A. RAZOR

A Dragon Year Haiku

2012-01-27T17:02:00.000-08:00

A Dragon Year Haiku

a dragon's year is

foretold by fire inside us

a burning sky

Author Interview: Down A. Razor's Mean Streets | Neon Tommy

2012-01-27T16:58:00.000-08:00

Author Interview: Down A. Razor's Mean Streets | Neon Tommy

Waiting, Pt. 2

2012-01-27T16:47:00.000-08:00

artwork by Terence Lundy

Waiting, Pt. 2

...it is the prominent  moment that counts in the record book, but all those other moments had  families, too...they felt things, did things, some ordinary, some  strange, some defy all explanation...no one wants to have t explain this  stuff that happens, they want it to be self explanatory, they want it t  sell, sell, sell...sold...gone on too far on a cool breeze blown at a  cold time when the latent prints were left behind in the form of icicle  daggers through the heart, nothing left for the crime channel or the  court tv or the kardashian shopping network or even the cooking channels  to stew up into some blend of cathartic bonanza happy cowboy ending on  the rootin' tootin' ponderosa where the lil' doggies are not afraid of  the hoss that walks backwards toward them...I told the maitre' dee at  the airport deli to make me a reuben w/ corned beef n mustard n he told  me he did not like poetry which I dug to mean he didn't like peoms w/  the poets in them, which I dug wild (the whole "I" always being about me  is a drag to read, everypoet being an "I" already, its 2 much  sometimes, don't u agree?), cuz I don't want to be here I would rather  be there watching the hitch up happen in the common man's happenstance,  altho the cold is still more common than anything (could you close that  window, please) and don't, under any circumstances, type BOMB in this  moment as the taxi down the runaway has been postponed because of a  pre-existing condition so as to not jeopardize all the clever things  that they can do with social security now that there is an election  going on they can erase the last remnants of slavery, but don't tell  those guys over there cuz they don't seem like they would understand and  that might make things worse for the rest of them, knowaddimean?  nudge/nudge wink/wink....this is where the astertrix would stop you and  give you some supplemental information bout how low we can go in this  dick chopping, bushwhacking contest that has become the digression of  the times while wild billionaires run around with the idea that there is  plenty more where that came from, whatever that was, & don't worry  too much because you are gonna bring the ratings down & we might  lose the asian subtitles that are necessary to keep investment potential  up as well as trade agreements agreeable...why shouldn't a third of the  planet own everything, just so there would be a new sheriff that knew  the score...the time machine has been running overtime as the wheels of  fortune turn & twist in the wind of no articular determination, so  as to proliferate a new, more virile form of communication that involves  human centrifuges that could produce new clear wintertime landscapes  that could mean christ mast all year round for the kids (they'll love  that, is the word on the street) no more happy new year's will be needed  so put away all the noisemakers & quit rocking the boat so much cuz  we are all in this liferaft together n it ain't gonna get easier until  you all learn to go easy into the night as the blades are now readyto  slice n dice all the needy peeples into neat lil' ribbons that will be  tied into bows on the everyday present under the neverending tree of  lifetime subscriptions to a more posterior standing in the community of  what is passing for cultural stimulation these days...they are ready  now, for boreding...

Death Is A Soft Vision, Always Beckoning

2012-01-27T16:33:00.000-08:00

artwork by Brenton Bostwick

Death Is A Soft Vision, Always Beckoning

she stares so cold into now

taking away every last breath

she holds hands with us all

soon enough

she ends lifetimes

with a lick of lips

with a slight smile

without any noticeable

change of expression

or exasperating sound

coming from her throat

not because she

does not care

more so, because

she has held the hands of those

that even she felt deserved

another chance

but, it was not to be

so she goes about her business

a long, infinite stare in her eyes

that has lasted forever

it is a forever that is

so long so that

no one knows

more than her

that

most likely

it will last

forever more

never stopping

for anyone, least of all

for her

Library Girl

2012-01-12T14:23:00.000-08:00

Library Girl

she is more than clever

she is more than well read

line for line

she is more than heart

but, she is mostly that

she is more than the

presentation

of words

she is living in the sanctuary

of the place where words

are reborn in rediscovery

over and over again

to a standing ovation

from all the souls

kept inside the Dewey decimal

formation that shelters

all this hopeful abundance

of wordsmithed dreams

made real as they are spoken

each word another angel

brought to life

as it exits the mouth

of every poet

she has chosen

Please Learn To Call Me In Your Dreams, Pt. 1

2012-01-12T14:15:00.000-08:00

Please Learn To Call Me In Your Dreams, Pt. 1

I am almost asleep, but not quite

the phone rings as if it might be

part of some sadistic dream

I am turning into a nightmare

but, I get it, finally

I wake up and grab the vibrating thing

just before it falls to the floor

"Hey, did I wake you?"

I am not quite aware

enough to answer

truthfully

"No, I was just laying here...uh,

on the couch..."

the lie pulls me into consciousness

"So, are you going to send me that piece

you wrote for the upcoming issue?"

I hesitate a moment, WTF is she...oh, yeah...

the piece...right...

"I have it almost ready, a couple

more days is all...is that gonna work for you?"

I am not really sure what day it is or what

upcoming refers to in any sort of time frame

"Well, I want to look it over and give you feedback, is all."

go fuck yourself, I will wipe your genetic code from the face of existence

"You know, tie up all the loose ends, typos, cut the fat, an editor has to

do her job."

why the fuck did I agree to this...fucking lames that think they can write

or wrestle the meaning of someone's art with their bland machine

with their conformist mechanics, their protogeekist tool hands

their heartless, mindless software residue plans

trying to gum up my fucking works

I gave up killing snitches, traitors, backstabbers along with all other

forms of miscreant DNA drivel so I could live a little bit longer

so I could maybe have a shot at a bit of freedom I was

never able to make happen the way I had been living

since I was just a kid...I gave up...almost...

there are a few thing no one can take from me...

"Yeah, I thought it was the piece you read that you wanted,

why don't you just tell me what you want to do to it? Maybe

it is not what you want after all. Maybe you need another

style of writing that I don't do."

"Well, Andrew,"(I could send someone to your house at 5am

for calling me anything but what you know you should call me...)

"I hope its OK if I call you that? (Actually, no its not, who the fuck

do you think you are?) " Anyway, Andrew, I just wanted to explain

to you that its my job to edit your piece into something that fits into

our literary journal so that it has a cohesion to the rest of the work in there."

why is this persons problem mine all of a sudden?

oh yeah, I was being agreeable with civilians again

they play by a different set of rules

adhere to a different set of principles

they are all politely clawing & scratching

for some recognition in the greatest of

senses for the mediocre choices they have made

they never joined a side, they just asked for protection

from involvement for their capitulation to the hive mentality

they take all these ideas so serious, like freedom under the god

of the constitution that is guaranteed by the armed forces they

turn a blind eye to when the corruption falls onto people at the bottom

of the pile...they are like rabbits used as bait to trap the combatants who

would rather die than give up their allegiance to unfettered freedom of total

refusal to be governed by political manipulations that corrupt people into marks

for the systemic oversight of institutional living with minds held in bondage from

seeing or seeking the truth about the life of the beast that is the human animal as

it stands as one part of a whole universal system that is greater than any construct

of laws that are instituted to give false senses of security to drones of complicity as they

drone on into the future of an antiseptic lock step marching of codified ideations of artistic

output...wait...she is still talking...it seems she has asked a question...I don't have a clue...

"Yeah, I will send it to you in a couple of days...is that okay?"

"Umm, sure...are you okay? Did you understand what I was getting at?"

...this is what I get for being agreeable and lying...I must make amends...

"yeah, look, to be honest, I was sleeping. I don't think your publication is right for me.

nothing personal, but I am more simple in my terms of creation, of creative output...

sorry for the misunderstanding on my part...as for your part, my name is razor...don't

call me if you can't call me by my name...please learn to call me in your dreams from now on...thanks

good bye"

Library Girl Presents: Please Learn To Call Me In Your Dreams

2011-12-30T16:21:00.000-08:00

Library Girl Presents: Please Learn To Call Me In Your Dreams

When
Sunday, January 8, 2012

Time
7:00pm until 9:00pm

Where
Ruskin Group Theatre Co
3000 Airport Ave, Santa Monica, CA 90405-6139

First Library Girl show of the year!
Featuring - Iris Berry, Laurel Ann Bogen, Peggy Dobreer, Mike ThePoet Sonksen, Dani Roter and special guest, A. Razor. Music by Mason Summit. Produced by Susan Hayden. First Come/First Serve. $8.

https://www.facebook.com/events/203465546404813/

Waiting in Oakland Intrn’l while reading Tony S. The Kid In America

2011-12-16T17:41:00.000-08:00

Waiting in Oakland Intrn’l while reading Tony Scibella The Kid In America

 waiting for a flight in Oakland airport, looking out on baywater as it flows around runways & future prospects of flight trying to get to L A today to read a few words off the page in Venice in the place Beyond in the place Baroque in the canal town the carnale town the lil’ place in my heart the big ace up my sleeve where I learned the difference between dead & killed & killer where art meant no job blues but blue art painted bigger pictures for me like an ocean that is never quite blue, mo’ green like the money that gets chased around & around I nvr cld stop it, did not like be in poor so scratch & sniff & shoot my way thru to a freeway offramp nearer to u so I could find the glue that might keep the world 2gether long enough to be a sep rate truth thatno one could steal away in the night w/ gov’t permission like paperwork that meant doom that chased me into sleepless thoughts so far away from it all…from rooms &hopes &pens &words into torn muscled  terror of bikini fatefulness always w/ passion &more passion like last night but sometimes a long time in between like legs & promises & a brochure that sold something so long ago I forgot who I was writing to bcuz they died so many dead so many dying the last sacred death unknown to me so many already buried already burntup already ashes scattered poems all that is left standing cept fer kids & kids make the world go round so I did this fer the kids, (once they mistakenly call’d me a kid too, so take it like a grownup, you lil’ punks) don’t tell em nothing tho, let em figure it out, they all got that light inside like I did burning out all the way to brightness in the darkest moments we did not come to bury ceasar we all came on the salad tossed up greener than the waves off Venice on a winter day of stormy tides & santa ana winds blowing chapped lipped dirty blond girls from Midwest retreats onto casual boardwalk strolls under seagulls that shat out last nights foraged poems onto the heads of incendiary tourists turning beet red burned out cheek boned masters of destiny reaping the whirlwinds of falling markets all around a world mall that might as well go back to the stone age for all I care as long as you solar power battery charge the vibrators that the muse uses to get her clit just right & give the goods all night & we smile together as we hear the sounds of music everwhere (evreewear)…everywhere…everywhere a dance is underway a foot is about to tap & move & maybe even spin in a way it has never spun before…if you go go go fast enuff you might make it…you just might make it tonight…if you go now…what the hell you waitn’ for, kid? get the hell outta here quick…before the Spanish mausoleum sountrack gets you in its everlovin’ grasp like the ball’d up fists of angry angels wit’ dirty aces, all blackn’d out like bums on bitch’s, ex-ex’sfor eyes like bipolar bears turn’d to cannibals before the summer melt cums early to the polar heart that never mattered until it raised your ocean level and called you, it wants to see what you got…nobody’s bluffing in choir’s poker with cheap suit's unenjoyment check cashing boutique pride pumping out of every house speaker tht sez the same thing twice (remember, these are the same folks what tried to sell you a death ray to kill commie missles, but now those missles are coming froma different place and deathrays don’t sell like they used to)…not when there are perfectly good returnees returning on their knees to knit a conundrum of perplexities that never meant shit to a Sodom and Gomorrah historian like yourself as the rabid atheists spit in the god eye of doom and dare death to cross the line fantastic…death winces at the unmiracle of it all and waxes back to when vinyl was where hits were kept and brink’s were trucks full of money, not the place we left the world accidentally on purpose, and tony, o tony can’t you come back to the five and dime dope spot where the broken dealer an' hustled prankster gave the last dime that ever made a phone call before poems became cellular fertilizer that killed the next crop before the muse could be reawakened cuz she just rolled over and said “I heard enuff bitchin’ to last an eternity, which is all the time I have left”…I quit my complainin’ a while ago as the plane begins to board like a big bus ride into the sky and I am hoping that the security technician groped me on purpose, at least…just need one last injustice to keep it all blind…there is not a hand I been dealt I haven’t had to bluff on…even when I pocket flush the royal canard right out the old whoosecow…

A. Razor | The Nervous Breakdown

2011-12-12T10:59:00.000-08:00

A. Razor | The Nervous Breakdown

Beyond Baroque, The Center For LA’s Poetry Scene | NewsTaco

2011-12-07T12:47:00.000-08:00

Beyond Baroque, The Center For LA’s Poetry Scene | NewsTaco

A Good Signal Man Will Get You Through An Uncertain Pass

2011-11-18T19:39:00.000-08:00

A Good Signal Man Will Get You Through An Uncertain Pass
for Mike Taylor

engines belching hard to make the grade in the pitch black night

wheels heating up white hot & throwing sparks out in bursts

the engineer is all throttle & faith in tons of iron & steel

as the timetables & schedules don't reckon on soulfire

churning across the greatest of divides & racing

breakneck across the prairies with howling

winds & coyotes as their main acclaim

to just get the job done & make it

home again,

as long as you can find a home in the heartland

where a home fire burns for you away from lonesome...

away from the back porch blues of lost goodbyes & hastily

closing back doors into an oblivion avenue where you are young again

just a boy becoming a man that goes off to war, out of country, in country

blazing a trail of shooting stars that fall into the sea as you stroll along

with comrades in arms & letters & words & song & wine & women & love

always the love, the woman that leaves her calling card just out of reach

just as long as you write her down into verse after verse of the momentary

lost bucket of redeemers-come-lately that want to dare to dream of that

beach back then so long ago under the venetian heavens, o praise venus

her temple erected in a borealis of non-compliant metaphors above a

simple temple of man fashioned out of driftwood yet revered as a palace

of extravagant creations hewn into figurines of tempest & temptation

kept like a sacred heart preserved for every fallen memory that graced

the brass placard covered remnants of a playground pier that was just too

precious not be the devotional point of reference for your star as it lights down

on an engineers hand through a locomotive window as he pushes up the throttle

to make it up the grade on the spade black night that is haunted by the helping

hand of the most helpful & humble of all the spirits of signalman ever passed

this way & the wheels heat up white hot & throwing sparks out in bursts

& the locomotive is gonna make it tonight, guided by your signal light

guided by the falling of it on the earth tonight, in wreckless beams

guided into the carried away songs sung by the foxhole atheists

of the road ahead, so long and wide, that will be so much more

lonesome now that the signalman is going off

to leave signals from so faraway of a place as this

faraway land of afterlife in the memory of children

who discover words left hidden in closets of eternity

reams of words speaking of life in the template of the living of it all

by this signal left behind the children will seek these words

a single flag left to follow along the ribbons of glistening rails

to get to him the throttle must be kept full & steady

the song must be sung as if the words were iron & steel

all the tons of it needed just to carry you along, a little further down this line

for Mike Taylor

For A Modern Leadership

2011-10-22T16:58:00.000-07:00

For A Modern Leadership

the kingdom within has fallen from royal ascendancy

into the weathered walls of obscurity

leaving behind empty shells

with no crown that is fitting

leaving behind the legacy

of torment

of mistrust

of perpetual

war

for the sake

of war

all the time

war

the only purpose

seems to be avoiding

peace

at all costs

these costs

have risen now

higher than any prophecy

that could have ever been foretold

in any lost integrity that still might fly above the fray

nothing more than a winged accountant of record

memorizing every last prayer of the collateral dead

as the words ooze across their cracked and forsaken lips

prayers forgotten as soon as they are never answered

Lost In The Formula

2011-10-22T16:33:00.000-07:00

Lost In The Formula: Rumi is in dreams as Naima is in reality?

tumbling out of cloud-like embrace of linen heavens
spilling onto hardwood floors like lost collections of dust
as the sound of nearby waves crush color wheels of sound
into circular visions of love holding love
(“this is all about love” said the broken heart mending)

hiking into the wilderness barefoot over rocks and thorns
the bewildered lover never touches the ground with feet
love walks on love walks on love like one foot
after another on a softening footpath
    love              love             love           love
             love               love            love
looking into each others hearts to see a light is shining
looking into a drop of water to see the ocean as whole
waves of bewilderment breaking overhead
amazed at all the amazing amazement
cloaks of bright lights are discarded
falling like cloudy waterfalls away as
eyes send arrows into each other
sifting out all the bullshit thoughts of
trust this trust that what is meant by you? by yours?
you standing there to give to receive to want to hold
cascade away the sickness into the melting of candles
set out in the windows of souls to guide the way home
guide the way love   guide the way lonely   guide the way back
all are welcome to come into this light   to build this light
soul by soul each one like a separate cell    each one
a piece of it all like a honeycomb of soul    of love
of serendipity in mindfulness    in love
as heads roll over heels heal over heartbreaks
new shoes blues requires you wear no more shoes
barefoot is the price of admission in this wilderness
searching for the life of it in wild grasses lining marshy estuary
running into lagoon full of heron and egret lurking into tadpole pools
looking for no more rules of thought as the feet go off path into brush
finding pumpkin spider hugs and dragonfly kisses abounding all around
lizards rolling under logs into burrows away from predator   not to be prey
kissing starfish kissing urchin running past the first set of dunes whipped high
covered with scrubs and weeds and seagull seeds spitting sandy licks
at coughing lost tongues turned into tonsils too deep for feeling free

she turns away, only to come back when she wants to play with
a playful playfulness that trumps serious in the early morning
every time

all this aging is changed to childhood in a kiss with a laugh and a smile
we walk this garden like moonbeams floating above moss
cool to the hotness of our skin burning into black milkiness
losing all colors to contrast like cinematic pasts uncovered
turning into the mist of vaporized mercury aloft in the lost
nakedness of unguarded moonlit trails into your heart

this is still about love as it is about to be lost on a lake of iron and ice
the winter takes on form as love begs to get one last chance
to transcend the transcendence into the beginning again
the chill of the wind is the world’s heartless answer
but, love can lose all limbs and form to become
light as the wind with no sense of weather
this is what love wants when it is true
this is love when it is most honest

running headlong into the autumnal ocean like this
all beauty is all beauty is what is most beautiful
all about you right now

like robes of light hugging you
pushing the hair out of your face
the wind is playful with both of us
the heart is silent against the waves
as they crash and crash aloud
reciting the fate of all love
along this shoreline
unprotected
yet,
saved
for now
nonetheless

Medicinal

2011-10-06T23:39:00.000-07:00

Medicinal

she dances in twist & turn

rounded moves into the curves

of arching wants

she moves with the rhythm of rainfall across glass

timpani on the windowpane accompanied by crackled logs

placed carefully in the hearth of sickly desires

she holds it together, the space you are a part of

eyes darting into soulflesh like lancing a thousand heartaches

pouring out all the bitterness of the left behind, the life alone

for the moment, the blend is into one

the pour is slow syrupy goodness

it might lie about tomorrow as it lies next to love

only because it can't escape the moment

anymore than you can

with interlocking fingers

tangled up locks of hair

crisscrossed arms & legs

rocking back & forth

riding up & down

rolling round & round

writhing in & out

settling for nothing more than a cure

a medicinal allotment of precious joy

surging through the inner cosmos

doing all the lovely damage

on the inside

she takes up all she can bear

walks away from all the neglecting thoughts

takes her time in the other room

mingles with the other people

& you swear it was something that was taken away

from you before she came, now it has gone

as if she could leave with that which was never there

walking off into a distant music

to dance away from here

to dance away from you

& you say

let love lead me where it may

Typing Slowly w/ Just a Left Hand

2011-10-02T14:11:00.000-07:00

Typing Slowly w/ Just a Left Hand

you ask yourself

sometimes

what's the use?

for so long

for o so long

there is

no answer

but the

emptiness

of it all

Duncan's Falcon In Flight

2011-09-20T21:56:00.000-07:00

Duncan's Falcon In Flight

a shrouded falcon waits to fly with a disciplined anticipation

every muscle and tendon taught as suspension wires

that hold the golden gate aloft above the entrance to the bay

the falcon sees no perspective from its cloaked darkness

it plays out turns in the sky as it closes on the prey

to seek the acceptance of its master

trained for this in daily regimen

given praising rewards for its prowess

it gathers strength from each motion

it holds its head up, alert and waiting

for ultimate perspective to be revealed

birds of the sky flee in fear of its talons

sharpened black pointed differences

admonished for overzealous maneuvers

against the master's arm that holds it high

tethered to a master's hold on the falconer's rest

a beautiful bird of prey waiting to behold its own magnificence

turning circles and dives and aerial twists in its minds keen eye

free falling in dives as it moves and glides and soars after its mark

the sparrow the lark the pigeon the canary the crow the starling

all know that the falcon's shadow is a fearful sight on any day of flight

they may even have unsettled dreams of its menace as shivering chicks

set upon by the fatal talons in its last moment before jarring awake

stirring into the reality that the falcon that is trained to satiate

for the reward of pride and nourishment is the most deadly ending

to the simple traces of a birds life of worm and seed fed neutrality

the falcon soars above the admonishments of birds against it

the falcon relishes opportunity to prove itself in any manner

dressed in hood and tether it stretches its gilded shiny wings

as the hood is removed it preens in a new love before it sets

for a new attack with the heart beating in the chest so fast so heavy

this is the chance that it has been hatched from desire for so long ago

this eternal falcon that has always wanted to please its mother

that has always wanted to protect its lands from skies to low valleys

that has always sought to end the admonishment of father and siblings

wanting to rightfully fly its mission on sharpened turns of valiant wings

it flies forth out of darkness into light that it has never known until now

a light it has only seen in dreams of days it hoped for above green fields

spiraling through the skies for freedom to serve its holy master, love

How To Bury A Lost City In A Decade Right In Front Of You

2011-09-11T12:37:00.000-07:00

How To Bury A Lost City In A Decade Right In Front Of You

bombs killed the anarchist fishmongers

who wanted to organize something

under the colonial paving stones

that were europa too young

to walk on their own legs

in immigrant clothes

naked in the cold

in a hundred years or more

undocumented workers would smoke blunts

in the bathroom for the top o the world

while the world traded possibilities

under the towering gaze of twin

free market standing sentinels

as if it was impervious to its own

limited liability denial

that looked down

on all the mobs

of impetuous

trump hopefuls

trolling in and out

of all the subway platforms

at the clay feet of a commercial high rising upward

so many ghosts hit the skids that day

running away from the zeroed out ground

as fast as the wind could blow them out

running through Chinatown and SoHo

all the way up to the alphabets of Loisaida

the old park is a walk from gershwin's stoop

up around the corner from the 2nd ave deli

past st. marks where corso slips a dollar in

pulls it out past the square for fair on the L

going back to brooklyn in the morning

o gregorio o gregorio

o we see so clearly now, only too late

the bomb came for us as we were warned

by the cloak of poems that gave us cover

only for so long as those words could

everyone gazed upward

toward the morning sun

with national camera eyesight

as we all looked on in unexplainable surprise

still life with an ash tray in a diner that no longer smokes

roll past graham through ghosts that have become hipster bubble gum flavor assortments giving away all potential to the dive that overcharges and artistically under performs, still, everyone is a critic when the world is less critical when the mass is less critical when it is less complicated when it is all just a puzzle with an easy piece missing in action so the chatter goes all night long in a clinky clank of cocktail glasses that must be avoided at all costs after the latest rent increase

catch the car service to bushwick and metropolitan into the lost world of thievery gone co-op

make a get away to flatbush all the way up to church and breath deep the jerk sauce aroma

where dutch became dutchie in a reformed church cemetary blowing sound blowing minds blowing blowing blowing

make a get away to the coney island that is no longer a dream or a nightmare just the last refuge of goons, gumbahs and mermaids on the lost boardwalk running like a comet with a splintered tail where the ghosts of your first tattooed ladies ride horses off of diving boards into the pooled tear drops of elephant palace memories that once held cheers for bums dodging trolley cars out into far rockaway and back on a lonesome plane ride off into sunshine away from home plate sliding fantasy leagues where the dust of fallen towers never touches the empty graves of lost friends who didn't leave enough of a concern for anyone to stop a war for as they were too busy starting wars for someone else who had more friends and was better thought of than the bike messengers, panhandlers, undocumented workers that left no discernible DNA rubbed into molten metal skeleton structural remains of a lost day in time

missed flight on the 9th means nothing 2 days later or even 10 smoky years afterward

walking it off in a haze that has left many for dead who had no choice since then only

it was not the first time death took innocence for granted on the lay away plan it would

make the whole repertoire more chic than ever as texas finally cried for yankees like never

before seen footage of popular mechanics tragedy lessons learned stateside as if uncle sam

were an islamic bee keeper with guantanamo bee hive unleashing istani drone attacks all over

the god damn fields of inglorious vengeance against the internal apartheid of soulless decisions

that kiss hot ashen limbs all over battery park as the soot of a lost mosque goes undetected on

the wailing walls scored by roman swords and spears an unfashionable empire ago

these words were just a bloodletting for those that never saw it coming in so many places

in so many ways in so many times in so many lands

most people wanna be left alone unless you are gonna make them famous

no one wants to pay the price for fame as long as fame is paying the price

we make bombs as if it were potlatch for children to return it to our unborn

unconceived unadulterated generations yet to come

the blood all mixes in on the sidewalk but it can't be demarcated

from the scorched earth that buries ideals and convictions

in graves now trampled and left unmarked

Sitting Down for a Moment as Gary Snyder walks Away

2011-09-09T18:37:00.000-07:00

Sitting Down for a Moment as Gary Snyder walks Away

so early becomes so late becomes so early again

like a spiral staircase of dreams and trials

each one dissolves into the next

no angels with trumpets

to herald us forward

no vacant being

of existence

leaving us

for dead

alone

here now

the wisest is

the young daughter

of the craftspeople's church

where the family beckons all

to come back into the fold of the town

located on the outskirts of the great city

that is part of a like-minded country of folks

who have all built something here together as one

where they say in all places blessed I may still find loneliness

there is no despair in it for me as I know you will always be waiting

to welcome me back into something akin to a home in the dusk lit by the last magic

beholding failing beams of translucent glory overwhelming all these considerations of

philosopher's words in the last moment of breath of heartquake of shiver of death of peace

...Fixer...

2011-09-08T15:22:00.000-07:00

Fixer
(Photograph Chosen By Eden)

she took pictures of me while we were in love
she took pictures of us while we were in love
pictures that she developed herself, in a lab
   off of telegraph ave. where she rented time
      & chemicals to do so
   she took pictures of me staring off into space
worried about final out comes & doom
was looming overhead in the shadows
     she took pictures of me drunken &
fighting with the neighbors in the street
knuckles all bloody with teeth all bared
      she took pictures of me attending public
demonstrations that I would turn into riots
that would turn into photographs of cops
    in riot gear guarding a fallen comrade
    she took pictures of me tying off &
injecting what I took to be sanity into
my waiting bloodsteam that recoiled
    from the pulsating madness of my torn up
      reality that dropped into frame like confetti
thrown into the universe from another world
      & another time when someone would take
photographs of me now as I look out a window
     wondering what ever happened to all those
old pictures of insanity & does it really matter
     now that I have someone shooting pics
of me while we are in love & doom is just
       a memory as she takes pictures of me
while she sits cross-legged & naked to let me
      know I am safer now than I ever was or
would be as long as she is holding the camera
     & all I have to do is look out the window
so I can remember to forget about all the photos
     that are lost in the past that no longer matters
washed away in fixer & blood & tear drops
     flooding away a black & white world so long ago

Razor - Poem by A. Razor. Tags: razor, free verse, name

2011-09-01T17:33:00.000-07:00

Razor - Poem by A. Razor. Tags: razor, free verse, name

Promise To Naima

2011-08-31T17:05:00.000-07:00

Promise To Naima

waking in the warm embrace with all our limbs entwined

holding onto to love that lasts through stormy dreams

she is curling into a ball of nestled beauty in my arms

as I catch glimpses of redemption in her eyes

that are opening into glimmer

dancing in sunlit cascades of warming morning light

she is a garden nymph bringing watering life

to all that is growing out of the musty earth

as her bare feet barely leave an imprint

along the dusty, leafy path

walking along a beach at sunset with gulls overhead

holding hands with fingers interlaced for comfort

looking out across the ocean crests in the distance

as if it could tell the future in a hopeful glance

at the oncoming peaceful dusk

standing in the rain together as we seek shelter from a storm

letting the torrents wash us clean against the cold wall

of the unforgiving end of the world that bounds us all

taking each others temperature as the moment builds

by touching each others hearts underneath layers

of clothing and flesh that burdens us in winter

holding on holding on holding on

Round 21: Sparring W/ Beatnik Ghosts - "Wild Bunch"

2011-08-24T16:40:00.000-07:00

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 10 -- Round 21: Sparring With Beatnik Ghosts -- "Wild Bunch"@ Art House Gallery & Cultural Center (2905 Shattuck @ Ashby) in Berkeley.

The 9/10/11 Spar will feature the following poets: Neeli Cherkovski, Amelie Frank, Marc Olmsted, Mel C. Thompson, A. Razor and David Smith's tribute "Remembering Scott Wannberg." Musical guest Zo & Rick. There will also be an "Outlaw Open-Mic segment. Sign-up to read at 6:30. Show starts at 7 p.m.

There is a $5 donation with proceeds benefitting Poetry Festival Santa Cruz on 2/12/12.

www.sparringwithbeatnikghosts.com

he rides off at the end before the credits roll like teardrops

2011-08-21T21:46:00.000-07:00

http://www.radiuslit.org/2011/08/21/poem-by-a-razor/

sparky and I have a heart to heart

2011-08-21T13:55:00.000-07:00

sparky and I have a heart to heart

"you always try to be so stoic when people are lookin', mr. razor, don't you?"

"look, sparky, old boy, I am just trying to be strong for you,

I figure scott would want it that way."

"I am not as old as you, old boy, and I call em like I see em, tough guy, so

if you gotta let it out, just let it out, is all I'm sayin', mr. razor."

"(sniff), really, it's just a head cold sparky...and please, not so formal,

razor is just fine."

"well, scott always said you were a lil' tightly wound...a lil' edgy, if you will..."

"all right, sparky, call me whatever the fuck you want...jeez...you know, I like dogs,

more than I like people...I was a raised in a kennel...out in berdoo...so you can drop

the passive-aggressive thing...I probably talked more to dogs than people, if you

time it out...in my lifetime, I mean..."

"in a kennel? what on earth could those dogs have done to deserve that kind of treatment?"

"well, I was...huh? nevermind...I just wanted to be supportive...you know...throw a stick if you

wanted...maybe a frisbee...I am not so good with frisbees, tho...used em' more for rollin' than throwin' back in tha day, if you knowaddimean?...haha"...

"really? you are amusing to yourself, at the very least, I suppose...anyway, I gotta go...I can smell something

on the wind...um, off in the distance, I mean...where humans can't, soooo....yeah, keep your chin up

and all...don't whistle for me, I'll howl for you and all that"..."arf,arf...arf......arf..........arf"............

"SPARKY!?!?! Sparky!? dammit, come back...ohh...I hate these moments...friends passing on and not sure what to say to anybody anymore...wait...is that? he's coming back...good ole sparky...come here, boy!"

"woof, woooof" pant pant pant "i said "wooof"... pant pant pant

"you sound different, sparky...that run really got the better of you...you gonna be ok?"

"i could use some water...it is hot in here...um, around here"...

"sure, here you go...hey, if you want, I could be your temporary master for awhile, I wouldn't mind"...

"master? are you kiddin' me? I know how to operate an oxygen tank...I am nobody's chump...uh...I mean...look...I might have meant to say something else...I mean"...

"hey, you are not sparky...that is a dog suit...and not a good one at that...god, my eyes are getting bad...come here a second and let me...don't fight me...ow, shit...how did you get a dog suit with claws so sharp? dammit...hold still...holy sheep dip!!! MICHELLE BACHMANN? what the hell are you doing here?'

"(sniffle sniffle) You have found me out, razor...I have secretly been in love with scott wannberg for so long now...I I I ...I just can't believe he is gone...first Rick Perry and now this...I can't take it...I wanted to reach out to scott so many times...no one knows me like he does...I see myself in every one of his works of art in writing"...

"well, he did write about you often, is that what you mean?"

"yes, he was critical on a personal level, but he just really had me down...I mean...I don't even think the little jewish carpenter in the sky knows me as well as scott wannberg does...I wanna be his dog...I wanna be his dog...I can't take it"...

"whoa, off the dickie's, mrs. bachmann...get down...you are one surly bitch, mam...DOWN NOW!!!"

"oh, I'm so sorry...my bladder is so tiny these days...and texas is so big...not as big as scott's heart, tho...he made me wanna forget that stumpjumper from taxas...forget the whole teabagged last one of those corn fed constituents in Iowa...he made me wanna be a L L"...(crumpled in sobs)

"an LL? what the hell is an LL?"

"oh, don't make me say it...a a a..a LIBERAL LUTHERAN...oh god...oh god....please...I don't wanna live...please...I wanna be scott's dog...I wanna be sparky..."

"hey, where is sparky, anyway?"

...on a spiral trail to a worldy place where there are no dogs or masters, just eternal conversations that go round and round where every character actor and actress that ever trickled into the kodachrome and technicolor borealis is remembered as far more valuable than the leading man...this is where the constituency of loving fairness dwells...that is where sparky and scott are now...watching a classic movie channel that never ends with tv westerns in between every movie...always going back and forth with wisdom and insight that is just a lil' further off into the future...not so far that you don't notice as long as you never forget that there is where you need to be...right now, so get there before ya'll come back now, ya hear?...

For Scott Wannberg

2011-08-20T13:13:00.000-07:00

Scott

every time
I find that
dark side
of the road
and I think
I'm done for
this is going
to be it
sputtering
my last
tears and
breathing
my last
words
it's almost
done for good

then, like magic
your headlights
appear in the
distance
between us

they pull over
onto the shoulder
where I am certain
I am dying my last
lyrical death in this
maddening world
of miscommunications
parading as near misses

all I can hear in that
final moment is the sound
of the crackling gravel words
as they are getting closer

the headlights shine brighter

the crackling gravel words
under your tires
sing me the song

of my salvation
as I return to
the blacktop

riding free
once more

...World...

2011-08-18T14:36:00.000-07:00

World

sometimes the world cracks open

like it is gonna fall all apart

& you get real sad inside of

yourself

because you

are afraid of that

more than anything else

so sad that you feel like

you are not gonna make it

& you hold on anyway

real tight

because

it is

after all

still a world

most likely

the only one

you will ever get

to hold onto

...smoke...

2011-08-04T13:55:00.000-07:00

smoke

slowly, coming into focus

curled wisps roll up

clouds pour forth

looking like pillows

choking off life

covering the world

touching the landscape

darkening the skies

hanging in the air

like a swarm of phantom locusts

looking for the lungs of sweet innocence

finding lungs of corrupt diversion easily

smothering love with satisfaction

delivering narcotic release

twisting the duality of dragons in flight

slowly metamorphosizing the hearts of billions

covering the world

blackening the eyelids

soon this reality

will be the impression

of a charcoal relief

this empty embrace

is for the eternal

if you seek it out

on the blinding path

you might find the fire

at your feet

before the flame

is you

Picasso Doesn't Do Much For Her

2011-07-28T23:22:00.000-07:00

Picasso Doesn't Do Much For Her

it is from across rooms of perspective

inside twisted chambers of the mind

her face like spoon fed butter scoops

dripping past eyes elongating into noses

her body like turning angles becoming blocks

building out the fantasy play of light upon shadow

her angular teeth grip a thorny rose that pricks her

head bent upon squared neck dropping to buttocks

separating cleavage from fish and beach with ball in play

with ball in motion as dance is kinetic to abuse of love

of self of indulgence of grandiose scale of cognac

of absinthe of blue moods against green vengeance

with disfigured fairy tales morphing into lost vistas

never seen by the eye of an old woman's cataracts

hardly felt inside the bronzed goat vaginal walls

as war rages outside on the inside all the time

it is injustice, all of it, from the fly in the ointment

to the napalm dropped on mama and babe innocence

the contorted eyes of terror open mouthed kissing

death as if embrace were only meant for mistress

as wives got the loneliness of it all in cascades

of flamenco bulls running into matadors on bloody hooved sand

written off as salon after salon becomes meaningless pedigree

as if the wisdom of castles had left anything less than magic

for the love, for the woman, for the light etching contrast

into prism into lust into temper into explosion into work

it all falls away into emotions left like a high water mark

into a lifetime of perspective reaching out for a better

point of view against an overrated misunderstanding

these balls are made of brass to last a little longer

not really so much beautiful as useful to angels

gone blind and now they feel their way back to heaven

alone, how every saint must feel in silent visage

waiting for it all to come back together again

just lay down naked on the bed in the

morning sunlight as it comes through

the bedroom window

I want to see you for who you are

less clearly

The Meth Lab: Down On The Tarmac by: A. Razor

2011-07-09T09:18:00.000-07:00

The Meth Lab: Down On The Tarmac by: A. Razor

Newer Poets XVI: A Reading - Event - Library Foundation of Los Angeles

2011-07-02T22:48:00.000-07:00

Newer Poets XVI: A Reading - Event - Library Foundation of Los Angeles

The Road To Hell Is Lined With Billboards

2011-05-20T21:19:00.000-07:00

The Road To Hell Is Lined With Billboards

it is already judgment day in japan

but nobody is all that concerned

keep sticking kelp up your ass

hoping for a faith cure from it

hunkered down for the winter

when it is just in time for spring

flooding gets diverted to you

never really washing away sin

barely drowning any sorrow

hardly raising up the ocean

in an ice age of global warmth

plagues have already been

working on us all overtime

antibacterial soap has leeched

into the gene pool like the rare

vinegar of evil piss on the tin roof

of the coastal golf course villages

if you let the earth bleed out

into black pools of terra blood

covering every porous indention

with a slick lubricated doom

it would become the last news show

before anyone really gave a shit

on the too late times

nothing ever happens tomorrow

without some type of conspiracy

born in the bowels of yesterday

makes you wonder how it all got

started in the first place because

the last place you looked was where

it was hiding all along except for the

part you thought was more clever

than anyone had ever seen before

that is actually the part where you

live everyday like it was judgment

live everyday like it was the last

live everyday for the same reason

that

you are willing to die a little more

for

day in and day out

you don't need a sign to tell you that
because

a day of judgment might be worth
a lifetime of bad decisions

YouTube - 13 Cuts Of A Razor

2011-04-18T12:21:00.000-07:00

YouTube - 13 Cuts Of A Razor

Inside the W A R Lounge-Ft - A RAZOR 4/4/2011 - WRITE AND RADIO | Internet Radio | Blog Talk Radio

2011-04-04T14:40:00.000-07:00

Inside the W A R Lounge-Ft - A RAZOR 4/4/2011 - WRITE AND RADIO | Internet Radio | Blog Talk Radio

BEAR (Augustus Owsley Stanley III, January 19, 1935 – March 13, 2011)

2011-03-24T02:15:00.000-07:00

Bear

this is the elixir in the forbidden chalice

made in the kitchen with love and intent

letters written on papers with pictures

numbers remembered would one day

be forgotten like formulas for open

open would cause forward

forward began furthur

it went so far for so long

it went where none had gone before

it was shared by many more as it traveled

furthur and furthur

on hoffman's bicycle you rode

dancing on the pedals as they spun

dancing on the petals of the rose crystal of a potent love

dancing like the bear of all colors that knew all

about all things there was to know

even the unknown

that knew and knew and knew and knew me better

than I knew myself in the mirrored orb of truth ever present

the wheels came off because they were never necessary

magic carpets were never known to need them

celebrations were your anonymous namesake

you bejeweled the world with opportunity

you blazed a golden bolt across the sky

I flew your flag well above the rest

your were my post office Fagan

sent me to scurry among the throngs

the walls seethed and bellowed

the sky curled at the edges

like postcards drenched in inquisition blood

cartoons came to life inside foil wrapping

goonie birds flew aloft again

flapping mother of pearl wings against agate skies

droppings of sugar cubed dollops descending from

their Mandelbrot orifices opened like third eyes as spigots

dropping dropping dropping dropping

magic upon tongues painted across dismembered eyeballs

staircase crystals captured in vials of hopeful release

let go let go let go let go hold on closely

I worked into meticulous nights until glorious sunrise

the sunshine is liquid brightness awash in love today

I traveled with the unpacked suitcases as per your instructions

like a wizard's apprentice with quicksilver messenger veins

that flowed with your love and a mindful of stories you told

of laboratories in hiding and swiss bank accounts lost forever

as you beckoned the world to leave itself one last time

so it might have one last chance to make a commune with you

and the magic you spun out of your blessed fingertips

as I sat in cross legged amazement trying to learn something new

that you told me I was born with inside of me

farewell to you, craftsman of the freedom to be

all the freedom that I have known

all the freedom I would ever

really want or need

naked and free for all to see

this is the gift you left us

like you never left at all

like you were never going

anywhere but here now

anywhere

but, furthur

Oshima Island

2011-03-24T02:03:00.000-07:00

Oshima Island

there is a beach under the pressure

of overwhelming lifelessness

humanity spawned frail

like unfortunate jellyfish

like too much happened

this world is like that

pressure coming down

nuclear poison seeping out

hearts broken in grief and loss

some drifting away like cherry blossoms

blown askance by errant breeze like it was

almost spring on the shore where the land

and the sea took out the time for a world

that was built on the edges so fragile as

this while all that was known to some

was lost in heaps of debris lost in

the smallest tears of a child in the

shouts of emotion left out in the open

on the beach under pressure on the island

under pressure on the minds of the world

under pressure this is our modern time

of relinquished sorrows for those that fall

against the interchanging narratives of loss

weeping out their broken hearts burst with

pain overflowing as we see a world that is

so temporary where we saw it as permanent

so lasting is the stampede of shocking sorrows

this shall be a springtime with a faint whimper

of grateful joy for life as it all dangles on this precipice

as we all dangle on this precipice above this beach together

searching for survivors and pieces of lost lives for memorial

If You Make It To The Sally Port

2011-03-24T01:58:00.000-07:00

If You Make It To The Sally Port

notches made in haste not waste not fashion

a weapon fashioned out of odds and ends

keep the angle close to the chest

keep the arc close to the neck

flurry after flurry

fight for your life

all eyes upon everyone here

scratches on the walls mark the days

segregated by the administration of healing

some say it will heal you if you live through it

most do live, but what dies? when and where does it give in?

what flies away in well lit moments of hopelessness among the lost?

what comes home to roost in the darkened corners of every turn here?

its not what you think, its not that it wasn't made to sound like a form

of redemption you might have missed along the way to the forum as

chariots sidetracked down blind alleyways paved with broken bones

penance required for time sentenced, served, paroled out and away

as long as it was meant to be endured like a burning pain under raw skin

that fits too tight in every dark corner where someone is always watching

even when you look in the mirror there is someone checking up on you

better make sure you have the proper front in place like your own

personal sociopathic loin cloth that makes you king shit of no man's land

just cells of life joined to dying cells that meant no harm as children

as they once laughed and played in inner recesses of broken brain daydreams

skipping away over sunlit hilltops for two into the echoing distance

as the reality of these echoing walls filled with conversations that mask

murderous fears forming into gangs of swarming violence at the ready

one false move is all it takes as you think of love with the sounds of toilets

flushing you think of welcome home days with screaming fits of delusion

bouncing around your head like crowns of thorns you think of lovers you

know in truth you will never hold again as the ancient sounds of misguided

lust intruding as power given or power taken away drift through the stinging

air of the sharpened night as terror places its wreath at your feet as people who

feel the most righteous of any in the land (as most seem to do) tell their children

about the healing place they sent all the men that deserved it to to make up for what

they did so long ago to make this place a safer place to get them out of they way that

seems to not care enough to join the ranks of what was given as order as they break inside

only to share the break with you or you or you when we meet outside the moment that

all was lost in the losing of the human feeling of the connection of the bargain as it all went

south and the chips feel where they may as ten days straight in leg irons will make you

abide by the rifles held over head and all the walls point in the same direction here

and all the iron sings like wild banshees loosed from hells grasp singing with metallic

throats that deride all the moments that tear the thoughts of what peace used to mean

in the twisting of time in the bending of mind that folds in on the heart and has so little

to do with the soul on ice as it is said about this life in the cooler in the warehouse of

humanity lost for all the things they did now that they wonder little about all they

have done that they were never caught for never cared for never loved for

it’s a never never land if you never make it out of here you have to move on it

like it’s the only chance you will ever get if you do make it out of here, somehow

For William Lee, Rest In Peace

2011-03-24T01:48:00.000-07:00

As The Grip Finally Loosens A Bit (Goodbye)

you are never toothless, even if you are missing all your teeth

you can still bite back, bite the wrong thing, bite the right thing

you can never use your mouth for anything better than to just

give the simplest words of support, loud as they may be

digging in like tempered spades of heavy excavation

unearthing the hidden truth as they cower a bit, shaking

trembling at the raspy harsh love loud with spittle

and curse and intention to erode the coverage of false fearful pasts

you are always present in the bellowing throat laughter that will

never stop echoing around the rooms of the heart or

the card tables where death is cheated by your toothless grin

holding cards so perfect like fake teeth that bring every round home

every round you make all night pacing the floors of uncertain outcomes

no time for bullshit or gallantry among the broken down souls that require

focus now words now action now meaning now clear cut convictions now

it all spills out onto worn down heels that kick back and watch as it all

unfolds like bills on the table as you ante up for the call and death, well,

death just smiles back at you with your own teeth and you know for sure

he is really getting tired of being cheated by you now

your last hand was not so spectacular at all

but the bluff was always amazing until the end

as the bony hands of your nemesis scraped all the winnings to his side of the table

you smile back at him, the last laugh is yours

blowing smoke in his face, your mouth smiles defiant

because you knew along

you never needed teeth to bite back, anyway

because

even without teeth,

that mouth made noise that will never be forgotten

Haunted On The B Train

2011-03-24T01:43:00.000-07:00

Haunted On The B Train

somewhere on the train underneath chinatown

a smile travels too fast away from here

uptown bound until downtown frowns

come back, with the eyes that lighten up

come back, with the soft sound of the wind

inside every breath before and every word after

the tracks rattle rhythm to the circulatory pulse pounding away

what good are arms that forget what embrace felt like?

what good are legs that never tangle and weave like tapestry?

what good are soft memories of when we were near to being?

the train keeps its destinations intact never ever running out of track

somewhere on the train underneath chinatown

a ticket is missing a ride as a station never misses one less rider

feet bustling around all day below traffic hustling all night above

time stands still for the longest of all loves as they pass each other like

planets in distant solar systems never seeing each other in orbit

but feeling the pull of life's gravity in the middle axis of love

falling into the darkest part of your eyes as the tunnels go black

somewhere on the train underneath chinatown

"There would not be counterfeiters if there were not real gold" - Sufi aphorism

2011-03-17T14:36:00.000-07:00

http://highdrasyndicate.weebly.com/no-quarter-given.html

SOUL

2011-03-10T00:23:00.000-08:00

Soul

ignorance walks alone at night in the jungle like a tiger

anger is no place to hide from the timing of right now

sections of self get peeled away against the resistance

like jaggedness to the blind on illuminated pathways

in the classification of souls there are many kinds of holy

holiness is hardly understood by the wholly mind of holy people

all souls rooted in the sojourn rule eternal as if immortal

those that are held by time are nine fold into nothingness

those that have stood at rest upon repentance are six fold

as such with no window into redemption but not forsaken

those souls that have self-originated possess an utterance

of the ineffable truth

(an utterance) existing only in relation to the power of eternal

life and light

there are four types of these souls

the first are as angels on high

supporting light from below

backs arching against the

weight of life as it is

lived among us

the second are those that love truth

they seek it no matter what

the balance or consequence

the third are those that love hope

until all ends, bitter or sweet

in the face of all dangers

against all odds

the lastly, not least

are those that simply believe in this

illuminations originating from within

are incapable of not being connected

to those that are illuminated throughout

the expanding universal explosion

with the ultimate faith of life never ending

that in every explosion there is creation

in every death there is life

regardless

of the death of every life

or the birth of every light

for it has a radiance

in all its agreements

that can never be hidden

never be captured

never even be taken

for granted

or overtaken by fear

it is peaceful forever

inside you with wisdom

even tigers change direction

as it approaches them

through the jungle at night

it cannot be trapped for its brightness

from darkness it will always break free

Late Night With Uncle Bill's Last Word

2011-03-10T00:18:00.000-08:00

Late Night With Uncle Bill's Last Word

there are no causes left to fight

that are not being fought

somewhere by someone

that you never met

but yet, you know them better

than you know your self

so you keep fighting

there will be more of it

after you die

even if you are already dead

and don't know it yet

fighting through the bardo

against the beast of your mind

against the creatures of your soul

against the monsters of your will

you will never have to surrender

it will eat you alive as much

as it will eat you dead

like old filthy mcnasty

wrenching on the eternal crankcase

of sisyphus old chopped hog

while old fast eddie keeps slipping out of sight

certainly he must be circling back around, always

dino died in mexico, just past san felipe

the shallow grave was really just a hiding place

berto takes too many magic bullets

shuffles off stage left to the coast

no applause from the underinformed audience

candy is a girl dressed like a woman

she turns blue in a dark blue motel room

cold and stiff as your love laying there

next to her in the morning

the last take in the scene before they yell cut

too many times down little starla's wrist

as she makes jello molds of her last moment

leaving you with one last cigarette

that the paramedic takes as the cops

take you away again as usual

big paulie saw it coming so many times

you got to give it to him in the face

just so he knows what time it is

it can ruin the funeral

but nobody goes to those anymore, anyway

there are stories about how mona died

in your arms as they were swollen tired

and shot out for days

there are carloads and truckloads

of bad accidents on the road

none as sad as your little baby girl

crying down the shiny concrete halls

as you huddle with thorazine slippers

and lithium pajamas on the vacaville tier

plotting out the revenge of sharpened

tooth brushes shoved into eye sockets

before the guards can fire the first fatal

warning shots into the head of your worst friend

getting left alone to fight into the night

wake up with no sleep fighting, always

fighting still into the sun or the stormy outcome

walking with swagger staggering with false pride

you always want the first taste of anything

people tell you you might have killed too many

you never kept count, can't pin nothing on em

except bad math in hard circumstances

as train tracks truck by into the long distance haul

bags and balloons and bottles and balls

all getting their kicks with you as tears run away

with the moon with the stars with the sun with it all

even into the wild blue yonder into hells built for two

until it is a lonely ticket, reserved for one

watch what's on the menu

the surgeon general said eating pussy causes

throat cancer more so than cigarettes

you quit smoking, among other things, but

don't be an afterlife pussy, don't stop living this one

even if they tell you that you are dead, keep going

use up all the oil, eat up all the corn, free all the slaves

like it was you all along, come to save something

only it was you all along, that had something saved

something they couldn't take from you

something you held onto forever like a supernova

even after nicki hepatitis told you to never leave

which was fitting, so much so, that your last word was LOVE

without ever saying good bye

Street Corner With No Calvary In Sight

2011-03-10T00:15:00.000-08:00

Street Corner With No Calvary In Sight

the sound catches wind as it blows down the barren street

it rises and falls like an unplanned symphony of sighs

punctuated by freeway traffic in the distance

drifting in and out of its volume as eyes

try to focus through blurring cold

not too cold, not as cold as it

can get in other parts of

the world, where

steel is hidden

under snow

a white

blanket

that covers

everything with

a shimmering mirage

that seems so mystic as it

glistens in the moonlight of

distant daydreams that take me

away from here for a moment that

I need to know its not so bad right now

feeling the missing and the heartaches of

years gone by while I lose my eyesight on this

lonely street corner as people all over the world

suffer a little more than me in increments that can be

measured by world news and body counts piling high in

adverse reaction to the hope some keep close in their hearts

that it will get better, maybe not today, maybe some day, maybe

Swirled Among Clouds Above

2011-03-10T00:10:00.001-08:00

Swirled Among Clouds Above

the words that fall short of ears not quite formed in

to what is told to children to warn them of perilous

times ahead

it does no good in the atoms of desire that have begun

to churn into the melodic echoes of screaming synaptic

vacuums of hope

what was done when god was not looking over us was not

the thing that mattered most if you lost yourself inside of it

trapped forever

in the shadow of signs high above us that gave simple direction

inside our hearts intuition with explicit instruction for resulting

outcomes just out of reach

the anatomical mathematics of language never adds up to much

if the reason doesn't come up in the form a new direction at this

turning point we have taken alone

lungs will spill out all the words we ever learned under vacant moons

glistening a spattering of reflections off of percolating waters below

as the heart is coughed onto the rain slicked

pavement into lucid pools of light that arc into

fingertips of doubt that cast a glow on the foxholes

that hide the angry voices inside the mind whose last resort

is to hurl slanderous grenades of destitute arguments against

one last shot at the title, one last turn at the wheel, one last look at

what love did to the grown up fantasy of happy ever after if you only

buy a ticket so you can ride, so you can ride for miles and miles til the

everloving wheels fall off into the cyberkinetic space between what was

once lollipops and unicorns mixed with things you believed in no matter what

until the day you felt it didn't matter anymore, you were all growed up

don't need this moon, don't need this town, don't need this hope

it all holds me back, holds me down, swings me all around

where did you go? what did you do? what can you feel?

this moon this moon this moon this moon

it is never enough what I do, it is never enough for it

I missed something they tried to tell me when I was young

for the life of me, I have tried so hard, I can still never remember

that simple thing, that beautiful thing I was told

I can never remember what exactly it was

those words that fell just short

it never seemed quite right

to not know what they were

When The Water Pump Goes

2011-03-10T00:02:00.000-08:00

When the water pump goes, the timing belt will not be far behind…

trip on this a minute

a mind full of torturous worry pushes in through the door
sitting in the Denny's on the 5 near Coalinga
across the interstate from Harris Ranch
searching all the mindful possibilities of this fragile balance

rocking too far into the painful tone of failures past
not wanted by the law, employed, on the verge of

gaining housing and repaying debts so as to

hopefully, finally stand upright again to maybe join

the race of humans busy in the eternal dust clouds

of industrious survival far up ahead

they left us behind long ago
the obstacles seem so insignificant to them

as if they brush away vulnerable moments like this

the way a wild bison tail will scatter

so many flies in its constant undulation

even though many flies circle back

to bite the bison anyway

and that is what it feels like right now

as if one more fly bite would send the whole life and legend

to hell in a torrent of manure and flies

and the desolation of Stienbeck as the chilling wind

covers the last traces of existence on a cold and lonely

San Joaquin Sunday night of fear set in motion

as time drips by like the corn syrup on flaccid

grand slam pancakes and piss weakened coffee

that all pours away while the mind sets itself into shock

so far away from faith that even hope is two rest stops gone

heading north in the heart but waiting in the moment

to get in touch with what is left behind

before you think this is the moment prayers may have been made for

only prayers have already been said and maybe the sound of the voice

saying them has finally fell past redemption as all it would take

would be one more fly bite or broken part or bill amounting to

a lifetime of work against the fear that it will never be enough

to counter the great darkness forming always against us

on the fading border of the distant horizon

Burning Saints

2011-03-09T23:21:00.000-08:00

Burning Saints

my grand father did this, I know

my father did this too, I was told

they burned saints, cards with saints

in effigy and prayers like poems

printed on the back

it was a ritual that came from their

homeland that was meant to show

no allegiance or moral would

interfere with the work

at hand

with the expectation

of loyalty above all

to the principle

of this thing

that was

supposedly

theirs

and theirs alone

the truth came out

eventually

it was not enough

of a gesture

to hold the rest of the world

at bay

they met their deaths

the same way they

had caused the deaths

of others

violent and fast

the ashes of burnt sainthood

have been dissolved in my blood

since before I was born

into the bastard sin of this life

I have eaten all the small fires

of card stock prayers and saints

inside my imprisoned dreams

they have made me stronger

when I was at my weakest

but, god seemed to tire

of all the empty gestures

the tally of human sin does not seem

to be of interest to god

in any cause and effect determination

that I have ever witnessed

I have traveled near and far

meeting many people

in many other places

with many other ideas

about who god is

for themselves

I put them all together

in my mind's eye

and I see the god

I see god for who

god really is

god is tired

god's eyelids droop

as god waves a

tired hand

absolving sin from the wretched demons

that have made god weary with playfulness

while we wept on river banks

wringing our hands

shaking our heads

begging for tearful forgiveness

when all we had to do

was scream loud enough

for god to hear

thy will be done

then get about

the doing

of it

right away

PRETTY

2011-03-09T22:58:00.000-08:00

Pretty

she sends pictures from her phone

to show what it looks like there with her

waking up in warmth and softness

with her naked embrace all around

she sends words of encouragement

to those who stumble along, alone

she wants to give hopeful moments away

like they are an innocent dreams shared

maybe she is like a light lick of love

right behind the ear, soft breath on the

moist skin right after

a kind word, in a hushed tone of sexy

there are harder edges than the playful ones

that she pushes all thoughts toward

but, she does not care about them now

she means well, but may be too young to know

she seems to want to share so much, so freely

she may not mean well at all, but she may be

too damaged to care

(maybe she doesn't realize, I have seen it all before)

she might be all that is needed or wanted

in pictures sent from phones

too pretty to hold close right now

too distant to stir much more

than a smile

but, still

I can't help but think

in another place and time

that I might lover her, too

The Truth About Speedballs

2011-02-10T00:01:00.000-08:00

The Truth About Speedballs

dreams like this so hot and fertile, so convincing

that they are dreams, so conniving when they are exposed

for the lies they are and how deep they lie in our hearts

we convince ourselves it is somehow sexy, playful fun

we are tired of all that is going down, all that is being done

to us about us for us to us some more

lying across fields of poppies with scarred bulbs

while dreams of llamas pulling bundles of coca leaf

through the winding Inca trails of the Andes

two great lies start as simple truth in the beginning

two reasons the truth becomes twisted from vein to lung

to heart to mind to soul to mouths that speak it

to eyes that give it away with such sad beauty

defensive retorts come forth flaring through nostrils

smoked out through lungs shot out through blood filled rigs

as the dragon's tail twists it's way up the final spinal staircase

sinking in deep with needle point teeth

to intertwine inside the Andean allkaloid's

nest of unrest and helicopter disturbance

like the stomping of a billion spider legs

underneath itchy skin-covered meat monkeys

as sock covered feet become drenched cottons

in silver spoon shoes heated by flames of uncontrolled desires

becoming lies that burn lives beyond recognition

because it feels so powerful bad it seems like the only good

we might know as we lie down with it coiled up inside of us

dreaming of peaceful war like turmoil might set us free

while real peace and serenity run away from us

like frightened rabbits run down holes away from a hope

we let go of in silence as we cry "help!" with scratched vocal chords

too often or too late to ever let go completely of a synthetic umbilical

that has become a noose around our life we call no home

as we are always so desperate for a home

as the psychotic break tears away more and more

until we are owned by fields of poppies with scarred bulbs and baskets

of coca leaves that slide down steep hillsides into kerosene and lye

thrown into vats of hydrochloric acid baths that dissolve the natural bond

to begin forming into the pasty, sticky chains of tar with no feathers

that bind us fast to the lies we tell ourselves over and over

so the lies we tell those who love us seem real enough

to buy one last moment in the bathroom alone

it all rages down corridors of blood patterns screaming out for more

taking with impunity everything you got while playing out

peanut butter cup commercial jingles all the way home

two great tastes in one bent spoon lie that never tells on itself

until it is too late, never gives up until it is too much

you would save yourself if you could, but this shot

is just maintenance until the next round

sometimes you are knocked out

before you ever hear a bell

even though bells are all

you ever listen for

I used to lie to myself

thinking that was heaven

nitrogen jaguars patrolling

my bloodstream

hunting down the last of my of

my oxygen as if it was easy rabbit prey

I have to remember

I was never cured of lying

to myself

or anyone else

THE LOS ANGELES NEWS JOURNAL.: Down on the Tarmac by A. Razor

2011-01-29T21:33:00.000-08:00

THE LOS ANGELES NEWS JOURNAL.: Down on the Tarmac by A. Razor

Los Feliz

2011-01-29T20:59:00.000-08:00

Los Feliz

soft trail along the hillside in a winter park of sunlight

foot falls under oak warm faces smile out

crisp sounds radiant beams of hope

gabrielinos born here forgotten

considerable influence of foreign tongues gone mad

a corporal's name mispronounced in trade

a corporeal life traded away

stars stream at

night

beauty here among peaceful moments

light, camera, action award/reward

the real love peels away like old lead paint

eyes that glimmer with heart felt desire hold us

together

far away lands in far away times where to

now?

keep us here like captured light

lost into invisible smoke

at sunrise above

hilly footpaths

this was always meant to be a gift given away

this was always meant to be a place to search out

this vast desert for an oasis

this vast shoreline for an anchoring bay

this loneliness for some momentary

companion

friendship

lover

shade from winter heat or summer cool

this was the path this was the arrival

walk up to the vista destination

watch the birds fly away

to a distant ocean of

happiness among us

keep searching out there

Wanna Do What I Did?

2011-01-17T19:39:00.000-08:00

Wanna Do What I Did?

push yourself through the hard way

through the glass, the walls, the windows, the roofs

fall hard, fall over and over again, get up, jump up

skate fast, ride fast, drive fast, live fast

seeking seeking seeking

hit the walls and fall to pieces

sure, do the obvious...

read morrison and hendrix and joplin and sly and dylan et al

lyrics of their songs are poems, sure, poetics yes

pick up poe, whitman, yeats, dickinson, browning, frost, sandburg

find wc wiliams, cummings, lorca, eliot, stein, l. hughes, rexroth,

neruda, duncan, ginsberg, ferlinghetti, di prima, young, kerouac, gunn

patchen, waldman, carroll, p. smith, creeley, o'hara, wakoski, corso, berrigan

koch, lipton, perkoff, scibella, brautigan, baraka, rodriguez, angelou, pinero

bukowski, hirshcman, winans, cherkovski, cervenka, acker, lunch, rios, taylor, bogen,

griffin, west, longhi, wannberg, day, knott, micheline, kaufmann, carvajal, flanagan, alfaro, cullen, toomer, spicer, levertov, blaser, lamantia, mcclure, snyder, robles,

alvarado, blood, weinman, lyfshin, hoffman, hoppe, schleager, berry, gehman,

sinister, lerner, lowell, copolla, vinograd, willis, lisick, tea, blowdryer, beatty,

dallessandro, srygley-moore, hartenbach, coleman, mcclean, labounty, burgos,

basho, dorsey, plath, prew, greathouse, reardon, bratten, hardung, kirk, macedo, mollet,

kearney, romo, calvocoressi, cherry, candace, holiday, giovanni, jacobson, baker,

brown, konesky, mazer, addonizio, calder, crane, abee, drehmer, constantine,

clinton, mcnally, parkinson, suarez, george, perl, wallace, townsend, dickel, wehr,

shaw, Lu, bronsky, hayden, pinsky, berrego, twist, sernotti, koweski, chiem, king,

acevedo, bent, curtis, simonian, moraga, king-smith, d. smith, moore, henry, marlowe,

harrington, o-matic, tamblyn, miriam...

just some random suggestions...

...never stop adding to the list of writers you read until you are dead...

eat some pussy, make some children while you are still underaged, get that out of the way quick,

then make real mistakes, lose your rights, get angry at all authority, hate war,

then go out and get drunk, fight for what you believe in, drink more, smoke pot,

breed pitbulls, grow pot, sell speed, make speed, take speed, quit speed, rob banks,

play punk rock live and loud as you can, run chune as a champion selecter, break beats,

make beats, shoot people that have it coming, or in self defense, cut people down with sharpness, learn to work the blade in at close quarters, fight for your life til the death,

run scared, run for your life, run into battle, run tings, run beaches, run escorts around for cash, balance life on triple beam dreams, dress up, dress down, blend in, stand up,

build cars, paint cars, drive cars, fuck in cars, sleep in cars, hop trains, run afterhours clubs, hit the ground running whenever the floor drops from under you, cross the border,

shoot porn, take nature pictures, do grafitti everywhere you go, sell coke, rock it up,

sell rocks, snort too much, smoke rocks, quit that, start again, do acid, do shrooms,

sell dust, smoke dust, sell acid, sell shrooms, grow shrooms, eat pussy, paint, write

and take photos naked, let your hair grow, get stabbed, get shot, get run over, lie

to the police, lie to your lawyer, make films, steal cars, sell guns, smash windows

during demonstrations, throw bricks at riot cops, get beat with truncheons, get run

down by police on horseback, eat pussy when you get out of jail, eat pussy when you

get out of prison, fuck chicks in the ass when they say they want it, smoke opium,

break your back, learn to walk again, smoke heroin, shoot heroin, get strung out,

add coke, have fun, do ecstasy, make MDMA, blow up a house making it, run from

the Feds, smuggle drugs everywhere you go, marry a french girl, leave france, get

kicked out of italy, go to thailand, do time there, go to tokyo, leave fast, go to taipei,

smuggle ice, go to jamaica, smuggle weed, go to lebanon, smuggle hasish, go to

amsterdam, make hash, open squats, go to hamburg, fight nazis, go to toronto,

get kicked out of canada for seditious behavior, almost marry a canadian, go to war

in a third world place, fight on the side of the indigenous underdog, get the hell out

before your own countrymen kill you, begin to miss the women you have left behind

to go to prison, marry an accidental heiress, go against the mob, go against a couple

of mobs, mobs begin to not like you, build a hide out, grow lots and lots of pot, eat

lots and lots of pussy, still keep moving, break your own heart and kick it out the

4th floor window, lose your wife, lose your lover, lose your liver, lose your best friend,

your next best friend, then lose your next best friend, try to stop the velocity, die a little,

eat some more pussy, feel the walls close in, feel the cops close in, see the invisible end,

try to escape, get caught at the airport, lose everything, but, never stop writing...

keep writing...keep reading...more and more...find out you really never had anything

to lose...it was always there...lovers and friends who are dead and buried still live

in your heart forever, with every breath you breathe, you have to forget the feeling

that you are empty and lost...you will have to ask for help, but it is okay, it is always

there when you ask...your pride won't die...you learn to live with it...you eat pussy

and try to never forget to live...and you read...and you give back all you can...

you watch your grandchild open presents...you hug your son and tell him you love him...

you put down the weapons, set the pitbulls free, make your dollars honest and barely...

you struggle to eat, sleep, dream, see, love, hope, have faith, cry, laugh...

you figure, it ain't so bad...you have done things that were harder...

AND MOST IMPORTANT...YOU NEVER STOP WRITING...IT IS JUST THAT EASY!!!

Fortune Teller Haiku

2011-01-17T19:06:00.000-08:00

Fortune Teller #1

she tells us all now

gives her eyes up slightly

look into your heart

Fortune Teller #2

always talking and

never telling all, but then

never tell the truth

Fortune Teller #3

people come and go

the city is never beaten

I die smoke and ash

Adios, 2010

2011-01-02T03:08:00.000-08:00

Adios, 2010

It was cold and brisk at the corner of Hollywood Blvd. and Cahuenga right below the sign that read "Raymond Chandler Square"...it was New Year's Eve in Hollywood and every amateur yodeler from the boy band choir with every sexually ambiguous reality show harpie was out for blood while the presence of vice cop squadrons circled like vultures looking for carnage to ingest...I came up behind him as he looked across the street to the news stand that was doing a brisk business in packs of smokes...he had his collar pulled up and his hat pulled down in the most un-incognito manner ever...I just missed bumping into a drunk couple who were busy arguing because the guy had spent their pizza money on new "affliction" clothes for the night "you want me to look good, don't you? I couldn't wear that ed hardy stuff from last New Year's Eve, baby, we don't need any pizza slices anyway, I'll get you a dirty dog when the guy comes out with the cart, lets get some more free champagne for now" as he burped that tell-tale belch the premeditated the vomit to come a lil' later...she lights into him, with slurring invectives on cue, "I can't believe you didn't keep enough for a fuckin' slice a pizza? you fuckin' moron, I am a fuckin' pregnant grad student, I need some carbs before I get more drunk on vodka and monster, maybe I should have slept with your best friend? my news years resolution is to go back to Florida and be a hand model or something and blog about what a shitty place LA is"...this is what Hollywood had come to, a bunch of reality show zombies, wolf packs of drunken girls stumbling down the street in miniskirts barefoot, holding pumps in their hands that they got behind in the rent to buy for NYE, as they are closely followed by roving bands of drunken young men trying so hard to swagger gangster with hair gel hats and matching jean shirt combos that lurch and leer at every open space they think is fuckable...I walk up behind my man and I tell him "you'll never make it across the street without someone spotting you, the jig is up, old friend, everybody here wants to tear you to pieces and forget they ever knew you, you have been the most bullshit year full of more bullshit and bullshit people than anyone has seen in a long time, you got it it coming, but I think I can help you out of here, you gotta do what I say though, no quick moves, turn to your left and walk slowly toward the black car parked at the curb right there"...he slowly starts to comply, which is fine, any more quick moves from this character and I will do him right here and leave him the light of the Greco's pizza neon signage to die in the piss and the scum the way he deserves for what he has done to everybody...no jury or court in the world would hold me accountable...he must have known, I could feel his sulk deepen with every step..."I just wanted one last smoke before we go, smoking has gone out of style, just like me" he whines...I flare my nostril, and tell him in his ear with a snort from over his shoulder, "smoking went out of style way before you came along, bub, you can't take credit for that fuck up, you want a sympathy party, it ain't gonna happen here, I got all the smoke you will ever need right in the trunk of this car" then I reach around him and pop the trunk while I put my hand in the square of his back and take one last glance around for the vice squad...I push him down into it and he spins in midair as if to face me, but I belt him good as he goes down into the darkness of the visquine lined trunk as I push his knees in on top of him...he tries to raise up, but I bring the lid down with force on his head and then I slam it again to get him to put his fingers in...the third slam is the charm as I hear the latch catch and I run to the front of the car and open the driver's side door and hop in...the engine is warm enough still so I just dump it in drive and move out smooth so as to make it through the sobriety check point...I am sober as fuck, but I can't take the chance that this yahoo is gonna try to bang on the trunk or something to attract attention...even though, me and him, we both know that nobody gives a fuck about the last ride he is taking...most of those cops would give me a medal if they could...I put on the right turn signal as I hit the 101 south entrance and I ride through the drunken dumb luck traffic to the 10 east...I head out on the 10 past Kellog Hill and through the IE to the lights of the Morongo Casino and the shadows of the Cabazon dinosaurs...I keep heading past the all wind turbines and hang a left to the high desert toward Joshua Tree...I keep going toward j Tree, but hang a inconspicuous left on Old Woman Springs Road...I keep rolling past the Integratron and then past the ruins of Giant Rock airport on the open dirt roads...I drive to a place I know where few people ever go...I wait for the signal..a phone call from a blocked number right before midnight...the phone vibrates like I knew it would and I begin by taking a shovel and a short pry bar out of the back seat that is sitting on top of 3 30 lb bags of lye...I move around to the trunk after sticking the shovel into the ground...the starlight is bright, and I drove the last 8 miles without headlights, so my eyes are well adjusted for work...I pop open the trunk and his gangly arms and legs spring out like surreal jack in the box toys...I start tuning him up with the pry bar section...not enough to disable him completely, but enough to take the last fight away...typically, in dealing with a piece of shit like this, I miss and pinch a couple of knuckles, I tried not to let it get to me so I did not lose the composure necessary to tune him right enough so he could still do what I needed him to do...I shut the trunk and took a long walk in the desert, looking at all the mystery that had passed me by, all my selfish actions that had gotten in the way of some sort of life that I couldn't understand, all the things people say and do that made this year so painfully reprehensible and corrupt with talks of what might happen and what really happened instead...I am no victim here, I wanted things to work out in ways I had never known, but that can make me a sucker for a good line now and then and I can purposely ignore the hidden red flags...some amazing things had happened in this last, beautiful and unforgettable things...but, there was the other things..the lines that should not be crossed, the reasoning that should not be applied, the way you can't say anything in your defense and you have to hold your hands at your sides while it works you over, works us all over...some didn't make it...but, that's only part of it, because every year only holds so much hope, but this year got greedy over it, took some from the future that it couldn't pay back...promised some in return for sacrifice that it wouldn't have ever made itself and demanded that we make first..it really was a year that thought it deserved a party and a send off, like it had done something special and gave so much back in hard times..but, people aren't as stupid as last year had figured, they got wise to him pretty quick and watched him pretty close, some even as seconds went by, all full of bullshit two faced promises that kept building on one another until the bullshit was piled so high an earth mover couldn't do nothing about it...I wasted a lot of time, but it was a good sized trunk and I knew he had enough air to last...I walked back to the car and looked up at the vast milky way above as I walked...I had walked a ways from the car and was surprised a lil' by how much time it took to walk around in the dark silence of the lonely desert in order for me to get my head straight..but, I was real straight about now and was steel in my resolve...I took that fucker out of my trunk as soon as I got back to the car and just as dawn was barely breaking above the purpled bruising of distant mountain ranges in this remote desert location...I threw him down next to the shovel after a good whack with the pry bar across the chops so he wouldn't mouth off...I had been listening to his bullshit for a solid year and his year was way past up now...I made him dig his own shallow grave about 3-4 feet deep...I hit him in the head with the shovel after I snatched it from him, he was too weak to put up any more of a fight...he motioned for a smoke as he lay there in the ditch...I hit him a couple of times more for good measure...then I quickly dug his teeth out with my bowie knife and put 90 lbs. of lye on him before I shoveled on more dirt, put the shovel down, pissed a long streamy piss on the mound, picked up the shovel and put some more sand on top, covered that with some rocks, and drove back through the desert to LA so I could be here with you...wearing the grin of my 2010 teeth necklace as I bask in the first morning light of 2011, singing "come on, baby, do a lil' dance for me" as I slowly go into a cold, noisy sleep...

As The Year Comes To An End...2010...

2010-12-31T14:32:00.000-08:00

As The Year Comes To An End (2010)

1. this year I have written

the odes to past lovers buried in fields of plain soil that they might grow into new lovers for some other lost soul that needs new love to live so that they might give back what has been given in hearts and minds for years to come

2. this year I have written

the haiku of moments sabotaged by natural actions of the world and the unnatural actions of the human condition that put the pieces into place before the pattern was begun that led to this current situation of measured rhythm into polyrhythmic dance movements that are so quick and precise in their exacting execution as to define beauty through moments like single breath prayers

3. this year I have written

stories of internal struggles with fear and external journeys into conquest, or contrasting defeat with lessons about living woven into the fabric of the eternal goal to acquire that which was lost or that which has been unknown as if to discover life as new and original once more

4. this year I have written

epoch poems in celebration of the history of words from the time of charcoal rubbed on cave walls, sticks scratched into drying clay, blood ink on animal hides, the oily essence of natural ink scrawled across papyrus that led to pressed letters on pulped pages and finally electric impulses onto binary agreements of light typed into contrast blazing out from liquid crystal displays of the gathering of all words of all times ever searched for

5. this year I have written

celebrations for all of the lives that have set my flimsy craft through space and time from the past to the future and back to the here and now as the stars all beam down from the heavens and my eyes look up to see if there is the glimmer of more hope on the horizon that my fragile vessel might make it further into the year to come as it moves off of the momentum of those that passed away into an unreachable darkness abandoning their shell upon life's waters with my words bidding farewell

6. this year I have written

about the dissection of the troubled times around me as more and more seems taken from us all and the vanishing of everything seems to happen all at once in succession after succession of no discernible victories but many notable losses in the face of heated rhetoric as all life seems to be getting pushed around a great gambling table by unseen hands of greedy prosperity and world order

7. this year I have written

all about the day to day struggles with the damage done way after the needle passed through and the dish ran away with the spoons until every little thing seemed massively trivial and overwhelming so that every mundane aspect of getting up and getting the day started was like a psychic porcupine that emanated from the smug smiles of those who had it on the ball and on the go the way I didn't and I poured it out about how I felt my way into darkness with broken hands and wounded spirit held together by duct tape and bailing wire but the arrows and slings kept coming and the shortcomings even happen when there are lights to see the world go by so quickly as to leave me behind in an overwhelmed amazement all alone

8. this year I have written

about the love that never dies and the lust that is in my eyes and the collision of beauty between the two with its sticky residue of aftermath and afterbirth to the quenched desires of lasciviousness and depravity for the sake of escape from internal demons that are always best defined by the images of those I have objectified and exploited for their raw appearances as human bags of fluid dripping lubricants of ideas and thoughts become primordial action for the sake of grand release into the moment just before collapse upon the human heap of yearning that has driven prose since symbols made flesh a record of interest

9. this year I have written

annals of war, moments of peace, outbreaks of violence, natural disasters, human borne illness, unnatural catastrophes, punitive decisions, privileged allowances, superior advantages, manipulated outcomes, ironic comeuppances, karmic disintegrations, economic reality, political surrealism, democratic depravity, socialistic frenzy, fascistic tendencies, mass hysteria, massive corruptions, biographical fictions, anarchistic revelations, superseding hopes that truth might become the faith that the world is finally guided by

10. this year I have written

creative works with the motive of profit so that I might know a new life

I began eight novels, five screenplays, a television series, a short film

I failed in these attempts, but I have followed them with my truth about what life

looks like to me as I dangle on this lonely precipice above the hungry void

wishing on stars that might only be airplanes in the distance

or satellites in high orbits up above

wishing

that I might have one more chance to stand up on my own

one last time

so I can wave good bye

to everyone

kiss my children

my grandchildren

hug them tight

and finally

let it all go

for good

Call Time: Eternity

2010-12-29T14:05:00.000-08:00

Call Time: Eternity

it is certain that you saw the painted bird

inside the tortured remnants of your mind

flying back to its flock as it escaped

the coloring of the rednecked brush strokes

only to be ravaged to death by its own flock

driven into a mad frenzy of jealousy and fear

the bright colors of ornamental ignorance

a death sentence for a bird bent on survival

fighting for freedom in flight from reality

flying right into its own doom

like a jewish boy in poland

taking communion as an altar boy

to avoid the one way train ride

just to come out of hiding

just to be

as hated by the communists

who toppled the german terror train

you escaped like young polanski

into a world that allowed you to create

the upper east side raconteur persona

so coveted by anyone who was ever left standing

in the cold winter barricade outside studio 54

you just missed the blades of manson's gang

you warmed the couch of johnny and ed

you wore accolades like gilded laurels

until

the echoing voice of the villagers

that felt the exploitative pull of your words

that questioned your commitment to craft

that wanted to pull you asunder for your

upper manhattan means and ways

as your tousled hair rained ambiguous drops of sweat

on private onassis beaches and exclusive polo fields

your statues were all torn down by academy police

and reporter alike as you reviled the world with

the idea that it all came from your mind

without the veneer of righteous autobiography

much like the imprisoned marquis

as any reader who read it was exposed as

an erotic sado-masochist unbeknownst

to their own hearts desires

you silenced yourself like an ex-patriot in hiding

leaving one last puzzle piece that didn't quite fit

going to one last party to mingle

telling one last story before

collecting your wife and your coat

bidding the hostess good night

drawing a bath when you returned home

climbing into the water after writing your note

that I will plagiarize here:

"I am going to put myself to sleep now

for a bit longer than usual.

Call the time Eternity."

then the hated liar who told a good story

wrote the most darkest recesses of his soul away

to a world that turned against him

pulled the plastic bag around his head

breathing in all his carbon dioxide critics

falling asleep in the bath

without ever addressing

their criticisms

to any satisfaction

but his own

Far Away Grand Daughter

2010-12-29T13:58:00.000-08:00

Far Away Grand Daughter

washed out runs of desert chaparral dripping like liquid candelabra

songs sung low and sweetly to sleeping babies dreaming

storms pass through their minds as they reach a new home

thunder rolls across the dunes toward the mountains

as they stand so superstitious in the distance

minds eye is upon the rose bud as it blooms

a winter wonderment in this flooded land above the delta

with currents lulled into tranquil riffs against the rocks and cacti

sleep now baby girl and dream of songs on windy nights

like lonely horns of sounding love come for you in waves

water levels are higher than the highest ground below the waiting station

the noise of rushing movements is like a lullaby that keeps her silent

a tempest takes no pleasure in its work tonight, but it is unrelenting

as sands of shifting clockworks on ancient rhythms shift away from us

pouring all that is historical into the waiting gulf's depression

feeding its desire for lost artifact of sun bleached soul inside bone

afterward a treasure of relics born anew to coming solar storms

marking new calendars with story become legend become fact

taught in minds that age and decay as these babies sleep through

this tumultuous monsoon that brings a sacred heart to her dreams

as she sleeps peaceful under blankets of new tradition woven with old love

these blooms of yellow rose so unnatural in their scarce beauty

wishing on their bright colors that beam against the red stones

gives dreams of safe passage to growing limbs of love

that reach up past stars and moon toward a new sunrise

like a ship to rescue unwary travelers that go back and forth

in the coldest night of stricken arid plains illuminated blue

then phosphorescent under lightning bursts that belie fingers

pushed down into the earth by their electric arthritic extension

digging up graves of lost flowers that never bloom in sunlight

only are they now revealed in visual echos of bolted aftermath

she stirs as if to listen to the songs of coyote chasing itself away

into swirling winds of wailing sorrow that she has yet to know

in its place the love of movement to hold the hands that give strength

making flowering petals pull out of stems grasping to outstretched arms

as if to hug an old man who searches for her across arroyo into night

just to tell her of the loving pride he has for her before he closes

his tired eyes to dream of a desert floor covered in blooming flowers

each one a rare magnificence that points upward to a new sun

the sun rises into dawn after the storm relents into passing

she opens her eyes as if to say hello for the first time