Traps for Troubadours

A party downstairs --
up here, it's black
like liccorice or the soot
on the feet of street urchins.

"You haven't lived!",
you've lived a thousand lives
but none enough to trim the tide
of fleeting life lost at sea
or some vague immortality.

Sluts, the lot of them,
sucking time from days and
slithering through their
ugly frays with boyfriends and
pigtailed girlfriends with skirts
that flounce a bit too close
to that ol' V spot --

if you can't tell,
I'm a bit tired of the dream --
feel the vibrations in the air,
slurp down a viagra and mutter:
how many strings are missing
on life's guitar?

in this death

Let me for a moment
dance across this broken plain
and spit out words
to brick over the silence.

This guy is dead --
I am off, my mind is
latent and I feel nothing
but shattered heart sounds
and anger --

Paralyzed, the worst form
of inconsideration (but what
would you expect
from an artist living
piecemeal by the con?)

He died atop his candy apple
and as he tumbled to the floor
he grasped the fabric of our hearts
and yanked. What a bastard.

Fire and a feather
lodged in my chest
as I feel everything --
nothing at rest.

Words like Cysts

words like explosive zits
swell with the puss of mediocrity
this one is going to ooze:

inside my mind sits dr. kevari,
the sanest glass blower around --
he screeches blackboards and
knows just when to untie shoelaces,
cross eyes and glaze minds.

i can't seem to --
he'll pull it together
on the dock, a windy afternoon,
sky muddled dim gray, misting...
one hundred miles away,
a little god lashes the sea
with the force of ten thousand
nuclear bombs.

he rests his head
on wood and feels
emotional
as the universe sleeps.

in a moment of reflection,
the whirlpool shimmering type reflection,
we all feel alone --
on the surface of
an alien planet, with
no appointments to keep --
that kind of alone.

the middle of the night
is the best time
for breathing.

silence plays games in the dark.

discarding every fallacy,
dr. kevari is a made up character.

listless passion,
mildew and the dead
tail of lizard.
these words are vacant;
a recipe for no thing
at all.

of dubious use.
well, now that they've escaped --
fields a thousand miles long,
cocktails burning in the mist --
poetry of isolation
cares not a wit for cysts
bourn on shoulders
isaac newton we are not --
fair game, though,
if that's what you were thinking.

Souls intertwine, his arm rests
light on her shoulder --
itching to be closer,
she grasps his shirt and pulls --
but in this bliss,
there is no room for poetry.

For Pedro

Poison ivy mind, I'll bleed
best intentions in your direction
and maybe you'll recover --
I dream that you'll recover,
sweating illness out clogged pores,
streaked in the black ink of your deception:
I know your secrets.

Bald mind bears sweet fruits
but yours is a dense forest --
erudite and dead,
that's how they'll remember you.

When the watchtower bangs down from on high
and the news is tolled out across the land,
we will gather by and by
to feel the brush of your passing:
hands stroke friendship as they shimmer past,
drifting relentlessly towards that end you sought:
muttering retreats as they fade from vision,
slipping toward the gates of beyond --

And from that place I pray that you will turn,
look back upon us in some form of wonder
and laugh like you did when sitting
at those tables made of green,
sipping coffee and burning cigarettes
while your dawn was skating restlessly
towards this damp night.

A seasonal allergy, or is it
life before the dream --
spreading wings just to be shot,
golden hammers slamming down
on finger pilons and little children's
favorite songs.

The colored beagles come and go
but in my heart I know that
no rhythm will set me free:
I am bound inexorably
to temporal earth's hostility.

I am not sad that sand
runs time down back alleys
and spews flecked shells
in my eyes --
Joy, at the prospect of finding
a precious stone amongst the ash.

She can't see what's happening
to me but inside it's chipped away,
a thousand paper cuts on my soul
bleed best intentions,
and dirt --

Have you ever seen skid blackened highway
marks trailing off towards the wall?

RVs parked casually on the edge of cliffs
teetering while humanity blows bubbles
made of sour milk and whines
mercilessly about reality TV and

oh my God can you spread silence like
butter across the mind of man?