quietly doing her homework,

and that kitchen guy
continues to stare.

Wolverine Clarity

My mind bends
with wolverine
clarity
as I claw at myself
and dream of setting
everything I've ever thought,
said
or done
on fire.

"..you've gotta smash your brain-cells, you know?.. ..crack 'em.." --Geets Romo

Ahh yes, we laugh
at the silly hipster's
stereotypical
cartoon mental meanderings
and esoterical
abstrakt nonsensicals,
but
(please believe me)
there can be invaluable experience
in the subjecting of yourself
to the nightmare rivers of
singeing everclear mornings,
to the echoing heartbeat of despair,
ringing truths of soltude's
unchangeable eternal reality,
and to the absurd stupid
howling winds of general
chaotic nature/man madness-
all scraping black dry branches
of wisdom
against your naked sides,
signing their names illegibly,
in random red ink
on pale human parchment.

Yet Another Mood Splinter Snap-Shot

Oh fuck
shit
innerexplosions
some feelings
cannot
be written down
her jawbone is so perfect
salsa dripping
Mel laughing
violins playing
Mexican violins
the chicken burrito has arrived
the chicken burrito is being eaten
“Honey, I think that man is staring at us.”
“Just ignore him.”
She has the most pleasantly slight of figures.
rice-rice-rice
chicken
notes-wrong ones
out of tune
misplaced
even worse: hesitant
ungraceful
my horn is a pacifier only
no other value
rusted
bent
her smile
so graceful
beans rice
chicken.

Who Can Resist the Sky?

Like usual
the vaulted blue skys
scream escape,
sending down their
cloud-shaped wings
to lift my mind
straight on up
through
their vaulted sweet eternity.

The Music

When the music is bad
it’s real bad.

But when the music is good
it becomes a bird
released
finally
by the hands
of all things
earthly.

Just Another Final Goodbye

Well folks
the closing music
is being cranked up
as I ink
so farewell
listeners
and may all your
days be
filled
with a graceful
brutality.

Typical Emo Bullshit Yields Truth

I’m using half a pen
     and half my brain.

I’m wearing used clothes
     and thinking used ideas.

It’s raining outside and
     I’m raining inside.

I’m being ignored
     and I’m ignoring.

Ahh-

everything makes sense.

Overturned Big Rig on 101

Truth is not supreme
this I have learned
truth is the interstate highway
and is backed up with
traffic
style is the opposite of truth
and is the
rarely used picturesque
back road.

Trans-Sobriety Communication

I can do anything
anything
this isn’t because I’m stoned
this is real:
Inner-Smart-Logical-Enlightened-Only-Element-Visible-When-Stoned-Damian
stretches a graceful
wing
forward to tap
Everyday-Angst-Yet-More-Capable-Of-Coordination-And-Action-Damian
on the back
and tells him it’s alright.

The Naked Truth

Tonight the naked truth of the
moonlight
shattering through my window
exposes my lonely existence
like a boy caught stealing.

Tired of All These Looming Shadows

Tired of all these looming shadows,
my friend’s junk collections intermingling with my own-
all of our wires are tangled
and nobody wants to unplug anything.

The Swing Dance Craze Part 3 (This Pen is Possessed by the Devil!)

Jazz begun in
whorehouses
and I kind of wish that this
(Ernie Small’s Big Band Concert at “Cub Rumors”)
was a whorehouse
because I wouldn’t mind
buying one of these
angelic little lobotomized Christ-cadets
for an evening
to take home and crucify
with ropes instead of nails
in my bedroom
perhaps that would help them
feel closer to their
dead husband
the carpenter
and I could get my kicks
to boot!

The Queen Takes Control

I’m entrenched in splendor
ascending from my throne
Mr. Tenor in hand
we compliment each other
job well done
and then
I glance down from my
rainbow
and see a small
fawn
who effortlessly
strips me of my royalty
and assumes command
of my entire
kingdom.

The Problem

Christ
she looks like
Tinkerbell
that aqua blue blouse
sends my mind underwater
she floats
she burns neon across my eyes
she’s made of strawberries
she’s unaware that I am
trying to write a poem about her
right now

so’s her boyfriend


yeah.

The Horn Sections of the Big Bands of the 20s and 30s

The horn sections
of big bands
of the 20s and 30s
still scream
and etch their
tensions
through five dollar speakers
in dives across
this great expanse.

Through some old
dust covered
Philco radio
Harry James’
whimpering trumpet still
needles through the
veins
of indifferent patrons
with a cobwebbed
sentimentality.

Those old songs.
“The Glory Days”.
Marilyn Monroe
shaking her dumb ass
all over mankind.

Harry James’
on his break at the Flamingo
with Marilyn in his dressing room,
he loses himself
inside Marilyn’s
commercially invaluable body

and his trumpet is miles away.

The End

Coastal beginnings,
sand through
sand through
sand
a see-through
chiffon
blouse
with flowers on it
just left there
five feet in front
agony in the garden
part two
me on my knees
dropping to my knees
forever dropping
the scent of perfume
the scent of burned wood
the clouds open up
my riffs pass before me
eyes upturned
I
fall
in-
to
it.

Sweet Fabricated Memories

So delicate
never ending
a quilted existence
frills and perfumes
she’s young
so am I
we stumble through
our clumsy sensuality dance
and attempt to consume
each other
through a straw
as Cupid
laughs his guts out.

Good Night

It’s 2:15 in the morning,
three quarter moon hangs on the sly
belching through the fog,
dogs debate through long distances
and mocking birds recite their endless list
of reverbed permutations.
I can see that the horses across the way
are still awake too
frozen stoically
under the stark light of their master’s bulb,
they stick together always.
The only other soul alive at this moment
is the landlord downstairs
putting in hard time in front of the
neon-satellite-god
it’s murmur undercutting the perfection that is my
2:15AM stir.
He’s missing the real show
as I write this by candlelight
naked
by the window
having woken up from lucid r.e.m.
and a dream about having new
saxophone sounds
new frequencies.
Just had to get it all down.
Is all seems so sweet
that upon blowing out this candle
I might
step out into it
either physically
or in my next dream.

Goodnight.

Speaking in Rock Songs

No guts
no guts
a hollow carriage
with nothing left but the word
to cling to
no strength
no strength
searching artificial supports
in adrenaline cups and
carbonated poisons
and secret herbal jazz cigarettes.
All this dismay
is so cliche’
but that will not
erase it away.

Zero

sober/high
sharp/dull
working/watching TV
healthy/sick
6 new songs/sampler’s block
girl in my bed/4:30AM staring out my bedroom window

left right
up down
here there
1 + -1
=
0

Side Effects

Am I really such an insipid evil
vulture
because I won’t
(can’t)
shut my mouth and turn my head in line
with the others
sitting in the procession
at Taco Bell
and sitting willingly
in front of radios
that only transmit stations that have
songs and commercials
that are indistinguishable
from each other?

Is it really that big-headed
to have
opinions?

Presently I am besieged by a
guilty gangrene

but something else
tells me
that this is all just a
side effect

and that treatment
should
continue.

Sickness

I am nothing.
I have been erased.
In my place:
a carcass barely alive
at all.
The rest of the world,
still wondrously intact,
now echoes down long
thick carpeted halls
dripping with mucous.
As if to melodramatize the point,
upon looking out my window,
I discover a turn of season
with thick phlegmy clouds
only releasing
a small amount of the
once powerful sun.
Sickness is a terrible thing:
no matter what we are
without it,
with it
we are nothing.

Risk

I’m writing this
while walking across
a lawn
and that is difficult
to do
but I’m doing it
because I believe
anything
is worth it
in the moment
and in these lines
I find escape
as many have.

Now I’m in my car
and I’m risking my neck
for these lines
ain’t that impressive?
One eye on the road
the other on this pad
doin’ it

because. 

Reckless Driving

Nerves jangled,
a hulking skeletal shell of a human-being,
barely propped up with high octane caffeine
on an uncanny office morning,
my brain floating
in the dull amniotic fluid
of a marijuana aftermath.
I seem to be able to pull this off
(life)
but I’m far too wise
to get
comfortable.
Complacency is gangrenous:
sweet easy death
and is to be avoided at all costs.
So I shall not relax,
keeping a merciless grip on my adrenals,
driving them like a
temporary
sports car.

Quiet, Quiet Thursday Night

Heeeeeey.
12:46 AM
Heeeeeey.
It’s me,
Laura Scudder’s Old Fashioned Peanut Butter and
a banana,
a midnight snack -literally.
Heeeeeey.
Bert’s downstairs
stewing in his geriatric juices
watching
TELEVISION
and I have nothing to do with it!
Heeeeeey.
Shorpkenhoff is home being efficient.
My parents are fast asleep.
Stewart’s on the internet.
Nelle’s reading.
Harvey Weinapple’s watching the late show.
and Scotty’s passed out next to a girl in bed,
she’s still awake, thinking of him.
Only police cars drive around quiet Petaluma now,
pulling each other over
just for the hell of it.

and I have nothing to do with any of them either
(thank god)
Heeeeeeey.
Me and peanut butter and banana
all wink at each other,

we’re proud of ourselves.

One Step Behind

It shows up
and spirals
and I want to catch it
but I would burn my hands
off
so I leap out of its path
and watch
amazed
while someone else grabs it
and I feel sorry for them
at first
but then they throw it away
proud
because they know that
the real trophy
is their
burned hands.


......and I would have done it,
too,
if only I would have known........
(doubt doubt doubt doubt doubt)

Ode to Bukowski

I interrupt people.
I smoke dope alone.
I avoid crowds.
I dislike most humans.
I distrust all humans.
My beloved spit in my face.
and I’ve got a fire inside
that could slice ya
right up.
I’m a goddamn flowering
masterpiece
of the
illogical
and the
insane.
I cuss
spit
avoid shaving
and my body is
thinning
because I often forget
to eat.

That is why I like your books.

My Straw Sleeping Cap

Dreaming
of the summer
night sounds
of a
girl
and a boy

the crickets
sing
in my head
and out the window

she moves
he moves
they are awkward
and perfect

in the dark of the barn
in the night of my soul

Comfy Coffin Lining

My saxophone rusts,
my stomach groans for food,
each girl
out there
is a movie with a
bad ending,
the earth turns and
I burn with torturous perspective.
hands still dance
across faces of
watches and clocks,
my body suffers it’s usual
perennial floods
and droughts,
my sampler collects dust
instead of sounds
and cobwebs are spun
around me.
But don’t worry:
spiders are very beautiful creatures
after all,
and it doesn’t hurt
anyway,
it just
tickles.

Growing Pains

My hollow eyes
echo ends of childish days
and my tears are skinny ladders
leading down aging
facial cliffs
into uncharted regions
as I turn
just slightly
into stone
this
tortured
night.

Musings in the Anti-Tattoo Parlor

Hello.
My dad gets tattoos removed and
I sit in the waiting room
staring at the typical
unnoticeable
wall paper
and passing an occasional eye
over the plump, mentally fettered
office muffin
baking her hours away in
easy boredom-death,
piercing her hollow eyes
through the double off-white doors
that only would lead to other
unnoticeable
jobs and tasks and
printers and pictures of the kids-
how long has she worked here?
she can’t recall
waddling through the
off-white labyrinth
so simple to understand
yet so hard to
escape from.
Like tattoos.
Goodbye.

More Effortless Fragments

Hey.....
This strange new winter reflection/
clouds form a blanket/
my mind effortlessly fragments/
cold romantic winds/
the inevitable agonies of default solitude/
empty lots resonate truth/
I’m old before my time/
sadness = beauty/
truth = sadness/
as my mind effortlessly fragments/
the tall grass is frozen/
oceangowers gasp at frozen air/
the trees sway like dancers/
and even lovers/
deep in the act/
are/
actually/
/alone/

Misplaced Autumn Agony

I glance at today
with knothole eyes
and autumn yellow teeth-
my soul is stained with piss
and my bones are warped
and there are tears inside
this rusted tank
with legs and arms
and thoughts and feelings:
too many thoughts
too much feeling
and too many more knothole
piss-yellow days like this one
and I may just
let these bones
rust
and fall to soil.

Melancholy Contemplation #80.746

I hear
cobwebbed stereo
panned
word samples
in each ear,
they say
(in a 50’s East Coast accent)
“welcome to the real world, kid”
home from work,
I feel as if my slow boring work-week
has whirled my brain;
all those plump office muffins
with their powdery litter-box minds
and dainty spinningwheel
conversations
as interesting to me
as whitebread on whitebread
on whitebread.

Friends pt. 2

It’s always been the same:
no one else
wants to eat
when I’m hungry
but I travel with them anyway
and starve.

Invisible White Flag

Why do
people
seem more like sharks,
plotting underneath my nails
and laughing
behind countless walls
and all secretly believing
me wicked
and empty of
“spirit”,
searing my pride
with these pure white
glances
while simultaneously
smelting on me
more cruel armor,
sending me further into myself,
further into their apparent evil,
creating a monster
from the reflection of their own eyes,
superimposed
over my begging form?

“You Don’t Work-a You Don’t Eat-ha” -JB

Suicide
is taking a full-time job,
taking one’s life
by leaping into that green pit,
so much money
it drowns you
the part that most don’t like,
yet a few special girls do,
and your best friends do,
and even (in my case) your family does,
but none of these people can
save you from the suicide pact
you have made
just by being born
on this
lush green sphere.

What My Jazz Band Means When It Says “&$*%$#*!!!!!!!!”

A carcass
is what you see before you.
A group of carcass’.
Bones.
Fuck, shit,
this isn’t “music”
this is ejaculation,
again and again
oh,
only one fifth
of a second
worth of
that voodoo
is all we seek;
to go there
for one small fraction of a second
to shed skin
with those wise old negroes
to laugh out loud with them
to float with them
float before you
our only wish
welcome
welcome
welcome.

Upon Inhaling a Drug

In order to slide
more neatly into my
envelope
I find it necessary
to share
the steam
with the dragon.

Bummer

These eyes,
scorching
long hallway perspectives
through long hollow sockets,
cursing me with
soothing sunsets
as well as
unimaginably gruesome vomit pit visions of countless rusty deaths.

and sadly these
varied and fantastic views
can only be received
from atop a cold soul-less mountain
look-out post banishment,
and all of these
varied and fantastic truths
are condemned to rot
forever
in the hopeless endless confinement

of me.

Every Time

There is nothing left to write
it would seem.
I sit here and
attempt to ignore this
sad and final truth.

The Wisemen at the Coffee Shop

1/3 of my restauranting is for the food
(sucking the juice presently out of glorious bacon-
 the flavor seems truly endless
 my mouth bathing
 temporarily in the
 hidden recipe secretions
 of angels).
But the rest of it
is to for the chance
to huddle down
(for the first time admitting this to myself now)
close
to all these
affluent
wise
males,
these liberated wisemen.
They all wear shorts
because if they have learned anything about life
it is that one should try to be
at least
comfortable-
they all wear glasses,
50% are balding
and beards are
mandatory.
They scan newspapers
at controlled lightning speed
with that learned tilt of the head that says
“I don’t believe this”
yet also
“I am an informed citizen”.
They all went to college
and fucked their brains out
when they were young,
before the beards
took over
like the turning of a page.
They’ve been through the meat grinder
the shit and the sizzle
the art
the politics
the booze
the career
the girls
(65% of them have one at home, still sleeping in on this Saturday morning)
and they’ve come out the other side
with beards
and shorts
and a slow-motion logic
which they hide from me
(and others)
underneath their straw hats
(the sun is bad for your skin)
and in between their comfortably cool
organic cotton-socked feet
and ergonomically correct
and enlightened
sandals
(four straps each)
and they sit for hours and eat a breakfast they
could easily cook for themselves for
½ the price.

So that’s 2/3 of the reason I’m here.
The question now is
why are
they
here?

The Question

So – the Question is –
to enjoy life as a psychedelic trip
“watching the lights”
“riding the wave”
letting the emotional needle
plunge
daily
and pump one full of that delicious
irresistible
psychological
juice

or

concentrate your limbs metallic-
laughing at needle after needle’s
pathetic attempt
at piercing your
logic reinforced skin
?

The Humans That Have Gone Wrong

There must be a whole slew of us now,
the humans that have gone wrong,
our brains take advantage of us,
while the “lower animals”
exist flawlessly
we take our gifts of language
mathematics and
communication
and proceed to
live a life of misery,
victims of knowing too much,
seeing too much
in every situation.
In many ways,
the average
blue-collar-working-joe-stiff
has more of that
flawless animal element
so impossible for
us
to maintain,
yet we think ourselves above them
when we
are the humans that have gone wrong.

She’s on the dance floor
and I’m not,
physically,
yet mentally I am the dance floor
with her
sexy young angelic frame
trampling all over my
focus
as I lap it all up
like some wretched slave
brainwashed by
Darwin’s evolutionary whip.

Space

I would call to you,
but your presence is so distant,
you’re 1000 train stations away
and I’m busy fighting a war
that nobody knows about
in some foreign country.

I could write you a letter,
but it would probably get lost in the mail,
the mail system is so complex
that something is bound to go wrong,
and maybe you wouldn’t care anyway,
even if you got it.

You’re now a crack in the sidewalk
and I’m just a raindrop
falling two
impossible
blocks away.

Angel-Fish-Soufflé

Angel-Fish-Soufflé

Joseph’s vacuuming in the other room
he’s being efficient
I’m waking up
fresh from a nap on his couch.
I skipped school today
and wandered around Petaluma
and wandered around my mind
and wrote a letter to Nelle
and carried around my briefcase and beard
damnitalltohell
loveitalltodeath
it was so much
angel-fish-soufflé
all over the place.

Lost

Am I growing old
before my time
at the age of 21
my joints crack as
I
slowly
fold my clothes
thinking of you
my fingers almost feel
arthritic
the world is moving too fast
leaving me behind
and by the time I come to realize
this
it will be
too late
and I will be lost in a faded
picture
unknown and
obscured.

Disbelief

Disbelief

I am having sex.
I am having sex.
I am having sex.
I am having sex.
                    sex.
                    sex.
                    sex.
I cannot believe that
I am having
                    SEX.

Two-Dimensional Abstract Pituitary Gland

Her picture blazes
in my room
her skeleton survives
intact
buried into my brain.

Now I bask
in that graveyard
pick a flower now and then
(they all smell like her)
and stick it through the buttonhole
of my breast pocket.

My collar is turned up
It’s so cold
my thoughts
are frozen.

My coat becomes longer
darker
freakish looking.
Soon my beard will swallow my face.
My stride is longer every day.
I have a two-dimensional
abstract
pituitary gland.

Twisting Gargoyle Heads

Twisting gargoyle heads
leaking from walls
within souls
cry out
and
whisper
in consonant
calls that can
then can be traced
back to my apartment
as I wait for my telephone to ring.