rambling man

Hey guys, this post comes from a series of prose poems I started about a year ago. I'll post one or two a week, so do the rumba, the samba, the two step and the white man shuffle.

travel logos 1

You me and everyone we ever hope to know comes caress like caress just to be seen. We dive into swimming pools, makeshift diving stances because we know we become nothing once we hit the water. You are diamond. I am bald circle. Around we become the same things as our parents when they were but twenty four and a half. You are ninety two. Stuck shoes on your feet because if you take them off now, you know you’ll stay. And staying is all night. And all night is a waste of all your god given vision. Come down, calm down, you are the open windows in my house that do not shield me from the music blaring down the street. It is an empty sound, you know, but it mocks me, calls me a loveless shorn shamble sweater. And it’s summertime. Ragweed and starched blankets white and hanging. Arrange the whole summer off to go to the beach and soak up sand and sandpipers. I always thought you were pretty, even as a child I didn’t know. Go back into your car. The highways, and these places of magic, are alone and lost without you. Mother to all travelers, rage and raven and ribbon. Unite us, guide us back. Home never again but just a place that is easy, soft, an orange hue, a place where children are allowed to be soulful scrambles. A place that is easily desired and never ever found. Damn this generation and damn me for being a part of it.

more city poems, untitled

Hey, I'm posting some more untitled poems of mine (some older ones from a series of poems I wrote about the city; and one new one). I wanted to get in on the city theme Jeff had going, because I'm a jerk, and why not? So, onward to victory, and this is a cool city too, but only if we kill all the yuppies. Okay?!

untitled 530

the youth

youth

was standing

outside the whore house

,

snapping his

fingers

to

some City song

in his head

.

“…all the pretty ladies…”

he hummed aloud

and watched all the men

converge to

the yellow entry door

.

“…are so bold…”

he hissed

as he snap snapped

;

above him in a posh apartment

,

a lonely rich mother

was putting ice in a shiny glass

that had a painted smile upon it

.

the youth youth

stopped snapping

and spoke as quiet as he could

,

anxious if the City should ever overhear

,

“now I’m going to go

my way

and I have to make sure

that I go as a human

being”

untitled 577

the cavalcade

of the riot

children

broke down main street

and

they demanded the

city people

care again

.

above them in neon lights

,

the City

flashed its

teeth at them

,

streamlined highrise

lightbulbs

blaring

light down on their faces

.

all the rioters had

big

pens resting in their

pants

and

they wanted to brandish

them

whenever they could

.

(it’s a sad world

and this City is mostly

ugly

,

but someday it will all be better

untitled 3974

you’re a windowsill

and you’re

teeth are glass

and you’re wondering about

frail women.

then shut your face

and hold

back the winter wind

and hope for hot candles, red wax,

and drip

and drip.

--

there is no magic in your hand

or your walk,

just the hair on your head

and your eyes

when they

close.

--

he stabbed me on the boulevard

but I was

not so ready to die

and I kicked him back in his face

as he laughed

too many times

The City Theme

I want to share the first poems I wrote when I first moved to Austin. The idea was to write short poems at bus stops or on the bus. This would be the reason for the collection's title, Bus Poems.

Atmosphere

Fog hangs over Austin
Its cold, but not too cold
The streets are wet
From drizzle
I am again riding the bus to work
Not worried about the traffic
Reading Book of Blues by Kerouac
And trying to write this poem

If I never drive again
I will be fine
Taking the bus is a pleasure
Think about gas prices my friend
Think about road rage
Why are you driving?
I think this as I look out the window
And see the cars, trucks
Public transportation works for me


Working Class Blues (Looking to Party)

Overworked and
Underpaid
That is how most of us feel
The ache bones of people surround me
Now as I sit
Riding the bus home
after work
No stress yet
Probably later
I look at the book on my lap
And think about all my re-readings
Why don’t I go out tonight
And party?

The city wants me
To drink her down
But my feet hurt
Working all day
Walking around and around
Blanton Museum of Art
I walk in circles
W/thoughts blazing trails
In my brain
I should try to find a friend
Or some special woman
To sweat over

The First End

This passion’s first peak:

My true occupation
Is seeker of love
These days
I live and operate in a
Vocational haze

At work or commuting

I see my reflection
In the back of my mind
Reliving
Lurching forward
This bus ride gives me time to ponder
And scribble

All I want is love

I’m glad I don’t drive the bus
I’m just a guest
Every day
& every night

I ride and think and write stupid poems

from STANDING TALL...

My collection titled, Standing Tall in a Four-Foot House, is filled with the strangest verse I have yet produced. It contains two rather long poems, several fragments, dreams, and short abstractions. Here are a couple poems:

A Sailor w/o a Song is like a Pothead w/o a Bong

Summer went all wrong
Fall fell off the wagon
Winter is twelve months a year

You have him
and I have me

I wrap myself in chainsaw clothes
& die in the desert where the sand never blows
I wait for the tide trying to decide
which port I am gonna leave from next

I sit in an old rocking chair and stare
memories come out of my mouth

I shot a man ‘cause
he looked at me funny
I robbed her bank

but left all the money

Confusion in Mouth

Meaning
doesn’t mean a thing
to me
knack yr dag dawn
yr behind the lag
on a chess board bag
enough trivia
games and weddings
I just sleep until morning
dreaming of how to
escape any unpleasantness
at 20 soon to be 21
no more money

honey

untitled

Hey, fellows, now that the O'Hare poems are posted, it's onward to new heights of glory in poetic form. I'm going to post about three untitled poems (they're from a series of mine) perhaps once a week, maybe twice. Who can say? Alright then, fun fun fun.

untitled 3992

I’m alone,

burning my teeth for cinder against

a pale

white radiator

in the southern heart of the city.

the river passes me

by in

window

cavalier.

the night steps on my face;

you say that the simple time of suffering

is raindrops down

a façade.

--

I believe that you have left your

body on that

pillowed bed

and have drifted into mercurial clouds

and have summoned thunder

upon my frame.

my house

is erect.

my mouth is ajar.

--

come on come

on over come

on out

I stand in puddles;

you have

stolen my face

and hidden it in the rosebush

beyond.

untitled 3008

the hallway buzzes in the rush of our trodden footsteps.

my black boots, your ruby laces, the hushed tongue and the rubber sole.

not

overtly sexual

candle

light

haunts us

.

we arch down the white walls and spy the little girl setting off to sleep.

she

prays,

“daddy please keep the house warm tonight,”

and hushes.

we

listen and turn around and run.

we are god. we forgot everyone.

the living room

window

shatters and our

bandit

blues carry

us

alone into the dim suburban

pathways

.

the little girl turns the light off and sleeps

heavy

in

her glossy green blanket.

a dog barks escape escape; moons flip over the horizon; lampposts bend; the curb bites and dizzies.

I fall over onto the lawn

and

she runs steady.

untitled 2854

high the high beams,

sawdust,

carpenters and their

red bucket

hats.

rivets, they spill

and the sky

is full for them.

I pump and steam.

the spirit of the twentieth century,

gravedigger,

atom bomb,

skyscraper,

homewrecker.

and fathers,

those men with rulers in their pockets,

listen for the drills,

the combines and the harvest,

the make and

the model.

I

see only so far.

the ocean

swallows everything.

the twenty first spirit

will

arrange differently.

it is waves of radio,

waves of light.

wash over us,

blessed god,

wash us over.

it is pure radiant heat that kills,

consumes, breaths,

and lives again.

Song After Song: A Quick Lesson

Taking a break from po'tree now to post some links t' my music and my story...

I have written hundreds of songs (some good, bad, and truly awful), I have been part of hundreds of recording sessions (some joyous, painful, or boring), and I have been interested in sharing music with as many people as I can. So, without further time wasting, here are three links that should get the curious started (in the future I will post new tunes on this blog).

www.myspace.com/jeffdailysound

www.myspace.com/teflonbeast

www.myspace.com/dailybrothersetc

O'Hare 11.

Yeah, the final poem in the O'Hare audio series. I feel like celebrating. Me and Jeff will be out under the bridge chugging boxes of wine tonight! Yeah! I'd like to thank nature, United Airways, the Christmas holiday season, O'Hare airport, and especially Jesus Christ for making all this wonderful poetry happen. Yeah, man, jazz hands!

11.

who could sleep in times

like these,

Sam Gladd thinks

high in the sky on

that blue airplane.

he got to ride up

in that cloud

kingdom.

loops of white crest

crashing low

fields of cumulous

poppy.

I could be king of

the world,

he thinks.

O'Hare 10. Airport Poem

This is not a happy poem. O'Hare audio poem number 10. Just click the post title, baby!

10. Airport poem

shit

fuck flying

ass

hole customer service

Klondike

crash.

I am plastic

landfill

scabs

and wind chimes

under the patio.

I am ugly anemones

stinging every

earthborn gentleman

and lady

and fuck

fuck.

O'Hare 9.

The worst hangover I've ever had was on a plane coming back from Las Vegas. I think this poem comes close to my fears at that time. All I wanted was to touch the ground again without hurling all over the woman sat beside me.
Mission accomplished!


9.

I had terrible fantasies

of slamming

hard-

nose-first into the

earth and biting

my tongue

in the crash.

it was nighttime

and

we couldn’t see a

thing.

when the wheel touched

down –

revelation –

we were

home free.

no stopping,

no teeth

ringing.

O'Hare 8.

You know, I used to go to school in Chicago, and for half a second, I thought being stranded there because of flight cancellations might be fun. But once the sun set, a new terror dawned on me. The cold weather, the trailing subway lines, my general disorientation. It felt like coming home again and then having to sleep under the porch.

8. Chicago Blues

one day, up

Chicago some,

only

fifteen hours

or so,

amongst car tire

and Kerouac,

I got stuck.

that city

said I couldn’t

leave her.

pilot’s hat,

curb bitch stomp,

cursed girlfriends,

I

want none of it.

I want to fly.

I want to love

and of a willingness

born of broken knees

and spent faces.

O'Hare 7.

Hey, number seven audio poem, going over the waterfall, more than halfway home, no kids on the airplanes but some old buzzards, hey.

7.

I see a dark

haired boy

with a crooked

neck

in front of me

on an

airplane.

I think bedsores.

Bedouin barbs

baroque

busted.

he says

oh my good mother,

my iridescent

candle.

imagine the world for him

as collected in

dust,

open windows,

dark and dark

Hippo'z

I used to think the word "hip" was cool. I used to think the word was awful. Now I just don't know.

Some poems from Hip Posturing:

Title Piece

(So it starts!
Musical hopes-
Wild stories-
Useless actions-
Too many words)

“I want to go back to sleep
but I cannot.”
ideas must be exposed/written down/
must be put out on the paper litter table
remember falling in and out of love
that spring of ‘03?
when the first lines of summer shot you in the brain
porcupine ash end & the asphalt bakery downstairs
I was there and felt the needle’s injection
soft and slow the knowledge of Claire
the wheels of memory prevented sleep
(they control the dream documentary)
REM moments are filled with coin tosses
back and forth over and over the questions roll
who feels the cold steel piercing of love?
did it escape my prison and make it across the border?

the very questions I ask are diseases
no doctor alive can prescribe me pleasure
I have to find the cure on my own
hundreds of miles north she sits
a thousand heartbeats later
do we miss the same midnights?
no answer - the phone line has been severed for good
nothing grows - the greens do not get any greener
do I believe the photo album?
making the unclear a portrait of Titian
revel in the canvas freshly covered with acrylic goo
itch the mosquito bites on yr left thigh

“I listen for THE voice but remember it as goodbye
images drip from the poisoned string above my ear
into my thoughts and begin to slither through my wires
I am the machine that gathers entertaining figurines
I am a feast losing its flavor at an empty table
I am the ‘unique one who doesn’t have a good time’
I am Zagg the jester here to keep you company
I am the man-whore who comes every time he hears a call
I am the lonely boy who waits by the molded plastic ringer
I am a terrible friend because I taste bitter
I am the obscene jerk with bad karma to burn.”

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

Driving in Dallas

Escaping the sundown streets in Aaron’s Honda
with windows down and a mix CD blasting
three college kids singing loudly and out of tune
“Don’t Stop ‘til You Get Enough” joyous and Heaven smiling
the front seat choir giggled with hand motion cartoons
“I’m not not not not not not yr Academy” strange beauty in the serious art of driving Mission of Burma wonderful as I sing volume turned to 11
“Tramps like us!”

The Snapshots:

The thrusts and gusts of wind
that beat against my face
and play with my hair

The incorrect off ramp you took
wrong turns near strip clubs
and scary red light runs

The Semi that almost killed
us - Honk! from the car you cut off
and the circles we drove in erratic

The tap on yr window from the winner of the Chong look alike contest
his bum-stoned laugh as he told us of his plight and the 45 cents
we gave him to buy his blast

The angry friends in car trailing
lost twice with mad eye chase
and shame you felt

The defeat felt as we pulled into another parking lot
only to feel life go from “Rosemary’s Baby”
to TV and Nachos at home

The still happiness of being with friends
spitting juice through mouth and nose
and having 1 AM food sit on stomachs

The departure of each friend
&
the return to
homes & beds &
dreams

where we will meet later anyway....

O'Hare 6.

Number 6, hurray, hurray for the holidays and for family gatherings. Hurray for happy folk strutting around with their possessions in tow. Hurray for the bums that peed up the bathrooms while you cry in the stall (wink; this never happened, or did it?!)!?

6.
the mountain crawled

over

our flesh

as we laid

in pools

of rain.

and a dark

wing

tarnished with

dead leaves

on the tarmac.

and a shuttle bus skyline,

and my wife’s face;

O'Hare, kiss off.

O'Hare 5.

Here's the fifth in the O'Hare series of audio poems. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did to see people sleeping face down on their coats in a gargantuan airport. Yeah for flying!



5.

glass wings

and

gossamer wheels

turning over again

on the black

tarmac

for salvation,

balls of flame and

luggage,

little children,

angry parents.

I need sleep;

I need

rest.

O'Hare 4.

Could he be you? Maybe me? Okay, probably more likely to be me, seeing as I had security perform a rectal scan on my retina, but hey, we're all just happy folk living in the thrall of the beast. Number four audio poem in the O'Hare series, hallelujah.

4.

a loud mouth

red haired

boy

shouts

into a glass window

about

his plane.

no, mom, he doesn’t

want your scarf.

give him a lousy vacation

in Hawaii,

give him Detroit,

give him

more brothers and

more sisters,

and please send him

out.

O'Hare 3.

Hello all, here is the third audio poem in the series of the O'Hare poems. Technical difficulties be damned. Also, fuck the McDonald's in that airport. We all wanted the breakfast so bad and we were all just five minutes late.

3.

I am trying my best

to obtain information

about the death

of our lord.

was he around when I was born?

was he a sandal-faced

gypsy?

I sit in an airport

surrounded by

two million refugees

with hanged mouths

and circled eyes.

they tell me

about the void in

the tarmac.

we’ll sink;

you can't be saved.

Back in Time

I have decided to post some poems from each of my collections. The first poem, from my first book The Early Word Gets The Burn, was probably written when I was still a teenager. I'm not sure I still relate, but it is quite an experience to look back. I would not recommend living in the past however.

First Poem

Give it all and no regrets
the love that lives inside
to future believers do not hide
the history of a thousand secrets

read on.

2.The child sits with loaded eyes and heavy dreams
burdened by expectations
looking out the window-
he makes some key observations
hope must relieve the pain his sadness sings
he, at his sixteenth year, must break free
nothing can tear down the determined
but the unsure hide from everything
with a heart of unbreakable steel
his soul is safe
but his future is uncertain
the big sleep or the final curtain?
moaning lizards and screaming spiders
the world is so big
what can this poor child do?

78.
To shut out all exterior din
and listen to the visionary angel within
I create a world-
a mysterious tunnel that echoes
feelings and truth.

I am a search warrant
that shines ending attic of heart
lost souls-lost valuables- lost hopes
tattoo the pulse of memories.

Gather at the wishing well
and listen to the angel within
singing songs silently and slow
O I don’t know what they mean
but I sure do love those pretty tones

I drink rains drops collected in grails.

O'Hare 2.

Ah, the grand lines of customers, waiting to be whisked away fondly into the friendly skies. (I hate everyone of these people because I am everyone of these people). I feel your pain, my snake charming friends.


O'Hare 2.

some slurry

of rain and fog,

a smug

looker on the

cover of a magazine,

my clean

shoes, black shirt,

girl with pink scarf

and endless loops of

time.

endless

endless

O'Hare 1.

Hey guys, I'm posting the first poem in a series I wrote after a flight of mine was canceled and I was forced to sit in O'Hare airport for twelve hours during the Christmas holiday. And let me say, it was awesome to sit, dodge plane times, hope for any flight to actually leave the ground, worry about hotels and motels and hostels and bitchy customer service people, angry and ready to eat flattened cheese pizzas. But the poems express more than I can say right here. Also, there is an audio link for each poem (just click on the title of the post). The audio is a collaboration between myself and Jeff D, and hopefully it can give you some of the raw, gut-churning feelings I was experiencing while strung out in the massive airport. Enjoy! Happy holidays! Hurray for nature and United Airlines!


O'Hare 1.

when I saw her lay

upon the carpet of O’Hare,

I praised

heaven for

its

vale of darkness and rain

retaining Chicago

as our Gotham,

keeping

us alive,

injecting us with bile

and spit.

but I am lonely;

but you didn’t

know.

I just want to get home.

metal

wing, runway,

lights of one

thousand

descents

.

iNertia

What is the reason for all this? The unpublished manuscripts that rest uneasy and dusty in a box next to my bed want to know. The songs (to be addressed in future posts) that die every time they leave my mouth and crash against a wall or are trapped on something called a disc demand an answer. So...A list of books from which I will be sharing material:

The Early Word Gets the Burn (poems 1997-2001)
Hip Posturing (2001-2003)
Standing Tall in a Four Foot House (2002-2005)
Bus Poems (Feb.-Apr. 2006)
City Boy Heart Full (Aug. '06-Jan. '07)
My Guitar or My Lady (Feb. '07-unfinished '08)

I Like the Night Life, I Like to Boogie (from City Boy Heart Full)

Austin, TX, a place with guitars on every block
When they ask me for change
I pretend I don’t talk
I wander down 6th street
Searching for a provocative place to meet a woman
For a drink of trouble
And when I find nothing but dolls
And mannequins learning to walk
I shudder and hail a cab
But they don’t stop
I turn to the parking meter for some advice
He tells me to come back tomorrow night
If I’m willing to pay the price
So I stumble on past the Blind Pig

Void and anti-void

Void and Anti-void in artistic endeavor

quick list of explanations:

god – all life, all moments

void – complete emptiness with infinite possibility hidden

anti-void – complete fullness with infinite possibility shown

minimal art – spare and subtle art

maximal art – explicit art

All life, as does art, begins as void. And in life’s goal to become god, art’s goal is to become the anti-void. This has two meanings. First: spare and simple art becomes minimal and recalls the void; it is beautiful in its emptiness. There is such range of possibility and interpretation within its seeming lack of substance. This exposes the inverse relationship of artists and audience. The more simple, minimal art yields much power to the audience in terms of meaning and interpretation. The more complex an artwork in its design and implication, the more explicit an artist is about the meaning, or soul, of a work, the less maneuverability there is for an audience. This too is beautiful. All art, in the end, is beauty (and truth). So it is not a debate as to whether minimal art is superior to maximal. Both yield rewards. The difference is negligible in the face of the ultimate anti-void (as all life, every fragment and every largeness, composes the whole of god, all of art, minimal and maximal, composes the anti-void). Remember that we are already beyond the void. The void was the beginning of time, the beginning of anticipation and possibility. We may wish for the void, minimal art may intend to represent it, but we cannot have it. Already we lumber onward towards the ultimate anti-void, i.e. everything. Embracing art that is reminiscent of the void and art that presupposes the anti-void is to combine two halves of a whole. All art to compose god, all life to reveal everything. The second meaning of all this is that god is a story of everything, a painting of the entire universe, an ultimate work of art, all possibility and interpretation yielded at once. This final, anti-void art comes full circle in the eyes of an audience and becomes the void once more, a work containing all movement so that none remains, all interpretation so that none remains. All viewpoints, minimal and maximal, will be expressed and routed and revealed. The artist becomes the conduit of god, the audience the receiver. Void to anti-void to void once more. And life as to god and god as to life.