The Stark Comma

Grifted from the madness of it all.

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.

we all hunt

We all hunt.

some for power
some for self worth
some for a good fuck
some for a cheap room
some for chemical blow
some for myth love; and
some for a nice clean bear trap
to stick their necks into.

devolve and cycle through us prey.

safe

you will be poor all your life.

I dispose all of this meandering self
devotee. Gone! In a whimper or more so, in
a scamper- stuffed of arrogance in the shit
that I pen but alas lit rag
intelligence rejection ribbon: roll:

What would I be, let’s see, in
1833- a blacksmith or a quack
pharma dolling out i hope this
doesn’t kill you tablets. Writer?
No. I’m not a writer now nor in my
past lives- maybe scrawled an
ox in a cave supine position
the sun beating its
har-hars into my finite pelt.

the fame daydrift out of tint
65 yellow stripe with ‘scape
rolling
bulges of cornfield, I’ll get mine
soon enough. Fall in love with
Diane Kruger, that Bergman
beauty mirror. You want a suite
in Milan for the eve? Let’s go
but first I must read to
college kids in
Crete. Power couple propeller.

I am Fox River bored- the
area has been red scarf gored
since ’84. I’m just as
boring I write and I feel that
weight of do nothing attitude put
me under for the next decade. Maybe
I should take a job at the Post
Office. Pension. Mortgage. Patriotic.

Safe.

peachtree

I climbed a peachtree the other
dream; a bikini Aphrodite
sucked fuzz spit. I can’t
control libido Ibiza
reale- it is a curse, the need
to bed all
beauties equally. “A writer,” she
repeated. “I know a writer and he’s
a womanizer,” she quipped. How do

I respond to such an allegation? Does
the Allegheny flood in rainy- or,
does a leather glove driver need
ferrari? All truths minus
derogatory spill. I need all and
suspire
all. Just as humid night
bug needs
blood.

forgiving bliss of claudient giggle

held court in yak yak fortuna with insane
men and bolshevik women
nothing was obscure here as we mined
countless bottles and disguised ourselves in
yodels parched we drank more
hungry us hickory slept awake in
infinity intellect all each others lover
not ‘cedes surrogate but
patchwork poor and tired and we yearn

there is no such thing as self
lipstick
red said
I agreed telepathically and
beat quietly
beat the edge of the coffee table
glass end while us lamps squeezed thoughts
into penny shaped elephants with a
coiled

white twist passed right to left and
we got right with all of those
jukebox baby dreams our ancestors
craved we danced and drank
and yelled in the
forgiving bliss of claudient
giggle

a sliver waxes

i am scared of all- a fear
tourniquet keeping all blood and
adrenaline housed in an animal
bath of lukewarm flight. You poor

bastard. Courage father left you in
boyhood. Adolescence mixed in puberty
shame with adulthood machine. Slow step
through societal meadow.

Slow

suicide of thought and individual. I am
not certain of these things all
seem certain of. Certain of

lime sweeps and vine crawl. Everyday that
clock counts and you relish in dorm
doom. An assisted living pink pill
case.

So,

either change now dodo- embrace
dada potato salad sling. Invent
your creation on the side of
magnificent mantra climb.

Zydeco Women

I had vision of zydeco
women in front and in back of
all those subterranean footholds.
Creme Brulée thoughts to stumble
around quarters; shoes cobbled
on cobble spoon up cobbler.

dark shots poured in curtain
brothel vestibule for the
ashen. the brothel contains not
lust but zeal; for thought unlike
what is strewn.

my mind now absinthe sugar cube new
accent in front of tourist prose;
just staying the night then back to
midwest values. Then I see, truly:

if an
artist leaves brush in teal feather,
then she is god. she is god.

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