journey through the past [pensylvania]

the two-tongued cat smiles, leans backward

his sly lips and cool tongue navigate his bearded face,

taking another hit of his marijuana cigarette the smell of saccharine honeysuckles hung low around our heads, like a cool Eden afternoon.

sneaky pete sat on the edge of the water,

my god, how he looked like Christ when he walked out of the water,

the sun beating down on yr naked chest.

speaking like Muhammad, sitting like Buddha, and looking like Christ, you called out my name.

all the celestial beings smiled on yr face.

i laid my head down and floated down the Tully,

floating down the river, i saw John the Baptist’s head in the water,

drank the wine that comes from yr breasts.

mother smiled on us, as we drank beer and loafed with our souls.

our real mothers were at home sewing,

our fathers (talking only of war) sat on leather sofas.

meanwhile, sneaky pete was talking of Colorado, California, and soon ol’ Canady!

the ancient breathing of the trees made yr hair illuminated.

the honeysuckle tree drooping and drunkenly swaying above our heads while we spoke only of angels and of beautiful women who we had seen,

sneaky pete, old bones Chuck, and the cat of yester-years, mothers, fathers,

who speak like i, and sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, great grandfather time,

implore my soul, drink from the mouth of cradled waters,

hold yr tongue when you speak of absolutions

breathe in the honeysuckle air, hold onto it.  for it will not last!

hang onto my twisted body, uncurled now and waiting for you,

stand naked on roof top bars, alleyways, and beds,

implore one and others naked souls,

speak like Muhammad, the great prophet,

sit like Buddha, waiting for Nirvana,

and look like Christ, praying in Gethsemene.

 

 

 

 

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a day in the life (June 2017)

Woke promptly at 9:03 AM to piss.Rolled 2 cigarettes.

Made dandelion tea,

Took a beer shit,

Called Chuck about a dream

Where I fucked Satan,

Meditated with a thumb up my ass,

Rotated,

Buffalo 66 on VHS,

Wrote a letter to a Sunflower,

12:46 

Half a glass of water,

Choked and spit on the floor,

Laughed,

Shaved, and went to bed.

prostrations in sun time

i stand naked and hungry,rubbing my belly

while shouting to the queer men in our nation’s capital,

“i would be with you now if I could.”

oh, how i would drink red wine and stand on their beds reading them Whitman.

the Ghost of Cassady would hang over my head,

waiting to drop.

instead, i stand rubbing my fat hairy belly with one hand pointing at the setting sun,

and the Almighty looks back at me with his single red eye and says,

“blessed art thou, earth-man. now go, go on for man.”

for a lover long ago

i might have winked at god, or only stepped too close to the sun,

met a girl named Amy, lost my last 97 cents,

did the crossword in the L.A. Times,

drank three beers and half a bottle of wine,

in vino veritas

was written on my forehead upon waking up,

drove barefoot to Park and then to Bellview,

sat crosslegged and listened to the HOLY BLUES,

found Judas hanging from an olive tree,

tried to cut him down and failed,

indulged in transcendental meditation,

lit a candle for the Blessed Mother for a reason that escapes me,

and in the end,

wept.

ice skating

you held my hand and smiled.

“let’s get drunk tonight,” you said.

hunny, i’ve spilled more than you’ve drank.

i coughed and smiled because i knew an old man who would have said the same.

her thin legs continued pushing forward on the ice.

that was back when cigarettes were 5 and a quarter

you were 18 and laughed when i read Keats.

you thought it was queer

that i read Marx and Baudelaire, drove with my eyes closed, read the paper on saturday, and ate hard boiled eggs.

i am endless, and full of shit.

i contain multitudes.

in the end, you had won

 

Blessedness (January 2017)

the Honey Man is blessed,

Ranger, Ox, and the Marlboro Man are blessed divine beings.

they are my Holy Muse.

the Blessedness of divinity and piety –

my holy San Francisco girl, blessed and Holy

she is drawn to the briny, and leaps to it, becomes it.

tulips are blessed.

poking their weary eyes to the COSMOS, unforsaken and unaware,

making no sudden moves.

ah, and am I blessed?

sacraments of cigarettes and unbathed feet?

but who blessed my muse?

it is you, my sunflower, my daisy, or my holy San Fran Angel donned about with flowers

drawn in dreams, naked and unafraid.

i might ask you the same.

blessed be the tulips who are Lazarus!

and the sunflower, who is she?

Sweet Jane and Ol’ Father Grey Beard, the poet-os of those days of yore.

you too have become divine – for time makes all things H O L Y.

and what is to come, for the end is not yet here?

forlorn, doomed, and perhaps destroyed.

but we are indeed Blessed.

praised be honey, as it flows from the lips of my ol’ Sun Flower Girl.

land of milk & honey

I lick the tar off the pavement

and wait for the crickets to sing me sleep

bite yr tongue old boy

a new wave phenomenon

has spread across the Midwest.

Creeped in the unconscious minds of sleeping babes,

mothers wombs,

and robbed the graves.

Uncle Sam,

who lies naked and smoking his last cigarette

listening to the terror through the walls.

A Dream for Kevin

O – wail on thy soul and sing my song, you, you dog

The dogs have laid and bred and made a mockery of our house

St. Augustine waits beyond the veil for me and in his coat he holds

Twenty-seven cents and a new dollar bill! –

Praised be GOD, or POO BEAR, if you like.

whirly bird

mother,

they’ve really done it this time

waking nightmares and hollow eyes

have you seen what they do, mother?

the capitalists on market square

the prostitutes on 7th ave, mother –

the debt collectors and the silly girls

oh mother,

they want my heart and they will

eat my brain if you’d let them mother

do you really think they’ll drop the bomb?

[Reading, Feb. 2017]