Starving and Useless

Arbitrareum: Of Right-Forking Trails

2009-07-23T12:37:00.000-07:00

An older man pushes laps
On his cart.
The wheels are rickety
But the sides shine of freshly polished aluminum.
The umbrella reads in red and green: “Apollo’s Pizza.”

A woman’s back is covered in earth and briars.
She crunches forward, gasping,
And smacks into a man’s face.
She coughs and sobs,
Clinging to the fabric, still at half-an-arm’s-length.
She sees the nametag sewn onto the shirt
And sputters, “Thank you, Apollo.”

A plastic bottle is crushed
Among its comrades.
Weight bears down and builds slowly.
In a few days, the pressure will release,
Only to be replaced 1,000-fold.
As of now, its label is split down
The words “Aqua” and “Apollo.”

A man arrives home
From a full day’s walking.
He stands on a mat
And closes the door behind him.
He tosses his coat to the banister.
It drapes evenly in half.
He tosses his hat at the banister.
It lands in the other room.
He grunts as he bends to untie his boots.

Starvng and Useless invades Cambridge, Ma!

2009-07-03T10:18:00.000-07:00

Starving and Useless will be hosting a reading at The Outpost in Cambridge, Ma. on Saturday July 25th at 3 P.M. Entry is free but we would appreciated donations in order to help us produce more books and to keep us on our feet. We hope to see all of you there!

Info:
Saturday July 25th.

OUTPOST 186 : 186 1/2 hampshire st. cambridge ma 02139
http://zeitgeist-outpost.org/

3 P.M

Free admission with a suggested donation.

The Tea Notes: When Skies Are Gray (Unformated)

2009-06-21T19:39:00.000-07:00

The A.A meeting next door looked especially festive this evening. The church welcomed every abuser in the area for a night of small talk and guidence at the hands of yester-users named Frank and Jack. They park their Kias, sip their iced coffees and lit one more smoke before the service begins. As I watched outside the window I couldn't help but feel like I've never been more welcome in a place of God.I had one beer and smoked a little grass, knowing perfectly well I had to drive. I managed to maintain a certain enlightened level of insobriety and for a while, I actually wore a smile. That all went out the window with a song. I won't bring up the name or the artist, it's meaningless anyway. What does matter is what it did to me. That song, so normally beautiful, provoked a complete numbness of my glee. With eyes wide opened, I dreamt of city streets, hot tubs, clothes lines, seconds before secure slumbers, Her. But that needs to end. I've concluded that chapter in my life, though much later then she. I just can't figure out how to move on. It's like your first cloudy day. How do you react when the sunshine is gone? She was my sunshine; my only sunshine.I left just as the meeting was gettng out and was approached by an older gentlemen. He commented on how he liked my guitar and smiled and seemed generally pleased with how his life was going. I smiled through it too, this time forcing my lips to curl. I couldn't even listen to what he was saying nor did I care. He got to go home to nice weather.

The Rain (Unformated)

2009-06-21T19:36:00.000-07:00

The rain before the first day of summer has an aroma unlike any jarred, bottled or jellied fragrence I have ever taken in. It's the smell of smoking pine logs, ghost town concrete, fresh sheets being shared early on in an evening. I took a mere break from the weezing of my out of date air conditioner to step outside and destroy my lungs and there it was; Waltzing gently through the neighborhood on a cape cod breeze. The porch was splattered with the translucent tears of Mother Earth, turning each two by four into a bland Pollock rip off. I trust that I was the only one who found it so beautiful. I leaned against it's rotten railing and closed my eyes as I took a deep breath through my nose. The air rolled down the back of my throat and I could taste the season, so rich and filling. It was then that my loneliness had finally caught up with me.I snubbed out my cigarette and headed in, knowng I would go right back to lying in my bed of bad memories; And I did. Summer nights of long ago replayed in my mind of when she would curl up in my arms under my drug rug, seeking warmth from the industrial strength A.C. One night in particular, she closed her eyes and clumsily spoke "I'm so comfortable in your arms". As my brain brought forth this moment I assumed I had repressed, my eyes swelled and the tears started to fall. I was suddenly paralized, unable to move neither my limbs nor my eyes as I sobbed hystericlly."Jesus Christ" I thought. "Pull it together."But it was useless. Her diamond ring fingers were still wrapped around my heart. My first instinct was to reach for the bottle and push those tears back with a firery slug of Dominican rum but I stopped myself. Tonight, there would be no use of artifical harmony to ease my natural emotion. Instead, I would simply sit, think and cry as my shakey and breathless voice would ask walls, "Why did she leave me?". What a pitiful sight; A grown man, weeping and pleading with an unresponsive memory. This is what my own, foolish heart has done to me. I doubt I will ever be in love again.So here I sit now, with moist cheekbones and terrible sight, still broken hearted, snug under my blankets, wishing some girl was here, drinking my rocks glass of rum.....forever being romantic.

Of Hip Hop and Country (For Victoria)

2009-04-25T07:04:00.000-07:00

She was beautiful and quiet
as we drove through a tangerine midnight.
"If only the rear view stares
were for me" I thought."instead of those speeding
pick up trucks with out of state plates."
I shut the blinds of my eyes
and I pictured an evening;
Red white with a cheap name,
pink roses with a kind fragrance,
warm sheets to hold us both
while we hold each other.
Watching the tall and short candles
flicker inside the iris as our lips meet.
It would be perfect.
Perfect to fall into dreams
with her
after kisses on the nose
and laughs at absurdity.
It's difficult to explain,
especially when I try to say her name
and my stomach becomes a womb
for butterflies
and my heart works overtime.I
t seems so recent
that her smile could lift me
but I can't lie to myself
or to anyone
when I say I float
when she walks into a room.
And then it got colder in the backseat
knowing the breakfast sun
would come into my bed
and only wake me.
It would be another day
of meaningless work
and fucking up
because she's all you can focus on.
She looked in the mirror again
and for a second,
I think those precious eyes
finally saw me.

Honey Chords

2009-04-25T07:01:00.000-07:00

Honey chords
from sticky voices
dripping in my ears.
The words are hand picked;
Very particular and churned.
Sweet and savory
with humorous accents.
Once inside,
each molecule of sound
begins to paint
animationsscenes of beautiful women with egg yoke
or goose feather hair.
They might even sketch tomorrow.
Where will I be?
Oh.
There.
Air?
Please don't stop kissing me
with your incense mask.
It's more about the noise
then the feeling.
Repeat.
Repeat:
"Then the feeling."
It's more about the noise
with your incense mask.
Please don't stop kissing me.
Air?
There.
Oh.
Where will I be?
They might even sketch tomorrow
hair
or goose feather.Scenes of beautiful women with egg yoke
animations
begin to paint
each molecule of sound.
Once inside,
with humorous acents,
sweet and savory,
very particular and churned,
the words are hand picked.
Dripping in my ears,
from sticky voices:
Honey chords.

New Unfinished/Untitled Poem

2009-04-25T07:00:00.000-07:00

When I find myself in Jesus' bloodline,my eyes glow
brilliantly.I have become the Sun
that breaks clouds,
warms pools,
burns, burns,burns!
There are sensations
of marshmellow fluff
and strawberry skies.
Jam slides
that breathe
when you go down
through the heavily settled thick
rich with pinecone stink!...

In utero coma begins.
Mother's milk symphonies
muffled by atmosphere casing.
Streams that applause
in blessedness.
Peach galaxies
with fuzz.
Immaculate comfort.

Books!

2009-04-04T11:45:00.000-07:00

Starving and Useless Presents: Toxic Inpublication Vol. I is now available. They're 40 pages of poetry from Me and Todd. We're selling them for 5 bucks. If you live a distance from either of us, we can mail them to you, but we have to charge you the s&h, unfortunately.

Naturally, the money is going to future books. So spread the word on these ones, because the more we sell, the more books we can put out, including your work, if you want.

been a while......years actually.

2009-03-04T19:18:00.000-08:00

Sweetest Martina, wont you let me pay the tab?
Wild rose of the county Claire, Take my last Jackson for a cab.
and if we never meet again, for an hour you meant everything.
So go see the world but please remember me when you get back.

seemingly endless, anticipation.
will i hear that angelic voice again?
Chalk it up to Irish luck. He will never get that girl, in the end
and mother said, "Those Irish girls will only break your heart."

Oh my darling watering hole, please keep that pint glass full.
For i got nothing but time and patience, waiting for my Martina to show
and even those mother said "Those Irish girls will only break your heart"
Its hard to sleep with out my Martina by my side
So goes another 6 months waiting sleep deprived.

---------------

When the death man comes, in the cold dark night.
I'll make sure he knows, We dont like his kind.
If he gets to you, I'll be by your side.
I'll hold your hand to the otherside
and when heaven's gate opens up so wide
and the trumpets blare, we gotta make it inside
and im not a man with concrete beliefs but
i aint done that much wrong
i aint killed nobody

singing so it goes my soul cries freedom
so it goes my soul cries freedom

when the sky falls down we stand our ground, we aint scared
when the horsemen ride, when they're in sight, we just stare
cause their aint no use in fighting
if we aint got the time left
aint no one wrong or right
in heaven

PBR (unfinished)

2009-02-18T22:28:00.000-08:00

Bless those who can dance
in the face of tomorrow.
Bless the hearts that yern for arms..
Bless the lightless streets
with loud foot steps.
Bless the empty cans
that yawn.
Bless the TV
and its lulliby static.
Bless the ones
who do not respond.
Bless the bedsheets
that know no flesh.
Bless all of our
boring walls.
Bless the curtains
that hide our secrets.
Bless our voices
that whisper truth.
Bless the hair
that grows on chins.
Bless each child
that never knows love.
Bless the playgrounds
where history repeats.
Bless the class rooms
where games are played.
Bless the blackboard
that speaks to the deaf.
Bless the text books
that lie updated.
Bless a woman
whose lips leave stains.
Bless the changing rooms
full of uncertainty.
Bless the jeweler
that holds together marriages.
Bless the diamond rings
blood was shed for.
Bless myself
for being a fool.
Bless myself for believing in good.
Bless myself for hurting myself.
Bless you for the spring.

Dont forget.

2009-01-29T13:23:00.000-08:00

I remember young love.

late nights

short sentences

passed back and forth like name calling

and double takes from across the room

I remember tough shit

no heat

yes ma'am

bed without dinner

if you were lucky enough

to have one, or another, or both.

I remember feeling young

drinking too much

caring too little

about anything anyone said

and "fuck you" if they looked your way

now what is there?

a quick fuck

with just friends

a full stomach

payed for with plastic

permanent academic mental fucking vacation

a brain massage just to get the juices flowing!?

and i still live

with new love

in tough shit

with no dinner

and i drink too much

and i care too little

and i envy no one

It dies at dawn

2009-01-28T19:03:00.000-08:00

There is a portrait
breathing inside my mind.

I'm thinking of you.

Your eyes like emeralds.
Your hair like silk.
Your lips like orchids.

You whispered like a saint
"I bring good luck".
and just as softly,
we kissed.

You are utopian
in touch
in beauty
in words
in voice.

Hathor
come to life
twenty two years ago.

Two glasses of wine.
Two people.
Two hearts.
One feeling.

You need no work.
You are you.

I fell for one of God's creations
in a smokey bedroom
at Midnight.

Eyes like Death (unfinished)

2009-01-28T19:01:00.000-08:00

I fill up on toxins
and expel waste.
I am an American disease.
I've got holy lungs
and headaches
and my own elixer
to keep doctors away.
I speak in coughs
and hacks
and I shake hands
with palms that should be disinfected.
My throat is paved with tar.
My cavavities are stuffed with nicotine.
My fingers are yellow and weak.I
'm the proud owner of a burning heart,
a wrinkled liver
and back pain.
I run a pharmacy for myself
out of my bed room
and medicine cabinet.
A bartender
of red and green syurps.
Wrong turn relationships
hand me prescriptions
for mile long cigarettes,
one after another.
I'm a failure at sleep
and a champion of being over tired.
I am an American disease
with eyes like Death.

2009-01-19T17:38:00.000-08:00

Any feedback on my writing, positive or otherwise would be greatly appreciated.

Family Tree

2009-01-19T17:15:00.001-08:00

i squint through the cracks of my awkwardly bent glasses

mangeled from a run in with a man named jack, or was it jim?

maybe jose, johnny. a common name like that.

If you have met this ghost before you know who i mean.

the dark figure at the end of the bar

that stares you in the eyes and then slowly creeps up behind you to empty your wallet

and rob you blind of your senses.

usually i can avoid him for a few days,

a week maybe

but lately he has been coming around more often.

breathing warm air, this time

down my neck. reeking of broken promises

and winstons, and breathmints

in one ear and out the other.

and straight to my head.

Buffalo Bill's bargain outlet.

2009-01-16T18:00:00.000-08:00

Ed gein should have worked in retail. he was really quite a tailor.

He could move out of his farmhouse and buy a yacht,

drink out of coconuts , not human skulls.

why make suits out of women when you can make suits for women?

Maybe his mother didnt love him.

Riddle (a haiku)

2009-01-16T17:44:00.000-08:00

Hoffa had it right

even the dogs cant find him

wish i had his luck

Deja Vu

2009-01-16T17:42:00.001-08:00

1 (The Flat)

i woke up at the crack of noon,
and poured some sludge from my chipped coffee pot..
i turned on the frosted 60 watt sun that lit my cell and listened to a cockroach tango
move gracefully along the floor.. It was hotter than a methlab in hells kitchen.
"I wish i had a window to open"
i thought to myself. I put my dreams of airborne escape on the back burner,
and tried to cook up a way to get out of that fucking place.

2 ( The hallway)

After a hearty breakfast of chinese take out leftovers, i pulled on two dirty
mismatched socks ,a pair of shoes i ripped off from the funeral home, and my ratty peacoat,
i stumbled half drunk out my front door. the loyal dog piss stain was there again as if
to say
good morning master. I always wanted a pet...closest i ever got was a box of "chicken"chow
main
from chang's.
as i walked down the hall, the sound of someones screaming misguided abortion wails
for food... i ate everything i had., so i kept walking.

3 ( The Elevator)

Once again the stairs are out of order, neighbors say its a crime scene or somthin'.
none of my buisness,as long as it doesnt leak under my door.
so i forgot my mornining excersise and take the elevator.it reeks of piss and shit and is
littered with taco bell wrappers and half eaten double cheeseburgers.
I pick one up and shove it into my pocket. that should last me through the week,
as long as that damn baby doesnt get it.
fucker.

4 ( The Street )

I walked out the revolving door of the complex on 6th street and thought
" cant get much closer to hell than this" it was 17 blocks to the train station but
the walk to the bar was a short as a schoolgirls skirt, and twice as easy to find,
especially in this part of town.they were mostly drop outs now and
the lesson plan was a bit different. Down the street a dear john throws a jane doe
against a wall.he screames at her with the back of his
hand leaving her payment across her lipstick smudged face.
that was his plan all along. "i hope she learned her lesson" he whispered.

5 (The Pub)

It was quarter past 2 when i arrived at Phil's for my liquid lunch.
The air was stail like the bar mix. pretty busy for a monday afternoon
i remember thinking. So i sat down next to no one, one away from everyone else,
on the far side of the bar,

and counted my quarters. the man next to me talk to a waitres about his missing dog
"what can i get with this?" i asked the bartender.
To that she replied "I have a half eaten double cheeseburger,and you have just
enough for that" I sheepishly took it and slid out of my seat. "keep the change"
i said politely. i left quietly with my other half.

6 (The Lobby)

when i arived back at chateau Alighieri i was awestruck by what i was witnessing.
The lobby was paited like one of Pollock's ,in shades of anger and wrath,and wrapped
tediously in yellow tape like a late birthday present. I took the stairs. the sound of a
screaming child mis-carried through the halls like a church organ. I stopped and said a
prayer
and took a bite of my cheeseburger. i was whole. i slowly stumbled through a field of
blooming
waste towards my doorway. i walk inside and shut the door tight behind me.
i slide the lock. i turn the key.i flip the switch and the florescent light dances
above my head.
a perfect spotlight for a cockroach tango.

The Last Slam (with Todd's permission)

2009-01-07T10:07:00.000-08:00

"I will use my pokeball
to try and catch 'em all"
the kid, I guess, seventeen--
I couldn't see too well from the back row--
recited at the podium.
About two minutes into his reading,
I burst out laughing.
"This kid's hysterical,"
I whispered to Todd, sitting next to me.
"It's so ridiculous, so ironic.
I mean, who presents
rhyming couplets about pokemon
as serious poetry?
It's fucking genius."
People looked back at me,
annoyed, even insulted.
I figured they were stuck up, stuffy.
They just didn't realize:
poetry can be funny.
I nudged Todd,
showing him that it's alright to laugh.
But even he tried to ignore me.
He thinks poetry is all cigarette smoking
and serious tones.
I leaned forward,
ready for the next rhyming punch line,
when I noticed that there was something odd
about the kid's face.
He continued reading,
"Articuno, Charizard and Pikachu
are waiting to go on an adventure with you."
Then I realized that it was his eyes that were off:
they were heavy set
and his forehead sagged down over them.
I whispered to Todd,
"Is something wrong with that guy?
His face is all screwy."
Todd snapped back,
"Yeah, that's because he's retarded."

Adios, Corozon

2008-12-25T09:27:00.000-08:00

For Diana

I'm flying through these pages
like those three years passed
and there weren't enough years
just like there aren't enough pages
to truly let you know how much I love you.
My bed remains a remorseful reminder
of why not to be so cruel
in the torments of love.
You will never lie here with me again,
will you?
And T.V shows we used to watch
will pull tears like teeth.
God damn it,
I can't escape your smile
and laugh.
Why can't your arms hold me again, Diana?
Even just for one night.
We could stare into each other's eyes
and not speak a word.
I just need you.
There are no quarrels about it.
You were my only warm nights;
my beautiful days
where even the grumble of garbage trucks
sounded like an old love song
crackling on vinyl.
Is that music to the ears
of the boy that now glows?
Will he put your future
ahead of his own?
Will he kneel down
and give you his all?
I've been praying ever night he does
because that's what you deserve
and that's what I should have done
and trust me I tried.
Every rose I gave you
was my silent promise
to keep a vacancy in my heart
for Poland
and white Zinfandel
and your blue eyes.
Oh, why can't you believe me?
I've cried enough tears these past few days
to fill the voids I left in your soul
and every sea that was occupied
by men searching for it's treasures.
Pearls and diamonds
that napped upon your neck, fingers and wrists.
Working two weeks for a check
and a reason to make you light up
as bright as the stars on our first New Year's Eve.
When the ball drops this year over Times Square,
so will my heart
as the pictures develop in my mind
of your lips softly putting pressure on his,
showering in confetti
high on champagne
while everyone around you says
"That is what romance is."
Well I'll be making love
to the cigarettes you hate
on a bed of concrete
more alone than I've ever been,
pulling my thrift shop jacket tighter
thinking of the cold winter nights
I'd bundle you up before you went outside,
laughing at how many layers you were sporting.
Your tequila hair
bunched up in my winter cap.
I'm looking out my window
and starting to despise the snow.
I've lost all interest
in hot chocolate and heating pads
yet they both stand guard near my bed post
and I doubt I'll touch either of them
not without you.
Here I go again,
cleaning up the room
like you're going to walk in and surprise me.
There are only ghosts and angels
waiting to tuck me in
when I'm tuckered out
from crying.
They can smell the left over tea leaves;
Mostly green
on my breath.
You got me hooked, you know.
Nice and hot
with a lot of honey.
Peppermint for tummy aches
and long days.
I've been having a few of those lately.
Long days, that is.
After pass out dreams
where you pop in,
kiss me
and I melt into my mattress and sheets
and then the sun starts peeping
through my filthy blinds
and the water turns on
all over your favorite pillow.
Yeah,
I lay my head on that one often
on your side of my world.
Where the dawn breaks
like
well, I think you know where I was going.
Right?
You always knew what I was thinking
and how I felt.
Do you now?
Maybe I should explain.
I'm thinking
about why I can't stop thinking
about you
and I feel like you forgot me
or are trying to.
Please don't.
I could never forget
Booj Booj,
belly grabs
Eskimo kisses,
all of our kisses.
It was all too magnificent.
Like gondolas in Providence,
long walks in Boston,
burning comets over tall trees in Foxboro.

Tomorrow will hold another carousel of emotions
but what else is there to say?
You are the only girl
I've ever truly loved.

I'm Back! (For a few minutes anyway)

2008-05-14T11:35:00.000-07:00

Hey people. Toad here. I lost my computer and now I have to scramble for a few minutes on one at school or else where. I hope everyone keeps writing and soon enough I'll be back on this thing!

Toad

The Ox and the Pig

2008-03-10T10:29:00.000-07:00

The ox and the pig had business in New
York. They were both meant
To be in the Lower East Side. The ox moved
Into an ancient tenement
With plans of writing a tell all
Memoir. He bought an ink block set
In China Town and used his tail as
A brush. The pig went to confer with the Rabbinical Congress.
I’m flattered, he said, we all are. But why
Us? Don’t you see how much pressure this is? Don’t you hear
Our wailing? Honestly, I want to die.
I’ve been alive for thousands of years.
I’m not the only one who feels this way.
The ox has since fled upstate.

The Roommate

2008-03-09T12:44:00.000-07:00

Joe lives under my bed.
He mumbles terribly.
I thought he was a ghost for years—
Always wailing and squawking.
He starts in around eleven
And goes for an hour and a half.
Sometimes he’ll do an encore.
I don’t sleep well.
Occasionally, he’ll just talk.
Typically, outdated, British politics.
Something about the Queen,
Take to the streets this and that.
All sorts of righteous vagaries.
But he’s so passionate
That I want to get involved.
I don’t sleep at all those nights.
I write Marxist pamphlets
On antique typewriters
And cut the sleeves off everything I own.
He preaches about the entrapments
Of money and the great corporate scheme.
I’ve called in sick to a lot of jobs.
I think he wants me to be poor.
What would he do if I lost my house?
Would he hang around for new tenants?
I like to think that we have a great rapport,
Although one sided.
I can’t imagine that anyone
Else would put up with him.
Especially if he just keeps lying
Where my bed was.
That must be awkward for the realtors.
Not a chance they could move him.
He’d eat a subpoena.
I’ve heard him eating worse.
I doubt they could move him by force.
He seems like the type who only goes when he’s ready.
Maybe he wants to move,
Try out a new floor, something carpeted,
But wants me to lead the way.
He comes off as kind of out there—
Lost in his own thoughts.
But I wouldn’t put a plan like this past him.
Maybe he’s screwing with me.
I’ve woken up to plenty of new haircuts:
Pompadours, too-wide mohawks, respectable trims.
I can’t say that he doesn’t have a sense of humor.
I hear him giggling down there plenty.
He smokes a lot of grass.
It’s not that bad, though.
I just light up a cigarette and crack a window.
At least he doesn’t leave
Corn chips and bongs all over.
Maybe Joe just likes to talk.

Arbitrareum

2008-03-04T14:55:00.000-08:00

A batch of birches hover in a row,
Or not.
Why not? They do,
Quite elegantly, in fact.
They each have at least five hundred
Years of ballet
And the one farthest down
Just started gymnastics.
He loves the high beam.
There’s something almost erotic in being
So perfectly, symbolically perpendicular.
It’s like being rerooted
And slipping your mossy tendrils
Inside the Earth so snuggly
That you wonder
If it was made just for you.
Man, does that take him back.
The boss says that he’s too big
For the ground now.
The tree doesn’t feel too big
But he doesn’t want to make a fuss.
He’s sure they need the room
For some new saplings.
A group of teens comes up
To the tree and all blow at the same time.
The tree tips a little.
They come about once a week.
They’re sure going to prove something
One of these days

Thoughts on Phil Ochs

2008-02-25T18:50:00.000-08:00

I wish I could have known the man

Not too many liked him then,
Not too many know him now.
Not too many cared enough to hear what he had to say.
But I hear him now.
I hear him now.

ATTENTION

2008-02-24T11:11:00.000-08:00

I've been talking with the missing Toadie and we've got some ideas. We want to publish a short collection of the poetry of Starving and Useless and have the authors do a reading. Hopefully I'll hear back from him in a day or two about the cost of publishing and I can let you know how much it will be to get your work in it. The plan is that once we have a published journal, we will organize a reading (we figure that that would be the best way to get people to actually buy them). We are talking about doing it in the Attleboro area, or maybe Providence, but nothing is set in stone. I think this can be pulled off at minimal expense. But, more crucial than the cost, we need to people who want to be published and to read. Reply to this if you want to take part in this or have any ideas.

-FP

A Sonnet

2008-02-21T07:48:00.000-08:00

As the moon shines across your face,
I realize that we really won't live forever,
And as there is nothing but this place,
Fear, like love, is also an endeavour,
The fear of losing you because too much,
Too much to drink, too many bottles of wine,
Fear of using you and not it as a crutch,
Fear of pushing too hard or crossing the line,
Or, perhaps I worry that I will pull you in,
Maybe I don't want you to be as I am,
For you are Catholic, and confess when you sin,
I failed at that, and tried again and again,
And watching you sleep, I pour another glass,
And smile because I know soon this will pass.

I Eat Francis Bacon for Breakfast

2008-02-14T10:19:00.001-08:00

My father says
That all arts are understood in terms of oratory:
Pick and cater!
Clarity!
I’ve been chastised
For not taking a class in sitcom writing.
I listen to Klaus
And don’t know to laugh or cry.
A speech will not defeat speech.
Only direct!
Only straight!
Emily is crying.
My father has hurt a woman.
He belongs in metaphorical prison
With the ghost of a story
Told under the lamppost of July
And the walking past to an electronics window.
I’ve read a book on Charles Bronson.
Did you know his real name is Buchinsky?
Still, I can’t read prime time
And there’s no point in typing my mouth shut.
Robocop is Burroughs.
It’s all come full circle.

Doves

2008-02-11T14:05:00.000-08:00

And all you said was,

'there is a time and

a place to grow up.'

But maybe I did not

want to, maybe if I

acted my age, then life

would become too serious.

I knew how to masquerade, and

play the part of the full-fledged,

but I wasn't ready to

take off my mask of

youth. Perhaps I had to

leave my puerile days too

soon, and this was my

way of not letting go.

Because once it slipped out

of my fingers, that's it,

there would be no going

back. No more ditching plans,

and staying out for days,

no more packs upon packs

of cigarettes just because of

boredom, or lack of better

things to do. That's it,

no more midnight bike rides,

or drinking until dawn in

the park. I could see

all my glorious wasted days,

falling away. Now, it's strange.

Part of me wants to

follow in my father's footsteps,

part of me wants to

be a man like he

is; give everything I can,

and raise my own children,

and be as loving and

selfless to my wife as

he is to my mother.

Part of me wants to

get up when it's still

dark to put food on

the table, and live a

quiet existence, up in the

hills of Maine or Vermont,

with my pen and paper,

stove and axe, while the

other part of me wants

to leave my mark of

existence on society, by doing

nothing, and doing it well.

Part of me wants to

stay in bed, tangled in

the sheets, skin to skin,

all day long; champagne and parliaments,

no responsibilities but to love,

and to be loved. An

existence that says 'I did

what I did.' Maybe those

days will never be quite

over, they will be like

a bird on a wire,

balancing when the wind blows.

The Recipe for Fun

2008-02-09T09:38:00.000-08:00

The Racist Space Helmet
is just for show,
in the typical sense.
No guarantee over
cosmic vibrations
and vigilante rays.
It is intended
for the soft, the squishy,
that unrisen dough.
Consider a cookie mold:
a christmas tree
or star, only bigger
and without the violence
of an oven. Perhaps a self-
rising agent is more appropriate—
a hard plastic baking soda—
or ceviche—cold and slow.
Though, anything with cilantro
is a poor example.
No, it must be sweet, for, you see,
toys are always palatable.

1641

2008-01-31T07:55:00.000-08:00

I remember, in the middle
of winter, around January, a
few seasons ago, which have
all blended together since, right
around the setting of the
sun, before five pm. How
depressing it was, usually. The
shadows of the sun settling
behind the hills, behind the
ocean, like a hand over
my eyes from my mother
when I was a child.
But I was on the
train, from the north of
the city, coming home to
see you. My face had
changed much since the last
time I saw you. My
eyes grew dark around, and
my hands had grown a
bit more shaky, perhaps I
had used the whiskey as
a crutch. Train 1641, passing
the time of the ride,
which seemed to drag on
and on, by reading Billy
Collins, and with my last
sip, I knew soon enough
we would be touching again.

The Fair

2008-01-22T22:32:00.000-08:00

A curator scolded me for stepping out of queue.
But it was hard to focus with such a long line
of dreadful projects and a mammoth, dark smudge, radiating
from the other side of what used to be a warehouse.
Nothing about a theory on economic stability
through a currency based on the speed of light
grabbed me, nor any of the countless other drudgeries.
I floated about until I came to that colossus in the distance.
An infalsifiablity bell—and an impressive one at that—all big and brass.
Poster board would have done the same work
(but then, where’s the finesse) to show the argument
of a bizarre looking deer that is extinct and was always rare.
Maybe it was just how innocent the creature looked,
but it took me back to when I was a child
and, right down the street from there,
paid a man to play Emperor and dance like a Hare Krishna.

Improvisation Over Miles Davis and the Red Headed Girl

2008-01-20T22:13:00.000-08:00

It's late. It's gotten late. Sunday nights are the blandest, always have been. Somehow when you have music on, it's not so bad. Just keeps the wheel turning. Like a bike upside down and you're just there easing one of the pedals.

If phone calls made sense, then I would use a phone more often. Yet phones drown people. I damn near drown every time. Can't help it. No life preserver, no blow-up vest. No boat coming to help me out. I don't like telephones anymore. Maybe phone calls are like poorly executed bits of syncopation. Just too much. Too much. Makes a bad racket.

It's funny thinking of this chick. No clue how it'll work out. Where's the relation? Who knows. But I keep at it. I'm easing the pedal on that bike I turned upside down.

I always liked turning a bike upside down and turning the pedal. Makes me feel like I'm cranking an old movie camera from the twenties. Sixteen frames a second. Gotta keep a beat to get that steady sixteen. Just ease the crank.

Johnny Prozac Goes to a Show

2008-01-17T16:35:00.000-08:00

Johnny Prozac is an overexposed
roll of French cinema ennui stereotype.
His hometown is full of stoners.
Guess they’re bored too.
They should’ve been taught
moderation in health class.

Johnny Prozac goes to a show,
finest leather on sleeveless.
No ear plugs because
he’s just a fan. Between sets, the background beats
blast loud enough to be their own band.
Chicky next to him bitches to the bouncer
about the new smoking ban,
like he was grounded for not cleaning his room.

Johnny Prozac goes to a lot of shows
so he don’t hear too good no more.
He has to crank headphones to find
lost secrecies in low frequencies.
Maybe he’ll go skiing next weekend.

I would really appreciate some feedback and criticism on this one, if anyone cares to.

Another Sonnet

2008-01-11T14:24:00.000-08:00

Another anyday
Of basements and gilded smoke.
I’m part of the stay
Through constant come and go,
Like selective slow motion
Or the island between traffic—
A visual feedback commotion;
I suppose the word is “hectic.”
Longing for distance
From a city block of cement chimneys.
The pearly remains of pilfers clog each stack.
I imagine that some face up and others, down.
But skeletons have been known to dance
And a certain house tells me, “You’re going to be a great father someday.”

(I'm also back)

we live life

2008-01-08T16:24:00.000-08:00

so i haven't written or tried to write in probably a month. partially because i never had my own computer, until now! I apologize for the inconsistencies.

we live life like we're gonna die.
the next time we close our eyes.
a sense of urgency, resins in the night.
and every bottle is our last drink.
we imbibe until we can't feel,
the phantom feeling of pending loss we share within.
shaking scared so silently
so much tension surrounding me
this bubble we've made is ready to break
caused reaction of fear and fate
it comes down to heart, it comes down to pride.
and whether or not you like what you feel inside.
so tonight, ill take this ride
to try and walk alone on the other side
and problems will surely follow
as sure as the sun will rise
a soldier of Emerson and Thoreau
in self reliance ill survive.

The Space Between The Streets And Dreaming

2008-01-02T14:38:00.000-08:00

it's 2:00 am,
and you're waiting outside the window.
your breath fogs the glass,
you write "let me in."
so i let you in.
it's 2:04 am,
i stop breathing,
close the curtain,
keep the night from getting in.
so hold your breath love,
it's all we have.
so don't open the shades.
when all the bars are closed,
the city seems so dead,
please don't wake the beast.
these words are for you,
kissed with elegance,
and thrown inside the fire of my house.
this match is for you,
laced with eloquence,
and thrown inside the fire of my house.

The Ice On The River

2008-01-02T14:31:00.000-08:00

i'll stand.
i'll stand deep in your heart.
your tongue moves as words are said.
your words.
words i've come to anticipate,
come to love.
i've saved you a place in my mind.
i'd give it up to fit you in.
a privilege, so let's begin.
please dance this dance with me.
you can lead.
it's the only one we know.
we're dancing on ice.
the river is my heart.
frozen for so long.
i need your hands against my chest.
you've broken the ice.
you've conquered the cold.
you move me in a way
i have never moved before.
swim in my veins.
turn me.
move me.
love me.
you've broken the ice.
you've saved me from myself,
and winter.
take me.
we're going under.
you are the air in my lungs.
me, with you in my heart.
me, with you in my lungs.
me, with you in my veins,
in your arms,
they keep me warm.
we're going under.

Seven

2008-01-02T14:23:00.000-08:00

when she walked out,
i waltzed around the place where it ended,
and it should have been sooner,
and different than it was.
but she walked out,
and walked out well.
so i was left there grinning,
and spinning on the wood floor,
at my mother's place.
forward.
right.
back.
left.
we learn from our mistakes,
to never make them again.
i know what love isn't.
we move on when things are wrong,
to something we didn't expect,
and find shelter in it.
four years have passed,
two have been perfect.
one golden ring,
and i know what love is.
when she walked out,
i waltzed around the place where it ended.
and i don't dance alone,
i dance around the living room,
of our new apartment,
on the corner of main street,
and i am dancing now with you.

waiting

2007-12-12T07:46:00.001-08:00

when has my coffee ever been so cold.
december .where has it been .i'm waiting.

Epic Tales # 2

2007-12-11T22:26:00.000-08:00

"Welcome to Dewclaw. Here, you will find guns, ammunition, drugs and easy women."

Yes, it was a wild place. You really should have seen it. It was a speck of shit on a toilet paper map. It's streets were home to many a scavenger in search of easy work. One corner, known as Easy Street, was where the pimps sold their product. Fine women draped in silk and gold were handed out like candy canes on Christmas. Easy Street was no stranger to married businessmen who peddled lust. A hotel near by was where these patrons held their court. From what I hear, the rooms were gorgeous.

The next corner was just as sleazy. A tall man in a burgundy sport coat dealt hands of cold pleasure for just under $60. The concrete bench where transactions were executed was the closest thing to a five star restaurant you could find in that general area. It was complete with candles, spoons and all sorts of exquisite desserts. Although these dishes were often wonderfully proportioned, sometimes a little over eating could cause sickness. Saint Ann's across the street was the perfect after dinner mint.

In an alley, not to far from there, sat God. He was more beautiful then anyone could have imagined. He was often crying and would brandish a gun on any mother fucker that tried to get in his way. The pearly gates of his stacked soda crate heaven were visited by many in search for redemption in one way or another. Every disciple received an aluminum cross, courtesy of the good people at Coca Cola. He could only laugh when they thought they would be saved.

And last, but not least, was the kindergarten.

WiiR

2007-12-11T22:18:00.000-08:00

We are starving.
We are useless.
We are what society threw away.
We are poor.
We are struggling.
We are trying to make something
out of nothing.
We are tired.
We are scared.
We are in need of a future.
We are this.
We are that.
We are the anti celebrities.
We are refused.
We are denied.
We are everything you hate.
We are religious.
We are faithful.
We are praying.

The Great Wall of Relapse

2007-12-11T21:00:00.000-08:00

Every time I find the path, it leads me to a wall.

Marijuana, Buddhism, Booze, Taoism, Psychology, freedom, love, pills, mind, blood, happiness, age, wisdom, cough syrup, faith, and teen-aged girls cloud my path.

I can find an argument to love, or hate, all the above. And so can all of you. If you can't, then I ask this simple question.

Are you human?

why

2007-12-11T06:30:00.000-08:00

is no one posting and/or commenting, critiqueing, giving input?

Cocaine

2007-12-10T20:11:00.000-08:00

i pulled into the station just after four a.m.
after a night of lights and cocaine.
so i lit another cigarette,
take it in and let it out again,
only to watch my world fly by,
from state line to state line.

the starting out of daylight,
on a one lane highway.
with nothing but mountains
in the rear view,
and a picture of you on the dash.

and me,
my problem is i'm always right.
i argue for the sake of argument.
i argue it's raining when it's not,
i argue for the sake of argument.
i disagree to make things harder.
and when you give in,
i push a little more.
i argue for the sake of being right,
but i'm not.

and up ahead now out on sixteen,
it's just about six a.m.
stop at the all-night diner,
and flick away the ash.
just like i do,
with everything else.

and i know there's more to life than this.
but i just haven't found it yet.
so welcome to,
"bievennue."
my hearts still on 5th avenue.
the postcard stated clearly in words,
"you do what you want. i don't want to get hurt."
it's where you are,
you do what you want.

Horses

2007-12-10T20:00:00.000-08:00

since you've been away,
i haven't done much of anything,
i haven't done much of the things that we did.
i haven't slept much,
and i still haven't been able to breathe.
since you've been away,
the cabin is now overgrown.
the wildflowers cover the yard,
and i've been taken over by wisteria.
was it everything you thought it'd be?
was it everything you dreamed about?
was it everything you thought it'd be?
when they came for you,
heaven sent horses.
heaven sent horses.

Grasping

2007-12-10T17:34:00.000-08:00

when i was born,
i was supposed to die.
late.
sick.
and grasping on to life.
but i was sinless.
when i was a youth,
i was supposed to die.
cold.
lost.
and grasping to a ledge.
but i was sinless.
now i was a man,
i was supposed to die.
cold.
fucked.
and speeding to my death.
but i am full of sin.
now that i have something to live for,
why would i want to throw it away?

reasons without reasons

2007-12-07T14:54:00.000-08:00

Every second of eternity is planned out with the cautious hands of an unknown host, pulling at the levers which command STOP! GO! YES! NO! - every atom aligned with precision holding hands in formation of something even greater than itself, much without it's knowledge- a clueless participant, just like me and you.

Without any definite reason I was drawn to your presence and by the time I was near enough to feel your warmth and oxygen was exhaled time froze my heart. This moment, solitary in itself has already been laid in stone. And with this knowledge, I bowed down graciously.

For you have a purpose in my life, and I to you. No doctor, scientist, or researcher will be able to crunch numbers or write down those 26 polyphonic symbols to predict the course of this engagement; neither through equation nor guess. It just is as what it was designed to be - and what becomes of it is a blueprint for something beautiful.

CONGRATS FRANKY!

2007-12-06T21:49:00.000-08:00

Our very own Franky Prozac has been nominated for the Glascock Poetry Prize! For those of you who don't know what that is, 6 students from students all across the country are nominated and Franky is one of em! Fuck yeah Franky, stick it to the man!

Could really use some advice

2007-12-06T21:41:00.000-08:00

I've been nominated as a candidate for the Glascock Poetry Prize. I need to choose 3 or 4 of my best poems to submit for the contest. Please let me know which, if any, of the poems I've posted on here I should choose. I'd really appreciate the help.

-Franky Prozac

In response

2007-12-06T19:30:00.000-08:00

Let me begin by saying that Don's post was fantastic and deserves response from all. Please take some time and do so!

And now for something completely unoringal....

It seems today that the people in our society that we deem "important" are one of the following:

1. Extremely wealthy middle aged persons heavily armed with college degrees and a lack of intrest when it comes to the opinions of the youth of America.
2. Hollywood's ellite, who also are wealthy, but 95 percent of them are without college degree or knowledge of anything going on in this world (Ex: Paris "Tupperware" Hilton)

Now begins my rant/response on the youth of today.

Newspapers, magazines, Television news: These media outlets are run by older people, who have earned their right to be there (in some cases). College degrees are a must in persuing a career in one of these professions. Or is it? With today's advancements in technology it has grown easier and easier for teenagers and twenty somethings to voice their opinions of the world without a degree or any real formal training. While this is fantastic news for us, we are left to wonder: Who is going to trust us? Who will be listening? In my case, I just want a voice in the world. I don't believe you need a degree to be a great writer or to let the world know how you feel.

Paris Hilton gets a chance to travel the world, meet people who are struggling, and donate her billions for a cause. Fantastic! But does she have any idea what the hell she is doing this for? Does she really care? Probably not, it just makes her look good. While this is going on, kids all across this country are doing everything they can to help out those in need, whether they are throwing charity shows, running food/clothing drives, or simply speaking out and they don't get that chance. Why? Because this country does not trust or believe in it's youth. Sadly, kids today can go to war and die for the country, but without a degree, you are deemed useless. Regaurdless of your natural talents. We are left with little choice; College to "make something of ourselves" or join the military.

What is my point? My point is that the youth of today are NOT idiots, despite what some of our elders tell us. They need to be given a chance to make a difference in the world. We, as Americans (well some of us), put our trust into the hands of celebrities and the wealthy and "knowledgeable" to make a change, but what about the average boy or girl, man or woman? They are doing their part all over the country and are overlooked by everyone, while Brad Pitt is on every magazine in the country because he adopted a kid. Way to go Brangellina.

So to everyone reading, LET YOUR VOICE BE HEARD. That is why I started this blog. Writing groups and newspapers and everyone else in this god damn place ignores the talent of the underground. We are all here to give them one great big giant FUCK YOU. A piece of paper that says "Hey look! I took a writing class!" doesn't make you a writer. Whats inside you makes you a writer. Same with anything else. If you don't take a stand and do something about it, no one else is going to help you. Start a blog, hand out typed up thoughts on flyers around your town. Refuse to be ignored.

Well thats what I got out of Don's post. My two cents have been given.

Action Vs. Reaction

2007-12-06T18:55:00.000-08:00

There are those who would have us think that the time to act is now. There are those who would have us pause to reflect upon the implications of our actions, causing us to second guess everything. What do we do? What does my gut tell me? I think too much, I do nothing. I act first and accept the consequences of those actions.

What is all this about? I sit here from time to time and I read the news on the internet and carefully invest my belief in what I deem to be an adequate balance of what seems credible and what my instincts tell me. I recently heard a conversation where someone commented on how the newspaper was a dying art and that when people read it, they got their information from one or few sources, thereby creating a unified consciousness on what was happening in the world. To me, the benefit of having alternative sources of media online is that your finger is on the pulse of what people really think. There is two way communication. The lines between Left and Right begin to blur when we learn that the average Joe isn't so typically dumbed down as to digest and regurgitate what is spoonfed from only one or two points of view who happen to be pulling the strings on what we think we know to be true.

"One more run-on sentence and I'm bailing," you say. I don't blame you, but please bear with me. There is a point. Many feel that we are so disconnected through our technology and gadgets. We isolate ourselves from personal interaction through the use of e-mail, IM, and online forums. This may be true to an extent. Personally, I prefer eye contact over a drink and some music in the background when it comes to communication, but to those whose whispers become silence because of what will no longer be accepted in our "free society," we have a place at our fingertips where we can speak our peace without fear of retribution and, more importantly, to listen.

Those same fading industry moguls would have us believe that our youth today are uncaring and hopeless, that you are too distracted by your reality TV and the rest of the sensory assault which is perpetrated and perpetuated by your very accusers. The idea is propagated with the goal that we all buy it and in the end so do you. You are our best last hope, my friends. You are out there and you are listening, watching, speaking. I see you. I hear you. We have an arena to offer and display all view points. Plenty to consider, to reflect carefully about the implications of what we do next.

Now, what to do about the state of things? Do we throw our arms up and say, well, "they" all think we're stupid anyway and do nothing? Then, we simply moan and groan when something comes down the pipe that we don't like, OR, only then do we get all fired up and want to go taking names and breaking things. I say right now that we are in the midst of absorbing unprecedented amounts of information. It's seeped into our mental, spiritual, physiological, and developmental processes as well as our Collective Unconsciousness. I believe that as a whole, we are processing this information and narrowing it all down to simple conclusions on what the next logical steps are to advance as a culture and to leave behind what has not worked. This absorption allows us the sense to believe or disbelieve what our gut tells us when it becomes time to act.

The question remains. Should we always think long and hard before before we act? Time's up. Decide now. You are alive and capable. Your actions are based on what you already know. Me, I'm going to bed. Let me know how it turns out.

PS: The real purpose of this post is to call for solutions to the observations that stop us and make us think, "yeah, that could be better." I listen to a lot of talk radio and the thing that I notice is that it's a great forum for people who just want to complain. Let's get creative and offer ideas from people who may not necessarily agree, but would otherwise feel they have no real power to change things for various reasons. Let me know what ails ya. Let me know how we can make it better!

~Donnus

The House

2007-12-06T17:24:00.000-08:00

and you'll know you've done enough,
when there's dinner on the table.
and you've prayed to God to do everything he can.
and you'll know you've done enough,
and tried to be the better man.
when you've prayed to god to help you do everything you're able.
he never said a thing about the money he had to borrow.
they'd kiss us all goodnight,
and say "we'll see you all tomorrow."
but it's my father's house,
it keeps the water off our heads.
and it's my mother's house.
it's got four walls to keep us in and well.

so take a look at them now.
they carried all of our own weight,
and never said a word so we won't know.
this was the place where they'd lay our heads at night,
with a chip on the shoulder,
and a smile to let us know it's alright.

and he's been working to hard now, for days.
i wonder if he'll get a raise.
he's gone before the sun gets up,
and home after it goes away.
and mama's got the overnight again.
he never said it,
but i wonder if it ever had him beat,
trying to make ends meet,
without us ever knowing.
we never had our clothes wear out.
we never knew a thing about,
we never had our soles wear out.
we never knew a thing about.

sans titre, numéro cinq

2007-12-06T17:20:00.000-08:00

Je l'un suis.
Je suis seulement un homme.
Mais je tout suis.
Je tout suis dans le monde.
Et mon amour est tout je peux donner.
Oui, mon amour.
Mon amour me fait, donc je tout suis.
Je tout suis dans le monde, si je pense que jesuis.

La guerre

2007-12-06T17:09:00.000-08:00

Ils vont là-bas.
Au loin.
Ils retournent mort.
Et je ne sais pas, oui.
La guerre est dans le coeur, maintenant.
l'histoire répète.
A cause de rien mais les loups.
Nous sommes fatigués.
Nous sommes fatigués.
Nous n'avons rien dans nos coeurs plus.
Je n'ai rien dans mon coeur plus.
La guerre.

Brothers United

2007-12-05T14:35:00.000-08:00

Man he's down and out again,
they say this kid will never win.
and the look on his face says,
"someone just shit on my birthday cake."
someone get this kid a valium,
and a joe strummer and the mescaleros album.
"Life will be O.K! Dont be afraid! Know you're the master of your destiny."
well he dropped right out of highschool,
at the tender age of seventeen.
He sat down on my couch and smoked the memories from his brain, everyday.
Just fed up with the bullshit,
and the plight of the teenager.
I said, "toke on this, and listen quick! life only gets worse if you dont put the effort in."
he said, "sometimes man, I just wanna die!"
I replied, "I know the feeling of wanting to end your life!"
The next moment was silent.

Brothers united, full of pride and violent
towards anyone who trys to fuck with you or me.
Brothers united, until we expire.
True to oursevles, true till death.

We toasted a shot to our beloved departed,
and chugged a beer for good measurement.
Smoked a spliff, and split a bottle in dreams of better times.
and he said, "Man these are the times! When i feel so alive! And i take it back, you live for me, and I live for you!."
This kid, He finally gets it. And it's not an understatement. there's a reason why we call ourselves a family.
Without bloodline relation.

Brothers united untill we expire!
True to one another, unconditional, unbias.
Been through the same shit, throw the flames we rise! (we exist)
I pledged my life to this crew, I'd die for any of you!
Call it an act of selflessness, but its an exemplification of true friendship!

S.P.S.C. .SOUTH BOSTON, MA.

its sad it may come to this

2007-12-05T13:56:00.001-08:00

They held massive evacuations
in every major city
from boston to los angeles
from seattle back to philly
A country at a stand still
looking to the horizon
bracing for the impact
panic of pending nuclear attack

f-16's, prayers, and hope. littered the sky
as mothers embraced their children, fluids leaking from their eyes
The president was moved to camp david, safe and warm inside
from the lies that he told, and his bold selfish motives
well aware that america, may burn for his lies

we're the workers, we're the poor,
we're the ones that cant afford
to buy our way out of this mess they've created, in our name.
why will it take another disaster for us to realize?
that we are this country
lets take it back before we all expire

with so much blood invested, did you forget?
that your first priority is domestic
not off in foreign lands
i have got no problem with a middle east man
if he bleeds human blood, and breathes the same air
and if he follows the law of the common man
then he is my brother, and there is no problem

a united human race
a united share of believes
you should not steal
you should not kill
respect and honesty for every man
respect for the women and eldery
respect for our children,
and differences in religious beliefs
its obtainable if we believe
we're beautiful creatures, intelligent and free.

free to speak

Ghosts

2007-12-05T12:37:00.000-08:00

I saw a ghost today,
Hiding behind the trees.
I smiled at his branch rifle,
Because that ghost used to be me.
Hiding from danger,
Commanding his invisible soldiers.
As I walked by, I grinned at my attempted captor.
I said "Boy, I am the general of these pines here,
Now open your lines.
There's no need to picket, the enemy isn't here."
He stepped back, saluted.
So proud he was of his army.
Oh my Lord, life was so simple then.

I spent my youth running in the woods,
Climbing over Civil War battle grounds,
We were so sure were there.
Listening to Daddy's stories on his knee,
Waiting for more,
About his cowboy days,
Up Indian's Head Rock,
Down to the water's shore,
And watch the sun disappear,
Then crawl back through the woods to our home.
Oh my Lord, life was so simple then.
We may have grown up and not had a lot,
But oh my God we were loved.

Epic Tales # 1

2007-12-04T22:44:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, in a land where transexuals read Rimbaud, I met a one eyed prick. His name was Si Klops and for obvious reasons. With a fist full of dried shit and a mouthful of prose, he lured in his prey with slip of the tongue. Girl after girl, boy after boy, Si plowed his way through innocence like a degenerate cropper. He would proudly boast on any chosen night that he fucked like a panzer attack and he sent his lovers home crippled. He was a real son of a bitch.

One evening, just past supper, Si got the surprise of his life. He wound up in cockroach motel with another sleezeball everyone knew as Ceramic Dick Bearded. Mr. Bearded's cock was made out of 100 percent, American made ceramic and was monsterous. They sat around, smoked a couple good pipes and decided to get down to business. Our cycloptic hero had his face pressed against the wall while his ass got a lesson in romance. There wasn't much mercy in the room that night. Si woke up in the hospital, minus a wallet and an ability to walk. The story goes that he never fucked again after that day. He simply rolled his piece of shit bones from tavern to tavern, telling his fables like non fiction.

Ceramic Dick let everyone know there was a new bastard in town. Anyone with a bag of dope and a sweet spot got a fine piece of phallic pottery planted inside them. Story traveled far and wide of this freak show Casanova; Even as far as a carnival of paraplegic tight rope walkers known as The Clothes Pins. He was becoming a myth in his own time and soon enough was in all the papers.

"READ ALL ABOUT IT! THE MAN WITH THE BAKED CLAY COCK PENETRATES OUR HEARTS AND ORIFICES!"

But with this fame tagged along depression. He was tired of being that street hustler with the phony penis. His mother and father had caught wind of his talents and shunned him for being a deviant. He was tired. In an alley next to some dive, Ceramic Dick loaded a pistol and blasted his cock into a thousand pieces. It was the only way. His dirt caked hands dropped the gun and he stumbled through the bar doors like a priest in an alter boy. There, at the bar, sat Si Klops. He was old and decrepit and was shitting and pissing his pants. After a few drinks, they drove off to Reno and got married by a cheap Elvis. One eye and Dickless Dick lived happily ever after in a space ship 50 miles west of the desert. They never had kids.

Just Thinking

2007-12-04T20:41:00.000-08:00

With Christmas right around the corner, a writer's mind goes wild. We are poor, we are starving, we are hopeless. A "real job" only interfers with our writing and we are deemed lazy. In reality, all we want to do is put food on the table by doing what we love. Christmas is an especially hard time for us. We can't afford to give those we love something beautiful and grand. Perhaps we can spill our guts onto paper and hastely disgust it as a present but material times make it impossible to serve material minds. With each night that tears roll, we search and scramble for ways to earn even the smallest bit of cash. We think of our families and our girls. All we want is for everyone to be happy and sometimes we just can't make that happen. The thought of our mother's opening a brand new dress, our father's opening his brand new tool, our women cracking open the box that contains a shinning and magnificant diamond ring. These things scar us and with each year, give us the feeling we need to find new means of income. This being said, if you know a writer or have one in your family, have mercy this year; They really do love you.

A Loser's December

2007-12-04T20:40:00.001-08:00

In a cold room,
a lonely room
I sit and think.
I sit and think
as I sit upon the cold
empty
wallet
that hibernates in my
back pocket.
No gold this year
my dear.
No ribbons or bows.
If only I wasn't lazy.
If only I was a man.
Maybe then I could afford
some cards
some candy
something.
Maybe next year
if she isn't gone by then.

Bow

2007-12-04T20:39:00.001-08:00

When asked for a screw
she lit up like a Christmas tree
Her lip stick stuck to her cigarette
as she took a long hard drag
Her hands roamed and eyes gazed
as she ventured onto my body
subliminally begging for discipline
like an iron fist
She went in for blood and got short changed
robbed at the gates and denied
I slid a bill like a leopards tongue
into her pants back pocket
as we said our good byes
as she left into the night.
As of right now, her whereabouts are unknown
if I had to guess I'd say she was dead
strung out barbie doll gutter ball
that haunted the alley i frequented most.
And every year around just around this time,
I leave a package by the spray painted wall
full of old pills and disregarded words
Merry Christmas darling
where ever you are.

The next three blogs by me...

2007-12-04T20:37:00.000-08:00

are from my own personal blog but I thought I'd share with everyone, so enjoy!!

Oh, Christ.........mas tree

2007-12-04T19:22:00.000-08:00

We.
R.

Greedy.
Money.Lust.

Spoiled.Angry.Begging

IWant.IWant.IWant.IWant.

Nothing.Is.Ever.Ever.Ever.Enough.
More.More.More.More.More.More.More.

People.Forget.What.Christmas.Is.Really.About. Family.Friends.Family.Friends.Family.Friends.Family.
Being.Happy.
Love.

Going Home (an old crappy poem)

2007-12-04T18:22:00.001-08:00

I turn into the center
of town. The Cambodian
children aren’t playing in the street
by the pawn shop; autumn has arrived.
I approach Anne’s and flick my cigarette.
Exhaust masked in dollar
store air freshener rushes in.
Jon is already waiting for me.
We exchange pleasantries
and walk into the restaurant.
We get a booth and discuss the past.
We both order the pastrami.
A pang hits my stomach
like when I find myself
in a Dunkin’ Donuts at 7 AM,
half insane and killing time before work.
We are served and devour our food.
My nose is slick from the stench of grease
and begging to be dried.
The waitress brings us our check.
I wipe the sweat from my temples
and place my money on the table.
Jon takes his share, passing me a bag
with a sleight of hand.
We rise and leave.

A responce to Mr. Noel's Question...

2007-12-04T13:32:00.000-08:00

There have been a few nights in my life where I have layed in bed and wondered if I would see the next day. It's a scary thought. I suppose my biggest fear is being forgotten. Did I do anything fantastic in my life? No, not really. I can't say I would have too much to be remembered for. If I could go back, I'm sure there would be a few things I would change. But would I really regret my life? Not at all. I had alot of great experiences and met alot of people that have shaped who I am in one way or another. If tomorrow never came for me, I wouldn't mind so much. I lived, I loved, I experienced life the way I wanted to experience it. I'd like to think I made a difference in a few peoples lives and what more can you ask for? I didn't need money or fame to be happy; just a few good friends, a good woman and lots of great times.

A Question

2007-12-04T12:32:00.000-08:00

If you knew you were going to die, tomorrow, would you regret your life, or the way you lived it?

Untitled (revised)

2007-12-04T12:19:00.000-08:00

one.
this room is gray.
the wood floors are splintered.
it is freezing.
there is no wood to feed the stove.
the pipes are frozen.
the heat is shut off.
no money.
no food.
just you.
our breaths,
in the air,
collide.
the only place warm is,
knowing there's something more.
we make love to stay warm.
two.
i will not burn these books.
i will not burn these books.
the fire they will feed,
will not be for heat.
passionately,
we stay warm,
again.

(im still not certain i like how it is now, of before. i realize it's slightly choppy, but i wanted it to be more free verse. comments? criticisms? likes? dislikes?)

Fellow Readers and Authors!

2007-12-04T09:29:00.001-08:00

The site is going exellent, don't you agree? There have been numerous poems posted every day and we are attracting new authors and readers. I still highly encourage everyone to comment on each others writings and let them know what you think. Good or bad, it will let them know that you are reading their stuff and will hopefully help them out in one way or another.

For those of you on myspace, I've been thinking about making some sort of banner to link to this site so we can put them on our pages, but sadly I am myspace illiterate and have no idea how to link a picture to a website. So with that being said, if someone would like to help us out and make one of those, it would be greatly apperciated!

Also, while on the topic of myspace, please help us spread the word and get more and more people to join us. This would be a great opportunity to meet new writers and maybe bring some shy authors out of their shells.

That's all I got for today. If anyone has any questions or ideas, please feel free to leave them in a comment on this post and I'll get back to you A.S.A.P.

Happy Writing!
Toad

Consquently

2007-12-04T06:26:00.000-08:00

i have always been a firm believer,
that red wine betters a poet.
red wine clears the head,
and it stains the teeth.
but it makes a better man.

Fire Hazzard

2007-12-03T22:26:00.000-08:00

A cigarette is best
directly after sex.
When your closest to god
with one arm around sin.
That quiet calm
an orgasm brings.
And you watch all the spiders
mending their webs
while you're lying so peaceful
and naked in bed.
And the bottles, all empty
are lined up like soliders.
She shivers and trembles
and struggles with the covers.
A kiss on the hair
let's her know that you care.
and her legs around yours
assure's that your there.
You pray with each drag
that one more day comes
as you fall asleep dreaming
burning out
like the
sun.

Before the Lake Freezes

2007-12-03T21:41:00.000-08:00

A flock of geese bathe in the lake,
dwarf the mallard drakes
that drift past.
Without breeze, their calls
echo through the trees
and can be perceived
as far as stone cast.
As a gander rears,
breast thrown high,
and swings his wings
with a visceral force,
scattering the cool waters
of early winter,
springs a maelstrom.
The wind of his span
drives the ducks back
and gives him path
to the bread a little girl
has tossed from the overpass,
as she begs her daddy,
“Can I take one home?’

untitled

2007-12-03T17:37:00.000-08:00

one.
this room is gray, the wood floors are splintered.
it is freezing.
there is no wood to feed the stove.
the pipes are frozen; heat shut off.
no money, no food.
just you.
our breath in the air collide.
the only place warm is...
we make love to stay warm
two.
i will not burn these books.
i will not burn these books.
the fire they will feed will not be for heat.

(still in progress. how about some feed back?)

Like a Shogun

2007-12-03T14:49:00.000-08:00

Like a shogun,
I sit in the snow.

High.

Waiting to execute.
My mission: Exterminate all rational thought.

Words of the great William S. Burroughs.

Dead now but still flowering in the human gutter.

A gutter that is clogged in infantile politics.

My mouth pressed against the hippie pipe.

Inhale.

Where the fuck was I?

Christina Aguilera would never date me

2007-12-03T12:49:00.000-08:00

I thought I was
ugly
stupid
worthless
invisible to all.
Normal
Average
Nothing special.
And then I saw her husband.

Ink

2007-12-03T11:36:00.000-08:00

(Noel, your poem reminded me of a pantoum I wrote a few years ago about blow. There's really nothing better than blow and poetry. That's food for the soul.)

The bird trapped in my ribcage,
fluttering as I jump off the white starting line,
invokes the jaw of a Titan. I
grind bone to powder with trembling hands.

Fluttering as I jump off the white starting line—
Closer to horizontal bars of black and flesh— I
grind bone to powder with trembling hands
and bring the world to an extreme sobriety.

“Closer to horizontal bars of black and flesh,” I
criticize (deflating day dreams)
and bring the world to an extreme sobriety
through his hollow voice that comes to possess one. He

criticized, deflating day dreams
that, although far fetched, are important.
Through his hollow voice that comes to possess one, he
taught me of the crafts that go into making a light bulb

that, although far fetched, are important.
But often I think back to how he
taught me of the crafts that go into making a light bulb
with fondness, for it created a man.

But often I think back to how he
bore the fell beast and not
with fondness, for it created a man:
the true savagery that darkens the jungle.

Bore the fell beast and not
the bird trapped in my ribcage.
The true savagery that darkens the jungle
invokes the jaw of a Titan: I.

Porcelain

2007-12-03T09:28:00.000-08:00

porcelain angel,
i'm sorry if i sometimes let you down,
you've got to go way up to come down sometimes,
you know i never mean to try.
if everyone were like you,
i'd fall in love over and over every night,
and i know you see behind my eyes.
thankfully, they're always there fore me.
the last time you came looking,
i hid.
she takes some; i take a lot.
"good morning afterglow."
in the blow, i've seemed to have lost myself,
again.
i wake up and the morning's so cold.
everything's okay.
you said "i don't even recognize you anymore."
"i'm fucked up like it's the death of me."
and the words between the lines,
they only tell lies.
it's been almost two years since,
i think.
i don't think i miss a thing, fuck-
i miss it every day.
cocaine.

In Flew Enza

2007-12-03T09:24:00.000-08:00

Hacking
hacking
hacking up.
Bubbling lungs
expand and contract.
Freezing cold,
wrapped up in a sheep
and the cow will jump over the moon.
Take one,
take two,
take enough
just to sleep.
Take a hot shower
and scream.
Mild water
burns contaminated flesh.
Get out.
Light another cigarette.
Drip
dripp
dripping
cold.
I will not get better.
I will not get better
until the cow jumps over the moon.

Sixteen

2007-12-03T09:20:00.000-08:00

(criticism please. it needs some work)

Young, high as shit,
gaping at Iggy in an extinct club.
Some Weird Sin or some other song
slips through my ears,
suffocates my brain.
It slinks over me—
the undulating waves of
an ocean of sweat and cigarette butts.
High tide reaches my waist
and reveals the jetty
of Neptune’s arm.
It stretches back to a bland landscape:
gray sweatshirt tucked into
gray sweatpants to match his
gray comb over, adorned by a
gray moustache, as if he
tried to pull a bowtie over his head.
I stammer back onto dry land
and soak in the over the hill
man making a move for my crotch.
He looks as stunned as me before sliding
back into the crowd
with the other drops of water.

Madison

2007-12-03T09:18:00.000-08:00

i can't change the way i am-
i can't-
but ask me to try-
i will-
i'll put down my drink-
i'll quit smoking again-
i'll do what i have to-
but still-
now i can't change the things i did-
it's just not who i am-
now i know you hate the things i did-
but it's not what i am-
dear God it makes me weak-
i just have to dust myself off and turn the other cheek-

don't give up on me-
no one can tell me how i got this fucked up-
maybe it's holding everything in-
ever since i was a kid-
baggage is baggage-
mine's just worn out-
but don't give up on me just yet-

because you know i said i loved the mountains-
i always said i loved the mountains-
one of these days we'll climb up there and never come back down-
but it's these city lights...

Victimology

2007-12-03T08:13:00.000-08:00

For so long it’s been staring me in the face-and I was oblivious to its presence. Insidious and disabling. This concept that we are all somehow-VICTIMS. Of life. Of society. Of our minds .Of ourselves. What of responsibility and choice? Of making our own way in the world? Self reliant and using our ingenuity to survive instead of blaming and whining and only seeking proof of the worst we’ve become. Sure things are fucked up in the world-Life isn’t fair or easy-but who said it was going to be? What use would that be? What would we learn? How would we grow? How would we differentiate between subtle emotions, or come to appreciate the beauty in pain? The ecstasy of betrayal. Of Living with no questions or restraint. No regrets. Getting hurt-but not blaming. Only loving the chance to experience all that life has to offer. The good, the bad, the painful and the rarely understood. To ask questions that no one wastes time thinking of. To see things in your own way. To make yourself and your life. Sure the victim stance allows us to dissolve any responsibility and affords us options like-being dependant on others for our survival or self destructive behavior with no artistic merit-Returning to an infantile state while our brains atrophy because we don’t use them-and then in 60 years if we are lucky we can develop dementia and be cast away to some old folks home to be forgotten and decay. All the while blaming our demise on everyone else. Never taking responsibility for or really owning our life and our choices. Throwing our hands up and saying “It’s not my fault, I have no control.”I'd rather live each day knowing that what I do and what happens to me -I alone am responsible for. How I react and feel and interact and deal-are all the stuff of life. Living. Making choices. Being free. We live in a society that encourages dependencies and the victim mentality. But that’s no reason to so easily give up our responsibility. It’s not a burden -but a gift. Without a sense of being responsible for what happens in our life how can we ever truly be free? To choose, to create, to live and let live. When you give in to the victim mentality you’re not only giving up on yourself, but on what you can offer the world. Nothing in life is perfect and overcoming obstacles is a process of growth which people should never be encouraged to blame others for. So your parents weren’t perfect, or you were poor, make do with what you have. Stop blaming life and use your mind to change your world.

Insomnia

2007-12-03T01:25:00.000-08:00

The day's seem like minutes, The hours like seconds. Late night TV, Infomercial after Infomercial. Trying to sell us the same recycled products over and over again, This is all too much for my Un-restful head. The low hum of the refrigerator sounds more like a live machine gun, while the clock gives me it's evil grin, i know now that i may never sleep again...

Mondo Cane

2007-12-02T22:02:00.000-08:00

The world today is scary.
S
C
A
R
Y?
Because.
Writing is judged by degrees,
not soul.
Marriage is judged by gender,
not love.
Music is judged by fashion,
not ability.
A woman's body is controlled
by everyone
except her.
A man's words are analized
and put
on
trial.
Comic strips
can easily start
a small religious
war.
Mohammed
the bear
is sending people
to die.
And my father wonders
why
I hide
alone in my room.

Monday, December 3rd, 2007

2007-12-02T21:13:00.000-08:00

Figured I'd do this before Midnight

2007-12-02T20:13:00.000-08:00

I'd like to thank everyone that joined today for making this pretty successful. With time, hopefully more people will join and this thing will blow up! You guys have been writing some amazing stuff and I'm glad I actually decided to start this blog up cause I get to read alot of great new writing.

If you know anyone that would want to be a part of this group of degenerates, please feel free to contact me with their email and we will have them join us!

Also, if you are going to post something other then writing; like an idea for the blog, great youtube video link of a writer, etc. please make the font the color of this post so we know whats news and whats writing. I'm sorry if thats an inconvinence, it would just make things alot more organized for everyone!

Thanks again and lets hope tomorrow is an even more eventful day then today.

Toad

Sorry if I'm breaking the rules

2007-12-02T19:34:00.000-08:00

but I found an amazing reading by Eugene Ostachevsky that I think you all might like.

Check it out

A conversation between me and Venus

2007-12-02T19:11:00.000-08:00

My home made fried rice gazed up at me as I started to lose my appetite. I pushed it away, leaned back and lit up another cigarette. She paused momentarily, fork still in mouth, and her eyes attracted mine.

"What is it now?"

She swallowed her overly spiced bite of grain and removed the fork.

"Another cigarette? Didn't you just have one 10 minutes ago?"
"Whose counting?"

The smoked filled my lungs and I held it in. Closing my eyes, I let it all out and cracked a mild smile. She was still looking at me.

"Jesus Christ, what is it?"
"I have to talk to you."
"Alright. What's the problem?"
"I don't want you to touch drugs anymore."

I could only laugh. I hadn't touched a drug in years. My only drug now was love and I was more hooked on that then I was the real stuff.

"What drugs are you talking about? I haven't done anything in years but I can't promise I won't again."
"The other night you mentioned smoking opium. I don't want you doing that. It's bad enough your drinking every night and smoking a pack a day."
"You make it seem like I'm at the bar every night getting loaded and forgetting where I am."

I stood up and went to the trash can. Maybe a change of topic would ease this situation.

"What do you think about getting some wine?"
"What the fuck is wrong with you? I'm sitting here telling you I want you to quit drugs and slow down on the drinking and you ask me if I want wine?"
"Yeah."
"Alright, get dressed; And make it Zinfindel."

Topography

2007-12-02T19:08:00.000-08:00

Across my desk, Claire scrolled out a map of the town.
Her breast brushed against my hand.
“If you draw lines between the pawn
shop, bodega by family planning, and
barber shop, you can fence in the Cambodians.”
Her words clogged in my eardrums
and I imagined if she was still beautiful when
she was naked. She continued, “I dragged Mike out from
my new place, the other night, just inside the North edge
of the Triangle, and waited on the porch while he emptied
out. Over his noise, I barely heard something ping off the ledge
of the porch. I looked across the street but couldn’t see
past the dark. I rolled Mike behind the car and called the cops.
I waited until five before I went to bed.” I smiled as she talked.

2007-12-02T18:07:00.001-08:00

we should make starving and useless shirts and wear them to shows

2007-12-02T17:58:00.000-08:00

hope you dont mind i posted again.

you havent tried to change your inside
mind rotting away, full of empty pride
youre better this, and once you realize
then the words will begin to reflect and subside

internal struggle heterogenous
with streams of success. they just wont mix
smoke another spliff, anesthisize
fail youreself with every high
tell the lies that help you get by
live the low life to survive
working poor and ill work till i die
the fortunate born into wealth around me thrive
loss of hope, continue to the hive
still alive, struggle to survive

Three Seventeen

2007-12-02T17:42:00.000-08:00

this is something i wrote about a parade that occurs annually in my home town

hey buddy wake up, grab a liter
there's nothing better than bushmills
first thing in the morning

the snow stopped falling
and tradition is calling
today we stand on broadway
streams of green white and orange.

3/17 more than another day to you and me
takes us back to the way it used to be
as if we needed a reminder

singing the songs of our grandfathers
pounding bottle after bottle after bottle
proudly showing our true colors

pitchers of guinness, local politicians
and if you havent been here before
yes those are cops and yes theyre drinking
fighting yuppies, welcome to southie
you dont know this struggle, im not sorry

pipe and drum brigades, tin whistles and fifes play all day
my solo cup is never empty
drunk and full of cabbage and cornedbeef

feeling united, feeling alive again, strong sense of pride here
on this day, in the town that we grew up in
twenty six cases, between seventeen of us
i wonder where the time went, woke up on the kitchen floor
sporting a wonderful hangover

wonder what today has in store
mark off the next three hundred sixty five days off my calendar

straight from the moleskin

2007-12-02T17:27:00.000-08:00

ive trapped myself again. claustrophobic, shallow breaths
arms bound tight, for wrong, not for right.
sweaty palms, a useless grip,
tuckered out from the shock and the sin.
heres my last will and testament,
this has to be the end.

neglected advice
cowardice, but righteous in my mind.
serenity, ive often found hard to find.
the pleasure, oh! the pressure!
the turning point my vision too poor to measure
crashed through the walls of common sense again, ive ruined everything

ive ruined whats within
im a stranger in the mirror
to change i dont know where to begin

the shakes begin to subside
writhe on the floor no more, no smore sweaty eyes
begin to see a light, throw it in reverse, take a right
deliverence from this world accursed
of greed and selfishness
a place where rationality is worthless
humanity will serve no purpose, anymore

In any case,

2007-12-02T17:19:00.001-08:00

i didn't mention it earlier, but franky reminded me, critical feedback is always welcome.

I'm just being Ernest (Hemingway)

2007-12-02T17:06:00.001-08:00

She sits on my bed
doing homework.
Just seventeen.
Watching T.V.
Complaining about the smoke,
complaining about my weight.
"We should have sex."
"We should drink wine."
"Why is everything about drinking?"
"Why is everything about sex?"
We stare blankly.
Frankly,
this conversation isn't going anywhere.
Off go the pants.
Up goes the shirt.
Tight grip the hand.
Soft touch the fingers.
Five minutes pass.
I haven't proven a thing.
We lay on our backs,
as we laugh and we laugh.
"We should have sex."
"We should drink wine."

Hurtful Words

2007-12-02T16:22:00.001-08:00

(This is a new poem that I'm not sure is done, or any good at all. I would really appreciate some critical feedback on this one.)

Hyperbole should be spelled, “Hyper Bowl”
And it should be more like Thunderdome:
Two words enter;
One word leaves.
Sentences bracketed
By oversized shoulder pads
With blood-encrusted spikes,
Duke it out over poignancy.
Gerundive phrases latching onto them
With, like, Wolverine claws.
Tina Turner
Controls all alliteration.
A gang of prepositions
Chases Mel Gibson in the desert
On dune buggies armed with machine guns.
Master Blaster
Dominates all other rhymes.
It turns out that adverbs
Are actually filled with sand.
The entire stanza
Runs on pig shit.
The pen would decimate the sword.

My New Job

2007-12-02T14:58:00.000-08:00

It was a long day of matters;
I wouldn’t have lasted the drive home.
Lucky enough, Elsie lived in the city and she was
Nice enough to let me sleep on her sofa.
The couch was glorious and I slept whole heartedly.
I woke up well into the morning
To find my pants around my ankles.
Genitals all still there. And why rape the willing?
But I soon realized that, while I slept,
She had braided my pubic hairs.
When she walked into the living room, I said,
I suppose it’s my fault for letting them grow so long.
She plopped onto the seat next to me,
Like a dog on hind legs, awaiting due
Reward for playing dead, and said,
Yes, I’m sorry, but you are to blame.
You see, your pubes aren’t dissimilar from economics.
Consider big business, corporations:
The kind NPR loves to shit on.
If they grow too big, stretch too far,
They become prominent, and, inevitably, evil.
They become a topic of discussion, criticism
And, ultimately, a target of attack—
Whether through speeches, boycotts, legislation,
Or plain old tomfuckery.
Remember that scene in Fight Club,
With the commercial coffee shop?
Tomfuckery of that sort.
Now, it seems a bit much to blow up your crotch
Or roll a cement boulder through it,
But I feel that the message of the piece still rings clear.
Of course, she was right.
So, being in the city, I found a reputable gallery.
I walked to the front desk, dropped my pants
And requested a plaque summarizing Elsie’s argument.
The man behind the desk called in the curator,
Who, naturally, loved it.
I’ve been on display since.
Six hours a day, five days a week.
Health and dental.
Good work if you can get it.

The Big Why

2007-12-02T14:48:00.000-08:00

I found my love of the word
was that of a lifetime
while working at a deli
with strong Christian overtones.
Having to dress like a Mormon baker,
stuck in a Borgesian labyrinth
of asking have you heard today’s specials
and the Good News?
while percolating up this glut
of passion and thought
and I can’t stop slicing ham
long enough to write this fucking sentence.

To feel like an enlightened Buddhist
in serious financial debt.
Held in a Plexiglas cell where
you can’t do more than watch Law and Order reruns and
you haven’t bathed since Sunday and
you’ve eaten pasta for a month straight and
you haven’t beat off in a week
because you’ve just lost interest.
And I take this to paper
and I roll off the couch
and I wash the itch out of my beard
and I buy real groceries
and I can finally get it up again.
So I quit my job and told myself:
poets are like lovers;
the best ones are men of leisure.

The Gin Inside The Coffee Cup

2007-12-02T11:23:00.000-08:00

so here we are again-
got a notice on the door-
i have to pay the rent-
but my excuse's no good-
and the money's spent-
if i don't get the cash by morning we won't have a place to live-
now i work my hands 'til they're hard to hold-
i never sleep at night any more-
it seems all i've got left is up there empty on the shelf-
i pour the gin 'til i can't think-
the drink i've hidden deep inside the coffee cup-
i've given all i have to try to pick you up-
i've given all i have to try to pick you up-
i make sure there's food to eat-
yeah, and necessities-
whatever's left i pour right down again-
and when i try to leave it grabs hold of me-
the only thing keeping me alive, i know is you-
and i can tell my self-destruction is tearing you in two-
i've given all i have to try and pick you up-
oh i pray to God that it's enough

An introduction to the Ian Cat.

2007-12-02T11:17:00.000-08:00

I'm new here. In any case, I'll give the readers a little background information.

I grew up in Rhode Island but I live and go to school in Massachusetts now. I'm a musician, filmmaker, and writer. I'm into music and film more than most people realize when they meet me. I can't tell you how deep the rabbit hole goes, but I can tell you I haven't gotten bored with it yet.

For writing, my biggest influences would have to be Jack Kerouac, Bob Dylan, and Kurt Vonnegut. I'm interested in weird literature, subversive literature, and things that make people wonder "What the fuck?" when there's really no need. I'm interested in Dadaism, Fluxus, anti-art, free jazz and free improvisation, postmodernism, and other things. While I can't say I'm well-versed in these things, I'm interested and I've been exposed to some.

You can expect anything from my writing. Expect the worst and you just might get it. It just depends on what you're looking for.

Christmas with the Crabs

2007-12-02T09:30:00.000-08:00

Sitting on the sofa
scratching this crotch
listening to talk radio
with a firm belief
that Jesus will save him.
The kids know well
that Father is piss poor.
He is in shambles.
Working hard
to hardly work
and Christmas really won't come
this year.
Little Bobby
opens his package
and finds a gun.
"This was your Grandfather's
and he killed himself with it
and someday you will too.
I've tried too many times
and like always
I've failed.
I gave your brother the rounds
and together you can play.
Go make Father proud.
Tell your Grandfather I'm sorry."