?

what kind of
fight are
you looking for

are you still
fighting

what exactly
are you fighting

are you
still angry

fighting, is that the
right word

are you
struggling

struggling for an
answer

to make
sense
of
this mess

of life
of the world

of what to
do with yourself

or do you just
wanna go
an’ punch
a motherfucker
in the face

deserving

what do you have
left to say

drunk
two or three
chapters
spill out

any value

perhaps drink
opens
some door

your pent up self
pent up culture

black/blue/just blue

the euphoria
of
being in love
is just like
any other drug

to fuck
or be fucked

the dark side of that moon
kicks
you in the throat
and nights
are the
hardest

you’re like
what is
life about
is life
even worth it

a rotation
of days
and nights
and fist fights
physical
or otherwise
drink this
smoke that
pet the cat
pet the other cat
behave
yourself
neatly
in this room
and that room
wonder what things
would be like
in a different society
if we’d behave drunk
even out from under
the influence

days and nights
the keys
the doors

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Seinfeld memories are tainted for many. M. Richards has an abundance of stage fright to the likes I’ve never seen. Clearly, he does not belong up there if he is going to explode into a fucking psycho-racist. You can tell a lot from a man who opens his mouth wide. Excuse makers everywhere are like, “Look, I’m just as surprised, please believe me, I’m not a racist, I don’t know what the hell just happened.” People are right to be upset, wrong not to. His apology is a flimsy one.

Bukowski

To The Whore Who Took My Poems

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don’t keep carbons
and you have my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn’t you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I’m not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won’t be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there’ll always be mony and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.

Here is Here

h-town, my wood floors are cold
to the touch, my feet say.

h-town, this is sound argument,
for which you know all about, you know well.

kitten digs her claws into the side of this chair.
kitten, I still call her, little half-pint.
every then and now, little tuffs of fur, a claw or two.
sniff sniff at the door frame. h-town, they wanna know more of you,
just what’s on the other side. I dare not let it go down like that.
it’s the closest thing to parenthood and they will never go out on dates.

this is a place of innocence, predictable domicile.
here is here,
h-town, you are out there,
the town, the people.
in here, I’m the only person.
here only a few minutes.

h, you have me by the balls.
but for all those papercuts, I get the paper back
by writing poems.

paper is getting pissed.

What The Hell Was That?

attractive in nature, stare and gawk
prisoned imagination
gut wrenched
and then
all is silent
as all get out

in a fight
the pair of spectacles
were broken

correct me at
the facility
and get your
cigarettes from
the vending machine

late afternoon
hands are chopped
half way
to the bone
till
the right
words come

she is in
a painting
in your mind
on the wall
you wanna
take her down
and cleanse
the stain

surprise attacks
keep coming

eyes
on the prize
at the carnival
tight lipped
secret keeper
divas dive and
attack
oysters

what
the hell
was that?

DVR
while
you nap

work away
slave away
work and play
so you say

the beast’s
belly
is full

but

can take
more

repetition
generation

so you say
you
won’t
be like them

and you shape up
you dress
up swell

yay, you can
be less angry now
mature
(mah-tour)

I’m not gonna
rhyme any more

mind in
the

sewer

taste is

poor

you poor, poor

man

Many Words

The Wire
is the best
fucking show

B-more
ya just
don’t know

anyway
note

notes

get
ya goats

ever listen
to
The Goats?

yeah, Philly

I was up there
for a bit
my first temple
like
My First Sony

it was
a drill bit
to my
temple

they put me
in the
mental

now I’m
back
out

emotional
scars

yards
long

sing
sing
song

as the
day
is

long

gone

wrong

gong

smoke from
bong
in
the
air

don’t
tell ya
mom

pop pop

pom

pom

cheerleader
leads
the

song

caught
making
out
with the
other cheerleader

good
for her

life is
short

is
a
sport

is
a
game

is
a
war

is
a
box
of
chocolates

and
you
must
face it

you must
learn
to love
yourself
because
you’ll go
through times
when someone
else says
that they
hate you

you must
refute
with self love
it is
survival
the test
of time
the healing
factor
so natural
resilient

brilliant

the comfortable
american
makes
such and such
amount
of bills

find one
they tell you
about
their debt still
consumer
debts
credit
with interest

slash
slash
slasher film
crisis
earth in
hibernation mode
god’s glory
load and unload
like Metalica albums
no faith (why wanna?)
a rage a plague
defy defile defunct
sermon

instead
a poem

installed the books
back
onto
their shelves

culture
a room with
titles

history
his and mine
and hers

many, many
words

Picking up

I remain the same person, yet changed. My big change, as some of you may already know, is that by now I have separated from my wife of many years and moved into a place of my own. Despite the hardships and emotional struggle, this seems to have given me back my more-raw, more authentic life. So I am thankful.

Depression follows me out and about. This is not a surprise to anyone, like the separation may be. I have always been lonely under all sorts of circumstances. It has not been easy. Through all the years, this relationship felt incredibly forced, felt wrong. It forced me into the martyr’s role, and maybe I should’ve been there. Maybe no one should be there. I have some more thinking to do on that.

I have changed slightly, gradually, and greatly. But I don’t think for the worse. You can watch my hair lengthen, day by day, like the young man on YouTube.

The last thing I want in this transition is for people to feel sorry for me. It only makes this kind of transition harder. Family members seem most unable to grasp this and it makes me very silent in correspondence. I don’t want to hear a sigh from the other side. The fuse has been spitting and spattering for quite some time.

. . .

So this has been an announcement to fill everyone in, just what’s been going on with me. From here, I hope to pick up the pieces, pick up with writing. Pick up where I left off years ago. Pick up from a new place.

I am a wiser man.