Posts Tagged ‘Ass’

A lot of nights,
Laying awake in the middle
Of Ocean Beach,
I hear screams or yelling
And then nothing.
Sometimes it is two men
Or just one with
No one answering.
A man and a woman,
The sound of a slap
Then flats smacking the ground
Staccato, quickly, then fading.
Harleys and their riders,
Unmistakable bad assedness.
Cars starting suddenly
In the hotel parking lot;
Catfights, dogs barking.
Once in a while,
The thudding of a helicopter.
House, rave, bass, latin music,
Five seconds in passing
A blatant musical statement
Like a commercial you are in.
A can rattles.
The buzz of the tattoo place
Across the parking lot.
Sometimes an out of place
Seagull’s complaint –
I imagine its sharp wings.
But mostly I enjoy
The relative silence,
A sheet thrown over
The furniture of OB
For the night,
A hush like the volume turned down;
Something more reflective,
To get buried in –
It’s soft.

Brooding Lies

Posted: March 22, 1995 in Poetry
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Tonight the Frogg lies brooding
Pulling his lilypad up to his chin
Trying to suppress his inverted grin
From wrinkling his forehead into furrows
Deep enough to plant the weeds
That spring from pressure seeds.
That water which is like time
Still flows through the swamp
He’s caught cat-napping without his bilge pump
Up to his ass in alligators,
I will see you later.

Laid Back

Posted: February 3, 1994 in Poetry
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Sometimes I get loose on the mike
I got juice and I might
take a hike to the store
for some more Mickey’s Hornets.
Sure, let’s get real funny, honey;
meet me at Johnny’s.
You can play the wall, stand tall,
sink the 8 ball.
Ducats is what I’m wantin’
someone’s up to somethin’
I can hear them comin’.
Tough like a Toughskin
ramblin’ like James Joyce
listen to the B-Boys
pumpin’ from my Rolls Royce.
I don’t give a fuck
if it’s funky or not;
I drop my lyrics and it makes
the spot hip-hop nonstop.
No blades ‘cause I kill with a ballpoint pen
my vocal slice ‘n dice cuts like a shuriken.
I’m laid back on the track
it’s so thick I put my feet up;
I can kick your ass
with a styrofoam cup.

Spooge

Posted: August 31, 1993 in Poetry
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A VOLCANO EJACULATING BLACK-HOT SULFURIC INK-JISM INTO SQUIGGLY PATTERNS TO FREEZE INTO SINGULAR HIEROGLYPHICS MY PEN LOADED WITH THICK CLEAR CRANIAL FLUID BARELY FILTERED THROUGH THE NASCENT HAIRS ON THE BACK OF MY HAND DERIVING WORDS THOUGHTS IDEAS FROM THE DINOSAUR TEETH-CLICKING OF NEURONS AND RECEPTOR CELLS IN A SQUATTING TOADLIKE SOGGY WAD OF SCHOOL BATHROOM PAPER TOWELS CROUCHING IN THE THRONE AT THE TOP OF MY CROOKED SPINAL COLUMN GOUTING INANITIES INTO THE SPEAKER HORN OF THE 101 FREEWAY RUNNING FROM FOREHEAD TO FINGERS DANCING THE END OF SOME STOLEN WRITING UTENSIL LIKE A SKATE OVER A CLEAN SHEET OF HOCKEY RINK ICE STILL STEAMING FROM THE INDUSTRIAL STRENGTH ZAMBONE MACHINE ROLLING FORESTS FLAT INTO PRODUCTS THAT I CAN WIPE MY NEURAL ASS WITH.

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.

Untitled Poem #-21

Posted: June 10, 1992 in Poetry
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stepping from mushroom top to mushroom top
I find that I am smaller than I had thought.
looking around for anyone looking at me,
I grimace and kick myself in the ass (grimace
meaning turning purple and fat and shapeless
and hanging out with Mayor McCheesy).
I then continue on my way,
sighing across the tops of the funky fungi forest.

State Street

Posted: January 8, 1992 in Poetry
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I was seen talking shit to a monkey
on the street corner
in broad daylight.

A group of people gathered to watch him
kick my ass for telling him
that I was afraid of his thunder.

As I lay, rolled off the sidewalk
next to the curb, reading
the brands of tires as they rolled by

I believe what they did
was truly heroic,

kicking my ass and all.