Call Me Horse

Yet another poem after which the narrator (I!) die.


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Call me Horse

Call me horse
I bucked my rider
saddle, spurs, whip smashed
I don't know how to be
without rider, or reins
I stand beside a lake
I splash the tide with bloody hoof
I step in, wade, deeper
I won a few races
My rider rode me great
She braided pink roses
into my tail and mane

She called me
good horse, pretty horse
Neck-deep I taste the lake
with living tongue I taste
I take a final step
No raging scream of horse
Dismays this place of peace
At end I’m not a pet
no lesser thing may pet me now
or call me pretty, good
I bucked my rider
Call me horse Read more!

Misc. Words

Haven't posted in a while, so, here's everything since around the beginning of March...



[untitled i]
Out of bright ideas,
a vaccuum,
imploding
one disaster at a time.

Hard and harsh decisions,
tumultuous,
bubbling and boiling over
like an unwatched pot.

Sidewalks,
too cold
for waiting or sleeping,
skies too gray for hope,

so many palms
open, outstretched,
demanding,
and I have nothing left to give.

Misfortune magnet,
and for all of my love,
I remain
empty-handed,

and sticks and stones
break fewer bones than words
without truth or meaning--
the lies suck the light from the air,

and there's not enough sugar
to sweeten this cup,
but still I convulsively swallow,
and still I can't seem to stop breathing.
4.21

[untitled ii]
Tell me it's just a bad dream,
make me believe in salvation;
remind me that heaven's for sinners
who crawled on hands and knees--
that's all there is to forgiveness:
bathe in the blood,
and holiness touches your soul.

So give me a knife, and I'll baptize
the world in a river of red,
I'll offer my body as bread,
and all the vultures can eat their hearts out.
Yes, feed on this flesh, sink your teeth
into milky white thighs,
and show me what Jesus felt like.
4.22

[r]eject
Perfectly undone,
clutching the picture with the broken glass
that shattered when we fell;

slipping into
the ocean's undertow,
crushed and consumed by
the building pressures of the constant
ebb and flow
of holes,
created by a lack of you;

but I don't want your sorry's,
and I don't need your touch,
and I don't need your lips
to resuscitate me,
breathe me back to life;

no, I don't want your worries,
and I don't need your love;
all you ever do
is drag me down,
you won't drag me down with you.

If you crash and burn
without me there to
catch you when you fall,
well, that's your fault
for counting on me to be your machine--
because this is version 2.0.

I don't need your sorrow,
and I don't need your hand,
and I don't want your sleepy voice
to lull me back to sleep;
I can dream just fine alone.
4.22

Spring [loaded]
Sad eyed bunny killer:

drink the nectar,
gulp it down with pills
that stabilize,
yet still distract you.

Strange youthful gaze
in melted chocolate hue--

captivate me, stimulate
this stagnant pool of thoughts,

link fingers and
stroll with me down
concrete softened by a honey glow;

remind me how to dance.

Show me something new and
far away--unused;
the journey's half the fun...

the other half's your smile.
4.12


Shell
It all burned down,
flaunting flames in the face
of waves that gently lapped, not raced,
to touch us,
too late to salve or save,
good only for washing away
the ashes.
Staring into the faded inferno,
clutching at the remains,
there is no bitterness, only marvel
at destruction's beauty.
4.9

Fix[er-upper]
It doesn't excite me
when you invite me
to do all the touching and loving;
I said it isn't all about me,
but sometimes it should be,
and your apathetic approach hurts
more than I'll ever let on.
But bring it on,
I'll take the pain with the rest of you.
I do my best to make you grin,
and I love the smell of your skin,
the tiny goosebumps that cover it
when I lightly brush my fingertips
against your sides and your hips,
and how you smile when you call me lame.
But it stings,
to know you really think I'm silly
and weak.
You really believe that,
when I've spent so much time
smoothing out the rough edges
so that nothing would cut you to the bone
when you rub against me.
I made a mistake, when I cried
in bed beside you,
and told you not to tell me you love me
unless you mean it.
I almost think the lie would be better
than the bald faced truth that freezes
everything between us.
I clung to the smiles and memories of muttered profanities
for as long as I could,
but I don't know if they're enough anymore--
except that I'm certain
that it's all I'm going to get.
The only thing holding me back
from cutting my losses and running
is the knowledge
that you won't even miss me,
and I'm too self-centered to leave
until you need me.
4.9

Puppy Love
soft,
gentle persuasion,
coax,
infinite patience;

speak:
tone most important;
words:
inflection is all;

soothe,
gestures recurrent,
earn
trust, love, and respect
3.12

Hold Tightly (to Hope)
A song tattooed on a
heart, a melody
that flows in bold font and
sharp angles,
curves diving under
soft fabric,
softer skin,
and what lies beneath?
Below the outer covering of
denim-hidden silk,
behind the veil of
criss-cross testaments to pain:
a fragile tune
that resonates
emotion,
a frantic belief
that somewhere,
there is more
than suffering.
3.12

For Nothing
I have nothing to offer up
but myself
and it seems
I am no worthy sacrifice;
the gods demand
virginal blood,
and mine simply won't do.
Never mind that it's there,
regardless,
spilled out on those
cold stone stairs to heaven,
accepted or no--
and it's all going to waste,
a pointless offering.
No sins are absolved,
no pain assuaged;
it's just one more dark stain,
one of countless testaments
to cruelty and
human worthlessness.
3.11

Read more!

Think Before You Ink

13 Words that Should Never Appear in Poetry





1.heart

Possibly the most overused metaphor in the English language. Avoid it. The Roman physician Galen said the liver, not the heart, is the true seat of human passion. Considering the number of alcoholic poets with fucked up love lives, this seems a plausible hypothesis.

2.feel

Nobody cares how you feel. Instead of writing poetry about how depressed you are, try writing something original, like how depressed your poetry makes everyone else.

3.moon

Yes, the moon is pretty. No, the moon will not make your poem pretty. This rule applies to many words, like “star,” “flower,” and “rainbow.” If you really think your poem needs to be prettier, try writing it in glitter.

4.dream

Writing about dreams is like writing about masturbation, except masturbation is funny.

5.cigarette

Smoking didn't make you cool in high school, and it won't make your poetry cool either. Just because something occupies 50% of your waking thoughts doesn't mean it should occupy 50% of your written work.

6.the soul

You don't even believe in the soul, so why are you writing about it? Try writing a poem about something you do believe in, like how someday you'll actually make a living writing poetry.

7.anything Buddhist

If you want to be Beat, then pop some pills, hitchhike to Mexico, and fuck whores. Until then, spare me the bodhisattva bullshit.

8.love

If you still believe in love, you haven't lived enough to write poetry. If you're writing a poem about how you no longer believe in love, please, save it for therapy.

9.mirror

Like “door,” “window,” or “stairs,” mirror carries a standard symbolic meaning and should only be used if referring to the thing itself. Try an original juxtaposition, like “dishwasher of compassion.”

10.names

Kitschy name-dropping is forgivable, but pretentious name-dropping never is. Just because I don't read books doesn't mean I need to be reminded of it.

11.beautiful

If you need to say it's beautiful, then it probably isn't. Kinda like personal ads.

12.mysterious

Nothing kills the mystery faster than calling something mysterious. In fact, eliminate every adjective from your poetry. And the adverbs, but that should go without saying.

13.poem

Self-referential poetry is the surest sign you've run out of ideas.

Read more!

Exhibitionism

Turn inside out.
Pull it through the mouth:
The bones and guts and brains,
The blood and the bile and the beating heart.
Pull it though the mouth:
Tongue first, throat first,
Till the skin's on the inside,
And the meat's exposed.
Read more!

Sabataged by a Black Magic Brownie

Well, here's the levity folks! May I burst first into tears, next into flames at Tony's. Attention Frank Sauce. Speed-dial 9-1-1!


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Sabotaged by a Black Magic Brownie
I was so excited about the John Hogl reading
Thinking of John Hogl I shaved and trimmed my goatee.
I thought of all the pretty poet girls I have crushes on,
surely they’d be there for John Hogl--I’ve seen a photo,
he is a very good looking man, so I combed my goatee
thinking of the poet girls and John Hogl, how I would flirt
with them all, how I would not drink too much to
embarrass myself, but just drink enough to flirt,
hoping one of them--the girls or John Hogl would make
the first move because I’m incapable of making moves
first, middle or last--but even if I swing and miss all night
it wouldn’t be bad at all to be stuck in the batter’s box
with John Hogl, and maybe he would like my poem.
So I labored like Heracles all week on that rough beast
dirty soap-in-the-mouth mike g poem, I’d call it--
In praise of the great poet John Hogl. I lost sleep.
I tried to imitate John Hogl’s eloquence but false
it rang in my voice, false in rang in type--I tried to
invoke the eternal spirit of Hogl by copying in pen
a few of his poems. I imagined his voice. It came:
I was certain it was the spirit of John Hogl coming to my aid
fuck, shit, cunt, fuck her in the ass she likes it that way
the spirit of Hogl sang, or so I dreamed.
I was too nervous to eat. Poet chicks! John Hogl!
What great times we’d have and maybe later
we’d stagger to the Matador everyone brilliant
and beautiful. I called Robyn. She’d be home from school.
5 o’clock. So exciting I said to her--John Hogl’s
coming--oh, she said, is that the dude you been fixated on
all week--look Robyn, are you comin’ or not--I gotta
start planning my big evening--John freakin’ Hogl!
Ugh! she sighed. I’d like to go. You got some weed?
Hash brownies baby--dude from work gave ’em to me
I’ll be over in ten minutes.
I planned on just takin’ a bite or two,
give the rest to her. I gotta be on my game
for John Hogl, and the ladies, I thought.
But at her place, so puffed up with self-importance,
and pride in my poem’s irreverent power,
and prospects of a holy encounter with John Hogl
I inhaled that enormous brownie, downed it with pbr,
stood up, told Robyn: I’d be back in 50 minutes
to pick you up so you can bask in our glory:
mine, John Hogl‘s. So be ready Robyn! You ain’t
gonna wanna miss either of us I slurred as I left
The dark magic in the brownie already had me--
I panicked, barely made it home, threw up,
self-induced--I’ve gotta see John Hogl I moaned
to the toilet bowl--I’m mike g I gotta see the Hogl
the Hogl gotta see mike g--it’s important--staring
into the toilet I saw the face of the poet chick I like most
she frowned at me--I wiped my mouth with toilet paper
her face still there--she said: looks like you fucked up mike g
no me no Hogl no Tony’s--nigh nigh! beddy bye!
pushed myself off the floor with both hands on porcelain
stared at the clock in horror: 8 o’ clock, I’m fucked up
everybody’s probably there early, even the Hogl!
I staggered, clownishly to my bed to my bag grabbed
my poem, I gotta read for the Hogl! I staggered to the
bathroom mirror, vomit on my turtleneck collar. I tried to
read aloud, slurred, stammered. oh no--I’ve ruined my life
I said, I’m sick, I’m, I’m I’m a--sorry John Hogl--
somehow I dialed Robyn’s #, left a message, too high
for the hogl, too high ohhhh! next day I learned she was
already passed out--I collapsed on my bed, my nice
black shoes, all shined and pretty for the hogl I couldn’t
take off--the clock said 8:30--I closed my eyes and
the terror came. green-purple vines quickly shifted
to grey and black wild geometries through which
tiny purple machine elves marched like soldiers in
terrifying methodical rows--they were coming for my brain
my last thought was I love you John Hogl . . . Read more!

Dark Night (2nd Draft)

For St. John of the Cross. "Depression" is too clinical a word.


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Dark Night
the universe gets its kicks when I get gloomy
she sticks the sun deep into her pocket
snaps her fingers and it rains on me
I get cold always in this relentless present
I can’t call anyone and talk about it
I’m cold, I have 50 friends I can’t lift the phone
the universe bares her breasts, glorious, scary
I can’t take a shower I can’t lift the page
from my stack to get to the words I need to get to
next week is too far, I can’t walk to that sunny land
I am a circle of suffering I don’t know how to move
in a straight line anymore cold bared breast
of universe I am not allowed to suck I am
3 packs of cigarettes a day hungry
still hungry I sit in the rain, the sun has left
crumbs in another cage, unlocked, open as mine
but I can’t move from this miserable chair
the radio said it’s a beautiful day, better enjoy it
tomorrow is rain I say to the radio today is rain
you don’t speak for me! you don’t speak for my
suffering loves, friends, 50--each with a dark night
time table of their own--stabbed in the side,
hung on the cross is each, each in our own time
and the hieroglyphs of tears is all I can write
in this time of rain, cold sun stuffed in a pocket
I ask the universe nicely, please, please sunshine
on my face like when I was a child, playful child
I wanna play again, again in the sun, a new god
at play unworried no cross no cold just I wanna be--
please can I have that again just 5 minutes please
the universe says its not personal, you take
everything so personal, just change the way you think
if a man doesn’t work a man shouldn’t eat
it’s not personal, why don’t you take a shower?
I look long upon the beautiful unused bar of soap
I think, those were the days: sunshine, timeless play
now is time, now is dark night
If I get through this I’ll read these words to my friends
my place of timeless play, naked, stage,
sunshine [tick tock] till time finds me

Read more!

Dark Night Repast (1st draft)

For my friend Dennis Mcbride


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Dark night 2

I can’t talk to friends again
until I am the I that’s fun,
until I am the I they love
the clock is a sadist
my mom is worried
I tell her I’m fine I keep to the surface
the surface preserves my life
5 minute phone call I can do it
I keep to the surface
work is fine, writing makes me happy
my friends great, genius
Mondays and Tuesdays are genius
but it’s Wednesday now, Wednesday
I say how are you,
dad, brother, sister, nieces, nephew
I say it so quick run on I can’t care
I am disaster, disconnect
everybody ok?, I’m ok, really, really
I’m not there, riffling through papers,
looking for a word to help me
I’m a kite snagged in a tree,
that’s nice mom I hear myself say, voice other,
not mine, holding back panic
cheeks full of it, hand covering
mouth, I’m busy I love you,
how do I tell my mother my dishes grow mold
this is disconnect, disaster, I am bystander
to my body, hunched shadow with cigarette
if I were like you mom, I could throw my soul
into a strong man’s arms and take refuge too
Enjoy your refuge. I’m happy you found it.
I can’t, I can’t, I’ll call you soon.
my claws and fangs worn down civilized!
I’ll never be that wild thing
where the wild things are, a child
happy eternal in a book
the timeless to time transition I never wished for came true
the snow used to glide onto my tongue
sweet cold pleasure winter
winter bad now, bad now spring, summer fall
Don’t feel my head for heat
Don’t stick that thing in my rectum
when I say I’m too sick for school
I’m not sick that way
I’m remnant of animal
the pet bird understands me
she won’t sing or eat
I won’t sing or eat
she just decided to die
somehow I knew it
communed, figured it out, grieved
do not pluck a rose for me
do not lay me cold in a suit I never wore
do not let strangers make me up
I make me up
lay me in the wild blue flowers
beneath wild sky and timeless moon
let me be food in my final posture
wild I rise,
night not dark
there is light
Read more!

trying to move on

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE
i shall expound on this topic and expand the regions of my own suffering

THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
I’m Trying to Move On
from my childhood, the claws of my mother,
claws of my first God, the God who said no
no no, made a mantra of no, be a good boy,
listen to your teachers, no--do not squirm
in sunday school, no do not turn your face
when i kiss you goodnight, mother’s lips
unwanted on mine, first God unwanted Read more!

dark night

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE
first draft inspired by blue monk reading everyone glorious alive i have to wake in 6 hours and work is hate

THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Dark Night
maybe the universe gets its kicks when we get gloomy
she sticks the sun deep into her pocket
snaps her fingers and it rains on me
I get cold always forever it seems forever
i can’t call anyone and talk about it
i’m cold, i have 50 friends i can’t lift the phone
the universe bares her breasts, glorious, scary
i want to die i can’t take a shower i cant lift the page
from my stack to get to the words i need
to stay stay here alive next week is too far
i am a circle of suffering i don’t know how to move
in a straight line anymore cold cold cold bared breast
of universe i am not allowed to suck i am hungry
3 packs of cigarettes a day hungry i steal i’m
still hungry i sit in the rain i forget that love has left
her crumbs beneath the door i can’t move to
i cant move, i cant move from this miserable chair
the radio said it’s a beautiful day, better enjoy it
tomorrow is rain i say to the radio today is rain
you don’t speak for me! you don’t speak for my
suffering loves, friends, 50--each with a dark night
time table of their own--stabbed in the side,
hung on the cross is each of us, each in our own time
and the hieroglyphs of tears is all i can write
in this time of rain, cold sun stuffed in a pocket
i ask the universe nicely, please, please sunshine
on my face like when i was a child playful child
i wanna play again again in the sun, a new god
at play unworried no cross no cold just i wanna be
please can i have that again just 5 minutes please
the universe laughs says its not personal you take
everything so personal just relax and roll with it
you are an adult now work work money money
if a man doesn’t work a man shouldn’t eat just
roll with it man the universe said to me
and i said, don’t take it personally? serious?
do you see the mold on my dish i cant wash!
the impossible pile of unopened mail i cant open
myself its too hard i write myself strong i am not
strong cold wet sun in your pocket dark night too
long i gotta call somebody the universe ain’t no help
work is worst worst worst money terrible food
money beer smokes i am chained to these
and my friends i cant tell them i cant wash a dish
i can’t wash myself i can’t change my shirt
i cant lift a page i cant love them i cant lose them
i cant talk to them until the sun is glued to the sky
and i’m once again a boy, playful new god
i can’t talk to them again until i am the i that’s fun,
until i am the i they love Read more!

poetry contest

poetry contest!!


i think we should all enter it! it would be cool!

http://www.powells.com/poetrycontest.html

Read more!

I'd Like to Write Nice Someday

Legend John Hogl reads at Tony's Tonight. Inspired by his work, I wrote.


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
I’d Like to Write Nice Someday

A poem to share with my parents
non-offensive to their suburb-slave-camp America
I’d like to write about trees,
magnificent, multifoliate trees, naked sunny
sweaty spread-legged trees
but when I see trees I see broken fingers
in bunches ripping out of the suffering ground,
tortured insomniatic ground of not Being,
To be the wandering corpse of Portland is my dream
I said no to Christ, your church blows, you corpse
nailed to broken fingers, no!

he said wander, I never knew thee; fine, I’ll wander,
go back to Bethlehem, stab you in the manger,
squeal! squeal! war-monger, anti-messiah!
squeal! squeal! dis-believer of free mind,
free poetry, free dance, cock, vagina sunrise
I am zombie writing sonnets on the complex
metaphysics of eating brains
I won’t tolerate rejection slips no more!
Perish publishers! Perish! I say!

I’d like to write nice someday
a brief lyrical piece about my ex-wife
how sublime the sun bleeds on the chains
of our domesticity, gashes in the wall
where you hurled your knives, how wide you spread
your legs for others our whole time
while I slaved to pay for our whole time,
the stars you scooped from my mind
and tossed in the trash I can’t get back
I did the same to you, we, same, the draft
is final, we fucked, fought, prayed
wept for escape to a safe place.
no more commingling in the kitchen
no more beholding left-of-heaven night-rising
as one wet organism, no more grace

I’d like to write nice someday
I’d like to not languish when I wake,
gag-whore.com morning! Wasted, wasting time
I languish, I can’t take a shower, too much work,
my cock doesn’t work, all I am is words
friends, universe, not enough

Lord, O dark lord let me languish no more!
Breathe your dark music into my lungs
that I may sing something true, a girl giggling
in the waves before the rage of going mute
my shoulders slouch from the weight
take this rage away

I’d like to write nice someday
a robin on a branch with a worm in her beak
in her brain are pretty constellations
she taught me how to sing, not pretty things,
true things, I knew the pretty, the true
is not always pretty, my robin taught me,
my robin is the prettiest bird in the world
my robin is Emily Dickinson trans-sexually risen,
hatching from the prison, moonward she rises
the worm in her beak is me
the sun on the leaves is blood,
conjugal of robin and worm, illicit!
crazy mashing bestiality of lives, crazy

I’d like to write nice some day
But when I wake the robin at my side
has tears which blaze on the feathers of her face,
I rise to lick them back to happiness,
more, more, I can’t lick fast enough
my face should not have feathers, she says,
my face is ugly, my feathers ugly
I desire the suffering ground happy
Every godforsaken leaf, robin, worm
It’s too much, I crack, I demand to be
swallowed by robin, demand to be not
neither robin on the branch
nor robin in my bed says yes.

I’m left with rage, blaze, life!
rage, blaze, ranting cunt and fuck on the mic,
poems I can’t show my parents
someday I’d like to write nice
today is not, there’s languish to lick,
there’s fuck off, God. Read more!

Bitch, Brilliant Poet, I Love You, Hate You

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Bitch, Brilliant Poet, I Love You, Hate You

Darling, bitch whose star I follow,
I, bastard fool, bring gifts from the east
gifts of heat, diseased, soon-deceased heat
I do not desist in my duty. I follow my star
to your bed, morning, stiff, hot
begging, question, say yes to my crawl
across the cold limp world, tap of my talons
against your window, I crawl across the world
to your sacred river--I dip my tongue in it
I’ll write about that some day! Bitch!
we are cohorts, poets, co-whores
we are one poem of millions in morning--
your poet-thick hair in my face, morning
smoke, rose, us--the poem I cramp,
tight, unable to write.
I cry, caw, squawk,
I am a crow because I say so.
wings broken, I crawl
I don’t care what you are
I follow your star, poet, whore, lord
I give you my heat, yours I eat
you read right before me
I lick the microphone when you’re done
clean like your pussy
But it ain’t all sweet
we are assholes!
we taste like assholes!
life makes me nervous
I can’t grok your song,
brilliant, other, poet
I cum on your tits triumphant!
our bodies fit, nothing else
both of us in pain
we can’t last
we are crazy,
we are each a puzzle piece
not fitting, unfit
something about my tongue pisses you off
you’d rather have me silent, hard
your bed, your leisure
hostile, poet
we cram into each other
angry, unfit
cramming, twisting, grunting the new poem forth--
and then we fight, demean each other’s work,
we are frustrated, unfit, drunk
you say I talk too much
I say, tear out my tongue and throw it to the stars,
See! See! this blood pouring from my mouth
onto the page--keep it, it’s a break-up poem!
my words shall rant in a galaxy bright,
galaxy irregular, misfit, happy galaxy
the dead limp parts of me made luminous
in your absence--joy to the tongue, mine! mine!
shine sick galaxy shine
I shall forget that you exist, bitch
I shall be a god in my new galaxy
I’m getting sleepy
Forgive me
we sleep in the poem, sleep the poem off
hangover poem
you make breakfast, eggs, bacon
you smile and say,
last night was fun
let’s do it again
rant poems to each other’s faces
fuck the universe poem
blood of genitals on headboard poem, our poem
perfect, final









Read more!