#453. winter warp

January 8, 2011

ragged man 
a burnt stew pot
crunchy black bits
depression is returned
by the fire under brooklyn
bridge cold blanket chilled lifetime
this is only one now one then one now 

#154. I see you

January 26, 2010

I see you
with a long long scarf
floating in the breeze of my dreams
waking or sleeping
it’s hard to tell these days.

You are out
there and that for some reason
of love gives me wild strength
and hope and joy.

Fuck Depression!

I love you
and that cannot be
depressing
requited or not.

having
is to lose
eventually
dust returns
to us
and it becomes
nearly impossible
to locate a specific time
when gain is the norm
and the depression recedes.

the best care to take
is of each other.

#94. No Matter

November 27, 2009

No Matter

what
the cobwebs               spider groceries
all return to the corners
of the basement
my apartment
that blacks out with me
and smiles at the thought of you
also constricts
my urge to scream
and tear away
this veil of conformity.

#59. Melancholia

October 23, 2009

Melancholia

absolute yeah,
stream of maximum blue encounters
minimum giggles of disinterested women
music like hammer throws of color
and swings of ripping brooks distorting
rocks and feasts of joy to be questioned.
Triples of fencers flickering dances back
and thrusts across a small window ghosts
trying to become real, painted at least
to their invisible partners. But the lights go on
and off strobing like a TV controlled by the fat man living
across the hall. Reversed creatures image
drinking babble of pretensia at bar
the coffee comes in black pots ink
driven peace papers are divine
imaginings. Odd stone encrusted
little beige woman dangles obscure
bizarre tokens pretends
that sunglasses are hiding her like some kid
disappearing behind peek-a-boo
hands but is grossing the whole fucking
place out. Whole tribes shifting
balance and place in the room
and as she pays and leaves someone
lets the gas out of the Goodyear blimp.
How sad that life comes down to this.
I have been cursed by a mad witch
and use these writings to ward the cast.
The world guards me always.
The punks are in and the little girl
in a pierced woman’s body greets them
to the chagrin of the date who wishes
to God that they had left already.

#19. Treadmill Jailor

September 15, 2009

Do you see this rose?
Do you see this face?
These parallel shadows?

Yr eyes have open’d the box
of my dreams.
Hollow.
Despair would close it
but yr eyes insist.

The cat pads over to the stereo
nose exploring
and puts on some Dylan.
Much closer to morphine than Morphine.

The tender embraces of women
torture in my cell.
My expectations are the collar
which marks me.
Defeats me.

Then you smile.
Golden.

Do you want this rose?
Do you need this face?
These parallel shadows?

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