Progress

When they outlawed marijuana
the hemp shortage
left them ropeless
but modern day alchemy
soon synthesized crack
which is smuggled
by rebel republicans
into black nostrils
and the drug rehab industry
gainfully employs their cousins
while addicts do the hangings
themselves in madhouses and jails




Bluebrown
for Uschi

she 
fades into black walls
at the blues bar
and in white noise
he sways 
across the room
in drunkenness
absense and convergence
of colors in both
and the music flows
blue and brown and black and white
and both feel colorless
painted on by life
without hearing
once
how blue is
shades ever changing
blue sky brown earth white clouds black shadows
questions asked and answers given
but answers which weren’t given to those received
much like the run on Melvin’s strings
six in a row
prestrung               predermined 
but changing
with the absence of color
in a convergence of black
like the walls at Rosa’s
where brown eyes fade into black
and white noise seeks
to shut
out the answers
At Rosa’s Blues Bar.. Chicago
1.2.1998


Charles Bukowski wrote To Jon Web about a fly

it was about this fly
pitterpattering
across his page
just a fly
embodied
movement
that moment
fascinating
him
while feeling
california sweat

i read it
in those
screams
the letters 
were
for him
those 
word still
letters
those connections
that didnt help

just like
my fingers merely 
move with words
marionettes
strung high
on midnight wine
stirring what?
my ability
to see a fly
pitterpatter
as if it were
some crustacious
bug
metal feet
scraping
like chalk on
blackboard
across my 
page as
well?




Impulses

dark 
bloodwarm
yr voice
in my ear
pulsing
i float
in
pink chair
light
fades
skin melts
to black
plastic
daliclock
no time 
no matter
just
yr voiced
arms
around
my hips
cyber
impulse of
yr tongue
hard
against
a triangulation
of
pink chair
and my legs
spread
open 
for
yr voice




Forecast

you 
and 
your words
against my 
rationality

black words 
a guide
across
so many miles

those echoes
on a silent
page

word messengers
tell 
of a 
throbbing
thunderstorm
in distance

black words
white paper
and
here

suddenly

my flesh
turned 
moist
in
gentle
pink



SEE

when i was young
i read those poets
and licked their words
with my virgin tongue
tasting
sweetness of 
yearnings
never swallowed
salt 
nor earth
nor felt it
rubbed 
into wounds
just words
sweet words
written 
in rhythms
unfamiliar
but imagined
with
round
black pupilled
maidenhood



words to kn

i am the audience 
as well
i am the watcher
seer
the woman 
on her knees
the writhing
soul that 
seeks 
to find
salvation
in
her words
i 
know how 
to spit 
out words
like
the cum 
i dont want
to swallow
when its
squirted 
into me 
only occasionally
when i really 
love 
the man
i savor
semen
like
the birthing
of a poem