Sunday, December 17, 2006

The Broken Bootstrap of thee Lawd

Our land was never ours,
Our flag has never hung,
Our wars were never fought,
Nor anthems ever sung.
And though we've never lost, my son,
We have never won.
Yeah, as long as it's been for us
We've yet to win
A goddamned thing from anyone.

A puppet play

Debra: I am the prettiest girl in town!
I make the poets sing till they weep
And the guitarist sing and play their melodies
till the strings of their little wooden instruments snap!
I'm the prettiest girl in town!
The prettiest girl in town! The prettiest girl
In the whole damned town!
And you cannot turn me down!
I make all men weak...
( Rose petals rain down, the air smells of a pink
Fragrant mist.)

Antonio: I'm sure you do.
Debra: (angrily) why aren't you singing to me?!
Are you blind?!
Antonio: ( indifferently) Love is blind. I have eyes to see,
And a heart of stone. Your soul is an ugly ghost,
But your beauty is indeed profound.
(Blue clouds are gathering, serpent lightning whips
the horizon, a witch's storm is forming, praying
priest have gone into hiding, the sun has turned
a blood red colour, Moses weeps, the mountains
rise from the sea.)

Debra : I am beautiful, I am beautiful,
I am too beautiful for you! And no man
Can resist me! My beauty is too beautiful to believe!
( sadly) Why won't you sing the prettiest song to me?
Antonio : ( lazily) I am the wounded heart and the knife.

(lighting! and he ambles off R stage, blue door) Exeunt...

babblefish junk

" I've got to let things go,
my friend, we both do...
....Someplace new would
be nice. Someplace I
can't help but behave...
...Away from here
Away from these situations."

There are loose ends
we need to tie up,
we need to speak
Been a long while.
"what will you do?"

"I'll carry my bones
down some other old road"

It will never leave you.
It'll haunt you.
Shadow your ordinary talk.
Like ghost, really...

so sad to see you leaving like this
didn't want to lose you.


I've grown tired of slam poetry. Not to say that it isn't a viable form of art, no, not at all. There have been great slam poets. I went to the nuyorican a few weeks ago. A Canadian "poet" rambled on about god don't know....this city needs a school, its own movement outside of slamming.

Suicide of an old Poet

Drops gun.
Dull thud.
Leans in
On chair. Head
Slack jawed yawn.
Man's eyes opened.
Gone blank.
Hue of
an old old soul.
By his own
Hand goes into
the life hereafter.
...Damned to
be damned,
By God almighty
Soiled himself
his pants...
Runeth shit
slop it drips
mortition sings
He sings

Rainy Day Memory

It's a cold, rainy day in the city...
...and all these faces, strange
And ugly in their expressions,
And all of these dreams,
And the strong scent of rum on
underlying meanings of words that
seem to wabble off the tongue of
all the drunks you knew and loved
The wind leaves a whisper in her mouth,
she doesn't speak ,
on a hundred and 85th street i met
one lonely walk through a lonely park
one lonely day spent along
the lonesome crowded ways where love
sits with hunger

all that matters now is the warm
beer I am holding in my
left hand writing this with my right
now and the pad precariously lying on my lap
slipping slowly in time..
...Gravity sans friction and
my mind on a straight line
into the sun

And what right have I to tell you
How to live your life if I
can barely stand the sight of my own
goddamned face in the cracked
moldy looking-glass of
my life's memories thus far...
reflecting,considering,looking back
less you get stabbed and die
like a dead dog in the streets..worthless
now no bones to bury
paws to dig or anything deep
worth dirt mentioning four...
on all fours on my neighbors lawn

...23 turns round the sun
and I've yet to enjoy a sunshiny
day as of yet.....A rainy day
afternoon in the autumn of my candle
dreaming burning at two ends candle
of a lousy life like weeds
growing on god's good earth it seems to be

I fucked a durty drunken
dizzy dame today...right on my neighbors
moonlit lawn...the grass was more of a short
emerald gray than a high growing green grass
to my knees and she on hers sucks and fucks me
for free...a prostitute she was
too young and all too beautiful
and we kissed and she undressed and pulled
down my pants in a fit of desired gravity
and she passes the joint before flying on south
was my pretty bird May
was my little hearts prey
for a night and day

and her voice was like honey
her lips like ripe
cherries and her panties were soaked for love of me..
lovely girl
and she fucked me for free..
sweet sweet girl
of mine happy one day memories
this drunken poem in love
to answer your question ...
the only thing you asked of me...
miss you boo and your laughter
and I'd like to wish you a happily ever after..

Poet in LoLove

what good is a poet in love?
-when it is the melancholic words
of his heart's discontent that amuses
the world so....
Pleased as anyone I know
laughing at his morose
moronic hackneyed pose in being
one of those old old
bitter rotten souls that
happen to be worth something at least...If only
For a poems senseless jibberish
and a couple of lines that read like gold...
A babblefish piss drunk
and wobbly wine bottle precariously
perched on a ball that has no sides at all
...yeah,a miracle really....

and often..
"he's a poet? but he's such a slob,
a goddamned pig really!
smells like cheese and cheap
booze...hasn't shaved in weeks
and his hair hangs loose
covering his eyes
when the wind wind don't blow...
he writes poems? really?
well, i'll be damned..
damned as he...(sound of bitter laughter
and his happily ever after pose)
sickening really...

what good is a poet in love?
love is a joke
that they won't let us in on...
...with a punchline that
just doesn't ever
ever really end...