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.
sit
Respond
"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.

stuff

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

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

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...

Dawn

I have gone out at dawn,
Walking these deserted streets alone,
with a patience....on my way,And I'm on my way......
To the edge of living.
Where moons and flowers still bloom
in a cold garden.

CatsKill, New York

Who was there to see?
From which saddened field, my friend?
Was it you? Was it you then,my windyfriend?
Was it you who witnessed the burning
end of this assault?Was it you then?
Who leaned into the breeze
Heavy with hurricanes and lightning?

Just a thought

I've been thinking about quiting this whole writing thing, but is that possible? I've never been one to go coldturkey on anything, but my chickens beat(poetic aly spreken?) my minds fatigued.
I'm thinking of leaving it off for a couple of months. spend most of the time reading someone else's work. Billy Collins, Charles Simic, bukowski, eliot, of course, neruda lorca shakespeare E.Pound...etc.etc.'s

Puerto Rican Anthem

...Our fathers drank together,
Our brothers cursed and fought.
Our mothers danced together
A sleepy time in waltz.
Their laughter broke the moon in two.
Their anger burnt the sun...
and all is good,all is good,Yes,
all of that is good my brother...

Haunting Love

Haunting Love. Huntress of Dark Desires.ThereIn the gathering twilight. MoonlightBreathing blue.The end comes suddenly. Dead among blossoming Flowers. Post Mordumb madnesslives to be still-born. A mother's grief.Pain of creations desired desire to be creative.Modern Matrinomy. Terribly wounded, shadowy Singing sisters pray.Charming melody of seaside girls
Decked in silky blood redDresses weeping wailing weary Maid-of-honors.Seas.
Smiles Of mourning women.Good Idea he had of it Mr JoyceSays.
Smart idea, certainly so," Marry in May and repent in December"Long and short of it.
And one nightThey'll bring you the legOf a duck." and soLife limps on....Befitting storm clouds gather Above his head.Pleasing as anything to seaCottony clouds of vengeance.
"When did ye return?" Emily askedIndifferently thinking"... Dick is sin..."Emily in fading blue denim jeans,In the arms of her lover, broadArmed Mr.CollinsThere in the land of the deadJust 'round th'way, and he" I've returned just last week" GreyHound bus from ReadingTo Penn Station...asleeping...Were you waiting long?"Thinks" The splendor of travelling cheap!"To himself thinking"Sweet taste of her ovaries"Wearing moonblue shoes newIn a striped suit splintering at the seamsForsaken In silence,Silent in cruelty.

Dancers in the Graveyard

The moon watches the boy sleep ,andsees his soul reflected in the burning eyes of the sun.It was an impossible dream really.And the vagabonds were singing softlyThe blue lullabies of The Bronx.As that wild untamed band of outcastTrobadours slept so peacefullyBeneath a bridge crossing the East River.Dancers in the graveyard sing a songand the Lovers on the lawn sing along"We shot your God! We shot your God..."And the angels didn't have their wingson at all."CauseYour God's a dog!lyinglike a knife in the red'snot sharp at all,and the dogs not fedshot up and full of lead...
...Dead and gone and full of lead...

Shut the blinds

My eyes are closed as I shut the blinds, and I sleepand dream of a thought that Ikeep heated under the sheets when my mind wakes up surprised and groggy wit ether. And I'm feeling fine as I survivenine to five beat up and easily cheated.When Iwake upto find that I 've survived crazy nightslips and fightsfist and love hips and eyes spinning,equaly bleeding.

Because of Mike

Trying to write a poem.Trying to sing a universe in song.The world in twelve words.A play In one act,one lineThen it's all over.A dream in one scene.A starry night's skyAnd a cast of young lovers.-PersephoneBurning BloodA burning eye in mindLove...As love sits with hungerAlong the lonesomeCrowded ways.

Promises

"Love laughs at locksmiths"


to himself thinking in mind speaks...

"I will love you till the end of time.
Till the sun burns itself to nothing
and the earth folds in on itself.
and the stars tremble in their empty spaces..."


The man sat down
beneath an orange tree
and lit a cigarette.
Watching the silk fumes
slowly
Rising,
Gently dissipating
Into the mild morning air.
Listening in
on the gardeners
Talk. Quite pleased to hear,
what was to him, the sylvan
speache of nature's good
and honest gentlemen.

-Honest enough in their ways.

The man sat down
and lit a cigarette.
He watched the girl
from across the field
Trying to undo
the knots on her boots.
was a slender girl
In a baggy uniform.

Her bright blond hair.
The mild morning air.
Smell of tobacco burning
and he was off
daydreaming and
Remembering...
...We could start anew
in a whole new town.
Change our names
and catch a train

The man sat down
and lit a cigarette.
The girl stood by
the bulletin board where
the bus schedules
were posted, arms crossed
starring at a modest band
of clouds like ribbons
floating on
towards the burning glow
of the dying sun lying low
on the horizon.

" We'll make it." He said, "
Don't you worry
'bout a thing, babes..."
" How can you be so sure?"
she said, " as bad as our
lucks been lately.
Feels like, well...maybe...
God must really hate me...
and I don't...
well... I don't know how..."
" you gotta have a little faith
...Please, for my sake,
Don't be that way
...good news will come our way...
just wait and see."
" Don't be that way, please..."
" Well, why not?"
" Just you wait and see.
A little luck will come our way,
and we'll have everything
We ever wanted:
Children,
a house,
a car,
a dog,a cat
a nice and quiet life
a little peace of mind
family, some friends...white picket fence,
a tire swinging in the backyard,
a tree, some sky,
a lonely Lover's Lane nearby
perhaps...
...friendly neighbours
borrowing sugar and such,
and then
and then Key West...Key West.
A pretty palm tree scene...
or even Paris

In the spring
resting from lifes worries
retired from it's nine to five
tragedy...
reposed,restful
with little left to do
but love you

and I do
I do
I do

" we could begin again."

And she

" I want to live without
dreaming.
I want to breathe
The sea-air and wander
wild and free..."

and he

" I'll buy you a diamond ring
a pretty diamond ring
for a wedding
in the spring."

"you'll see,
a little luck will come our way,
and I'll make good on all
these promises to keep."

Windy Windows

A dry wind that carries in it the names
of forgotten songs and alphabets,
Circling the antique angles of intricate books.

Eulogy

If life is,As many poets have held it,But a fleeting momentary dreamwe should all be loathed to awakeTo eternities grim reality.
Youth is but a hope of gainand gardens wherein bloomlove's sensuous roses.We will not be made to live again.......and our names will be forgotas soon as the casket closes.
And where are those we loveIn the hour of our greatest pain?.......They are all asleep in their bedsDreaming of tomorrowsand tomorrow's cheap,borrowed gain.while you, my distant friend,Brush the dust from off your eyesTo wake in some distant planewherein all poets sing in praiseof bygone days and long lived friends
Hymns to the suffering soulsWho on wings of woefulmeloncholic hopeDie alittle while each day.......And long to fly from where their bones will remain......And all that's leftare the sharp cliffs of highpassionand sentences writ......Though your bonesto dust will changeYour words shall not decay......And may you rest in peacetill the coming hourOf our waking hour...
if life is truly but a dream...

Je suis

Je suis seul. Je suis un poèt. Il est bon d'être seul. Il est mauvais d'être un poèt. nous sommes les saints en arrière, ou les diables à l'envers. Anges, terriblement beaux. Solitude de grace blessée. et endroits chauds.

Ms.Lovelace she says

I tried to patch the broken pieces of a picture,
But my hands trembled a bit too much, Nervous
it seems, and the blue-jay in its cage doesn't sing,
nor has it any reason to do so. perhaps
Matthew's letter sits unopened by the papers on the table.
and suddenly, in retrospect,
I suspect I am alone.then someone shakes
the phone rings and breathes rhythmically
to the tune of some undiscernible heart-beat bop.

Emblem For a Keepsake Locket

Your heart is like a little house burning with no love to put the fire out.

In an Insane Season

Between dreams and memories
Hangs the bitter fruit of your love.
An anxious kiss
on the lips of insanity.

Lover's are always drunk

Lovers are always drunkLovers are always wailing.This is what brings them joy.If someone were to ask me about love,I just wouldn't know what to say.Just thinking of it brings me to grief.Lovers are always drunk,Drunk on the wine Poured from the lonely one's heart.

Inkwell

Was an impossible dream really,And the world was without words.And in silenceThe suffering speache of a peopleA modest mouse-coloured peopleWithin a word wasGhostly gray,And no one ever hears a word they say.One by one the Butterflies go offDrowning in the inkwell.And a band of gypsy thieves Sing in memory of their mountains and Heights,As no one falls out of the skyAnd love falls backwards into death.In a word,a whisper,the final cry,A meloncholic shout!

For Destiny

We carry the love of our most cherished ones in our hearts.And Though they may leave us, Our love for them will not leave us aloneIn the sadness of our missing them.Remembering the smiles they've smiled,The words they spoke and songs they've sungWe will never loose our love for themNor will they ever be completely gone.
Downpours bring empty, barren fields to lifeand so your tears will , in the endprove goodAnd spring's bloom comesnot long after the stormsthat bring our loves to lifeLeave our shipwrecked heartswashed ashore.
Sadness is suffering and sufferingis a prelude to peace and true happiness.Time heals all woundsAnd love will mask the remnant scars of these hard earned wounds,I'm sure.
Love truly laughs at locksmithsand so it doesn't make much sensemy love, to keep your sadnesschained and bound in silence.......sadness is a symptom of yourLove and so set it freeand weep if you wish,weep till your heart is spentYour tears will soon be driedby the lovers kiss.InThat love that just doesn't endor ever die.
Spring promises her fragrant gardens of love blooming in her souls beautybeneath the bright glow of aflowering moon.
You'll be happy and in time real soon.
I promise

Small Time Blues

Mr.Gonzales never imagined that he'd be
Sitting down on the cold wet ground
of a muggy, rain-drenched
alleyway at 2:34 in the morning,
Trying as best he can,
with whatever strenght he could
muster up, whatever fight was left
in his hunched over
Middle-aged body, to apply pressure
To the seeping, bloody as hell bullet wound
screaming across his chest.
He chuckled and thought
It amazing and some kind of wonder
That his heart didn't flip out of his chest
And flop on the sodden ground
Like some fish on some bloody deck.
And he was still alive and breathing
in a slight discomfort. His pistol
Was lying in a warm pool
of blood besides him and his cigarettes
were wet by now he imagined.
" to hell with it!" He sez to himself
As he reaches for the pack of stoges
in his back pocket. " Might as well give it a shot,heck!
They sure as hell gave it to me!" Bitter laughter.
They rain picks up a bit and pours down
As heavy as it had all day.
" First Marco, then Pete, and now me..
..being seeing you soon fellas, you guys
Better have a drink waiting for me...
...I'm ghost, I'm gone, I'm out of luck, so please
Don't be a couple of strangers when you
see me there, I'll be the one wearing a raggidy
Old yankee cap...meet me there...don't be square,
meet me there and our circle'll be complete,
we'll cypher a few and laugh it up, easy as 123..."
He manages to find a dry bone . He finds
His zippo and lights it up. His eyes squint
in the glare of its little blaze. The flame
goes out . He pulls on the stoge calmly.
He thinks. He leans back. Contemplative
Look on his face. Wondering.
Takes a long drag and coughs. Blood stained
smoke surprises him...dim grey
doesn't turn pink at all. He supposses
he should pray. Weakening he says...
"ok old man, we both saw this coming.
We both knows what it comes to...
...ain't no secrets now, no surprises.
The little fucker in the dumpster was the last
one, and hell, he surprised us good I guess,
but you and I know I could've got him, I let him
Get away with it,I let him go...
....no sense in trying after that...
...he got me good and well, he wins.
We always knew it would end this way."
Coughs up blood.
" Jeez I'm all fucked up right now, my heart's
So cold it should be frost by now, and well,
only you know how that broke...
... No resentment though, and it's cool,old man
I had it coming, we all do really...
...I just wanted to say thanx for letting me
live this long, 35 years is along time and I thank you
for that, old man, wasn't half bad really...
Good times I had, good good times, my friend,
was fun, was amused...
...Glad you let me live till now, I'm grateful,
You know as well as anyone else I didn't deserve
to live so long, and I'm grateful and soon
I will be dead." His arm goes limp,
the cigarette drops and his head hangs down.
Falls over onto his side and dies quietly.
Sacred warmth in steam rising from the wound...
....and his heartbeat stops.Sirens nearing,
Another gun goes off somewhere in the distance.

1982

My eyes in 1982
Did not see the blood drying in the inkwells.
In 1982 the moon was nothing
More than a phosphoreous dream
Of imaginary light.
Nocturnal shade, a penumbral light
Of blind gravity.
These eyes of mine in 1982
Did not witness the little boy's crucifixion.
They waited patiently
In the backwards spin of their innocence.

No Little Love

no little love nor nimble tryste
could satisfy your mercurial desires
only the beauty of it's essence
proved essential for you're love
Cupid's man ( sarcastically )
Thee Cursed deed in consequence divine
(the devil speaks)

Don't send work that isn't fully edited.
If you want,
edit them and then send them again,
but please
don't waste our time with unedited
poems.-Taylor