beer shit

charles bukowski is kind of an asshole. he produced plenty of terrible poetry himself, not to mention the fact that he wrote the same novel over and over again. on the other hand, he is sort of a master of the 'rad scene.' but i cannot stand idly by while he drunkenly denounces no one in particular (except tolstoy i guess) and yet everyone all at once, while maintaining an appreciation for none other than the sight of his own beer shit floating, then escaping through the toilet bowel (although, what can i say, i do think that the way he describes it is lovely)

even though he's pissing me off right now, here's a nice (but devastating, sorry) poem by the man:

Alone With Everybody

the flesh covers the bone

and they put a mind

in there and

sometimes a soul,

and the women break

vases against the walls

and the men drink too

much

and nobody ever finds the

one

but keep

looking

crawling in and out

of beds.

flesh covers

the bone and the

flesh searches

for more than 

flesh.

there's no chance

at all:

we are all trapped

by a singular

fate.

nobody ever finds

the one.

the city dumps fill

the junkyards fill

the madhouses fill

the hospitals fill

the graveyards fill

nothing else

fills.

slow dance by matthew dickman

More than putting another man on the moon, 

more than a New Year's resolution of yogurt and yoga,

we need the opportunity to dance

with really exquisite strangers. A slow dance

between the couch and the dining room table, at the end

of the party, while the person we love has gone

to bring the car around

because it's begun to rain and would break their heart

if any part of us got wet. A slow dance

to bring the evening home, to knock it out of the park. Two people

rocking back and forth like a buoy. Nothing extravagant.

A little music. An empty bottle of whiskey.

It's a little like cheating. Your head resting

on his shoulder, your breath moving up his neck.

our hands along her spine. Her hips

unfolding like a cotton napkin

and you begin to think about how all the stars in the sky

are dead. The my body

is talking to your body slow dance. The Unchained Melody,

Stairway to Heaven, power-cord slow dance. All my life

I've made mistakes. Small

and cruel. I made my plans. 

I never arrived. I ate my food. I drank my wine.

The slow dance doesn't care. It's all kindness like children

before they turn four. Like being held in the arms

of my brother. The slow dance of siblings.

Two men in the middle of the room. When I dance with him, 

one of my great loves, he is absolutely human,

and when he turns to dip me

or I step on his foot because we are both leading,

I know that one of us will die first and the other will suffer.

The slow dance of what's to come

and the slow dance of insomnia

pouring across the floor like bath water.

When the woman I'm sleeping with

stands naked in the bathroom, 

brushing her teeth, the slow dance of ritual is being spit

into the sink. There is no one to save us

because there is no one to be saved.

I've hurt you. I've loved you. I've mowed

the front yard. When the stranger wearing a sheer white dress

covered in a million beads

comes toward me like an over-sexed chandelier suddenly come to life, 

I take her hand in mine. I spin her out

and bring her in. This is the almond grove

in the dark slow dance.

It is what we should be doing right now. Scrapping

for joy. The haiku and honey. The orange and orangoutang slow dance.

bolded the best parts. 

it's a town for losers, i'm pullin' out of here to wiiiiinnnnnnn!!!

i totally jumped ship on this blog. however, i just started a summer course, which means i'm procrastinating again and spending my loser time on the loser internet instead of BBQ-in' and pokin' smot in the NJ sunshine. 

so here's what's been on my poetry mind lately:

bruce springsteen is the contemporary walt whitman (oh yeah, also, i became completely obsessed with walter whitman.) allow me to convince you:

1) the boisterous, celebratory voice of the people. think: "in the days we sweat it out of the streets of a runaway american dream." think: "my respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart/ the passing of blood and air through my lungs."

2) THEY ARE BOTH MAD AMERICAN DUH COME ON IT'S OBVIOUS.

3) sex. walt whitman wanted to be this masculine sexual powerhouse, but actually he was real feminine a lotta the time. he def had the sex part down though. bruce on the other hand did embody this masculinity and projected it like a neon sign. (think: the boss) lay it on me, the both of youz.

4) sometimes it's not all optimism and exclamation points. think: the river. think: when lilacs last in the doorway bloomed. 

5) last but definitely not least, they are both from nj!! cool!!!

anyway, i'm totally looking to develop this further. so watch out, radioactive man.

what else? my crush on the dickman twins rages on. is this blogworthy? (nah) i was gonna buy both their books like two days ago, but i don't have a job and have no cash to buy poems.

see you on the internet kids.

i see the devil's head, people, i see his whole body

When I became Poet Laureate, the first people to interview me were the big television stations: ABC, NBC, the usual places. The reporters would say, “How’s it being a poet laureate in a country where nobody reads poetry?” I didn’t say what I wanted to say: “You’re full of shit.”  - Charles Simic

"hey frosty! you want some snow, man?"

on another note (what, this has everything to do with poetry) i can't stop watching devastatingly fucked up movies. gimme gimme more.