Beginning to see the light...

I'm so glad I found this.

I first glommed onto this song when I was beginning to see the light.

If Ikku ever did a rock song, it would be this one....or, maybe Blake.

Late Summer Poem

Late summer when the grass is high
and the afternoon barbecues, screened porch,
Uncle John’s fat belly…Aunt Bertha’s wisdom…
sweet corn, screaming kids and dogs, a great
big Yellow Family Jello….mellow with the
timelessness of complete temporary pleasure

Story Of My Life

When things got too good,
I would create pain, because pain
was all I knew.

Pain let me see through the illusion
of my father’s world, success and
pleasure…pain welded me to the truth.

It was a crude technique for keeping
my head above water: fear of drowning
in victory….or any other promise.

I saw western civilization in my family…
I was able to translate that into what was
going on…at all….it didn’t look good.

It seemed that we were all on a runaway train…
towards the future…towards progress.
It looked as if the runaway train would go on
forever…I didn’t believe it. I was right.

Fragment of an E Rant

I mean, Charley, how many scenarios do I have to pull out if my (soul)
to get you to love me again?

Your magazine did this to me...oh yeah,,,,that and the drugs...which
saying makes me feel about 20. Oh and the music I'm listening to,
the place, the air,
el tormenta, This is like gold finding itself.

I don't do windows.

J.

Afterdeath

Afterdeath hangs on
like an Afterthought
of Afterbirth called life
of all of them awhile
while their life is fresh in
this life, like you saw
them yesterday but
didn’t get a chance
to say goodbye…
or you remember them
ten years from now…
an Afterlife if ever there
was one.

Lisa Says

I would listen to this song by the Velvet
Underground before my dramatic last scene
as the son in Albee’s play, “All Over”.
It would screw me in right into the right emotion.
I had a stage hand tap on my shoulder to cue me.
But I never did it better than when I did it at the
first rehearsal after I had practiced it at my parent’s
home in Illinois. Those were real tears.

Nothing Matters

…because what you think of as
“matter”, “stuff”, is just
condensed energy…so….Nothing
Matters, i.e., turns into “matter”….

…which is helpful so you can…

realize you turn thoughts and emotions
into things that “matter”, i.e., seem to
have some vague substance….”matter”
when….nothing really matters….becomes
matter or, equally, is something that matters

Some things are important….
But that doesn’t mean you
have to make a matter out of it,
or else you do.

The Points Don't Matter (for Drew Cary)

…like puberty to a girl’s voice
...like government to the Republicans
…like the Fall of America to Darwinists…

hey…I’m getting pretty pissed off here!!!

…like my anger…

One Day Of Life

One day of life is a miracle.
Novels have been written
about one day of life.
So many days strung together…
a progression of miracles…
this day a pearl, glistening with
nacre of time.

I Got A Line On A Whiter Shade Of Pale

Death is the new life…
greed the new standard of morality….
survival has replaced retirement…
the future does not look far away…
the build-out is almost complete…
the train is running out of track…
a world frenzy is beginning to build…
this time was predicted a thousand years ago….
karma is inevitable.

Pyro

Burning with the light of the life left
in me…flame of passion flaring up
to love all sentient beings though it’s
beat me down before…I’ll go to ash
before I give up on you bastards.

No More Questions

I don’t have any more questions.
A few more answers would be nice.
I mean, I joined you on this Mystery
Tour…without question, and then, yes,
we all had a few….some exploded…
some had a strange taste left in their heads…
OH YES, MR. SPACE MAN VCTR*….
Any questions?

*VCTR= Vajracharya Chogyam Trungpa, Rinpoche

Mind Fish

Poems like mind fish
surface but don’t take the
bait unless I’m quick enough,
meaning alive,
to catch them in the act of
becoming…to hook them
and boat them so they can
gasp their last breath of….

I can do two more fish…that’s the
number that came to me just now
this moment…so this is the first fish.

The second fish is Earnest Hemingway…
a quote I can’t quite remember, or, catch,
if you will…so…this is the objective correlative,
the fish that we’re after….(I catch a lot of T.S.,
they’re like sardines…) No…he was the big
one that got away…..(which reverberates
in so many mirrors)…oh, no…oh god, I’m done.

Mind Stream

Crystal clear
roiled by flow and light
landscape of riverbed
embedded debris of life
waterfall emotions…
reaching the sea entering
vast peace.

Cliché Is A Déjà Vu You Already Had

Cliché is one of phenomena’s’ in jokes,
Cliché is a déjà vu you already had.
Cliché is one of phenomena’s’ in jokes,
Cliché is samsara not coming up with
something better.
Cliché is every family meal after twenty years.
Cliché is every politician that ever lived.
If you live day to day, year to year the same,
you live a cliché.
Cliché is not living, it gives the appearance
of life.

Often confused with phony, cliché is not phony
because it believes in itself…..contributing much
to the general chagrin.

Los Donas

The old mothers that gave birth
to all without exception…
Christ, Buddha Hitler and
everyone in between…
walking the streets wrinkled
and shrunken, love for their children
and their childrens’ children carve
permanent faint smiles into their faces….
they carry a living ancientness of the
meaning of life written into their bodies,
their bony hands and sagging breasts,
the aprons they wear as if to say
they can do another day.

Three Questions: An Escape Plan

What’s Next?

Not a question.
A treadmill of karma
unfolding itself endlessly
even after you think it’s done.

What’s Left?

All the loose ends,
unfinished business,
repressed emotions,
thought garbage piles,
residue of lifetimes.

And Then?

After life? After love?
After enlightenment? After words?
Big Sleep. Union. Simplicity.
All accomplished…. no re-runs…
fresh space….
what you’re looking for now….
…no different than what’s in front of you.

Conclusion:

You’re looking for what’s right
in front of you.

Blue Dream

Blues turned
to rock and roll
when despair
turned to hope.
We only got to
“Street Fighting Man”
and the dream was
lost again.
Thing about dreams:
they keep reoccurring.


REVE BLEU

Le Blues retourne
vers rock and roll
quand le desespoir
retourne vers l’espoir.
Nous allons tout simplemen dans
“Street Fighting Man”
et le reve fut
perdu une fois de plus.
Chose sur les reves:
ceux-ci tiennent a revenir.

Traduction francaise par Daniel Dragomirescu

“It’s Clobberin’ Time!!”

The poet takes off the gloves,
stands in front of the Void, his
taped hands assume the stance,
weight on the back foot, Eroica,
first movement, blaring from the
loudspeaker in his brain, adrenaline
rush strains his tendons to near
snapping…he remembers the taste
of his own blood….

…strangely alone…all challenges
already met…enemies defeated…
down time…denouement…even all
the victory parades…if there were any
…lost in excelsior of skin deep memory,
passion ashes, corpse poses, theatrical stance,
a “was it ever!” and a sigh that brings
the curtain down.

I will forget myself.
What connection will
my poems have to me then?
(that’s the Void connecting
with a right hook)

Whatever connection my readers have
to my poems now,
they will have to me then.

For me, the poems are always there.

(the poet wipes his face with a towel,
cracks a beer... )

Not Much for a Long Time

Nothing in front, nothing inside, nothing in between........

all a Big Nothing, with colorful seeming attributes
that dance and swirl in every conceivable way

leading always back
to no end, no beginning

Purely Face Computer Poem

Your screen or mine?
Your pixels tickling till screams
of decibels wash out the visual…
recovery and a few puffs and sips
and now we’ve gone again, live…
Reality T.V.,… special effects, I can’t
wait, but there’s always replay

I Want My Stats To Go Up

When I post a poem
there is a blip in the stats
as if some cosmic radar or
social seismograph is picking
me up…and I like it…which
makes me wonder….
,,and want to fuck with it…play it
like a bitch…as if the only reason
for writing was to manipulate.
And then I remember why I didn’t
do the MFA.