That Old Pier

There’s a pier, off in the distance
where we sink because of poor moorings.
It’s creaky, wooden driftwood
a traditional looking thing
looks like someone tied it together
maybe used glue
probably public works
needs a sanding, new finish
its value becoming diminished
every wind lashing stormy winter night
and every scorching summer day
under weight of ice and child
and man and woman
this goddamned pier
made by some old timer
who has some story about it
he says the driftwood washed ashore that year
way off in the distance
no one knew when or why it arrived
but a little girl was playing on a dock before
and she got trapped under the older pier, it, the thing from before
orange inflatable wings, vest, did no good
like i said, goddamned pier,
the old timer was taking over this dock, this pier
i needed the old thing away from here he says
and so each day he walked the shoreline
collecting charred cracked wood
from the same mysterious downed ship
and made it into a new pier
he made it wavy looking wood
so air could get in, in case of emergency
here’s this ancient thing
this damn old fashioned pier that has been so durable
made in a death lamentation
i mean this old dude got lost thinking about it
i get lost thinking about the old dude thinking about it
that’s when it all ends
sure, we can see it.
the goddamned pier
but i was working to replace it
to save some more kids
maybe dress up the lake a little bit
and so i go to the lake
tryin to change this dock over
and theres this old man chained to the damn thing
hes got this big ol dog by the riverbed
i cant see whats in his hands, his mouth
but the sumbitch lobs a firecracker at me
hippy holding a sparkler
like he protectin a redwood
its his magnum opus, his oeurve, his cous de gras
his little fuckin girl man
we pry him away
tell him to forget the old thing
the old pier
and we take it and burn it in the lake
and build a new metal one
you know, with inflating buoys
this old man
takes wood from the wreckage
sinks our inflatable lifesaving dock
to put his new deck made from third wreckage
pier.
And we go back to burn the new one down
and when we get back
the dock is solid ice
and the man is made of gloopy raindrops
and the edgings around his eyes are fire
and there’s our dock again
like its brand new.
except our hands go straight through the ladder when we get there
and a snake pit surrounds us
the old dog tears at the grass around the shoreline
we feel the maggots of pond scum in our immune system
and we thrash around
and grab
this goddamned driftwood.
Saved my life.
And that’s why I have a piece of driftwood where a normal man has
a big game bust
dear driftwood
dear driftwood


Let Me Pass

What do we need to do
to pass?
We’re presumptuous creatures
by nature’s lookin glass
prone to think wrongly right
and climb hills before we open
doors
even if we feel the knob and it’s cool
as the smoke pours

in the room.
Gandalf says we shall not
but those are his last words.

If we make it to our end
do we pass?
that’s the euphemism
of our sposed soul-body schism.
we be born destined to fail
and pass
irony in the fact that the towel is wet
and we’re lying on the floor
as the billowing plumes of smoke pour
and burgeoning flames lick the door
and we’re stuck here
trying to use water to douse a fire
we never see
the shadows of Plato’s Caved-In Allegory
dancing on our mind
like a clothes line
in Tornado Alley.

Are these sinister shapes we see?
Shadows, smoke
if we scream can they hear us?
or are we beget from mirrors
our jeans’ fit reflecting our genes
Wim Hof blood pressure in emergency
until we’re a blown up Baghdad insurgency.

We fail to fail
we’re supposed to be miserable lovers
and angry when we spill a drink
can’t quill our ink
sweat underneath covers
can you turn down the heat
or keep it from rising
even
the floor
is hot now

Is that the devil?
or am I seeing a mirage
because I’m overtired
crying, sighing, wired
alone in my garage.
But I was in a different room
is this a trick?
Or am I again fucked brutally hard
by the devil’s pickled red dick.

This is my cram before the test
my thoughts at my mind’s behest
as my lids shut and my
mitochondria closes to pulses of life
I know know know an answer
to the cure of cure cure of cancer.

But I can’t recall it
it I can only recognize
So place a choice in front of my
dying eyes
and let me take the test
one quest-
I pass.

The Party Generation

Graffiti artists climb
To make their art
In dead of night
They scale buildings
Or cliffs
near train tracks
Dangling as
tired operators
Whiz by,
as winds shake buildings
So that your commute can have
Color.

That’s love.
They buy spray paint
Plot out intricate designs
That you will see in
passing
And fail
to
register
Just so that you have that chance
To deign yourself
too absorbed

They are
the tattoo artists
Of the world.

I climbed Everest
And at the peak:
Graffiti.

The observation deck of the Duomo:
Graffiti.

In my first plane ride I looked out
On the left side
And the cloud looked like a pig
And on it was a pink tag
The sun
Natures best graffiti artist.

But forget the sun.
Does the earth cry
When we taint it?
Should we leave the Washington
Monument, Mount Rushmore
The Space Needle
As their own
works of art?
Or should we impact
with paint
And vision
As much as we do
with footprints
And dollars
Or are they
Our new art?

Are we the generation
Of air rights
And Chem trails
And gun control
And Internet surveillance
As artistry?

Or will we paint the Brooklyn Bridge
White?
Paint an american flag
on the steeple of the Freedom Tower

What will our monument be?
Will we endure like Giza
Or crumble like Ozymandias?

We paint our bodies
Pollute our earth
with islands
Of plastic
in the ocean.
Get a graffiti artist out there.
Because this generations’
art
Is too typically
garbage.

Our planet, our generation,
We need makeup
And braces.
Yeah.
We can’t change our ugly mug
Or our receding hairline.
But we should look nice if we’re going
To party.
Even if we’re twitter tacky
On the red carpet
Because at least we
Threw a new color
On that Bastille of groupthink-
They panned Gatsby
on twitter too.

Read, read my lips
That I painted on this earth
As my graffiti
Don’t let your saccadic eyes
See only lies.
Find the beauty
In your staycation
It’s your duty
To define us as more
Than the Party Generation.

Take the Time

Lens
Dispense
From notions
Of from whence
And potions
Fake friends
Commotioned ends
It goes on
And we won’t wait
Take the time
To meditate.

But celebrate.

Casts

What is a cast?
A group of people,
Moulded plaster,
Wrapping,
And autographs.

How is it made?
By a d(ire)(o)ctor.

It is not chosen
And sometimes feels
Parasitic.

It loses itself in itself
Is vulnerable to force
Is sometimes rigid
And put in place to heal,
Or prevent, or fix.

It is never the same
Even if it is just one for
Months or years

When the cast is on
It’s hot, sweaty,
Hard and
Things get sticky quick.

The director can’t control it alone
And any temporary manager
Or producer, designer, master
Cannot touch skin through plaster

Instead, the cast has to come
Together
And serve its purpose
From its base to its tip
And from top to bottom.

And when it finally comes off
After all is said and done
It sees the bruises, scrapes
And wipes away the blood
And years of sweat
And finally feels relief
And freedom.

But it becomes an individual
To be one with its cast
So that freedom is not in breaks
So that breaks are short-lived
And cool casts are never forgotten.

Be one with the plaster and gauze
United in goal and in cause
Leave no part uncovered
So when we finally come together,
United in presents and pasts
We are mired in ecstasy
One of many casts
Memorable to me.

He Said

Clocks clapping rhythymically
as a young man in a bowler hat
pulls his shirtsleeve up his arm
and checks his watch.

Thirty plus years
He has to wait
Thirty plus years.

A fly buzzes around the room
a man in a black suit, black tie
sees it land on his arm; doesn’t move.
Fly flies away.

Twenty plus years
He has to wait
Twenty plus years.

The mirror falls from its mooring
a young man, breaking apart in front of him
Pieces lie spread over the wooden floor
he sees his aged, tired eyes in them.

Ten years more
He has to wait
Ten years more.

Someone enters the room and sits
and begins to eat and chew open-mouthed
each smack and swallow painfully slow
he hears his mouth water.

Five more years
Five more years.

A crowd has begun to gather
they know the time is coming.
Their tensile strength is great
as they watch, silent.

One year.
Just
one year.

The camera crews have shown
lights blazon inside his eyelids
his suit is gray, his hair is white
and his eyes are empty
and wide in fright.

A week.

He feels himself slump
crowd gasps, lightbulbs flash
the flies are back in droves
and the sun is hot.

Days left: one.

He hears his breath begin to catch
his toes begin to curl
his hair falls out completely
he chokes back the urge to hurl

"Today is the day
of great anticipation.”
He said. 

Teetering Fairly in Immodesty

I can’t help but recede at times
Into my minds locations
Volcanos erupting unexpectedly, lava slowly belching from the gut of the earth
Fading away into the darkness of the depths of a pool as the chlorine stings your eyes and you fight to rise to the top and always get there, but think about when you won’t
Or that deep grass verdana on a sticky summers evening with a man in a cheap cloth suit and a fedora staring out in anticipation, hairs on the back of his neck at attention as he sees a lion approaching his enclave.
And they’re all moments transfixed in my mind
Eyes struck sightless and blind And the sublime attack Renders me lifeless. With a beat til the end Controlling my body Toeing the line, Teetering fairly in immodesty.

The Heart of Spring

The green growth flair
From the rooting lair
Is too much for me
The birds of spring
Like to sing
Just for me.
I listen in
To their playful din
As its strains sweetly fall
No thing like spring
My baby birdies call

May Nights

There is something about May nights
When it is quiet and cool
And you hear the growth in the wind
It is easy to get lost in the lulling blackness
Of lush valleys of tall grass
With a warm and earthy smell emanating from its coolness.
The sounds are low and far away.
The moon may or may not be there
It’s getting harder to tell through the thickening trees
Ripening just as light hits its apex
Keeping you in darkness
But in May there’s just enough night light
And night bright
To walk through the world and see yourself right
It’s easier to breathe Mother Nature
And the dew point contrasts the
Mayday boiling points
With deftness and ease
And soft rustles of trees
There’s no destination
Or path of right and wrong
the music of natures conversation
All long, cool, quiet night, long.

We Are The Good

Before I read this out loud,
You better listen and respect.
Wait, no, prefaces are bullshit.
Let me just be direct to you.
Every piece of advice you tell me…
Is poorly timed.
And here’s the thing
Maybe it works with your vibe
But the interrupting
Mood disrupting
Failure of a diatribe
You’re just uttering
Stops.

Because I live for the good,
Even if I’m not the greatest.
And doe just trying is ok
It don’t do nothing.

Put it like this
Don’t tell me how to phrase my soul!
Who ever made you think…
When you should just think for yourself?

So don’t step up in here
Walk up talkin trash
Movin up into my grill
Running some kind of
Worthless ass ‘parcheesey’
Thinking my drive is easy
To conquer.

Because I am the good.
I am like the underdog battling
In ear splitting thunder
With gale force winds
Whipping torrents of rain
Attempting descent on a thin line
Helicoptered by a dubious driver
To save the queen of England
From a tree made of asbestos
Falling into a sinkhole.
Because I am like that.

We are the good
The humanity
The shared existence
That we all know and believe in
We rise above
We say fuck that
And fuck you
We are the good
And sometimes bein good
Is breaking your rules
Still go to the schools
Just don’t buy into the fools
We think we have it all figured out
Because we are the good.

But we’re also Job.
Everything gone in an instant
Or we’re Jonah
Swallowed by a whale
Because our contemporaries
Are too contemporary
to read
The Bible.

Or maybe that’s me
And I’m just pretentious
Or maybe this was true
Or maybe I never meant this
Or maybe I’m confused
Or maybe I’m not
And I’m just pretentious.

Maybe this wasted your time
Maybe now I’m not the good
Maybe for once I don’t wanna be
I didn’t do what’s right and I should
For these truths I always have stood

So now you hate me
And diagnosed me borderline
Or bi-polar because of the whine
Or addicted because of the crack
Or wasted cuz dope ain’t whack
And I’m wrong like that

Or now I paint like Da Vinci
And you’re Mona Lisa
Or I’m Leo
And you’re being one of my French girls
And now I’m crazy and you surely hate me

Let me stop.
And give you the truth.
No eye for eye or tooth for tooth
Just get beat up by everyone
And take as many blows as possible
Toughen up
Fuck swag and strut
Stop with can’t and but
Do everyone else’s work
Make everyone happy
Take nothing for yourself
Be miserable inside
for everyone
Who is miserable outside
And quit.
That’s it.
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-

Hold on. It’s not.
I’m going to fight my way back
To the top
I’m going to be king of all and do it
For the fallen
I’ll care for the ill afflicted and stricken

And when I do
I’ll tell you
the truth
And when I do
I’ll tell you
We Are The Good

Ephemeral Nights

Ephemeral nights
Whisked away in horseless carriage
Odorous pinewood fire burning
Rustic chimney spewing smoke
Ephemeral nights
Rain falling, wheels in mud churning
Hidden pointy rock unspoke
Shattered wood, carriage broke
Splintered unrepairable Wheel spoke
Ephemeral nights
Lady soft exits in white gown
Dragging trails carriage in the mud and rain
And miles before the closest town
Chugging along until a thud and pain
Ephemeral nights
Shes falling gracefully crying to the wind
For help with her now shattered foot
Eyes trained, he feels he’s sinned
A face in mud and now as black as soot
Ephemeral nights
He stoops and carries her fainted.

Ephemeral nights,
Back to the town and quiet of rights
She’ll never see his acts as sainted-
Ephemeral nights.

Oh Light of Sun I Spy

When the sun rises set on obsidian
Sky, its flecks of pinks and winks
Of light tambor to the sound of
Waking birds, commuting herds.

Today is different, sublime
becoming significance
Calm affect covering
Inner Statuesque shells
Chiseled by solar wind
Eroding smile lines
And sagging eyelids

But the steely clouds wont to recede
are overtaken by robins egg blue
Eyeballs peering from beneath skin.
Showing depth, pooling fire into ice
Tightened lips, a speaker’s vice

For whether high noon or midnight
The Guided sight, by colorless light
Always pales in comparison
To the grayest morn,
Off nights waning and forlorn,
The ultimate pull of pinkest goodbye-
Yes you, Oh light of sun I spy.

Umbreller

Ah yes, the Great Converter
The unscrupulous thinking deserter
Retreating post haste pools
Of raindrops droppin
Umbrellers flappin
Tappin windowpane
Light on inside
Barkeep that’s wide
Wise, quick drinks
Ladies, fine wine
Dine on winks
Warmly inviting
But away through glass
And this man who thinks fast
And decides to go inside forever
No longer will need a worthless umbreller

Be With You

The value
of being aloof
In beauty and
in truth
Is everything to me.

Knowing
We’ll always be
What’s right
Like Paris late at night
Is everything to me

You may love me
I may love you too
I’ll be there lightly
And hold you so tightly
Just please
let
me
Be with you.