If Jesus scratched his balls In the most indecent way, Would a thousand angels Turn into a pack of perverts, And would you laugh at me, My love, and say That humanness is something We desire, When cast out of the womb Into the fire Of all that's human, All that is insane?
And so what if Jesus scratched His balls? Or rubbed his ass? Or picked his nose And told bad jokes, burping Or passing gas?-- Would you believe that He was just as human As you and I? Or was he just a myth Personified?
And we have scorched the earth In search of truth, For which so many Pointlessly died In endless wars that spilled The blood of youth, Who for somebody's gods Were crucified.
And so listen -- there are no men Or balls, or lambs to sacrifice For someone's sins, There's just this empty space And therein There is the light, Where darkness ends And love begins.
Franco Battiato, The Doors, Mary Prankster, Insane Clown Posse, Rammstein, Radiohead, Damien Rice, Coldplay, Die Toten Hosen, Anti-Flag, Garbage, Nirvana, R.E.M., Bob Marley, The Clash, Butthole Surfers, Talking Heads, John Lennon, Leonard Cohen, etc.
In this healing wind all our scars of the past are blown away, torn away and scattered around the earth, and all our demons are lifted and carried off in the vortex of the wind funnel till there is nothing left but these rocks and the ocean, and our hearts feel at peace once more, as our eyes scan the distant horizon, where the ocean meets the night sky, where the moon hangs low, casting its tremulous glow upon the water.
In this healing wind all our thoughts are scattered in the silent multitude of stars that shine upon us like new blossoms... yes, I know we've been through a lot all these years, and the loneliness and the pain seemed unbearable at times, but you don't have to say a thing to me right now, because the healing wind turned it all around, gave us new hope and new purpose and new sails-- and breathing in this cool night air, we feel renewed and alive again, as we return to what we always knew as our home, resting upon these rocks, as the ocean waves gently baptize our feet.
If life has taught me anything, it is resilience in battling these demons that crush our dreams. They say with age, we learn acceptance and throw in the towel. Not so. My teeth and claws are sharp as always, my mind's awake and ready for a fight. No, I won't change with age, I'd rather die in battle, I'd rather dive into this dark abyss, than say it's over. It's never over! It has just begun-- this life, this thrilling, exhilarating journey along these countless uncharted paths. I'm bold and foolish as before, no wiser than your beloved cocker spaniel Max-- mad, drunk and raging, knocking down all doors, smashing all windows, tearing down all walls, defiant of all rules, religions and conventions. And if I die, then let my death be sudden and violent and stormy like my life. For I was born into this world with nothing, except this passion and this longing to create. Oh yes, my love, we're cast into this fire, so others, too, may see a higher way!
man is a butterfly or so he says in a cobalt cell of death all words are meaningless without love and no flower can bring us to our senses, he talks of flesh, of hair, of toes, of ankles, of thighs, of breasts, but I see pain behind his eyelids red with alcohol-- don't give me that foolish moon, my face is wrinkled like paper, worn down by the lies, some day they will bury me, I read, I worship the invisible, he speaks of love but does he know the word? I watch the pigeons in tears, hoping endlessly for her to come back, my love, my life my music-- what symphony, what madness they have made of words, words words words like some infection paralyzing the mind of innocence, scream, poet, scream loudly above the town, they have twisted love around, they have given it another shell, bad poets, good poets, sad poets-- I've seen them all scratching out their names in stone but I, I weep in silence at the truth-- love has been lost, disfigured by the temptings of the flesh, I stretch out my arms to a hungry child weeping on my shoulder, surely we must be greater, surely we must know that love is not a bed of pleasure, nor a rose, but rising beyond all forms, all appearances and lies, that no poet can ever touch or sense or smell or hear or see its presence, love is beyond words beyond the fancies and the glamour she is a woman as much as a man soaking through the ink of the endless pages of writing, love is a child before he learns to speak, it cries through the hearts yearning to feel, to feel the flame of the protected secret, the secret of the invisible beauty, not rose, not moon, not flowers, not the rain, she kisses the silver water of Christ, purified through suffering and the decay of death no hunger, no disease can stop the flow, love is the innocence well guarded and never known I saw an eagle once flying in the heights of her glory love is beyond our grasp, no matter how we try to capture her with our greedy hands no prisons, no cages, no songs, but love pure love is all was always all never have I seen a man so naked when he became love-- tear down your clothes, your walls, your sonnets, your words, strip away the ornaments and let love breathe once again!
This crazy woman keeps sending me countless emails, so I stop responding and she gets really mad -- what's the matter, the cat got your tongue? suspecting me once more of hiding behind some secret internet identity -- and I just want to tell her that she's nuts -- for I have no patience with any more games, or with any more Norse bisexual women writers with hyperactive sons, trading lovers like shoes and cheating on their geeky husbands, making more of themselves than they really are -- and I don't care about the sex anymore -- it all really sucks -- hell, I can do much better with my left hand -- I just want to be left alone, but she keeps telling me her whole life's story and I just delete her emails without reading, thanking her for the books she sent me just to be nice, and she keeps telling me that Bush is the Antichrist, that his number is 666, and how she is really my soul twin because God brought us together, and money is the root of all evil, and something about her husband being a closet homosexual and how he wants to divorce her, then she starts talking about me and my problems with women and my therapist and she can really help me out if I only open up, but I don't want to open up -- I've had enough of crazy and promiscuous women -- I just want to meet someone nice -- someone a bit more normal like myself (as I laugh at the thought that there is anyone really normal) though they are good at pretending and stroking a guy's artistic ego -- no, I refuse to give up, I just say to hell with it all, for I don't play by anyone's rules and hell... Well, as Sartre would say: "L'enfer, c'est les autres."*
Once in a while I ask myself: Oh dear! How did I ever end up out here, where these old perverts lure young damsels with their words-- or has the written word become the stuff of birds and all that misty, starry fluffy stuff? And when I'm tired, when I've had enough, why not just get a gun, blow out my brains, for I've had enough of love, enough of pain, enough of angels, moonlit nights and cyber porn-- Once in a while I ask myself: why was I born? Just to be tortured and to witness this??? To dream of some majestic breasts, a long wet kiss inside this hardware of empty cyberspace, to dream of your sweet features and your face inside some phony chat room full of lies-- no, I'd rather shoot myself and die a violent death than live for this-- what's this--a kiss, a bliss, or the abyss??? No, I'd rather touch and see a real woman, not some fantasy, cyber mind-fucking me and playing with my head, for I'd rather wish that I were dead, than make love to this screen, where I'm just these words on your machine, connected to the cable in your room-- no I don't want your cyber moon, nor cyber walks along the cyber sea-- I just want you, my darling, next to me.
When we meet, sparks fly and all logic goes out the window.
It doesn't matter what I did or didn't do-- I try not to explain you.
And why should I try? For even the arguments become a special kind of turn-on, something to get us worked up in passion's frenzy.
Call me a bastard, call me son of a bitch, but don't say that I ever ignore you.
You, who comes out so naturally, expressing your most primal desires.
You just give me that longing "come here" look, and I pretend like it doesn't affect me at all, but you know how to push my buttons, for I've missed your animal presence and outrageous flights of fancy,
Where the world makes no sense at all, dissolving completely in the here and now of you and me
And that implicit love that transpires between us.
We've been fishing for the stars on moonlit nights, finding ourselves in some fishy situations, searching for that romantic ideal -- you were soft and dreamy, dressed in black like the night, charming and alluring all around you -- Oh Pisces girl, you've taken all the clocks and removed the hands, sending me into an unknown time warp -- you have turned the world into an ocean of souls, dancing to the music of constellations, while I watched your heart blossom into a field of violets -- Oh Pisces girl, planting your dreams deep inside my soul.
I don't belong that is my deepest pain I stayed here long but like the autumn rain my tears flow from my heart where do I go? whom do I know? why did we part? I don't belong I hated long good-byes and now in my songs I often cry I think of you my love, it's true you're intense you're much too sad don't be so tense some people said I don't belong how much I long for a tender kiss it's you I miss it's you I think of every night I don't belong, I don't belong and still I fight to make it right and reach your tender heart.
I've been coughing up blood again trying to understand why you were trained to kill another, but it's that adrenaline rush that keeps you going ever since you punched that kid in school and saw his nose bleed-- you felt that incredible head rush-- that sense of euphoria.
now you take the pleasure in aiming your gun at a human target, as your heart beats rapidly-- one, two, one, two, one, two... and you open fire, watching him fall like in some frigging cowboy movie-- only this time it's for real-- bam! bam! bam! bam! he's dead.
look at him fall with the blood trickling from his temple-- he's dead for sure.
and so are you-- dead and brainwashed to be a machine not to ever think or feel
A messenger of love had painted the world with peaceful strokes, reinventing a vision of love and beauty-- he stayed here for just a little while but he left behind the world beyond their wildest imagination-- Look! Can you see it in the outline of the moon, in the smile of a young girl, arranging flowers in patterns of stars?
A messenger of love didn't say a word-- he just painted a picture with his eyes, and all who knew him saw the message that stirred their souls-- someone saw a beautiful red rose, nestled in his heart, someone else, a vision of God, someone else, a mist of stardust in his hair, as he walked the crowded streets in silence, sharing his vision with his eyes.
And as he walked back into the night, the world was changed forever simply because everyone knew that he was nowhere to be found-- the more they looked, the more they realized that the students had to become the teacher.
I can remember the time when I was young and full of strange ideas, I would dream a young girl, who played a golden harp on the ocean rocks, her little hands like gentle bird feathers, barely touching the strings, as the sunlight played upon her hair, and her eyes always posed a question-- Can you see him? In these ocean depths I lost my lover-- he was much like you, foolish yet noble, restless and always ready for change. Then she would disappear, as I walked along the shoreline, wondering who she was, but somehow I knew that she was my destiny... And now each time I walk along this shoreline, I can hear her music and I know that it was always me down there at the bottom-- waiting for you, my love, to draw me out.
Life is a battlefield Of choices made And choices waiting To be made, Even if your choice Is not to choose.
And I have made Some choices That I sometimes regret-- Like opening up to A total stranger, Pretending to be An aspiring writer, Who took my heart And stepped All over it,
While I tried To believe that There was Something greater Between us.
The only thing That I found is That some people Do not live Their lives in the open,
Hiding some dirty Past secrets that Bring on guilt And shame.
And they try to flush Their past Down the toilet, but The lies just keep Building up And the toilet backs up,
And the plunger won't work This time.
I wanted to be your lover, Not your plumber to help Your lies from interfering With your social life.
Even back then You kept saying That you loved me But referred to me As some friend of Your nonexistent Norwegian husband, And you never wanted Anyone to know about Your fatherless children,
As if your children Are a source of shame.
And all I wanted was love And openness.
But all I got were lies, Lies and more lies.
Well, it's been two years Now since you wrote me That love poem, calling me Your soft and wild Lover and a clutter in Your pink laws.
But all the softness And wildness have gone Somehow, after I returned To Connecticut, dissolved In all the fantasies Of some ideal love.
And all I have are just Old love letters and Pictures of you and Your children on my PC, Fading in hollow dreams That I could ever be a part Of your family.
Well, go ahead and Pretend that we never met, Cringing about my Bad breath, dandruff, Receding hairline, And social awkwardness, While hiding behind the name Of your nine years younger Adolescent husband.
I suppose he's good at Fixing your computer Troubles because all your Big writing career Revolves around Internet gossip and All the things You'd like others To believe.
Well, I don't take Myself as seriously-- I once believed in us And our future together Only to have my books, Dedicated to you, Thrown in the garbage And have you deny Ever knowing me.
As Bill Clinton once said: "I did not have sex With that woman," Even though the Evidence pointed To the contrary.
Well, it's been Two years since I've been "that man" That you choose not To acknowledge, And I'm taking my Life back piece By piece, refusing To trash whatever Tender moments That we had together.
And we did have them, Darling.
So, go ahead, and Pretend that you Never loved me, Creating more Lies and fictions.
It doesn't matter.
All that matters Is that I'm true To myself and to My heart.
She crushes everything-- Friendships, loyalty, Any sense of decency Or feelings of love That were once there.
She just plays it all Like a big game, Going from one Guy to another, Never stopping To think of All the wreckage She leaves behind.
Today it's Moses, Tomorrow it's Peter, Then it's Ron or Kris, Then some other Peter, Then some Johnny Or Al from Bridgeport.
They all spend money On her, hoping that She'll divorce her Husband and one day Run off with one Of them.
But it's all a big game With her--she doesn't Love anyone-- Not even her husband, Who sits at home Like an idiot, Playing his porn DVDs On his computer, Waiting for her To return and bring Some money To pay the next month's Rent.
She's just a little girl-- Twenty-two years old-- Who's boy crazy And money hungry, Who gets turned on As quickly as she loses Interest.
Yes, she'll tell you That she's married And that she loves you All the same, The way she loves All her clientele And some dozen Other guys--especially That one who played A guitar--a former Music teacher at A local college Who broke her heart.
Yes, she's sweet and Friendly and she'll Praise your poetry and art, Especially those poems That she inspired you To write for her, And those paintings That flatter her Oversized ego.
She'll laugh and smile With you, go out And have a good time-- But it's all just a game-- In the end, she returns To the safety of Her indifferent husband.
She's a Jezebel-- A shameless little Harlot, who will take Your heart and Dump you like The rest.
I've been listening to your White collar music And bad hair days, Starbucks Coffee and water coolers, Where efficiency and speed Overtakes spontaneity and joy, Where strangers stare At computer screens All day long, calling it A productive day...
And I keep wondering -- Where is the love, brother?
I've been listening to A bunch of pretentious asses, Google searching And internet shopping, Blogging away and yapping away On cell phones, listening To CDs of the latest Anesthetic music, Sharing the latest net jokes, Watching the latest Tarantino flicks...
And I keep wondering -- Where is the soul, sister?
I've been listening to your Hearts percolating in Cyberspace, in the world Where there was once Genuine human contact, Replaced by instant Messaging, caller IDs, Email, faxes, e-books, Digital photos, printers, And color copiers, Where life is just An absurd montage Of fast forward, pause And rewind...
And I've been meaning to ask -- Where do we go from here, Now that we have totally Alienated ourselves By plugging ourselves into The vast hole of meaningless Privacy and information?
So I keep wondering If anyone really wants To read or write anything When words keep dragging Endlessly on some flat LCD display, where internet Jargon replaced the joy Of discovery, where Fantasy and virtual sex Replaced our human flesh And blood --
And what happens to us When we can't leave the house Without some gadget That numbs us from knowing Others and ourselves?
And it reminds me of What Philip Slater said So prophetically back in 1970s -- The quintessential American Community is nothing More than a traffic jam -- The experience of being Together with others In the privacy of your Personal prison.
The wind is raging-- Soon the rain arrives. The summer ends-- The summer of our lives, While I'm wondering If you all had fun-- Yes, you out there, Tanning in the sun, And you alone, Drinking in a bar... The wind is raging At the passing cars That go by like Seconds on a clock, While opportunity Always seems to knock And knock forever On somebody's door, And I don't really Know anymore What summer is, What's autumn? And what's spring? To me the cold and frost That winter brings Remind me of the cold Inside our hearts... And what is poetry? And what is art? And do we really want To see the truth? Why do we waste Our energy and youth On sports, success Or some elusive dreams?... The wind is raging, And it somehow seems To be a vain And superficial chase, While we can never Really come to face That which we are-- Our self-important masks Are much too grand For our own good. Yes, there's literature And even Hollywood, And I could write About the lakes and trees, The scenic mountains, The technological disease, The infrastructure, And the social ills... There's a storm in me, But I'm still, Not knowing where I am Or where I'll be.
As they all keep drooling over your drivel, I wonder when you'll ever write anything of significance--
I, for one, do not believe that there's anything particularly holy about my saliva or anyone else's, except that it serves its purpose of a temporary lubricant,
Just like alcohol lubricates certain social situations-- and I have seen babies drool all over themselves and have their mothers wipe off their spittle, forgetting that there might be a genius to be discovered in their salivary glands-- for it could heal the sick like Jesus, but he appears to have been a mythical figure, just like the gods and heroes long before him, but people will believe anything as long we spit the words from our collective drivel--
Alas, poetry is to be lived and not to be worshipped, and among all the oohs and aahs of your entourage, I wonder how many really live half the things that they scribble, but they keep on scribbling anyway about some gods and goddesses, trying to warn us before it's too late to change our ways--
But I don't see anything changing except the empty exchange of words, drool and saliva, and I wish there were less spitting and drooling and more intelligent and coherent writing.
Your brain is a healthy mix of male and female You are both sensitive and savvy Rational and reasonable, you tend to keep level headed But you also tend to wear your heart on your sleeve
Tiger people are sensitive, given to deep thinking, capable of great sympathy. They can be extremely short-tempered, however. Other people have great respect for them, but sometimes Tiger people come into conflict with older people or those in authority. Sometimes Tiger people cannot make up their minds, which can result in a poor, hasty decision or a sound decision arrived at too late. They are suspicious of others, but they are courageous and powerful. Tigers are most compatible with Horses, Dragons, and Dogs.
About me: I'm a poet and a survivor. I was born in Moscow, Russia, in 1962 and have been living in the US since 1975. I have published several books of poetry and I'm widely known around the internet. I am influenced by many Russian poets, Beat poetry (Ginsberg, Corso, Ferlinghetti), Charles Bukowski, e.e. cummings, Emily Dickinson, Weldon Kees, T.S. Eliot, Robinson Jeffers, Dylan Thomas, Anne Sexton, Heinrich Heine, Bertolt Brecht, Rainer Maria Rilke, Federico Garcia Lorca, and many other poets throughout the world. I've done several
translations of other poets. My poetry ranges from lyrical to satirical, to just plain crazy. I'm a big fan of Mary Prankster from Maryland who became a counterculture cult hero with her intelligent and uncensored punk lyrics. She is down to earth and loyal to her fans and never compromises her creativity just to get radio play. She brought soul and intelligence to the rebellious punk sound. One of her songs The World Is Full of Bastards has the same title as my
famous poem that I published in a college magazine in 1990. I've been writing poetry since 1986. I also draw and paint. You can check out my small art gallery where I added a few works by my artistic friends.
ADD THIS BANNER TO YOUR PAGE! Copy and paste the code into the About Me section of your profile!
It was another uplifting poem,
Masquerading as the meaning of life,
And those who took little sips from it
Felt a little better during the day
Because the poem was their friend
Like a get-well card or a call from
That special someone with its
Huggy--poo and lovey-doo
Type of fuzzy nonsense,
But it felt good anyway,
Like you were standing in a parking lot
Filled with cheery people, getting
All sickly christmasy,
And the huggy-poos and lovey-doos
Kept ringing loud in your head and
You felt that you wasted all of your
Goddamned motherfucking life
Just to hear some cheerful
Obnoxious moron tell you sickly
Sweet platitudes--hugs and kisses
And sunny wishes, and babies and
Puppies and kittens, and horrible verse
About someone's granny
And how she made it all better,
While you were holding a gun to your head,
Wanting to end it all, sick of all the love
And the hugs and the greetings,
And the Christmas spirit, and saving
The whales, and the genocide in Darfur,
And feeding the world and protecting
Little critters with huggy-poos and
Lovey-doos and all the random fuck-yous
From the passing drivers--
Then it all made sense as you lowered the gun
And took the piss in the parking lot
In front of all those cheery bible peddlers
And said merry fucking Christmas,
Taking a shot in the dark and walking
Away in a drunken stupor.
Oh girl, you act so frisky
In this lethargic town,
You must have had some whiskey,
You must have walked around
These streets that lead me nowhere,
These streets that crush me so,
Oh girl, your eyes are laughing,
They're daring me to go,
To take this aimless journey
With nothing as our guide,
Except the moon that's playing
Upon your hair tonight.
Oh girl, you act so frisky,
I know just what to do--
I'll write this silly poem
And show it to you.
Take this body, my love,
my body, my love,
feel my knees and my arms,
feel my fingers on your hair,
cold fingers, sad fingers,
kiss my mouth, my love,
ever so gently
caressing my chest and stroking my hair,
play with it--whatever is left of it--
I'm sad, my love,
and as I hear you laugh,
I feel the water around my eyes,
my brown eyes, the eyes of a poet,
the eyes of a stranger--
I'm a stranger, my love,
I'm a stranger in a strange land
of secret kisses and lovelorn faces,
of cold bodies huddled together,
hiding behind stiff dresses
and tightly fitting jeans,
I'm a stranger to a kiss,
I'm a stranger to a moist mouth
and a playful tongue,
I'm a stranger to a warm breast,
I stand here bespectacled and confused,
scratching my scraggly beard,
forcing a faint smile--
there is so much pain, my love,
right here in the palm of my hand,
right here in the lump of my throat,
right here in the tightness of my chest,
I'm strung like an instrument
with shrunken testicles
and immobilized toes--
see me tremble, my love,
see me shed a tear
onto this dusty world--
I'm with you, my love,
I'm with you alone,
I'm with you in embrace
of tender passion,
I'm in love with you
and that's why
I'm full of
tears.
He stalks young women at night
like Jack the Ripper or Jack the Poet
or maybe he's but Jack the Dreamer,
obsessed with sunsets and rainbows--
I do not know...
I often see him, watching the
night life in a place where he
knows he doesn't belong--for he
would rather have the sky in
his wallet of stars, and his
visions are of no interest to
the passersby who stop and
look at his crazed eyes filled
with longing...
I saw businessmen reading Hustler
magazine, leafing through Business Weekly--but he just sits
there like an idiot watching the
license plates of cars with
young women carousing with
horny young studs...
Oh to feel young again and to hide
like a cat amidst garbage cans,
persecuted for having dreams...
So Jack the Dreamer sits for
eternity and the common folk
don't like him 'cause his
coat is dirty and his pants
are torn, and pretty young women
get shivers along their spine
as they feel his piercing eyes
upon their girlish forms...
But he'd rather paint the
ocean on their foreheads and
mountains on their shiny white
teeth and he swims on their perfume
and dreams of wild flowers and horses
and planets and strawberries...
Jack the Dreamer, Jack the Ripper,
Jack the Madman, but mostly
Jack Himself without words or fancy
pretenses, without degrees or a job,
without anything at all but
that silly grin on his face that
seems to know, seems to care...
Perhaps he's Jack the Lover--
I do not know...
I met him one night and I
couldn't keep myself from
crying--perhaps he's now in
prison or in a hospital--
I do not know...
There's blood on his hands--
that pure blood of humanity
that no longer cares if he's
alive or dead, that blood of
red and white corpuscles and
deadly viruses that turn
a brother against brother
and a husband against wife--
the same red blood that
unites and divides us all!...
Yes! I screamed, yes! yes!
Wherever you may be at this
time, O Jack the Saint, O Jack
the Murderer, I throw my heart
out to you into the darkness,
into the ocean of silence...
Yes! Yes! And may Love one day
take root in its ventricles and
pump wisdom and knowledge
into that ossified brain
of humanity.
Voglio vederti danzare
come le zingare del deserto
con candelabri in testa
o come le balinesi nei giorni di festa.
--Franco Battiato
I want to see you dance
in the moonlight
like an exotic
beautiful enchantress,
seducing my
immortal gypsy
heart.
I want to taste your
lips like wild berries
and dive into the
ocean of your dreams,
as we spin together
in a kaleidoscopic
dance of
love.
I want to see you dance
in the moonlight
until I'm wide awake
to the realm of
infinite dimensions,
to laugh with you,
as we bare
our souls in the
multitude of
stars.
I want to watch
the wind flirt
with the grass,
remembering
the texture
of your skin,
touching mine,
as our dance
progresses
into an ancient
ritual of
making
love.
Believe me, you're a star now
Because you said so yourself
And your minions applauded you
Like the newly elected Pope --
And you said to them in the most
Poetic way: "What the fuck,
What the fuck did I say that
Got you all riled up over nothing?"
Believe me, you're a star now
Because God pushed you into this
Against your will, for you'd rather
Not be in the public eyes, proclaiming
Your inner sickness, because
You're sick of it all, totally disgusted
With the way everything's being
Processed like cheese and broccoli,
Macaroni and root beer,
You fucked it all up, you gave
The wrong response
And they nailed you to the cross
Of really bad poetry
When all you wanted was to
Rediscover love and adventure,
To immerse yourself into a
Different world,
But you've become a fatality
Of misunderstood words.
Believe me, you're a star now,
Gazing outside your window
And enjoying the view of
Consumers like rats, driving babies
In shopping carts, stopping
Googly-eyed at every aisle
To check out the price of
Dozen bananas or a pound of
Roast beef, while you provoke
Them with authenticity --
Look at my soul in the frozen
Food section, look at my heart
In the carton of milk.
Believe me, you're a star now,
Pasteurized and eulogized,
Analyzed and canonized,
Xeroxed and recycled
To look like a cloned replica
Of Jesus, you have worn
Your cross gracefully
Tattooed on your butt,
You have smoked big Cuban cigars
And kissed missing children,
You have shared bread with
Politicians and the lowest scum
Of the earth because you
Loved them all, when they didn't
Even remember your name.
But you.
You were the Big Cheese --
El Queso Grande --
Waking the masses each day
With your loud verses
That dropped like large hammers
Upon the unaware heads --
You were the pure genius,
The distillate brilliance of
A thousand suns
That used a serrated knife
To cut the jugular of boredom,
Letting the blood flow from
Your thirsty lips.
Yes, you're a star now,
Exploding on your suicide mission
Into a billion pieces,
Leaving nothing but love
In your terrorist tracks.
If I were black, then I could
probably join some Afro poetry
bandwagon, wearing some traditional
African costume, celebrating
my warrior spirit and my exuberant
sexuality that my big butt mama
gave me, speaking my powerful
masculine words to the sound
of the drum beats,
Or I could be some spoken word cool cat,
writing urban verses about gang bangs
and my homies in the ghetto,
But I'm just a heterosexual white male,
who is not too physical
and reserved when it comes to sex--
No, I could never join some Afro poetry
bandwagon, for I'm too uptight and
too white for that.
If I were a woman, then I could join
some goddess poetry bandwagon,
where I could celebrate my uterus
and ovaries and talk about joys
of motherhood and birth pains
and PMS, and how all men are pigs
and rapists and abusers, and I could
talk about my plight and the plight
of my sisters,
But I'm just a heterosexual white male
and I'd sound ridiculous celebrating
my penis or my balls,
and I'm too insecure about my penis size anyway,
Perhaps if I were gay, then I could join
some gay and lesbian poetry bandwagon
and sympathize with my bisexual
and transgender brothers and sisters
and shout proudly about taking it
in my mouth or from behind,
But I'm just a heterosexual white male,
masturbating on weekends without a date,
Perhaps if I turned my life to Jesus,
then I could join some Jesus poetry bandwagon,
proclaiming freedom from sin
and the power of the Lord,
and the promise of the eternal life,
But I'm just an atheist, and I have nothing
to prove or disprove to anyone,
and I could never join
some metaphysical poetry bandwagon,
for bullshit has never been my forte.
For I'm just a heterosexual white male,
transplanted into this foreign universe,
where people group together according
to their beliefs and convictions,
their crosses and their flags,
their allegiance to some
higher authority,
But I just carry myself like
some rude awakening
to anyone who'd like me to join
their camaraderie of insincere assholes,
For I'm like a hemorrhoid in their ass
reminding them of the reality
that I'm not like them,
nor do I want to be.
She dreams in rainbow colors,
dancing freely in her mind,
while squishing pancakes
and dusting off old buttons
that have seen the starry nights
and inexplicable wonders--
she looks at the world
with her inquisitive eyes
and breathes
intelligence and renewal,
hope and compassion--
she is strong and delicate,
shy and bold,
curious about everything
that surrounds her--
she is Jenna--
the shining angel of Georgia,
who stirs my imagination
and challenges my mind
to rise above the darkness,
above the ignorance
of the blind,
who see the world as us and them,
but there is no us or them--
only the truth of love,
and then there is Jenna,
smiling and asking
all the right
questions.
Fuck. I haven't written
One fucking poem in a fucking
Month, arguing about their
Fucking war.
Enough, I say, I've had
Enough of all their stupidity--
Listen, I don't care who
They're planning to kill next--
Somalis, Iraqis, whatever.
Their murder is of
No interest--O.J. must
Be laughing his ass off,
Having murdered just
His wife and her friend,
While they take pride
In the slaughter of
Thousands of Afghanis.
Well, let them continue
With their fucking war---
No one is stopping them.
I'll just sit here, while
They sing their moronic hymns
And wave their moronic flags--
What did that dumbass Dubya
Call it? "Infinite justice",
"Enduring freedom"?
I don't give a damn what he calls it,
I'll just open the window
And look at the stars tonight,
Watching the bright glow
Of the full moon on
December 30, 2001.
For every date is a special
Date in God's cosmic calendar.
Keep God out of this war--
God never blesses those
Who kill, kill, kill.
For God is love, God is truth,
And God has nothing to do
With their propaganda.
They can jerk off to CNN
All day long if they like,
Ramming their girlfriends
With star-spangled dildos,
As they fuck their cousins
Up the ass--hell it's a free
Country, and they are all free
To be stupid and ignorant.
Now I know why Woody got shot
By the police in a Vermont church,
As he threatened suicide
With a small pocket knife.
He was "not with the program"--
He just freaked out that day,
And they had to shoot
A frightened man
With "friendly fire"--
Another casualty in this
Fucking war on terror...
No, I will state my case,
I will smash these lies
Into the next year
And the years to come--
Those who waged this war
Will pay a price
For the evils that they
Had done.
In her loins lie
the possibilities that
only poets dare
to dream of,
in every gesture there
is poetry and subtlety
of a rose opening up
its tender petals,
there is music in her
breasts that makes
you tingle with
a strange desire
to soar in the rhythm
of the senses--
there is beauty and
elegance in her dance,
a pure celebration
of her being,
now she is a star,
bright and radiant
like a dream,
now she found a form
all her own--
unfettered by the
puritan morality
of covering up your private parts--
she was never just parts,
she is always whole,
always herself since the
day she was born--alive
and free and naked
and proud of her body
and her past and her
dreams in a world
where no one dreams
anymore or walks
around like a zombie
with a can of beer,
smacking one's lips, pointing
and remarking:
"Oh baby! Check out that ass!
Ain't she a piece!"
Yes, many things have a price.
But beauty is always priceless.
On this day of cerulean bears
That across silent eyelashes ran,
I foresee past blue waters a stirring
In the hollows of eyes--a command.
--Velimir Khlebnikov (1885-1922)
Beyond the constellations of the Bears
I see reflections of the ancient gods
And I can see the moon inside your hair,
Feeling the music pulsing in my blood.
Beyond the ruins of forgotten cities,
Beyond the battlefields where myriads died,
Beyond religions, wars and hollow treaties,
I see the ancient wisdom in your eyes.
Let daily sermons fall upon deaf ears,
Let prophets come and go as they please,
Let churches go on exploiting fear--
The truth is the wind, the rocks, the trees--
It's what I know in my heart, it's what you know
Each time I look inside your playful eyes,
And when it's time for you and me to go,
The truth is in our love that never dies.
I love you more than all the bull
That you'd been telling me,
I love you more than all those guys
That you had shagged for free,
I love you more than love itself,
For it is just a word,
I love you more than kitty cats
And chirping little birds,
I love you more than hollow lines
Of Hallmark poetry,
I love you more than little faith
That you'd placed in me.
I love you more than all your lies
And your bisexual ways,
I love you more than all your art
That I've come to hate,
I love you more than puny geeks
That you've been living with,
I love you more for teaching me
That I have more to give,
I love you more than empty sex
And lost virginity,
I love you more because I've learned
That love must start with me.
Bastards! Bastards! Bastards!
Bastards! Bloody bastards!
The world is full of them!
Everybody is a BASTARD!
Buddha is a bastard,
Mohammed is a bastard,
Krishna is a big bastard!
All bastards!
Jesus Christ is the biggest bastard!
Crucify that bastard!
White bastards, yellow bastards, black bastards,
We have bloody bastards of all colors,
Jewish bastards, Christian bastards, Hindu bastards,
Muslim bastards, born-again bastards,
religious bastards,
STOP BEING SUCH BLOODY BASTARDS!
atheist bastards, Commie bastards,
capitalist pig bastards,
Feminist bastards, racist bastards,
sexist bastards, peace movement bastards,
insurance bastards, my family are all bastards,
bastards! your mother is such a bastard!
hippie bastards, punk rocker bastards,
fascist Nazi bastards, bastards, all bastards!
Hitler is a bastard! Martin Luther King, Jr. is
another bastard!
All bastards!
Bastard this! Bastard that!
Bastard your father! Bastard your sister!
And your brother, another bloody bastard!
Lao-Tzu is a bastard!
intellectuals are bastards!
I AM THE BIGGEST BASTARD!
I'M TIRED OF ALL OF YOU BASTARDS,
SCREWING UP MY LIFE!
Psychiatrists are bastards,
homosexuals are bastards!
Allen Ginsberg, you are a bastard!
But you probably know that already!
Gooks, niggers, kikes, spics, honkeys,
all bastards!
Virgins are bastards!
Rednecks are bastards!
Married couples are bastards!
I love you, honey, but you are such a bastard!
YOU BASTARDS TAKE YOURSELVES TOO SERIOUSLY!
YOU BASTARDS HAVE NO SENSE OF HUMOR!
Stop polluting the bloody environment, you
bloody bastards!
Stop masturbating!
Take away your fucking nuclear arms!
You can't fuck with nuclear arms!
BLOODY BASTARDS!
I'm going to call the bloody police on
you bastards!
That will show you!
Bloody church bastards, why don't
you give some money to the poor bastards!
And I'm fed up with the rich bastards!
All presidents are bastards!
REAGAN IS A BASTARD! GORBACHEV IS A BASTARD!
THEIR WIVES ARE THE BIGGEST BASTARDS!
Yes, the world is full of bastards!
Only some bastards think themselves better
than other bastards!
And that's how the wars start:
ONE BASTARD GETS UPSET WITH ANOTHER BASTARD
AND THEY DROP BOMBS ON EACH OTHER!
My father wants to kill my mother,
and I want to kill my wife and kids!
But we are all bloody bastards,
homosexual or not!
Don't give me that GOOD BASTARD crap!
We are all the same bastards!
Charlie Manson is no worse than your father!
THAT'S RIGHT, YOU BLOODY BASTARDS!
Poets are the biggest bastards,
They take themselves too seriously,
And if you don't like my poem,
YOU ARE A BASTARD!
She storms my brain
in psychedelic colors
and discordant rhythms,
leaving me breathless
as I explore new shapes
and forms of knowing.
Like Lucy in the sky
and Mary Jane--
she storms my brain--
my strange new flower
with feverish bright petals
that leave me mystified.
She dances to the synesthetic
music of red and orange
notes that I can taste upon
my tongue, laughing like
a transparent angel
in a warm summer rain--
yes, there she goes again
storming my brain.
And I have no way of knowing
where I am or where I'll be--
I just come out deranged
and beautiful, smiling like
the sun. And she...
Well, she just laughs at me
and storms my brain.
The world is such a bore.
I look at all the blank
expressions here
at Delaney's Tap Room,
where Jake--the local artist--
makes several incisions
with his knife upon
his hand, letting the blood
drip onto this white bandage
of cloth, wiping the blood
with it, while I wonder
what's the point of all this--
I guess it's better than
being a junkie--another
nasty habit that he quit...
Another guy says all
my joking about gay shit
makes him nervous,
so I better keep away...
The world is such a bore--
these overpriced drinks,
these empty conversations
about this and that
and nothing much at all--
I hear the chicken wings
are excellent here.
My friend is doing crack.
A few days earlier some girl
would let him eat her pussy
in exchange for xanax,
though he never got a blowjob.
The world is such a bore.
I talk to Marshall--a homeless
old man, who spends his
monthly checks on booze
and cat food for his kitties,
while sleeping in the graveyard.
He has a temporary place to stay
right now. He tells me he's
the luckiest man in the world.
Somehow I don't believe him.
The world is such a bore.
Here's John who came out of jail
several months ago. He now works
with his hands, laying shingles
on roofs of houses.
I hear Pam is now in jail for writing
phony checks, she used to fuck
for drugs and money--two hundred
dollars for a full relief.
Jeff highly recommends her.
He says he's getting married
to his latest girlfriend,
but I doubt it--he never stayed with
anyone for too long.
The world is such a bore,
as I stand here, observing this
pool game--the only thing that
seems to matter here.
Sometimes I show them my poems,
but there is such a chasm
between my vision
and what's in front of me--
this crazy circus of fucked-up people
with their fucked-up lives
and fucked-up loves,
these people, who are
deaf and blind
to anything of beauty and of meaning.
I have another beer,
as this endless game continues,
and the jukebox plays
the same old song, the same old song...
The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be
loved in
return.
--Moulin Rouge
Amidst the ridicule, love is.
Amidst the crassness and banality, love is.
Love shines through us like this lavender candle,
lighting up the room.
Amidst the doubts and despair, love is.
Love surrounds you and me tonight.
We are together in our most intimate thoughts.
Inhaling love, exhaling love, breathing love
in the light of this candle.
Amidst the madness of the world, love is.
Love is what we are.
We are the children of the bohemian revolution.
We are the free spirits. We are the creative force.
We are the voice of truth, beauty, and freedom,
and above all things, we are the voice of love.
Look at us now. We are the greatest show on earth.
Rising forth like new blooms,
shining like the brightest stars,
bursting with new life and new energy.
We walk in the light of love
and love radiates through all that we do.
Everything here is yellow and green.
--Anne Sexton
You pull me into your
delicate sea,
As I shiver at your touch,
Now I'm a valley and you're
a mountain,
Now I'm dark green and you're
bright yellow,
You play me like an instrument,
pulling my strings
one by one,
As I respond in a symphony
of poetic madness,
Crying on my pillow, I hug
the empty space
between us,
Longing for the night when
I first touched you.
Love, darling, is a silent mistress,
who comes streaming through
my fingers
in gentle tears.
We have lost the softness
and the tenderness of her touch,
Sleeping on a bed of nails,
we scream in agony of her
passing.
But I know that deep inside you
there is a flower growing,
longing for the moisture
of a kiss, for the freedom
of the ocean.
We meet and part in its darkness,
leaving a trail of tears behind us.
Nothing here in New Haven is
short of miraculous. The downtown
is always full of people who
enter or go past the bars and
restaurants and bookstores
and cafes and department stores
and theaters and galleries,
catching their dreams like frogs
catching flies with their tongues,
while the office typewriters buzz
like beetles, and the air is filled
with dust and the fumes of engines
and the noise of construction
workers drilling for some BIG
FAT PAYCHECK IN THE SKY.
There are recycling freaks,
to be sure, and the panhandlers
at many corners, and the homeless
sleeping on benches on the Green
when the weather is warm, and there
are smells of pizza and falafel
and gyros and hot dogs and hamburgers,
and there are smells of marijuana
and urine and stale beer, and you
can spot all the skinheads and
the deadheads and the airheads
and the Yalies with heads swollen
with books, lectures, and films,
and you can feel New Haven pumping
in your heart and your veins...
and somewhere there's some guy
pumping a girl in the back seat
of his car, and there's trash all
around and used condoms and empty
beer cans, and there are lawyers
and policemen and worn-out
prostitutes and the drug pushers
and the junkies and the homosexuals
and the "artsy-fartsy" types,
street musicians, misfits, mad
poets, posers, yuppies, and preppies--
like some big heap of humans piled
up in some grotesque situation
without a big EXIT sign to get
out when the show is over...
So I observe it all like a stranger
without my popcorn and a ticket
to that never-never land of
opulence and enchanting women,
while the sharp knife of reality
stabs me deep inside my guts,
telling me that I'm alone in this
city of clowns and prophets,
beggars and businessmen--all
hungry for some fix of power,
money, sex, or drugs, or booze,
or some other short cut to Life
Everlasting... So I get back to
my suburban refuge in Westville
only to find my parents arguing
over money.
You've made your bed, now go ahead and lie in it,
And I don't care if you changed the sheets,
For no linen can conceal your lying,
It's all about your destructive deeds.
It matters not -- the one who sleeps beside you --
For in your linen there've been many more --
With no conscience or remorse to guide you --
You acted like it's nothing to deplore.
And I don't need your childish accusations
Or all the things you claim were done to you,
For there is no real justification
For treating others in the way you do.
So go on, put on your smile and makeup
And tell some others how great they are,
For you've always been a lovely faker,
While leaving others with long-lasting scars.
Ed,
my hopes pierce the black skies
of fear and loneliness,
my heart longs for freedom
from their catatonic indifference,
Ed, I'm pale with fever
of life,
they will not leave me with
their ant-like
expressions and lawn mower
melancholia,
my teeth break against their
metal bras
and their leather panties,
Ed, I'm tearing up their
lacy see-through material,
I wipe off their lipstick,
I wipe off their phony smiles,
I break down their car windows
with a crowbar,
Ed, I'm through with masturbation
and the triple X matinee
double features,
I'm bored by their moaning
and groaning
and I can't stand the stench
of their perfume,
Let them eat their MTV manure,
Let them drink their piss
and their tears,
Let them enlarge their cocks
to a whopping
twelve thousand inches,
I'm tired, Ed,
I'm just very tired,
Let them fuck themselves
to the sound of the Sex Pistols,
Let them take their bloody
vacations and medications,
Let them enjoy their anorexias
and bulimias,
Let them rape each other
on dates,
I'm just pissed and I'm not going to take it anymore,
and I will scream bloody
murder,
and the men in white coats
will take me away,
no more masturbation, no
more copulation,
no more virginity, for that
matter--
just one bloody hell,
I'm tired of their Gestapo
love,
I'm tired of the color black,
and I don't think that purple
is homosexual,
No, Ed, they will not take
our soul away,
and they will not prevent
me from drinking more vodka,
and you will always be Hungarian,
Ed, I'm turning paler,
I'm beginning to see morticians
all around me,
Ed, I'm dying,
I'm sweating profusely,
I need something cheap to
get me through this lonely
night,
I'm burning,
I'm hot, I'm very hot,
Ed, I don't want to be an American,
I don't want to be an English
major,
I don't want to piss in urinals and be conscious of the
size of my penis,
Ed, I'm lonely and desperate,
I think I'm going to commit
a crime,
this time I think I'm serious,
no one will stop me,
Ed, Ed, Ed,
my mind is hazy,
I cannot control myself
anymore,
I'm freaking out completely
even though I can speak several languages,
Ed, Ed, Ed, Ed ...
om, om, om, om, ...
I should've never gone to a massage parlor,
I should've never gone to
go-go bars,
I should've never seen "Deep
Throat" and a live sex act,
Look at me, Ed, look at me,
I'm just a pathetic nervous wreck
with an ingrown toe nail and itching hemorrhoids,
Ed, I should have read the Bible,
I should have never been seduced by corrupt American
girls,
I can't even fantasize anymore without an appropriate
sexual stimulus to get me hot and horny,
Ed, my underwear is dirty,
no woman wants to go out with me,
I'm swearing in Russian in front of my mother,
I'm talking to myself,
I don't masturbate anymore,
I'm living in horror,
in New Haven, Connecticut,
in the United States of America,
in the altered states of consciousness,
and I don't know any good drugs for my headache,
and my poetry is going nowhere,
And I write letters to this really sexy girl
and she never writes me back,
Ed, I need some salami
or something to kill this horrible
despair and loneliness,
I need a fix, for god's sake,
and some lewd entertainment,
I need some noise in the background,
I need some good old-fashioned minimum
daily requirement of real beef
and gratuitous sex and violence,
Ed, Ed, Ed,
my brother, my brother with Magyar soul,
let's get drunk, let's smoke some cheap cigars,
let us numb ourselves in a complete oblivion,
My soul beats against the Southern cafeteria,
My soul rises above the urinals,
My soul flies along the hallways of these deadly
institutions of minds poisoned with rat poison
and acidified Styrofoam,
My soul rises above all the kissasses,
all the snivelling bureaucrats in their business suits,
My soul rises above the boredom,
We shall burn in the fires of hell,
we shall never leave this
paradise,
we shall eat the shoelaces
of the born-again Christians,
we shall browse through
the libraries of dead books
written by morbid individuals
with several degrees,
we'll never find affection
in the student union,
O Ed, so this is it,
this is another day in paradise!
I cannot bear it without heroin,
and freaking out and shivering,
I send you my last words.
In the angelic hair of innocence
and the mush-filled minds of normalcy,
in the phony handshakes of politeness
and the muddy waters of indifference
I threw my poem like a monkey wrench--
yes, threw it out there and that's all it took--
all the innocence somehow disappeared,
and all the minds went crazy again,
arguing about something,
like how much testosterone it takes
to turn an angel into a monster,
arguing about the good old days
and never really agreeing as to what
was really good about them--
for, after all, grandpa, would
chase them all with the shotgun
if they ever tried to lay a hand on
any of his money, and grandma
was a real witch, who never liked anyone,
drinking booze like no tomorrow,
and the handshakes turned to fists
and bloody noses,
the indifference turned to laying blame
and curses and insults,
as I observed it all,
knowing damn well that my poem
had something to do with it,
for these were always such
very good friends,
and I smiled and said:
"Ain't life peachy, folks!"
quickly walking away, while they
shouted: "We are going to get you,
you goddamn Russian bastard!",
'cause it was I who ruined
their paradise of ignorance--
but then one of them remembered
that it was not me who fucked
his girlfriend, but his best pal Jim,
and they were back at one another's
throats.
Kiss me girl like a flower kisses a bee
Kiss me like the salt water of a mid-summer sea
Kiss me girl a kiss like the sky
Tell me girl that I'm too young to die.
If my hair should become this grass
If my chest turn to a crystalline mass
If it matters at all kiss me girl
Like a mermaid that kisses a pearl.
Let the wind blow east or west
I will never sit here at rest
I will always be longing to fly
Kiss me girl a kiss of the sky.
Kiss me girl a kiss of the sun
Take my mischievous heart and run
Kiss me girl kiss me like spring
Take my musical voice and sing
Kiss me girl constellations and dreams
I've been here forever it seems.
What is a poet but a drunken fool--
a pitiful being that staggers through
local taverns, pathetic and mad,
muttering gibberish to the masses,
while picking his nose
and philosophizing about the legs
of a young waitress?
What is a poet but an unkempt vagrant,
who's taken a free bus ride to nowhere?
What is a poet but a caricature of a
civilized society that wants to hear
how beautiful it is?
What is a poet but a persona non grata,
crashing your sophisticated party,
urinating on your carpet and shouting
obscenities all night long,
talking about God and demons
and drinking all your good whiskey,
while trying to seduce your woman?
What is a poet but a madman,
who forgot to take his medication
and reminds you of your bipolar mother
who pisses in her underwear
or your alcoholic dad who takes Viagra?
What is a poet but an asshole
who tells you the truth that
you don't want to hear?
It's getting better and there's no denying
The bullshit I put up with and her lies
Are slowly diminishing and dying --
And I'm glad to know that I survived.
Some people are a bitter pill to swallow
When you begin to trust them with your love,
Only to find their affections hollow
And that your love is never good enough.
But they will reap one day what they have sown
As they get tangled in their web of lies
Until they find that they are all alone
Because it's trust that makes true love alive.
Self-love and self-respect are cultivated
By recognizing love is not abuse,
That love is not about tolerating
Someone who's cheating and just hurting you.
So I am free to move to newer vistas,
To newer lovers, poems and new books --
And to my aging love -- ¡Hasta la vista!
Your love is overrated like your looks.
In these cold rainy nights,
In these streets, in these dreams
I'll walk in my solitude
To a place where light is.
Do not ask who I am,
Do not ask where I go--
I've lost all direction,
Yet I always knew this--
I'll find my way back
To a place where light is.
No, it can't be that far--
I've walked many miles,
I've seen it in a smile
Of a girl like a breeze--
I'll find my way back
To a place where light is.
I've been walking in darkness
Of frozen minds,
I saw hearts that were numb
And eyes that were blind,
I saw tears and pain,
War and disease,
But I just kept on walking
To a place where light is.
Yes, I know it's near,
By those mulberry trees
And those valleys of daffodils,
Where the hummingbirds sing,
Where my love rests in waiting
With a smile like a breeze--
Yes, I'll find my way back
To a place where light is.
She's been tuning her chakras,
While balancing her aura
And practicing vegetarianism,
Standing up for animal rights
As her latest fashion statement,
Surrounded by effeminate and gay men,
Who pay her countless compliments--
And I'm reminded of Madonna,
Once a talented singer,
Now obsessed with Kabbalah--
She is obsessed with surroundings
That harmonize with the shallowness
Of her love and her life
And her androgynous sexuality
Of casual bisexual encounters--
And she has seen God in her
Latest orgasm, while washing
The dishes and cleaning the toilet,
And she's determined to be the
Best mother possible, while
Becoming impossible to her daughter,
And she lies and puts on appearances
For everyone and for herself,
Not knowing who she is or what
She has become, but constantly
Trying to control what others
Think of her--and God forbid
They discover her various
Misdeeds and improprieties--
And so she lives like some
Wound-up toy, pretending to smile
And not to have any feelings
Except the sugar-coated love
That she sprinkles on everyone
Like a Hollywood faerie--
Saying I love you, love you, love you
A thousand times--
As if it means more if you keep
Saying it over and over...
But I have learned that all
Her life is an act, covering up
Insecurities with lies,
Lies and more lies,
Going back to the memories
Of a fragile little girl
That was abandoned
Long ago.
This freestyling spoken word buffoon
says I'm making mockery of poetry--
he is a word revolutionary, you see,
and I don't see the great movement
that his message is trying to convey--
he is out to liberate, to infiltrate,
while I'm just this Russian who tells
him that he just masturbates and
his bullshit message is not about art,
not about being real, it's about word abuse,
Pete said he used to write for Village Voice
but quit when they were going to send him
as a reporter to Iraq, now he writes all this
phony crap about society, injustice and oppression--
look at me, I'm real, I'm humanity--
and I'm really sick of it all,
so I read my "The World Is Full of Bastards" poem,
and they all started laughing, except this guy
who got really uncomfortable--
says I'm not being serious--
but I don't want to be serious,
I just want to play around,
and these people are all so uptight,
they wouldn't even get a microphone
because it's against the city ordinance--
revolutionaries, my ass,
they can't even say "fuck" in a poem--
Allen Ginsberg would laugh at all these
spoken word clowns--
liberation is masturbation,
why not? You people, are all so fucking
uptight with your politically correct bullshit,
that you call "freestyling"--what the fuck are
you talking about?
Pete wants me to read again, but I might just
blow it off--he says I have to read something
really serious, nothing raunchy, something
lyrical and profound, or this spoken word buffoon
will call it quits and they will no longer
invite me to read--
I feel so stifled there, but then I remember
those kids laughing when I read--
this whole world is fucking uptight--
I remember this Jordanian guy Tony Samander--
very religious guy he was, used to write novels
about holy cities and prophets,
freaked out once when he saw
one of Bob's books on the floor--books are holy,
you see, you should never disrespect your books
or your parents, he went to my poetry reading
once, freaked out, saying that I've made a mockery
of poets and poetry, kept saying "squeeze my balls"
the whole night, I guess the words got stuck in his head
from one of my poems....
I read about him in the paper several years later,
Tony had an argument with his father during
Thanksgiving dinner, pulled a knife and stabbed
his father in the stomach, then the police came
and shot him dead.
Some women are like poison
That stays in your bloodstream
For many years,
Telling you remember me,
Remember me--
I'm the one who slept with you
That night, engulfing
Your manhood and ripping
Your heart out,
I'm the one who made you
Lose sleep and obsess
Every night over that
Fatal encounter when
Our paths crossed and
Our lives meshed,
And we promised each
Other the world--
And then she leaves you,
Making you cry, blaming
Yourself for something
You think you've done,
But you've done nothing
Wrong because her love
Was a lie and she keeps
Living that lie day after day,
As you keep hurting inside--
Yes, you have thought
The world of her,
Writing her countless
Love poems and trying
To encourage her art,
But she just trampled
Upon your heart like
She did with many others,
And you wonder if
There is any real love
In the world, for she has
Taught you how to hate
Everything that's fake,
And you keep wondering
If there is any truth
To anything anymore,
Or is it all just ugliness
And hurt, using and
Being used, being a
Victim or a prey,
While she laughs her
Way to the bank
And tells everyone
How great she is
And how she loves
Every guy in town.
Once in my youth I saw her face
That's how my story begins--
I met a young maiden of stunning grace,
She called herself Lori Lynn.
Sprinkles of stardust danced in her eyes,
As my mind would meander and spin,
And her hair would shimmer in the moonlit sky,
Caressing her delicate skin.
She made me act like a little child,
And my feelings I couldn't contain,
So I wrote this poem to make her smile
Because I was slightly insane.
But, all of a sudden, a strange little bird
Snatched my poem, as I finished my gin,
Then it flew away and I never heard
From my beautiful Lori Lynn.
Many years passed, I grew tired and old,
And I couldn't write poems again,
As my world grew dull and my heart turned cold,
And I felt like a dying man.
But then one night, when I was alone
With my usual bottle of gin,
I dreamt that same bird, and it read me a poem
By my beautiful Lori Lynn.
Then I woke up and somehow I knew
That the answer was always within,
So I wrote this poem addressed to you,
O my beautiful Lori Lynn!
Internet poets are the worst,
writing about children, blowing bubbles
to kill boredom, and about being positive
by facing a brand new day as a winner--
internet poets praise each others work:
"You're so brilliant and phenomenal,
thought-provoking and unique--
yeah I feel the same way, my husband's
been drinking and I don't know what to do,
hon, just hang in there--I'll pray for you
and those bubbly children of yours,
golly gee, I could lose some weight,
yes, I've been feeling lonely until I joined
this wonderful site, where I made so many
good friends--wonderful people everywhere,
ready to dispense so much good advice--
my poetry has gone so far
and I've grown so much--
this is my thousandth poem, golly gee,
I don't need my therapist or my husband,
or even my vibrator"...
Internet poets are the worst--
you know it when you read their stuff
if you still haven't committed suicide
or had another psychotic break,
Linda so-and-so is going through a divorce
and Leanne's having an internet affair
and writing about it:
"My dearest Bill, how much I'd like to lick
your balls and feel your potent shaft inside me"...
Internet poets are the worst,
spreading religion and cunnilingus like the plague,
like some apocalypse--gee whiz, what will they
write about next, bring out those old cosmic clowns--
Bob the Divine and Elaine Walnuts--
to mystify and mesmerize with their far-out
cosmic insights about God and cosmic G-strings,
and that rugged drunk old-timer Eddie Bologna
to talk about Vietnam and dead heroes,
fishing lures and Ronald Reagan,
and those days of courage and VietCong whores
with razorblades in their pussies,
and how those liberals are fucking
everything up and taxing everyone
to death.
Internet poets are the worst--
bring out some lovely psycho chicks
with post-traumatic stress syndromes,
writing suicidal haikus
about being raped by several guys,
now searching for on-line validation,
bring out Bukowski and Burroughs-savvy young
dudes, talking about vomit, beer and cum,
needles and heroin addiction,
mainlining their poems down those internet
pipelines of shocking mediocrity...
Internet poets are the worst,
always starting some new poetry groups,
telling you that you have potential
if you fuck enough, if you drink enough,
if you tell enough lies about who you are
and where you are going--
going, going places and meeting new faces
and new publishers and editors
to publish and edit your work
and give you some great advice
about Jesus and heroin, about your soul
and tits 'n' ass, about rape and true love,
and how to make yourself sell to the average
Joe Blow, who knows nothing about poetry.
Bleed no more, bleed no more, my love--
Just go in peace towards your destination,
For in this life my eyes have seen enough,
Enough of broken promises and frustrations.
Just go on without a word or thought
About what we've done when we were young,
About that pure love that we once sought--
Just go on--what has been done is done.
I will not say I loved you any less--
Whatever was one time had disappeared,
Dissolved in memories and years of loneliness,
Transforming flights of passion into tears.
And what is left? What's really left of us,
Of those moments when we loved each other?--
I should've known that your heart of glass
Was never tied to any single lover.
So go on, go on your merry way
Towards another fleeting destination--
Whatever was is gone--it's time to say
Goodbye to empty words and affectations.
Consider this, O Muse,
My heart is ill,
My seriousness has gone into the Void
That has devoured my poetic mind,
And all along my head is filled
With flies, with inessential
And trifling things--
Cigars and bottles, canned sardines and bricks,
Cheap whiskey, naughty negligee
And television,
And love is like a scalpel at my throat,
Cutting my jugular at every faint try
To recreate a vision of my darling
Gone in the sweet oblivion of alcohol...
So here I am--the Poet Laureate drunk
In front of all the everyday clichés--
I want a cigarette but I don't smoke,
And matches can't ignite my lonely heart,
I see young fellows hitting on some hussy--
She's like Snow-White
Amidst the seven horny dwarfs,
And their vacant eyes wink at the prospect
Of entering the lonely space
Between her thighs...
Consider this, O Muse,
My body's tired, my wit is gone,
I have no job, nor goal,
I look inside me and all I find is noise--
Somebody sings: "I'm a creep" inside me,
Somebody laughs: "Your girlfriend is a whore.
I slept with her one thousand times before
Without a condom, sorry...it's been real."
While from above the Economy
Is trickling into my mouth
Burning up my tongue,
And I imagine that I've gone to Heaven
Where someone shouts:
"You're a winner and well-hung!"
He's in his 40s and never married,
Never had the pleasure of
Fathering a child or having
A long-term relationship,
Living with a woman under
The same roof, maybe he's gay
Or just plain eccentric,
Not knowing how to relate
To his social world,
But I've stopped trying to live up
To what a normal guy in his 40s
Should be like, for
So many creative people were
Often loners or unhappy in love,
Expressing their sadness through
Their art -- just look at
Van Gogh or Emily Dickinson
And countless others --
So I'm not worried
What others think of my
Bachelor lifestyle,
For I enjoy my freedom
Of having to answer to nobody,
Of not being stuck in some
Marriage just because it's
Comfortable or because
Of the kids, for I've seen
Too many fatherless kids,
Too many divorces, too
Many women abused by
Their husbands, too many
Cheating partners and
Too much dishonesty,
Too many people searching
For greener pastures of
Newer relationships with
Younger or more exciting
Partners, but I don't mind
Being single, answering
To myself alone --
It is by far better than feeling
Alone with someone else,
Staying in a destructive
Relationship, pretending things
Are going well -- because
When I say I love you,
I mean that I love you,
Darling, and I do not believe
In any "soul twins", or "one light"
Or some other "divine union" --
Whatever the hell it is --
For I believe in honesty
And tenderness between
Two people, who choose to
Be together, not some polyamory
Or open marriage, or some other
Alternative lifestyles with
Different sexes --
No, I believe in us and the things
That we have in common,
For I do not seek perfection,
Only the happiness of sharing
Myself with you if you want it.
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