May 31, 2009

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
and nobody ever finds the
but keep
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than 

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else

May 26, 2009

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."
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.

May 8, 2009

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

May 1, 2009

"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.