presto
a man sits in a room,
& it's more the room that matters
with light lemon walls &
shadows like rotten rind
curled away from one
of two windows; it's relevant
to describe the curve of
air around a doorway
as a cold chill whirls up an invisible pole
like icy piss dribbles down an inner thigh.
maybe there are ghosts in the room
& they mean more than the man.
their stories bristle with admiration,
with chance luck -- blue fog within
furniture shadows. the man tries
exploding,
he imagines detonation,
a short fuzzy fuse.
no, he's still here,
active, hollow.
illusionary.
so whattaya think
i look at the tv
& everyone appears
to be babies --
i am making
a clear
distinction
as to
the age
of my face
& the years
in my
mind. the mayor
of erie
is 34 with a
last name similar to
filipski.
he's a motherfucker
according to what i
hear, i don't know.
don't care.
idiot fucking mayors
of two-bit pennsylvania
towns. i remember my
aghast knowing the mayor
of ellport
(population 1400)
an inept asshole
with no socially
redeeming
values beyond
the blinders
of his
ego. made me ill
to think
he was
mayor.
i think he's
why i try to turn
from politics,
to spin from
the spin
& not fucking care.
not fucking care
at all.
nuclear bomb.
it's coming.
we all know
it's coming.
it is most
certainly
on the way
in our
simple
awful days ahead
of being
an amerikan
citizen.
i can't
grasp
the peace movement
if we
are being
targeted with absolute
satellite precision.
money buys science.
money buys technology.
money buys people.
money buys history.
money buys time.
oh these goddamn poets
i'm listening to poets from
new mexico from a weber cd,
a woman, a man
read alternating stanzas
& it's very well
done, it sounds very much
like a deliberate,
well-thought-out poem.
the woman has a
woman poet's voice,
& the guy
sounds a little like pinsky.
you know,
i mean you realize
most poetry
is a lie.
life is
fucked up,
noisy,
ignorant,
broken-
throated,
mu-
tated.
i don't fault
these goddamn poets
who are so intellectually
good,
but fuck,
where is MY world?
oh,
right here.
on my
fingers
like
dribbles of honey.
hartenbach
now there's a
lurker, he leans
to the screen
to read
this. flabbergasted
that's the word
best describes
our generation
as the wave of us
slows, levels with
the ocean of timelessness
& foreverness
& forgetfulness
& meaninglessness
meaninglessness
but for
smile,
that's all,
a smile,
& that's more than
anything
else.
it's strange to be half-syrian
we are all
something. think
black in 1950
for example.
think how many
people resigned
to the dictates
of inferiority.
whole lives
lost.
it's a little
cooler to be
half-black
these days,
but half-syrian,
nyet.
thousands of syrians
marching in the streets
of damascus
praising saddam!
fuckers!
& at the same time
i admire
the opposite struggle
of celebration --
the fists in the air
against this monster
of freedom & deception.
does anyone remember
steppenwolf's song.
my mother was
birthed on the boat
from syria
to ellis island.
to be born
at sea
between two
strange lands
& then
to be born
from
her in amerika
baby-boomer
baby-boomer
baby-boomer
baby-boom
surprise
i woke up.
damn. couple
inches snow over-
night, & i'm hungry
enough to brave
predawn winter
to clear the snow
from the jeep
& drive in 4-wheel
drive to the 24-hour
store up the hill
to get gas & cash
from the cash machine
then drive down
to pano's restaurant
in blizzard darkness.
drunken punk couple
& a lone man sit
in booths in the smoking
section, but not me,
non-smoking,
all alone at 6:30 a.m.
facing the picture-window
looking out as snow
piles up
eating
eggs
homefries
bacon
sausage
& wheat
toast
with 2 cups
of great coffee.
i eat fast
with my dentures in,
& consider not coming
back home after eating,
maybe driving down to
the partially frozen
lake is an
idea, i think,
but quickly
dismiss,
& here i am
at the keyboard
sniffling from
the cold.
it all makes sense.
it all fits into my experience
of existing.
click to view movie/poem - eggs