a drawing

the bodies,
strings tied in knots and
stained in blood,
bending the bubble
next to reality
tapping on color
through some mask
sketched like a bats wing
preying on
the streaks of dawn
and the residual
spatter of god -
resting body on clay tables
delicately picking
life from the air
and leaving beauty drawn . . .
marking the shift in layers,
distortion in fantasy
and my other world.

dinner with hitler

it's all very amusing sometimes,

the voices in my head

that always sound underneath

the "real" actions;

they're like sirens

dancing on the sidewalk

trying to tell you

to look where you're walking,

hoping that your breathing

is as honest as your soul

(or, desperate that your soul

is as good as you think it is).

a funky haircut only

blends you in to some

contemporary canvas,

a facade, an illusion -

if i asked you who i was

the answer would be

like a file cabinet

in your office:

meaningless memories,

wonders of hanging excrement,

filth lodged between the edges

of a hanging sconce

trying to shed light

on the room

. . . still making shadows

on a martha stewart pillow

that only has place

in one place.

a spot,

a single existence -

physical -

jumping for the fight

waiting for a hit in the face

to taste reality

when, finally,

it jabs you in the gut

and kicks you on the ground

stirring up the rain

and the mess everyone else

walked in.

we don't actually look

like the magazines,

holding on to the

last eight weeks

we were praised

in print,

looking at the still

shot of our abs

painted on by some

250lbs. kid with a degree

in computer science.

if i had dinner with hitler

i would know what to say,

there would be no

subconscious battle with myself,

just a big fuck you to the third reich.

everything moral

or self aware

should be that easy,

but it's just not.

driving to nirvana

driving next to thousands
of people - thousands of lives -
living lies - living lives -
similar to those
with the large muffler
next to them,
compensating for the
abandoned nature of man:
a penis and an engine
mean nothing without
the soul driving it.
that highway lined
with lights
and souls
and all else motivating
different directions
from parallel lines
and a poor robert frost
knock off.

anger sits in a dream
on the shoulder
waiting for pain
to somehow be worth it
in the end.

i kept driving
without bedside manner
past black and white photos
disguising those disgusting figures
behind the tinted windows ;
disguising the demons
in the hammer lane
as a student or a factory worker
or a business man or a mother
or someones child
or a god of that automobile
waiting for that right turn
to ascend and find
greatness.

riding back seat without the driver

driving down the eisenhower,
6:27am and 43 minutes from the bed,
23 minutes from sunrise
with bach on the radio
reminding me how each minute
is more of the same,
but with subtle difference.
a crucifix with a porcelain-like
female head (in center)
hangs from review mirror,
dancing with each turn,
swaggering with each brake
while god laughs, riding shotgun
the whole way;
a cold winter laugh
because i don't even know this
figure in crucifix,
this old woman saddened like glass
not yet transparent
with eyes behind it.
quite the legacy
for a mortal to be trapped in,
this head of some family's history
caught on the cross
and god laughing ironically
because we pain ourselves
the most.


we swagger and
we sway 'til
we don't even know where we started,
swinging from mirrors
captured by our own vanity
given up by a hair dresser
in buffalo grove
with a fresh nose job
fearing the tip of the crucifix;
again, god laughs,
because the passenger seat
to our own free will
is a show of its own.

anti-pro

a loud canned recording
and bad jazz in my ear,
dancing dull layouts
of rainy day behind my eye
and slipping in suggestion
to buy the american dream,
throw a flag on my back
and ride
like a caped patriot
in the political sunrise -
hat and all.

i'd rather take my chance
in the rain
surrounded by annoying voices
and a saxophone that doesn't belong,
standing in time
with life to live
with life to love

this just doesn't have

the same feel as a typewriter,

soft keys

that earl wild (or, (insert

another pianist to your liking here)

if you got 'nother loud one

like rubenstein or

ashkenazy or

horowitz or

eschenbach or

barenboim,

please keep 'em going)

can drown out.

i used to ash all over

my old '54 underwood

after high school while

a cigarette dangled 

by my dry lips

and listen to something classical

that was new to me

and pretend i were at the piano,

but with mad sentences

and a disregard for syntax.

there's not enough

intellectual noise in america

(well, the world as well,

but i am here (and also there)),

not enough passion.

i miss the bang of the keys

on the underwood

and the fresh paper

like writing it first hand,

but with that hard print

of energy and satisfaction -

watching the smoke just

drift

over the words

(like having a heavy conversation

in winter

and steadily watching

the heaviness of breath

lingering with righteousness

and a continuity)

and non linear connections

into that

satisfyingly depressing

room; it was all there

with an answer

and it didn't matter at the same time.

what the peach was . . .

sketches of insects

sweating off the wallpaper -

there is a scratch on my face

that, in a mirror,

looks as absurd as a cartoon cloud

drowning in the waters.

under the floor boards

the sketches sit,

unreleased,

(unvisualized)

with all the stories

been sweating through the cracks

and missed

by the uncaring observer;

just over the church steeple

and the rooster before light,

reality kept moving

without consequence

and the momentum of a child

with stairs on a dream.

when in the middle,

the dream and reality were clear

(as were the nonsense and

imperfection).

10/10/08 7:28pm

staccato beat
drum line bass,
surrender arms down
in time.
find it now,
mo reasoning,
no consultation -
stick it to the lottery,
chances are a stone;
chances are
you never found the chime
in existence,
the right beat
or pitch to sell
what it was worth ~
an ambient tribal escape.

the hot dog is $3,
the gas is $50,
your rent is demanded
in hundred dollar portions
by a woman grinning
at the teeth.
make it up,
"i got off at the wrong
train stop
and some motherfucker
with a monkey on his arm
got my wallet."
sweaty lips
gnarling at the birds,
lose time in a tunnel
and find the basics -
fundamental offbeat
originality
that'll pay the bills;
tell the bitch
you found god
and that all will come
in clear time.
back to the beginning,
steady,
louder,
repetition broken
and done up
out of the sunday dress -
find it,
find the excitement
out of the trouble,
slide it closer
and do something new

a woodblock in the door
keeping solitude,
keeping the foot
slid ahead the other
as you lean back
still awaiting, consciously,
to have to stand
and give your defense
when god didn't
come and give you the answer.

art and scientology

face smudged behind
lines,
no continuity -
no start or process,
just somewhere behind
the obscure clouds
a chalk board
and a god
with a thousand eyes
as omniscient as
a
theomorphic 3 year old
with a crayon.

a stick.

melted wax.

an oil mix.

a dirty finger and pastel.

a red truck
to roll over ants.

a funny symbol
resembling a crucifix.

a MEST concept
and a thetan
auditing around campfire.

no!
go back to the books.
only black and canvas
for this child interpretation.

next to the beginning

back,
all the way in the back -
a
lonely sock
in the underwear drawer.
shades are drawn ,
pretty girl sleeps in dark;
a muffled voice (like the one in the auto shop)
speaks under pillows. no, it's me.
bare feet on wood floor
time to wash the morning sweat

it all sticks,
darkness, vague light
cr
ack from
upper window
still like dust in doorway
waiting for the dance to open.

the right place, or whatever they want to judge you for

down marian st.

(feeding the lady with brown bag,

covered in rhine stone

and other vulgarities)

there stands a fountain

among an old world feel -

cobblestone and electricity -

occasionally there are children playing.

dipping feet into sublime distraction

it turns over a ruffle or so

cascading onto wealthy shoes;

aeolus, with dry

time to find,

knows it is no place for a bathing suit.

9/26/08 11:56PM

there is a way to
enter your tongue into a sentence.
not a way of care or concern,
but a way of clarity;
controversy is inevitable,
a steady tongue is intellectual.
one must possess both
intellect and clarity
(books have no intellect,
originality is intelligence)
to mean anything
and understand nothing.
in the end
a sentence has been punctuated,
a thought has been made known
and a conclusion is no more finite
than the words and the flies
sitting at a wall of humanity
arguing which is the best way
to pass through;
which is the best way
to brush people aside.

someone's happiness

i sat in the soft glow of the train stop
behind graffiti that just screamed
and didn't actually say anything,
many strange smells caught me
as this man in filthy shirt and ripped jean
endlessly played an imaginary drum -
he played it so hard that his pants
had begun to slip off without him noticing it;
(i don't think his boxers had been washed,
i think they were supposed to be white,
but they were so long with
the filth and excrement of time
that there was only a faint resemblance
to that of its pure and original make.)
he was playing as if it were
the most important show he'd given in years,
there was someone to impress,
someone to move with swift hands
and bury the embarrassment he was now living.
his fingers were callous and rough,
course from hitting the air so hard
in his cyclical four movement passage.
his right hand began to cramp up
and was followed by a whimper and a long sigh ~
something had set in where he realized that
he wasn't the man he once was,
he lived off the worlds left overs
and could only make music with the air,
but at least he often forgot.

like opening a stale bag of chips

this red brick damper
to a pink cloud, fairy
in embryo dancing to explode;
bleeding black death tree
in the foliage, in the flaccid
limb slapping desiccated flakes

scales on moon, crater
glow in slate shadow
maybe, perhaps, illusion -
fall breaks apart
brown land sketched and carved,
scratching sprite eye
irritated by slightest touch.
new color, shelter
beautiful air
oh, for heaven to give back
on earth moment where death
has no hour.

where it is that we find peace in death

waking up in dark places,
tents of night gleaming nothing
and draped by notes -
notes of chopin and optimism
looking at corners for analysis
to a meet of an end,
a place where (for a moment)
all comes together
only to disperse in infinite direction . . .

a forfeit in form

i've begun to notice
my brain functions on a different level.

"what exactly does this mean?"

common questions come -
coming more common than answers
and
there may be
no
true clarity.

"mark, what exactly does this mean?
it's beautiful, but
i
don't get it."

i stared at the sky
tonight
and saw window,
(blank in my periphery)
with nothing substantial
'til the street light hit it.

"it's a little abstract.
i like the ones where
you
use symbolism instead of
spaces."

the window
was a god of the moment,
giving perfect light
to one dark place.
catching the lamp
and tossing it
like
a rubber ball throughout
dark tenement hall.

i feel the pulse at all hours,
especially the dull moments
in between.
i feel the incongruity of time,
the lapse in the second
and the malcontent turn.

i am lost,
but only with a foundation.

stranded by the wave

stranded by the wave
body sinking with each pass,
i remember loss;

white sud crash in sun
ray refract by eye in way
strong heat, may night come;

sonata in moon
ascend in beauty dark path,
solo loneliness;

dark drape, mute loud day
water take me under dusk,
it is strong and proud;

moon descend wash, fade,
i wash away - now i am -
light return, light dark.

a rapture on the tongue

a rapture on the tongue,
I become wordless and remorseful
to your extent of our sadness;

I digress, my sweet love,
it is not words of unsurity
that I use or cryptic messages
of unimaginable translation,
for like those that get tossed about
too many a time and over again-
they lose the intention of the mind
and once again the intention of the soul
that was translated from such
into that of the mind
(a horrible quandary of
moment to next moment).

so one must wonder, my sweet love,
does it all end with one mere change
or chance of difference,
or does the classic tale of romance
procure in its destiny
of such our hands touch,
our lips first embrace,
our souls first tango through
the doors of a dance
where nobody recognizes our moves,
(ah yes, I remember quite well
the first time I appreciated your eyes-
I could not stop but to
look even further into you
and to venture as only poets dare to venture
and step into the very essence
of your spirit;
I remember dashing out
like I were the cloud to remain
floating the ethereal sky
for the remainder of the eve,
as I wanted to stay there, afloat,
in your mind for as long
as you wanted me to stay)
my longing to tangle myself
in your lips embrace for much
a more sufficient satisfaction
than the briefness we have
accustomed ourselves to.

maybe you have not realized
the response my love has had to you,
it seems almost endless,
(I do wish to sustain from
making promises because I am
not secure in myself to be
able to hold on to such an
angel as yourself)
as if no boulder could
possibly block the path in which
who I am is set toward;
it is so that
a swift breeze will accomplish
setting a blazing heart (of your ownership)
higher into the paradise and torment
that is the great of your gift.

no such breeze or wind
will ever be strong enough,
or swift enough,
to distinguish such a grand desire.

an illness

an illness,
a common sick-
my meditation (unbeatable),
through my mind pace/

slow
,
still . . . easy
no rush;
my love many years behind I
(no hurry, angel must exist
in hand as common medication)
(maybe relief).

tired in waiting, want to sleep-
want to hide my head in the bedspread
with hot steam to make
the breathing (Meditation
too difficult [my mind elsewhere]
when head ridden from distractions
in which to distract myself from)

. . . easier.

and in the third heaven

And in the third heaven,
In that strange firmament
That seems very much like daily routine,
An angel appeared to me
With a prophetic message of love;
This was no message
Of common comprehension,
But a communication of movement,
A dance through that estranged
Crimson cloud lined world
That spoke through the rain streaked grey
(like mascara tear streaks
Down the face of god)
Lightly and beautifully tapping
On puddles, creating these
Symphony like indulgences
Yielding not just to desire,
But to the very exactness
Of love itself – in true form -
Being almost pulpous in matter
For its allowance of streaking splendor
Down every form of path,
Down every line of eternity.
This angel, she, cloaked finely
By the ages of pendulous light
Sang easily with every step,
Not a lyrical form,
But a more ethereal transcendence
Moving beyond common philosophy
With a silence of tremendous volume
Echoing such thought, such consideration
Of a true intellect with no definition;
No words bring to mind the absolute
Contentment in viewing such an angel,
Guiding me by no description,
But with a wraithlike vision
Of perpetuity that I could only cry to.

keeping tabs

Another ghost came a night ago,
Quietly sitting next my desk
Pulsating like the air itself,
I turned to view this apparition
And it simply slid like fog
Towards the wall and was gone;
These things were mainly for my childhood,
But still appear from time to time-
Not haunting me, but just
Checking in on occasion,
Like some school time friend,
Keeping tabs on reality, on perception,
On the very differences life creates
As one ages and is sure
To become apathetic towards reality itself.

In reality, no apparition may have been there,
But I was listening to Rachmaninoff,
Sipping vodka and reading bukowski –
When life is so beautiful
What you see and don’t see
Is really of no consequence.

may 14 2004 (3:04PM)

indifferent and desolate,
water shoot high at god (G)
with no outcome amiable-
fall still with no resolution;

unfinished water splash over
Carefully warn rock.
By age it is old / by beauty it
remain young and
run swiftly with vitality~
young Lady Grace ‘front
peripheral sentiment to water,
fair distraction to kiss lips
and dissuade thoughts of un- or sub-
continence that is far less
beautiful than she who satiates
a tangible product to my eyes:

water runs free and is never same _
each jump, each gust of wind to wave
fashions something new (even each guise, tough not destructive
nor detracting),
but the kiss feels the same on my lips
though retracts not.

as a young boy

as a young boy
(or at least closer to my youth than now)
laying, distraught with
bright
lights
in hospital bed;

young nursing student
stood above me with
voluptuous breasts hanging
over my face-

“How do you feel Mark?”

my whole body ached
with contempt for itself,
at every given moment
I had felt like bursting
into tears and profanities
because my youth didn’t
always feel much for the better;

but with something
as marvelous as this to distract,
who was I to retort:

(sigh) “I’m feeling fine, thanks.”

behind the sky

i could see the leaves
swaying in unimaginable directions;
all at once they tried to break free of one another
on the same limb stretching for different poles of the earth
while, below that, lightning illuminated every blade of grass -
there's music bursting through
at 50mph that dances with the trees,
heavy and dark with the masculinity
of a symphony by brahms,
as if they were waves being pulled by the moon.
every stretch of their peak movement
was a noticeable contrast against the backlight of the sky
and sky spoke out its bright protest
with more of god's breath heavily following,
"be still", i heard it speak, "you must give me way"
tree replied, "then make your way,
i have not the strength nor desire to fight."
the tree were strong, peaceful in reply -
the tree were bonding arm in arm with brisk submission -
the tree were many in all, but also one in all.

blues

did anyone ever look back
for everything I lost;
I think I’ll go back home where
the dogs chains are jingling, clanking,
with springs in their heels
while women hop, skip
towards a seaward captain
with his arms spread over the moon~
the children are suiciding off
the pier now, but only when the waves
are calm enough for the blues band
to make appearance to those sands
where a great pig roast is happening
and it’s all beat;
take a beat at the door where
the dance contest is wailing
Like horns of animals in
midsummer festivals, where
magical men their wands
over the virgin’s purities and
skips to a larger smile in the
blue - black - purple - and navy lagoon miles~
over the Brooklyn Bridge Blues where
children play games in the park
and soak, sink as
fire hydrants spray the street grass.

changing for you

i feel you jumping
through my hair and
turning my pages without my
consent;
i feel you drying the ground
and licking the sky with
a moist brush;
i hear fighting the
leaves with a hard punch
and
swiftly kicking the open waters;

i can tastes your stomp
across my lips and
your brisk change of
the seasons.

popularity contest

sitting, stretched over
a burnt cigarette and
accommodating greetings -

pink finger tips
and, oh-
pink finger tips.

a ceiling tile slid open,
Fuck!
it’s all painted over
by some fat man who breathes too heavily.

my bed sheets smelled new,
fresh from the drier -
no stains, no stench -
like sunglasses in the dark,
cover darkness with darkness;

the good fall slow (torturously) -

common good not so popular, popular good not so common.

find beauty in the smile

Find beauty in the smile,
In the repose of comfort
Resting well against my arms;
Tenderly, hair strewn about
And my love planted
Carefully in her heart,
We embark ,wistfully,
Towards eternity joined.

Like the Yin and the Yang
We join as two
Becoming, separately, as One;
Never the same person,
Never the same thoughts,
But making difference beautiful
And making difference One.

My arms wrapped about her,
Contemplating the beauty
That rests against my lips,
Recognizing the honesty in love
And the peace in surrender.
I simply sigh towards
The firmament and announce:
“I have arrived”.

independent layers

smooth layers of rippled curtain
shook above the window sill
with velvet sparks of sunlight
upon every gust of wind;

in the living room, my book
turned a page without my
hand's assistance
and i smelled breakfast burning
through the crack in the wall.

on my coffee table a rose waved and pulsated
against the humidity and
boasted of its colorful petals
and i held my typewriter steady
on the independent wood grains
of my desk.

motions

sweat - turn. . . (sigh)
turn - sweat more (gasp),
wrestle covers (ahh!)
kick them off (no good)
wrestle sheets (ahh!)
kick them off (no good)
i stand (clock says 1:30 am
1:45 am
2:15 am
2:35 am)
i have to be awake in 3 hours;
if i fall asleep i am just going to sweat more (ffff!),
if i do not i will be too tired to stay awake (double edge).

sweat - turn. . . (sigh)

morning. . . (damn)
cat shakes tail in my face (hit snooze)
roll off (dis)comfort (shower)
clean now (nightmares washed away),
start again.

my wife, the form beyond form

the other night,
the other half of my bed
was vacant -
stirring in the air,
like a hot kitchen
with a canister of gasoline
spilling just passed the fire,
were the (undefined,) sculptures
wanting a meaning of the esoteric;
my absent half danced in the snow
wit
hout
or
f m ~
giving me everything i needed,
without (just a) an unconscious hand
she grazed at the edge
of the firmament
like a mist (light touch; grace and mercy.)
spraying a dieing child in the sun.

-giving pause 'til nothing is left-

i turn a few points
dusting up cat hair and a figure
on my head
still undefined and blowing
clouds--------------------puffing out
the space (here,)
in between
as, still dancing, miracle
captures my translation of
a simple harmony:
two opposing notes struck
by one composer,
one hand,
one love.

blue turn to shades and figures
of a sunset,
rest in (the unknown,) tranquil
intellectual (laying down as her beauty) mess.
(will comprise no match-)

when i awoke i stretched my leg aside
and still felt the space--------------between
(will amount to no true relative-)
and found a thought; (will know nothing real)
the angel in my dreams was dusted off long ago
and when i awoke, (of what it tries to steal.)
my heart palpitating fiercely,
i saw (at the end of morning tunnel vision)
her beauty
(there lay an end and a portrait.)
and realized it was much more
than a dream.

pleasant blues - chorus 4

sweating off the puzzlement,
trip black tarmac
in between parallel
line of car;
funny how people look
at cars without racism,
i mean, they're different colors too,
but put people inside
and all the difference has been made.
jesus knew something we didn't
DARK skin
WHITE skin
YELLOW skin
skinskinskinskinskinsinksinksinksinksinksinkitallcomestogetherinthesameplacewhetheryoulikeitornot

pleasant blues - chorus 3

my stomach rumbled,
not by what i ate,
not but what i did not eat -
50 cents for carbonation
without the cure of a beer,
the sugar slipped good though.
clapping my hands
at myself
for no good reason,
but that i have lived:
in the mirror
i saw imperfection.

yellow perfection

i found myself
staring into a field of rapeseed,
feeling a euphoria
among the solid color
and breathing heavily enough
to notice the air's purity;
the wind blew ripely
in its age and moved
like a fairy in dance
across the tops of
each yellow perfection -
a tree stood lonely in the mix,
as beautiful as an angel
might appear in the firmament
if it were the sole proprietor
just standing, colored
by its surroundings
and soaking in glory.
at the tip of battle with my ego
from what stood behind me
i am neither tree nor angel.

once, in hell

i walked in the bar,
immediately barraged with eyes
and lips moving against me
in nonsensical motions;
the bar tender slid some fancy
cold to the palm of my hand,
i am the one living the life
(apparently).
i looked out the window and
a child played in the street,
leaves beneath her feet
storming around,
a tornado of her imagination,
they crumbled to their end
in the rustle.
i watched her laugh at the sound
of them crushing by her will,
that crackling noise
when the dried leaves break
from the support;
her joy in destruction
was beautiful,
'cause she knew that
it would all grow back.
i was still being looked at
probably because i was
staring at a little girl,
but for all the right reasons;
to be reminded of life
and how desperate i am for life,
indeed.

pleasant blues - chorus 2

looked over chicago,
through a window reflecting
a party in back;
dancing, jumping -
tribal beat for the
american voice,
a voice too soft
for the crowd
yet too loud
for the bedroom.
between EMPTY space.
waiting for words
like frog for fly,
BETWEEN
the words and
the flies
i don't sit as well
on water,
i am free enough too.

pleasant blues - chorus 1

its just begun to get darker,
in the little fake pond next to me
i could no longer see
the oversized goldfish -
how pointless! ----
man, how beautiful
it could be to have no point
------not worthlessness-----
nothing behind, nothing now,
nothing ahead----
han-sha-ze-sho-nen
enlightenment only exists in freedom /
from delusion (time is a window,
window not exist, look through space -)
exist no space (window nothing but word,
sky but a word () just concept, no judgment)