Hey guys, it's been a while, but I wanted to leave the picture poem up for a while for SXSW. Now, however, it's an untitled world, baby. That means I've written my 5000th untitled poem, and all week I'll be posting a ton of them for you guys. Call it a celebration of the written life. And just wait for April, oh me oh my. Have a funky good time!
it is not our place to save the world even if there are monsters in the midst. we have love
and is that not enough?
carry me under a pink horizon and I will sing to you of old iron factories.
there is nothing sweeter –
Sunday morning or other, a prick of violin and some biscuits, an indigo bedsheet, the last thrust of lovemaking, the phone ringing, a computer on a coffee table, and sheets sheets sheets of paper.
we can be a forest ourselves with strange fruit, and we can consume ourselves, and we can collapse.
sigh, and clap, together, once, now, my love.
I who am not so wicked yes as my chest is a furnace and glows I chase around
old beaches attempting to reunite with ghosts and memories
but not to worry
I have the ordinance language carved into my feet
so imagine sand and imagine poetry and
there I go
tell me again I am leper but god lying in gutters and know him beautiful ask and answer he replied but empty newspapers and lime colored dumpsters and to speak instead of the world blue downtown center commerce bank and puppets’ pink pajamas and the old factory biting dust distant and a miracle of course eating ourselves in mirrors and removing in the evening to drink brown liquor and sing song angels that exist pin pricks and telephone calls and god me to buffoon of course is easy and the secret cities across the pages of happy magazines and an entire float stream of piss underneath my feet the moment midnight in the scrounge life
oh we wretched few
have no names and are listless
emerging from bars at the end of the night
chanting god oh god is dead he is we have beer soak and whiskey prattling and god oh god is kind benevolent timid insipid and blue beetles oh ha
and we lie upon broad mattresses below frayed blinds with hope for the sun’s bright touch;
the morning tells us we are children but
we don’t listen.
we have hearts of the magi pricking the fabric of the ever want want
hey funny valentine, be a dead pharaoh, be a book unread and be the door that does not slam;
take your time listening to your father’s music;
he had a lisp and a lithe gun in his pocket;
oh wow oh
go boom go bang
shoot a ruby slipper and tame nothing
and open a doorway;
hey, it is spring;
hey it is summer, hey;
hey, it’s fall again and we have flesh colors on the balcony;
I think of jumping to reach something but the radio tells me