poems 3

those students are damn lucky 

when the Athenian peltasts
defeated the Spartan hoplites
at Sphakteria
Bettany Hughes was there to
hold my hand during
the whole messy bloodbath

she's a professor of Classics
at some British university

face like an angel
and a body made for porn

she told me the story of
Menelaos finding
runaway Helen in Troy
and he was gonna kill her
but then she showed him
her tits
and so he forgave her

so the story goes

Bettany, I wish you'd show
your tits

now that'd be something
to see on PBS.



somewhere in your back pocket 

death is a man's head on a dog's body;

death is the Germans hanging people in Belarus;

death is 3 crows on a telephone wire;

poverty will be the death of Eastern Europe;

death is stock brokers trading money;

death is not waiting for you:

death has her hands full counting gold teeth;

death is Akira Kurosawa drinking tea in a garden
with snow on all the bare branches.



afterbirth

there’s nothing
to do in this town but
scream

… (angels of blue sky
where the clouds are
gutted) ...

I don’t like children

I like empty yellow
cardboard cups
that people leave
standing
beside lonely walls

sometimes
there’s a kind of soft
grey light falling—

tricks of light are
illusions
from the Gods

and maybe
none of this is real.



fuck you, Dow Chemical

they say some of the dust of 9/11
made it all the way to Ohio
I remember coughing a couple of times
that day
but that was about it
they say when NATO bombed Serbia
and destroyed all of that country’s chemical plants
a chemical cloud spread over Bulgaria
and the people of Vietnam are still
suffering from the effects of Agent Orange
Agent Blue, Agent Green
and whatever other monstrous crap
the American war machine
invented back then
tears for the sufferings of the past
are as numerous as the
millions of dead Indians buried
in mass graves under the soil
of this nation
I’m not fool enough to think
the future’s gonna be all rosemary
and bluebells
but by the Gods
don’t let it become
another American century.



trinity

the veterans
are coming home
again
as I put a quarter
in the soda machine
and remember a poster
I once saw of a
gorgeous redhead
in a black dress
the veterans
are always coming home
from the latest war
and God must spend
a lot of time
jerking off
while people are busy
killing each other
and giving each
other medals
and somewhere
out in the desert
lies the hollow skull
of a yesterday cow
as dull and oblivious
and dessicated
as the bull-brained
mob parading
down the street
behind me
a Georgia O’Keefe
cow skull
a sacred-cow skull
with a yellow rose
in one hollow
eye
calling out
across
the desert night.



we’ll be on our way home when the smoke whispers in the sky

these red brick walls
these grey streets that I’ve walked up and down
for so many years
with the sparrows at sunrise
under afternoon drizzle
with sunshine falling on blankets of snow
and I remember the last 20 years
like an old great river that never stops
like a short walk to the end of the street
and I remember that old hobo
who asked me what time it was
and I told him and he said
Is that all?
and then like Bob Dylan
he walked away and disappeared
among the streetlights
and the dusk.



propaganda of the deed

I see the ghosts of dead anarchists
who took their outrage
and fired their guns and threw their bombs

I see the ghosts of 60s radicals
marching and fighting in the streets
of Chicago ‘68

those were people who got out
and took action
so everyone knew they really meant it
instead of just writing it down
like me and Langston Hughes

the fire and rage of revolutions
that lit up the nights of bygone days

that set the rich trembling
so they called out the riot police
and if that didn’t work
they got out the troops and their boots

and if those revolutions failed
well they came damn close
and the intent and the effort were noble

all those wild dead revolutionaries

I’m just a pale reflection of their
sainted shadows.



orange with a yellow center

they call me
Commie piece of shit
asswipe
and the rest of it
I recall the footage
of Allen Ginsberg
holding up a fistful
of Buddhist orange and
yellow flowers
in the dimming light
of Chicago 40 yrs. ago
the yellow for the light
of the world
the orange for all
the knowledge of all
the Buddhas who ever
lived
give us back
the young man
who punched that cop
that night
when the police riot
broke out
give us back the
Weather Underground
blowing things up
and never killing anyone
give us back Uncle Ho
tearing America
a new one
so the light could shine in
give it all back
and I will forgive all
and everyone
I will set fire to
the clouds
and spread
psychedelic flowers
on their ashes.



frag the pigs

when American soldiers
killed their officers
in Vietnam
they called it “fragging”
cuz they often did it
with fragmentation grenades
but one GI wrote a letter
to his congressman
complaining that his M-16
jammed when he tried
to shoot his CO
an honest letter of protest
while blacks were rioting
in America’s ghettos
and Israel seized the rest
of Palestine and
Che was being murdered
in Bolivia where Evo Morales
was still a boy
with boyish dreams of
leading vast brown-skinned
armies of liberation
against
the White Conquistadors
after 500 years of plunder
and slavery and fuck,
when you least expect it
sometimes even
the wildest of dreams
come true.



levitate

I've got
a broken clock
for a head
and these
2 white doves
coming out
of my sleeves
they always
seek out
the Dali sunlight
where
dead soldiers
mutilate
themselves
under
the sweet
white flags of
endless summer.



fun in Cambodia

for Randall Rogers

he writes me that he got busted
for various alleged offenses
including threatening someone with a gun
he denies everything, of course—
as Bukowski learned from a cellmate
everyone's innocent in here—
he writes that he made friends
with his Cambodian cellmates
and with the guards
telling them all the jokes from
Jimmy Cagney movies
they laughed their asses off
cuz it was all new to them
all charges eventually dropped
now he's free again
back running that hotel in Siem Reap
complete with “Full service cocktail bar.
In-room massage ....”
(read between the lines)
a big round of joints and applause
for the poet laureate of Cambodia!



love song

I should get a job
become a productive citizen
and salute the flag

I should buy that calendar
with Marilyn Monroe
showing her tits

Marilyn, you're a cum-stain
on the red red rose
of my heart

I should write love letters
to Joely Richardson
and Morgan Fairchild

I should write my name
in the hallowed ashes
of d.a. levy in Cleveland

I should write pornography
on the skulls of the raging
American war machine

I should write to old Tim Leary
guru of the tripping stars
in the 7 seas of Buddha

I should write to Pete Seeger
who performed at
Obama's inauguration

Pete,
democracy in this country
is a goddam lie

Obama ain't no different
from the rest of 'em
ain't no hope

just ask the asphodels
that shrink away
from the bastard in horror.



indefinite detention

the government
can arrest
any American citizen
and lock them up
without trial
for life
and if you think
they've never done it
it's cuz the media
won't tell you
and maybe
the best thing to do
is lock yrself in the basement
with an AK-47
and a gas mask
and wait for it
but who wants to live like that?
it's better
to walk down the street
with the yellow leaves falling
through the sun and wind
and hope those sirens in the distance
ain't coming for
you.



bile

I jump in terror
from the nightmare flies
and the worms gnawing at my heart—
the stars glow faintly
and I'm still fighting
the demons in my head—
maybe the moon will show her
bald pussy tonight
or maybe the Gods will rise
in the candy-colored dawn
but I'll settle for
what's the frequency, Kenneth?
and a warm breeze
and hope the razors
will lay themselves down
tonight.



sputtering rage

my cousins
they've mostly left
Bulgaria
to find work abroad in
Spain, Greece, wherever—
Communism
was the lost good place
lost forever
when the pigs from the West
came over with their filthy snouts
when they came over
and put the other pigs in power
and many of those pigs
were the same pigs as before
only worse—
you maggots
filth
scumbags
whores
who're always crowing about
yr so-called democracy:

fuck you.



near perfect 

sitting at
the window
as the night
pours in.

a frantic
moth rattles
the net.

I can see
the burning
lights of
cigarettes
from
the porch
next door

but not
the people
which is
good cuz
they’re
assholes;

otherwise
the world
is just fine
tonight.




green horse

out walking the night
cuz I can't sleep
cuz the demons won't let me be
my shoes burn holes into
the echoing sidewalk
the stars are dumb and faceless
cats slink in the shadows
and it's good to be alone
out here in the cold
better than wrestling with the demons
though I tried imagining
red roses sprouting from the walls;
this town is big enough now
to have its own homeless
the last of the drunks stagger home
I remember one time
when I was on this same street
on a winter afternoon
and the sun was gently
burning through the clouds
like a smoldering cigarette
I saw a dead blackbird
with its black eye staring up at me
as if to say
here's where the body ends;
yes, I was always the freak
the weirdo
riding the green horse
on the carousel of eternity;
Time is a fat drunk witch
with the face of Buddha
and the hands of the dreaming clock
keep ticking in my brain.

poems 2

big blonde

getting out of
the squad car
that night
hands cuffed
behind me
wishing that
I was standing
on a corner
under neon
far from here
that the world
would go fuck
itself and die
that the police
woman with
the big ass was
a hooker and
the cuffs and
the outfit were
just a game we
were playing
but then she
wouldn't have
put 'em on so
tight.



small paradise

grass
and red brick
surreal
afternoon light
of Ohio autumn
the point is just to
be
like the
white clouds
and the sparrows
and sometimes
the only sound
is a girl’s
rollerskates
on the pavement.
Kabul

memories
of gone empires
in the opiate
dreams
of fakirs and sages

gone religions
are mountain flowers
while the faiths
of Abraham
wait to join them

the only constant
is the rape
of the people
and the blood-red
poppies at the doors
of the angels.



Jerusalem is your holy land, not mine

I’m old enough to remember
when they were still putting out music
on cassettes
I’m even old enough to remember vinyl
and Dawn Wells in Gilligan’s Island reruns
back then
there was hope in the world
at least for most people
before America’s endless wars
and global economic crises
now I’ve given up trying
just lie on the couch all day
while the spiders wrap their victims
in the corners
I’ve given up on sunsets and rainbows
and basic human decency
just waiting for the monster
with the body of a lion
the head of a rat
and darkness pouring from its eyes.



snake

my hatred
like a black rose
twisted round my heart

my insanity
like barbed wire
tearing at my brain

I’ve got crooked legs

I’ve got $20 in my wallet
and my driver's license

I’ve got 33 years
smeared like shit on
a blank page

I’ve got a photo
of a pair of boobs
someone emailed me

no face, no name

I wonder who the fuck she is?



abstract art and the defeat of socialism

old men walking down the street
walking towards death

lost in a country not my own
I'm walking towards something myself
but I’m not sure what it is

it ain't right to be led around
like a dog on a leash
(I should be so lucky)

the blackbirds cry
as the sun dances on cold white air
there's people walking down the street
in Russia
talking in Russian
(it seems unbelievable)

as the blackbirds tear their guts out
there's dark matter
swimming through my head

and for a moment
I can forget.



lost

the stars are
drunk
and this moth
circling
the room
is even more
lost
than I am.
my family came
to America
when I was 3.
before that
I had a country
to call home
but then
Communism
fell and that
country is gone
now
forever.
it starts to rain
outside as
the moth
tells me about
fate
and things
lost and
left behind.



the 4th Reich

the whole world
sending troops
to help the Americans
fight their dirty war
in Afghanistan
where fat American
soldiers kill pregnant
women, pull children
out of their beds
and shoot them
the West European
cocksuckers are there
the East European
cocksuckers are there
and when the American military
finally leaves Afghanistan
the same way they left Vietnam—
with their tails
between their legs—
Glenn Beck and the
rest of the insane
idiot neo-Nazi
White Right are gonna
impose fascism
and all the cocksuckers
in Europe will be on
their knees
blowing the trumpets
for the empire.



fireworks

my co-workers at the supermarket
didn’t seem to realize
they were being exploited
they were always cheery
always showed up on time
I often said to myself
don’t they get it?
there was one woman who worked there
40 hrs. a week and 35 hrs. a week
at another place
when did she sleep?
maybe they all knew the truth
but kept those smiles on their faces
in spite of everything
(maybe I’m giving them too much credit)
I was always late for work
always clocked out early
wasn’t interested in promotion—
the managers worked 60 hrs. a week
every 4th of July they gave each of us
a small American flag
I told someone
they can keep their fucking flags
and pay us more money.



the Arthur Bremer poem

a young man
sitting up in
bed all night
naked staring
at his penis

scrawling page
after page of
endless insane
ramblings
in his notebook

trying to decide
whether to shoot
himself or the
UPS guy or the
mayor

listening to the
same album
over and over
after shaving
his head

after mailing out
pages ripped
from porn mags
mailing them
to people he
doesn’t know

feeling
insignificant
as a hanger
in the closet

unknown
to the world

but then he
became known

and he just got
let out of prison--

hey, Arthur,
was it worth it?


tell me about it

she said

whatever happened
to Mazzy Star?
they were damn good

as the air filled
with smoke.

I said

if those cigarettes
don’t kill you
you’ll kill
me.

she said

don’t be such a
wimp. you even got
the face of a wimp.

I said

would it help
if I grew a beard?

she said

no.




devil

the newspapers don't care

the fat woman
with a face like a prison
don't care. you might
as well lie in bed all day
and talk to the walls

or hang yourself from
a tree like that
pusher that Kurt Cobain
saw one day.

you might as well
stagger drunk across
the street and get hit by
a car unless you find

something to keep you
alive, to keep you going:
try hatred.




rock and roll motel

Keith Richards
offers
Jimi Hendrix
a line of coke

Mick Jagger
and Bob Dylan
are tripping
on acid in
the bathroom

Jim Morrison
soaks in the
tub singing
this is the end

and veterans
of foreign wars
flashback while
sodomizing
underage girls.

there’s a sign
on the front
door that says

WHITES ONLY

but they made
an exception
for Jimi.



hoodlum in the night

I was out wandering the summer night at 2 AM
it was wet and warm
under the lights of the strip mall empty of people
I saw a liquor store
and decided I wanted to get drunk
when I looked around
I found a large stone about the size
of a soccer ball

I thought what luck! ...

do you know how strong reinforced glass is?

I threw the stone at that storefront window
again and again
but each time it just smacked right off
hitting the startled pavement with a loud crack

so I went back to wandering the streets
with the eyes of on-coming cars
staring at me.



white horses

I throw a bit of rainbow in the air
for the lost children of the streets
for lost children in slums everywhere
for lost children
in god-awful families that never shoulda been
for Che and the Zapatistas
for Baader-Meinhof and June 2nd
for Joe Hill
for people who think that vulgar stories
are poetry
for the lost generations of East Europeans
since the Fall
for everyone who ever tried to become
an artist and failed
and all that's left
is the arms of the angels
for everyone whose dreams
are all rainbows and white horses:
remember all of them in your prayers to the Gods.



funny little beard

I see a red red sun
setting over the roofs here in this
shit little town
in shit Ohio
while the Taliban fight
to liberate their country ...
a red, red sunset
like the ones the Buddha
musta seen
while he sat under
the Bodhi Tree and came up
with his philosophy of
ahimsa ...
yes, the idea of
non-violence is truly
beautiful and
profound
but America has shown people
again and again
what it does
to non-violents ...
I once saw a photo
of a white American soldier
with his legs blown off
and if some white guys
made money
by getting black men
to kill Asian men
over in Vietnam
it sure as hell wasn’t that
white guy
but who really cares
about him?
yeah, that little guy
with the funny little beard
he really tore yr guts
out,
didn’t he?



X

waiting outside the court building
the pigeons marching up and down
like Nazis
I figured the judge would give me
a small fine
he gave me that and a year’s probation
I went straight from the courtroom
to my probation officer across the hall
she was a redhead with
big tits under a white sweater
a big ass in the back of her jeans
talked like a Southerner
told me to get a job
and come back same time
next month

walking home
the sun was low in the afternoon sky
the spiders were sucking
the guts out of flies
and I was one of those
goddam flies
hollowed-out, thrown away—
angry at the sun, the spiders
at everything and everyone

but there was nothing I could do.

poems 1

loveless

nothing to do and nowhere to go
while the white clouds
dance circles in the sky
and maybe the sunlight falling on the red bricks
is trying to tell me something
about the passage of time
or maybe the people walking by ignore me
cuz they think I'm insane
or maybe I'm the invisible loser
with nothing to show
but the sad ghost of my mediocrity
at any rate
I've got a three-day beard
5 bucks in my pocket
and a mind full of laughing clowns
so either my luck gets better real soon
or else it's already up.



animal kingdom

so many strange things
like that one time in a Kroger parking lot—
a young man walked up to me
and asked if he could pray for me
he said that God told him to pray
for the first man he sees walking with a limp
(I walk with a bit of a limp)
I said sure
so he put his hand on my shoulder
and sent a prayer on my behalf to Jesus
when he finished
he beamed with evangelical ecstasy
I said thanks
he said something I don't recall
and walked away.
so many strange things—
I was watching football one Sunday
the second game of the day
when I felt something weird in me
and wondered what it was
then suddenly it hit me:
every second that I watched that game
I was getting dumber
both in mind and in spirit
so I turned off the TV
and stopped watching crap of any kind
soon thereafter.
when I think of all the crap TV I used to watch
when I was a kid
(my poor brain!) hour after hour
it's a wonder I can think at all.
so many strange things—
my insane family
the white trash and their kids
and their dogs—
so many things I'll never understand
and I've given up trying.



idle hands

I hear
the seconds
tick
from my watch
on the nightstand
as I lie in bed
doing
nothing at all.
doing nothing
is what I do best.
sometimes
I talk
to the faces on the walls.
or I sit
by the window
and stare
out at the parking lot.
sometimes I go
for a walk
and give the finger
to complete strangers.
so if you see me
wandering the streets
lost and lonely
be a good soul
and offer me
a goddam ride away from here.



cherry blossoms

don't know what I'm doing here
as the clouds swim through blue sky

it's good to drift through life
whether you're a cloud
a whale
or a Bodhisattva

and you can ponder the meaning of nothingness
till your eyes devour the Hiroshima sunrise

cuz it helps when there's nothing around
but screaming insanity
and angels are falling from the sky
on broken wings

and at times such as these
there's really nothing left to say but
OM.



look up at the clouds

if I'm an idiot
well, it runs in the family
so it's good enough
just lying on the couch and letting the TV drone.
the sky doesn't care if I get a job.
the Americans march off to war
as I try to glue together the pieces of my mind.
I fear and I sweat.
I go for walks along the beach by the lake.
I hate ominously.
I stare at women and girls just to make them nervous
the same way people used to stare
at my crooked legs.
I look up at the clouds as the wind rises.
I fear this story will have
no happy ending.
so when you leave, please turn out the lights
and close the fucking door behind you.



pardon my french

it's a blessing
just to sit by the window
as the soft light
comes down like
the hands of
some Goddess
there were times
I was so insane
so totally out of it
I'd lie in bed for hours
and just stare
at the ceiling
I was getting to know
Death
or something close to it
but all that is past
I'm much better now
(I think)
as I hear
a lone songbird
somewhere out in
the cold
morning sunlight.



reality bites

I once saw
a black-and-red
drawing
of a young man
with his fist in the air
supposed to be a Commie
or maybe an Anarchist
it was real heroic
and inspiring
but the pathos
of revolutionary fervor
doesn't count for much
when they make you sweat
40 hrs. a week
and the boss's wife
won't even give you
a blowjob.



saints and terrorists

you can call them terrorists
if you want to
but just remember that
terrorists are people
who fight for what they believe in
it's good to have something
that you're willing to die for
better than rotting in Ohio
among the white trash
but I'm neither saint nor terrorist
I gave up on all that
there was something in me once
that made me want to make a difference
but it crawled away on bloody stumps one night
and that was a long time ago.



black night

you can feel it
breathing
and the stars
whisper
loneliness.
the past is gone
but it lives
in the hollow
of yr mind
like scars on
yr wrists.
Buddha said to
cast aside
the ego like
falling leaves
and
you'll realize
some day
that
nothing
matters
at all.



red lanterns

the place had red Chinese lanterns
and a Chinese barmaid
I asked her
how much for a shot of tequila?
she said fo’ dolla’s
it was dark
and the tequila burned a little
and the sunlight was coming in
from the street
it was just me and the barmaid
and no one else
with the bottles lined up against the back wall
so that the whole thing looked
like some kind of altar
a bar is a place
holy as any other
just without all the dogma
and all that other bullshit
I even thought I saw
the Buddha
sitting under the red-and-blue neon
I think he was counting
how many drinks I’d had.



new red rose

I drink in the wine of black flower night
while Uncle Sam dances at the ends
of the rich man's strings
while the banks tear down foreclosed homes
and piss on the homeless
and the Black Bloc march through the streets
to be laughed at by the corporate media
there is sadness in the arsenic dawn
cuz the forces of evolution have failed us
the forces of revolution have failed us
the armies of greed rape the children and the sky
and all that's left is the smoldering ruins
from which a new red rose waits to be born.



go ask Alice

lazy as a caterpillar blowing smoke
into the curtains
I see a sky full of third eyes
and hope is the thing that flies away
and lays a white shit on my shoulder—
while the patriots fight and die
in Afghanistan
I'm lying on a bed of dreams
growing shoots and vines into the walls
wondering what it's like
to be a starving yogi, eating
only a palmful of grain every day
till you're all skin and bones
and beautiful brilliant shiny eyes
that see the true reality—
and while the bodies pile up
to feed the madman's itch
while they throw saints and Buddhas
into the prison-industrial complex
I say to the old bearded fuck
with the stupid hat
Fuck you, Uncle Sam
you're an old whore
withering your tits
in the rich man's broken sunlight.



what an asshole

my grandfather was a drunk
he retired from the army as a lt. colonel
so I hate soldiers in general
but Amercian soldiers most of all
cuz there's only one Empire
I leave nasty comments for them all over
the Internet
you can probably find some of them
what I like best is
when I get replies to my blurbs
mostly threats and insults
when I get the notifications in my email
I laugh my fucking ass off!!!
it ain't much, I know
but it's still a tiny bit of resistance
to the Empire.



stone

birdsong in the summer dusk
and I can count the good times
on the fingers
    of one hand

looking back
on all the screaming
all the insanity
I often wonder how I made it through
all that

I often go for walks at
this hour with the purple glow coming down
    from the cosmos
but not tonight

I see people walking
drawn by the city lights
and as much    as
    the stone image of some God

        I am alive.



one poet to another

read a few poems by
nila northSun ‘bout
growing up on some
Indian reservation
with plenty of alcoholic
diabetic relatives
living on government food
riding round town in
dusty old pick-up trucks
getting drunk at bars
going to 49's
after pow-wows
and getting drunk some more
which is a helluva lot better
than growing  up
in New York where
all I remember is the homeless
some of them winos
walking round
talking to themselves
and the steam coming up
through the grates
under my feet
and all those dogs
and all that dogshit
it was everywhere—
I especially remember
the dogshit.



fire in the min

the insane
have their own
asylum
inside
their skulls
they don't lock up
the insane
to cure them
they lock 'em up
to keep them
away from
everyone else

escaping
from the asylum
inside
your skull
is
putting out the
darkness
with the sun

then you start
to remember
the
last few years
and
you wonder
at it all
in total horror
like a
bad dream
you know
was real

but at least
you never
run outta
shit to
write about.



memorial day

an obituary on
the evening news

some soldier
killed in Iraq

he was only 20.

I'm supposed
to honor his
sacrifice
in a faraway
desert

sitting here
channel-surfing
looking for
something
to relieve
the boredom

wishing some
martial arts
was on.

tough luck.