growling stomach
maria's pizza shop
downstairs
cheap but i figure
the pepper is ground rat-
shit
who wants to eat ground
rat-shit
best to avoid maria's
perhaps ann is at the market now
perhaps food will occur when the door opens
soon
there's a big thing of stuffed zucchini
in the fridge
& 14 cans of beer
i cld just drink beer
ann works 4 to 9 this evening
& addison is spending the night
at jill's
i cld just
drink
& pass
maybe wait for the cops
to call about my wild son
bail him
he's over bobby's
his old heavy rock metal guitar
playing friend here in the city
who lives down a block from our
old house on raspberry
repossessed a year & a half ago
& still nobody lives there
front-door swings open
mailbox tilts down
paper posted on front window
i don't know what it says
what a fucked up house
bought fast & furious
cool until rachel's parties
in the cellar &
food-fights
pizza slice
in workbench vice
erie
kids
clda been worse
destroyed my bar
whole house
began to self-
destruct
clogged line
dog-shit
off the back porch
busted door-frames
holes in walls
from my family's
expressive way
i gave up
i stood strong for a long time
but then
gave up -- it was all bourbon
& smoke
& poetry
i had the world
there
in writing-room
hermitage
candles & xmas
lights & very loud
counting crows
two decades of
writing surrounding
me & my bottle of beam
the demon wld stand in the doorway
ask why are you still here?
i knew hate
i knew disgusting hatred
fuck that house
& then the demon
& rachel &
doug left me there
with the dog
& the complete disaster of a
house
but it's what doug knew as home
most of his life
& now he's almost 15
& surely sneaks around
the old neighborhood at 3 in the morning
him & bobby
no doubt smoking stolen cigarettes
drunk
doug looks up to the window that was his
bedroom
& there's the walnut tree he
climbed in the backyard
& here's a hand-sized rock
& there's the
house
& then i get
a phonecall
oh maria's
i'm losing sense
a tuna sub
you can't
fuck up
especially if i
do
it with rolling rock
& cubs
baseball
on a sunny
ugly sunny day in july
sweetheart roses (for ann)
two years ago today, this morning, you
stepped off the greyhound bus on peach
street. you wore black & i was ecstatic.
what a wild, awesome, delicious time
these two years have
been. maybe we're 85 years old
i don't care
yr touch is still
wet from the fountain of youth
& there is sparkle
in yr eyes
the sparkle of an 18 year old girl.
two years
& i call
you lover, the only woman
who has
ever loved
me -- & my best friend,
my
confidante
my life-twin.
what poem are you living now
something quite iambic about
sexual breathing near orgasm
& breath is torn by claws
clogged in throat
makes edges exist
shadowy summer afternoon steam after
all-morning rain
ecstasy is chemical
ooze & the brain
rolls from its weak stem
like a pink pumpkin
suspended in a glass vat of red blood
oh yes i'm talking real alive aliens
i'm blowing lids off conspiracies listen
i'm a mammal with a mind inside a
moving skull i'm that hovering human mind
stuck to fat earth gravity
christ maybe i work in a jock-strap warehouse
or shoot meth into my darkening tongue
maybe i'm ghost in a coat-body sewn in by
a 14th century english witch
because i fucked her virgin sister
i was doing the ugly hag a favor, actually
i managed to ignore the worms spilling
from her mouth & nose & eyes & ears & ass &
cherry-pitted black chasm of cunt
squashing worms insanely squashing worms
& i came with thunder & slaps of lightening
i came & she screamed & went skeletal underneath me, moist bone skeleton
with some meat
since when is man not to fuck beauty
we fuck cows
& melons
we fuck dead girls
& smelly men
we fuck angels as their
eyes shoot out & shafts of the brightest
goddamn light erupt up
what
what have i realized or have i not realized anything, taking for
instance layers of brain where years have seeped, inter-mixed in me my
views & tastes & half-way emotional sense, it isn't like i'm lurching or
fucking like a bronco-rider loosing grip of the last lasso, no,
not that particular cosmological slant
which brings into play multiple cogs & gears
against silence & movement
it isn't like we're hovering
it isn't like we're ear-less bumblebees
tho we buzz
& we can sting
but we tickle
ingest flowers
produce honey
& the hive of self
if not bee then thunderous rhino
& the muscle we
throw,
hangovers breeding carelessness
sun is a hung thing too
picture rhino mounting the backside of rhino
buzzards with blood on their beaks
scream in the sky
reaching for a cigarette
ghost of me lunges & lingers ahead of my
fingers like an ultra-violet hologram scene
pale purple laser poles bending & crackling
ultra-violet sparks purpling as dark as blue
colored blood of shot-gunned face:
the suicide. the self-destroyer
& nicotine toxicity, slow poisoning
cutting just enough life from the whittled days
to seem normal & dreamy
for 30 years. 30 years sucking cyanide,
arsenic molecules rolling thru my veins
tightening up the ends of things
constricting more dead wastelands of flesh
& the poisonous waterways unspidering
into full heart-attack tarantula heart
& that's a scream, it's
addiction & brutal taxation & corporate liars,
it's demonic & flowering horrors
at the end of the future
cancer'd, shot, & bitter
to tell you i am never smoking another
cigarette, ever, they don't exist
as human invention, is telling you
everything about my
fear of death
ron androla is probably god & buddha & moses & jesus & king tut all rolled into one ultimate human amerikan male poet. earth spins because ron androla writes poetry. born in 1954. |
