The Way it Is

Posted: March 11, 1993 in Poetry
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I was born down south San Diego
left all alone so I got switched to the home
of Mom and Dad – they’re not my real parents
but they’re the ones who loved me best, y’all.
so I made a lot of friends through trial and error.
I learned the hard way not to think or care
about foolish opinions that don’t belong to me.
I try to be happy and who I want to be,
now I’m not saying that I’m a hard lucker
and I’m certainly not a big bad motherfucker.
when I get a lot of money, I tend to share
and when I get real drunk I like to say [yeah!] – beastie boys
I’m never too busy to get busy
and a lot of my friends get busy with me.
I don’t know everything so I go collect knowledge;
I went through high school to end up in college.
I caught a cool class from my good friend Sara
she told me of the problems I should work to take care of.
things aren’t equal in the land of the free
and I know that it isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.
I live my life as best as I can;
I smile and say hello to my fellow man.
I’m not going to tell you how hard I hit,
all the women I’ve been with or any of that shit.
I don’t pride myself on being a jerk
‘cause like Kool Moe Dee [I go to work] – Kool Moe Dee
this world I’m in ain’t the perfect place to live
but I’m not going to keep it just the way it is.

Alright,
maybe I’m weak – I get beat in a fistfight
but before I get up I’ve begun to write.
I pick up my glasses and back home I go
‘cause next week I’ll dis you on the radio.
I’m not the type of guy to reply with violence
but like Bell Hooks it’s hard to keep my silence;
to tell you like it is: ignorance is hell,
so pick up a book and educate yourself.
I can’t stand to see you dismiss my sisters –
think you can rape her just ‘cause you kissed her?
listen very carefully to the words of this song –
you’re not only ignorant – you’re wrong.
now you go home and you beat your wife
and I’ll cheer my head off when you meet her knife.
you haven’t really recognized their rights yet
and you’re wondering why they seem upset?
women cross lines in all races and creeds;
a little respect is all they need.
I make sure my mother gets across on a green light
and I make sure my girlfriends get home at night.
I learn and I write, make music then preach
I’ll get a college degree to continue to teach.
I turn on my mind and mix me a drink
to write something funky to make you think.
I’m not always sure of what I can say
‘cause the PC strictures make my hair turn grey.
some stuck out of luck dumbfuck says it’s none of my biz
but you know it is, that’s the way it is.

(Analog solo a la pus and zero boy)

I light my pipe, sit back and kick back
because I know I just pumped out a fresh track.
I’ve got some homework but I know I’ll be done soon
then I pop in my tape and I [pump up the volume] – MARRS
sometimes I get drunk, bounce checks, and get high,
think about what I want to say and I sigh,
I can’t seem to get it out right through my teeth,
a sharp bladed dagger that’s stuck in its sheath.
because other people don’t let me live
I’m getting plenty of time just learning to forgive.
I guess I’m just waiting for the world to get wise:
talk to your friends and you’ll realize
that I’m not out for world peace,
just tolerance, understanding – some relief at least.
I take time to turn on and tune in,
writing white raps with a big old grin
because I’m slurring you can guess that I’m sauced
but at least my message is coming across.
I get funky on a track ‘cause I’m badder than Cheese Whiz
want to know why?
that’s just the way it is.

[inspired by Sara Seinberg — thanks to Bruce Hornsby]

Chess

Posted: March 8, 1993 in Poetry
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when the night has come and I
have shuttered my open windows,
it is then that I turn away from other things
to my room of books and hanging plants
hiding in the warmth of my possessions;
a dried flower to remind me of you,
a red blanket that I was born into,
a zillion and one things to do –

the air gets thick in here…
fuzzy little octopi squirm through the air
but they’ve always been there.
I’ll let you in on one condition
and that is that I won’t lie to you;
fibbing tastes bad, like a bottle of glue
and they’re stickier, too –
but you come in of your own volition.

how can I entertain you?

alone, I lay out in the middle of the floor
on my magic Arabian carpet,
and I dream and I’ll do that for you
if you come in and listen.

Untitled Poem #152

Posted: March 7, 1993 in Poetry
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big and small
and sometimes with a tail
that is clutched
by twisting hands
of nervousness
I try to write like you do.

no starting out
with an I
but statements that swing
through the sky
and sometimes like tuning a guitar
they’ll rhyme.

Untitled Poem #151

Posted: March 7, 1993 in Poetry
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there’s a shadow who lays on my windowsill
from the crow who sits on the telephone wires
and if I wasn’t home reading up your poetry
I’d be out in a forest setting fires.

For Josh Walsh Concerning Wolves

Posted: March 4, 1993 in Poetry
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A Wolf saw me,
he scared me,
and I wonder if it was
the same Wolf that howled at you.

Yelling and Screaming About How Good I Am in Bed

Posted: March 1, 1993 in Poetry
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I
I am the poet that you long for.
I have powers seething in my pen,
Poems and poems as a storm-whipped sea,
Songs that make you forget to breathe.
This is the something to love, not fall for;
Pedestalled I glitter but don’t grow.
You don’t want to watch, you want to know
How I will surprise you again.

II
I have been elected a poet
While you have been chosen
As something equally important,
Perhaps a poet, too –
It all depends on you.

III
I was once a caterpillar, once a dog;
I was once an ape, then an eagle; once a frog,
But always you could tell by the
Shining eyes that it was me
Figuring out what I was supposed to be.
I’ll change again into something else,
Something new – write a poem or two –
Maybe I will try to be you, but
Remember, I remember who I am now
And who I will always be: myself.

Salvaging Laura from the Trash

Posted: February 28, 1993 in Poetry
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you tried to throw your poetry away
but I have discussed it thoroughly
with your own Dolphin
and the conclusion we came to
is: no way.
we found it together
in a pile of papers
sticking out of the trash
that I casually looked through
to see if you’d done
just this type of thing.
love letters I never saw,
things you never spoke of,
I never knew half of what you thought.
I see that you fear just like me.
I see that you think of death as a seductress.
I see that you feel; you’re a poet unrivalled,
and
I
see
you
think
it’s
trash.

Poem in Periwinkle Crayon

Posted: February 28, 1993 in Poetry
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you are my crayon
I always must
sharpen with you.
you make me feel
never mind what,
but I like you 4 your
specific shades –
don’t change your colors
for what you think I want.
let my skies B
brown, my
eyes gold and green,
your skin B purple.
my coloring book
doesn’t always agree
with yours – but then
again, does yours always
agree with mine?

Lyrics for Michael Stipe of REM

Posted: February 27, 1993 in Poetry
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I have found my calling.
Perhaps I’ve found an avenue
to help myself understand the world;
I know what I have to do.

I must build until I find somewhere
where I think I’d like to stay,
harvest the land that I’ve chosen as mine
until my eyes turn grey.

I may be toiling past the stars
and plumbing the depths of night,
but I know where I’m going, not where I’m headed
and I know I’ll turn out alright.

Interview With an Angel

Posted: February 22, 1993 in Poetry
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no wings, no halo,
no beatific expression
of heavenly rapture.

on interviewing an Angel,
he scratched his head
and was most like any other man.

I’m five foot eleven,
one hundred and forty pounds
(give or take five for the season)
no, there’s no particular reason
I should be renowned
as an Angel from heaven.
by the way, I’m a Libra.

I just do the best that I can.
that is angelic.
I love and hate and fear,
I learn and hurt and feel.
but to the best of my ability,
with the tools God has given me;
other than that I’m just a man
struggling with the rest of my kin
to keep faith with the Angel within
and to dream.

Untitled Poem #150

Posted: February 22, 1993 in Poetry
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I can’t help thinking of what you’re writing
my red-haired twin of poetry and sorcery;
a pen and a sword are our two-fisted fighting,
to roll back the sheets of what you and I’ll be.

A Dolphin and a Dinosaur

Posted: February 22, 1993 in Poetry
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Fa and Spike lie side by side
A Dolphin and a Dinosaur.
They are full of love; the same size,
And blue and grey together.

Untitled Poem #149

Posted: February 22, 1993 in Poetry
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A Druid has stood
In the green of my woods,
A forest of lines of verse.
The light from her eyes
Has given me my eagles
Which soar through my nighttime skies.
I hunt for the words
As mice run from an owl
And stand them in bowls;
Bouquets of flowers
to please me.

D’yer Maker

Posted: February 20, 1993 in Poetry
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sitting around with my head in my hands
I’m berating myself about my childish demands.
how you’re not here and somewhere else is your home
and like Macauley Culkin, I’m home alone.
I don’t know what it is I can’t figure it out
I keep falling in love but don’t know what it’s about
I’ve got some money I want to spend on you
but all I do is go and play myself some Street Fighter II.
I’m not saying that you don’t love me anymore
because charades is for bores and you’ve heard it before,
but I’m feeling low that you’ve gone and left me here
with nothing to do but take care of this beer.
Jimmy Page is the rage in my sorrow;
if my name was Annie, the sun would come out tomorrow,
but I’m going through withdrawl – I’m not holding you tight
and I’m letting Robert Plant sing me to sleep tonight.

Chorus
Oh oh oh oh oh oh…you don’t have to
Oh oh oh oh oh oh…you don’t have to
Oh oh oh oh oh oh…you don’t have to go….

I slump real low into the depths of my chair.
I’ve almost convinced myself that I don’t care.
I’m almost conviced that I hate my honey ‘cause
[life ain’t nothin’ but bitches and money] – Ice Cube
but I can’t think I know I miss the girl
and drugs and booze are what’s left of my world.
bleary eyes staring at my pictures of her
and I sink a little farther in my furniture.
the floor is littered with the casualty cans –
I’m drinkin’ two-fisted – that means with both hands.
the radio is on, the recors is spinning
and I’m as drunk as a skunk, that’s why I’m grinning.
Cory looks glum, and Geoff’s feeling low
because we’re single, good lookin’ and no women will show.
So we’re off to D.P. to find some young company
a new friend or two who might just listen to me.
maybe they’ll share with me, maybe they’ll lair with me
but hopefully later, they’ll kindly take care of me,
but what I’d much much much much rather do
is stay here tonight and spend some time with you.

(chorus)

alright yes I know that I’m a sorry sight.
I’m as soggy as a bathmat and as high as a kite
but I don’t know what to do or how much more I can take
because being with you is better than birthday cake.
maybe it’s a love song and maybe it’s not
but it sure sounds sincere said with so much pot.
I want you, I need you, I love you, I plead you,
that if you were a garden, I’d hoe you and weed you.
drunk as I am, it’s good to have friends
and all of my friends have got money to spend.
now it’s Friday night and there’s nothing to do
so we go bowling, drink Blatz™ and I forget about you.
we all have our problems and we comfort each other
a big Muppet posse of my sisters and brothers.
I know I look silly; I don’t know how to bowl
but it’s better than sitting home thinkin’ you have to go.

(chorus & guitar solo a la Rob)

now the next morning I hurt all over.
I smell like a fridge pan and I still ain’t sober.
I feel like an anvil has impacted my head;
I remember my roommate had left me for dead.
I swear to Geoff and Cory that the beer never hit me,
and they say something rude ‘bout the dog that bit me.
last time that I saw you I thought that I’d die
but I’d love to see you again, as long as you buy.

(chorus)

Roll Away the Dew

Posted: February 16, 1993 in Poetry
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I
nothin’ much to do on a Friday afternoon;
jump in the shower and flip on the tunes.
wash behind my ears with Green Apple shampoo
while Geoff takes a piss, asks us what we’re gonna do.
blow a kiss to Dawn, buy Laura some roses,
to Anis’ Quo’ Yo park with James and some doses
[here is somethin’ you can’t understand] – Cypress Hill
how laid back I feel with a Blatz™ in my hand.
Jason’s got the knife just like my man MacGyver;
Cory got drunk and he did the Bus Driver.
the girls from SeaView came over to chat
because a picnic in the park is where it’s at.
a cooler full of beer and a couple of hours,
ten or twelve friends and we’re kickin Franklin’s Tower.
Rob’s sippin whiskey ‘cause he doesn’t drink brew
but we’re all pitchin’ in to roll away the dew, y’all.

Chorus
Roll away . . . the dew
Roll away . . . the dew
Roll away . . . the dew
Roll away . . . the dew

so we’re back to the grass and we’re all in good spirits
got my radio loud so the Vatos can hear it
wine women and song roll around in my head, yo
[who’s the motherfucker who sample the Dead?] – Geoff Stearns
sat back in my chair and looked at the sky.
I don’t know if it’s life or the pot that’s got me high with
kisses and laughter, pasta and rice;
as Cormick would say it’s time to get [NICE!] – Cormick White
Joe shows up with a half bottle of wine;
the other half’s gone, what makes him feel fine.
yo Geoff…check the chicken a la nutmeg.
[Mike get a load of Laurel’s new bootleg] – Geoff Stearns
[pass me a can of Milwaukee’s Best Effort
I’ll drink the Beast but I won’t give Geoff it] – Cormick White
relaxed and happy at the end of the day
I’ll smoke I’ll eat I’ll drink I’ll play.
got a plate loaded down with all sorts of food.
[Sugar Magnolia] is singin’ for you – Grateful Dead
the stars come out in a sky of dark blue
and the next thing you know we’ve got to roll away the dew.

(chorus)

I’ve got my feet propped high on the cooler.
there’s the sweet smell of Grant rollin’ a home-grown wooler.
I hear screams and laughter from a bunch of my friends
and I wonder if Brian’s broken his arm again.
helping myself to a few devilled eggs
I give Julie a hug [yo guys, where’s the keg?] – Julie Yablonicky
she gives me a kiss and I hand her a cup,
I lean back to my right to turn the radio up:

(guitar break a la Rob)

Rob’s playin’ guitar as the sun’s going down
and all of our friends…they’re gathered around.
we’ll be here next week and maybe we’ll invite you
as long as you know what to do.

(chorus x2)

Untitled Poem #148

Posted: February 15, 1993 in Poetry
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wherever you walk
I watch from treetops
still your little blue boy.

my eyes haven’t suffered
the same sanding that my heart has.
I see like an eagle hunts
and my heart heals.

I see a sad Druid.
the crows raise eyebrows at me
but I show them my eyes
and they understand.
we’re all watching you
from our treetops.

A la Skinny Puppy

Posted: February 15, 1993 in Poetry
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standing and staring alone at the clustered skies
…crowded with high rise…
terrain made human by the wind blown newspapers
and the heaps of old trash
gravel in piles and A-frames knocked aside
a car rusts away with one door open wide
grey prestressed cement leans over
and oppresses the air from the streets
I walk like a shadow searching for cover
I’m another moving bag of meat
brains packed on lungs packed on stomach, intestines, guts
and I’m bumming cigarette butts…

Untitled Poem #147

Posted: February 11, 1993 in Poetry
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I can only know
that time will tell me when
I can be in love again –
meanwhile, what do I do?

love has struck me down
and lifts me higher and higher
each day is consumed in fire
but I’m not quite sure for who.

I am a poet – I dream
and emotions may come easily
but this flood is confusing me;
I’m not sure what is right.

this horrible uncertainty
an important indecision
melting myself with derision
but not shedding any light.

Untitled Poem #146

Posted: February 11, 1993 in Poetry
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I am free of ties to glide the skies
and romp and play like a colt in a field
of clouds and grass and care no less
for life is a packet of sugar I eat
while chatting with a pretty girl
on the sidewalk where an ice cream cone
has fallen and looks like crayon or chalk
the color of strawberry milkshakes, easter eggs
and we watch the rain come in and get us
wet and warm and tropical release of angel’s tears.

[for Dawn Spinda]

Imitation of Emily Dickinson

Posted: February 11, 1993 in Poetry
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I taste – a Liquor – never brewed
I toad – a Skunky – never shrewed
I paint – a Skyline – never blued
and the Gnat – not the Gent – is the Victor!

Cloud – of Music
Drink – of Smell
Golden Bees – aplenty!
The Gnat is always the Victor.

[for Robyn Bell]

To be a DJ

Posted: February 10, 1993 in Poetry
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the DJ comes with a lot of power: the President,
me (the good one) surprises and pleases
eliciting happy yells smiles and sighs from the crowd;
it is all for me.
I see faces light up as they soak with sweat
dripping shaking moving all around,
recognition of another song loud and in your ears
smashed into your face by 1000 watts;
they’ll dance harder than the last song,
move faster, become natural.

people stop listening and start feeling
the rhythm bumping along, house style, steadying
while the dancers elaborate
or flips to a fill-in breakbeat; the New Jack Swing
where you just try to prevent your butt from moving
or suddenly the song makes you cry
or sweeps you away in an enthusiastic mosh pit
or brightens your your eyes with something
you haven’t heard in a long time.

some DJ’s get stuck in one record groove
but the best surprises always compare and contrast
yet find a common thread that dancers’ bodies understand
but that I’m at a loss to explain.

what to spin next turns into the most important decision in the world
and it will be like this until I have to choose the next.
my head reels from the network of songs to choose from:
this beat would fit, this sentiment would meld,
this intro would trip, this track overwhelm
when you’re dancing, flashing colors of flesh
I’m mixing sweat and body heat
I mix you together – you whirl with my turntables.
eyes fly out of the mass of movement,
catch mine and flash like the strobelight.

I lean over to catch an excited request
to straighten my precious stacks of wax,
screams as someone recognizes what I’m playing:
playing with them
watching their reactions.

my emotions flow through my hands to the vinyl;
you can tell what I feel by how well I play,
drunker on you than on the 40s in my crates.
I turn your music up beyond hearing
and you feel it;
supportive
moving you –
you translate it to your ass your hips your hands.

the more you feel the more you learn.
learning to dance, learning to love someone new,
learn to understand what I’m saying.
I’m backed up by the best talent I can find,
be it the PE, Madonna, Fishbone, Dead or Messiah
I free your mind with my many voices.

and I’m dancing as hard as anyone,
fingers searching through record sleeves
caressing beats to match, speeds to coincide,
boogying between the coffin and the crates.
searching carefully for any sign of discontent
remembering what people want
giving myself up to the group good time.

here, women shimmering with sweat
recognize and close their eyes;
the groove is a lover, a beat
that chases between their thighs, over their stomachs
and up their spines;
unconscious every one is beautiful, so hypnotized.

here, men swirling around throwing arms in the air
touching the ground on time, on time.
intent on dancing, on laughing, on glancing back
at those girls I’ve just described.

every person I can find I train my recorded charisma on
cajoling with individual requests
urging on with the party songs
twirling all of this sound and poetry into a rumpus room
out of love for you.

A Valentine’s Poem

Posted: February 10, 1993 in Poetry
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I give you handfulls of candles
to set your skies ablaze with stars at night.
they’ll make you create and burn your hands
they’’ make you scream with hurt and let you fly away
into their flames – your mind.

do you think you’ve driven me so far away
that I won’t think of you on Valentine’s Day?

and in these candle’s flames
what constellations will you draw?
will you place them all around your heart
and think of me?

Sorcery

Posted: February 8, 1993 in Poetry
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I have never felt power like this:
the strength to bear people’s friendship
without the artifices of forging my emotions
like the signatures of the dead
on a current document.

I find I’m liked for who I am
not everything I claim to be or wish I was;
pretense has always dampened the fires
that I was wanting to stoke;
I find the call is honesty and enthusiasm.

As soon as I found myself wonderful,
I couldn’t wait to show it of by being so –
no longer shivering in trying to be magnificent
so that I seem wonderful, I see myself
wonderful so everything I do from
my clear mind, my open heart, is wonderful.

The recognition of emotions for what they are
no matter how much they hurt in their true forms:
guilt or anger; shame, sadness; pain and love.
is a truth I must learn to find.

The Skeletal Tree

Posted: February 8, 1993 in Poetry
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there is a tree at home
in the Wooded Area,
a community so old
that it has no sidewalks,
no curbs,
and many trees.
there is one tree
on the corner of Dupont
and Silvergate Streets
that is hollow underneath
its splayed boughs.
it is an upside down cup
or a limp starfish
but sometimes at night
the branches underneath the bowl
look like skeletal ribs
and the drooping limbs
look like hanged men
in the dark.

Wind in my Eyes

Posted: February 8, 1993 in Poetry
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I
where can I run to?
I am hiding from myself again.
I can’t turn around without feeling
what I’ve done and where I’ve been.

chorus
I’m falling away and I fall through your sky
I see the ground coming up and I forgot how to fly.
you taught me before and I never knew why
but now I’m falling and falling with the wind in my eyes.

II
I wander around in a daze
feeling strange about myself
I’m trying to keep my stomach level.
I’m trying to think of something else.

(chorus)

III
who knows where I’m going
maybe I’m just a crazy guy
but it feels more like being in love
than going out of my mind.

[unsung Pus and Zero Boy ditty]

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