for all of my twenty years
I have had one healthy fear:
that Love will find me cold and dry
for being a Prince and held so high,
but my heart longs for fiery blood,
wide-open eyes and Love, true Love,
not courtships played to gain the hand
of the Princess with the tracts of land.
for Love that fountains from my soul
for the heart of a girl who’s honest, whole;
someone to Love me and someone to share
all of my fears with; someone to care.
for I am no better than any man.
a Prince or a Pauper, the same we stand
in God’s eyes you’re worthy or not,
it doesn’t matter, the gold you’ve got.
Love is life’s most precious thing,
even for me…
…the Prince of Spring!
for I am the Prince of Spring.
for I am the Prince of Spring.
for I am the Prince of Spring.
Archive for May, 1993
The Prince of Spring
Posted: May 31, 1993 in PoetryTags: Fire, Fountain, Girl, God, Gold, Love, Man, Prince, Princess
Simple Things
Posted: May 28, 1993 in PoetryTags: Blue, Coffee, Eye, Flowers, Grass, Green, Mushroom, Pus, Red, Scream, Song, Tide, Trees, Zero Boy
so we’re not seeing eye to eye
I think I’ll go splash around in the tide.
you are so beautiful when you’re upset,
it always comes to me as a surprise.
I’ll watch your face turn red and green
and I will listen to what you’re screaming
and when you’re done crying and bitching,
I’ll take you to get ice cream.
such simple things will let you smile.
such simple things will let you smile.
such simple things like poking your stomach
and when I dance and sing you songs.
when you get free coffee at Roma
sometimes you forget what’s wrong.
(chorus)
so quit your sour-face nonsense;
the sunshine rains down like leaves from the trees.
let’s go sit on the grass like mushrooms
and smell the flowers like bees.
(accordian solo)
these silly things just make you madder
when you’re in a crappy mood.
but all it takes is a little persuasion:
you can’t help but lose your blues.
(chorus)
Las Vegas
Posted: May 18, 1993 in PoetryTags: Believe, Dark, Fireworks, Las Vegas, Light, Money, Night, Sound
one
all these slot machines are screaming at me,
hurling forth these awful noises
like upright pinball machines amplified
and winking with infernally fueled lights,
glowering metal goblins hunkered in military rows.
zombies run them, magnetized to the pull-bars.
coin after coin after coin fed like morsels
to squat and greedy quadripalegics
to be digested in square stomachs,
vomited occasionally into aluminum bins designed
to deluge the immediate area with tinny sound.
the only chairs in Vegas are the stools in front of slots,
the seats around the tables and the high chairs at the bars.
there they go – horrible shrieks and sirens,
running dark-suited security guards
and the beaming house manager congratulating, congratulating
someone lucky enough to give a slot the shits.
night and day rows of rolling eyes and gaping mouths,
so many tiki idols to pray to with offerings of silver.
miracles, healings, wishes granted often enough to other people
to make you believe. over your shoulder,
someone with a wheelbarrow of quarters
is smiling smugly before she’s taxed,
so you turn to your personalized priest
and confess, confess, confess;
give your money to the Church of Las Vegas.
two
you are nothing without neon stripes
surrounded with millions of scarecrow lightbulbs.
it’s a neighborhood gone gaga with Christmas lights;
the competition is too apparent, so flashy –
each hotel, forty floors of cement and steel supermodel,
the strip a catwalk for these gaudy flamingos
belching forth the illusions of winners,
fireworking electrical energy through millions of neon lacerations,
igniting the sky with an unnatural aurora.
each casino like a sick-to-its-stomach smiling Buddha,
pulling people in through its gilded belly-button
to explore the convolutions of intestines packed
with other gaping gamblers praying and dazed,
being digested in the bowels of Las Vegas.
the streets are the most wholesome places of normalcy;
there the garbage isn’t hidden, or snatched up
by a look-quickly-both-ways costumed employee
with a silver handled scooper and a platinum broom,
a golden smile tacked on like a nametag –
part of the uniform – in the streets
the honking of cars is sanity;
the people who live from their shopping carts are sane
because they have no money to spend.
these streets are thronged every night,
poverty illuminated by the neon lights.
why does my life
suck so bad?
why do I always
whine like this?
why don’t all you fuckheads
leave me alone,
give me some room
to experiment?
I don’t give a shit;
you’re so concerned
with what I need;
so you know
and I don’t,
well that’s wrong!
I know what I am
at any given time.
it is my life
and if I don’t like it
it is my right not to give a damn.
get off my back.
get off my back.
get off of my back.
get off.
get off.
go away and be sad and confused
that there’s no communication,
that there’s no understanding
me. fuck!
I still dream of the way
your long brown hair
fell over my face
in the wind in the park
as we played with the camera
and rolled on the grass
down the hills by the Mission
in a blanket of stars.
when the dew-drops poise
on blades of grass I like to
wait until they fall
before I kiss your smooth brow
when I must wake you from sleep.
you know I hate to leave you
when there’s that buzzing in your ears
that means your headache’s bad
even more than otherwise
because so miserable
and so fragile, in pain,
you look more like an Angel,
saddened by the world’s tears.
I couldn’t help myself –
I had to stare at all the older people
in Las Vegas. They’re all
motorized, putting coins in slots,
sometimes playing two or three at once
and even when they win
their expressions don’t change.
I saw a man win $5000 in
silver dollars and
he just seemed annoyed that
he couldn’t play it while it
poured out his money.
Ode to Bukowski #1
Posted: May 14, 1993 in PoetryTags: Charles Bukowski, Drink, Liquor, Smoke, Whore
Bukowski, you’re wonderful,
feeding me and my generation the lines
full of whores and liquor and laziness
with a purpose:
horse racing and post office jobs;
you’re telling me to buy the fifth
I already bought and drank
and puked and drank some more
over this ode.
this fucked up pattern on my cheap futon
won’t leave me alone, an eyestrain.
and I wish I had lived my seventy years out
drinking, smoking, fucking and writing
before this particular decade
when I’ll die from boredom.
with all those spring rains
the Painted Cave creekbed
is full of raw boulders being softened
by green children with
still, poised fingers like
ricocheting fireworks.
I poke my head under huge stones
into spaces like lion’s jaws
to the screeching of irritated scrub jays.
I flood each time
I hear you or watch
you move sinuously
just to get a book to read
or to reach your coffee mug.
then I run like ink
in a rainstorm.
a note, a poem of you
streaming off the edge
of the page, a snake
dropping from the countertop,
pools on the floor
while I tongue-tied
try to point out your wet feet.
Dowsing
Posted: May 13, 1993 in PoetryTags: Blue, Clouds, Earth, Grey, Lizard, Sky, Spirit, Thunder, Wind, Woman
One man walked through a cracked, dry land
dowsing for the cairn of a woman.
his spirits circled him like many wrestlers,
fanning the wind into slight eddies,
stirring the dust raised by each cautious footstep.
one man seen alone with a forked stick
walking away from a dirt-streaked car,
a door hanging open like a promise to return
to the thin blacktop stretching to the clouds
massed like an audience in the west.
his footfalls were distant thunder provoking blue-grey lizards
to quick movements; they reminded him of her bracelets.
the parched earth rose to cling to his jeans.
black spots in the sky materialized into vultures,
cocking steely eyes past hooked beaks;
he could not meet their gaze.
he gripped his stick like a motorcycle’s handlebars
and drove through the desert searching, searching
Too Many Puppies
Posted: May 13, 1993 in PoetryTags: Cheeze Whiz, Geoff, MC Honky, Primus, Pus, Zero Boy
there’s too many puppies and not enough drugs.
to give thanks to the Lord and those Primus thugs.
yo, I walk into Vons, drink the eight in the john,
slap five to the posse, see what’s going on.
my man Geoff Stearns got the afro from hell
and we’re bringin’ more juice to your show and tell.
sometimes I’m saying somethin’ sometimes nothin’ at all
but I walk around the room clockin’ girls on the wall.
you say you got a problem let the posse take care of it.
you talkin’ some shit? I put some rise in yo lip.
I wax you and milk you like my name was Ad Rock
but I know you like my style, boy, I am nothin’ to mock, yeah.
get off of my tip so I can hit off the gree
I’m supplied by Son of Chonbo, you can say Mr. Bean.
I get a likkle sauced and I call you funny names
but my fist and my foot prevents any silly games.
my boy Alex Kohrt with the VW bus
plays git like a fit and gives you somethin’ to cuss.
call him Galstephus, he casts the charm on the women,
getcha back to the crib there’ll be Cheeze Whiz™ and sinnin’.
and when I stop talking you beggin’ Michael oh please!
because I got more incentive than UC got fees,
I’ve got more jingle than the janitor’s keys
and on my jock, I’ve got too many puppies, yeah.
some say I’m self-destructive ‘cause I cut on my wrists
but you’d grub the X-acto if you knew what I missed.
so I grab the microphone and I give it my all
and with mortar and trowel I put my Brick in the Wall.
then I grab a little sample from the music I groove
and with the bass in your face I make your ass move.
I give it up to my friends ‘cause they know who they are
and you’ll find me drinking heavy cold slumped at the bar, y’all.
Good Man (1993 Government Cheeze Remix)
Posted: May 10, 1993 in PoetryTags: Cheeze Whiz, Gino, Mike Neuman, Monster Zero, Monte Carlo, Pus, Zero Boy
I
say hey! whoo-hah! I move I groove I bump;
got the MH posse in the house to make you jump up
and move…you dance and clap your hands
Chris tell it like it is and be a good man.
II
I don’t get in your face to twist and shout now.
like Chuck D sez, the brothers gonna work it out.
be kind to yourself and the people you meet,
don’t stand on the wall dance on your own two feet.
III
of course MZ puts the whizz in your cheese
I put my butt in your face and the wind in the trees.
Godzilla’s in the place and he’s doing the stomp
so ladies let me see you shake your rumps.
I spray upon the mike ‘cause Alex got my back up.
waxin’ and milkin’? I’ll duck and he’ll smack ya.
my feet swing freely on the plane of funk,
I got a green Monte Carlo and there’s room in the trunk.
it’s all about being true to you and me,
we’re not Naughty by Nature, this ain’t OPP.
give it up, ya pup, in front on the side
while my drummer Gino breaks out on the ride.
funky bass supplied inside by Mike Neuman;
King Ghidra’s horns for ya good men.
Tear the roof off the sucker with the MZ sound
for your health and your wealth I’m gonna break it down.
IV
I slap the rap to your cap ‘cause it’s finger lickin’.
I got more spice than the Colonel’s chicken.
good cheer and a beer makes me have no fear
like a baby being born I’m fresh and we’re out of here!
I have it all tucked away in a shoebox
for casual reminiscing
when this is all over.
Bury it with me like food for the afterlife.
On a Driveway at Midnight
Posted: May 7, 1993 in PoetryTags: Blood, Crickets, Drink, Eye, Flesh, Home, Memories, Money, Moon, Night, Purple, Smoke, World
I
this poetry, on this midnight
runs through my veins:
all this hurting, my purple pen
is my blood,
each word a corpuscle –
and to let it out to the world,
sometimes my poetry is simple:
blood,
cut from my flesh,
bleeding my emotions free.
Self destructive
so that I can leave the world
with impressions of fire and intensity,
of feeling.
This is how I feel.
And a poet is a job of living,
breathing, suffering, sacrificing
money home security comfort
for the fleeting knowledge that I am writing.
II
I am smoking: I will die quicker.
I am drinking: I will die quicker.
But I am leaving what I have,
these words
the blood of my existence.
The blink of an eye
and the full moon is gone
waxing, waning:
soon so will I, another man
will die and fade into obscurity,
but these ideas, thoughts, memories
will not disappear quite as quickly,
eroded into paper or computer.
Crickets die – they begat children
to carry on their simple song;
this is human responsibility.
Treat this as information
of a life.
Swallow it whole or in pieces,
pass it along;
someone will find it useful:
the memories of me,
who and where I am right now.
why do my dreams lay siege to me
as if I was a fortress of stone,
a dragon unconcerned with men’s matters,
a river who just picks up the bones
of foolish dreams who jump the chasm
and fall to drown in icy water,
for I move the other cliffside at will
at each new attempt I aim to kill
my aspirations if they’re too upsetting,
if they’ll move me into uncertainty:
the Zambone machine, I clear the ice
and sometimes the results are not so nice.
I like my drunk poetry best
no matter what I say
when I’m dry and sober.
you know, the real emotions test
is being genuinely gay
when the damn day is over.
I want to spin the taps
on the faucets of your hair
and watch your tresses
flood the pillow here beside me.
yet, never alone, the company
of those who flicker candle-flames
always keep me entertained
with wishing you were here.
no sleight of hand by any season
could console me for the loss of your smile
of girlish enthusiasm if a trick of my own
has caused you some fleeting delight.
I still write you
little poems of little consequence,
yet long for a messenger
– be it bird or boy –
to send them to you, fresh from my hand
a thousand times a day.
The winds of last night
have blown the limbs from trees,
torn the leaves from branches,
and scattered them on the sidewalks
like dull confetti and still streamers.
The beauty is in the destruction;
the tree trimming of clouds breath,
shaking every blade of grass,
stripping the dew away
like pearls silently falling from a string.
Japanese Poem Imitations
Posted: May 2, 1993 in PoetryTags: Beach, Coffee, Eye, Flowers, Girl, Spell, Tide, Trees
I
when flowers bloom in
many fiery colors,
I imagine the
bright sparkles which I,
in your eyes, no longer see.
II
bamboo grows along
one part of the lagoon beach
where the iceplant twines
below it, a dress
around the feet of a girl.
III
at the end of this
I recollect the times I
have failed to achieve
the smooth of the tide
and the soft wind in the trees.
IV
coffee reminds me of
a brew of roots and beetles
which you’d make me drink
and I would cough to
say I knew your spellcasting.
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