glass.

a poem i wrote in five parts over something like ten months. a poem i wrote that is mostly all true. a poem i wrote that shamefully steals from writers such as Kerouac, Ginsberg, and Bukowski.

Part One.

Some great holy semen came down from heaven and filled the air.
As fog.
And all the f*****g kids ran inside.
And the holy w****s jumped out.
And then his seman danced around.
On her belly. and on her belly. and on her belly. and her. and her. and her. and him. and her. and her.
And i watched.
And at the door the holy w***e defends God as her boyfriend fingers her and her girlfriend fingers him and his girlfriend dances for them all. And they all finger her.
And they defend God together.
Because God needs defending from the sinners that make jokes about him.
And I realized this whole time i’ve been trying to be Ginsberg.
But straight.
i just didn’t know it.
Sometimes i walk around like Bukowski and don’t give a f**k.
But i don’t f**k.
Just try to touch. and cry. and look out for bluebirds.
Sometimes i’m bitter and sentimental and s**t like ol’ Hemingway.
Sometimes i want to scream “PLAY IT F*****G LOUD!!” like Dylan.
Sometimes i want to go out on the road and meet a Mexican honey and leave her and drink and talk and listen and get real lost and sad and lonely and leave like Kerouac.
But most days i just stay in. alone. with the blinds down. like a Brontë sister.
Just kidding. i know nothing about how they lived. i know nothing about how anybody lives. i know nothing about.
But she’s stuck on coke and w****s and f***s and drinks and f***s and s****y dance mixes and lights and f***s and f***s.
Oh God Oh God Anna Oh God Oh God Oh God God God God God God God God Oh God Anna God Anna God.
Such an angel.
Beautiful.
Perfect.
Pure.
And fucked and fucked up.
And he thinks he can change and make friends with the holy w****s and the f*****g kids.
But they’re too busy rubbing seman tanning oil on their perfectly disgusting bodies.
He’s here too. With potato chips. Poor f****r.
i could have told him he’d be here. But i was too Bukowski to give a f**k.
Oh God Anna.
If
i
could
help
i
would.
Or i’d just sleep. and sleep. and cry about how all i do is sleep. and dream about Kerouac nights.
And she’s happy and everybody loves her.
But she hates her tits. That i rubbed.
Way before that f****r boyfriend.
And she’s concerned about her face. And taking triple takes.
And i know nothing Oh God Anna.

 

Part two.

Oh.
And Big Brother watches me the whole time.
So I burn the flag.
And all the patriots cry.
And all the patriots cry.
As America buttfucks them. In the a*****e.
And they moan with Lady Liberty in all-American, patriotic, Fourth of July weekend sale, ecstasy.
And America cums it’s filthy oil all over their fat bodies.
“God…bless...Aaaammmmmerrrrrrrricaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh” they exhale as one.
And some patriot song lullabies them to sleep.
F*****g b***h.
And i was almost feeling better too.

 

Part three.

saintly prayers to my Jehovah

for undiscernable charts and graphs on eternity.

sexy girls with sexier boyfriends and backpacks and shoes

surround me in the insanity of security cameras.

and my blonde, whom i have not seen in eons,

aimlessly and soullessly roams and groans through the library for forever

she's just as insecure as anyone or the rest of us

sweetly humming for hands and bodies to rub and bottles to cling with smiles and joy.

and the kung-fu apprentice, making all of everybodies laugh

getting or going high to forget two-week-long-lovers who left for him and then him and then him

and venturing adventures of rocks and stones and sand without me.

and our quartet of spaniards always making a ruckus.

and the beautiful boy i thought was a d****e who told me his life story in just three seconds.

and the d****e, who i loath to this very day.

and the puerto rican mystic who called me "music."

and the ratman who knew everyone.

and the evil old librarian man and mad chef and Queen chef who called me "baby."

and sometimes i still see the tallest, thinnest angel who is always whispering about the Messiah

and who said to me, "boy! show me the poems of thee!" and i said "here." and she walked away.

and her amgia with very nice smile, and very nice voice, and very nice face, and very nice way

who was very nice and helped me until endlessly endless ends and never let me pay back.

and her amiga, the toilet girl, who never once looked me in the eyes.

and of course the madman, whom like second-half, as if the soul of Dean Moriarty, with whom we drove madly through and past mad mountains and mad valleys and mad peaks and mad cliffs and mad shores and mad bridges and mad woodland villages and madly listened to music and poetry in my room then broke the poor guitar man's dart set.

and the crazy secrete genius that after seconds with felt like long lost sister or friend from forever ago that always played with my hair and drew me and spoke of her infected tattoo and pulled my rubber band and left hellish marks on my wrist and talked of slitting wrists and suicides and sperms and hid freakishly silent puppies in her purse and always laughing we both at everything, the hoodlum she.

and the taken, the humorous bride-to-be, rubbing legs and breasts and arms and hands from day one and i loved like never before, carelessly, without jealousy, for pure moments at a time.

and girl next door, not much to say, save, if ye every do  bake cupcakes make one for me and i will indeed eat it, ye young beauty.

and the sea maiden, us both lost in the mathematics, both us equipped with spectacles, few words and i gave you a single piece of gum once when your companion jumped ship.

the spanish professoro who knew everything about Jesus and John Lennon and whatever in between.

chinese chick that looked like twin i knew, both from my own homeland.

and handsome man of music telling me the same stories from yesteryears of last year and year before.

and a generous and giddy navy commander of weathermen that gave us all cookies and scientifical factoids on forests and lost woods and jungles of kelp.

and the first bus driver, kindly guiding me along.

and pop-punk fangirl who screamed to me from windows that she wanted to write opera and orchestra music for famous films and fancy concert halls.

and the most insane old black man that saved my life and gave me lemon-aid and watched ice cube movies on on-demand.

and the moon and raccoons whom i thought would be my doom.

and the hidden movie theatre that was my sanctuary in which i mutely muttered with monks about monolithic radioheads and unscripted scripts.

and the other-worldly beauty i would sometimes see on bus or in town that eventually took notice of me but never said a word just watched as i left and i hoped she would write me a secret love note.

and the work i took too long to do.

and the showers taken too late.

and the past i learned to leave and forget.

and the beautiful bums i nodded to or sang with.

and last, the cherubim girl who i thought of nothing else for fortnight and what then seemed like no longer and who has a beautiful world-ending innocent smile that brings me to tears and who wrote paragraphs on oh how beautiful i wrote and oh how we think the same and oh how we feel the same and oh how i need to work on my grammar sum and it made laugh for a week or maybe many more and i thought, "surely, if i only but not knew how to love again, would i then not give it all to thee?"

 

Part four.

done.

my chiquita passed right past me without a word.

done.

ten minutes late as always.

it's never so bad when you're moving.

One Fast for Jack.

so i jumped on the bus

to find something left.

Always lusting after girls

who speak in riddles, a language they call “spanish”

or praying to be paramour of aryan goddesses.

too many torn up and rained on newspapers

that didn't publish my poems.

too many bloody, twisted bodies of squirrels that people laughed at.

asked my neighbors if they wanted some of my leftovers

but they wanted nothing to do with the birthday boy

that seemed to want nothing to with them.

and so, lonely again but not in such a painful way.

like a friend now i suppose.

but still, wouldn't be as bad if i were moving.

so

One Fast for Jack.

One Fast for Allen.

One Fast for Hank.

One Fast for Bob.

One Fast for Miranda and Natalia.

one fast for earth.

probably all i have.

probably all that'll have me.

Anna.

Oh God.

Anna.

Who's God?

Anna.

done.

 

Part five.

longing to write something spiritual.

lazily an angel and i compared souls

her in a blanket laughing at the hollering strange folk passing by.

but it wouldn't be a day in monterey without

green peace f*****g with me to prevent

elephant genocide with a twenty-five dollar a month donation.

painter painting masterpiece on park bench goes unnoticed by civilians.

saw the other realm as she looked in my eyes

last time on the bus and she and friend sat in seat beside mine.

typewriters.

lamps.

plastic cups.

paper cups.

man on the beach, to the sea, shouts "how are you my friend?!"

sleep on seals, otters, or whatever misnomer you have been christened with.

 

now the hall is empty.

silent even.

sitting with the ghosts that once roamed freely.

 

caught sight in the corner of my eye

the firefly

that first set my heart, perhaps my soul, on fire.

put out by the fire alarm.

still giggling nicely i see.

 

i brought pop tarts for the hobos

but no hobos were around

so i hid them much like Easter eggs for the bums to found.

 

Jack, i sat on rocks in the sea as funny mexicanos laughed and cuddled.

And when i did look in, del mar tells me "jump!"

i just laugh.

ha ha ha.

 

Anna

I'm still trying to stick it to the man

growling at every security guard like a hound dog.

Anna

tell me you'll look up now and then.

now there are flowers and butterflies

and then there are beautiful raindrops

and funny looking clouds.

 

Anna

i tell you if i come back things will be different.

Anna

i tell you if i come back i'll make some friends.

Anna

i tell you if i come back i'll make some lovers.

Anna

i tell you if i come back i'll eat nothing but fruits and vegetables.

Anna

i tell you if i come back i'll write down the whispers of the Father.

Anna

i tell you if i come back i'll paint the ballads and anthems that have refused to come out.

Anna

i tell you if i come back i'll bring You along and we'll both be beautiful.

in every way.

 

and this, my only wisdom:

brothers,

hear.

sisters,

hear.

brothers,

hear.

sisters,

hear.

hear.

hear.

hear. hear. hear. hear. hear.

 

 

Monterey Bay, CA

August 2011 - May 2012