A Set of My Poems

I Couldn’t Stand

As mortifyingly WONDERFUL

            as all my past relationships

                        have been

with their stiletto knife tears

            ravaged voice boxes

threats of being committed

            (to an asylum and each other)

the locked door cage matches

                        broken finger pointing

guarded litanies of EXCUSES

after evening reports

            of who what when where WHY?!?!?!

I’m taking my jealous

                        expectation-ridden

            heart

and crushing it to pulp

I’m burning the red-flags

            and all the obnoxious

                        trying-to-change

someone

            YOU CLAIM TO LOVE.

Agreeing with me

            IS NOT

a precondition for my affection

Your day job is not

                        making me happy

Your night job is not

            constantly considering

my needs

and hoping you don’t

            do something inadvertently

                        TO PISS ME OFF.

That’s not what you were doing

when I fell in love with you.

It pleases me

for you to go right on

            being

the you

I couldn’t stand

                        to be apart from

that

first

day

we

met.

***************************************

Fucking Sisyphus

O I’m gonna tell you

what really turns me on –

it’s someone tapped into

the lost art of a lost cause

someone giving up

on the whole lousy world

and then choosing to go on

knowing there is no reason to do so

            but the doing.

Fucking Sisyphus, man!

Nothing gets my panties wet

like a man or a woman

heavy lifting some god-forsaken

boulder up a mountainside

besides

watching them chase it down again.

This is not the same

as tripping over the same stone.

I like deliberate futility –

going in with eyes unveiled

to the purposeless purpose.

Sisyphus had his eyes wide open

he didn’t trip or fall,

I know. Because if he had

I’d been sure to be underneath

him when he did.

His eyes were open, and seeing,

he knew his path all too well.

O if you want to woo me,

tell me about your apathy

how you woke this morning

with a choice between

a shower and a suicide

and decided to get clean,

opened the windows

to let the morning air in

before taking yourself

            up the hill again –

and I’m in.

You, shaking your fist at the wind

hollering at the fall leaves falling

putting caterpillars into therapy

telling them they don’t have

            to change

writing poems on torn napkins

and asking me to

stuff those words down my pants

anything useless, outrageous

that asks too much

and takes too much

and I’m all

            blush.

Fucking Sisyphus, man!

That’s what I’m thinking about

alone in my bed tonight

with my left hand

between my thighs

and my right hand

            on this pen

getting off on this poem.

*********************************

No Name

To call this intersection

of paths

love

is like calling the ocean

a storm cloud

we do not name things

for what they could

or will be

we name them

for what they are

which makes this

            whatever it is

something unnamed

because we are inventing

it as it emerges

I have my terrified moments

I write secret notes

and slip them in an envelope

with fire and magnets

addressed to you

I have my pleasures

thinking of your green walls

and I know you’d rather

see me dolorosa

but you awaken me.

with you I have two hearts.

I will not call the seed

a tree,

nor the tree a house

I will not call the fire

a destroyer

or a candle

I will not name this.

************************************

The idea is

you get your ass

busted

by killers

who worked

on chain gangs

who can open

beer bottles

with their teeth

and gargle

            scotch.

They get you

on the ropes

with a 1-2

a right hook

they break

your nose, then

they make

you get back up.

The idea is

you get your jaw

knocked to the floor

you get to offer

no excuses

you put your own

teeth back in

            swallow

the blood

and walk back

on the job

the next day

with your chin

high.

You look those

roughnecks

in the eye

and say

what

next?

I’m ready.

The idea is

that if you

take your lickings

for being a dumb-shit

and keep going

back to those

brighter, tougher

fighters

eventually

you’ll

learn enough

to stop

getting

kicked.

You’ll

get

the

idea. 

*******************************

Even though I love you telling me no

My panther of the yellow eyes

and cagey pacing,

when your black body

stinking of meat

leapt back into bed

next to me

with your kamikaze purr

and then

when your huge paws

wrapped me in tight

to the lank of your body

teeth so very near

but no, never touching

the neck I always

leave exposed for you

and you told me

you wanted to die like this

gripped in a savage cat’s embrace

face to face

with whiskers and fangs,

I wondered about the surety

of not leaving this life alone.

We both know

this is the kind of question

with no answer.

How do I prove

I love someone?

Is it true my body

ends at the skin

and the wide, starry void

is separate from me?

How do you know

I’ll keep my promises?

Let’s stick to questions

with answers.

Are you here right now?

Am I in your feral arms?

Do we dream?

Yes, panther, yes.

I let your claws open me.

  

A Poem by Hank

Just finished reading "The Last Night of the Earth Poems" by Charles Bukowski ... here is my pick

air and light and time and space
“–you know, I’ve either had a family, a job,
something has always been in the
way
but now
I’ve sold my house, I’ve found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I’m going to have
a place and the time to
create.”

no baby, if you’re going to create
you’re going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you’re going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you’re on
welfare,
you’re going to create with part of your mind and your body blown
away,
you’re going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you’re going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment,
flood and fire.

baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don’t create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.

The New Name

Perhaps you are wondering, what exactly is a self-abusing wondershow?

In short, I think it is you.

But not the polished, presentable, practiced you. I'm talking about the you on your deathbed, in the emergency room, flailing on the floor crying for your lover not to leave, raging against an injustice done to you, snarling at the person who cut in line. The one that springs up unexpected and suddenly takes over your actions as though you were a marionette.

The you you regret, apologize for, put away in a special closet deep in your mind and try to forget. The you it gives you anxiety attacks to think about. The part of you that makes you say, 'well, the good outweighs the bad.'

This self at the raw of yourself is where are all your wounds live. When awoken, you are powerless to your own will because that damaged you needs to be bandaged, needs attention, needs healed. You fling yourself into a haze of acting crazy to try and mete out some justice for your injured self. You sling arrows, you say things you do not mean, you scream, anything to get that other person to listen to what you need.

This is self-abusing. And don't you act like a wondershow?

But, this is not the only self-abusing we do. Also, there is the abandonment of your dreams, the settling for what life gave you, the giving up on being an artist. Perhaps, when first we betray ourselves we cannot help but feel betrayed and used by everyone around us. Which makes us lash out, do harm, be angry.

Can you admit this you is inside of you? This impish, sabotaging devil comes out to wreak havoc every now and again, mostly when you are hurt?

We are all self-abusing wondershows. It makes me happy to come right out and say it about myself, I am not misleading you: I will act the fool.

Please, when it happens, laugh.

Suffering Suffering

Are love and suffering constant companions?

It seems the windmill of what's passed on from generation to generation might be a story of how we all suffer at the hands of those who claim to love us. We're told, "I only do this because I love you." We are taught that people make mistakes and that forgiveness is divine.  We must forgive and forget because family is the most valuable thing in our lives. This is what we are told.

We perpetuate this paradigm, turning on our friends and families and children as adults. Drama ensues. Think about most of your fights with people you love, they seem years later to be practically incomprehensible to have started clan wars over, to print up Team This Person and Team That Person shirts over. We say what's important is the lesson learned.

So what exactly is that lesson? That to love and be loved is to make others suffer and suffer yourself? Give up on love if you want autonomy and happiness? 

There will be no abandonment of love, but is there a way to mitigate the suffering?

The next time someone you love irritates you, hurts you, try something different. Instead of being mad and angry, asking for explanations and justifications and waiting for your opportunity to be cordially forgiving, decide that person does not need to be sorry. Decide there is nothing to forgive because you love that person and are going to keep doing so either way. This is not to demean a genuine apology. Saying you're sorry is a powerful gift and perhaps a necessary element of our being able to move on, both in the giving and in receiving.

Not needing to forgive a person means that you are not angry. So you must focus on how to not be angry with the people you love. The solution centers first around yourself, if you can relinquish the sense of entitlement you feel you have over another person's actions, truly allow them to be themselves, then it is my theory that the anger will fade. The people you love will no longer be able to hurt you because you cannot be hurt by them.

I can't imagine being mad at the people I love right now because I know that what I really want is for them to be themselves, and for that to be ok.  I want them to know that they can be with me without walls or judgement. I don't expect them to adopt my mores as a precondition to my love. They still have their own needs and expectations, and I respect that.

Now, as a self-described self-abusing wondershow, you might argue that I like being hurt and discount your own ability to forgo your anger. I say that it is precisely my masochism that has taught me how to truly love another person. Because being hurt hurt me less than other people, I analyzed and delighted in my suffering, I was able to give my sadness a depth of thought most people avoid. I was able to put aside my ego long enough to see my part in the relationship drama, and attempt to stop making those who love me suffer. In doing so, it also freed me from the particular pain of being disappointed and hurt by the ones I love.

 I learned my lesson: the best gift is loving a person for who they are.

Jayne Deserves Special Attention

This girl is fantastic and deserves to be famous. I made a webpage for her. Jayne-saw

Manifesto of The Modern Absurdist

There are ignored senses in the American Culture: a sense of humor and and sense of minimalism. People are conditioned to laugh on cue at sit-coms and punchlines; people maximize all things. The Modern Absurdist is for these ignored senses, to remind the busy world that there there is deep meaning in a simple authentic laugh. These become our memories. This is what the conversation will be over later, expensive, seven-course dinners.

The Modern Absurdist is against stoic, upright conditioned behavior and against the densely populated barrage of identity through things. This person is a mooncalf, refusing to take seriously the acceptable world. Not to rebuke or destroy it, but simply to question whether or not the way things should be is the way things should be.

Observe your day closely, notice every label in your path throughout this day.  Each of these product icons represents either something you bought or are trying to be sold. Consider that just perhaps, in light of the evidence that mega-advertising surrounds us constantly, more than just our name brands and good cars are being sold to us. Consider that, just perhaps, our whole idea of what makes us happy was sold to us by idea men looking to make a profit. That these many labels are thorns in the briar patch, and you have to be Br'er Rabbit to escape unscathed.

Your best memories rarely include any of these labels, these products, you already know this is true.

The Modern Absurdist has an agenda, too. But it's really less of an agenda and more of a prescription for the state of depression and angst present in our society: the medicine for modern apathy is to engage the actual human beings around you. Go out and be an inventor of life again. Remember, like what you did before it all turned into chasing tail and impressing people?

Each of us is rich with imagination, think of your dreams, think of every inside-joke. This is the minimal life, an absence of propaganda and an abundance experiences with people. Be creative with your friends and family, don't be ruled by conversations about labels.

The absurdist's profit is the chance to encounter you. An actual you, with no screens between, no pre-packaged programming. When we meet the secret greeting is a quote from Neruda, "I don't give away thorns, and I don't sell them."

Either that, or "I, too, am a self-abusing wondershow! I see myself in you."

lay my head down

I collect pillowcases. Used pillowcases. I want yours, if you are missing one, I probably stole it. If you gave me one that you had used for many years, I cherish it. Pillowcases are where you tossed and turned, where you dreamt, where you cried and recuperated. They might be the most intimate inanimate object in our lives.

So, I decided to make a pillowcase this week. All silk on one side, laying against it is ephemeral. And then on the other side, well ... me. I didn't think this through, I just well hellbent into headlong so to speak. But about halfway through I realized that this pillowcase is asking someone to sleep with me, and now I don't know if it's more bizarre to keep it or give it away.

anyway, more, less creepy pillowcases to come ...

on unconditional love

What is love?

Of course, there is the arbitrary, age-old question of what kind of love? Let’s skip all that and move onto just one type: unconditional love.

I believe in it, I feel it, I believe there are those out there who feel that way towards me. But why? And how do you get it?

For those I love unconditionally, they earned it in some way. Some way that allows that to not be a condition. But, over time this adoration developed because that person shared their essential nature with me, they took chances, they fucked up, owned up, asked questions I would have never thought to ask myself which in turn exposed truths to me I sometimes didn’t want to know. Their being revealed myself to me, inadvertently.

There are common factors amongst this group of people. They are not family, I met them along the way. I remember the first time I ever laid eyes on them. Mostly I loved them from that first instance, irrationally and completely. They are not my lovers, they can handle me. They are hilarious, they don’t take the world or themselves too seriously, they are philosophers. They are afraid, but not too afraid to go ahead and do it anyway. They are all artists.

I would do anything for them, forgive them any trespass I can imagine them committing. For me to rescind that love, they would literally have do something so out of character that they were no longer themselves. Part of why this epic love came to be is because of the solidarity of their character.

I don’t know if unconditional love is real, I could shoot a thousand holes through my arguments here if I so chose to. But, if I’m to have faith in anything, this is what I choose to have faith in. I believe in these blood brothers and sisters, I give them my soul and my heart. I pledge to them to always have their back, to always love them for themselves. I thank them for my nourishment, and for my sense of what is real and mythical. 100% or nothing at all.

since no one is reading anyways

margaret atwood:

This is a mistake,
these arms and legs
that don't work any more

Now it's broken
and no space for excuses.

The earth doesn't comfort,
it only covers up
if you have the decency to stay quiet

The sun doesn't forgive,
it looks and keeps going.

Night seeps into us
through the accidents we have
inflicted on each other

Next time we commit
love, we ought to
choose in advance what to kill.

intentions, actions and consequences

Scenario: A thing is thought, in your mind, it is good. The thing is done. Then, catastrophically, the thing you thought was good is terrible and you are blindsided and unsure of whether or not you are suddenly in a sit-com. Then the clean-up ensues, apologizing, maybe rebuilding trust. Hopefully the audience will giggle without the laugh light blinking on and off.

Now, you knew your intentions were good. Maybe you were lying to yourself, maybe your honest heart did mean well and you were just being selfish and not thinking about how the other person would feel. Does it really matter? The facts are that when thought became action, the consequences were not good. The facts are that that hurt person will question your intentions and wonder if you are telling the truth about having meant well.

The fact is no one but yourself has access to your intentions.

Just as you have no access to other people's intentions when the scenario is reversed.

Intentions are an ephemeral wish that live only in the mind of the beholder. They are as intensely personal as any thing in our lives, and utterly unknowable outside of total blind trust in another individual, which is the rarest of things. If not a unicorn: imaginary and only told of in storybooks.

Therefore, I claim that intentions do not actually matter. To say "I meant well" is vapid. However, to do well is very important. Actions are facts. Everyone has access to facts, and relationships can be built from them without the perpetual wondering of what was really meant and is that person being honest. Actions are the real vehicle through which trust and love is made.

But more important than actions are consequences.

You intend, you act, but it is the consequences of those actions that inform you of whether or not your actions are in line with your intentions. The consequences reveal yourself to you in a way no hiding from the world ever possibly could.

Therefore, consequences are the most important of all three.

Consumption

paintings from the rabbit hole:

Consumption
acrylic on canvas, 2' x 3' ish

poem:

the words are funny

funny like the smell

of rotten food

or funny

like a good joke told right

right

something inalienable

or correct

or a way to turn

turn

like a stomach sickening

or going from facing me

to walking away

which leaves me stunned

perhaps because

you were stunning

a breath of beauty

once lost and now

I’m shattered

(figuratively, not literally)

you retreat

which is both a giving up

and a sanctuary at last

last like the end

last like never ends

poem: I Would That I Might

I would that I might

be the water

that splits the mountainside

and scours the land

which cleans the body

and might still drown a man

undertow, airborne

rising from the ocean

and feeding the garden

raised by my own hand

would that I were

so dangerous and generous

which spills over eyelashes

when the heart sojourns

joy and loss and defeat

to be the water I drink

the storm above

flashrumbledownpour

dancing with the moon’s cue

ebbed and tided

to be so necessary, timeless

to take the path

of least resistance

but in the mirror

of the lake’s placid repose

is an animal, wild, mortal.

I am that Imight

let my desires rule me

eat when I’m hungry

take what I want.

When you are thirsty

you can’t drink me

and when you shine

your light upon me

I don’t evaporate.

poem: In The Small

in the small

of my back

is a pain

where I slept

too long

because

I fell asleep

thinking

of you

next to me

my head

over your

heartbeat

your hand

on my cheek

drifting

away

from the

everyday

impossibilities

and the pain

of old houses

and the songs

once sang

faded away

under closed

eyes

and holding

you close

and being

held

by you,

too.

I slept

too well

not wanting

to

wake up

without

you. 

The Anti-Ego Poem

This is an invisible neck tie party
I model a collar
4 inches wide and 4 inches deep
made of buffalo leather
with alligator teeth
on the inside 
to bit me with
when I think of doing
the things I think of doing
and I have to jerk the chain
and say "bad dog"
to myself.


O yes, I have that kind of self-control
I spent years of self-flagellation
so I wouldn't have to apologize
so fucking much
and I keep that leash taut, bitch.


except, except ...
well you've prolly seen it
I become goddess
of the furrowed brow
teeth clench
feet tap
I try to look relaxed
do that desperate looking
around the room
for someone seeing
what I'm seeing
so I can hand the leash to them.


But not a soul, and wham
I'm picking up lost kittens
whose owners are looking
for them and making
them mewl for freedom
I'm shoving that baby cat
in the face of the person
telling lies to me
and calling it poetry
to show them what
honesty sounds like
mewl
mewl
this little furbag has more guts than you
and now all I want to do
is shove it up your ass
till your intestines
are lacerations
from a clawing beast
who's actually interested in freedom


"So go ahead and tell me 'bout your bad day"


snap. snap.
two jerks gets that leash taut
and now
I'm sitting
in a 
peaceful repose.


except, except ...
That beautiful girl is throwing herself
at every piece of man-meat
willing to buy her a drink
and begging her to meet his mother
which is what he calls his cock
and she's gonna fuck him on sunday night
because monday is trash day
and that's where she'll end up
with the shrimp tails,
cantaloupe rinds and junk mail.
She'll dig out her new shoes
and wipe the jism off the toes
before stumbling home
so she can wear them next week
singing: "I feel pretty
oh so pretty"
and I get out the straight razor
catch her on the sidewalk
shave her head, break her mirrors
and wash her face clean
make a fertilizer bomb
and blow up her make-up drawer
her wardrobe
and make her walk naked
for three days


It's too hard to be yourself.
Even I have this collar and leash
because otherwise I'm cliff diving
into limestone
toasting to clean living
with a bottle of turpentine
rebuilding broken eggshells
into whole chickens
and pretending I haven't walked
on those eggshells
until my feet were bleeding
and the shells were soft
as ancient river stones.
Because I'm always telling myself 
to stop talking
spreading my legs
for a certain limp member
being a fling
that believes she's loved.
I'm useless as a broken straw
cool as your shirt 
tucked into your underwear
I have no round squares
and I don't believe 
I actually exist
in the absence of change
and that makes me
more masochistic
makes me
want claw marks
and razor blades
and fertilizer bombs
for the cavity
I call
my chest
my heart


snap. snap. snap.
bad dog.
relax, baby.
slow your roll.
regain the blank slate
go watch Oprah or some shit
take a fucking chill pill.


except, except ...
I'm hellbent on headlong
I'm giving myself away
like you're all winners
on a game show
parceling out parts
of myself
trying to get empty


trying to get empty


trying to get empty


trying to get away
from my self-destructive ways
when I know I was born 
to annihilate this life
and what you see today
is a sand castle
I built for the beach to see
and the ocean to destroy.
These busy hands 
are in allegiance
with surviving, not me.
Hence the collar and leash,
hence the absence of knives.


except
except
except ...
snap.