i always have to clean up some mess.
it might be in the house
or out in the yard
or things i have said
or decisions i have made
nothing is ever clean
pristine
perfect
in this messy life
idyllic is for me
a perfect world in harmony
with little birds that sing
and women with their bling
that come to me
so happily
oh bullshit
it's still a mess
my truths i must divest
accept reality
as far as i can see
the messes of the world
as more news is unfurled
to my unreceptive brain
i'm foolish to complain
it's always gonna' be
a mess for you and me
so get out your broom
and rags to clean the room
as soon as we are done
there's more where that came from
it's hopeless can't you see?
this mess, reality.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Jazz
the netherland of jazz
i used to escape there
along with my cigarettes
and scotch
in the dark of my room
around noon
and look at swirls of smoke
in contended drunkenness
no one was there to boggle my mind
it was all perfect
like a house of cards creatively put together
in a fragile state of being
undisturbed
until the slightest wisp of wind
dismembered it all
more than slight
but with piercing shrieks
of the winds called reality
it wasn't a nice place
to be for me.
yeah, I was jazzed.
i used to escape there
along with my cigarettes
and scotch
in the dark of my room
around noon
and look at swirls of smoke
in contended drunkenness
no one was there to boggle my mind
it was all perfect
like a house of cards creatively put together
in a fragile state of being
undisturbed
until the slightest wisp of wind
dismembered it all
more than slight
but with piercing shrieks
of the winds called reality
it wasn't a nice place
to be for me.
yeah, I was jazzed.
I FOUND A FLOWER MADE OUT OF GARBAGE
i found a flower made out of garbage
it was a pretty thing
made of found detritus
old ribbons
pieces of aluminum
pieced together with rusty wire
handily made with love i suppose
place in a soup can painted green
lying on a floor with used needles
next to a urine soaked mattress
in a building where squatters lived
now they were gone
the demolition had been scheduled
i brought the flower out
put it in the cab of my crane
i used my wrecking ball
leveled a decrepit building
for a new one of steel, glass and concrete
a cold monument to those with money
and i felt sad
i brought the flower home
no one would touch it
it might have germs
they threw it in the garbage
this thing of beauty
i could not understand
this beautiful thing was discarded
like so many other things
i had no part in it
or maybe i did
i found a flower made of garbage
it was a pretty thing
made of found detritus
old ribbons
pieces of aluminum
pieced together with rusty wire
handily made with love i suppose
place in a soup can painted green
lying on a floor with used needles
next to a urine soaked mattress
in a building where squatters lived
now they were gone
the demolition had been scheduled
i brought the flower out
put it in the cab of my crane
i used my wrecking ball
leveled a decrepit building
for a new one of steel, glass and concrete
a cold monument to those with money
and i felt sad
i brought the flower home
no one would touch it
it might have germs
they threw it in the garbage
this thing of beauty
i could not understand
this beautiful thing was discarded
like so many other things
i had no part in it
or maybe i did
i found a flower made of garbage
Monday, February 7, 2011
ODE TO THOSE WHO SEEK FAME
they leave shit-heel towns, suitcase in hand.
maybe they carry a beat-up guitar case,
or a raggedy chap book of poems...
an actors line-or-two...
a singing voice.
they head for la-la land, or the big apple.
sometimes chicago.
they are swallowed up.
their so-called talents are ignored.
and in the great neon-world of their minds,
they still truly believe in their "genius".
they ain't shit.
theirs is the definition of insanity...
doing the same thing over, and over, and over again...
and expecting different results.
oh, those poor souls.
a few of them actually "make it".
most of them become petulant, self-absorbed assholes.
they are lionized, idolized, iconized, canonized.
but they ain't saints.
they're still fucked-up people.
all of it becomes a pain in the ass.
"fuck it all", they say.
"bring me back to my small town".
suitcase in hand, the losers leave and head back.
they leave their dreams and the moronic herd.
they leave the idol worshippers.
yes, they go back to cornfields or factory jobs.
they leave behind the fortunate ones.
the ones whose souls have been sucked out of them by:
booze, drugs, sex, fame.
yeah, fuck it all.
maybe you were hip,
but it was a long time ago, baby.
rich or poor, unknown or famous...
pain is the only reality.
they now know this to be true,
the lucky ones.
so pick up your bedroll, traveler.
press on and find your new home.
in this time of change you'll come to realize truth:
that when you've reached the zenith,
you've actually hit your nadir.
reality comes and you will begin to know peace.
you might meet yourself for the first time.
maybe they carry a beat-up guitar case,
or a raggedy chap book of poems...
an actors line-or-two...
a singing voice.
they head for la-la land, or the big apple.
sometimes chicago.
they are swallowed up.
their so-called talents are ignored.
and in the great neon-world of their minds,
they still truly believe in their "genius".
they ain't shit.
theirs is the definition of insanity...
doing the same thing over, and over, and over again...
and expecting different results.
oh, those poor souls.
a few of them actually "make it".
most of them become petulant, self-absorbed assholes.
they are lionized, idolized, iconized, canonized.
but they ain't saints.
they're still fucked-up people.
all of it becomes a pain in the ass.
"fuck it all", they say.
"bring me back to my small town".
suitcase in hand, the losers leave and head back.
they leave their dreams and the moronic herd.
they leave the idol worshippers.
yes, they go back to cornfields or factory jobs.
they leave behind the fortunate ones.
the ones whose souls have been sucked out of them by:
booze, drugs, sex, fame.
yeah, fuck it all.
maybe you were hip,
but it was a long time ago, baby.
rich or poor, unknown or famous...
pain is the only reality.
they now know this to be true,
the lucky ones.
so pick up your bedroll, traveler.
press on and find your new home.
in this time of change you'll come to realize truth:
that when you've reached the zenith,
you've actually hit your nadir.
reality comes and you will begin to know peace.
you might meet yourself for the first time.
BLOOD
There's blood in your eye.
There's blood on the orange moon.
I notice the blood in the gutter of my bayonet.
There's blood in the gutters of the streets,
and in the gutters of the mortician's table.
Blood in the sand.
Blood in the jungles.
Blood on the city streets.
The blood of the soldier runs red.
The "blue bloods" never spill.
The blood in their veins run icy-cold.
Cold-hearted they are.
Blood means profit.
The powerful only have blue moons.
They don't notice the bayonet,
or feel its sharp penetration.
They step on blood-red carpets.
They accept humanitarian awards.
They never step in the gutter.
They make donations for tax shelters.
But in secret rooms they plot.
They support regimes.
There's blood in their eyes.
It's not seen.
It's well-hidden.
So onward we march.
For flag and country.
For God and family.
For the powers that be.
You and me.
We are enemies.
For those whose blood runs cold.
There's blood on the orange moon.
I notice the blood in the gutter of my bayonet.
There's blood in the gutters of the streets,
and in the gutters of the mortician's table.
Blood in the sand.
Blood in the jungles.
Blood on the city streets.
The blood of the soldier runs red.
The "blue bloods" never spill.
The blood in their veins run icy-cold.
Cold-hearted they are.
Blood means profit.
The powerful only have blue moons.
They don't notice the bayonet,
or feel its sharp penetration.
They step on blood-red carpets.
They accept humanitarian awards.
They never step in the gutter.
They make donations for tax shelters.
But in secret rooms they plot.
They support regimes.
There's blood in their eyes.
It's not seen.
It's well-hidden.
So onward we march.
For flag and country.
For God and family.
For the powers that be.
You and me.
We are enemies.
For those whose blood runs cold.
Friday, February 4, 2011
THE WORDS ARE GONE
I just wrapped up another book.
the words are gone for a while.
this is not my style.
my head needs to rest.
I'll keep you abreast.
to the news of more.
for I'm just a whore,
to the written word.
It sounds absurd.
I'll do my best.
I'll take a short rest.
so see you soon.
this silly buffoon,
must hit the room
where ideas wait
but i roller skate
for a couple days
it's not malaise
so never fear
i'm gonna be near
and see you soon!
thanks readers.
the words are gone for a while.
this is not my style.
my head needs to rest.
I'll keep you abreast.
to the news of more.
for I'm just a whore,
to the written word.
It sounds absurd.
I'll do my best.
I'll take a short rest.
so see you soon.
this silly buffoon,
must hit the room
where ideas wait
but i roller skate
for a couple days
it's not malaise
so never fear
i'm gonna be near
and see you soon!
thanks readers.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
ART WARS
The soles in my shoes had holes in them,
from all the miles I walked trying to show my art.
I stuck newspaper in my shoes, so my feet would stay dry.
My heels wore down on the outsides,
so they gave me a funny gait.
I couldn't afford a portfolio case.
Not even one of those cheap vinyl types.
Instead I wrapped my work, which was negotiated on expensive french water-color paper. I put it in cardboard boxes that I had flattened and disassembled.
These boxes were obtained from kindly grocers in my neighborhood.
Burlap rope clumsily held my package of treasures together.
I knocked on many a gallery door.
The owners were mostly gruff with me.
They were haughty and gave me looks of disdain.
I knew I was nothing to them.
They never even bothered to take a look at my life's work.
Some of them even went so far, to insult my dress and demeanor.
I was told to never come back again to present myself or my art.
Finally I learned the proper procedures of mailing mounted slides,
resumes, lists of showings, and artist's statements.
I couldn't afford any of this, but financed it with art sales I made in taverns.
I had a fire in my belly I couldn't put out.
I painted for hours every day.
I drank in workingman taverns and sketched scenes of the downtrodden.
I sent photos of my paintings to galleries that I thought would show my work.
Pretty soon, some good galleries were seeking me out.
I went to their shows, still in blue jeans and boots.
I wore a raggedy leather jacket, and a cowboy hat.
My beard was unkempt, and I smelled of whiskey.
I got my break for a solo show at a decent gallery.
I never changed my ways.
I was still disheveled and drunk.
The owners said it added to my mystique.
What a bunch of bullshit.
The whole scene reeked of bullshit.
One day a businessman and his trophy wife came to one of my shows.
He asked me, "How much for this piece of yours on the wall?"
I was drunk and angry and answered him, "Can't you read the fucking price tag?"
Then I told him, "Normally this painting sells for eight-hundred dollars, but for you, because of your impudence, the price is double that."
His sweet wife took my hands in hers and kissed me on the cheek.
She told her husband to write me a check for sixteen-hundred dollars.
I won a battle that day.
I lost many more.
I was at war.
My career had begun.
I heard the music of Wagner,
and so the Machiavellian schemes began to dance in my head.
Such is the nature of my art wars.
from all the miles I walked trying to show my art.
I stuck newspaper in my shoes, so my feet would stay dry.
My heels wore down on the outsides,
so they gave me a funny gait.
I couldn't afford a portfolio case.
Not even one of those cheap vinyl types.
Instead I wrapped my work, which was negotiated on expensive french water-color paper. I put it in cardboard boxes that I had flattened and disassembled.
These boxes were obtained from kindly grocers in my neighborhood.
Burlap rope clumsily held my package of treasures together.
I knocked on many a gallery door.
The owners were mostly gruff with me.
They were haughty and gave me looks of disdain.
I knew I was nothing to them.
They never even bothered to take a look at my life's work.
Some of them even went so far, to insult my dress and demeanor.
I was told to never come back again to present myself or my art.
Finally I learned the proper procedures of mailing mounted slides,
resumes, lists of showings, and artist's statements.
I couldn't afford any of this, but financed it with art sales I made in taverns.
I had a fire in my belly I couldn't put out.
I painted for hours every day.
I drank in workingman taverns and sketched scenes of the downtrodden.
I sent photos of my paintings to galleries that I thought would show my work.
Pretty soon, some good galleries were seeking me out.
I went to their shows, still in blue jeans and boots.
I wore a raggedy leather jacket, and a cowboy hat.
My beard was unkempt, and I smelled of whiskey.
I got my break for a solo show at a decent gallery.
I never changed my ways.
I was still disheveled and drunk.
The owners said it added to my mystique.
What a bunch of bullshit.
The whole scene reeked of bullshit.
One day a businessman and his trophy wife came to one of my shows.
He asked me, "How much for this piece of yours on the wall?"
I was drunk and angry and answered him, "Can't you read the fucking price tag?"
Then I told him, "Normally this painting sells for eight-hundred dollars, but for you, because of your impudence, the price is double that."
His sweet wife took my hands in hers and kissed me on the cheek.
She told her husband to write me a check for sixteen-hundred dollars.
I won a battle that day.
I lost many more.
I was at war.
My career had begun.
I heard the music of Wagner,
and so the Machiavellian schemes began to dance in my head.
Such is the nature of my art wars.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
