Monday, December 10, 2012

With Presler


Lederhosen, a German themed bar, owned and operated by real German people, in the West Village.

Two men sit at a table. They drink beers. They eat sausage. They talk. It is clear that there is an affection between the two. They are not brothers by blood but in ways they are brothers. One has an issue in his life. They both have an issue in their lives. Their problems are different and similar. Opposite and the same. They struggle against forces. They decide these forces are largely within themselves. They anticipate epiphanies they hope will soon come. They hope that life's changes are clear and distinct, but silently they acknowledge that it is not so. Quietly they sip and consider life's passing as incremental and subtle and just too slow to detect until the change has long since happened and they are left pondering something that is already gone. They know this is true as much as they know that they do not fully know truth, as no man can, though they fully embody it. Wrapped in their problems, internal and external, they are the act of truth finding itself. 

They discuss further. They disdain that which most reminds them of their worst. On this they agree. As lost brothers they long for group acceptance, and equally disdain this longing. They long for fathers they thought they knew. Neither of them in this moment realizes that they are the fathers they are longing for.

One of them has a thought so instant and clear while relieving himself in the bathroom that, upon returning to the table to share, the thought which could have meant everything, fades and is merely an etching of it's former self on the cave of lost dreams. One of them expresses this and the other assures him that it will return. They both know that it will not. It never does.

They finish up their meal and challenge themselves to end the night there. They both know it will not. They both hate endings and a night like this, one which feels so close to something that matters, is hard to let go. They resolve to tighten their grip on the night with "just one last drink." With this they pour into themselves the first glass of poison that night. The drink too far. The point at which inspiration turns rotten, and madness takes hold. This change is subtle and hardly noticeable until hours later. This drink is their event horizon. There is a return to sanity after, but not without leaving something behind that cannot  be gotten back. A piece of themselves. 

In searching, they lose what they are looking for. In losing, they find themselves.

Thursday, November 15, 2012

11.15.12

Fun in a funnel fun drum fun in the sun. Seventeen years and fourty seven blunt ones and fun chums. We've met them here thirteen times before on the seventh of the seventh month. This hour the twelve of eights. Fourty seven moments in the barrel of the drum, fourty six, fourty five, fourty four. We, the sons of a sun bum of someone else's someone son. We hum the anchor loose over star board stump. His hers crossing lump in fourty three thumps, fourty two, fourty one. Thump on the drum and thump on the thump when the winning son's won. Hump and thump and wriggle and slump. Down dead porch step bump step slump. Down dead humming a hum as runts hum.

Thursday, August 16, 2012

just air.


these words not music notes.

 just air.

not jumping or bouncing lightly.

just air and empty nothing.
balloon of lifting nothing.
helium happy nothing.

not wanting to disturb

but

feeling somewhat helium.
no, but yes helium.

floating on empty air.

floating up and blowing

away. not

music notes.

 just air

blowing.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Bluely, the panelling.

Here I sit, like Marten Luther's Here I Stand.
Tid bits and fans of the bland
wood and wood stained everything
truly.

Bluely rhymes but means little to bridge the gap
betwixt the thought and the image in mind.
What do I do and what to decide
staring at an object to destruct
in mind and in time.

Objects are boring next to a person
a love, a friend, a fucker, a mother fucker.
All stories need enemies.

Lacking an enemy protagonists brawl.
I stall
in picking up on the rhyme,
the rhythm,
the deftly disguised signs and bums typing and wiping
wine and tears.

Memories as compressed years
like air in a vessel
to be shot at
in the teeth of the great shark.
Smile you son of a
and I withdraw shaking head at purchased 70's movie reference.

Blond polish girls, sips ahoy, and (Seinfeld)
what is the deal with
all this wood stained paneling?

And the good poems the love poems are too personal.

So this is what you get.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

12/16/11

I ran because the others ran
and the others ran because the woman ran.
We all ran and when we got to the top of the stairs the woman said

No train.

A cracked smile owning the moment.
We chuckled out loud despite the disappointment.
Children all of us.

Empty stations echo.
The man in a bright red baseball cap
leans on the railing; fingers stroking his lips and his chin
in that kind of absent...ness.

The slow receding clicks.
A girl in high heels. Black and pretty.
She's leaning against the trash, her hood shrouding her gaze.
Exhausted, over-worked.

You expected it to be something but it sure wasn't this.

Small devices, pouring minds in to distract the boredom.
Avoiding that moment when reality bites and snaps clear like a feral beast
in a trance.

It didn't quite turn out as expected. Not quite.
We chuckle out loud despite the disappointment.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

I...I...I

I am brand! I am plastic man!

I have polyethylene asshole and financing plan!

My teeth white!

My shirt clean!

I get drunk and dance on "scene!"

I am brand!

My dad own land!

I toothpick in fist, I floss where sit!

I shit where stand!

I brand what are!

I are what see!

I sit tree, I pee, I sing opera in sea!

I make dad sing song!

I wrong, I run road too long!

I strong, I gong!

I gong with throng in stand!

I am brand!

I am plastic man!