Work in progress

I have sat in noisy rooms of telephone wire begging ghosts for pennies
I have hauled ass through cars and pedestrians honking   charging with flaming red sauce meant for upper floor apartments
I have gotten drunk and drove top speed down US 36 vomiting out the window crying

I locked my self in bedrooms, bedrooms, bedrooms staying one step ahead of the on coming onslaught of company
went dancing but ended up making out at a bus stop, lost on new adventures
been broken by the glowing howling fuck called love
but was stupid enough to do it again

I have thought and wandered…
why
what if
only to wake up sweaty in a puddle
totally lost on acid in 99% humidity not sure if it was raining or not, worried that they would know:
what if I had no job and woke at ten to a cheerio’s bong?!
what if I tossed out all my books for class because I realized they had never seen the things they claimed to explain?!
what if I stayed up all night reading anarchist lit discovering that I was an anarchist all along

Once as a kick I worked for two years in a ballpark
hotdogs beer pretzels
the repeated remarks about how much this costs or how much that costs while throwing money at me
I winked as I shoved their money in my pocket
this place pulls in thousands a night they won’t miss a few hundred, I consoled myself while smoking my menthol cigarette

then while delivering in a red toy car, I peddled round disks of Italian ‘pride’ to the mansions where they kept their money tight and under surveillance
and laughed, as only the poor can laugh, at their stupidity

in rented vans I have seen corn fields, flashing police car lights and snow
jumping out to put on snow chains only to discover we don’t know how to put on snow chains
fumbling around with frozen hands while wiping snow from the Japanese instructions
but not caring, knowing this is the best trip I have ever taken
sleeping on the floor of an abandoned theater full of history and coughing and groaning
smiling radiantly
finally to wander to the stage full of electricity
but instead I watch the fog roll over the hill in rising crescendos

have seen perfect sunrises that seem to last an eternity while cheering on the dawn like pagans
in drunken rituals of debauchery
to arrive home beaten and tired but ready to howl at the moon if need be

called senators and congressman, high, demanding equal treatment
shouted from rooftops and into forests about my problems, national problems, rational problems, irrational problems
seeing no one listened I crouched in the corner and smoked

jacked off to illustrations of Molotov cocktails believing myself to be radical
just as the books told me I would
became who they said I would be when I swore I would be anything but

Poetry – Shmoetry

To write something with power
with meaning
That is the goal
to do it while your butt looks good all the better
but
short of
flinging words at pages
drunken
with the sounds of Kansas
or football fans screaming
walking out the seven steps of the fellow craft degree of freemasonry
they hang elusively out of reach

the words
that ring true
or incite, or invoke
or inflame
lie beyond,
off this page

the distance larger than space
and time
can only be overcome through work
and patience
and I have neither

Pain seems to be truth

picture me in my fucking flunky uniform

flipflopflipflop

frying

fries, burgers, buns, ketchup, mustard, fuck

the ketchup. A red puddle on the floor.

“My boss is going to be pissed!” I exclaim

half to convince myself to clean it,

half to see if my boss is paying attention.

Moving faster than if cracked with a whip the floor is

wiped, swept, mopped, polished

flipflopflipflop

frying

fries, burgers, buns, mustard, the fucking unpredictable ketchup.

I’m addicted to frying

Addicted to monotony.

But what is an addict if not a seeker of truth,

but the only route to truth is through pain.

Minute pain is minute truth.

Was I talking to myself againflip

flopflipflopflipflopflipflop

frying

fries