My Poetics

I want my poetry to live. I want it to breathe but breathe like aliens breathe, in a way that no one can pinpoint but everyone is happy in different ways. Theres a science and a skill all creeping in on the feeling of "I am totally freaked out" or "I wonder if their nice" or "How did they get here." There is something to say, I have, others have, and not many voices get to say these things. But I want my poetry to paint the pictures that colors can not grasp. Letters are colors, and in art there are more choices. But nothing in this world is a joke, and nothing is serious rather it is all the same simutaneiously and we merely choose to view it as one or the other or both depending on our mood. I want my poetry to have the same diversity in appeal, asthetics and syntax. It is hard to build a bridge between two cities that are hard to find. I feel I have found myself well in the world of jokes, and am working on the world of seriousness so that I may learn how to stitch a binding between the two without leaving the seam for others to trip on. I want to be the best, but I feel like there is nothing gained in being the best and there is nothing and nobody to decide who is the best or how one can be the best. So I want to constantly grow and not be afraid of growing and not be worried about change and find it easy to change and I want to learn to see my changes and name them and touch them and see my weaknesses and name them and touch them and love them, because weakness gives me a new challenge and i like challenge.

Rotting Together

I wish to find myself an old hag within your hand. Mending youth with age and memory with life. Together, reminiscing the silent fall of ashes and the dust where others fell. The little coffee cup we filled with various liquids, both hot and cold. Combine. Overflow. Hurt with comfort, excite and suspend. I never wanted healthy gorging, but filthy, rotten and bad is how I want it.This should be the waking point of our nebulous birth. Out of muck, life creating. Beauty within environments of vast inconsistancy, A place where the ends of envelopes can never be licked, and time is caught in water bottles sold at $1.75 a piece. Nobody is buying, yet stock-markets rise. And forever, you stay with me.

Indiscretion

I am not the specimen suggested by my curves or skin.
I am river, clasped down by your banks.

I gush over cliffs, among silent waters, naked and cold.
I ruffle on the corners of boulders and split around islands-
Once at the middle and twice at the end.

I am chopped, like the air around your tongue, your switch.
Pouring onto deaf ears. I will run forever. Until you drink me up.

BlowJobs and Harmonizing

D-chords. Goddamn D-chords!
Everywhere.
The flip-flop, clip-clop, slop-slop of
Goddamn D-chords!

But it wasn't Romona,
who said she'd suck anyone off under the bleachers.
And it wasn't Jason.
But I can hear the sounds of saliva being cut off by
Fucking D-chords.

"I cannot concentrate when you do that with your teeth."
"Wa wi my weef?"
"You can stop when I am talking to you."
"What with my teeth?"
"Don't chew like that."

We worked sweat out of ice,
but it was what everyone did.
This is what you do when you love,
you fuck like D-cords, and you do it because
it is part of the alphabet and you can't make
love.

Goddamn D-chords. Its too easy,
its too pretty, its everything I want but hate.
Its spinach smothered in chocolate but never put together
and it was Bobby pumping my head up and down whispering,
"Wait until the guys here about this."

Somebody ought to pump Bobby's head up and down
on the kneck of his guitar and say things like,
"Just a little deeper Bobby. Really, get all that in there.
Almost done." But he'd never have the balls to swallow.

"It's sticky," I say fingering around in his warm pudding, and he says, "its
baby-batter so its suppose to be that way."
Bobby smoked a lot of pot, and I could taste it.
But I just kept dreaming about his head bobbing along, up and down,
as guitar grew larger and harder, until it split his brains in two.
And then he could say, "Its sticky" and finger around in brains and blood.

But that can't happen, because I am suppose to suck as he pushes me down, and
I am suppose to laugh at my gaging and tears and snot.
But I can't make him choke on his own cock or swallow every pretty little D-chord of this lifetime with all its prickly little nails scratching throats all the way down.

B-bop

This be cool B-bop, and bad, but hip.

Sly little orange slices with cinnamon and sugar will never be
the bottle or liquid inside.

B-bop. Your sooo cool.

Always worried about yourself and sweet juices.
With a lick on your hand the giggles squeeze themselves out of glass.

B-bop, you'll see. Benches sit on quilted hours as you wash that,
Slick.
B-bop.
Hair.


The center will be B-bop, bop, bop.
Just in. Its B-bop, bop, bop.

Don't stand to take by, or be with, or give for, Me. B-bop, just be sly. And be what you know,
Guitar.
Friend.
Alone.

Treats of that world Night made forever out of nothing for this. Alight, I think, you must just be doing those B-bop things with pockets dry and head wet.

Keep playing. This toy kept playing, this toy keeps playing like string with clarinet. B-bop you play some,
Good.
Sounds.
Rez-O-nAnce.

You never knew, never would, can never will but some try to space the heart with exclamation point, point, point.
Cool.
Slick.
B-bop.

Slices? I got slices without cinnamon or sugar minced with my eye, I got slices but you took peels while I was blind. Hey, B-bop, it never mattered. Because I wanted wrong where time never changes brain, so B-bop make it where you want to put it, but make it,
Sly.
Cool.
Bad.
And hip.

Introduction after the poem "Spoons"

"Spoons" is a free association where I rocked around the idea of "a spoon full of sugar.." you all know the rest, and then the concept behind it. I have been kind of thinking about this idea for a few days. The idea that there are moments in life where things get "sugar coated" and there is such a great deal of effort put forth toward creating the ideal "how to" manual for life, or for anything that you could possibly imagine (ie How to be an Astronaut for Dummies {it must exist}). So i started thinking about all these forces, these invisible forces that try to tie us down to routine and regulation, to a recipe for life and for dreams, and how we have codes of ethics and morals that tell us what is right and wrong and good and bad yet these words are arbitrary, the words that I am writing now are arbitrary. But we give them meaning because why? Because we are programmed to? Well I think we are also hardwired to question these forces to just stop for a second and say "Wait a minute I am a Puppet" and that is pretty much what I did in "Spoons" I just let myself go and did what I could to develop, I suppose, an anti-recipe for what everyone knows is our life but cannot seem to define or change because it comes at you in such small measurements, one- spoon- at- a- time, that you don't notice it until your already buried. So I guess this is my attempt at digging myself a little skylight.

Spoons

I will lump you out of all these things that you and I call revenge which centerfold the little moments and garbage was misconstrued as love while sound became music. But there are not enough round surfaces to keep our mouths busied and buried by heaping fills of tissue. There has always been a race for who will finish last, for who will see it end. But the eye should look the same from any town now matter how poor it is, and no matter the smog that chokes it down. We run from all the tiny scoops of measured folds, where we were once fat, and where we were once old, and have always been this way. It is carrying the load where weight is compared to density and people become the chocolate that is desired only in moderation. When ones tooth out does itself with flows of angry swollen eyes and stubbed knees You'll see I knew that there was a whole that we blanketed over with the patterned workings restlessness, with endless dribbling questions that are the voids which propel feet over cliffs, and knives into throats. Judging is such an activity that all children learn once they swallow the real words that other children molded out of lips and air, out of none of these and all of them. There is only teas and tables of every degree building itself over itself and around itself so much so that things grow solid under lamps that franklin dreamt of, and the sex that Hue grew rich on. The recipe never existed but it is easier for you to fallow instructions, because your idea of shadows is that they must be left as shadows, and lights be left as lights, and the undiscovered should grow mountains of dust where minds fell asleep and others minds twist and turn like tornadoes meeting deep sea urchins, where tides become hands and rain creeps beneath fingernails. While desk becomes me and lung becomes you, and we close in on each other as you lump us out of this mess that everyone desired, but only in moderation, and that which grew angry all to itself and they defined tranquility as lemonade in a rocking chair since most of us have neither.