HOWL 2

Jake and I sat in a bar, waiting for a concert to start, taking in the insanity of the smokey night. We talked about how we need some paper....that we felt like writing a poem. We discussed how napkins could serve that purpose and that Allen Ginsburg himself had written his epic poem Howl on napkins. So we gathered some together and spilt out this poem.

HOWL II

We are true of heart!

Our light has burned out. And the
glow of hazy intimacy haunts
not the table plot
where a lighter flacks! Its
strike in this dark.
I saw you for a second
there.
pipe. smoke. blow. my eyes
are all water and there
aint no sight or life in any
of this crowd.
and the music comes without warn.
Why am I angry at this
Broken armed bar fight?
what has it to do with me? I
did not make these merging jowls
in space. I did not bite
off more than I could chew
these dark rusty vents made
the bite. and time choked me.
I wonder why I can’t
see into a past, the grains
of cedar flow into space,
and back out.
though there’s so much bleary-
eyes smoke in this
rotten old excuse
for a turning ancient
craggy
crumbling
brain.
waiting.
for...anything.
The grains of sand t u m b l e
down
bro
ken
hourglasses that didn’t come
with bells on.
oh well.
these are a past just like that cosmic
bro
ken
beard that contemplates its sagehood
or foolhood. Ha! Who he that stares
with bright old sun eyes
into old trees, shaking us.
our hearts into dust
for there were men crying
and trying
in the planes and
old planks washed up on the
seashore were their souls.
a hole, stolen from bees
and their enlightened sound buzzz
Buzzz. of contentment. and
buzzz of purpose.
we too must hover over
this whiskey drunk turtle
of earth. and wonder
where it all should sober up.
and when it should wake
and purge out its blue fire.
there is sickness on the planes
under my earthly feet and
my sweaty meat of skin
wonders where to fight
in the sands. In the glass
silhouette shattered froggy
throat. of bloodshot backshod slipshod
photographs of the unknown womb.
outside this safety, upsidedown
wizards pound on their stools.
I don’t know any of these rules.
and who can tell if these emptied
out barfighters have a chance to breathe?
I just sit by the waterside
but in the end this game
is only mud and stone
and empty sweet smelling
haikus
that channel the spirit
of concrete cages
and ancient forest galaxies,
all with their own whisky springs
and everybody’s babies are
born,
just to wince away, but
the cabin door creaks
for all time.
He who can read these blurry notes
rides a log down miles of mountain
leather flowers,
waiting for a song that can move
in sync with the soul.
Now I move through shit storm
tunnels
and take shelter from demon
tax-paying monkey goddesses
but never wondering never get
a ruffled newspaper anywhere
in this dream night, beating
unto the dusk.
Lo! there is an end
to the box.
and my talks
are all talked
and peace pipe
smoke
meanders in cold
skeleton dimensions
for where else would
we be to die?
and to break our hearts
is the least we can do.
purple. flowers. rise.
and subside.
and I too
will
wilt.

I have a weary soul.

The fruit market is over and is a past. My now's now consist of teaching four year old children how they should fit into this structure of smiles and gauges and dials where we all reside. I love the absurdity of small children. Its all talking platypus's and horses making grilled cheeses in the kitchen and tooting on monsters under the bed and certainly, most certainly, about not being the caboose. But I find that my soul is weary. And my mind is weary of words. But I can't stop using them to say what i mean and to mean what i say is utterly impossible these days. Dreams are wild and night visions are grueling and my stories have turned into sketches of my scattered mind that could be just a brain but that could also be just disguised as a brain and really made of the cosmos. i think. and hate that i think it. So I give you a sketch. Which is a story. of a moment. which is to say I hiked to a bamboo patch with jake and here is what i found...

Sheeee clo. Dwingsheeeeshhhh tip. tip. tiptrick. ta. tip.tip. washeeewoo. top. tock. there is in this bamboo village a squatting hamonica man. Told of the ode to joy. he learns the sacred notes to make all tunes into one metal tone from wind. but he is simple. "sounds like i'm having fun" he chuckles. "though this sound like shit to other ears. i am having beauteous fun" Sheeeshhhhh. tatippletipple. SHH. and a trickling on light shifts to my legs of the nile that are cradeled in the leaves. i am fresh here looking out the canopy of lovely. we came out to this no it came to us in a dream, racing to us is a quiet as we pace from a disparing city junglescape of guilty ground. passed that claw that clamps at the throat. past the traces of politic sins on concrete steet walks. seeing light and hearing water. a creek. that old church. simple. simple. and the faint yelling of city cries that told us it would be a little grayer without us there. but forget to tell us that it would forget us with the dawn of its next steel gray day. but we knew it would. and were not fooled into belonging.
we settle our minds into the SHHHCLo. the clockclop of the tops of the bamboo. and our drunken city minds go away for now. i am thinking of creating something from a dead bamboo stalk. a pipe. a man.a spoon. rummage around for nature tools. jake plays another tune. i tear my fingernail off trying to break a stick for my invention. i accept my bleeding thumb. sitting and listening is my new creation. and i am smiling at how everthing is happening. happening.