The Importance of Being Important
(Published in Beatitude 40 Magazine)
The year is 2006. Presence - North Beach, stumbling on a path to a renaissance.
State of mind - Tenderloin bench, 94102.
The days are foggy,
air saturated with dislocated and ill fitting words.
Storytelling available at every corner. Poems,
ten cents a dozen.
How about it anyway?
I’ll labor one right here, on the spot.
I’ll quilt one for you
from the scraps of paper desperate enough to want to climb out of my pockets.
Ever been published?
Only on line, but does that even count?
The community seems to like you, despite the lack of importance.
You are oozing creativity, developing a profile.
Vomiting all the way,
feeling phony.
You get an ART ID in SF, NB which places you in an orbit for a quick spin.
A tumble or two later
it spits you out, your head throbing,
the odor still lingering.
You curl up on the bathroom floor. The profile sleeps much too peacefully on your pillow. Dripping from a faucet reminds you of the time
a published child writer showered you with kisses.
Or drilled inside your brain making space for his words.
Occasionally,
I’ll feel particularly numb (competent),
and squat inside my brain.
By freak accident,
I’ll break open the door to my brilliant self
(by that time self destruction levels on high)
and discover poetry.
The choice and availability overwhelms you, so you trampoline some paintings instead. But fearing
you’ll miss important parts of the fitting
you again desperately attempt to write.
In frustration you set it all on fire
and get a thrill
watching your sweet creativity licked away by flaming lips.
Is this art? Is this finally art?
I am a destroyer of squeezed out poetry,
sitting bare assed on the burning asphalt, observing
glass after glass, beer after beer after unconscious beer
being consumed by words,
ill fitting words.
Strokes,
brush strokes, breast strokes, buckets of paint. Sucking fresh blood.
Not really drinking, not really absorbing it, spitting without digesting it.
Maniacs,
you dear maniacs, burning on creative fuel,
engaging in communal sucking. Glass, wine, beer, blood.
Journey through,
pass out on the floorboards alone,
incorporate saliva you drooled out last night
in this mural you’re living
on the soulless horizon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
traffic
I’m composing signs from letters
Counting my hand movements
Moving my gaze
I’m controlling the formation of long lines
Lines of momentarily childish
Then unrecognizable handwriting
Seem drunk
In the inside pocket of my coat
The traffic lights are defective again
Crowd is growing, arguing
The trams are speeding in the straight line
Without slowing down
I take off my coat
The air is full of particles of turmoil
They are sobering up slightly
Streetlights are coming on
The light is yellow
Crowd is moving however
Continuing
The march of decision seems miserable
At least to me
I’m putting on my coat
And diving into the crowd
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
death vs. love
I thought she was alive!
no
she is dead
she was killed by a truck driver
when they collided on the bridge
that spanned
the slimy river
did she do anything with her life?
what did that woman pursue?
I haven’t got a clue
she sat day after day on her couch
knitting socks for her lover
who died in the war
which war?
there were a thousand in the last 100 years
you know
in their... personal
ahaaaaaaaaaa
now it all makes sense
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
let's be a yokel (it’s better than to be a nobody)
You are a cowboy
Seeking the wild getting rid of the unnecessary
Yearning that which is integral
You are a cowboy
A Yokel
A simple soul
Aspiring lunch at noon
And to finish brusquely when the end is here
Your sentiment is there only for the selected
A horse, a pig
Women you dislike, them you fuck
And so on
Lets move on
From bar to bar
From terrain to terrain
From the horses back to the catafalque
Which is inevitably awaiting you
Soon, tomorrow
‘Cause you’re a cowboy
Or you aren’t
That’s what you like to call yourself
You are nobody and you are nothing
But the catafalque is awaiting you
All the same
Inevitably
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
condition
I’m licking my palm, it’s salty, tasting good
I’m browsing through the newspaper, it’s unsavory
No, it has no taste
I’m hiding behind my palm
It’s impossible to hide behind the newspaper
Rhythm is present, some crazy rhythm
It’s leading me to a place where I won’t be needing my palm
This text will be without blanks, without the nothingness
Completely filled in
Even though the blank reigns in me
They hear me mono, I can hear myself stereo
Never mind, the new era is approaching
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
passages
A stroll in the gutter
Observing the walls of the catacombs through which I’m passing,
Strolling with contact
Skeletons, shapes, skulls showing
Some…….Tics? Provoked
Multitude of faces, passing, observing
Touring the shadows of these walls from the past
Grimacing teeth protruding, piercing through the patches of clay, dust
Crumbs of light
Or darkness?
To enter into the step in front of you is painfull
Shadows
Shapes of faces
Without any real traces of names or times
Blurred vision
With my entire body I’m kissing the sludge through which it protrudes
I’m clinging and passing through
Finally and truly
I am no longer innocent
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ljubav
thundering clouds opening up, releasing the flow
miserably soaked,
drenched with nutty accusations, wandering aimlessly
feet sinking into slush
he looks up exhausted and says
I love you so much
his cheek is resting next to mine, pores inhaling each other
hanging merrily over his back,
I sniff
and thrive
and glee inside his armpits
I've found a home
At last
nourished by the snores I'm feasting on the moment
interference by spells of craziness
he is human enough to ignore
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the encounter
hotel room walnut shell public toilets abandoned nest
meeting in the square at the clock
climbing the steps one foot other foot climbing
slope dive walk to the left
couples to the right walls stumbling
butchers pork knuckles in shop windows spices
life
shoes
one two same shoes same people same
crashing and hammering landscape paintings on the walls
walking marching remembering tomorrow lost times us
hotel room king size bed edge of the bed detained door
bathroom
sound of the shower calming
knock on the door
banknote hallway shoes more shoes hallway full of shoes
and footsteps
leaps in the air banknotes in hands bodies
full of bodies and banknotes bodies banknotes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the manner of waiting
stand in the line for me
look in that corner, there we stand
minor you and I
we will abide the morning in this corner, move, something needs to be done
through that mirror of yours observe me thoroughly
can you still smell that sore spot of mine?
down there, the corner of 5th and 13th
hold on will you, come on, I'll fall over, what's the matter?
don't you realise that there are corners in this hotel
in which we don't belong
because it isn't true
say eyes
you shake your head like some beast, hunted through cabins
under wooden floors
oh yes, these are the true times spent together
do you hear that bark, miaow, there is something I hear!
these branches of yours are beating me, remove them
is it too much?
well, I might stumble upon some mud so we won't have to remove our shoes
the colour of flesh is showing
join the line for exactly that reason
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~