Kevin's Watch

4:36 am

do you ever wake up, tears
in your eyes. sitting in the
dark, careful not to wake up
your spouse. and do you sit
there in the dark, wishing you
could smoke. trying hard to
not think about the one you
hurt. the one who could never
forgive you. and do you wish
that you could take it all back.
and then end up in front of the
bathroom mirror, wondering...
who is looking back at you....



leah

am i a regret or a fond memory.
can you sing for him, voice cracked
with smoke an beer, fumbling
for the right chord. does he hold you
close in the rain, kissing you raw.
when you ever think of me, do you
feel lonely. when it gets cold, will you
love him like you said you loved me.

A Blueprint to the Mind of the Unknown

Begin at the begining.

The weather depresses or cheers us. We string together incidents and unfold episodes. We turn our pain into narrative, we turn our ecstasy into narrative, We are all a mixture of bellegerence, gratitude and imitation.

We are in the middle of the story. We begin our lives swimming and end it drowning. Our lives are spent booming, buzzing and in confusion. A kaleidoskope of technicolor patterns dissolving.

Sound and fury gain in our perspective, the angle of vision. We need a way of seeing in the dark. A baffling enviroment of bizzare subgroups.

The first is ourselves, the second is family and friends. Society is the third.

Feeling is not only emotional, but it is also cognitive. And some affective, if not always effective. Our meanings are fragile, our laws passing and our hope precarious.

The darkness threatens to devour us. So we trudge towards an infinitive reality. But still treading the finite line.

We struggle with contingency, dialogue, communion, ambiguity and disenchantment.

We cleave to order, play, hope, damnation and humor.

We seek freedom, honesty, community and courage.

With all of this - our flat world will take on depth.

(found this stuck in a book i took the Adoration of the Eucharist years ago. not sure where I was going with it.)

Are your highs getting you down?

Split screen: Black Beauties,
Christmas Trees, and White
Crosses. Safety in fire, follow
the leader. Electric ladders,
elevated ladders, moving
sidewalks. Slips, trips and
falls. Tin can / copper man.
Wire to wire, the phone lines
are down. Drag them to the
town pound. Neptune’s curse:
dog-paddle, treading still.
The sky is burning, the sky
is burning. The asleep while
her rivers dream. Tall trees
and submarines. White birch
and aquamarine. Smoke and
mirrors – the subway is a broken
song. (Campfire sing-along.)
Floor justification, constant
remuneration. Sawbones laid
a trap, Aesop fell into it. Plague
files – you will all die by the like.
Your magic versus the humdrum
thrum of everyday life. Company
car, company wife, company
funeral, company life. Pitching
rocks at the flat-tops, turning
circles into squares. Hollow,
shallow, sans depth. Tar pits
/ slop traps. (Even gutters have
gravity.) Fire up the analytical
engines, calculate the difference.
Charm bracelets, handbags,
wounded pelts. A master mechanic
who knows physics and electronics.
(A few of my favorite things.)
Puzzles, games, coloring pages
and the daily rebus. The go-go
wonder of Paris, that space girl.
Transistors never wear down;
because her junk heart is made
of vinyl. She is in orbit, high,
fog surrounding her. Recycle her
plastic soul. F-stop detour; women
defectives investigate. (Arriving
too late.) Little boxes on the hillside,
widow boxes. Rhinestones glitter
in the sun; diamonds glitter in the
shade. Hothouse, hen house, cat
house. A lumbering beast, faced
to the east. Socrates juking past
Plato. A jumbled series of false
starts, broken hitches and desperate
lunges. Airport skyscrapers dot the
distance; dashing the homes of
innocent bystanders. (Take that
Frank Lloyd Wright!) The crush
of scenic witnesses as displayed
by abstract sketch artists. Concrete
examples of Bohemian art. Polygraph
machines gather dust as the experts
and technicians bid goodbye to all of this.

Judas complex. (Simple solution.)
parachute canvases, the aero planes shining and eclipsed. The ellipses bloated. Your floated exploitation devices double as cushions. Seatbelt extenders, conversation enders. Degradation of the horizon. (You seem oblivious.) Judgment called, enthralled. Shallow water landing. Trivial recorders reordered and left on layaway. (Watch for stowaways!) Material causes lead to political pauses. (Pregnant or reformed?) Trial and error is the terror of a no-fly-zone. Launch codes sequenced in frequencies, technicalities, eventualities.

Conceptual complexes of Technicolor water colors. The shame of muted greys. Stilted colored pencils, jilted crayon boxes. Day-flow chalk outlines spread throughout the confines. Pale brochured combines. Elation and frustration settle in the oil drip-pan. Jittery water lilies. Acrylic non-stick paint-by–numbers. Easily baked; if easily faked.

Copyright circa aught-ought-aught. Primers and primary numbers. (They don’t lie.) Collectors and critics practicing static spell variations. Unnumbered sets and unencumbered vets. A validation for bending over ass backwards. The lowered standards. A regular hit or miss parade.

Pine box derbies crash in search of steeper hills. ( And cheaper thrills.) Kool-Aid parties forming lines to the right. The others left behind. Vertiginous vertigo set on the periphery. Dizzying circles spinning out of control. (Out of limited context.)

Flat-footed detectives hurling invectives at the electives. Daytripper Jack-the-Rippers chat up the strippers from the comfort of their squares. (Circle around!) Staring contests taken out of context. Deluded high-wire jugglers set frivolous hi-jinks. Performance art crimes catalogued and numbered. Banjo hitters unnumbered an unencumbered amount of times. Mad dash capers and tickertape parades. (No time for rest!) Fast forward or slow motion. Powder kegs on their last legs. Dynamic or dynamite? Euphemisms for the oxygen tent.

The Authentic Life of Billy, the Kid, the Noted Desperado of the Southwest, Whose Deeds of Daring and Blood Have Made His Name a Terror in New Mexico, Arizona and Northern Mexico, by Pat Garrett, Sheriff of Lincoln County, N.Mex, by Whom He was Finally Hunted Down and Captured by Killing Him.
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'Quien es? Quien es?'

There are Magnets Pulling us to the Earth

during the vertigo equinox,
an off day from the poetry-
grinder. pining for some low
brush blues - dreaming of the
Hub City Nine. admist the middle
of a ghost shift, I drift (adrift)
gutbucket trigger startles my
ambient drone. grackles crackle
as my sawhorse is hobbled...
mud daubers scatter and shimmer;
spider-webs glint and glimmer.
strange charms awash in the low
glow of halos. a whirl-a-gig for
autumn skies. affix levers, pulleys
and gears - in the stratosphere;
Shakespeare and Robespierre still
sound the same. and I think it
will rain. chasing dead birds in
the tall grass, my faithless constant
dodges frost heaves, fallen leaves
and grieves in the neon ash...
batteries low, catching the skip cars
home. muddle jumpers stumped in
the grey dusk - as the daylight rusts.
humbugs are humdrum in their song,
I get it wrong as I try to sing along.

and buried deep; and
still below that, there
are magnets pulling us
to the earth

Elvis sang REM songs

sitting in the dark
wishing for a smoke
trying for the punchline
a half-forgotten joke

Elvis sang REM songs
Elvis sang REM songs
to the world

Vegas was his calling
Memphis held him fast
the sweetest memories
are always in the past

Elvis sang REM songs
Elvis sang REM songs
to the world

Colonel knew his value
Jessie missed him most
now they hold conventions
dressed up as his ghost

Elvis sang REM songs
Elvis sang REM songs
to the world

and this
contain
within
---------------------------

sunset your bones
downward east
beside your wayside
from otherwise

Susan

the singer - smooth of
Michigan, little Susan.
air, the pride of cold air.
that there was a small girl
and her friends who were.
expensive was her father
and the small had taste.
she made applause of the
heart. his small favorite
had taste. as with; named
them small Susan. guide
with the distension and the
pride of the house. the blue
eyes had little Susan and the
light hair, flaxen. and it had
to be pleasant considering.
a child and just so beautiful.
with her father, never more
in the mass. and with them;
they had machines. guide in
the distension. had taste, small
Susan. the prode of the house.
her father had more children
and new all. there were eight;
which all lived of them. because
they named some. however,
the flower of the family, pride
of the house. and named her,
the oride of the house. sweet is
small Susan. in front of all her
friends - she dies years. one
does not forget that she was a
girl. her ages - four years. she
waits. her friends, in the sky and
awaits them. to come with small
Susan, the pride of her house...

on German, in French

shade best attended that
chute down on kind. where
that we knew the sun
under the tree. adjusted
keys, the whole earth, a
wooded elbow. the form
of a bruise. in the evening
at a swinging problem.
movement which maintained
the remained boss. never-
the-less to have seemed.
never had known the form
of the car. a clown. raiment,
the length gave it revolution.
or the jet word. firm difficulty
viewed on a certain thing, far.

fire, protocol, water

I don't care for
running faucets

fire - protocol - water

I still use some
wooden matches

fire - protocol - water


(a song)

snow

Snow is the lyrical
dust and codex of
mirrored guitars.
Fear is always there,
always approximately
in my knowledge.
Have you counted the
order of the dog sleds
in the snow? Drivers
are drilled out, spectators
are questioned briefly.
Why worry if you possessed
it so? Did you hear waiting
children at the door? You
end disadvantaged of it,
as I heard, even internal.
All locked in with the wind
at the door. All this snow
was meant for you. I plan
t circles in the sky and I
will swallow mirrors.
Snow is the bitter and
ugly force of gravity.
Try calling my brother,
he holds the keys. I meant
it more often than not, so
why volume it so? If you
hear children at the door,
the control room also
hears them. What were
your thoughts that you
would intend to abandon
me? Why would everything
vanish, with us inside an
empty room? The art of
the poets was included
in all of this snow feeling.
We carry our thoughts
with us, ready to surrender
our knowledge.

monroe

Monroe says : let us
put on our go-go boots
find some smoke stacks
and chimney sweeps

birds of a feather
form circles in the sky
winter - spring - summer - fall

Monroe says : cylinder and
square, pork chop, lamb
chop, mint jelly, these
are ways that I know

birds of a feather
form circles in the sky
winter - spring - summer - fall

Monroe says : chemical
black is an ego trip,
the toxic epoxy, the
fist-fight ferris-wheel.

Great Scott / Man Ray

Fatback & Monkey Dog
chilling on the run
colder than a well-
digger's ass. setting
their electromagnetic
traps. their buzz; a
headful of sugar.
forseeing the foreseeable
future. six, call eight
inside straight. sitting
in the catbird's seat
Alecoya - Sequoia - Cuyahoga
ghost tags on ghost
runners - spirit gum
trapping the dust bunnies.
brick - rock - heavy stone
angel dust bones
a map of June
as Mrs. O'Leary wed
Timothy Leary. they
located the location,
informed the information.
a murder of hells
as they return to their cells.

A Day at the Zoo

so you tried to whistle
through the sinew,
the gristle
picking through your
teeth - seeking relief
sticks and stones,
polish your bones...
hammer them in
the morning - your
only warning, the
powder, the dust
settles amongst the
dust - steel columns
from a distance. salt
licks - seeded sticks
atop a powder box.
grinding rocks - as
you sort through
blocks. square keg -
rounded below. a tap
out, penny for a show.
so if you go - don't
be slow. a poet to
overthrow it. so spit
the bit, a pit - a
pendulum, big kettle
drum. empty tunes
to hum. paper trails -
handrails - your coffin
nails - second hand
and second wind cover
your unoriginal sin.
corrugated tin, slated
to win. the grey of a
fading day left with
nothing much to say.
a hoax, a fake, on the
take. who said to let
them eat cake? the
students, they learn a
new test pattern. a
new meter maid to
fill the feeders...

colliding circles

call out the kennel-men,
the liars, the thieves.
soldiers-of-fortune in
their worsted union suits.
absent and diminished...
colliding circles of strange
inertia. twisting spirals-
low filters for the rafters
and beams. little better
than social animals. rising
from salt marshes - near
lemon trees, slumbered down.

colliding circles spark in
the dark. protect them
from drafts and jolts...
random bolts from displeased
thunder gods of minor
pantheons. as they stutter
mantras to an ampty universe.
rises the negative sunrise.
dull morning - proof of ancient
chemical reactions. medicine
men singing acid cool blues,
ghost dancers raining ruin.

sky pilots, seeding metallic
and corrugated arc-clouds.
the taste of rust and mud.
the newly burnt saccharine
on your tongue. chase car
lags behind. quelling colliding
circles, as the floor-sweepers
take a cut off of that square.
like Argus of the ancient times.
they are heartless and confined.
reprogrammed for sharp decline.
so who do I have to be?

paint breakers grey, stencil words...

day to day extensions
(the real life-line)
setting tar magnets
at low frequencies -
sequencing increases of
sequences, demarcation
set at negative zero -
no follow through for the
hollow few. staggered
in groups of two, even
odds - house holds all of
the cards. (hit me again)
dog-tired so hit the dog-
leg daytrip. dull around
the edges - polishing ledges.

ladies holding - got a tiger
by his rails. and yet,
the chafing dishes are
fewer by winter. cold grey
of shorter days. boulders
in fields oppose, juxtapose.
count them on your one
good hand. sometimes in
early spring, if you go far
enough in - you still find
ice. and if you stay the
day - it will remain...
held asway. sugar coated
bitter herbs in a coffee
can, by the front door.

Scott Joplin's Blues

by the rail cars stands
our founder - a mighty ox,
son of his only mother.
a quarter mile after
stands the rusted tower,
for the inhalation of water.
ravens nestle on trestles,
pulled up lame. in orange
quinine, watching sunshine,
snowing in July, dull and
listless, so come around
Christmas. euphoric?
ignore it. doubtful swagger
tempered - a phonebooth,
call box, double barreled
door locks. set to retrieve,
they got away scott-free.

a bigger movie with a
bigger song - words on
the screen make us all
sing along. nothing to it,
so you see, guess I will
always be - the one behind,
the one to lose, the boy
who couldn't tie his shoes...
listening to Scott Joplin's Blues.

ability, no compromise

hissing of faulty tape-
decks (summer lawns)
mutilation of thunder-
storms. ash clouds falling,
slowly - too slowly. un-
broken melodies. shopworn
and faded. brief squalls of
ambient relay. delayed drone.
(summer hydrants) obscurred
jumbles of drunken poetry...
static filters set on reset.
rainstorms finding puddles.
well-crafted and clever -
(too clever by far) press
play. spark another - drift
along the faded grooves...

could you love me?

lemonade stands for
those who refuse to
drink the koolade