in the tunnel

where enlightenment comes
there rests a sentiment
under the sky
that bellows with an
empty stomach and
empty spirit;
a sadness is mutual to exist
at all times
and all times reveal freedom
and in freedom will
ring true suffering
and there, found in all,
where nothing exists
and where nothing is nothing,
there is an introduction
to where something begins.

a scarf in hell

someone wore
a scarf in texas,
of all places,
and thought that just because
a vilolin and a cello
were in a song
that it was classical -
despite the obvious
folk vocals
and two banjos.
i learned this
in the dark, in front of headlights,
dancing in flames
the first circle
preparing for more

god-mind-triangle

dust and death

kind of pointless

having a stuffed nose
and 80's pop forced on me
is a bit like having
a midget kick me in the nuts
and then point his laughing
stubby arms at me on the ground,
rolling in the pain
that already existed in my head;
i feel like reading sylvia plath
or listening to fiona apple
on a merry-go-round
looking for the damned children
and damned parents
who believe the damned angels
are more than a thought
riding snugly in the red convertible
just side to the unicorn.
it's a good wish to have,
but not much exists outside
of this.

8:29 pm 12/31/08

a dog was eating out
of the garbage
down garfield alley:
glancing down underneath wacker
candles from some river restaurant
flickered on the river
from across the way.
the flames were loud
and cried with
the rolling waves
passing through it,
still there
and bouncing
next to a $20 tip
about to be blown
from underneath.
eat dog, eat
river wealth
and cry fat pigeon
underneath taxi wheel
too heavy to fly.
should have learned
from poverty about gluttony.

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.