Yabba Dabba Doo

5364654290_37930662c1

I take a swift hit, the glass dab prodding white-less smoke in a fury of heat and evacuation; soon the blue cloud smoke drifted over my eyes. I felt a loosening in my neck; my head wasn’t so heavy. Shoulders waned and eyes drowsed, I drifted into a sleep like fit of a passion once surrendered, I wasn’t happy, or anxious, or confused. I wasn’t anything, really.

 I was high as a kite and I was flying fine –

to this swift grass oil light up my fire

and confess that we’ve all had better times!

When was it last you kissed the bawdy admirer from the circus hounds?

The ones you noticed on your walk in?

The ones at the bar or the park or the job

who speak in whispers on the outskirts

of your real, fading, life.

Have you kissed this question as it should be handled?

Like a woman in sleep yearning for the hand,

the warmth,

the nestle of your crisp on her shoulders,

 the darkest of the darkest me

 in the nights spent waiting,

Wading on the gentle hello of fingers felt loosely

in the cold of the arms and the fisted

Who shake rebellious hands at the man

and all who no show

 in the moral, questionable authority.

This reaping year,

This one of two thousand

And unluck, the same

dumb struck lucky fuck

who should have passed

When wading in the deep ponds of a neighborhood gathering,

The birthday that you don’t remember

but the reality of your memory

clogging the very ears of disbelief,

Imagining on it’s own that one time

You were pulled from a deep pond.

Go on into the dying of the light

let Dylan tell it how it is,

Let marquis, whoever that fuck is,

 to be quiet.

Gentle wounds can be heard from the wise,

Be patient with your time

And let your eyes know the device.

All hail the significant query-

This dabbling affair with the minds mistress;

Let her take your hand and

let her run you through her fields;

The strawberries have never been sweeter.

The Ghosts of Beat

We used to sit in coffee shops

Hesitant but not alone

As Jack made a face

And Allen weeped a poem.

And we demanded it

As we did ourselves,

In that bustling café

Which on some nights,

Came alive with thought

When all thought the world

Would never change

And we were mad,

Mad as ever,

Mad about books and life

And friendships

Under that murky haze of a time remembered,

But never forgotten.

I will sit idly and weep

Of my colleagues of now,

Who take sips in whimpers

While staring at the

Metal headed frame

That binds them here.

What happened to Jack?

Allen?

Neal?

Lawrence?

Japhy?

The rustling of a few mugs

And shallow beers and I remember,

O I will remember the Zen Lunatics staring

avidly at the dim scene

Of a midnight café

Alive with talking

Alive with ideas

Alive with death

And time will play a waltzy tune

To pass the tragedy

Of times remembered,

And times forgotten.

Neon Circus

Neon Circus

Bearded men drunk off
their own gestation,
where bricked streets
clink heels,
waving flags of insecurity,
loneliness and withdrawal,
all while parading
in the deep sleep of
college dreams and romance

I have howled at the moon
quoting comets, Aries and Aristotle
where Monet is pronounced
Manet
and the whole world feeds
off the meaty bone of joke

Who is it that took short drives
with pageantry smoke from
car chimneys, bellowing an off brand
of friendship,
seen only through the dim haze of
nicotine?

Insatiable feelings of lust
protruding from gawking foreigners
of men,
who stare at black cats
as déjà vu
of any woman they’ve ever loved,
who with cock in hand
shove themselves on you
at the yellow dawn of morning
where maggots and mirrors
fiend coke and un-coke alike
into one pile of white powder.

we’re all allergic to god.

who is it that tripped for three days
on his own pity
while sorrow
whistled a tune of two black sparrows,
whose barbed wire fence
reminds the sheep not to pass

As black birds pluck at the walls
of my anxiety,
my circling, swarming time.
the hum of the heat
shifting, panging through
hells furnace,
burning, smoking
on me as flames spew from
my fingertips and
my mouth

Caution! – beware of all golden
headed hipsters,
who alike in clothes and mind
know retro and Campbell soup ads,
who spout Voltaire, Kerouac, Thoreau,
who have never read past
line three of the Bible,
who with nervous, chatting eyes,
sleep naked
on porches and
love machines

I am alone at tender nights
of days death
my neon circus chants
hesitant blues
as a whisper
on the edge of beds

I am the one who has kept writing,
I have seen the tyrants,
beggars and queens,
I have walked with the peasants
through harsh and grim
tattered climates
I have slept drunk in
alleyways with booze
in my hair
blood on my sleeve
I’ve spent nights passing
beers, blunts, lighters,
sharing an all nighter or two
with a few friends I’ve never
really known.

This season brings change
in the form of flowers,
decaying trees
reminding me that
everything and
everyone
will change,
and I feel the subtlety
of my own change, reeking of callous hands
and furrowed brow,
and I don’t know if it’s
for blue, or brown.

Helluva Night

 

Image

 

Don’t hold out your hand expecting change from
a man who’s never seen the same,

each day passing and each person to blame.


The rain taps at the window and reminds me to be dreary.

Today is not the day to be happy, it whispers.

Pack your bags Mr. Lonely Man

youre headed to the city


caught the northbound 75

and drove until dawn

the motel was cheap

bugs everywhere

stench of tobacco

i smoked a cigarette

and watched the news

helluva night

smoking cigarettes

in some lousy motel

with no ashtray

watching the news

bad people killing

good people dying


helluva night

to be alive.

Strange

She was tall and tan and long legged. I had heard a boy fucked her in the bathroom of the dorms on top of the sink. I knew what it meant, but it didn’t bother me. Her smile was genuine and her hair was strawberry blonde.

“Hi, I’m James,” I said, extending my hand.

“Hi James, I knew your name already,” she said smiling. She put her hand on Tim’s shoulder. “So you know Timothy?”

I nodded. “Been my best friend since middle school,” I said, “the times I’ve had with this man.” I looked at him.

He glanced over at me drunkenly. “Yeah, Jimmy’s been my best man since the beginning. You don’t even know him,” he said, wobbling a finger close to her face.

The pretty girl laughed and stepped back, putting her hand to her mouth.

“Tim let’s go upstairs,” his girlfriend said, “we’re going to shave your back!”

He purred like a whale loudly, and they ran upstairs arm in arm.

I looked at her and smiled. “Those are our friends,” I said, motioning toward the stairs.

“I know, right?” She grinned a big smile with her tongue between her teeth.

I was struck. “Do you need a beer, or anything?” I said awkwardly.

“Of course,” she said, grabbing my hand lightly, then letting go.

As I was off to grab the beers and debate the whole certainty of herself and I, the love dumb romance that bounced in my chest and sweated on my hands, I saw Bryan. He burst through the back door, naked, and doubled over, heaving heavily. His backwards hat was doused with sweat, as was his body, and he looked up at me helplessly.

“Want to go streaking?” His voice broke innocently.

I laughed and reached into the refrigerator, grabbing the beers. “Jesus, Bryan.”

“Aw man,” he said dramatically. “You think you can grab me one of those?”

I grabbed four and gave one to him. He tried opening it to no avail as I opened mine. I took it and twisted the top in my shirt and handed it to him.

“What, you too pussy to open it with your hand?”

I looked at Bryan and he was smiling. I couldn’t be mad at him, with that goofy stare and nakedness and awesome all combined. I bowed my head in shame and handed it to him.

“Don’t let it happen again!” he screamed. He took a drink and so did I. He grinned at me. Then suddenly off he went, out through the front door and running down the middle of the street, bare assed.

I went back to the girl but she wasn’t there, so I took the three beers, headed upstairs and noticed a line for the bathroom. A few girls waited impatiently as I heard Tim purring like a whale from behind the door.

I looked at them. “Don’t worry,” I said, “she’s only shaving his back.”

The looks of horror on their faces were outstanding. I shoved between them and knocked on the door and said, “Open up, it’s James.”

He was still purring when his girlfriend opened the door. All I could see was Tim shirtless, sitting on the toilet backwards, purring very loudly and moving his body around a lot. There was shaving cream on his back and I noticed fresh swipes with the razor.

The girls in line all screamed that they needed to go.

“Fuck you man!” Tim screamed. “This is my house and my body and I can do whatever the hell I want with it.”

I agreed when I turned to them. “It is his body.”

He threw his hand up as if the matter was settled. “You can get the hell out!”

His girlfriend laughed and said, “Tim”, loudly and obnoxiously drawn out. Then she shut the door in my face.

I looked around at the girls, and excused myself. I handed one of them a beer. She thanked me in a blush.

Walking down the stairs I noticed the front door was open and porch light was on. Cigarettes and hash were being smoked, I could smell it, and I walked out. A few people said something about molly and I asked if I could join in. We went inside and walked upstairs to Tim’s room. I gave one of them a beer.

His room was decorated the same as his last room, which was back home. Jimi Hendrix tapestries hung in front of the windows. The Dead and Floyd posters lined the walls. His stereo and computer were off to the right, and his bed, covered in clothes, was against the two windows on the left. There was a few candles lit and a table filled with bongs and magazines and ashtrays in front of the bed. A place where magic happens.

One of the kids pulled out a plastic bag filled with white powder.

“Any one got a dollar bill?”

I handed him one and looked around. A girl picked up a PlayBoy and handed it to him. He split out four lines and we snorted them. I thanked him and immediately left. I had no business hanging out with that crowd. I wanted to go downstairs to talk to that long legged, fiery flame.

In the living room a man was bonging a beer with a few of his friends. I cheered him on until he almost barfed, and I excused myself again.

Out back there was a fire pit surrounded by people. Their faces flicked under the flame. The pretty girl was talking to a girl from my high school. I watched as she laughed and cheered her cup to my friend’s. Then she turned and saw me and waved a little wave, so I joined her.

“How’s it going?”

“Just fine James,” she said, cheering my cup with hers.

“Shelly, how are you darling?”

“James, I’ve missed you.” She hugged me tightly, putting her face in my chest. I put my arms around her sides and smiled at the pretty girl.

“I’ve missed you too sweetheart.” I rubbed her back. “Now, tell me your pretty friends name or else we’re not going to be friends.”

Shelly drew back angrily. “No! You’re my friend, not hers.” She clinched me once more.

“Well, I’m not trying to be friends with her, Shelly,” I said, putting my chin on her head. “If you know what I mean.”

I winked to the pretty girl, who turned her head slightly, eyeing me in a certain way. The flames seemed to glint off her eyes. She took a drink and stared at me in that same way.

I was beginning to feel the molly then. It felt good hugging Shelly. Looking at that girl, under that flame, was filling me with an unheard of happiness. I so wanted to hug her, instead of Shelly.

“Actually, never mind,” I said, surprised at myself. I then walked over to her, grabbed her waist, and said, “I would love to know your name.”

She put her arms around my neck and eyed me. Her smell filled my nostrils. more importantly, she filled up the emptiness inside of me. Or was that the molly? Either way, it was refreshing, and I felt a cool wave of pleasure come over my bones. I smiled smugly.

“Well James, this is kind of weird,” she said, searching deep in my eyes as a child would watching a cartoon; off to the side with an prone earnestness.

“I’m Jameson.”

Dumbfounded, my heart seemed to skip a beat to irony and fate and destiny and the whole shaboom.

“Jameson?” I asked with eyes raised.

“Jameson.” She smiled a beautiful, ear to ear smile, and bit her lip.

“Well then, it is so very nice to meet you.” I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. I was really beginning to feel the effects then. I didn’t want to let her go. I felt the cusp of her back, above her butt. I could feel her breath hot on my face, filling my loins. My pants seemed to tighten. Her dress, which I had not noticed before, was blowing with the wind and along with the fire. We were the only people out there, talking in front of a heating fire. I could of swore it.

I then noticed I had been staring and not saying anything to her. She was still close, so I said, “I gave away your beers.”

She drew back in satisfaction. “Yes, you did!”

I raised my hands as if to say “Come on – it’s me, James”.

That’s when the others came back for me.

Poetry?

New poem.  I’m still wrestling with the idea, but you get the gist.

 

What is truth?

 

Truth hides under the bed sheets.

Truth is still a little afraid of the dark.

 

Truth plucks his eyebrows.

Truth tells himself he’s good looking.

Truth knows he looks like a bear.

 

Truth accidentally pees himself a little bit when in public.

Truth acts as if nothing has happened.

 

Truth has terrible morning breath.

Truth is too lazy to get up in the morning, so he pees in a cup closest to his bed.

 

Truth never has any money.

Truth has all sorts of time.

 

Truth hates the person in the mirror.

Truth doesn’t know how to change him.

 

Truth wastes time and money on people that won’t matter.

Truth tells himself they do.

 

Truth loves poetry.

Truth is terrible at romance.

 

Truth reads too many books.

Truth brags about reading so many books.

Truth hates that.

 

If Truth was going to lie, he’d do it to your face.

Truth sometimes wonders about the phrase ‘white lie’.

Truth wonders if black people would be offended if he coined the phrase ‘black lie’.

 

Truth goes to the bar and dances.

Truth looks ridiculous.

Truth breaks his sandals.

Truth walks barefoot home, and doesn’t wash his feet.

 

Truth wishes there was someone next to him.

Truth coughs uncontrollably.

Truth sleeps.

Poem For You

Candy Land

 

I sit outside college green,

The imposing statue standing furtively

In caked grass stone,

Hippies, and cigarettes

Encompassing its surroundings.

I sit,

Motioning for cigarettes

Over blue green grass

That stands a little bit higher

In some places,

like my hair.

The sun is growing,

Hotter and hotter as

Each day passes,

Smaller and smaller,

as men are

With classes,

And I lay back,

Counting the cloud moons.

 

A giant donut moon

Splashed with frosting,

Mailboxes and trash cans

Growing in cilantro

People in cool, quipped

Get-ups,

Spouting colors

Too bright for even me.

 

Hippies with bare feet

Sift through grass

Like broken glass

And I smile politely.

Ants running over papers

That can smoke

And be smoked.

Tiny hula-hoop dancers

Humming

And swaying

Under the wind swept trees

Of college dreams.

 

Respective men

In man suits

Scouring for the next

Pick of the litter.

Dogs like kittens

Sniffing for chocolate

And other things they can’t have.

Men like dogs

Sniffing for princesses

And other things they won’t ever have.

Two toned girls

With flashes of credit

And muse

Shower me with

Pixels of portraits

And numbing words.

 

Headbands.

Hair.

Beauty.

 

The whole scenes a stage

And I’m the only one

Writing.