The Stark Comma

Grifted from the madness of it all.

nectarine pit

in pure truth sorta bend, I
write in the vague interests of being pure in

thought and verse. I binge bang
on an Olivetti; all the mechanisms swing and tap in glorious jazz.

got all these jump rope vowels
swimming laps in my head and with hands I dictate as a sorta

professor, no, as a sorta mad conductor of my own merit.

then I get lost in the desk’s wood finish those
darkened swirl maple sun devils and
a new thought encroaches, seminal knife in
hand- so I took notice, first outta fear but
came on down
and
it
spoke clearer than any bora bora
palm dive… and it said,

“nectarine pit.”

something:an excerpt

everyone take your vitamins.
go on now. yes, a glass of
water. better now?

the walls only seem like
they’re melting but in fact
they are frosting. dig?

where do you live? nah, I
haven’t seen that on TV or,
or, some magazine hutch.

what a bummer. izzy and samah
can’t stop throwing missiles
at each other. big bummer.

yes, I eat cereal too but in
fact haven’t since I was
a teenager and yes, I lie.

passions? I enjoy women.
sometimes I pretend to
be a crook. counts I hope.

someone say something! where
the hell is everybody. do
they not have visions neither?

you mean you haven’t loved
someone in over a decade?
where do you sleep at noon?

there was a piano outside,
right near some drugstore.
it sang to lily pads. you on.

sometimes, when I feel giddy,
I enjoy masquerading paragraphs
into something that resembles
something that may indeed resemble
something fine.

an abstract tune tuesday

what to do with a tuesday mood? Ah!
opened metal carriage and wheeled on
west; country corn bulge rows in between
nature’s telephone poles and man’s telephone
poles; all hugged my two lane. shades,
spirits and nothin but time on
my
hands. rolled through a few main streets-
the permanent tourists looked at ease as
they strolled old brick fronts and ma and
pa rarity; I smiled and saluted. kept
on with dial tuned to baseball game muffled
smatter of chatter from the crowd between pitches
and back to bass walk goodman(god). swapped
cig with silvertube and ingested some
green
brain mink buzz. [all this time] been
pushing away lake shore metropolitica and
it’s big businessman ideas of jangled
commute and fucked timepiece misread;
all one big slouch! anyway,
kept
on
partly sunny sky- meteorologists called
for rain. pessimists. I being good
natured on a magnificent tuesday bathed
in golden silo heaps. stopped in at a
biker bar on outskirts of population
hardly thousand to grab a beer and
press black ink
into
pocket ruled. two cars and five harleys
sat on gravel. it was two pm, although sure
that seven pm might hold same gravel
traffic. shirked the sun but told it to hold
for an hour- into dive strode. the good
bars have a certain oily glow to them. yes
yes yes it was slicked. the bartender came
over; he was sturgis sleeve cut off bearded
shiny headed halo of a character. slight
scar
on his temple,
looked like half of mexico. asked for an
old style bottle, 54 bucks in my pocket(minus 2)
now; let it dwindle for good. a couple of
older hardhat constructioneers played
cue ball shuffle and hardly said a word. I
wanted to shout, “I’m envious of your primal
silence and existence- round of whiskey!” but
sat
scribbled
with baseball on the tube and nothin but
time fodder. thought about what two wheeled
rumble I should buy and when. thought about
doing push-ups in the morning for ritual. thought
about the grand ole hoot this weekend as my
family returns from different map pushpins for
sister’s wedding. thought about 52 bucks pumped
into tank(well minus another 2) and how far into
Iowa or Minnesota I could get today. there will be
a time for that; gulpdown last drop, paid, left.
as I greeted the
sun,
I noticed a fence ahead with several steeds
grazing. lost in mental hay, I crossed road and
approached. one came over and put it’s head
on the fence. palm pointed skyward, I placed
my hand under it’s mouth. it sniffed and
accepted then I moved to it’s nuzzle. this
beast accepted this beast on some level of deep
dig
and I was grateful. stood there for a few more
until it rejoined the others. got back in
carriage and rolled back east. there will
be a time for things and this tuesday was
to get right; a slight propeller nudge into
coming
abstract future.

reunion (she)

hadn’t seen her natural splendor in
quite some time- ten months or so
it goes(too long). she came out to
the country to visit and with a
visit we drank some red and talked
on deck into

infinity night

pure. the reason for our absence might
of had something to do with my can’t commit:
a breeze: and partly due to her new
montana life as ring recent slid off or,
possibly a hearty cosmic har-har was
on display. but here we were. her

summer dress twirled

when she moved- that creamsicle extension
of her hips. we slid into hammock and
saw true north, past our own selves as
distant suns chirped for us. dress drove
down as we swayed and smooched.

her legs stretched like

vanilla brail; the moon could now feel
that there was beauty down here. smoked some
and danced to african rhythms, those
teachers of movement and passion. we
belonged.

~

there are good women out there. there
are women that comfort the galaxied mess
in your head. there are woman who find art
in silence. there are women that can sustain
a noir kiss. there are women out there that
can bring good will to warring countries.

there are good women out there and she
is one.

condo

the last time I saw her:

she was condo sitting in Boca,
hadn’t seen her in months, not
since we broke the lease and
moved on to others. she invited
me over for one reason or another.
this, this was for closure.

I entered the lobby and a guy at a
desk greeted me. elevator up; elevator
marble and glass. I moved on down
the bright pendant lit hallway,
art hung centered in burgundy. arrived
to her, their door and knocked.

she opened wearing a white top and
white culottes. we hugged as strangers
would hug; some space, grip more
relaxed and it lasted mere seconds. whiff
of blonde perfume- took me back to
night drives in countryside when we
rebelled against family in our teenage
catapult love and lust. seconds.

I moved in and looked around; it was
a goddamn luxurious bath. rich hardwood and
smelled of juniper; elegance as it was.
straight ahead bright blue pooled between
breezy frawns- a boat anchored in the center.
what gallery was this? these velvet ropes in
gold.

we didn’t talk much and if we did it
was shallow but what did we expect. five
years winded down with a colossal thump and
we didn’t know how to be. we sat on wicker chairs
and drank wine. I smoked and she chided me for
it but it was she who lit this.

the boat moved on and the sun moved on. told
me that I could spend the night, so we climbed
into a stranger’s bed and like post feud brother
and sister we slept. we didn’t touch, didn’t
kiss, didn’t fight, didn’t do any of that; just
closed our eyes.

I awoke with a gasp; panic nocturnal caught
me again and with reason. I sat up and looked
over, she was angel photograph in this weird
luxurian scape. grabbed my smokes and headed to
the balcony for air. I looked out into that deep
shimmer, closed my eyes and listened to moments
that resembled; handful really. I smiled and cried
and shook my fist at young love. “Look what
you did.”

I finished my trip, back inside. stood at
foot but I couldn’t get back in bed with
her- the irony of the beauty in which I
swirled, it was specious. I got dressed, looked at
her
one more time
and
left. we left. it left. Fin.

monomyth

i. sauxsany petuniak

or, in other words, hallowed
gibberish. lest the fool craft
a boat out of catalpa to sail
sistine. no wind. not a tail
of wind! I got grapevine
calling me a liar and the
cratered rise calling me a
delicacy of foolish. (a sprig
of impulsive) what a simple
way to live; a holocene epoch
domestica. not for

me. flicker of boyhood room-
what a strange thing to
conjure; where my dresser
sat and the degree of the
lean. an enclave of korean war
vets drink black crude and
spit circular grit. one points
at me, “You early 80’s imp!”
yes yes yes- I, the leech in
historicity blip; when earth
pushes through and crawls up
industrial fallace, it won’t
debate whether I or all of
you.

ii. precuneus grey matter exposé

to all: I crave creative portion
not equal to double windsor
florescent bzzzzz cartoon. notion
acceptance of this is desired. I
flatline at the thought of
cauliflower existence. who told us
to live miniature? rather, who told
us to be token and beholden to
greenback wrap. prose pose worship
under roman nose at rural library
lover. my time

pulses in mink bound literature. that’s
who I am! shhh, don’t believe this
persona columbus will sit right with
familia. northwest bound. coast
bound. to familia, hell bound. to
the gods of possession sound and to
the gods of persimmon trees- let
me lay my hat on your fortuna. I
want to beat and monogram sheets.

iii. mythos

in a time where romance is swept
under digital rug; I will be
phone booth. dig at the heels of
fante vesuvius and hank hammurabi.
born to a joseph and to a mary;
relinquish. breed mythos. puff.
fiction. pack up all of the past
into piles. chicago thirty five
away- puff. mythos! all of the
women that graced screen, the
friends that blew in blew out and
all of those passerbys. mythos; as

where did this timeline spring, or,
who is this six foot flesh? Ixion
is not he. he speaks a different kind
and draws a different kind from a
different well. to punch fearless-
without kin. the quality or state
of being true from this latitude
to this longitude; truth. be brash
and penniless; they are lovers
entwined. listen. scribble in that
book with spine and space. you will
be mythos, a thunderous farewell that
will stretch before the gods.

sunday, july the 27th

I am going to get drunk
today. bottle of cab pantry
shelf awaiting my return from
a trip to town.

I am going to get drunk in
an hour or so. my father’s
birthday yesterday, grapevine
truth today.

I am going to get drunk today. sit
at my secretary’s desk;
punch/slide carriage for
self-proclaimed masterpiece.

I am going to get drunk for the
thousandth, not a courageous
plan, nor civilized- but a plan.
and just as any drunk prays as
we uncork, may deus ex machina
pluck us from obscura.

casablanca lily cowardice

I can’t imagine a bundle of joy
right now. Thirty, unwed,

zero munchkins rooting around my
free time. I’ll stay in
society’s sweltering spotlight
glare for as long as I can.

Right now, my bundle consists of
(pack of spirits, a bottle of
bottom shelf bourbon, my typewriter and
the occasional metra city brunette
one night only playbill)
Joy!

~

As I drank my coffee, a
disheveled man walked in with
a swaddled joey stuck to
his chest. I laughed hysterically as
I read William Carlos- my naked
ring finger tapping the table,
delighting in its nakedness.
Wanted to

tell him that I smoked a joint
with bohemians at a metra
city apartment party last
night. I, the

casablanca lily, he the rafflesia.
I, the

Cafe Wha?, he the Cotton Club. I
watched as he sullenly fumbled
for his wallet as that
sleeping millstone drooled from
his midsection. Then,

millstone awoke, squeak stretched, babbled
and touched his father’s face. He
beamed joy. Boy-

closed book, slumped and
drooped in
flaunted cowardice.

phlebotomy essentials

When the steamed milk tint evaporated
making an outline of holiness; there
was a smart dress of brainless that
flowed

like

a simmering pot of whatever or I don’t
care. look back into that dim
sunny day of youth and cry. As a man

I

don’t cry, I heave out of my eyes with
the force of a drunkard in the
midst of
bottomless wild turkey- to be
wild and grim. See that autumn
lull over there by the statue
of unwrinkled bronze? I don’t. One

rolls wide to the left, only an earlobe
and a few strands of hair feel
the effect. the cracked out
smudges of magazine
ink pelt- Remember seventeen?

I don’t.

in a heap of silence

deep in your Ashram, floor
board pose, a
dawn’s thought slips by like
smoke; an
elders berry sage and you see
what could have been with
the wyomin woman- the
one with a Georgia accent and
those spaces, those wide open
spaces you could’ve roamed.
bottle cap foil trash down gulch-
the threaded gullet of
barroom brawl what could
have beens.

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