To Thee, Mescalito, I give my frothy vomit, placed carefully in this humble bowl of earth, in prayer for a safe and enlightening journey.
Archive for April, 1991
To He-Who-is-Not-to-be-Named, I willingly offer up George Bush, warmonger and rabid elephant, to be seized screaming by your awful beauty and stretched into the ever nighted planes of silent shadow.
One ivy leaf do I sadly float upon the ocean in memory of you, who have retired in disappointment, disgusted and betrayed.
To Cthulhu I willingly chant the damning phrases from the cursed stone tablets and grovel in worthless supplication before the dreams of watery death sent unto me.
I sit by a silent road
Waiting for a car to go by
Racing the split-rail fence
To the lightning horizon.
A saddened tree
Dips slender limbs
Into her reflection
In the quiet lake;
There she catches
Litter.
cold turquoise ring:
you break, my friend.
our journeys together
have just begun,
but I realize that you are old.
grandfather to father
to daughter to friend
and thence to see
more of the world
with your blue blue eye.
give me your face;
cut one side then pull.
hand it to me,
and you can’t have it back
until I look at you
even though you think
your insides will make me sick.
everyone thinks that their insides will make me sick.
compose yourself.
your face has been carefully made
layer by layer of bleach soaked newspaper,
phrases and snapshots;
what you think will agree
with everybody’s individual stomach.
stand up straight.
if you are ashamed of yourself,
then you make me sick.
I flap my big leathery wings
slowly, far above the sprawling metropolis
and grin in rubbery latex.
my shadow eclipses city blocks;
down below, people run in fear.
the atmosphere is cold this high.
the sun is bright on my black skin,
so I will go eat a McDonald’s.
so.
I sit here on my lily pad.
fuck you.
I just sit here on my lily pad.
I sound my barbaric yawp.
ribbit.
it’s my poem.
I can say “ribbit”.
I can say “fuck you”.
I am green,
I am wet-skinned.
I sit here on my lily pad.
I am the Froggacuda.
ribbit.
fuck you.
I see in you
the movement of a wave
slowly breaking
and sliding quietly
over the sand.
Joe and the Magic Thanckx
Posted: April 10, 1991 in PoetryTags: Cat, Eye, Joe, Los Angeles, Magic, Smoke
yes, please.
I would very
much enjoy
drawing your magic
green herbal reagent
deep into the capillaries
of my lungs.
I appreciate the
sparkle in your eyes
as you pass to the left.
do you know
you are wreathed
in your own smoke,
curling like a cat
around your shoulders.
yes, please.
the magic is waning
in the world
and I’d really like to see
Los Angeles again, Joe.
Thick powerful snake
coiled in the base of my spine,
building, building
with negative lightnings.
lash I will lash I will strike you
by accident I will and
I will be sorry afterwards.
from my fingers and my mouth
will shoot those things
that always make you cringe.
people play frisbee
across the warm street
on the grass field
as I turn from my window
and sit on the floor
to watch my walls closely
stay the same color.
beyond the door of sleep
lies Hypnos, drenched in sand.
it is snowing autumn leaves
and the smoke from his pipe hangs like frost,
a fog which curls to shut my eyes like a child’s.
tell me,
tell me,
waddling solfugid:
what leafy canopies
did you crawl through to get here;
the moist grey sidewalk
slithers off into the distance
and I crouch like a gargoyle
to converse quietly
with you.
water falls as an old man’s beard
which grows down flat to the sea.
a summer trickle leaves hung moss;
a drip makes music like wind bells.
a tree nearby sends leaves as boats
to drift into the setting sun.
recently was Winter, now is Spring.
what clouds covered, now is blue.
quiet bird once were, now singing birds are,
for what is dead by December is green by May.
I tried to imagine
You here with me
With brown-green eyes
And upturned lips
Holding me
Around my waist
But I couldn’t
So I ate chocolate instead.
rolled
in a quadrilateral
of liquid sunlight,
I snooze.
my eyelids are warm
and look orange
from inside.
the carpet
could maybe be sand
from a ferny beach
full of dinosaurs.
I am a big dragonfly.
I am a turtle.
I am a seed.
flows talking to itself,
deciding which way to go
and whether to meander
fast or fall slow,
doing leaf-laundry
upon the jumping stones.
I sat down in dejection
on a rock by the road
to watch others go by
and realized
that I had sat down by another,
who, surprised and encouraged,
got up and went on,
cheering me up some.
savage mushroom,
golden, proud rising
from loose black earth;
pale stalk, sponge,
delicate and defiant.
I saw a raindrop hang
from a second story rooftop.
as I watched it drop,
I saw the face of a little girl
in one of the second story windows.
when I looked up again,
she wasn’t there.
I’m sure she never was.
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