It’s no news to Philadelphia: for some time, the majority has been sufficiently dissatisfied. Early this morning the anxiety of man resolved the longing to occupy and protesters pitched camp simply to solicit some emotion in the heart, in the city hall’s plaza
the mayor addressed helicopters reported broad shouldered blue uniforms stood akimbo
but downtown monotony persisted heels clanked bronze tarnished bicycles flew envelopes suits paid coins to hotdog carts busses chugged and stopped chugged and stopped gutters held stagnant stench
but in the plaza angst grew to anguish as roll cages clattered at the close of day irate with oblivion the craving for the return to instinct launched fists bullets buckshot sandbags gas and mud
behind each tessellated window a citizen envisioned the ruination unconscious, threw fits on the mattress pipes gurgled and thumped current throbbed through the grid dogs whimpered and scratched at the walls the war scorched within and without the plaza
the occupation already had ended when the uneasy commuters departed a sign in the center of the plaza stated this is real
Day is man illuminating faith while revealing the unwanted often quick-tempered and short sometimes working and laughing late never overstaying his welcome
Night is woman naked, omnipotent, a revolution she comes when she pleases to quiet her boisterous companion she thunders through the sky tall and dynamic and wise
I am dawn, a slow entanglement the muttering of produce trucks comfort to weary owls and withered flowers breaking through with the best intentions
I am dusk, a twinkling enchantment the flicker on of neon signs an anxiety of the unfamiliar or review of the customary seduction of honest things
day as man night as woman picking berries and throwing stones a random thief and methodical officer chasing time around the globe only to be followed returning home and commandeering boy, girl, all and other
I have just awoken from chasing the wilderness through schools that don’t exist but I have seen before over windowsills and to the corner of the wooden stairwell, much like the one I saw when I first dreamed the feeling of being at home
now, seeking strength in bitter liquid I go shoeless down those steps to purchase two dollar quarts at the corner store – I want to pay more if only to ensure some sort of equity among cows, but with only fistfuls of change I am unable to pave the farm to streets where the divine bovine wander
they told me to get back to nature but I couldn’t catch the bus there – looking down, I found a stoop flower out of place and remembered that I am glad for the way I was raised
when she lived in the building with the sprinklers the most she ever played was stacks piecing apart the piles just to put them back but she grew weak of keeping up with the entropy so sat silent in circles of dust irate with the vacuum cleaner jealous of shelves and kitchen windows ravenous of the fire in which she would drown
in the night, the walls resounded the throws of round hips and soft shoulders, bumped breasts and each hand grabbed hold of another, sank nails in the still beating sins of the skin, and when the pounding temptation razed the house to the ground, their cold souls, shrouded in sheets of fresh sweat, made stacks with old stones, still weak with turned cheeks to father’s threats, for they had danced through the hymnal and tread dead book leaves to wine and cried praise for the name of what brought the house down
when the trees sighed Sunday and autumn fermented, the ghosts of good soldiers rang taps to spark mother morning while the wicked practiced worship of wrongful romance in wisps of sour whiskey in the one third of the room where they woke
the house stood still as though the frame never shook and the cross hung cockeyed above the door
In class this week, we were challenged (in part by Bukowski) to write that poem we’ve been afraid to write. Luckily, I had a lot of material.
Vigil 2
I never remember the things I write when I am drunk “Surprise!” I say every morning but my personality has drowned in shots of Jack alone at The Horse or Maxi’s or whatever’s open the poem, hell, the poet, a characterless reservoir of other people’s traits that I have convinced myself are carefully selected groomed best practices but it turns out I have no qualities definable or desirable on any resume or application dating website or simple purchase of the vice in which I bathe
During the vigil I sat outside in waiting rooms in a pack of cigarettes munching adderol and beating myself with the mashed potato pounder in the pungent steaming stew of talking it out finally aware of the cycles of the loathing dark suppressed the sleepless nights of flaming youth dragging my head from the day’s obligation to pure inebriation every single night constructing each interpersonal interaction in the mindspace of the worst kind of person I don’t want to be and I’m only alive for today because goddamnit I have something else to say and again I have reprogramed my brain but this time recklessly allowed myself to pack up the love for the person who didn’t show up to the reading in a lock box never intended “To Be Addressed at a Later Date” only to come bursting out in eye water on the stoop of the girl I barely know
How can I learn to relax while waiting when I hate myself so, all I know is I hope to forget these days but maybe that’s where this all began
The morning after the vigil there were more paper cups of coffee wrapped in shitty napkins butts snuffed out in piss rain water books untangled, and we packed up the nest and we went to get ready for the work always surprised at the way it’s alright and grateful to the poem for writing itself
trash like animals scurries scared, full of shame completely wasted of consumption empty, brittle, salted turns to give a name a man a mouse a magazine and rolls up the way of weeds to work
and in the night, stolen scaffolding sprung from wild sidewalk erected hope for the white stoned university of capital and square capped college of the rent is too damn high, and expectations are low but the neighbors are too, it angered the grandmother oracle smoking Newports in housecoat monotony, scratching mumbling spitting spiteful for the way flight raised a generation, and the sweet and steaming streets grew hard of miscommunication, a placid summer replaced by terrycloth and pens and keychains and spoiled scathing disregard, where the white-faced infestation bubbled and swarmed and flew in on daddy’s credit card that’s buying a degree, that filled the streets with jealousy and broken glass, where the stoop dogs sipped blue beer from black bags and who burped who called who asked for numbers who smelled the storm from miles away but remained unmoved, where the drugged youth now carried knives and moaned when dragged by mothers, braids and tiny shoes and big brown eyes sincerely pissed and rightly so, because from here you can see all kinds of problems in the world, from a state-run school with a concrete playground to home the place where it all went down, where the men patrolled with guns and some in uniform, and waved them out of the lamplight anxiety of getting shot but not of shooting, where busses groaned and backhoes beeped backwards and trucks grumbled and bicycles chattered and motorbikes hollered and little cars screamed when touched, where cats smiled in heat and the pigeons returned to waddle hop for scraps, where the bowels of this city bent in pain and spewed madness and coffee and blood, and cured it with alcohol and cigarettes and pleasant falsehoods and grinding sadness, where we where we where we constructed our gods like children playing down to the river and up on the rock in the city for which they promised windows of light and the love of a brother, a steeple for the sacred and a bounty of progress, where the brass buttoned patriots decreed and the feet of the eager hung above a fish jumping river, where a clear clanging bell would sound music for the metropolis.
barefoot dragging on Atlantic beach or city streets unbeseeched, released, keeping keys from those who bend the coast, toasting to the beasts we imitate late at night, unabashed boxers on my porch, unrelated losers in our phone cells, waiting for hope that passes with the moons, asses on display for polo-ed pedestrians — regardless of the races, attempting to blend into the pastel amenities of the strife of white washed wonderment, singing out to those, offended, calling bird sounds while hiding on dark balconies just to ruffle the uplookers.
Victoria calls to me amidst the din of the sea, as casual men act businessly, emotions breaking at the elements, we are obliged to repent the closing of seasons, unable to cope with the hibernation, the couple sits, anxious of the chorus of angelic judges. the casual man looks them down, glances around, takes a big swallow and declares inside his mind that he is irritated.
Plaid absurdities abound down slatted boardwalk, heterosexuals holding hands in the misery of vacationing the American Dream — we come to these places to forget our loneliness but I don’t think it works that way, combovers and high heels and kakis and strollers and credit cards, high white chairs on empty beaches
I saw your friend today, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, fighting against the wind, but I knew you far from the breakers, while others train for imaginary goals, above the giggling of housewives breaking the rules, a set of young things beep beep sifting through sand to find that the silver earrings and cover-ups never filled the abyss. consumers of only the produced, unaware of us wing-ed, us sing-ed in preparation for the good fight, when we fill our plastic bags with sunglasses and summaries and other shells of the imagined history of humanity, sitting on bloodshot heaviness, pondering the orange tinted babes: how do you put away the animal, eyelined objects of my jealousy? I tried to cage the fish and bird but with no where to live they survived for another — perhaps, then, my introversion has purpose — in the hatchery, born blue for Freedom or yellow for Jaundice — I can’t remember.
Armed bicyclists patrol, seeking order for the sick minded senator we sigh when resign for the days when no one can be bothered by their irresponsible, inconceivable bureaucracy In chapter 47 of the rules of consumption, Jonathan Livingston, what happened to your ugly flight? Have you sequestered yourself to the depths forever? Did they ground you once you saw the sunrise?
Night steeps on this old North street and unfurls across the ocean emulsifying the lines of asphalt and mountain spirits roll across the water and up the block, and I stir for the Earth and my animal — above the jetty or on couch cushions on pavement lightning cracks and waves crash but the movements are no less sublime, no more foreboding than the flag, sighing sweet or all worked up for the storm, in the breath of Hemingway or Meek Mill
Those who like only what they covet are inevitably left disappointed, they came to the beach to watch the terrible news in a different location, caged animals flounce for a chicken-in-a-biscut. “I gotta get outta here, man.” “Out of where?” “America. My Brain.” I’m not a number! I’m Stan! Just a christian looking for love! And I refuse the capitalization of cults!
Excuse me, there is no swimming of people at this time! You wouldn’t like it if dolphins interrupted your commute! I don’t bother to point them out to the next middle aged/class couple who comes to visit my rooftop cockpit to peruse coupon books. Yeah, well your patterned skort and all-leather interior don’t impress the marine wildlife, either! Button-down anxiety is the same on the cusp of the sea or insanity, wound around tight buttcheeks until the bi-monthly get down we call payday — we afford the fees to purge the bowels — sucking the vowels back to cycles — protecting dolphins from printed obituaries and the rest of this wild world.
Jonathan Livingston Seagull, secret hero of all my poems! Prisoner of my pants secrets! Waiting on a joint and a quart of Yuengling I smoked countless cigarettes staring past the red-headed sailors of souls, you couldn’t see me parked right on the other side of this hand, breaking my pencil in nervousness with Babylon half closed burping up the words I find and politics of old wondering how I write in the drunken dark well, Grandma, I have peen practicing the devotion to vice and I am not sorry.
In the end, everything smelled like leaving and old people pee. I shouted Ginsberg from the roof in the rain to the sea toward home O VICTORY! FORGET YOUR UNDERWEAR! WE’RE FREE! the seagulls squawked a thousand years of censorship and the barges trudged along, so I tried other revolutionaries I HAVE A DREAM! I’M ALL SHOOK UP! IT AIN’T ME, BABE! and among the stolen lines I bleat my famous last words, I’M NOT SCARED OF YOU!
We scientists never intended the word universe to have a plural these two-spirited print-out poems from the high-speed artists of passion in disorder when law strings dig in unmitigated ignorance we liberated the negative chain of affirmations borrowed this boy’s life near open education reliability is so tedious where nowhereisempty looks slow; is faster
It was never intended to be poetic until things got angry in the twenty sex word zoo while the groping misappropriation road salt caked windows biting my touching tongue to keep my teeth from clenching the probability of my existence is negligible because I have climbed palaces, parishes and pastures albeit, a tourist belligerent before bedtime
Although I understand how one could come to feel enchained, I do not think we can survive if we remain in our recirculated self-hatred for the laws of grammar and the flags of our fathers erected without our permission born amiss the ruination, we are left responsible for changing the mindset of the worker from the railroads and the city from the grid we are capable unfaithful to the precedents of presidents for taking chances - weak are those who vote wrongly in favor of this head of party but never fulfilling the founding intentions lifeless is the hiss of recycled tradition we beer filled children of God Philadelphians! Frigid from the start when I get older, I will hit the track
domesticating all that we observe underestimating our oneness of drawers at the end of the night of the fight of the day and our everyday flight in I love you is falling and the cracks in the sidewalk steep long summer days and your mother is calling, though she doesn’t know why, frightened of the grin she sees in your eyes, anxious of the grave she spots from the shore, embarrassed of achievement and everything more, angry at repetition for being one of the rules, and for being an outcast, though she provided the fuel, after the death of cleverness, she’s most angry for birthing speculatively unknowingly, recklessly and the mistakes we made we take out on others become mistakes made, taken out on others, hustling our feverish dreams, for the dreamers take while the doers make heavy work of dharma standing on feet and something is coming together something is coming into focus something is new and I can’t tell which but I promise to keep sniffing until I find piece of mind in the words already put together in that order nothing is unique, all gorgeous, glorious, euphoric in the singularity when I am at peace and everyone else is too of cockle shells and avenues so Let’s practice, take me to your dues to your hang out spot and daily news to the milk crates reserved for Friday night blues but tell them that I warned you that although we are all here we are not cooperating
Today I laid my cards out on the floor saw whirlwind love and so much more I can’t just chalk it up to folklore
Now we got rainy days this sunshine may drawin long on what we say diggin and tokin on some fine yesterday
Baby I cried your name out to the moon begged her — will I see him soon she smiled tenderly pulling tides in between singin child get on home to me
Baby I hawked all my books today bought an old typewriter just to say stupid love, leave yesterday to them You know I’d walk to Chicago if you’d just take my hand Now we’ve been cooped up here a very long time I’m quite sorry to say that try as I may I just can’t get you off my mind
And ya caught me dancin down my street jellyfish without a beat I saw you smile confidently and I saved that smile just for me
Suck down that vice baby at least you’ll die unusually and so will I but I got time we’ll just have to see
I know you’re so damn occupied but baby dem blues in your baby blue eyes You know I know ya know I’ve got the cure
I’m just tired of poundin down on sidewalk wishin on the cracks that we talk through the wall I know you know I know all you got to do its call
And I cried your name out to the moon begged her — will I see him soon she smiled tenderly pulling tides in between singin child get on home to me
Baby I hawked all my records today bought an old guitar just to say stupid love, leave yesterday to them You know I’d walk to Chicago if you’d just take my hand Now we’ve been cooped up here a very long time I’m quite sorry to say that try as I may I just can’t get you off my mind
Copying language rather than waiting around Beer bottle blues set through his mask. “I’m Listening to the Dave Matthews Band. Let’s do this shit.” she called from the fishbowl. and we baked our brains bloated and we flowered the living room and the turkeys came and the ostriches and the Fonz came too the crows sat apart and were sullen.
She told me that I was jesus and that I should grow a beard pishaw, I am no candidate for the prophecy; while feigning the actions I want others to see, I am holographically angry at the thing to which I do not understand the rules.
In the living room, finally enjoying dinner at a table like never before in families of serendipity in an attempt to prevent underestimating this steam, these dirty genes and unreasonable dreams run on and on and on with our sentences, deficient little absurdities in some clean fabric amateur connoisseurs of culture and terrified collectors of the everyday life.
