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eternity is fur wabbits
the poem spins
around, snappy. "just because
i am words
& not paint nor electricity,
not clay nor plastic nor even
PAPER, no fabric or texture,
because i am weightless
because i am shunned by
amerika's libraries
& listeners are white walls
collapsing, readers be
mummified moles overall
because i shine
& nobody sees shit
but the poet who slaps me
away,
because i reverberate
like a lot of sweet opium
in a space the
size of a
skull hovering in
dorothy's
swirling tornado'd
farmhouse,
that life can
be cartooned,
marooned & spooned &
shoved in sinatra's
dead ass like a square backward
fart, because girls (our moms!)
scream FRANKIE!
scream PAUL!
scream MONEY!
poetry
the poem
& the poet
are
by the luckiest stars
worthless,
transitory,
space-
dust of nothingness
drunk last night
& happy, there are
poems curving
around our voices in the livingroom,
around loud acoustic & bongo cassette,
rippling & splashing from pouring liquids,
echoing thru laughter memories,
christ, bart,
you & tara drank 16
bottles of rolling rock
in 3 hours,
then drove 120 miles south
at 9 at night,
& i hugged you,
i hugged tara,
in the parkinglot,
i knew you were
absolutely fine
in the world,
this world
where this
moment
we exist
with all
there is.
silly beat song
spacious sunday evening
walls well with october
jellyfish wishes in dark
green sea, see green
goats & all
grass glimmered now glimmering
upon earth's black dirt flesh
face-flesh & breath while dreaming
*
there aren't elephants spinning tonight
those opals spilling from my love's nipples
so circumstantially lovely
but i pick my blue bag
up from low chair,
loop wrist
clueless
what orifice will suffer
first or last
& then the moon whacks me awake
*
betting on buddha
over jesus
over allah
over under-dogs, those see-thru guys
with empty hands i bet
my smile
all blue
vied
black sky
perfect mind
blue like bottom
pond cement
paint
feeling spidery?
oh little octopus, she's
doing dishes
e: our place
i've eaten the rigatoni pasta,
meatless, but still very good,
plus bean-salad. i sat in our
livingroom in afternoon fall light
watching movies on the windows
while captain beefheart stomped
around. before i ate, my love,
i finished washing the dishes,
pots, & pans, mainly because i
love you & our life
together, tho please don't expect
me to do a 50-50 sharing of dishes.
i'd start tossing things.
we'd run out of pans
& neither of us wld eat. let
my actions be gentle shows of
absolute affection
without ulterior motive nor
balance. how wonderfully
we balance
now. face pressed to face
& kiss to kiss,
poem to
poem.
3rd shift life
i watch delbert rolling a farmer finger
into one of his large nostrils. dale bly
has constructed a sign on cardboard:
AIDS CURES FAGS
& he swears it's the truth,
the skinny weasel fuck
with nightly bombardments of anal sex
jokes. delbert wipes along dusty brown
work-pants, shifts his balls, the little
right-wing fanatic anus who resembles a
dirty billy-goat leprechaun bleats: i agree.
he chuckles. bly again points out
what truth exists in his sign.
i'm so far f u c k i n g removed from these
lunatics, tho after 6 years i fit right in ok,
i call myself "shultz" as in hogan's heroes,
i know f ucking nothing!
i don't know how i've managed this:
30 years of underground writing
the past 20 in erie's 3rd shift factories.
a certain rearrangement of poet & poetry,
but at such an expensive price. take for
example my first-hand experience of hate.
mounting hateful intensity in a terrible
marriage with a demon. farmer foremen
with half a brain. ignorant hateful companies
creating absolute amerikan worker
slavery.
more & more they want of you, always.
well, i've been a resident of the dungeons
a long time. do i have factory stories
galore, tho i don't write many. i was a very
heavy drinker in my younger days, young &
somewhat strong, strong enough & my
shoulders
are indeed muscular from years of factory
work. what wimpy kind of
faggot poet are you, by the way?
Re: jack kerouac is the devil
buddha blabs
bulbs off blissful light of heaven
upon feathery tundra-cloud
thin glass shards speckle starry terrain,
whereby monks collect moments
priests sip sins
holy hell
bloodless & gone
this gooey ghost
& his gooey words
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