Jeff in 3-D

Holy Moses, is that Jeff Barnyard reading a poem? Yes, yes it is. Ladies, hide your underwear.

A Quick Hello from an Out-of-Town Guest.

In honor of Chris's Charleston theme, I thought I'd share this photograph I took when we all visited this past December (this image is from Christmas Eve afternoon). It reminds me a little (just a little) of one of my veryfavorite paintings.

I'm sorry I don't have an accompanying poem. I don't write much anymore.

-Kathryn

you can never go home again

And all that razzmatazz. Thanks for reading. Here's the final poem in my memory-tastic series of Charleston Times.

Charleston Times 10

music on the pavement and all I ever

had in Charleston was

the ability to hate it.

was it palm trees or beaches?

the College of Charleston, the girls in their

makeup running down

the lane,

the revamp of King Street dying

away from

such humble dirty

tricks and dangers.

I had a crummy apartment with

a good girl in

the heart of a ghetto puking its guts out.

and the city was mud, it was cobblestone,

it was the horses marching around

for tourists and their

wedded happy cousins.

I had nothing, Charleston, and everyone

knew, and I was going to die there,

and school was a fluke,

and I was just a kid, and the street

was brazen, and the only friends I ever

made sat there on the beach lighting

fireworks, and yes

of course I fell in love there

all the time

.

so I left. so I left

and it told me to leave

and it said no southern son and it waved palm fronds

and I left in a beat up truck just in time

before all heaven set with the sun

on the last

day

.

Sunday Morning

Today is Sunday, the Lord's day, so it is time to post Holy scripture upon this blog. I mean, post another one of my old short film scripts filled with surreal erotica of course!! This a sequel of sorts to my previous short film idea.

RELIGIONS INC.
It is early morning. We see a figure lying in bed. Camera zooms in on his face. His eyes open. next we see his digital alarm clock read 3:45. The camera moves upside down to show the time spells the word “SHE”.

Cut to a half naked woman wearing a man’s button up shirt unbuttoned showing her breasts and she is wearing pink panties. The woman is rolling on a bed in a middle of a wrecked hotel room. She is laughing hysterically.

Woman
Look at this place. We must’ve had a good time last night.

Man
Uh, I guess? Do you remember how we got here?

Woman
I remember meeting you at the Shot Glass crying after Jack left me. I remember you telling me that you saw Stacy with another man. That’s about it.

The man looks down and sees a videotape on top of a pile of filth. He decides to view the video. It is a video of the couple having the roughest sex ever. They also destroy the hotel room in the process. They perform Sade like acts.

Cut to a scene with the Man being appointed to a strange Council for the Arts. He seems upset. Turn their meeting into a Felliniesque circus. Make it really fucked up. A fat man with a thick Dali like mustache stands up and announces it is time to view his film.

The council turns to the big screen. The title “Jesus” appears on the screen.

The first scene is a helicopter shot of a car on a hill in Los Angeles. On the roof of the car we see a bumper sticker cross that reads, “Got Savior?”

The next scene is of a Nun holding a glow in the dark cross starring into the camera in a creepy manner. Cut to a parking lot where two middle aged guys are throwing hardcover books at parked cars. In a garage a teenage boy is practicing electric guitar.

Cut back to the first man sleeping on a couch while it storms outside. He is now bearded, kinda like Jesus. A woman sits in a parked car outside his window. She is crying and cursing and naked. The man stands up nude, walks to his window, and opens the blinds to view the woman in the car. The man scartches his beard and walks over to a desk. He opens a drawer and picks up a book. It is a Superman comic.

The screen goes black. We hear an audio collage of preachers and gun shots for almost 30 seconds.

The End.

you know we're almost done

but Poppa still gon' make love all night long.

Charleston Times 9

the poetry readings and how I met a girl

were intertwined from

the moment another

girl in pink hair told me that I should

stand on a stage and

read all about

my standard variations.

and when we went we went in force.

and everybody knew us.

and we hated everyone.

and we were better than them.

but, please, as

Harold would say,

much love, much

love from the crowd. clap

clap.

oh what a lovely day

for a neighbor. Won't you be mine?

Charleston Times 8

the hospital was my funeral home.

I worked the third shift and came out

exhausted.

it was escape, of course,

a means, an end,

money and

movement, taking pictures

of so many others, addled

by the lottery

and dreaming of moving to the country.

well who could want such a thing?

Calhoun

was a jerk! Ohh, I said it!

Charleston Times 7

the movie theater downtown serving

beer and beef

was easy and eager,

sat next to the banquet hall,

sat next to the seafood restaurant,

sat on the square, off the street,

large and American,

and I folded under folding that damned flag

when it got too windy out.

and I can recall splicing movies

and finding the time

to lust with my

tongue firmly

in placement and cutting

movies back

to the shreds they came from and finding

the time to stare

down the back alley and imagine

garbage bags bursting in

acclaim of my arrival.

the kitchen was easy;

the fryers were hot;

the food was stiff, oh heat lamp,

I just couldn’t get

a handle of

everything

.

charleston chew

Now, come on, you had to know I was going to use that line as a title to a post at least once during this onslaught of youthful memory poems? Right? Right!

Charleston Times 6

when I went down to Chicago land and

came back

and then decided Austin was

all that could

ever be,

he balked and Josh balked too

and I failed

and flopped around in gym shorts

on my parent’s front lawn.

we said

oh doom and destiny

and couldn’t step over ourselves fast enough to

get back downtown Charleston and

make a life of cheap

apartments and hardwood floors and

late night parties

and girls that were

jealous and poetry readings that

were fast and easy and ridiculed and beloved.

but when I set sail for the new country,

an evening’s party

captured me, and she was there,

and those people were there,

and my brother’s roommate was there

snorting,

and we all fell into the sea and said it is better

to drown than to wade, better

to drench than to soak.

but when I finally woke up in my parent’s house

for the last time, I knew

of only a girl’s legs and how to smash

a beer bottle over my head.

Short Film

Several years back I wrote some short film scripts, at least my idea of what short films would be like if I wrote them. This is one of them.

SAX STIGMATA
The film begins with rapid jump cuts of passionate lovers having sex. Black screen to lovemaking to black screen to lovemaking, etc. The setting is a simple room.

The room should have muted, dark tones. Maroon sheets, blue walls, purple floors, and so on.

When the woman climaxes a hail of bullets rip the room apart. The Ornette Coleman song “Lonely Woman” plays as the smoke from the gunfire turns into a hazy fog.

Cut to a phone ringing. A young man, in his late 20s, emerges from beneath the sheets of his bed and answers the phone.

Man
Hello.

He mumbles into the phone. There is no voice on the other line. The man stumbles over to his dresser. He smells his dirty clothes. He picks out the cleanest clothes. The man walks over to the corner of the room. Up against the wall leans a Sax case. He opens the case and picks up his horn. He begins playing quick scale runs.

Next we see a woman is bra and panties standing in front of a full length mirror. She is without expression. She runs her hands over her body. In the bottom of the mirror we see the reflection of a sax on the floor in the background.

Cut to a table. The table is in a dark basement. We hear the sound of what most people would recognize as dripping water. Slowly the camera moves in closer to the table to reveal a deck of cards. On the top of the deck is either a Joker or a King face up. The dripping sound is actually blood hitting the cards. The blood drips from an undisclosed location.

Then we see quick shots of various gangster paraphernalia. Things like tommy guns, cocaine, casinos, waterfront docks, expensive clothing, etc.

Cut to a dark apartment. From the inside the camera is facing the blinds. A shadow of a man is seen in perfect silhouette. He is motionless.

number five alive

Yeah yeah, I know, such a lame post title. But guess what? I eat lame post titles for breakfast.

Charleston Times 5

I met this first girl full of fun on the boardwalk

because of my friend

Jarod and his lingering need

of some other.

and the next girl was a bookstore queen

who couldn’t be

much more than eighteen.

the third girl was wearing a Virginia shirt

and showered easily

in the apartment where we made music.

the next girl, finally, took

off my clothes in her coffee shop and

said that the best part

of poetry is the break.

the girl after that, still that girl, put

my clothes back on

in a different shop and told

me that poetry is

poetry and any other nonsense

is just girls and boys dreaming.

that girl took off her glasses, took off my

hands, said that she

saw the horizon,

took me to the ocean, and made me stand,

facing the wind.

whammie!!

I opted to put two exclamation marks after whammie, not three. I don't know, it just seemed like the moment wanted it, although I know three exclamation points is the traditional way it's done. But don't let it be said that Christopher Savage was ever afraid to defy convention. I bite dogs too, and while I'm wearing a postman's uniform.

Charleston Times 4

Jason said he would never join the armed

forces,

but then he went and did it,

and Kelly,

his lady,

said she was waiting for him.

ocean waves, he played

video games,

he didn’t dance,

he got drunk and smoked cigars

and shaved his head.

he ate chicken as

plain as can

be

and hit the gymnasium.

he said, well you know that the marines are just

easy targets.

we get picked up, we roll out,

we dive in,

and we just hope for the best.

--

I can remember those late nights of pizza and

dvds sitting

lazy on your parent’s

couch counting

hours and slipping down the cords

of endless entertaining

game controllers

Charleston is not so different from Mars

Hey, number three, here it is, wow, cool, go f--- yourself (edit by the blogger team: sorry shitheads, no swearing). Banzai!

Charleston Times 3

oh William, I saw you yesterday

in your

bowtie in the box office

at the theater,

and your mother made you lunch,

and your

sister was away at school,

and the girl of your dreams was hiding behind the concession

counter.

and you said so much would

change.

you said, buy a ticket

now,

it’s going to get much better,

but you might

not have as much fun.

you had that jet black hair made of cutting

knives.

I had a vest on made

of stampeded carpet.

later, you said slurpies are good for you

and downed a whole bag of popcorn for dinner

and disappeared into

the office.

SC

I was drinking coke in a bar named Rachel’s when a long tall Texan with a pig face came up to me. He asked me if the seat next to me was taken…zaroooom, I fly away.
All these women line up t’ mean nothing. A laundry list for the gravestone I call the past. Claire was there. The movie started at 8:00 p.m. Then this dreamed femme hands me a bag of DVDs. Damn, I wonder what this means. In most films flicker ticker tape parade tape my eyes shut before the drive. So are we gonna get together? Far as I can tell we have nothing. An ace and a pair of diamonds. All these kids with kites hold joker’s wild. In the nose of the groom. The garden guardian closes nocturnal Chopin. The piano sits upright and plays itself. It swings with greasy fingers. I got the firewood. Chopping at the bit, he never swung like that before I think to myself.
Horny in his bed is choosing which dream to fall asleep to tonight. Lead Toes is glad to see buxom blondes in the cold weather. Cold and turning colder. In the afternoon soon the fledgling member of the scat pack says Idaho is the pit and the reward.
These over the fog writings are mine for the smoking. Writing by candlelight is the same as riding a book named candlelight. Happiness is the December wind whipping my face. Crisis the Duck asks for soup, but he receives a guitar unstrung. Following my Marilyn Monroe the Hurst of my background ends with curly hair. She sits down to take a test. Get it over with so we can get it on. Hurry up please, its time. Please, friend, hop scotch to Part II. All these countries can kiss my grits.
The Horse Radish is a play about two gentle cowboys. They somehow get stuck in middle America. Drinking coffee will do that to a foolish teen. The poison poised to top the charts in 2034 is Bongo Hamsters. They rock. The real illiterate poet steps to the microphone and reads,
“When the night is a long time coming
and I have weary eyes & bloodshot thoughts
and I know all the lights are off
and I know all the doors are locked
I turn over & think too many coughs
You may ask me about my dreams
but I will tell you only that you play a leading role
and I am a supporting actor
the clock moves through molasses
the moon is in permanent hang
this day is too goddamn long.”
The poet is morbid to the touch. So after many tensions the book really starts. One guy has an eye patch. Cobb Lar stood up. His hands were shaking

times two

Here is the next poem in the series of Charleston Times. Lovely day, wasn't it?

Charleston Times 2

my friend Jarod picked me

up at three

pm

and we headed away for dinner. downtown.

playing on the streets,

scrambling our

parking,

headed for the pier.

but we stopped at the beach on the way home

and each said what

it was we

desperately wanted.

love

is what he told me.

Ghost of Past Jeff

I found an old poem of mine on the Intertron today. It must date from the late 90s or sumptin'. I don't even like it that much, but feel a sly link would be fun for those of you reading this B-log.

http://www.poetry.com/Publications/display.asp?ID=P2777972&BN=999&PN=1

oh such lovely youth

Yes, I know, I know: the title's a little saccharin, but sue me and shoot me. I wanted to post a poem everyday, and I've decided to put up my cycle on my days in Charleston, SC. The poem cycle is titled Charleston Times. I'll post one a day (maybe two! oh my!) until the series is over (which should last about a week). Also, the "Times" series of poems will show up again when I post Jeff and my new audio poem "Disconnected Times" in the next few days. Wild, man, yeah, dig, and flowers too.

Charleston Times 1

she said that my name was Christopher

and that

she’d love

me

on any stage

in any

town.

we said that we deserve so much better

and dreamed

of leaving.

she said that she didn’t exist

and I woke

up under

my parent’s house

in my parent’s neighborhood.

I was back in Charleston.

In a Dream

My dreams are always so vivid. Last night I dreamed that I was playing gtr with the band White Denim. The gtr player had broken his hand and was applying lubrication to it while Steve, the bass player, was jumping around as the drummer kept counting off new tunes. We were playing in a dive bar with about 10 people in the audience. I think they were hookers and disabled veterans mostly. I dreamed these lyrics:

Closing Time

Gotta get gone - the sun is up
I'm thinking of summer rhyme
Look at the clock my friends
It is closing time

People here are dying on the vine
The weather aint bad - I feel fine
Look at the clock my friends
It is closing time

Closing time!!! (scream)

I got this poetry from your mama for a dollar

Here are some more poems because the posts have been lacking lately (and by lacking, I mean they aren't coming to your door and kicking your ass). Ugh! Tough poet post!

untitled 821

“She gathered her

literary

fist and threw it

but I absolutely dodged

and

watched it sail off

for

the sun

,

shattering it

in two

in

two

,

and then I laughed

because

she laughed

and looked

blank”

untitled 1769

the low weak currents in the stream

end

up having the most chance to

change

the course of the mighty river.

away

from the homes and habitation. away from all the angry

faces

.

a car hydroplanes over

the

entire surface of black black

road. into the end

of

another mechanical beast. there is no roar.

the

water feels the skid

.

and the tears on cheeks,

tracing down sacred pathways, comes and goes

in

the faint light of midnight. the girl and her
mystery don’t discover tonight

.

the later days of heat and health dry

her completely

.

untitled 1073

if the power

of

the universe was

all

about autumn trees

,

then poets would

be

warriors

with

swift swords to cut

through

people’s lives

;

and if the power

of

poetry was

all about

the universe

,

everyone would be

corrupt

and

beautiful

Happy St. Prose Poetry Day

Hey, guys, I haven't posted a prose poem in a while, so ba da bing. Happy St. Swithins day by the way.

travel logos 4

If you arrange all your shoes in perfect order, point them north, and casually look at your watch the minute the sun goes down, you’ll know how it feels to be prepared. The warrior outside, roaming hills with the moon as his friend, understands that when he lives, and with his sword and gun, he’ll die a little bit, more and more. This makes him smile and I wish I was there. You wish that you were there too, with me, right now. You would not say to me to take my time. I’d smash a local radio and shout all of the day is gone. You are gone. You would not say to me to love the way of shadows from hollows. You would say go climb into a tank, drive down the main road, and make your mark in explosions. Everyone will have to say your name then. But I don’t want to. Not really, I don’t think.

Hip Ship Choco Chip

I was thinking about the end of yet another SXSW here in Austin, TX this morning so I went digging through my poems to find something that would fit with my current mood.

from HIP POSTURING

The belly of the beast

trigonometry
function of
reality
courtesy phone
ringing
pick it up now
make a call
pretend to fall
down down down
you go to the basement
looking good man
pick up chicks
get yr kicks
like an old timer
low low
yeah real low
how long can one
mouth run on and on
to satisfy the stomach

in the middle of a feast.

Lenny, smut, and a new poem

I wrote a new poem today inspired by Christopher. I was also thinking of Lenny Bruce for some strange reason. Can words shock anyone anymore? Is that even possible?

5 Short Poems Inspired By Savage’s Reading of Les Murray

Angry Poem
The man in the office with the beard
Is young, educated, and satisfyingly un-weird
After 8 months of unemployment – finally…
He doesn't even make 30,000
After 4 years at the university
His BA = BS
I bet he wishes he had a Master's degree

Dirty Poem
Lubricate yr fingers
Index and middle
Stick them up my
Lubricated butthole
Girl, you’ll be a woman soon

Poet Poem
I read the poets of today
I say
Good for her/him
But who reads ‘em
The guy w/the glass eye
Or the girl pale w/sneer

Paranoia Poem
Big Brother speaks down
-Tell me of your dreams
-When I close my eyes all I can see is black

Positive Poem
I hate thinking negative
Thoughts
Hate is such an ugly word
I dislike
Thinking negative thoughts
But
My positive spirit has been pushed
Off a cliff
By all these awful
People

free free free

Hello fellows, how's the world? Just thought I'd post some new poems I've written. Hope you are all doing well.

untitled 4084

she wants sex

in the disco

beside the jukebox

while it is

raining

on a Monday evening

by the rarest of chances

we could

be the river god

beheading himself

with a blue broadsword

in the

glade and grass

untitled 4078

several girls

have begun

chanting

their rules for laughter on

the avenue

when I slip

by

and toss my briefcase

to caution

and chaos

the cars of the center lane

with

hope

burst wildly across the emptiness of the downtown

grid

untitled 4075

if you want white paper on your

mattress

call

me when it is getting

late

so sunshine

can just go over the shoulder

I should

have slept with you

like sticky

flesh

over my fingernail I was

in love

so many times oh she dreams

that I am

so many parts of steel flown

in the sky and

crashed in

the ocean

SC

You bet the stake crass of mouse. Miles Davis. Drive to the mountain to find the rest of the moment. Out over the ocean one might taste open seasons and oven heat. Awful food for penmanship. Too late for Wednesday. Experi-man with the ocular nerves says no sir for hire.
“Serve up the trout.”
He is on the side of justice so he must be corrupt. With wise skin flakes please my breast and examine me honey. Oops! She was killed by a pack of anti-Famines. This is going nowhere so I ate desert and threw up sunshine. The dentist called and said something about my looks deceiving the tooth. Bother other brothers before noon. This one needs rest. I sleep alone now. Allow me just one more chance to make it right with you. I ride a mail train baby. Get it. Got it. Bought the phone book from Darling ‘cause she drew erotica next to the psychiatrist. She was pleased with grand illusion. It did not bother her that he was missing three eyes. The otter was pleasant. That made up for lost love. The student council stud had quite the exercise video collection at his disposal. He was running for president. He did not win. Too many problems. No way.
“Yes. I sal it wit’ m’ on toe eyes.”
Rhys was the name of the detective who framed Woodstock. Alias from the other side was toe jammed from behind and torn between the good and the bad within all. I tried to escape but my futile attempts were ‘tween tweezer thin slices of mediocre.
“Be not so proud,” said Yonder the elder, “because the young may be foolish with their money, but quick with their guns.” The crowd took three steps back and yes indeed was the response. Heather noticed the microphone was unplugged. We were all amazed. Minutes later the smoke cleared.
All dragons juggle off toward the night. The town was now ready for the festival. The elder ambled to the front of the stage.
“Quiet. Quiet. Please, listen to his pleas. They are really amazing if you don’t forget that they are centuries old.”
Not to be forgotten. The hush of the mostly youthful audience was impressive. They said nothing. No ears were left unopened. Tired eyes assured. Elder looked around for some sign. The yellow light. No, yield. I am ready to speak. Huge air lung filled, I say do unto smothers as do unto you. Laugh. That was untitled. Much more should be said on the subject. I would if I could. Breeze.
Cigarette lighter than fair. In the corner serious thought was being thunk. Shot like junk. No shadows however. That was a close one, ponder. What the hell does he mean? Yeah, the night was off to a great start.
Be proud (can this be happening?).
The pride tag was enlarged to mouse x moose. I could not stand the consequences. Heather could. She was quite the trooper. Lusty appeared again. He was ragged and dirty like the song. Too bad, could have been a nice boy had he only listened to his high school guidance counselor. This was likely an oversight. Buy and sell. Date the waitress. Dancing his jog he told the audience conveyance gathered up our elders. What would he call “cool” things? This was unique in our apartment. We had unsolved mysteries but nothing like The Adventures of Lusty. He was one candid fool. Born and raided, he had been fired months before his long lost weekend.
Dark shades now cross-legged sitting back t’ back with his throat. He told tell of his tales. They were obvious. One time the drinks flowed freely. Any good news was smothered he had toured Southeast Asia. He had sung back up for an entire country. It was nice to hear, but something of an accident. A fool suck as eye.
His raging temper went on through the night. Blank. Bland. Heather lost her nerve and snapped. Bye for now. Sweet candy child. Darling of the mist. What a mess. Lusty will behave himself for only so long. He will not be asked back for any more speaking engagements. Aint it funny how bard games turn into cinema. That is the end.
Dreamed a bank robbery, bust out of jail, love triangle type story with Ida Lupino going by the name of Catherine Wheel. It was strange. I saw an image of a girl I’d seen a few times around campus. She was killing in the name of. I don’t know why she did it, but she did it well. I love to see her walk.

blogs away

Hey, here's another prose poem I just wrote.

travel logos 87

she thinks that now, if ever, would be the perfect time to carve her initials into her hair and walk down the avenue in a lime green dress, touting her new success at initiative and disdain. but she moves onward, past the hair salon, and into the old alley where grime collects in puddles of reflectance. she is beautiful, but not in any way you could tell, and she is young, but again, this is a secret. for her the last resort is to go straight to a coffee shop, down three cups of espresso, and extend the last forty hours of her waking. just once, to reach that level of misunderstood living, that is what she wants. the taxi cab, the old bum besting birds for bread crumbs, the nun in her books and emptiness, the woman, the man in his old beat jeans, the girls on the corner, watching strangers bounce from cutlery shops, and the jazz man trumping his best solo with a silent rest and lean. the girl is the girl that can become a woman of love, she is exactly that kind, but she has to know it first.

novel hovel

Hey guys, after reading Jeff's Sagittarian Conflict poem, I decided I'd share a paragraph from my novel that stresses the main character's early romance to a wife of his, or at least, his reflection on the subject. Just some quick things to know for this part of my novel: the main character is immortal, he's on a road trip, he's a novelist (and remember, this is just a smaller story in the larger scope of the novel! wheeeee!!!). Hope you guys like.

His whole life had been pointed to this moment, directed, and whipped, beaten and loosened. The immortal could feel wild lifetimes converging in his veins, a wife roaring, a novelist scrawling. He could see Eloise, his love, sitting high in a castle of theses and red capped pens. He thought about her and motored. Sometimes it was easy to dream her into existence, thinking about plastic and paper clips, flesh and fingernails. Sometimes it was too easy to love her. He revved the engine; the distant halo of the city dwindled behind. The immortal shook himself; but she is noble too, he whispered, and spelled the word Eloise in his mind. She had a strong sense for fiction, fancying all elements of Shakespeare and Salinger. She sparkled like a drum more often than not, and her rhythm was a river, and the immortal was a leaf. He kicked the acceleration harder, upped the rev, and faded faded. He wanted to be with her now, despite himself, despite her university schedule. He wanted to be near; he thought about their origin. He was a sailor, she was a student, he took her fishing, she wrote him poetry. They fell in love in bungalows and libraries. He had written a novel about it once; an empty house passed by. He didn’t think much of the novel, but he wanted to believe in it. It was one of the first things he had written, and even now it sat dense somewhere in a cellar, collecting dust for no one. And this cross country trip too, he thought, was made for believing. It was a snake, a dragon with many heads, and he wanted to be a knight, spinning wheels and all. He wanted to carve his initials in every tree he saw on his way west to the great desert. Here stood an immortal man, soul and all, he imagined, a large knife, a cut-away desert setting, cacti and lizards. All on the way home, and take your time too, he reminded himself; he didn’t want to get there before he got there. He had to make sure that his bike was beautiful and smooth, and that it ate the road, and that when he stopped, there would be a red landscape with a single tree and a beautiful young thing and a wicked creek. The immortal had to have his fun, it was essential.

Sagittarian Conflict: The Poem

During the typing of SC I wrote a longish poem titled "Sagittarian Conflict" that was more or less a poetic version of that crazy word play novella of the same name. Since I have so many loyal readers, I thought I would post the poem here as well for comparison.

Sagittarian Conflict

A translucent phone at the bottom of a chlorine hole -
it rings exactly three times - Claire is frightened of the marching cats -
outside the tax office coffee brews -
Famine puts newspapers in an open four-door
(he knows not what model or make of automobile) -
Claire knows more about cars then he does -
on his right is a painting of a tree trunk -
he smoothly twists the cap off his bottle of gasoline and drinks -
the portable typewriter runs a marathon in the time it takes him to say -
I want you

The night before departure -
the winter of her motions -
Claire stood, a stone in the tower of Babel -
like ice, melodies and pelvic rhythms hung frozen -
Famine was a drag on Claire -
He watched the crowd turn into wallpaper - snarling and sulking -
the ring master’s whip cracked -
Claire was trapped inside a magazine exploitation gun
color of a college party movie - the sight of her playing the game killed
Famine’s angel wing visions of lovely Claire -

On display the summertime boy and twisted kite girl -
clouds below the grass wet - a smell of coming thunderstorms -
His eyes shift into hers - will they speak? - the canyon divides further -

1982 the year of west coast kicks and screams -
baby born July &... -
Famine as Pacific Ocean military -
conceived in Philippines - opens his eyes on San Diego -
His love of music and art came out of nowhere when he was young -
his parents were not particularly “arty” -
father was a marine too good hearted for the bullshit
he put up with inside the walls of honor and discipline -
mother had several talents though creativity was not one -
she was a perfect copy - early in her life she worked as a painter of custom needlepoint canvases - she would take a picture and paint it for sale in a small shop in Whittier, California -

...& November - Claire as Los Angles - breathes -
Fall turns Winter, the Nevada desert brown -
blue eyes near to remind the neon people of beautiful waters -
w/family complete - time to pack thoughts into bags and leave -
landing on Quaker land - Penn.- the new home that Claire will cry for -
Several more states to conquer before landing near Famine -

Famine thought on the coming summer ....
brother has a job -
Dad supports the family -
Mom is the foundation -
brother is a genius -
Famine is the leader w/observational catalytic presence -


From bend of bay to shit of sit - our beloved parade -
Famine fakes a knowledge of fine wine -
and expensive fibers firm and lustrous -
Claire the kite flesh flies higher and above the boy -
his humor is hyena soup -

As lightning tears apart the most fragile part of sky -
as Famine becomes the trapeze artist -
words beseech his oral cavity -
fare thee well lost ocean eyes -
Holding his breath he promises to laugh again -
then the phone rings - aural assault -
he rubs his sleep ovals - language leaves the scene -

Claire transformed apples into philosophers -
Famine read the type written pages with enthusiasm -
she wrote her stories so easily - he exploded turning green -
the pulse of midnight broke his concentration -
little hand - big hand - short and sweet -
Famine was the exposition - regain control of the ship -
point the stern and pantomime the bow - arrow through the heart -
like an old cowboy -

He wrote the name of the Madonna backwards -
held it up to the mirror - Claire drew a picture on a napkin -
for he is a sailor and she is a star -
...and you can carry the elephant while I carry the foam -

Claire always asked Famine the same question - why? -
he fell asleep talking - they were seated at an all-night diner -
the grunting waitress who carried pancakes like they were waffles -
He saw the peeling band aids - shooting up syrup -
the morning always smelled and tasted strange -
Set the sails. We’re leaving port - Famine drifted back to his country -
the skylark, the poet, and the pauper visited Famine -
Hook up the computer to the main source connector in the coconut tree -
proud flag wavers - automobile accident and a fractured wrist -
broken hearted too – Famine thinks of Claire –

PART II

The world of love to be conquered -
through the embers of the last morning rise -
hours of 36 passed effortlessly away -
no meals were to be missed -
wine of kisses drunk -
petals of pink cover the floor -

The walls were flaking -
no teenage rock n roll posters
to cover the stains -
just plain off white dirty staring at him -
Famine’s sheets were not tucked -
they were semen spotted -
the radio, the last piece of technology in the room, was still on -
stuck between frequencies -
not quite Mozart -
not quite the Lovin’ Spoonful -
not quite talk - mostly hiss -
the shifting back and forth was somewhat pleasant -
his mind was a spin cycle -
the voice on the radio, “...distance...precious jewels...
keep up the good work senator...homicide...” - the orchestra swelled -
*Beep*- it was not even 9 am -
the clouds were still covering the sun -
the sin - the light -
the previous day had been long but this was ridiculous -
Famine’s clock radio had been on for 28 hours straight -
he didn’t care - he just wanted to stay in bed until 11:30 -
until it was time to leave -
Famine shifted his weight -
the bed springs creaked -
finally, something was happening -
he was preoccupied with his thoughts -
his ruminations on the previous months incarceration -
going over the details and dreams -
through the static Marvin Gaye’s What’s Goin’ On was playing -
Famine thought, good question - still, he remembers how he spent his nights -

They would walk around
the campus talking -
the movement and conversation
only occasionally slowing -
they would take a seat on a bench at midnight or rest at a bus stop ‘til 2:30 am -
the wind would muss their hair and as vain creatures -
especially Famine - (He needed a mirror every minute of every day) -
Famine loved to inspect his appearance -
they would joke about details hidden ‘tween the lines of day -
they would talk playful in foreign accents -
Claire had mocking tongue -
inspired by her surroundings the quick witted
Claire would evolve the art of speech with Famine as partner in crime -
“Oh bus-o driver, stop de bus-o an’ cum back ‘ere. I want you t’ put a token in my slot.” Claire was so very funny - then it would be Famine’s turn -
“Mary suddenly grabbed hold of the stick shift and gave a mighty tug.”-
She screamed, “Green Light! Go! Go!” Claire giggled, “Faster bus-o driver!” -
a flash of her flirting and Famine was gone -
her ocean eyes would reflect street lights and moon glows -
whatever was around - her eyes lit up the event -
“Bus-o driver you make me hawt!” -
Claire would put special emphasis on the word “hot”-
sexual metaphors peppered their talks - the hornier Famine became -
back in his room hours later and masturbating -

She was the love of his twenty years -
the nights they spent walking were the best nights -
the reward for years of ... -
some people were out drinking or drugging - all valid -
but give Famine a way to overdose on Claire Kaufman -
He could die no other way - her lovely womanhood and intellect -
genius made his dick unbreakable - Claire and Famine were walking their last walk -
the night before school let out for the summer -
separated by hundreds of miles -
still computer & phone connections
but physical sight would be banished for most of their months apart -
maybe the chance of a get together but not regularly
and Famine certainly craved her closeness -
around the old University - their comfort walk -
Famine tasted the air and felt his words -
as they were pushed out of his mouth by fate’s fingers -
Claire brought out his happy -
he laughed and laughed and laughed some more with her -
Claire was his best audience and Famine was her best audience -
they passed various tan brick institution architecture cubes
on display as educational facilities - he longed for control of time -
he looked up at the clock tower - it was penetrating a single cloud -
he imagined himself swinging from the hour hand -
“Give me more time, dammit. I need more time!”
Claire laughed and laughed - he loved her melodies -
they stopped outside a maze like complex -
tucked away in a corner under a single light outdoors
between the walls - a saxophone player -
practicing his lonely songs - of course they made fun of him -
“Dumb shit, doesn’t he know it is time for bed?
Stupid sax on the beach motherfucker.”-
making obscene gestures with their hands -
but the music sax man played - a slow romantic ballad -
the horn’s cries echoed off her empty -
a desolate slumber hours soundtrack -
ringing brightly the high notes - gently oozing the low -
Famine looked into Claire’s eyes and saw a deep solar system -
a galaxy he wished to travel -
but she was young, innocent, and independent -
a virgin of soft white - no brute could tarnish her star -
he, for the first time, understood the cliche “lost in your eyes” -
romantic fantasies pulsated through his limbs -
his loins throbbed with procreation -
his engine was hot and stiff -
“Claire...” -
Famine could not speak -
language could only take him so far -
the imperfection of words revealed -
he had had moments in the past
with difficulty saying the important phrases and this time was no different -
“It is our last chance for a slow dance,”
Claire said - his hand in hers - his arm around her waste -
he pulled in close to her - and cheek to cheek they began to sway -
slow motion turnings - the moon was a mirror ball -
poor sax man - he had to keep playing until their dance ceased to be -
imagine two young kids on a sidewalk outside a university
in the freshest hours of day holding each other
for the last time (for a long time anyway) -
moving like melancholy waves to the tune of “love”-
the warm human touch - Famine was trying to melt into Claire’s rhythms -
briefly she pulled back - examining his face in the picture frame of morning -
no words were spoken - their feet weightless -
their motions together with cupid sax man - honorable sax man -
music disappeared into the sun’s heroic rise.

work sucks

Hey guys, I wrote this poem today about a lady I used to know.

untitled 4066

the Tuesday Delores

was

let

go is easy

to

remember

you see we all

know

straw helmeted

women

that stand ugly

on

corners and sing the

truth

of us

and we hate them

for it

go blow some poems home

Hey, it's been a while (a week!) since I've posted some poems, so shazam, here you go. The first two are a brand new world exclusive, and the last is an old world exclusive. Praise Jesus and praise the old ass kicking Jehovah (but in the Latin alphabet, Jehovah begins with an I).

untitled 4060

some drums for the weekend

where

you met your lover

over the

grove

inside of turtle shells

and

dead pigeon

feathers

some say she is lost

down

riverside

but I want Sundays

to be my

memorial

so bang away on the walls

with silverware

so silver and useless

untitled 4059

print me my name backwards

across a snowy

plain

in Vermont

where

we can bury our mother

from

the weight of her

shoulders

and smoke

and rings of ivy led low

on a white

summer house

untitled 1498

Christopher Savage

I miss the nighttime

when

I was the monster

in

the

dim

.

I preyed on the whole

world

,

but a good one

,

a kind one.

all the people I’d meet

,

all the displaced personalities

and

the hungry loves

;

I didn’t know them any

more

than daylight

.

in the night I was hidden

and

magnificent

.

the moon was my queen

.

the stars

jeff makes a new friend

Hey everyone, watch a live version of Jeff's song "Oh You" and see him battle a great white SUV with his beard and his wits!