Friday, October 21, 2005

Easter Patience

A feast for hardened angels
Let it not be the feast to discredit
Wasn't supposed to do it
Wasn't supposed to eat it
Wasn't supposed to stop the bus here
Parkbench of poison
to shake these bugs out
Sometimes I get so strung out
I've got to get these bugs out
- - - -long
Go yell it on the mountain
Go tell it to the gopher
The mystery is solved
Nobody knows I'm Elvis
Nobody knows I'm high
Nobody cares that the fireplaces are cemented shut
Nobody knows that form letters are
That words carry more than their weight in
Freedom isn't just a word
To sit under a palm tree umbrella in the fog
without scorn
To be real and not to try
say the Literary Agents
but the other times: to try and fail
God Bless
These children will damn me
get me busted
and Jesus loved those shit turd trouble makers?
God, I'm confused. Why?
A world of earthly pleasures and poisons
and Greed of it all
In the spirit of things, he gave
Was it Jesus?
Dale Carnegie
Aikido Master?
My j's too tight, yes I am trying
Starting to see the smoke now
There was a time when I wasn't
When I didn't do that
so long ago
Now Gay blowjobs in the swam naked night pool
To be loud at a party.
Feast of Friends, but more
Some people wanted to kill themselves
spiritually and physically
Rob themselves of Earthly pleasures
Truly a different breed
You belong out there, up there, away
To squeeze it out just a little longer
Maybe they split before the cops came
but their Nike shoes were made of vanity
Let's not dwell on the connection
Easter, Jesus, the Comet Jumpers,
and the lunar eclipse.
A solar eclipse where you can believe
Not a fun poem to do
But, Dr. Thompson, the tree and me
both have feet, let's study the
ground, the ants, even the quadriplegic
has gurney wheels for feet
We all have our own set of feet
to hook us up to the world
and girl you got some strange set!
The kids beating up on each other
Where's your lunch money?
Where's your crack money?
Where's your church money?
Dead Indians for this ground, blood
Death, Dying, murder, disease, why?
Can I do my job right?
Too fucked up on Easter Sunday
to notice Christ walking
bumbling drunk down the sidewalks
The men knew, it was an excuse
to party, Spring
Introducing the children
Then there were those that didn't
want to leave the nest
and then there were those that
had to leave
tried to leave
but staying because of needing
a sick and painful excuse for
And Walt Whitman, a crotchety
old faggot. How he made it?
God knows. . .
Where was the New Yorker?
Where was New York?
Around here it's hard to
distinguish museum frail novelties
with real life
So I walk down the streets and
watch these people laughing
at museums
Art is to laugh and to cry
and very few know the shit between
No one has time for a kid crying
on the corner
Not these presses, nor yesterday's,
but tomorrow's!
but poor and on the streets today
we deserved each day we got
No matter how bad
and if we liked it, that didn't matter
To leave oneself, no one had time
if we got caught in it,
no matter
The late 1970's disco sugar bop sweet sedative
to now, it's still the same
Man, oh man! where have you lead us?
Into the spooky dark canyons
he roamed medievally
to ghosts and winos
he mumbled to himself
Winos devoured him with sick glee
and cackles
into the panhandle of Golden Gate Park
and outside the railroad tracks
of Chicago and Detroit
after the 20's club scene kicked you out
He pushed it to the limits
he went too far
Didn't know what he was doing
Is this new?
Cuz nobody knows
Now can I be your friend?
Because only you and me,
we're the ones that know
that there’s nothing to know
Just the days chug by, but who
walks the street at night?
Do you?
Did you see me in the bush?
with eyes for your sister?
Poisons for our day
and Society / God has deemed our way,
curve and steer it for us
Old ladies saggy faces by the
streetlights or museums
it's all the same
But to where?
Oh great Jesus, what did you have in store?
And can I get more
for myself
by myself?
All these dead bodies, all around me
from a midnight cemetery
to the onslaught of dead
lost souls and days piling on.
I'm trying!
The night burglar's smart
He knows what he's doing
Shoot him!
"There isn't anything to say"
is a preciously guarded secret
except for a knife to play with
or a shovel to dig us with
at the beach and the cemetery
could I have my dollar and leave
Cuz I'm too dizzy with your cameras
Of dreams and kings
being true of just me and you
in the garden, in the field
and us broke people who never had time
Chew on your chant
Patience is a virtue, old man
but I want my money know
in the dark alley, I'll hustle you and kill you
Penalty for early withdraw
Old people are silly
It's a miracle we let them live at all
and though they'd win
with experience and numbers
our doped up minds will have
such a fun time at it
being sucked into
But it has to be one on one, see
because this hive thing won't work
I gotta be away
and the stronger I pull
the stronger society's clutches become
and will ensnare us all
until there are no more safe mountain
no island aways
To live in a box is to dream in a box
of a box
“I won't let you destroy me"
with fierce terror in his hands
Black and red cuming from his gut
That was the mad whiskey curse
Angels in the sand, and sisters full of hate
Where are the Sisters of Mercy?
Where are the Soul Sisters of Fun?
The easy going wino or the abrasive
successful business man
Where was the answer?
The culmination.
ME! (sick)
To know, to really know
That there isn't anything on the
other side of the tracks
except for a real good time
or to drool in the street alley
Don't disregard me
I'm doing this
I get all these people telling me
that they're unselfish
Then why tell me?
To give a life already given
in so many ways I can no longer comprehend
To sell out? No
But there's something else;
a fight
and we heard "Get that money!"
Religion is something I don't
quite get,
just an asyd reporter off the streets
surmises everyone's opinions
We get the same 5 people
in the question column of the
They all say "Don't look at me"
Man, I don't know
To the bone
To the core
He was hard core gangsta rap artist
Seattle on the streets artiste'
Or just another shmuck
Hello Godfrey
To steal inspiration muggings
Mugshots of your mind's vagina
You do see these horrible things
a social fool and my bitch
Nope! Not me
Leave it to a woman to ask
of broken glass on the streets
Shit happens
Move on, and respect
These people, they know their watches
and can tune yours too
A state of deliberate delirium
With a fess up, no one would be
except for friends on the other side
Do I want to walk back?
Time, Time, got no time
You and me
but to run and be free
in the foggy sunshine, Sunday afternoon
After it all lost its meaning
did we dance
Old Jewish warehouses
No, not the Nazi type
but older and pristine and coloured,
with ribbons around the high trees.
The invader, they asked for it
a dog turd in their garden
but they sold me some pleasure
sure is shit smelling beer
Easter and another year has passed
but now its over a Venezuelan belly
it's much nicer
When relationships meant more than their drugs
when we looked at our hands
When no one can look out onto
San Diego horizon as I
Of condo roofs and the breeze
between my arms
above the big noses is the eagle
Jewish trees of cocklebur
We were eagles and we devoured
the weightlifters off the beach
Just wanted your ideas and tobacco
cuz we had none ourselves
Made you look, not ha
but he stood up
holding himself back
When being on your feet is the safest patience
because this is going out of control
too fast
not fast enough
around the same cemetery
spinning around in my shoes
Truly an achievement to get out
Tai chi in the dirt
but among the bird shit and the loagies
you gotta have some respect!
Mothers crying in the street,
and no one listens
What if we threw a party
and no one showed up?
Except for Amos and Andy
dressed alike
These strange things a bus can bring
I am the Ravin
covered in soot and dirt
The way he commanded himself
From stars fading to plaid, where was the answer?
Lost in a videogame of life
and time's running out
out where? scurry to a mousehole
out the backdoor outhouse
out on the seagulls screams
and the beer bottle broken glass dreams
Truly, it was getting there that mattered
cuz when you were there you
wanted more and away
See it was the motion
and this fast pace will kill us all!
These virtues were our saving grace
Is it too late?
but I see these men walking
the streets with muzzles
Got no time
Cuz I'm losing my mind
Cuz there's something out of time
in crushed daisy empty cigarette pack
How big can you dream?
Do you need a remodel for your dollar?
How could they deal with one more
day in their impatience
They can bitch with
Monster truck show wheels dead
in the swamp muds
but you and I swim in the puddle
with our own microscope
make it seem far too vast
big enough
Analytical poetry does not give
good head
A young poor poet gave
her a hand plucked daisy
she took it to her room and there it quietly burned asunder
When common sense negates
Welcome to the Bijou
We want peace! But whose piece?
A sign > cattails
Yes, I could already feel that coming
in my ankles
You been going mad, Dave?
and only you and I would know
oh, you gotta stop that
You been going mad?
So have I
but the Lord's plants will be growing tomorrow
after our party
There's the miracle
a sickened Bio Dome
A day that would never end
in a time when you wanted to walk
out of town
with the shroud of midnight
Of rosy rosary church mother crosses
to the Black Gothic sharp young men
who know
who laugh at others for falling up into it
Just can't let them get ya
Jim walked out with his respect and a song
Crying because he squeezed the bud
before it blossomed
prematurely died in his hands
The poppy rules the world
and only a man would know not to touch it
Jumping out of the car
before it hit the brick wall
I am the Ravin and Phoenix
both and all
The hoarse eagle too
He was a rich fool
who didn't pay attention to
the innerworkings of
the artist on the banker's doorstep
The Banker got hired soldiers and guns
around his powerful walls
around the artists
with the Banker's wives leering
voraciously at the artist
so the Banker bought him up
to look big for his girl
but his girl kept looking at the artist
now a nighttime stranded ho
How were Pamela's last days spent?
When my Angel has left
I'd go chasing right after her
because talking about it would
never do a damn thing
and to live a life of a crying gravedigger's tear
is a waste too
A game of tag between razor eagles
Because strategic missiles don't matter
when your love is gone
Skeletons walking around
strolling business deals of asyd
Empty deals for their food
with a rodent named Tweak
Girl, get some respect!
Someone Mom would be proud of?
It was really hard not to pick up
their strange accent
Irish dialect
Tweak chatter
Iraqi liquor store rantings
But what was really funny was
watching their accent drop
after dealing with the ladies
Girl, you're tight everywhere
Good Samaritan roles are good
and sometimes righteousness
is necessary and earned
but that can only go so far
Elves and fat floating back
rubbing lass clowns
communal loving bastards
My girl! and then there's yours
Watching clown paint run down
the gutters
with the cheap sleaze of the
night club owners
who kept with them a sense of business
Where are Alice Cooper's traveling
ex-bandmates now?
Newspaper nosebleeds
They got cut up in a bottle opener
Tweak chatterboxes in the night street
What good was a million dollars when
you couldn't spend it
But spanging for smokes
you've sold yourself out too cheap
To shoot down a king
that's all we dream
From Pittsburgh coalmines
to the California beaches of heathen health
We are in our own museum
of Death Impatience
and the Nuke was our friend
with the skateboard punks beside it


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