Archive for November, 2010
Chance Gotterdam walked the dimly lit fields crushing charcoal in his hands and spreading it before him.
He pops ambien to chase day.
Remembers something ancestral, something that blooms from the stem where his brain first split from it’s body and produced the opus of what he now calls “life”.
Logos. He remembers the root and you know it when you speak with him for he gifts words like wildfires and they spread around your body and leave nothing but the barebones in the end, the ash and the skeleton. He dissolves you to this only to claim it is not him, but the weather.
This is a poem about Jeremy Brunger written to the only mass who will ever care enough to bear it’s witness as a fruit and not a burden.
He takes ambien to chase the day visions, wandering blind through streets he reads stop signs as his skin and cannot enter; this is the problem. He is a perpetualist.
Lonely, lonely man.
When he wakes, he walks in my head, and throughout my sorrow. I taste him when the pen is down, and taste him when the pen is up, and remember him every time I am alone.
I salute the moon with his kiss, and he’d hate this, and I salute that as well.
We are human, we are flesh
we decay, we die, we need
to forget. We have to forget we are sleeping God’s
for the day the babies wake to rattle the cage
there will be no earth to hold them
and we will fall free as bliss
into an eternity of thoughts never once
Coffee houses spilling jazz staves like syrup up the open crack of street watch
time carried as rite of passage by cloaked venom shrouded custodians they
ingest a right a left and then swerrvy into the open masses as
ink carries their gums to taste foreign ashes. Here in
Hiroshima or France
the words carry the same weight, the weight of the world,
the weight of their own demise and explanation lost to the fact
a pictoral representation of stickly heart in sand
means more to us then the words pertaining it’s meaning
WHY does green gush so luscious when I wake up and
HOW could a color possibly correlate with both
wreckage and death and cool tempest like a lovers hush
before wrath takes the body and bends it’s will.
I hope. I cannot help but hope and write my hopes as humanities.
I watched telepaths light themselves on fire for this. That is not a semantic ruse.
I cannot stand on corner for fear of catching fire
I cannot stand on building for fear of catching fall
‘s fingers too limp in my hands, the pardons of another year
and they kiss me to whisper hush here hear
There is truth in puns. There is an unbearable is-ness to the raw intensity it takes to hold and twist a colloquialism built into a monument of history over years, to take that and just… twist again, like every summer, like every year
twists it’s head into it’s own pocket: I could not count this snakes demise
until I saw it’s rattle make music of it’s throat
you who chant wardrums
know the pulse of September is one thousand steady cold
in the moat, in the river, in the gutter, for Hope.
What a word.
Hope. On whose wings fly bombs.
Hope. On whose wheels cum whores.
Hope. On whose heels all humanity sits
the bored drooling mess of our own ancestry
maybe the dog domesticated us?
I’ve become trapped in this skin I’ve fashioned
to save me from my trappings;
I’ve become devoured
by my feast.
by what I’ve seen.
as shots round
the bar shouts
and in come
and their clown
To form designs;
this groundwork they call morals.
I watch pigeons paint their shit with God
and man paint his God with shit
and wonder which is better.
To plan with ingenuity
the bastardization of our holiest antiquities;
those rites which lay their arms through birth
and death like the limbs of trees counting
lives by the stains they wear, white stains
to vanish with the rain.
To bring about by a plan;
“Do you see that man below?”
“The one in the hat?”
“The naked prophet on the soap-box.”
“Why is it the religious never cover their heads?”