Haven’t you seen them
Galumphing down Sunset,
Fumbling their way
In and out of our lives,
Collecting like bags of trash
At Starbucks or Coffee Bean?
Haven’t you seen
Long jeweled fingers
Snubbing out cigarettes
Like failed endeavors?
Flicking away the butts
And reading the fortunes
From cookies at Hoy’s Wok?
I haven’t quite known them all,
But I’ve heard jabbering pie holes
In empty apartments,
Flapping gums
On restaurant patios,
Blathering blow-hards bloviating
Over a latte
At Starbucks or Coffee Bean.
All talking about something
Someone else was
just talking about.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Cherry Pies
The land is still the land
even while
giant corporations
build towers and cars and streets
and stomp out
hunnysuckle plants
and cherry pie peace
with dollar sign combat boots and
Jesus Saves! parachutes.
Now the land
where I stand is blood-red
and bland.
Ancient Americans
have heard my footsteps
on the desert sand.
The angry sun
has stared me down
and burned my neck
with its hurtful gaze
whose colors fade
from red to brown.
The crows have laughed
and mocked my
clumsy earth dance
and the land
beneath my feet
is telling jokes
that taste like canned beets.
More towers rise
like male insecurities
into the darkening skies
and beneath the grass
beneath the roots
and the soil and clay and sand
there is still
this land.
This America
who's people
present and past
are shouting at me
in a language
Silly and unfamiliar.
Finances and Catfish.
Boring, soaring
Red Tails and interest rates
into a horizon
peppered with
towers of money, made
to look like morning boners,
as if we are supposed to be afraid.
My feet,
in a liars soft shoes
sink into the ground.
beneath the stones
and the water
and the sound
of a lone tree falling
when no one's around.
Only to find the land
is still the land,
and all this confusion
is just acne
on the youthful face
of another bloodthirsty empire
come again
and one day
just gone.
even while
giant corporations
build towers and cars and streets
and stomp out
hunnysuckle plants
and cherry pie peace
with dollar sign combat boots and
Jesus Saves! parachutes.
Now the land
where I stand is blood-red
and bland.
Ancient Americans
have heard my footsteps
on the desert sand.
The angry sun
has stared me down
and burned my neck
with its hurtful gaze
whose colors fade
from red to brown.
The crows have laughed
and mocked my
clumsy earth dance
and the land
beneath my feet
is telling jokes
that taste like canned beets.
More towers rise
like male insecurities
into the darkening skies
and beneath the grass
beneath the roots
and the soil and clay and sand
there is still
this land.
This America
who's people
present and past
are shouting at me
in a language
Silly and unfamiliar.
Finances and Catfish.
Boring, soaring
Red Tails and interest rates
into a horizon
peppered with
towers of money, made
to look like morning boners,
as if we are supposed to be afraid.
My feet,
in a liars soft shoes
sink into the ground.
beneath the stones
and the water
and the sound
of a lone tree falling
when no one's around.
Only to find the land
is still the land,
and all this confusion
is just acne
on the youthful face
of another bloodthirsty empire
come again
and one day
just gone.
growing old
Would she see me
If I came back
in a jacket and tie?
Would she know why
I said what I did?
That she was
a white lilly
floating down a dark black river,
winding through
heavy springtime woods?
I walk through Hollywood
most nights,
and watch so many
big blue-green eyes turn up,
then look away.
So many plump, parted lips
talking into the nighttime sky
and none of them are hers.
They are all incredibly sad,
sparkling now
with youthful ignorance,
but I can see them
fading away into nothingness,
without so much as
a flicker of light or fight,
like a drugstore camera that didn't flash.
So incredibly sad!
A sprawling white lilly
floating down a dark black river
and fading away
behind heavy clouds
falling under the weight
of their own loneliness
closer and closer to the ground.
If I came back
in a jacket and tie?
Would she know why
I said what I did?
That she was
a white lilly
floating down a dark black river,
winding through
heavy springtime woods?
I walk through Hollywood
most nights,
and watch so many
big blue-green eyes turn up,
then look away.
So many plump, parted lips
talking into the nighttime sky
and none of them are hers.
They are all incredibly sad,
sparkling now
with youthful ignorance,
but I can see them
fading away into nothingness,
without so much as
a flicker of light or fight,
like a drugstore camera that didn't flash.
So incredibly sad!
A sprawling white lilly
floating down a dark black river
and fading away
behind heavy clouds
falling under the weight
of their own loneliness
closer and closer to the ground.
Brand new days tumble away like losing dice
It's a little like a gamble,
going to bed early and
hoping for some kind of dream vision...
Some Carlos Castenada,
little smoke experience
hoping to wake up in a new day,
when the Girl from Ipanema
will finally turn your way
as she sways so gently
to the rolling sea.
Maybe today is the day?
The proverbial quarter
that drops into a slot machine
and moments later
has them spewing coins
like a bulimic model
puking up her bagel and locks
behind the open door of a silver Beamer
into a Los Angeles parking lot
at dawn...
Which begs the question,
"What the fuck am I supposed to do
with all these quarters?"
It's a bit like a gamble
hoping to peel away
a thin veil of sleep into a new day
that explodes like a
fire cracker in a suburban mailbox.
That explodes like all four tires
on a lifted pick up
as you pound your
buck knife hard into the
hard rubber surface.
Explodes like the soda can
those trust fund honkeys
in the back
threw at you
on that lonely afternoon,
while the heavy snow drifted down
and street sludge splashed
your cheap plaid thrift store coat.
It's a little like a gamble,
pumping dollars into
scratch tickets
and hoping,
morning after morning
that the day is new,
and yesterday's karma
has gone as stale
as a day old bagel
some bulimic model
left out
and couldn't finish.
going to bed early and
hoping for some kind of dream vision...
Some Carlos Castenada,
little smoke experience
hoping to wake up in a new day,
when the Girl from Ipanema
will finally turn your way
as she sways so gently
to the rolling sea.
Maybe today is the day?
The proverbial quarter
that drops into a slot machine
and moments later
has them spewing coins
like a bulimic model
puking up her bagel and locks
behind the open door of a silver Beamer
into a Los Angeles parking lot
at dawn...
Which begs the question,
"What the fuck am I supposed to do
with all these quarters?"
It's a bit like a gamble
hoping to peel away
a thin veil of sleep into a new day
that explodes like a
fire cracker in a suburban mailbox.
That explodes like all four tires
on a lifted pick up
as you pound your
buck knife hard into the
hard rubber surface.
Explodes like the soda can
those trust fund honkeys
in the back
threw at you
on that lonely afternoon,
while the heavy snow drifted down
and street sludge splashed
your cheap plaid thrift store coat.
It's a little like a gamble,
pumping dollars into
scratch tickets
and hoping,
morning after morning
that the day is new,
and yesterday's karma
has gone as stale
as a day old bagel
some bulimic model
left out
and couldn't finish.
laugh, love, fuck and drink whiskey
The newspapers used to be
A source of amusement.
Hilarious unadulterated headlines…
“Mr. T states that he is ‘Qualified to Beat People Up’.”
Anymore I just feel bad.
I feel bad that they think we’re idiots.
I feel bad that maybe we are.
I feel bad after sopping up fear
And depression
Like a dry sponge
In the middle of a toxic puddle
Of advertising
And media frenzy.
I feel like puking.
We’re all gonna die,
And I don’t want to be afraid of it.
I’m just gonna drink my whiskey
And smoke
In the process.
Then I’m gonna fight.
Find my rhythm.
Maybe make a song or two.
Dance, fuck, write, laugh, love.
I'll tell ya this though,
I’m not going to listen
To these ass holes anymore.
A source of amusement.
Hilarious unadulterated headlines…
“Mr. T states that he is ‘Qualified to Beat People Up’.”
Anymore I just feel bad.
I feel bad that they think we’re idiots.
I feel bad that maybe we are.
I feel bad after sopping up fear
And depression
Like a dry sponge
In the middle of a toxic puddle
Of advertising
And media frenzy.
I feel like puking.
We’re all gonna die,
And I don’t want to be afraid of it.
I’m just gonna drink my whiskey
And smoke
In the process.
Then I’m gonna fight.
Find my rhythm.
Maybe make a song or two.
Dance, fuck, write, laugh, love.
I'll tell ya this though,
I’m not going to listen
To these ass holes anymore.
Spare some change?
people are always using
a language
they pretend not to understand.
Wringing their hands,
putting their weight
on their left hip
when they stand.
Their eyes wander,
looking up and left to remember
or down and right to escape.
They look right at you
to try and make you believe
a ridiculous lie.
They stand too close, sometimes
and fill their awkwardly transitioned
sentences with "ums" and "ah's",
building a verbal wall
so you don't jump in just yet.
They smile and smirk
and they weave tales
rich with accidental metaphors
and in between their words
and hand gestures
and shifting weight
lies the real meat and potatoes.
Here's what they're mostly trying to say:
"I'm a human being, and I love you.
We are all poets and
musicians, and we are all poor.
Hey... Spare some change?"
a language
they pretend not to understand.
Wringing their hands,
putting their weight
on their left hip
when they stand.
Their eyes wander,
looking up and left to remember
or down and right to escape.
They look right at you
to try and make you believe
a ridiculous lie.
They stand too close, sometimes
and fill their awkwardly transitioned
sentences with "ums" and "ah's",
building a verbal wall
so you don't jump in just yet.
They smile and smirk
and they weave tales
rich with accidental metaphors
and in between their words
and hand gestures
and shifting weight
lies the real meat and potatoes.
Here's what they're mostly trying to say:
"I'm a human being, and I love you.
We are all poets and
musicians, and we are all poor.
Hey... Spare some change?"
Soggy cities with smoke blue trains
soggy cities with
smoke blue trains
pumping like veins
between sagging streets
and between drum beats
I haven't heard since I was seventeen.
I haven't seen puddles reflecting
snow heavy evergreens
since I was seventeen.
I used to rock Frank Sinatra
but mine wasn't a very good year.
I stood here
feeling 33 in Hollywood years
thinkin about how to get the fuck out of
those soggy cities
with smoke blue trains.
Where the people are strange
and constantly misbehave
drinking cheap American beer
and they never shave.
Rain drips in
along the window pane
into and old iron pail.
And the strange people here
never cut their fingernails.
They climb aboard
the smoke blue night time trains,
riding the rails through
rain soaked cities
where black mascara tears
run down the faces of all the dames
and their whiskey comes all aflame.
It burns going in
and it burns going down
and it burns when you inevitably
puke your guts out.
smoke blue trains
pumping like veins
between sagging streets
and between drum beats
I haven't heard since I was seventeen.
I haven't seen puddles reflecting
snow heavy evergreens
since I was seventeen.
I used to rock Frank Sinatra
but mine wasn't a very good year.
I stood here
feeling 33 in Hollywood years
thinkin about how to get the fuck out of
those soggy cities
with smoke blue trains.
Where the people are strange
and constantly misbehave
drinking cheap American beer
and they never shave.
Rain drips in
along the window pane
into and old iron pail.
And the strange people here
never cut their fingernails.
They climb aboard
the smoke blue night time trains,
riding the rails through
rain soaked cities
where black mascara tears
run down the faces of all the dames
and their whiskey comes all aflame.
It burns going in
and it burns going down
and it burns when you inevitably
puke your guts out.
Wide eyed and innocent
I see them all
wide eyed and innocent,
gaping mouths open
in their rock and roll clothes
and their rock and roll hair cuts.
Fumbling down Sunset
like misplaced cattle,
they smell Autumn
beneath the smog
and sweat and sewage.
They awe at the sight of
teenie bopper blonds
in heavy make up,
cleavage aglow in glitter lotion.
In awe of a legendary location,
romanticized in pop culture.
To them, this is Oz.
What they don't know is that
one block south,
the houses sell for 2.5 million on average,
and signs on every corner read,
"No turns after 10PM".
Not to protect the quiet enjoyment
of the wealthy residents,
but to curb the rampant prostitution.
They don't know that
the drunk dude they're snickering at
always carries that huge
stuffed alligator, (it's probably his bed)
or that the teenage boys
selling star maps will also
gladly sell them cocaine.
Those wide eyed and innocent
aspiring song writers
and busty would-be starlets
have left the farm,
and they won't be the same
when they inevitably go back,
chewed up and spit out
by Hollywood.
The Sleeping Beauty.
The Land of the Free.
wide eyed and innocent,
gaping mouths open
in their rock and roll clothes
and their rock and roll hair cuts.
Fumbling down Sunset
like misplaced cattle,
they smell Autumn
beneath the smog
and sweat and sewage.
They awe at the sight of
teenie bopper blonds
in heavy make up,
cleavage aglow in glitter lotion.
In awe of a legendary location,
romanticized in pop culture.
To them, this is Oz.
What they don't know is that
one block south,
the houses sell for 2.5 million on average,
and signs on every corner read,
"No turns after 10PM".
Not to protect the quiet enjoyment
of the wealthy residents,
but to curb the rampant prostitution.
They don't know that
the drunk dude they're snickering at
always carries that huge
stuffed alligator, (it's probably his bed)
or that the teenage boys
selling star maps will also
gladly sell them cocaine.
Those wide eyed and innocent
aspiring song writers
and busty would-be starlets
have left the farm,
and they won't be the same
when they inevitably go back,
chewed up and spit out
by Hollywood.
The Sleeping Beauty.
The Land of the Free.
"assisted living"?
What’s in the news today?
Did we find a saviour?
Did the shepherd come off
his metaphysical hammock,
put his beer on ice
and make a phone call
to his earthly children?
Must be nice up there
in that cosmic nursing home,
angels changing bedpans
that probably smell like
Patchouli and lilacs.
Young Audrey Hepburns
and Grace Kellys
pushing lazy boy wheelchairs
and taking naps in the arms
Of saints and prophets.
I bet you can play bones
With Martin Luther King
And smoke cigars
With Mark Twain
While Hank Sr
Plays a string box
And sings sad songs.
I bet you can drink and joke
with Woody Guthrie
and Jack Kerouac,
chase skirts with Buddy Holly
and lay on your back
watching the sky turn colors
with Rumi and Ghandi,
play shuffleboard with John Lennon
and just philosophize with Ben Franklin.
What’s in the news today?
More greedy wars?
More global suffering?
Come lay on this hammock
with Audrey and me.
We’re just drinking lemonade
and watching the clouds roll on by.
Did we find a saviour?
Did the shepherd come off
his metaphysical hammock,
put his beer on ice
and make a phone call
to his earthly children?
Must be nice up there
in that cosmic nursing home,
angels changing bedpans
that probably smell like
Patchouli and lilacs.
Young Audrey Hepburns
and Grace Kellys
pushing lazy boy wheelchairs
and taking naps in the arms
Of saints and prophets.
I bet you can play bones
With Martin Luther King
And smoke cigars
With Mark Twain
While Hank Sr
Plays a string box
And sings sad songs.
I bet you can drink and joke
with Woody Guthrie
and Jack Kerouac,
chase skirts with Buddy Holly
and lay on your back
watching the sky turn colors
with Rumi and Ghandi,
play shuffleboard with John Lennon
and just philosophize with Ben Franklin.
What’s in the news today?
More greedy wars?
More global suffering?
Come lay on this hammock
with Audrey and me.
We’re just drinking lemonade
and watching the clouds roll on by.
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