last week’s poems 07
he was dead on arrival to balance
once he had achieved the impossible
and had everything running mechanical
he was already dead
everything was balanced
but he was now forever stuck in his own head
he was dead on arrival to balance
once he was there
he had nowhere else to go
scribbled poems on a pad and left ink stains everywhere
this journals starting to look some sorry excuse for modern art
how to make a breakthrough 101
put more pressure on a specific point
until it breaks
saw me in the morning
at the café
she danced a little
gave me a hug
barista poured a cuppa
in my mug
sat and read
my hand on her leg
take me home
make me moan
but after we paint
you fucking saint
after we paint
dear writer,
these poems aren’t going to heaven with you
so why do you hold them so close
and never share them
even to the people you wrote them for
what have you got to hide
let it out before you die
these poems aren’t going to heaven with you
i need a poem or a few to be succesful
how do i make the hits
like i used to
there’s a native american man i get my weed from
and he’s half irish and we always hang out a bar
and drink
and he splits my grass for me
on the scene
however much i need
he told me that he bought a Rembrandt
that had been stolen from a well-known museum(name not included)
for a whole lot of coke from a guy he used to know
who might be lost in the prison system these days
he took it back to the museum out of common decency
and because he knew the security guard that worked days slightly
and he told them how he got it
and they paid him 3 times the price of a whole lot of coke for the painting back
that’s why i buy my weed
from the irish guy with peyote eyes
at a bar in Pasadena on many a slow night at local dives
it’s cheaper than most
and i get a good story for free
get back your writer’s swagger on your own
the applause might never come till long after you’re gone
that girl was so down to heaven
no one applauses the daydreams
lost my way
tried to do something new
something i could really do
that would make a change
in the world
or at least in the lives of a few
he was a bar man
and a beer man
and a writer man
who had no plans
to work on anything
other than
making you fall in love
with him
poems keep the demons at bay
a fan of the local
get known around town
at a cafe
or a bar
and frequent that spot
till people
know you
get locally world-famous
its more important than most people think
babe, i have to go to bars
where else am i going to hear fucked up stories
where else are people this honest
and where else do people lie this much
to make a few good stories
gotta get into more trouble lately
not in enough
just in some stressful situations
burning me up
i gotta ask you about you to get to know you
but you never asked me about me
no one is a fucking poet anymore
cept me
and the few other
sorry mfers
i vibe with
consistently
experienced a few small moments from god and i didn’t even believe in her
tried to play me,
you crazy?
i’m a writer
one of the most powerful beings in this galaxy
i could be immortal
or at least immortalized
and what are you?
a policeman, an at&t man,
or some other corporate, government fuckooh?
heaven and hell only exist at the intersection of a blank page
gonna get hammered
the minute im feeling good
maybe thats why i’m feeling bad
gonna get hammered the second im
feeling good
maybe that’s why i’m looking like shit
or maybe
it was more about you
and me
and something that felt like heartbreak
she came through town
and didn’t let me know
that’s when i knew
we were dusted up
old news
and now
we’d never know
what we could’ve been
it was my fault
admittedly
got no plane tickets
right now
but i got a good book
and there’s a bar in town
that serves gluten-free beers
and doesn’t feel too american
so i go there and get drunk and read
and i’ve seen you there a couple of times
but i don’t want to ruin the facade
of this place
i’m trying to transport myself
not stay here
and have you leave me on read
or get me out of my head
every good artist story starts lonely and ends with community
been daydrinking at one bar lately
won’t you come on through
its a philosophy office
its a writer’s paradise
its a lonely man’s only plan
and its a cultural study
where i go and find out
what kind of writer
and lover i’m really going to be
been daydrinking at one bar lately
won’t you come on through
its my daydream office
with a skylight so i can see
right through
you
or you right through me
after i’ve had a few sips
you’ll see
you control the narrative. make it a little spicier, love
so many café’s in town, why’d you have to come to mine
us living here, in creativity death suburbs
something has to change
i want to have friends from an eighties movie
all you have to do is write one more poem, look, now you are away
it used to be the best cafe in town
then some capitalist fuck tore it down
rebuilt it
with financial flow
now they can make drinks
fast as fuck
interior looks like shit though
metaphors on the nose like a pair of wire-rimmed glasses
poems can be a fucking pill
the travel journal
of a non-traveler
sits on a shelf
and my scribbled notes
withered away
as i fell into a stable
dying form of self