1684,
Number on the door,
Wine,
Drunk like water,
To drive that madness away,
Angry young men,
Waiting for the end,
A somber moment,
Oh drifting softly by,
To see,
That sea,
Oh hairy lies,
To feel alive,
In cosmic lights,
Drifting through angels,
Alive,
Oh beauty,
Oh father,
Oh mother,
Dying
On the vine,
A herald,
To hear,
A final sigh,
Angry young fucks,
Crying in the night,
Blasphemy,
In midnight hour,
To revel,
In made up words,
Of life,
Lies,
And simple things!

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Random Confusion: A POEM

The year was 1997 and everyone was dead.
Welcome to the future kids,
Come on,
Stay awhile,
Everyone driving Buicks through the desert!
Welcome to the madhouse,
Nobody gets out alive,
The world is an oyster,
Flying through a cloud,
Distant memories, stacked,
Like cement blocks on our graves,
I love you Rio,
Bravo,
Cheap sheets on a broken bed,
Mama can you hear me crying in the storm?

The man was a great man,
So the pastor says as he performs the last rite,
He’ll be missed,
Dissed?
He’ll be something.
A writer?
Nah, too fat,
Writers have to be skinny,
Hungry,
Haven’t ate in days,
Weeks?
They should be high,
Write!
See the sea?
No?
Lie!!
The waves rolled in,
To the sandy beach,
And we all laughed,
Ha!
Red balloons falling from the sky,
Jesus ain’t here,
Come on Jack!
Come on back!

Heaven is a chocolate bar: A Poem

Heaven is a chocolate bar.

Hell is no toilet paper after you shit yourself.

Pondering, early morning, as I watch The Andy Warhol Diaries, because it’s quiet in the house now; the monsters still sleeping, 5:37 AM.

I had a dream; no unity or mountain tops, no tables full of foods of all delights, just a dream, Andy was there, he told me I should make THE movie, about queer steers in Spain mocking angry young politicians.

He then told me had to go, early lunch with Ghandi. I bet you guys eat soup I say.

We both laugh. Then hug. You’ll be joining us soon, he says. Bring Spam. We’re running low.

I nodded.

By the time I write this, the world is still spinning. Jesus isn’t on the news. The world is still spinning. Jesus saves, popular tune.

Michigian to The Czar back to Portland for drinks.

Day is yet to break. Brake?

Merry Happy New Day, eat a chocolate bar, don’t shit yourself.

RUSH: Life in a walk out society

Mock bums, living life, in the eyes of social media stars,
Look towards the world; bright eyes dulled by reality,
Hard life, out there,
Going up,
Into made up names,
Swimming through broken lanterns,
I see impurity,
Beneath the sacred Church,
Called television,
Mother doesn’t know,
She doesn’t care,
She been dead a long time ago,
Cars honking,
God is on the street,
Pretending,
He is one of us,
Near the King of Neon,
Flashing threats,
Stop,
Roll,
The streets are dying,
Old hotels burning to the ground,
A toothless hag,
Her name is France.

Joey is dying,
Half past three,
Free,
Thrown in the garbage can,
Crawling out from our warm sacks,
Everyone is dying,
Minute by minute,
Hour to days,
Good night sweet night,
See you tomorrow!

FEAR AND LOATHING IN A MIDWESTERN CHURCH – A NEW SERIES – MAYBE – OR JUST A ONE SHOT

Sunday March 6th, 2022 (originally written) PART ONE

Run Jesus! Them peeps wanna eatcha? Inside my head as I sat in church with my lady love; Amber.

It was a social project gone wrong.

There were bats here, buzzing around me, “My name is babble babble fart face!”

It was madness.

The rest of the Church sat and stared at me, wondering why I was there.

Didn’t they see the bats flying overhead?

We were led into the worship.

Oh father in Holy Rome please forgive me for forsaking Catholic Jesus for Methodists Jesus.

It’ll never happen again.

They tried to hand me some crackers, a grape in a baggie. I knew a Fed set up, I’ve seen Good Fellas.

I blacked out at Good morning.

This was too much to handle.

The red tail donkey was speaking.

No one else seemed shock.

But apparently, they had never seen a grown man scream out “waffles! I was promised waffles!”

And kids that’s why we can never go back to Holy Pine Resin, in Puddle Rock, South Dakota!!

Sunday March 6th, 2022 (originally written) PART TWO

Photo by Alena Darmel on Pexels.com

The best time to attend church is just when “the meds” are kicking in. As the ghouls begin to feast on the body and blood of their savior, you begin to realize that the world is going to be okay.

The pastor begins to compare her being lost with her husband for 6 hours up in the woods to that of Jesus, who is literally being devoured by his followers.

I say amen as the teleprompter tells us.

The pastor is reading a script the entire time.

I begin to think I need more meds.

The dare to be weird crowd are sitting across the aisle.

“Hi my name is Dave, it sure is nice weather we’re having, right?”

I smile, nod, say something, maybe yes, I don’t know, my mouth isn’t moving, the natives know, I’m high, oh Jesus, I’m high as a kite right now.

Maybe I’m not.

Maybe I just think I’m high.

It’s all an illusion, put together by Hollywood, to make me want to take more medicine.

The pastor is beginning a new scene.

It’s Lent. Or The Time of The Gathering, there can be only one. PRINCES OF THE UNIVERSE begins to play. Swords clash. The end of society inside my head.

Pastor is still reading a script.

She doesn’t want to forget a thing I guess.

People are opening their sandwich bag with Jesus’ body and blood.

I must have missed something.

I say amen twice.

Everyone turns to look.

I turn too.

Damn sinner, who said that?

We sing a hymn. Nearer to thee. I sing loudly. Off key. Someone sighs sadly. We all say amen.

At the end, there are no pancakes. I sadly leave. “At my church back east, we get pancakes!” Im asked to never attend again. An Easter miracle indeed.

To Dream: A Poem

Ransom slashed,
Half past eleven,
Nobody sees ya,
Man ain’t got no time for that.

Slow ride east,
Omaha,
Left train,
Gone,
Half past twelve,
On the Eastern track,
Going nowhere fast,
Lost my mind,
To a bottle of Jack,
July 10th, 1953,
In a waste paper basket,
Filled with fleas,
Flees?

Resume broken,
No jobs,
For two years,
Except shoveling coal,
And other stuff,
Five years to life,
Chasing broken dreams,
Drinking those shattered bottles to dream.

LIES AT MIDNIGHT: A Tribute to Allen Ginsberg

We were waiting on the platform waiting for the booze to hit our brains, to remove us from this horrid dream, trapped in a box car heading for the moon.

The Pope was waiting for bus to Boise, Idaho, appearing as an old man dressed in drag, waiting for a hag. Who told the Man he could relax?

Communist pamphlets, wailing down, trying to find an angry hit, fucked in the ass, screaming with joy, at Christmas time?

Fireworks blew? Flew? Fuck, I don’t know, where were we, in faggish dress, trying to find a car to take us there.

We wrote, letters to the president, congressmen, writing to the moon, letters to our dead parents. How did we make it through childhood traumas, to not kill ourselves with chocolate flair?

In the morning, we woke up hung over, our cocks in our hands, our writings still in our hands, waiting to release, cosmic seed.

Joe flew into the night mare winds, trying to find that bridge, finding that dollar among the booze, a last smile as she screwed me.

Waklking through the streets, looking for a suicidal mood, a girl to fuck, a pregnancy scare, our boys can still swim, even at 82.

I was drinking, drunk at half past two, nightmares, dreaming of better times, listening to sad songs, a reminder of a better life.

Translations misunderstood, words thrown against a bitter sky, a lie, a kiss, a desire misspoken at half past midnight, oh bitter mood.

A life generated in technocolor – a poem

The doors closed, sealing us into the darkness. The movie wasn’t suppose to start for another twenty minutes, but there we sat, looking into the blackness, mankind settling into the lack of light, a severity of madness gripping our minds since birth.

The movie began, single point of life, the beginning of the end, a trial by a solemn title, thrown up onto a busted screen. Was this the way our innocence would end, not by our own actions, but our own inactions?

Mad men began to preach; bring out your idle hands, dare not be tempted by Demon delights, the fallen life, incoherent words devilishy thrown into a mix of lies, single polarity, that innocence lost, the door wide open to that temptation.

To those still not lost, speak not, of those idle hands, grab up the spade, and till the fertile soil, be that man to stand proudly, without sin, at those Heaven Gates, upon your timely departure from those mortal bounds.

Another inspired Tribute to Allen Ginsberg: A Rambling Poetry about Stuff or HOW I LEARNED TO LOVE SOCIETY AND GET LAID

I saw my mind,
Tossed,
And stewed,
Destroyed by the best
And brightest,
Of that so-called society,
Angry young hipsters,
Burning bright in lined streets,
Pearly gates,
Ripped from sheets of steaming dung,
Oh Jesus,
Where art thou?
Smiling natives,
Huffing gasoline,
Oh Dante,
Oh Inferno,
Oh Death brought on by life,
To search those streets,
Looking for an angry fix,
Oh madness,
Oh silent madness flying through the dream,
Heading to the bottom,
Heading straight to that Hell,
Created by their own device.

INSPIRED BY ALLEN GINSBERG READING HOWL

I sat,
Crossed leg,
Looking into that night,
Those whispers
People,
Cars moving,
The trains pulling out of Depot,
Mayor, Despots,
Kings of Midnight Realm,
Singing against a soft rain.

The merriment I was feeling,
Hours to wear off,
Oh sure joy,
Small town,
Stuffed into some big city,
Men,
Women,
Whores,
Sluts,
Drug,
Undragged,
Nightmares,
In intoxicated colors,
Freedom from that unwanted,
Sex?
Love in some office,
Mother,
School,
Random Chance to be killed by a stray bullet?

Five past nine, I’m still alive, looming in a contemplation of a bottle of beer, a candle,
Burning,
Bright in the sweet night,
The machinery gears grinding,
Killing the movie house,
The road house,
Cheap beer,
Wine made from variants of veggies and fruit,
Doctors wondering,
Who are we?

Space,
That final frontier,
Pushing us towards brightened worlds,
Blood flowing from our mouth,
Jesus pray for that night to end,
Dying in a sewer,
Dry,
Die oh pain,
please die.