Archive for the ‘Not a Poet’ Category

A Poem A Day Keeps the Sunday Blues Away

October 17, 2011

The Blackbirds are Rough Today  (Bukowski)

 

lonely as a dry and used orchard

spread over the earth

for use and surrender.

 

shot down like an ex-pug selling

dailies on the corner.

 

taken by tears like

an aging chorus girl

who has gotten her last check.

 

a hanky is in order your lord your

worship.

 

the blackbirds are rough today

like

ingrown toenails

in an overnight

jail—

wine wine whine,

the blackbirds run around and

fly around

harping about

Spanish melodies and bones.

 

and everywhere is

nowhere—

the dream is as bad as

flapjacks and flat tires:

 

why do we go on

with our minds and

pockets full of

dust

like a bad boy just out of

school—

you tell

me,

you who were a hero in some

revolution

you who teach children

you who drink with calmness

you who own large homes

and walk in gardens

you who have killed a man and own a

beautiful wife

you tell me

why I am on fire like old dry

garbage.

 

we might surely have some interesting

correspondence.

it will keep the mailman busy.

and the butterflies and ants and bridges and

cemeteries

the rocket-makers and dogs and garage mechanics

will still go on a

while

until we run out of stamps

and/or

ideas.

 

don’t be ashamed of

anything; I guess God meant it all

like

locks on

doors.

 

Afternoon Poem

October 11, 2011

Yenta

This

poem

is as

thin

as a

reed.

I

ought

to

feed

it a

pie.

Eat

up,

little

poem!

Eat

up!

Testing for Gigi

September 21, 2011

This is a test.  This is not a poem.

xo

WANTED: American Spiritual Martyr

September 8, 2011

We here at The World Inc. (a 501C3 corporation) have an opening for a martyr with a spiritual bent in our North American division.

Qualifications: Male and female applicants will be considered, but we are particularly looking for someone young (between the ages of 17 and 30) as we want our martyr to commit to a life of asceticism for years or to perish at a relatively early age.  A basic knowledge of both Western and Eastern philosophy required; deeper understanding of theology, lives of Catholic saints, the works of Saint Augustine, Simone Weil, Anaxagoras, Kierkegaard, Gandhi, and Wole Soyinka preferred.  Candidates will likely have struggled with spirituality and sense of self in their youth, be naturally somewhat sickly/delicate and have a history of experimentation with Buddhism, pacifism, fundamentalism (of some kind or another,) and/or adolescent self-mutilative behaviors.  No higher education necessary, though applicants with public speaking experience will be more carefully considered.  Our martyr must be a go-getter, and be willing to go barefoot, shave his/her head, wear a loincloth, and face ridicule, shame, and possible imprisonment when necessary.  An ambivalence toward food and appetite and a downright disdain for sex preferred as well.

Responsibilities: The spiritual martyr will be required to appear publicly at any events he/she deems appropriate, write prolifically, and fast whenever something abhorrent or sacrilege is occurring in the universe.  There is a lot of room for creativity and growth in this position, so the management will not oversee your day-to-day operations.  We are hoping that the candidate we ultimately choose will have a sense of when it is appropriate to lead a march through the streets, lay down in front of army tanks, and release polemics.

Compensation/benefits: Immortality, though ironically, no healthcare.  Accommodations provided by way of a small hut located next to landfill in Newark, New Jersey.  Travel opportunities possible.

Please contact: americanspiritualmartyrjob@gmail.com.  Please include resume and manifesto IN THE BODY OF THE EMAIL.  Attachments will not be opened.  References from former therapists, philosophy professors, gurus, etc. appreciated.

Old Poem

June 26, 2011

I found this (cut and pasted, literally, not e-) in a stained notebook of mine from college (upon Googleing, see it’s by one Etheridge Knight.)  Damn, this is good shit.

Feeling Fucked Up

Lord she’s gone done and left me done packed/ up and split

and i with no way to make her

come back and everywhere the world is bare

bright bone white     crystal sand glistens

dope death dead dying and jiving drove

her away made her take her laughter and her smiles

and her softness and her midnight sighs —

 

Fuck Coltrane and music and clouds drifting in the sky

fuck the seas and trees and the sky and birds

and alligators and all the animals that roam the earth

fuck marx and maxo fuck fidel and nkrumah and democracy and communism fuck smack and pot

and red ripe tomatoes fuck joseph fuck mary fuck

god jesus and all the disciples fuck fanon nixon

and malcolm fuck the revolution fuck freedom

the whole mothafucking thing

all i want now is my woman back

so my soul can sing

Gifts given from Robert Mapplethorpe to Patti Smith, and Vice Versa, in Just Kids

May 23, 2011

A heavy silver ID bracelet engraved with “Robert Patti blue star”

A Persian necklace, “made of two enameled metal plaques bound together with heavy black and silver threads”, wrapped in violet tissue and tied with a black satin ribbon

A homemade tambourine made of goatskin, tattooed with astrological signs, with multicolored ribbons tied to its base

A small book on Tarot bound in black silk

Amethyst geode

An ivory heart with a cross carved in the center

Black toy lamb

White, tattered Victorian tea dress of handkerchief linen

A peacoat and a pilot’s silk scarf

Books of drawings, one a leather manuscript notebook, the other a graph paper composition book covered in purple silk, hand-stitched with black thread

The record Nashville Skyline

A copy of Sylvia Plath’s Ariel

A copy of Andy Warhol’s Index Book

A Borsalino hat

A tie rack with the image of the Virgin Mary

Seven silver skulls on a length of leather

Crosses of braided hair

Tarnished charms

Haiku valentines made with bits of ribbon and leather

A length of Indian linen

A notebook

A papier-mache crow

Sad Sunday Poem

May 9, 2011

Mercifully

He let me sleep

and in my dreamful slumber, I could do what I couldn’t awake ––

wash my face, brush my teeth, and greet the day.

Twitter-esque

April 14, 2011

A poem? as “slim as [a] runway model…”

Very few things annoy me as much

as women who blog about breastfeeding

Fashion Blogging for the Apocalypse

January 13, 2011

As the apocalypse is nigh, what with birds falling from the skies and crabs dying in droves and Sandra Bullock winning an Oscar, I figure it’s time for me to cash out, so this blog will now become a FASHION BLOG.  I’ve considered this before, but now I’m really going for it.  Words will be kept to a minimum.  Instead I will just put up gratuitous vanity shots of myself reclined on velvet couches or looking playfully down at a Givenchy wedge or even a close up of me making a duck pout, eyes lined with thick Kohl, little fingers brandishing fat sterling rings like I was some mobster out of Brighton Beach.  My first photo shoot will be tomorrow before I go over to my favorite bar at El Quijote in the Chelsea Hotel.  I will wear a light blue turban I swiped from my roommate (sh!), a black leotard, patterned Wolford tights, a long black skirt with gold detailing, Chanel patent leather gold and black wedge heels, twenty-four multi-colored bangles, a fur coat that is ripping at the seams (Recession Chic!  This is a new level of Bobo style) and my favorite accessory: a tear drawn with a Sharpie beneath my left eye.  Nothing says FASHION! like a criminal record.

The end is coming, my friends.  Let’s look freaky.

Me…

December 10, 2010

Me, Wishing I Were Yoko Ono

Patronage Piece

Find an artistically inclined youngster.
Supply him with sketchpads, paints, a room in a seedy hotel, and a weathered copy of the collected works of Arthur Rimbaud.
Watch as he is systematically driven mad by his ambitions and drug habit.
Paint his portrait as he weeps over his wasted life
Sell the portrait to the Guggenheim for seven million dollars.
Keep the money.
———————————————————
From Ono’s Grapefruit

Snow Piece
Think that snow is falling.
Think that snow is falling everywhere
all the time.
When you talk with a person, think
that snow is falling between you and
on the person.
Stop conversing when you think the
person is covered by snow.
————
And one more, for good measure…
————
Announcement Piece I
Give death announcements each time you
move instead of giving announcements of
the change of address.
Send the same when you die.